The Baby Scandal
‘A vicar,’ she said defensively. ‘And a brilliant one at that.’
He smiled, a long, warm smile that transformed his face, removed all the aggression, and sent little shivers scurrying up and down her spine like spiders.
‘You’re a vicar’s daughter.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your parents must have had a fit when you told them that you wanted to move to London.’
He was watching her as though she was the most fascinating human being on the face of the earth, and the undiluted attention addled her brain and brought more waves of pink colour to her cheeks.
‘They were very supportive, as a matter of fact.’
‘But worried sick.’
‘A little worried,’ Ruth admitted, nervously playing with the cutlery next to her plate and then sticking her hands resolutely on her lap when she realised that fiddling was not classed as great restaurant etiquette.
‘So…’ The speculative look was back in his eyes as he relaxed in the chair and looked at her. ‘Let me get this straight… You worked as a secretary after you left school, lived at home with your parents and then moved to London where you…did what until you started working at the magazine?’
‘I found somewhere to live… Actually, Mum and Dad came with me a month before I left home and made sure that I had somewhere to go…I think they imagined me walking the streets of London and sleeping rough on park benches…’ She smiled again, the same slow smile that transformed the features of her pretty but not extraordinary face into a quite striking glimpse of ethereal beauty.
‘I got work temping at an office in Marble Arch and after a few months, when I was hunting around for something more permanent…’ she shrugged and reflected on her stroke of luck ‘…I happened to be in the agency when Alison, Miss Hawes, arrived to register a job for a dogsbody, and I was given the job on the spot.’
‘So you run errands,’ he murmured to himself. ‘And you’re satisfied with that line of work?’
‘Well, I do enjoy working for the magazine,’ Ruth said thoughtfully, ‘and hopefully I might be given some more responsibility when my appraisal comes up…the pay’s very good, though…’
‘I know. I’ve handled enough businesses to know that motivation and loyalty are heavily tied in to working conditions, and good pay makes for a good employee, generally speaking.’
Their food arrived and they both sat back to allow the large circular plates to be put in front of them.
‘How many businesses do you own?’ Ruth asked faintly.
‘Sufficient to allow me very little free time, hence my non-appearance at the magazine. I spend most of my time out of the country, overseeing my divisions in North America and the Far East, although I have been to see how Alison was getting on a couple of times. You weren’t there. I would have remembered you.’
Ruth, more relaxed now that she had something aside from him to concentrate on—namely the brimming plate of divine food in front of her—lowered her eyes and said to her forkful of chicken and vegetables, ‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m not one of life’s memorable women.’ Her parents had always told her that she was beautiful, but then all parents said stuff like that. She only had to look in the mirror to know that she simply wasn’t flamboyant enough ever to cross the line between being reasonably pretty and downright sexy. She couldn’t be sexy if she tried.
He didn’t say anything.
Unusually for him, he was finding it hard to keep his eyes away from the woman sitting opposite him, her soft face downturned as she tucked into her food without inhibition.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the company of a woman who still had the capacity to blush. They could laugh, they could flirt, and they were adept at revealing enough of their bodies to incite interest, but when it came to the hesitant air of innocence that this woman in front of him possessed, they none of them could have captured it if they tried.
And it was this dreamy, uncertain shyness that had aroused him almost from the minute he had clapped eyes on her. He broke off to eat a mouthful of food, but his eyes slid back to her face of their own volition.
He had a ridiculous urge to impress her. To say something or do something that would make her look at him with the hot interest he had become accustomed to in members of the opposite sex. He watched the way her blonde straight hair slipped across her face as she ate and the way she tucked it casually behind her ears. She looked about bloody sixteen! He must be going mad!
‘You never told me,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts, which were veering off wildly into the arena of sexual foreplay. ‘Are you from Italy?’ She blushed and smiled. ‘Silly question. Of course you are with a name like yours. How long have you lived in London?’
‘Most of my life. My mother was Irish, my father was Italian.’ What, he wondered, would it feel like to reach out and touch that peach-smooth face? The thought fascinated him. He realised that he wasn’t eating and shovelled some mouthfuls in while his mind wandered away again. What would her body look like? It was difficult to tell underneath her demure calf-length skirt and neat white blouse. He toyed with the fantasy of divesting her of both, very, very, very slowly, and he could feel himself stiffening at the thought of it.
This was ludicrous! He was responding like a teenager who had never touched a woman in his life before!
‘How exotic!’ she responded, and it occurred to him that, however damned exotic she might find his ancestry, it wasn’t quite enough to distract her from the business of eating. In fact, he thought with a twitch of resentment, she seemed a lot more interested in the food than she did in him.
‘There’s no need to show polite interest,’ he said abruptly, and her grey eyes registered dismay at his reaction.
‘I am interested,’ she protested, unnerved by the sudden brusqueness in his voice. She was boring him. Of course she was. How could a gauche woman like herself ever hope to capture the interest of a man like him, all glamour and fast-lane living. ‘The food’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ she volunteered tentatively, feeling her way towards a topic that might smooth the undercurrent that seemed to have inexplicably developed.
‘I can see that you’ve enjoyed it,’ he said wryly.
Ruth gave a sheepish smile. ‘I have a very unladylike appetite, I’m afraid.’ She had managed to eat every mouthful, and if she had been in the company of anyone else would have happily bolted down some dessert as well. Instead, she closed her knife and fork, declined pudding and accepted coffee.
‘I guess you read what was in that letter I sent to your boss,’ he said casually, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. He had pushed himself away from the table so that he could sit at an angle, crossing his long legs.
‘Not really,’ Ruth answered. ‘I mean I scanned it…’
‘But still managed to get a pretty good idea of what I was trying to say.’
‘I don’t think that Alison would approve of my discussing something that was meant for her eyes only,’ Ruth eventually told him.
‘I shouldn’t trouble your head with such concerns,’ he dismissed. ‘I intend to have a little talk to the entire staff. Sales have picked up since we took over, but not enough. I’ve read what the three journalists have written over the months…have you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ruth said enthusiastically.
‘And…? What’s your verdict?’
She couldn’t quite understand why her opinion should be of any concern, considering her lowly status in the company, but there was an interested glint in his eyes, so she sighed and said slowly, ‘I think it’s all been good. But I suppose there’s a little element of having lost the way. I mean,’ she said hurriedly, ‘their articles are so varied that there’s a bit of doubt as to what sector of the market the magazine is supposed to appeal to. Not,’ she felt compelled to add, ‘that I’m in any position to criticise.’
‘Why not?’ he asked bluntly, leaning forward so that his elbow was resting on the table and his eyes bored into her like skewers.
‘Because I’m not an editor.’
‘But you care about the company enough to want to see it improve?’
‘Of course I do!’ When she had joined it had been a fledgling firm, and was even now, and consequently, loyalty was abundantly given by everyone who worked in it.
‘Enough to do your little bit?’ he asked, leaning forward yet further.
‘Naturally I do my best… I can’t write, if that’s what you mean…but I help out…’ She looked at him, bewildered.
‘Good! Just what I wanted to hear.’ He signalled for the bill but kept his eyes on her face. ‘Because I have a proposition to put to you…’
‘What?’ There was enough of a predatory expression on his face to give her a clue that whatever he had in mind was not going to be to her liking.
‘I’ll discuss it with Alison first, but, yes…it’s time for a few changes, and you could be right where it matters…’
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN she arrived at work the following Monday morning, it was to find Alison in her office, door shut, which was a rare phenomenon, and, even rarer still, an atmosphere of hushed efficiency amongst the staff who had managed to pole up for work at a quarter to eight—an hour before their due starting time on a Monday, this was always limited to a handful, which increased as the week progressed.
She walked across to Janet Peters, one of the editors, opened her mouth to ask what was going on and, before she could get the question out, was greeted with a series of facial movements and twitches that left her a little confused.
‘Are you feeling all right, Jan?’ Ruth asked, concerned, and in reply Janet crooked her finger for Ruth to lean forward,
‘Guess who’s in with Alison…’ she hissed. ‘Hence the unnatural deathly quiet in this place…’
‘Franco Leoni, owner of Issues?’ Ruth hazarded, and then grinned when Janet fell backwards in her chair and stared at her with profound consternation.
‘How did you know?’
‘I knew…because…I am possessed of strange mystic forces that leave me with the uncanny ability to see into the other realm.’ She giggled and played with the blunt edge of one of her plaits, a sensible hairstyle that kept her hair away from her face though unfortunately made her look no older than twelve.
‘Be serious!’ Janet said sternly, by which time they had been joined by three others and the atmosphere was drifting inexorably back into cheerful, noisy confusion.
‘How did you know?’ Jack Brady asked, sitting on the desk and giving her a frank and open stare. Jack Brady, who looked only slightly older than twelve himself, with his freckles and thick fair hair, specialised in frank and open stares which fooled no one but the uninitiated.
‘He came here on Friday night, just as I was about to leave. Scared me to death as a matter of fact.’
‘Was that,’ Jack asked, frowning and tilting his head to one side, ‘before or after he asked you to lie prone on the desk so that he could have his wicked way with you?’
‘Before,’ Ruth said with a serious face. ‘I felt fine afterwards.’
‘Ruth Jacobs!’ Jack said, shocked. ‘You’re not supposed to say naughty things like that! Especially looking the way you do, all fetching, sexy innocence with those two blonde pigtails and big, tempting eyes…’ He playfully pulled the ends of both the plaits with his hands, so that she was more or less compelled to incline her body towards his, and it was while they were in this awkward stance, both of them laughing, that Alison’s door opened and there was a general flurry of scattered bodies as Franco stood and watched what was going on.
Ruth and Jack were the last to detach themselves from the situation.
‘An office hard at work,’ Franco said, pushing himself away from the doorframe and strolling towards them with the friendly expression of a barracuda on the prowl for food. ‘Such a reassuring thing to see—especially when I have just finished having a meeting with your boss to work out why the magazine isn’t doing as well as it should.’
He was dressed in a silver-grey suit, which he managed to transform into something elegant rather than functional, and a pale blue and white shirt with a dark blue tie. Very conservative, very traditional yet, on him, shockingly attractive.
Jack, who had been reduced to a state of tongue-tied embarrassment, launched himself into a comprehensive stream of apologies, which Franco, not bothering to look at him at all, waved aside.
He somehow managed to turn his broad back on the assembled eight members of staff now busily working at their desks, heads down, eyes focused, so that he could devote every scrap of uninvited attention to Ruth, who was the last one left still standing and with nowhere to conceal herself.
‘So,’ he said softly, which just succeeded in making his exclusion of the rest of the office from their conversation all the more complete, ‘does flirting list among your dogsbody jobs?’
‘I wasn’t…flirting!’ Ruth protested in a low, heated voice. ‘Jack was just…’
‘Playing with your hair…’
She tried to slide her eyes around him to see whether their tête-à-tête was being observed, but decided that she would rather not know.
‘That’s r-right…’ she stammered absent-mindedly, as her eyes flitted over the downturned heads and rapt faces staring at computer screens.
He clicked his tongue impatiently, ‘Would you mind looking at me when I’m talking to you?’ he snapped, sharply enough for her to literally jump to attention.
‘Of course!’ She nearly saluted, and then had to stifle a giggle at the thought of what his expression would be like if she dared do any such thing.
‘Do you recall our little conversation on Friday?’
‘Which bit?’ Ruth asked cautiously. Her smoky grey eyes wandered away as she tried to recall what they had spoken about. She knew that if she put her mind to it she would have no trouble at all, although the overwhelming impression that remained with her of that night, like a thorn driven deep into her side, was the unwelcome feeling of being bludgeoned into the ground by something much like a steamroller.
‘Could I have your attention?’ he asked in a grim, irritable voice, and she shot him a nervous smile in response.
Did he realise that he had just raised his voice one or two decibels, and that in the small office all those downcast eyes were quietly boring a hole in the back of his neck, and that all those subdued voices would be eagerly anticipating his departure so that they could lay into her with a thousand and one questions?
Having never been the focus of gossip, the thought of it now was enough to bring Ruth out in a cold sweat.
She could hardly tell him to lower his tone, though, so she compensated by reducing the level of hers so much that he had to bend down to hear what she was saying.
‘I am paying attention, to every word you’re saying,’ she whispered furtively, feeling like a dodgy character in a third-rate movie.
‘I’ve spoken to Alison about my little proposition…’
‘What little proposition?’
‘Do you have any concentration span at all?’ he snapped.
He glared down at her. Most of the women he knew—had ever known, for that matter—achieved a near perfect complexion through generous, skilful application of make-up. This girl, staring up at him, her teeth anxiously worrying her lip, had the most perfect complexion he had ever clapped eyes on, without the aid of any make-up at all. God, he could feel his mind beginning to drift, again, and he glared even more ferociously at her, further maddened by the glaringly obvious fact that although she was hearing every belligerent word he was saying she wasn’t seeing him at all.
Who was that boy who had been playing with her hair? Was there something going on there?
He fought to impose a bit of self-control and managed a stiff, artificial smile which appeared to alarm the object of his attentions even more than his aggression had done a minute before.
‘Maybe we could continue this conversation in Alison’s office. A bit more private.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. She had just managed to accidentally catch Jack’s eye and had quickly looked away when he had grinned and winked at her.
‘After you,’ he said, stepping aside so that she could precede him.
Ruth, in her usual uninspiring attire of neat powder-blue skirt and long-sleeves blouse, was acutely conscious of his eyes behind her, following her movements. She was also conscious of Jack shooting her telling, questioning looks from where he was seated at an angle away from his desk, and with a sidelong glance she smiled at him and flashed him the smallest of waves. A conspiratorial wave that combined bewilderment at Franco Leoni’s inexplicable shepherding of her into Alison’s office and dread at what it indicated.
‘Mind if I have a word with Ruth alone?’ Franco asked, as soon as they were in the office, and Alison obligingly exited at speed, either relieved to be out of his presence or else frantic to obey his every command.
‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the black chair in front of the desk and Ruth sat down, only to find that he had remained standing, so that to look at him she had to crane her neck.
He strolled across to the bay window which opened onto the busy view of a London street in full swing, and, after idly staring out for a few seconds, he turned to face her, relaxing against the windowsill, arms folded.
‘I won’t be telling you anything that the rest of your colleagues will not hear for themselves very shortly, but the gist of my chat with Alison concerns what we briefly discussed last Friday evening. The magazine seems to have found itself in something of a rut. As you rightly pointed out, neither one thing nor another.’
Ruth felt a sudden warm glow at the unexpected compliment.
‘We have three talented reporters with good, solid styles of writing, but their subject matter is too disparate. Sport, fashion, natural disasters. Are you following me?’
‘Of course I’m following you. I’m not a complete idiot, you know!’ She felt a sudden flash of anger at his patronising attitude. Why had he called her in on her own to give this little speech? He hadn’t made it clear, unless it was to sack her, but she couldn’t really see why he would do that. Her contribution had nothing to do with the actual running of the magazine. She was a gofer, and a pretty good one at that, with lots of enthusiasm.
No, the only reason she could see for this one-to-one chat was to given him a chance of shooting down everything she said in flames. Maybe her soft nature was just too much of a temptation for a man like him. He simply couldn’t resist walking over her.
However soft she was, Ruth had no intention of being walked over. When pushed, there was a stubborn streak in her that made her dig her heels in and refuse to budge.
‘Sorry,’ he said, with a shadow of a smile. The apology, so unexpected, was enough to pull her down a peg or two, and she responded helplessly to the sincerity in his voice.
‘That’s okay,’ she said with a half-smile, lowering her eyes and then belatedly realising that all this timidity was no way to deal with this man. She looked at him fully and he stared back at her in silence for a few seconds.
‘I don’t suppose you were familiar with the magazine before we took it over?’
Ruth shook her head.
He went to the desk, but instead of sedately sitting on the chair he perched on the surface of the desk, so that he was still staring down at her—though from a lesser height, and infinitely closer.
‘It failed because there simply wasn’t enough money to pay any half-respectable reporter, and as a result, the articles were shallow and superficial. But, as far as I am concerned, the essence of the magazine was good. It dealt solely with topical problems. Drugs in the schoolyard, corruption in local politics, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh. Yes,’ Ruth said faintly, wondering what this had to do with her.
‘I think we need to drag it back to that formula, but handle it better than our predecessors.’
‘What does Alison think of your idea?’ Ruth asked, leaning forward to rest the palms of her hands on her knees and staring up at him.
The pigtails were a mistake. She had not expected to be confronted with Franco Leoni first thing in the morning or else she would have tried for a more sophisticated look. She could tell from the way that he looked at her that he was finding it difficult not to click his tongue impatiently at the image she presented.
‘Oh, she agrees entirely,’ he said. ‘In fact, she’s probably out there explaining all of this to your colleagues…’ he looked at her for a fraction longer than necessary ‘…and friends,’ he ended on a soft note, which made Ruth frown.
‘Well, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why have you taken me to one side to explain all this when I could have been out there hearing it along with everyone else?’
‘Because…’ He inclined his head to one side and, worryingly, appeared to give the question quite a bit of thought. ‘Because there’s a further little matter I wanted to discuss with you…’
‘What?’ She inadvertently stiffened at the tone in his voice.
‘I think you could be a great deal of help in getting this magazine back on the straight and narrow.’
‘Me…?’ Ruth squeaked. She almost burst out laughing at that, and managed to contain the urge in the nick of time.
If he thought that she was, mysteriously, a wonderful and gifted reporter labouring under the disguise of a dogsbody, then he was way off target. The most she had ever written were essays at school, and she’d occasionally helped her dad to write the odd sermon for Sunday’s congregation.
Hard-hitting articles on topical issues were quite outside her realm of capability.
‘Yes, you. And there’s no need to sound so shocked. Don’t you have any faith in your abilities?’
‘I couldn’t write to save my life!’
‘Why not? Have you ever tried?’ There was curiosity etched on his dark, handsome face as he leant a little closer towards her while she continued to stare at him with frank disbelief.
‘Of course I have,’ Ruth said firmly, ‘at school. I managed to get my A level in English, but I certainly wouldn’t want to put it to the test by writing an article. And I fancy,’ she said with a slow smile, ‘that not very many readers would thank me for the effort either.’
‘So you never considered university?’
Ruth eyed him warily, wondering what this had to do with anything.
Franco, leaning towards her, felt his eyes stray to the blunt edges of her plaits, and he wondered what she would do if he took them and tugged at them, the way the boy in the office had. She certainly wouldn’t respond with laughter. Apprehension, more like it. The thought generated another surge of hot antagonism towards the young lad who was clearly on familiar enough terms with her to touch her hair, play with it.
Were they sleeping together?
He would find out. He would make it his business to find out. In fact, he would make it his business to find out everything he possibly could about this girl sitting in front of him, if only to sate his gnawing curiosity.
He felt another urge to make her notice him, and scowled at such an adolescent response.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I’m no brainbox. My only virtues are that I’m enthusiastic and I’m prepared to work hard.’
‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘Admirable virtues, I must say.’ His blue eyes lingered on her face, which turned crimson in response as the ambiguity of his observation sank in. ‘You blush easily. Is that because I make you feel uncomfortable?’ He was staring at her so fixedly that Ruth disengaged her eyes from his face. A fatal mistake, because as they travelled the length of his body, they came to his hands, resting casually over his thighs. Just a couple of inches higher and she could discern, beneath the fine silk of his trousers, the faint but unmistakable bulge of his manhood. The sight of it made her feel a little faint.