The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser
‘Colin Mathieson told me you were in your thirties,’ he recalled next.
Tory’s heart sank a little. Colin believed she was in her thirties. It was a wrong impression fostered by Alex when he’d employed her for the job.
‘Perhaps he was thinking of someone else,’ Tory suggested weakly.
‘Perhaps,’ he echoed. ‘Anyway, if I’d known your real age, I wouldn’t have asked you out.’
It was Tory’s turn to frown. Did he have some religious objection to women under thirty? Or did he imagine her too immature to interest him?
‘You didn’t,’ she pointed out.
‘Didn’t I?’ He arched a brow before admitting, ‘Well, it had been my game plan. I guess I didn’t get round to it.’
Now she was too young or inexperienced or whatever for him to bother, Tory surmised with some anger, surely irrational.
‘It was Colin who gave me your address,’ he went on. ‘I told him I wanted to talk to you about Simpson.’
Alex? For a moment or two Tory had forgotten about Alex.
She could tell the American, of course. She could invite him in so he could meet a sober, industrious Alex. Did it matter if he jumped to the wrong conclusions about him being there?
Tory found it did matter, so she said nothing.
‘Did you manage to locate him, by the way?’ Lucas enquired directly.
She nodded.
‘He’s looking forward to meeting you,’ she fabricated. ‘I believe he has some future projects he wishes to discuss.’
Lucas Ryecart looked mildly surprised but didn’t challenge it.
‘Good.’ He then began to say, ‘I guess I’d better leave you to your meal—’ when the door opened behind Tory.
She turned to see Alex and this time her heart plummeted. He was holding his jacket, obviously on his way out. On seeing her, his face clouded with guilt.
Tory was quick to realise where he’d been going. Tired of waiting for the meal, he’d been off in search of liquid refreshment.
‘There you are.’ Alex recovered quickly. ‘I was worried you’d got lost and was coming to look for you.’
‘No, I…’ She glanced between the two men but made no effort to introduce them.
Lucas Ryecart, of course, knew exactly who Alex was. His eyes briefly registered the other man, then slid back to Tory and didn’t leave her. Dark blue eyes, cold with anger.
‘Sorry—’ Alex picked up on the sudden drop in temperature ‘—I can see I’m in the way. Would you like me to disappear for an hour or two? Let you have the flat to yourself?’
Tory could have groaned aloud. Alex made it sound as if they were sharing the place.
‘I…no, don’t do that, Alex.’ She’d spent all day getting his mind back on work. She wasn’t giving him a chance to go AWOL on her.
It was the wrong answer as far as Lucas Ryecart was concerned.
‘No, don’t do that, Alex,’ he mimicked her anxious tone, reading too much—far too much—into it. ‘Miss Lloyd and I have finished any business between us for now.’
Having said his piece, he turned and walked away.
‘Damn!’ Tory swore in frustration.
Alex, having registered an American accent, began, ‘Was that—?’
‘Yes!’ Tory confirmed and, half tripping over the Chinese take-away, picked the bags up and shoved them at Alex. ‘Carry these in!’
Then she raced down the steps and across the street in time to catch Lucas Ryecart opening the door of the Range Rover.
‘Wait, please,’ she appealed before he could climb behind the steering wheel.
He stopped and turned. His expression was now remote, as if he’d already dismissed her from his mind, but, after a moment’s deliberation, he closed the car door and leaned against it.
‘Okay, I’m waiting.’ He folded muscular sinewy arms across a broad chest.
Tory saw tension and anger beneath the apparently casual gesture. ‘I…um…just wanted to clear up any possible misunderstanding. About Alex being there, I mean. You see…well, it’s not—’
‘How it seems?’ he cut across her ramblings with a mocking lift of one dark brow.
‘Yes, ‘ she confirmed, ‘I mean, no, it isn’t.’
‘So that wasn’t Alex Simpson,’ he drawled on, ‘and you aren’t about to share an evening meal with him and he isn’t currently staying at your flat and you haven’t lied to me about your involvement with him.’
Tory saw from his face that she would be wasting her time, telling the truth. Any inclination on his part to kiss and make up had departed with Alex’s appearance at the door.
‘There’s no point in this,’ she muttered to herself and would have walked away if a hand hadn’t shot out to keep her there.
She tried to pull her arm free. When she couldn’t, she lifted her other hand, intending to push him away. He was too quick for her. He grabbed both her wrists and dragged her round until he had her backed against his car.
He did it with the minimum of force. Only her pride was really hurt.
She snapped at him, ‘Let me go!’
‘Okay.’ He released her but stood so close she was still trapped and asked, ‘Is Simpson’s wife filing for divorce?’
She frowned at the unexpected question. ‘Yes, possibly. Why?’
‘Well, that explains the need to keep quiet,’ he concluded, ‘if not the attraction.’
His eyes narrowed in contempt and Tory found herself flaring back, ‘You know nothing!’
‘You’re right. I don’t,’ he agreed in the same vein. ‘I don’t know why a bright, beautiful young woman would waste herself on a washed-up has-been with a wife, two kids and a drink habit to support… Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
‘Alex isn’t a has-been!’ Tory protested angrily, recalling the programme outlines they’d prepared to impress this man. Some of their ideas were good, damn good. All futile, now, it would seem. ‘And he doesn’t have a drink problem.’
He threw her a look of pity.
‘Who says love doesn’t walk around with a white cane and guide dog?’
She threw him back a look of fury.
‘I’m not in love with Alex Simpson! I never have been in love with Alex Simpson. I never shall be. I don’t even believe in love!’
She spoke in no uncertain terms and speculation replaced pity in his gaze, but he still didn’t release her.
‘So you don’t love Simpson,’ he mused aloud. ‘You don’t love anybody. I wonder what gets you through the day, Tory Lloyd?’
‘My work,’ she answered, both literally and figuratively. ‘That’s what’s important to me. That’s all that’s important to me.’
He shook his head, then leaned towards her to say in a low voice, ‘If that’s true, Simpson must be goddamn lousy in bed.’
Tory reacted with shocked disbelief. ‘Do you have to be so…so…?’
‘Accurate?’
‘Crude!’
‘I can’t help it,’ he claimed. ‘I am American,