The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser
changed his circumstances if Eastwich was only one of the television companies he owned. He was also no longer the marrying kind, a fact he’d made clear. Arguably, his directness was a virtue, but if he had any other noble character traits Tory had missed them.
Time had changed Tory, too. Or was it her current lifestyle? All work and no play, as he’d said. Making her dull, stupid even, unable to laugh off a man’s interest without sounding like prude of the year.
Tory felt like kicking herself. And Alex. And Lucas Ryecart. She settled for kicking her waste bin and didn’t hang around to tidy up the mess she made.
She took the American’s advice and spent the afternoon at the Anglian Country Club, a favourite haunt for young professionals. For two hours she windsurfed across the man-made lake, a skill she’d acquired on her first foreign holiday. It was her main form of relaxation, strenuous though it could be, and she was now more than competent.
Sometimes she took a lesson with Steve, the resident coach. About her age, he had a law degree but had never practised, preferring to spend his life windsurfing. They had chatted occasionally and once gone for a drink in the club but nothing more. Today he helped her put away her equipment and asked casually if she had plans for the evening. She shook her head and he proposed going for something to eat in town.
Normally Tory would have politely turned him down, but Lucas Ryecart’s image loomed, and she said, ‘Why not?’
Tory drove them in her car and they went to an Italian restaurant. They talked about windsurfing, then music and the colleges they’d attended. Steve was easy enough company.
They went on to a pub and met some of his friends, a mixed crowd of men and women. Tory stuck to orange juice, and, although declining a party invitation, agreed to drive them there.
When the rest had piled out of her car, Steve surprised her with a kiss on the lips. It was quite pleasurable, but hardly earth-moving and another man’s image intruded when she closed her eyes. She broke off the kiss before it turned intimate.
Steve got the message. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go home to my place?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation.
‘No, thanks all the same.’ She gave him an amiable smile and her refusal was accepted in the same spirit.
Steve bowed out with a casual, ‘Perhaps we can go out again some time,’ and followed his friends into the house where the party was.
Tory drove home without regrets. She’d enjoyed the evening up to a point, but she had no desire to have competent, athletic sex with a man whose raison d’être was windsurfing. She’d sooner go to bed with a mug of Horlicks and a Jane Austen.
She returned to find her flat empty and felt a measure of relief, assuming Alex had chosen somewhere else to doss down.
No such luck, however, as she was rudely awakened at two in the morning by a constant ringing on her doorbell. Pulling on a dressing gown, she went to the bay window first and wasn’t entirely surprised to see Alex leaning against the wall.
‘Lost my key, sorry,’ he slurred as she opened the outer door and took in his swaying figure.
‘Oh, Alex, you promised.’ She sighed wearily and for a moment contemplated shutting the door on him.
‘Couldn’t help it,’ he mumbled pathetically. ‘Love her, really love her… Know that, Tory?’
‘Yes, Alex. Now, shh!’ Tory hastily propelled him through the hallway before he woke her neighbours.
‘I’m not drunk.’ He breathed whisky fumes on her as he lurched inside her flat. ‘Just had a drink or two. Her fault. The bitch. Phoned her up but she wouldn’t talk to me.’
Tory sighed again as he sprawled his length on her sofa. There would be no moving him now. She should have turned him away.
‘Why won’t she talk to me?’ he appealed with an injured air. ‘She knows she’s the only one I’ve ever loved.’
‘Her husband was probably there,’ Tory pointed out in cynical tones.
‘Husband?’ He turned bleary eyes towards her, then rallied to claim belligerently, ‘I’m her husband. Eyes of God and all that. Better or worse. Richer or poorer. Till death or the mortgage company do us part,’ he finished on a self-pitying sob.
‘Who are we talking about, Alex?’ Tory finally asked.
‘Rita, of course.’ A frown questioned her intelligence, then he began to sing, ‘Lovely Rita, no one can beat her—’
‘Shh!’ Tory hushed him once more. ‘You’re going to wake the woman upstairs.’
‘Don’t care,’ Alex announced, this time like a sulky boy. ‘All women are vile… ’Cept you, darling Tory.’ He smiled winningly at her.
Tory rolled her eyes heavenward. She might have taken Lucas Ryecart too seriously that morning, but she was in no danger of it with Alex. Drunk, Alex would flirt with a lamp-post.
‘I thought you were talking about Sue,’ she stated in repressive tones.
‘Sue?’ He looked blank for a moment.
‘Sue Baxter,’ she reminded him heavily. ‘Works at Eastwich. Husband in Navy. Woman you’ve been living with for the last month or two.’
Drunk though he was, Alex understood the implication. ‘You think I don’t love Rita because I’ve been shacking up with Sue? But I do. Sue’s just…’
‘A fill-in?’ Tory suggested dryly.
‘Yes. No. You don’t understand,’ he answered in quick succession. ‘Men aren’t the same as women, Tory, you have to realise that.’
‘Oh, I do,’ Tory assured him, and before he could justify his infidelity on biological grounds she stood and picked up the blanket and pillow she’d dug out earlier. ‘You’re an education in yourself, Alex,’ she added, draping the blanket over him without ceremony. ‘Lift.’
He raised his head and she thrust the pillow under him. ‘You’re not a woman, Tory,’ he told her solemnly, ‘you’re a friend.’
‘Thanks,’ she muttered at this backhanded compliment. Not that she minded much. She didn’t want Alex’s roving eye fixing on her. ‘Goodnight, Alex.’
‘’Night, Tory,’ he echoed, already settling down for the night. Soon he would be out for the count.
It was Tory who was left sleepless.
After an afternoon spent windsurfing and an evening in company, she should be tired enough to sleep through a hurricane, yet she couldn’t sleep through Lucas Ryecart.
Alex had provided a temporary distraction but now he was just another concern. How could she keep Alex sober tomorrow so he would be presentable on Monday for his meeting with Ryecart?
She tried telling herself it wasn’t her problem. And it wasn’t, really. After all, what did she owe Alex? He had given her a chance, taking her on as a production assistant when she’d had little experience, but she’d surely repaid him, covering up for him as she had over that last three months. It would be much the wisest thing to let Alex fend for himself.
Perhaps Alex might even hold his own with the American. After all, he was an intelligent, articulate man with a first-class degree from Cambridge and twenty years’ experience in the television industry.
Whereas Lucas Ryecart, who was he?
The man who was going to wipe the floor with Alex, that was who, she answered the question for herself, and for the second night in a row fell asleep with Lucas Ryecart’s image running round her brain.
CHAPTER THREE
TORY woke in an extremely bad mood, and felt not much better after taking a shower. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, she went