‘I think you should go too, Ben. I’m very grateful for your help today.’ Both the wanted and the unwanted, she thought, but now wasn’t the time to quibble. ‘I’m tired; I want to go to bed.’ The sudden wicked gleam in his eyes made her rush on swiftly. ‘And I need to talk to Charlie,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Dignity wasn’t usually something she had to work at—she had buckets full of the stuff. Calm, unruffled composure was her trademark; she knew it, and liked it. It kept unwanted attention at bay. What had happened to her? She wasn’t the sort of girl who needed a shoulder, strong or otherwise, to lean on. She wasn’t the sort of girl who kissed unsuitable men who looked on women as a way to pass a few hours pleasurably.

‘About her father?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I imagine we’ll touch on artificial insemination,’ she said drily. It was time for the ‘warm loving relationship’ speech and she wasn’t looking forward to it. It that area she hadn’t been the best role model in the world.

‘And us?’

‘I’ll see you in the office tomorrow,’ she replied, deliberately misunderstanding him.

‘With your hair neatly secured…I know,’ he said, his tone laden with an irony that brought a self-conscious flush to her cheeks. At the door he turned abruptly. ‘Wear your hair loose for me tomorrow, Rachel,’ he said impetuously.

She was still digesting this ludicrous request when he left, his departure a good deal quieter than Nigel’s. Wear my hair loose indeed, she snorted. What exactly would he make of it if she did? He’d see it as some sort of silent admission—a surrender.

Surrender… A sudden shudder racked her slim body and she was conscious of her aching breasts and the way they chafed against the white shirt she wore. She’d be mad to pander to his private fantasies; it was all about control and domination and she wasn’t about to buy into that sort of thing—not for a minute!

Her confrontation with Charlie was delayed until the morning. When she entered her daughter’s room she was sprawled face down across the bed. Rachel removed her shoes and pulled the quilt over her before telephoning the neighbour who looked after Charlie for the couple of hours after school before she finished work. Fortunately she was happy to have her the next day. She’d have loved to stay at home the next day, but being a working mother, she’d already discovered, required a lot of compromise.

Benedict’s eyes went immediately to his secretary’s desk as he walked into the outer office. The morning sun fell directly onto the corner from where the efficient hum of the word processor issued.

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‘Good morning.’ Rachel cradled a phone against her cheek. ‘Your father rang; he’s on his way down.’

Not even the royal visitation could cloud this morning. Benedict nodded. ‘Thank you, Rachel.’

Rachel would have known his appreciation wasn’t directed at her ability to convey a message even if his eyes hadn’t been fixed on the cloud of hair which rippled over her shoulders.

She’d almost been late this morning. First she’d gone all the way back to the flat to pin up her hair, then there had been the last-minute visit to the ladies’ room to demolish her previous efforts.

Why shouldn’t a girl change her hairstyle if she wanted? If Benedict wanted to read anything into it that was his problem. She could rationalise as much as she liked, but she’d still been waiting with baited breath for his arrival. He’d been pleased, if the savage satisfaction that had flared in his dark eyes could be interpreted as pleasure.

‘How’s Charlie this morning?’

‘She sends her love.’ This was the literal and worrying truth.

‘Is anything the matter?’

His perception was as acute as ever. I don’t want my daughter to get too fond of you, would have sounded churlish, but it was true. From their conversation earlier this morning she’d noticed that Charlie was exhibiting a dangerous tendency to attach the label ‘father figure’ around Benedict’s neck.

She’d tried tactfully to discourage this development, but she was gloomily aware that her words hadn’t fallen on fertile ground. Her own heart would have to take care of itself but she didn’t want to take similar risks with her daughter’s. She had no right to throw caution to the winds.

Her fingers suddenly itched to twist her hair into a neat knot. What am I doing? she thought angrily. I might as well pin a sign around my neck saying ‘Just whistle’! Talk about a pushover!

Stuart Arden didn’t make a habit of knocking and Rachel was taken completely unawares, and, if the expression on his face was anything to go by, so was Benedict.




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