.
a suit, she decided that he looked respectable, but closer inspection convinced her that respectable was not the right description at all. Respectable men weren’t that good-looking!
Every cliché in the book could have been used about this man. Intense. World-weary. Brooding. She’d often read about eyes being like chips of ice and had wondered what that meant. Now she knew. The narrow green eyes which were studying her so closely were as cold as glass. His skin was lightly tanned and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line. She tried to imagine him laughing, and failed.
He was tall. I mean—I’m tall, she thought. But this man made her feel like some tiny little thing, which was an entirely new experience for Shauna. He had dark, dark hair with just a bit of a wave in it—a wayward lock curled darkly on the collar of a shirt which even she could tell was silk. The tie was silk too—a pale grey affair which toned perfectly with the darker grey of his suit, a suit which fitted superbly, falling in folds from the broad shoulders, folds which hinted at hard muscle and sinew…
‘I beg your pardon?’ he was saying.
Shauna’s grey eyes were like terrified saucers. ‘I don’t think I’m suited for the job,’ she repeated. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’ And proceeded to stare open-mouthed at him again, like a terrified young kitten who had just chanced upon a jungle cat.
‘Do please stop gaping at me like an idiot,’ he said impatiently. ‘And how on earth do you know you’re not suited for the job, when you don’t know what the job entails? Unless you do know what the job entails, in which case you must be clairvoyant.’
Recognising the heavy sarcasm, she shut her mouth hastily and gave him what she thought was a sweet smile. Humour him, she thought.
He began to look worried. ‘You’re not about to be ill, are you, Miss Wilde?’
She shook her head. So much for charm! ‘I feel fine,’ she lied.
‘Good,’ he said curtly. ‘Then, as you’ve been so good as to give me your time, and I—’ here he broke off to glance at a discreet pale gold watch on a tanned wrist ‘—have set aside mine—then perhaps we could conduct the interview on more formal lines?’
She gulped. ‘Sure.’ She hooked the holdall over one slim shoulder and picked up her suitcase.
He gestured with his arm. ‘After you?’ he suggested.
Knowing at once how poor Androcles must have felt as he walked into the lion’s den, Shauna stepped unwillingly into the inner sanctum and her eyes lit up.
‘Oh, but—it’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed, as she slowly took in her surroundings.
There was a huge window which took up almost a complete wall, filling the room with a bright, clear light. London lay mapped out before them like a painting. Then other details of the office began to register—the black ash table, a tiny oak bonsai tree and a sheaf of neat papers its only adornment. And the thickness of the pale coffee-coloured carpet in this room made the deep pile of the one in the outer office seem positively threadbare. She’d never seen such an obvious display of wealth, and her earlier misgivings returned to assail her.
‘The view I mean,’ she finished tamely. ‘The view is beautiful.’
The green eyes narrowed. ‘I like it,’ he said gruffly. He indicated a chair with a wave of his hand, obviously expecting her to sit down, but she remained standing.
‘Just a minute,’ she blurted out. ‘I want you to know that I would never consider doing anything—illegal.’
Dark brows shot up. ‘Illegal?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Would you care to elucidate?’
She felt on slightly shaky ground, but it was too late to back off now. Assert yourself, some inner voice urged her. Don’t let yourself be intimidated by your surroundings. ‘I’m afraid that I’m just not interested in escort work,’ she managed. ‘Or—massage.’
‘Massage?’ he enquired faintly. ‘Massage? Pray tell me, Miss Wilde—has the front of my building changed dramatically within the last few hours? Am I the victim of a practical joke? Is there now some lurid neon flashing “Girls! Girls! Girls!” outside?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why on earth should you think that I’d be running some kind of cheap racket like that?’ The green eyes glinted ominously.
‘Because—because of the other applicants,’ she burst out. ‘They just didn’t look like the type of women who’d be applying for secretarial jobs.’
‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific—what exactly was wrong with them?’
She squirmed a little under his scrutiny. ‘They looked far too glamorous for that kind of work.’
His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Not glamorous, Miss Wilde. I don’t consider glamour to be the over-application of perfume, coupled with a wholly inappropriate use of make-up. Tacky is the adjective which springs to mind. Whereas you…’
She didn’t know what description he might have considered suitable for her, because he broke off in mid-sentence to study her even more closely than he had done before.
She was glad that the Mediterranean sun had tanned her skin—at least it camouflaged the slight rise in colour which his perusal brought to her cheeks. She knew that she looked clean, and fairly neat, but that was about all that could be said. The black ringlety curls which fell almost to her waist had been pulled back into a french plait, the neatest way of wearing it, but already another corkscrew-like strand had escaped and kept streaking across her face in a dizzy spiral. Her face was completely free of make-up. The legacy of her background had given her naturally long black lashes which fringed the unusual grey eyes.
She wore a navy linen suit, plain and simple. Perhaps not the best colour choice for her, but eminently the most practical. Unfortunately she had had it for several years, so the skirt was the wrong length—it brushed to just below her knee instead of this season’s style which was several inches above. Her navy leather shoes were completely flat—when you were as tall as she was you didn’t wear heels!
She met his eyes mutinously, her chin lifting fractionally, peeved at such a leisurely appraisal.
His next words, however, were completely unexpected. ‘Gostaria de se sentar, agora?’
‘Obrigada,’ she said automatically, pulling out a chair from one side of the desk and sitting down, her legs tucked neatly together.
His eyebrows shot up somewhere into the dark hair, as he walked round to the other side of the desk and sat facing her. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You actually speak Portuguese?’
‘Of course I do—the advert specified it.’
‘It may have specified it, Miss Wilde—but I’ve been interviewing for three days now, and you’re only the second person who has understood and responded to the simplest statement in that language.’
Shauna’s eyes widened. ‘You mean none of the others today …?’
The tone of his voice bordered on contemptuousness. ‘There’s one thing, and one thing only, that the assorted bunch I saw today had in common, and that was their avid interest in that ridiculous article—as opposed to the job I’m offering.’
‘What article?’ asked Shauna in bewilderment. ‘I’m not with you.’
The green eyes viewed her with suspicion. ‘Then you must be the only woman in the country who hasn’t read it.’
‘But I haven’t been in the country,’ she pointed out.
He mentioned the name of a well-known women’s magazine. ‘They decided to do a piece on the fifty most eligible men in Britain,’ he growled. ‘And since then, it has caused nearly every female coming