The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser
forty something year old with a sun-bed tan and a roving eye.
That was why she stared. Well, that was what she told herself later. At the time she just stared.
Tall. Very tall. Six feet two or three. Almost casual in khaki trousers and an open-necked shirt. Dark hair, straight and slicked back, and a long angular face. Blue eyes, a quite startling hue. A mouth slanted with either humour or cynicism. In short, the best-looking man Tory had ever seen in her life.
Tory had never felt it before, an instant overwhelming attraction. She wasn’t ready for it. She was transfixed. She was reduced to gaping stupidity.
The newcomer met her gaze and smiled as if he knew. No doubt it happened all the time. No doubt, being God’s gift, he was used to it.
Colin Mathieson introduced her, ‘Tory Lloyd, Production Assistant,’ and she recovered sufficiently to raise a hand to the one stretched out to her. ‘Lucas Ryecart, the new chief executive of Eastwich.’
Her hand disappeared in the warm dry clasp of his. He towered above her. She fought a feeling of insignificance. She couldn’t think of a sane, sensible thing to say.
‘Tory’s worked for us for about a year,’ Colin continued. ‘Shows great promise. Had quite an input to the documentary on single mothers you mentioned seeing.’
Lucas Ryecart nodded and, finally dropping Tory’s hand, commented succinctly, ‘Well-made programme, Miss Lloyd…or is it Mrs?’
‘Miss,’ Colin supplied at her silence.
The American smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Though perhaps a shade too controversial in intention.’
It took Tory a moment to realise he was still talking about the documentary and another to understand the criticism, before she at last emerged from brainless-guppy mode to point out, ‘It’s a controversial subject.’
Lucas Ryecart looked surprised by the retaliation but not unduly put out. ‘True, and the slant was certainly a departure from the usual socialist dogma. Scarcely sympathetic.’
‘We had no bias.’ Tory remained on the defensive.
‘Of course not,’ he appeared to placate her, then added, ‘You just gave the mothers free speech and let them condemn themselves.’
‘We let them preview it,’ she claimed. ‘None of them complained.’
‘Too busy enjoying their five minutes’ fame, I expect,’ he drawled back.
His tone was more dry than accusing, and he smiled again.
Tory didn’t smile back. She was struggling with a mixture of temper and guilt, because, of course, he was right.
The single mothers in question had been all too ready to talk and it hadn’t taken much editing to make them sound at best ignorant, at worst uncaring. Away from the camera and the lights, they had merely seemed lonely and vulnerable.
Tory had realised the interviews had been neither fair nor particularly representative and had suggested Alex tone them down. But Alex had been in no mood to listen. His wife had just left him, taking their two young children, and single mothers hadn’t been flavour of the month.
Lucas Ryecart caught her brooding expression and ran on, ‘Never mind…Tory, is it?’
Tory nodded silently, wishing he’d stuck to Miss Lloyd. Or did he feel he had to be on first-name terms with someone before he put the boot in?
‘Tory,’ he repeated, ‘in documentary television it’s always difficult to judge where to draw the line. Interview the mass murderer and are you explaining or glorifying his crimes? Interview the victims’ families and do you redress the balance or simply make television out of people’s grief?’
‘I would refuse to do either,’ Tory stated unequivocally at this mini-lecture.
‘Really?’ He raised a dark, straight brow and looked at her as if he were now assessing her as trouble.
It was Simon who came to her rescue, though not intentionally. ‘I wouldn’t. I’d do anything for a good story.’
Having been virtually ignored, Simon thought it time to draw attention to himself.
Ryecart’s eyes switched from Tory to Simon and Colin Mathieson performed the introductions. ‘This is Simon Dixon. Alex’s number two.’
‘Simon.’ The American nodded.
‘Mr Ryecart.’ Simon smiled confidently. ‘Or do you wish us to call you Lucas? Being American, you must find English formality so outmoded.’
Tory had to give credit where credit was due: Simon had nerve.
Lucas Ryecart, however, scarcely blinked as he replied smoothly, ‘Mr Ryecart will do for now.’
Simon was left a little red-faced, muttering, ‘Well, you’re the boss.’
‘Quite,’ Ryecart agreed succinctly, but didn’t labour the point as he offered a conciliatory smile and hand to Simon.
Simon—the creep—accepted both.
It was Colin Mathieson who directed at them, ‘Do you know where we might find Alex? He isn’t in his office.’
‘He never is,’ muttered Simon in an undertone designed to be just audible.
Tory shot him a silencing look before saying, ‘I think he’s checking out locations for a programme.’
‘Which programme?’ Colin enquired. ‘The one on ward closures? I thought we’d abandoned it.’
‘Um…no.’ Tory decided to keep the lies general. ‘It’s something at the conception stage, about…’ She paused for inspiration and flushed as she felt the American’s eyes on her once more.
‘Alcoholism and the effects on work performance,’ Simon volunteered for her.
She could have been grateful. She wasn’t. She understood it for what it was—a snide reference to Alex’s drinking.
Colin didn’t seem to pick up on it, but Tory wasn’t so sure about Lucas Ryecart. His glance switched to the mocking smile on Simon’s face, then back to hers. He read the suppressed anger that made her mouth a tight line, but refrained from comment.
‘Well, get Alex to give me a bell when he gets in.’ Colin turned towards the door, ready to continue the guided tour.
Ryecart lingered, his eyes resting on Tory. ‘Have we met before?’
Tory frowned. Where could they have met? They were unlikely to move in the same social circles.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied at length.
He seemed unconvinced but then shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. We probably haven’t. I’m sure I would have remembered you.’
He smiled a hundred-watt smile, just for her, and the word handsome didn’t cover it.
Tory’s heart did an odd sort of somersault thing.
‘I—I…’ Normally so articulate, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.
It was at least better than saying anything foolish.
He smiled again, a flash of white in his tanned face, then he was gone.
Tory took a deep, steadying breath and sat back down on her chair. Men like that should carry around a Government Health Warning.
“‘I’m sure I would have remembered you.’” Simon mimicked the American’s words. ‘My God, where does he get his lines? B movies from the thirties? Still, good news for you, ducks.’
‘What?’ Tory looked blank.
‘Come on, darling—’ Simon thought she was being purposely obtuse ‘—you and the big chief. Has he got the hots for