‘You seem to forget, Natasha, that I’ve seen your expertise at first hand.’
‘What you’ve seen, Mr Hadley, is me being stitched up by a man who wanted the promotion I’d worked my socks off for without the bother of putting in the hours.’ A fine rim of sugar, missed by her tongue, glistened on her upper lip.
‘Darius,’ he said, aware that a film of sweat had broken out above his own lip. Whatever it was she was doing, it was working. ‘Only my accountant calls me Mr Hadley.’
He expected her to come back with your accountant and me. Instead, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Darius. When I said it was a bit more complicated than you thought, I meant really complicated.’ She looked up, her eyes intent and just a touch desperate. ‘The mess-up with the advertisement wasn’t a mistake.’
‘Not a mistake?’
‘Not a mistake,’ she repeated, ‘but I was the target. You were just collateral damage.’
FOUR
‘Collateral...?’ Darius repeated, rerunning what she’d said through his head. ‘Are you saying this was all about some internal power play at Morgan and Black? That it was deliberate?’
‘I really am sorry,’ she repeated.
‘Not half as sorry as I am.’ Or Miles Morgan would be if it was true. ‘Did he get it? Your promotion?’
A sigh of relief rippled through her. ‘My promotion, my car and, as the icing on the cake, my reputation down the drain.’
The desperation had been fear, he realised. She’d been afraid that he would laugh out loud or call her a liar. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know what to think. It seemed preposterous and yet he’d already half convinced himself that she hadn’t messed up the ad. Apparently Freddie Glover wasn’t the only one susceptible to a pair of blue eyes and a great pair of—
‘The kettle seems to have boiled. Shall I make the tea?’ she asked.
‘You did volunteer.’ Tea was the furthest thing from his mind, but it gave them both a moment and, besides, he wanted to watch her move. The lift of her head, the unfolding of her legs, the muscles in a long shapely calf as she fought the clutches of the sofa. ‘Why did he want to destroy your reputation?’ he asked, reaching on automatic for his sketch pad, a pencil, working swiftly to capture the image. The lines of her neck, her shoulders as she clicked the kettle back on. Her back and legs as she bent to open the fridge. ‘Wasn’t your promotion enough?’
‘There was no other way of being certain I’d be history,’ she said, concentrating on opening a carton of milk. ‘I’m really good at my job.’
After an initial wobble when she’d looked as if she wanted to tear his clothes off, Natasha Gordon was doing a very good job of presenting herself as a woman totally in control of her emotions but her eyes betrayed her. A pulse was visible at her throat and if he slid his hand inside the open invitation of her shirt, laid his palm against her breast, he knew he would feel her heart pounding with rage.
The pencil he was holding snapped...
‘So are you looking for revenge?’ he asked.
‘I have my revenge,’ she said, losing patience with the carton and jabbing the end of a spoon into the seal as if stabbing whoever had done this to her through the heart. Milk shot over the sleeve of her jacket and, embarrassed, she laughed. ‘Okay, maybe I do have issues, but Miles Morgan was panicked into grabbing the first answer that presented itself. No doubt with a little prompting from...’ Catching herself, she slipped off the jacket and used a piece of kitchen paper to mop the milk from her sleeve.