His Secretary Mistress(4)

For a few seconds Jenna was rooted to the spot, unable to take in what she had just witnessed, but as the woman cried out she followed a basic instinct and ran towards the cyclist. ‘How dare you?’ she screamed, outrage making her oblivious to the danger as she threw herself in the cyclist’s path and snatched the bag.

‘Get off me, bitch.’ His voice was muffled through his balaclava, but the cyclist’s aggression was obvious, and he quickly pushed Jenna out of his path and sped off, before any of the other pedestrians who had witnessed the scene could intervene.

At little more than five feet tall, Jenna was a lightweight, and the cyclist had used all his strength, so she literally flew through the air and met a concrete bollard with a resounding thud, her shoulder taking the force of the blow.

‘Oh, God, are you okay? Have you hit your head?’ The woman’s hands were shaking as she stooped over Jenna. ‘I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe he did that. Do you need an ambulance?’

‘No! I’m fine, really. Just a bit winded.’

Jenna was unable to disguise her panic at the thought of an ambulance. She really didn’t have time for any further delays, she thought frantically, and she pinned a smile on her face, ignored the screaming pain in her shoulder and scrambled to her feet.

‘Here’s your bag,’ she said belatedly, holding out the handbag to the woman, who shook her head disbelievingly.

‘You read about these things, but I never thought…’

A curious crowd of onlookers had joined them, and Jenna smiled faintly at an elderly man who’d come to help. ‘I’ve called the police. That was very brave of you, my dear; stupid, but brave.’

‘I really must go,’ Jenna said to the woman, with a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘I’m late for work; I don’t have time to wait for the police.’

‘But you’re hurt,’ the woman began, and then paused, aware of the anxiety in Jenna’s eyes. ‘But of course you must do as you think best. Thank you for your help. Write down your name and where you work, should the police want to talk to you—although I don’t suppose they’ll bother. It’s not as if anyone has been killed.’

‘More through luck than judgement,’ the older man commented dourly.

But Jenna was already hurrying on, and reaction would not set in until later.





The office block was an imposing building, the huge sheets of tinted windows glinting like copper in the autumn sunshine. The interior was a picture of discreet elegance, only the most flourishing businesses could afford to rent offices here, and Jenna was horribly aware of her laddered tights and damp skirt as she crossed the marble foyer.

As the lift carried her up to the top floor she was beset with nerves, not aided by the fact that she was now almost an hour late. She could do this, she told herself. She had excellent secretarial skills, and additional studying at college had given her the necessary qualifications for a legal secretary. Her part-time job with a small firm of solicitors had been a good learning curve, and she was more than capable of facing this new challenge head on.

Even so, her palms felt damp, her mouth dry when she introduced herself to the impeccably dressed receptionist, and was directed along the passage, a hasty glance at her watch revealing that she really had no time to pop into the cloakroom and change her tights.

Margaret Rivers was not at her desk when Jenna pushed open the door to a large open-plan office that commanded breathtaking views across the city.

‘Hello, I’m Jenna Deane, from Bale’s employment agency.’

At her interview she had briefly met the woman sitting at a desk at the furthest end of the room, and Katrin Jefferstone had not struck her as particularly friendly. She was tall, and whippet thin, her slenderness emphasised by the stark elegance of her black suit. Her black hair was cut into a severe bob that showed off razor-sharp cheekbones, her crisp, white shirt and scarlet lipstick the ultimate in chic sophistication.

‘Goodness, you’ve finally arrived.’ Finely plucked eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe as the woman surveyed Jenna with barely concealed contempt, and Jenna felt her confidence trickle down to her toes. ‘You’d better go straight in. We’ve been expecting you for the past hour.’

Taking a deep breath, Jenna pushed open the door to the inner office. ‘Good morning, Mr Morrell. I’m Jenna Deane from the…’ She tailed to a confused halt as the figure with his back to the door swung round on his chair.

It was a morning like no other, Jenna decided, instantly recognising the man she had met in the coffee shop doorway. He had discarded his overcoat, and his navy shirt echoed the colour of his eyes, the fine silk skimming his broad chest so that she was made aware of impressive muscle definition.