Reluctant Enchantress Read online

  The question was fired at her in a manner calculated to disconcert, but she had seen it coming.

  ‘No,’ she lied. There was no way he could check. He gestured to a chair— that was hopeful. She sat down with some relief, but there was no break in the inquisition.

  ‘When exactly did you do your secretarial training? I’m a little unclear as to the dates in all this.’

  As she had meant him to be. She’d left them out. With the careful way she’d presented all the information, Dennis Harding hadn’t noticed. Trust the famous Julius to have seen the flaws! There had been an unpleasant edge to that last remark.

  ‘When I left school.’

  ‘And how long was the course?’

  She’d have to tell the truth this time. She knew instinctively that this man wouldn’t give her one more second of his time if he could actually catch her out. It was a pity she’d had to see him at all. She was sure now that Dennis would have given her at least a couple of months’ trial. ‘Twelve weeks,’ she admitted, and met his look squarely.

  ‘Twelve weeks? You learned shorthand in twelve weeks?’

  ‘Speedwriting and typing. None of my former employers seemed to find it inadequate.’

  Julius appeared to consider the flash of slanting blue eyes that accompanied that remark, but it didn’t deflect the course of his interrogation. ‘Your former employers—you didn’t work for any of them for long, except Matlock and West?’

  The need to earn a regular salary hadn’t been something she’d had to worry about in those days, and she’d taken a series of part-time secretarial jobs merely to fill in the gaps, when the money wasn’t coming in from the business she was trying to start up herself. She hadn’t even bothered to mention on the C.V. some of the jobs she’d done. The true extent of her patchy background wouldn’t recommend her to anyone wanting a seriously committed full-time secretary, and she didn’t think it wise to give any hint that her real qualifications were in the catering business—because that, of course, was where her commitment still lay.

  At that moment there was a knock at the door, and before Julius had time to make a reply Zoe put her head round.

  ‘The coffee you asked for earlier, Mr. Prior—shall I bring it in?’

  He nodded curtly in her direction, and, as though the interruption signalled a change into another gear, shot one immaculately white shirt-cuff up his wrist, and glanced impatiently at the heavy gold watch he was wearing.

  There was a brief silence while Julius Prior watched Amy, and Amy watched Zoe as she went to the huge antique desk against which her boss had propped himself. She put down a tray set with two cups and a sugar bowl. Then Amy’s eyes followed her retreat as she shut the office door behind her, only too well aware that the disconcerting Mr. Prior was still scrutinising her.

  ‘So you haven’t worked for anyone very long?’ he prompted.

  ‘Not really,’ she said carefully. ‘I moved around quite a bit—but not because I didn’t like the jobs. I’m sure any of those firms I’ve listed would give me a reference.’

  ‘But why, when your most recent long spell of employment was for Matlock and West, didn’t you ask them for a reference?’

  ‘The company folded about five months ago.’

  ‘You couldn’t have written to any of your former bosses?’

  ‘My former boss was my father. Matlock and West was his company.’

  ‘And you didn’t want to ask him?’ The question was only marginally less aggressive.

  Amy, her face impassive after months of practice, deliberately relaxed the toes that were curled into the carpet, and then said, ‘My father—both my parents— were killed earlier this year in a flying accident.’

  She was aware that Julius Prior had glanced swiftly at her C.V. again, and was looking at her, though she refused to meet his gaze directly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said briefly. And then, as though her bereaved state merited some special treatment—or merely prompted him to remember his manners—he said, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  He held out the cup to her, and then offered the sugar bowl.

  Remembering Jacquie’s reaction to her sugar consumption, and unwilling to draw Julius’s attention to herself as any more of an oddity—he had already found quite enough to comment on in her general appearance—she limited herself to one unremarkable spoonful, and hoped she wouldn’t be obliged to drink the whole cup.

  The social interlude now appeared to be over, because he instantly switched back into business mode, glancing down at her letter again. There was a sceptical, downward turn to the corners of that firm mouth. ‘So what it amounts to, Miss Thompson, is that you’ve only once been in full-time secretarial employment of this sort, and that was for about three months when you were working for your father. Otherwise it’s only been occasional temping. Am I right?’

  He sounded so patently unimpressed that her heart sank even lower—there wasn’t much chance he’d offer her the job now.

  ‘Well, sort of. But…’

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘What prompted you to apply for this particular post?’

  He’d already asked her that. What was he trying to do, catch her out changing her story?

  People like Julius Prior thought they ruled the world. They could ask any questions they chose, and because she wanted the job she was obliged to answer. And the answer was boringly obvious. She began to feel very hostile.

  ‘I needed to earn money—like most people!’

  If she’d expected a reaction, she was disappointed. ‘Do you think you can cope with pressure?’

  If I couldn’t cope with pressure I wouldn’t be here now… She looked him dead in the eyes, and in her own there was a sudden determined glint.

  ‘Try me,’ she said.

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes holding hers, assessing her again. Her crossed fingers tightened in her lap and she found that she was holding her breath. I don’t like you very much, and you probably don’t like me, but please, please just give me a chance!

  He had given no clues at all as to what he really thought of her.

  Then, just as she was certain he was about to show her the door, he said, ‘All right. You can have two months to prove to me you can do the job. You start tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow.

  There was another silence, Amy’s this time.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  The dark brows drew together in a quick frown. ‘Doesn’t that suit you? Your letter stated you’d be ready to start any time. It’s important we have someone to fill the position as soon as possible.’

  She saw him glance at his watch again, as though the word ‘time’ instantly had him on the hop. Her own mind began to race—she couldn’t afford to antagonise him now, but how on earth was she going to find a spare minute to do all that food shopping for tomorrow night’s dinner booking? She couldn’t go to the late-night supermarket because she’d have to be serving for tonight’s booking while it was open. After the interview, perhaps?

  ‘Miss Thompson?’

  There was no question of negotiating—he’d change his mind about employing her. She repressed an impatient sigh, and met his eyes. What could she see in them—a sudden doubt? Criticism? She asked quickly, ‘What time would you like me to get in?’

  ‘Eight-thirty?’

  He’d made the point about working flexible hours fairly forcibly. She hoped none of her dismay showed in her face.

  ‘We’ve got a board meeting at nine,’ he said curtly. ‘I’d like you to be here early to help check everything. Zoe will get the boardroom ready tonight.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I have to be going in about three minutes. I’ll give you a lift to the heel bar—you shouldn’t have to wait long for your shoes. Where’s your raincoat?’

  ‘Zoe took it for me—Mr. Prior?’

  He was the one to look surprised now. Almost as though, she thought, having made a quick decision about her and given the instructions he considered relevant, he’d mentally
filed her away until tomorrow.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Am I working for Mr. Harding or for you?’ She let just the tiniest hint of criticism creep into her voice. ‘I thought the advertisement was for a secretary to Mr. Harding.’ Purely as a physical specimen, Julius Prior might be very attractive, but she was certain she’d have one hell of a time if he was the one to give her the orders. It wasn’t at all easy to see why the other two secretaries actually liked him. If she could establish from the beginning that she was the more easygoing Dennis’s property, then he mightn’t cross her path too often.

  ‘Officially you will be Mr. Harding’s secretary—Zoe! Get Miss Thompson’s coat, will you…?’

  And that ‘officially’ was all the information she was destined to get, because the next moment he was picking up his own cup of coffee to consume it in three gulps, and pulling a face afterwards. Then the ginger-haired secretary was back again carrying Amy’s raincoat, a shoe, and two umbrellas.

  ‘Jacquie only took one of Miss Thompson’s shoes,’ she explained. ‘She’s in Mr. Harding’s office now if you want to see her.’

  ‘No need,’ said Julius Prior briskly, with a glance at Amy as she put her own lukewarm coffee, virtually untasted, back on the tray. She had no intention of choking over it and then having to set off at a run. He was already by the door.

  ‘Oh, and Zoe—’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Prior?’

  ‘Get out your dictionary when we’ve gone, will you, and have a good long look at the definition of “hot”?’ Ouch! thought Amy. Rather than paths not crossing too often, I hope they don’t cross at all! But when she looked at Zoe to see how she was taking it she was amazed to find her grinning. She glanced quickly at her new employer—or rather, since she was keen to split hairs in this particular case, her new employer’s co-director.

  There wasn’t the ghost of a smile on his face. Then he caught her look and she saw quite clearly the sparkle in those sea-grey eyes.

  It wasn’t what she’d expected at all.

  There was scarcely time for a hurried goodbye to Zoe before she was on her way downstairs in Julius’s wake. They negotiated the paint tins and step-ladders at speed and then she nearly ran into his back as he came to an unexpected halt in the doorway. He half turned to look back at her, and then glanced down at her stockinged feet.

  ‘Wait here,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll bring the car round. You can’t hop about the street like that.’ She was surprised he had remembered. ‘Will you want a lift across the pavement?’

  The antagonism, or whatever it had been, of the interview had mysteriously melted away. She caught his eye. Again there was that gleam she had seen when he’d chastised Zoe for the condition of the coffee. She gave him a sideways glance, remembering a comment he’d made about her, and took a risk. ‘We witches have our ways of getting about,’ she said demurely. ‘Aren’t you afraid I might put a spell on you?’

  It was a relief after the earlier tension to hear him laugh. It sounded like genuine amusement.

  ‘For all I know you might have done that already! Where did you leave the broomstick?’

  ‘At home with the cat. It tends to stall a bit in the rain. Charlie says it needs servicing, but the local garage only specialises in Volkswagens.’

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Who’s Charlie?’

  She never knew afterwards why she’d said it. After all, there was no reason in the world not to tell him Charlie was her brother—except that family commitments, especially problematic ones, were a bad idea. ‘The person I live with,’ she said ambiguously.

  One dark eyebrow twitched fractionally upwards, and then he was striding out into the rain, automatic umbrella instantly unfurling itself against the heavy patter of drops.

  The car that appeared at the end of the street after a couple of minutes was a discreet grey Mercedes, for size not ideal in the streets of a small Oxfordshire market town, Amy reflected idly, having wondered what sort of flashy sports model the eligible Mr. Prior would drive.

  Then the Mercedes pulled up in front of her and the passenger door opened. She could see him leaning across the passenger seat. ‘Come on—let’s see this witchy way of getting across wet pavements, then!’

  She slipped on her one shoe, and hopped quickly out into the rain, manoeuvring carefully so that she could sit in the passenger seat without letting her other foot touch the ground. Then she pulled the door shut and looked at him, breathing rather fast, her cheeks slightly flushed. Unexpectedly, he was grinning.

  ‘I’m disappointed! I expected you to float across on a boat made out of a wet leaf or dry up the street in a blast of magic. What happened? Leave the spell book at home?’

  And just what had happened to that intimidating time-is-money tycoon? she wondered. Julius Prior was turning out to have a nicer side to him than she’d thought. It wasn’t like her to feel so prickly about anyone on first meeting. It must have been her desperation over the job. Well, he’d given it to her. The rest was up to her now.

  They were already gliding comfortably down the street, and the unexpected luxury of it struck Amy forcefully. It seemed a long time ago—another life—when she’d been able to take for granted such luxuries herself.

  ‘The best witches don’t waste their power on minor matters like crossing the road,’ she said, merely making conversation now. ‘They save it up for something really special. And by the way, I’m not Irish.’

  They were drawing up in front of a small hardware store, its plate-glass windows displaying an uninteresting clutter of spanners, plastic buckets, lengths of hose, mortice locks and jugs. One sign said ‘Keys cut’ and another ‘Heel Bar’.

  He turned sideways to her, one arm draped over the steering-wheel, the other along the back of the seat.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t wait to see if your shoe’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another appointment.’

  She turned to him politely. ‘You’ve been very kind. I hope this isn’t going to make you late.’

  The formality seemed rather false after the high-tension exchanges earlier in the office, and the other extreme of the broomstick jokes that had followed. But then he smiled, a real smile this time that took her by surprise—and suddenly she saw exactly what had made Zoe cry for days at the news of his engagement.

  ‘Not at all. It isn’t every day I interview a witch— certainly not with hair the colour of red seaweed. I look forward to a tea-leaf consultation some time, Miss Thompson! See you tomorrow.’

  She wasn’t aware of getting out of the car, or shutting the door, but she supposed she must have done both because she found herself standing on one foot in the middle of the pavement watching the grey car glide away into the rain, tyres sending up a fine spray from the wet road.

  Red seaweed! Was that supposed to be a compliment? Well… She’d got a job that was going to pay the rent money—for as long as she could juggle two different careers. She and Charlie and the cat weren’t going to starve yet awhile, or find themselves living in cardboard boxes, or busking in shopping centres on Saturdays—at least she and the cat weren’t.

  What else had she achieved on this most inauspicious of days? Well, she’d met her boss, and liked him, and she’d met the other secretaries and liked them. And she’d met her boss’s partner. But she wasn’t sure what she felt about the soon-to-be-married Mr. Prior. ‘Liking’ somehow didn’t seem a very relevant word for whatever it was.

  She’d better go inside and find out what had happened to her shoe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Charlie, get up!’ she said firmly.

  There was a groan and a heave and the only visible portion of her brother—a few stiffened spikes of carroty hair—disappeared under the pillow.

  ‘Too early.’ The mumble was almost unintelligible. Mercilessly she twitched back the duvet, exposing exactly half of him to the chill November morning with the accuracy of a couple of months’ practice.

  ‘I want to see you out of bed and d
ressed before I leave—I told you last night I had to catch the seven-thirty bus and if I miss it because of you it’ll be a bed full of ice cubes tomorrow morning—and that’s a promise!’ A contorted movement, and one light blue eye glared at her balefully. The other was squeezed tightly shut.

  ‘I might get up if you hadn’t taken the fire,’ was the resentful reply, scarcely more articulate than the first.

  Amy sighed. She felt mean, but what else could she do? Charlie was so forgetful.

  ‘What can you expect if you leave it on all day when we’re both out? Apart from the fact that you could burn the cat to a cinder—not to mention the house—I can’t afford the electricity bills. Five minutes, Charlie and then it’s the cold-water treatment! I’m not losing this job before I’ve even started.’

  Every morning is a battle, she thought tiredly. I’m like a limp rag before the day even gets going! But she couldn’t blame him; what fourteen-year-old ever wanted to crawl out of bed with only the prospect of getting himself to school on a rainy day to lure him?

  Since the deaths of their parents in the spring, she’d become increasingly aware of her responsibility for her young brother. With their sex and age-difference—there was an eight-year gap—there could be no rivalry between them. They’d always had a good relationship, but now, lacking the authority of a parent, she was finding it more and more difficult to cope with him. He usually gave in after an argument, and she tried to keep those to the real essentials, but she couldn’t force him to do anything. They’d never fought physically, but being able to pick him up and dump him in the bath, as her mother had done when he was little, was an easy solution no longer open to her. Charlie was thin, like her, but his adolescent strength was more than a match for hers, as she’d discovered from their occasional teasing bouts. He might be her little brother in every other way but that didn’t mean she could treat him as a child.