The Boss's Forbidden Secretary. Lee Wilkinson
brow and asked, ‘Do you have any problem with Mrs Low’s kindly meant suggestion? If you do…’
Recognizing that it was politeness rather than diffidence that had made him ask, she answered. ‘No, no, of course I don’t.’
‘In that case…’ He helped her off with her coat before removing his own and hanging them both on some convenient pegs.
She saw that he was wearing smart-casual trousers and an olive-green jerkin over a toning shirt. His watch looked expensive, and his shoes appeared to be handmade.
Although there was nothing blatant, his whole appearance suggested affluence and power, while his air of ease spoke of a quiet self-assurance.
Taking a mobile phone from his pocket, he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me just a minute? So they won’t worry, I’d like to give the folks who are expecting me a call to say I’ll be staying here for the night.’
‘Of course.’
While he made the call, she moved to sit by the blazing log fire.
Addressing the person who answered as Marley, he kept it brief and to the point, ending, ‘See you tomorrow, then. Bye.’
Cathy found herself wondering if Marley was his wife and rather hoping not, until she pulled herself up short, reminding herself sternly that it was none of her business.
Dropping the phone back into his pocket, Ross joined her in front of the fire, remarking, ‘Your shoes look as if they’re saturated. Why don’t you take them off and warm your feet?’
She had been longing to do just that, and, needing no further encouragement, she slipped them off and, propping them by the fender to dry, held her slim feet out to the blaze.
There was a drifting silence for a minute or so while he stared into the leaping flames and she studied him covertly.
The strong face held a certain aloofness, a touch of arrogance, a hint of sensuality. He was, she guessed, a complex man with many layers.
His mouth, with its ascetic upper lip and passionate lower, was beautiful, and his thick lashes were ridiculously long and curly. Combined with so much sheer masculinity, that mouth and those lashes had a stunning effect, and she felt hollow inside.
He glanced up suddenly, and as she looked anywhere but at him, he queried, ‘Warmer now?’
‘Much warmer,’ she answered abstractedly.
‘How long were you on the road?’
Pulling herself together, she told him, ‘I left London mid-morning. But though I only stopped briefly for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it took much longer to reach the border than I’d expected.’
‘You’re from London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you heading for?’
‘The Cairngorms. A small place called Luing.’
A flicker of something that she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he said, ‘Yes, I know it well. You were right to break the journey. It’s quite a distance. I take it you ski?’
‘Yes, but not particularly well, I’m sorry to say. Do you?’
‘I was born and brought up on the edge of the Cairngorms, so during the winter months I practically lived on skis.’
‘I’m afraid my experience has been confined to childhood holidays in the Alps.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Yes, they were.’
Without thinking, she voiced the thought that was in her mind. ‘To say you were born in Scotland you don’t have much of an accent.’
‘My father’s family were Scottish born and bred, but my mother was English. When I was fourteen and my sister was eleven our parents divorced, and our mother went to live in London. Though my father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, I stayed with him and his second wife until I was eighteen and got a place at Oxford.
‘After I’d graduated I moved to London and went into the Information Technology business with a couple of friends. I’d always intended to come back to Scotland eventually, but at the moment I’m still living in London while I tie up some loose ends.’
‘Which part of town?’
‘I’ve a flat in Belmont Square.’
The fact that he lived in Mayfair seemed to confirm her first impression that he was well off.
Eager to know more about him, but wary of making the questions too personal, she asked, ‘Do you get up to Scotland much?’
‘Four or five times a year.’
‘For business or pleasure?’
‘You could say both.’
There was a tap at the door and Mrs Low came bustling in, a voluminous apron tied at her waist, wheeling a supper trolley.
‘Here we are,’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s a nice drop of my cock-a-leekie, some hot oatcakes wrapped round ham, an apple pie and cream, and I thought a big jug of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’
As she spoke, she wheeled the trolley to where they could comfortably reach, adding, ‘I’m afraid it’s all very simple…’
‘Thanks, Mrs Low,’ Ross Dalgowan said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s a feast. It was very good of you to go to so much trouble.’
Cathy added her agreement and thanks.
Looking pleased, Mrs Low said, ‘Whist, now, it was no trouble at all.’ Then, beaming at them, she added, ‘Oh, and when I told Charlie you were here, he said to leave this with you and advise you and the young lady to have a wee dram or two to keep out the cold.’
Like a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat, from a deep pocket in her apron she produced a bottle of Highland single malt and two whisky glasses wrapped in a white napkin.
‘Please give him our thanks.’
‘You’ll have a word with him before you go?’
‘I certainly will.’
She stooped to put fresh logs on the fire before going on, ‘The bunk beds are already made up, and I’ve left a pillow and some blankets on one of the couches in the lounge, so you can decide at your leisure which suits you best.
‘Now, if there’s nothing else either of you need I’m away to my bed. With a house full of guests I have to be up very early, so I’ll say goodnight to you both.’
‘Goodnight,’ they answered in unison.
At the door, she paused to say, ‘I almost forgot to tell you, there’ll be breakfast from six-thirty onwards. The breakfast room is just off the lounge… Oh, and when you’ve finished eating, perhaps you’ll put the trolley outside?’
When the door had closed behind her, Ross Dalgowan poured coffee for Cathy and himself, remarking thoughtfully, ‘If you only had a sandwich at lunchtime you must be hungry.’
‘I am, rather.’
‘Then tuck in.’
They enjoyed a leisurely supper without speaking, the only sounds the crackling of the logs and the wind soughing mournfully in the chimney.
As though comfortable with himself, his companion and his surroundings, Ross Dalgowan seemed quite content with the silence, and Cathy was pleased.
Neil, invariably uncomfortable with silence, had needed to fill every second with the sound of his own voice. Convinced he knew everything there was to know, he had talked whenever he had a listener.
But this man was different. He had a maturity Neil would never have and he was, she guessed, much quieter by nature.