The Boss's Forbidden Secretary

From then on she slept deeply, until her brain finally stirred into life and struggled to free itself from the clinging cobwebs of sleep.

But even when she was almost awake, she was aware of a lingering feeling of sadness and loss.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in a strange room. It was a split second before memory kicked in, and she recalled everything that had happened the previous night. The unexpected snow, meeting Ross, the instant attraction that had flared between them and the delight and magic they had shared.

Her spirits soaring, a smile on her lips, she turned towards him.

But the place beside her was cold and empty. If she smoothed the sheets and plumped up the pillow the last traces of him would be gone and it would be hard to believe he had even existed.

Pushing the gloomy thought away, she glanced at her watch. Almost eight-thirty.

He was probably shaving.

She clambered out of bed and, pulling on her robe, headed for the bathroom. But even before she tapped on the door the utter stillness convinced her that he wasn’t there.

When she opened the door, the two towelling robes hanging side by side and the absence of his clothes confirmed the fact that he was gone.

He must be having breakfast.

But why hadn’t he awakened her so they could breakfast together?

Her heart grew cold.

Had she been mistaken after all? Had Ross—despite his caring words—seen her simply as a one-night stand? A casual bed partner that he felt nothing for?

Turning away, she saw the note on the floor—a small, flimsy page torn from a pocket diary and almost hidden by the quilt. It must have fluttered off the bedside cabinet.

She picked it up with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Though obviously hurried, the writing was firm and decisive. It said simply:

You were sleeping so soundly it seemed a shame towaken you. Thank you for last night. You were a delight. Mrs Low will explain why I’m having to rush off. Have a safe journey up to Luing, and I’ll see you as soon as I possibly can. Ross.

She hadn’t told him exactly where she was staying, so unless Luing was a very small place how would he find her? She desperately wanted him to. But if he turned up asking for a Miss Richardson, it could cause problems. Oh, if only she had explained about Carl…

But perhaps he hadn’t gone yet. She might be in time to catch him…

She showered quickly, brushed her hair and coiled it neatly, then, having put on fresh undies and the fine wool suit she’d worn the previous day, she hurried along to the breakfast room.

But it was empty apart from an elderly couple who were just on the point of leaving.

As they exchanged a civil good morning, Mrs Low came busily in.

‘Ah, there you are, Miss Richardson,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perfect timing. Mr Dalgowan said if you weren’t down for breakfast by nine o’clock I was to call you.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Oh, yes, he left before five-thirty. I was barely up myself. I understand he’d had a phone call from home in the early hours of the morning to say there was some kind of emergency…’

It must have been the phone ringing that had started her off dreaming, Cathy realized, and sighed. If only she had awakened properly and been able to talk to him before he left.

But Mrs Low was going on. ‘The poor man didn’t even stop for a bite to eat, he just swallowed a cup of coffee and went, saying he’d be sure to see you as soon as may be. Luckily a warm front followed the blizzard through, so instead of freezing the snow has turned to slush, which means the main roads should be clear.

‘Now, what would you like for breakfast? We’ve bacon and eggs, or a pair of nice kippers?’

A mixture of excitement and apprehension over what the day might bring robbing her of her appetite, she said, ‘Just coffee, please.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’

When Mrs Low had gone, Cathy walked to the window and looked out.

Though the garden was still mostly covered with white there were several dark patches where the snow had already gone, and the trees and bushes were bare and dripping.

As Mrs Low had said, the main roads should be clear, so Ross would be well on his way home by now. But where was home?

Though he’d talked about being born on the edge of the Cairngorms and had said he knew Luing well, he hadn’t told her exactly where he lived. So there was no way she could get in touch with him.

Once again she wished fervently that she had explained about Carl. But she hadn’t. And now it was too late.

When her coffee arrived, Cathy said, ‘I’d like to make a start as soon as possible, so if you can let me have the bill?’

‘Mr Dalgowan took care of that,’ Mrs Low told her. ‘He’s a fine young man, good-looking and generous to a fault…’

‘How well do you know him?’ Cathy asked.

‘He stayed here in the autumn when his car broke down. Charlie and he got talking and discovered they had some mutual friends. He promised to call in and see us next time he was passing.’

‘Do you know exactly where he lives?’

Looking somewhat surprised at the question, Mrs Low answered vaguely, ‘The name of his house just escapes me, but it’s on the edge of the Cairngorms, a few miles from Luing, I believe…

‘Oh, excuse me, I think I hear the phone ringing. In case I’m not around when you leave, I’ll say goodbye now. Have a safe journey…’ She hurried away and a moment later the ringing stopped.

As soon as Cathy had drunk her coffee, she went along to her room and packed her night things and toilet bag, before taking the ring she would need to wear from her handbag.

It was her mother’s wedding ring—Neil had taken Cathy’s when he’d left, along with everything else he could lay his hands on. Because of the distinctive engraving it had been amongst the pitifully few belongings that had been returned to Cathy and Carl after the plane crash.

Slipping the wide gold band chased with lover’s knots onto the third finger of her left hand, she discovered it was quite loose. Which meant she must be careful not to lose it before she could find some way to make it a better fit.

With a sigh, and one last look around the room that held such happy memories, she pulled on her coat and hurried out to the four-wheel drive.

Though the damp air felt chill, the snow had melted and slid off the roof and windscreen, and a watery sun was trying to shine. She stowed away her bag, climbed into the car and started the engine.

The drive was still slushy, and the car slid a little on the humpback bridge, but as soon as Cathy reached the main entrance she found the road was clear in either direction.

It proved, in many ways, to be an enjoyable journey. She was making reasonably good time and the scenery en route was picturesque.

Towards lunchtime she looked for somewhere to have a sandwich and a hot drink, but, unable to find anywhere suitable, she pressed on.

Then just north of Blair Brechan she took the wrong road, and it was late afternoon when, with fresh snow falling, she neared her destination.

Luing turned out to be a tiny hamlet with a backdrop of wonderful scenery. It was made up of a hill farm, five whitewashed cottages and an old grey kirk huddled together at the junction where three narrow roads converged.

The rotting remains of what had obviously once been a signpost lay forlornly on its side, one arm in the air and partially covered by snow.

Uncertain which road to take, Cathy was hesitating when a man wearing a heavy mac and a deerstalker appeared with a spaniel at his heels.

Rolling down the window, she called, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Beinn Mor.’

‘You’ll be wanting the road straight ahead, lassie, and it’s a mile or so farther on.’

She thanked him gratefully and set off on the final lap of her journey.

On her left the road—little more than a lane—was edged with pine trees, and soon on her right an old stone wall came into view and began to meander alongside the road.

After about a mile and a half she came to a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with snarling lions that seemed to forbid entrance. In contrast, the black wrought-iron gates were drawn back, open wide in welcome.

Alongside the entrance a dark green board with gold writing announced that she had reached Dunbar Estate and the Beinn Mor Hotel and Ski Lodge.

Snow was falling softly, gently drifting down as if it were in no particular hurry, as she drove up the winding drive. It was starting to get dark, and the long, low building that came into view was a blaze of lights.

Though she had been warned that the Scots celebrated New Year more than Christmas, it was a lovely Christmassy scene that met her eyes.

Yule tide lanterns on long poles had been placed at intervals, swags of greenery adorned the porch, and a tall, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in a massive pot to one side of the entrance.

When she drew up on the forecourt, the heavy oak door opened and Carl—who had obviously been watching for her—appeared, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair by his side.

As Cathy got out into the cold, crisp air that smelt of frost, he hurried over.

For the first time since Katie had left him he looked excited and happy, and, despite the difficulties she knew lay ahead, Cathy rejoiced at the sight of him.

‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’ He gave her a hug and, his lips close to her ear, whispered, ‘Everything’s going wonderfully well. I hope you remembered the ring?’

‘Yes, I’m wearing it,’ she whispered back.

Giving her another grateful hug, he said in his normal voice, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bowan… I’ll do the unpacking later.’

An arm around her, he escorted her to where the blonde woman waited beneath the shelter of the porch.

At close quarters Cathy could see that, though she wasn’t strictly speaking beautiful, she was very attractive, with good features, light blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was also much younger than Cathy had expected.

Carl introduced the two of them. ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Mrs Bowan… Margaret, this is my wife, Cathy.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you…Cathy.’ Then, with an apologetic smile, Margaret added, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’d got it into my head that your name was Katie.’

So, at some time, no doubt during his first interview and before the break-up, Carl must have mentioned that his future wife was called Katie.

Feeling horribly guilty that she was deceiving this nice, friendly-looking woman, Cathy murmured, ‘How do you do, Mrs Bowan?’

‘Oh, call me Margaret, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Now, come on in out of the cold and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before Carl takes you over to your flat.’

Pushing open the door, on which a holly wreath entwined with scarlet ribbons hung, she ushered them into a warm, nicely decorated lobby-cum-lounge.

Two soft leather couches, several armchairs and a couple of low tables were grouped in front of the blazing fire.

On the left at the far end was a semicircular bar with a scattering of high stools, and on the right a polished reception desk.

Behind the desk, going through a sheaf of papers, was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair.

‘This is Janet Muir,’ Margaret said. ‘She helps to run the place. I don’t know what I’d do without her… Janet, this is Cathy, Carl’s wife…’

Once again Cathy cringed inwardly, but, murmuring an acknowledgement to the friendly greeting, she returned Janet’s smile.

‘Have you time to join us for a cup of tea?’ Margaret asked the other woman.

Janet shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better finish what I’m doing.’

Opening a door to the right that said ‘Private’, Margaret led the way into a small but cosy room where a teatray had been set on a low table in front of the hearth.

‘This is our sitting room, and through there is our bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. As you can guess, it’s a bit cramped.

‘My brother, who owns the Dunbar Estate, would be only too happy for us to live in the main house, but when the lodge and the log cabins are full, as they are at the moment, we feel that we need to be here on the spot, just in case there are any problems. Do take your coat off and sit down.’

Waving them to a couch in front of a cheerful fire, she sat down opposite and smiled at them both, before asking, ‘So what kind of journey did you have?’

Her mouth so dry with nerves that she could hardly speak, Cathy managed, ‘It was very good on the whole. Though I was rather surprised to run into snow quite so soon.’

Reaching to pour the tea, Margaret said, ‘Yes, we’ve had several quite heavy falls already this season, which of course is good for the skiing, if not for travelling… Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

When she had handed them a cup of tea each, she offered a plate of homemade cake. ‘Janet makes the best fruitcake you’ve ever tasted.’

Unsure whether she could swallow it, Cathy declined, but, with an appreciative murmur, Carl accepted a piece.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing, S—’ On the verge of saying Sis, he pulled himself up short and changed it to, ‘Sweetheart’.

‘It certainly smells delicious,’ Cathy said and, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, added, ‘But I’m not really hungry.’

Margaret smiled at her. ‘In that case, as we’re all invited to have dinner at Dunbar tonight, it would make sense not to risk spoiling your meal.’

Then in a heartfelt voice she added, ‘We’re so pleased and relieved to get a nice married couple like you. Last season was an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, André, the ski instructor we hired, proved to be a real Casanova. We had several complaints from women, and one from an irate husband, who found André and his wife together in one of the ski huts. She swore that André had lured her there, and her husband threatened us with legal action.’

Refilling their cups, she went on, ‘We decided there and then that in the future we would only consider a married couple. So earlier this year, before the season started, we took on a couple who said they were married and gave their names as Mr and Mrs Fray. But we soon discovered that they weren’t married at all, and each considered themselves free to roam, so we felt justified in asking them to leave…’

Her face burning, Cathy didn’t know where to look. This was proving even worse than she had imagined.

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