To Tame a Proud Heart. Cathy Williams
him. The only thing her eyes could focus on was the masculine figure in his dark suit with a cream silk tie around his neck.
‘Oh, God, Rupert,’ she whispered nervously. ‘Here comes my boss.’
They watched until Oliver had approached the table, then Rupert, ever ready with a tactless opening statement, said, smiling broadly, ‘So you’re the slave-driver I’ve been hearing so much about!’ He stood up, unruffled by Oliver’s cool, speculative expression, and said expansively, ‘Why don’t you pull up a couple of pews and join us?’
‘I’m sure Mr Kemp has a table booked,’ Francesca said, mortified, while the woman with him watched the cabaret with a pleasant smile.
‘We’d love to join you,’ she said, still smiling, and for the first time Francesca looked at her fully.
Was this Imogen Sattler—the tall, hard woman she had envisaged from Rupert’s vague description? The self-made woman who had climbed to the top of her career?
She was small, with short, curly fair hair and an intelligently serious face.
‘I take it you’ve just come from a play?’ Rupert asked them both as they sat down, and Oliver nodded, looking at Francesca with amusement, as though the playboy man in her life was just precisely as he had imagined.
‘I’m Rupert Thompson, by the way,’ Rupert said with limitless bonhomie. ‘General wastrel but with a heart of gold.’
The woman laughed and said brightly, ‘What a novel introduction. I’m Imogen Sattler.’ She looked at Francesca. ‘And I’m so glad to meet you. I hope you work out as Oliver’s secretary. He seems to run through them at a rate of knots.’ She glanced at him fondly, and Francesca felt a spurt of confused emotion which she could neither explain nor rationalise.
‘So I understand,’ she said politely, looking at Oliver from under her lashes.
‘Miss Wade is still in the enthusiastic phase,’ Oliver said coolly. ‘She’s trying to prove herself.’
That amused Rupert. He beamed, took a generous sip of port, and said, grinning, ‘That must be new to her. You’ve never had to prove yourself to anyone before, have you, Frankie?’
If he had set out to confirm everything that Oliver suspected of her, he couldn’t have done it better. Oliver gave her a dry, knowing look, and she said defensively, ‘Of course I’m not trying to prove myself. I just feel that if I’m employed to do a job of work then I should do it thoroughly.’
‘Well done!’ Imogen said, laughing. ‘Just don’t let him take advantage of you! He’s notorious for taking advantage of his secretaries. Why do you think they all leave with such alarming regularity?’
‘Now, now,’ Oliver murmured, and his light eyes slid across to his fiancée, ‘you make me sound like an ogre.’
The waiter approached to take their order and Rupert said, speaking for all of them, ‘Just the bill. Our friends here have decided to come to a nightclub with us. Haven’t you?’ He looked at Imogen and murmured breezily, ‘It would be a shame to waste such a glamorous outfit on a badly lit restaurant, don’t you agree?’
She looked delighted at this turn in events, but Oliver’s mouth had thinned and he said abruptly, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’d really like to just get home, Rupert,’ Francesca said, alarmed, but he waved aside both protests as if the thought of their turning down his kind invitation was hardly conceivable.
‘Nonsense, Frankie. Just because you’ve got a job it doesn’t mean that you have to give up all of life’s little pleasures.’
‘It would be fun,’ Imogen said, turning to Oliver, and he looked at her with grudging indulgence.
They might not be all over each other, Francesca thought, but there was a thread of real emotion there between them, evident in the way they looked at one another. Was this love? She abruptly drained her glass of port and felt a little dizzy.
Rupert stood up and held his arm out for Imogen. ‘You don’t mind my escorting your lovely fiancée to the door, do you, old man?’
Oliver was beginning to look mildly irritated, and when he fell into step with Francesca he said in a low, harsh voice, ‘Can’t you keep a rein on your lover?’
‘Rupert is not my lover!’ she said angrily, and he shrugged.
‘Whatever, then. Playmate.’
‘You make us sound like a couple of children.’
They were walking towards the door, and ahead of them Imogen was laughing, highly entertained by whatever Rupert was saying. He could be a superb conversationalist when he chose—witty, warm, direct, and with a boyish charm that could halt a charging rhino at a hundred paces. Francesca had seen it in action often enough before.
‘And it’s hardly my fault that Rupert’s commandeered your fiancée, is it?’ she added tartly.
‘Oh, Imogen is a big girl,’ Oliver drawled lazily. ‘And intelligent enough not to be taken in by your little playmate’s oily charm.’
They stepped outside into the freezing air, and Rupert immediately hailed a taxi while Imogen smiled coaxingly at Oliver over her shoulder. ‘We never go to nightclubs,’ she said persuasively, her eyes bright. ‘It might be fun!’
Francesca thought that going to sleep sounded rather more fun, and her mouth was tight by the time the taxi pulled up to the nightclub and deposited them outside.
Rupert was well-known there, not that it would have mattered. Oliver’s presence commanded such immediate awe that they were ushered in like royalty, and Francesca looked around at the familiar haunt with a sinking heart.
Had she really enjoyed frequenting these places—loud music, beautiful people frenetically talking and looking around them, eyes ever open to spot anyone they knew?
‘I’m awfully sorry about this,’ she murmured to Imogen once they were inside, and the other woman turned to her with wry humour in her eyes.
‘Why? It makes a change for me. My head is normally so full of business that I find it hard to relax.’
Oliver, with an ease which he seemed to accept without question as people made way for him, had gone to the bar for drinks, and Imogen took her arm confidentially.
‘You come here often, I gather?’
‘Oh, all the time,’ Francesca said, airily. ‘My head is so devoid of business that I find it terribly easy to relax.’
‘I wasn’t meaning to be offensive,’ Imogen said with gentle sincerity, and Francesca blushed.
‘No, of course not; it’s just…’
‘That Oliver’s been giving you a hard time because of your background? He told me that your father is terribly well off.’
‘And what else has he told you?’ She pictured them together, talking about her, and winced.
‘He’s a hard man,’ Imogen said, ‘but I expect you’ll get used to that in time. If you stick it out, that is! Must be something of a culture shock, though,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘if you’re used to a man like Rupert.’
‘Rupert,’ Francesca began defensively, ‘is—’
‘A type of person I’ve never met in my life before!’ Imogen laughed, and Francesca felt the beginnings of real warmth towards her. She watched as Rupert took her to the dance floor and reluctantly sat down in a secluded corner with Oliver.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the attention he was receiving from other women in the room—sidelong glances of interest which he either chose to ignore or else genuinely didn’t notice.
‘I can understand why your father was worried about your lifestyle,’ he said,