The Threat of Love Page 5

  The market value of the shares was temptingly priced, but wasn't enough to make Fred Ramsgate feel happy about buying a controlling interest without ever getting sight of the actual accounts. He wanted to be sure he was acquiring a valuable property at the right price; he did not want to discover that he had paid more than the store was really worth.

  'You talk to him!' he had said that morning. 'We've tried approaching him formally, through his own people. Now try the direct approach. Ring him yourself.'

  Caro reached a hand towards the phone and dialled. She got through to Gil's office at once and spoke to a secretary with a remote, indifferent voice.

  No, she was informed, Mr Martell was not available. He was in a meeting. No, his secretary did not know when he would be free. She reluctantly agreed to take a message asking him to ring Caro back.

  He didn't, of course. Caro rang again, got the same cold, distant voice. He still wasn't available. She left a message. 'You will make sure he gets it? It is important. And urgent.'

  The secretary sounded about as impressed as she might have been by a fly buzzing around her office, and no doubt would have liked to deal with Caro the way she would deal with a fly.

  Caro felt like yelling down the phone at her, just to make her jump, but could not risk it. She had to pretend to be sweetness and light until she finally managed to get hold of Gil Martell.

  He still didn't ring back. She tried again and again over the next two days, getting angrier each time, with the same result. His secretary's cold voice took on a smug note. She was enjoying the process. Probably, Gil Martell was enjoying himself, too. That made two of them. Caro was not having fun.

  'Any joy?' her father asked, putting his head round her door on the third morning.

  'None,' she grimly told him, grabbing up her handbag and walking purposefully towards him.

  'Where are you going?' asked Fred, backing to let her through the door.

  'Where I should have gone in the first place. Westbrooks.'

  'Good luck!' Fred called after her as she made for the lift. He was relieved that it wasn't he who had to deal with Gil Martell. Dealing with Lady Westbrook would be ordeal enough for Fred when the time came. He was saving his energy.

  Caro didn't attempt to go straight up to the managing director's office when she reached Westbrooks. She began on the ground floor and made a deliberately slow progress from counter to counter, from floor to floor, making notes, watching a demonstration in the makeup department, checking out a new perfume on special offer, tasting a French cheese in the food hall, studying a display of new German kitchen equipment on the home and garden floor, fingering towels and sheets, checking chinaware and glass, radio sets and the latest electronic robot in the toy department.

  She was cruising slowly around the fashion floor when she spotted a black dress of elegant cut and style by her favourite designer. Caro loved it on sight, and just had to try it on.

  She took it into a fitting-room and was standing in the cubicle in her slip, bra and panties when somebody pulled back the curtain. Caro jumped, staring into the mirror in startled surprise, and saw Gil Martell's angry face reflected behind her own.

  'OK, what are you up to?' he bit out. Behind him, Caro saw faces—the assistant who was in charge of the fitting-rooms, a middle-aged customer with a dress over her arm. Turning pink, Caro crossly said, 'Pull that curtain back! There are people staring!'

  Gil glanced into the mirror, frowningly saw their audience, but instead of drawing the curtain and leaving her alone he stepped into the cubicle and joined her, pulling the curtain to isolate them both. Outside they heard the others hurriedly walking away.

  Caro backed, suddenly breathless. The tiny space seemed much tinier with Gil in it. He dominated it and made her even more conscious of being half naked.

  'Go away,' she said shakily, turning her back on him, but that didn't help because Gil watched her in the mirror, standing right behind her. He was wearing a formal dark suit, pin-striped, expensively tailored, with a tight-fitting waistcoat beneath the open jacket; but the formality couldn't hide that assertive masculinity.

  'Oh, no, not until you tell me what you're doing, hanging around here again!' he said, staring at the reflection of her body, the smooth, creamy skin, the pale shoulders, full, round breasts in their lacy cups, the silky expanse of waist and hip beneath the transparent white slip. His eyes moved downward to the outline of her tiny briefs, the long, slim thighs, and Caro began to tremble, and was angry with herself. Why did he make her feel this way? If this was a beach she wouldn't be embarrassed by lying about in far less than she was wearing now. Why did it make her go hot and cold to have Gil Martell staring at her?

  She grabbed up her dress and held it in front of herself. 'You wouldn't answer my phone calls. This was the only way I could think of to make you take some notice of me!'

  His dark eyes glittered. 'You want me to take notice of you? Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you when you're so desperate for my attention.'

  Caro turned scarlet. 'I didn't mean that, and you know

  I didn't--- ' She broke off with a cry of shock as his arms came round her.

  'Don't!'

  With one hand he snatched her dress away and dropped it on a chair, while the other hand stroked softly, lingeringly, down her body, from breast to thigh. She couldn't stop or conceal the shaking of her limbs, the heated blood filling her face.

  Outside the cubicle a new customer had arrived; they heard the clip of her footsteps, the swish of the curtain rings.

  'Let go of me! Go away and let me get dressed!' Caro whispered, afraid of making a scene in public. She couldn't get over the shock and embarrassment of being dragged through the store by his detective the other day. She had thought that, when Gil knew she was in Westbrooks again, he would have come rushing down to find her and order her to come to his office. She certainly hadn't expected him to act like this. 'How dare you touch me? Let go,' she muttered.

  Gil didn't answer, he didn't let go of her; he smiled at her in the mirror, a taunting, derisive smile, as he moved in closer, his body pressing against her back, his head lowered to her bare shoulder, his mouth cool and tantalising on her skin.

  'You have a lovely body,' he said softly. 'Very sexy.' His fingers slid inside the silk and lace to caress her warm breasts and Caro caught her breath, shuddering with helpless pleasure.

  Gil was watching her in the mirror; he could read the betraying signals, the parted lips, the quickened breathing, the colour coming and going, the faint but visible trembling, and mockery gleamed in his dark eyes.

  'But tempting though you are, I'm busy today, so I'll have to get back to work, I'm afraid,' he drawled, letting go of her.

  Humiliation and relief fought in Caro's mind; she stumbled away from him, tremblingly picked up her dress again and began struggling into it, avoiding his watching amusement.

  'The first time I saw you, I disliked you, Mr Martell,' she said thickly. 'The second time I met you, I disliked you even more, and now I realise you are not going to improve on closer acquaintance. On the contrary—I'm fast deciding that I hate the sight of you.'

  He laughed. 'Odd, that wasn't the impression you gave just now.'

  Her colour darkened, and she bit her lip.

  'And I don't hate the sight of you,' he went on in that mocking voice. 'Especially the way you looked before you put that dress back on! Do you have to? I prefer you without it. I wouldn't call you pretty, but you have a terrific figure; all those lovely, rich curves in the right places.'

  'Oh, shut up!' she hissed. 'And keep your voice down!' She fumbled in her bag, found a comb and tidied her hair, fighting to stop her hands shaking. No man had ever had such a violent effect on her; she couldn't understand it.

  Gil Martell drew back the curtain and Caro picked up the black dress and walked out of the cubicle without looking at him. The assistant on duty stared avidly as Caro handed her the black dress, muttering that she didn't want it. How much
of what went on in the cubicle had the other girl overheard? It was so embarrassing— Caro couldn't wait to get away; she felt as if everyone around there were watching her and Gil and whispering.

  They took the lift up to his office, neither of them speaking. His secretary gave Caro a frigid, hostile look as they walked past her desk.

  'You've had several urgent calls, sir,' she said to Gil. 'I've left a note of them on your pad.'

  He nodded briskly. 'Thank you. Hold all calls for the moment, will you, however urgent.'

  He closed the door and walked across his own office to his desk, sank into the chair and gestured to Caro to take the seat on the other side. She sat down, crossing her long legs, and he watched the movement far too closely.

  'Well? What can I do for you?' he asked, and he used the words deliberately—it was another tease, one she resented, and she glared at him.

  'I'm tired of playing games--- '

  'I'm not,' he purred.

  'I am not flirting with you, Mr Martell!' she flared up, very flushed.

  He pointedly glanced at his watch. 'Well, whatever you're doing, Miss Ramsgate, hurry up—because I'm a very busy man.'

  'Then stop having fun at my expense,' Caro snapped. 'Slop pretending you don't know why I'm here. You're well aware why I've been ringing you. Until we see the hooks, we can't proceed with this negotiation. I want you to let me and my team spend a few days here going over the accounts with your people.'

  'Why should I?' he asked tersely, the amusement disappearing from his dark eyes.

  'Because if you don't do it voluntarily, your grand-mother will make you hand over the books by legal means,' Caro threatened, losing her temper, and then Wished she hadn't said that because she had no authority to threaten him with any such thing. If he told his grandmother what she had said to him, Lady Westbrook might pull out of the negotiations. She lowered her eyes, while watching him uneasily through her lashes, and saw his features tighten, his mouth a stiff pale line, his eyes hard.

  There was a long silence, then he said in an expressionless voice, 'Very well, the books will be made available to you from tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, but they must not leave this building. I will see to it that office space is free for you and your team to use, and you will go over the books here, without removing them or copying them or in any way making notes from them. Is that understood?'

  'Yes.' She understood. He was giving in because he thought he had no option; but he was not going to make it easy for her, or the accountants she brought with her. 'You can trust me to keep my word,' she added coolly.

  Gil's eyes flicked contemptuously to her. 'Trust you? Do you think I'm that stupid? Oh, no, Miss Ramsgate, I don't trust either you or your piranha of a father— which is why I am going to have you right here, in this office, under my eyes, while you're working on my accounts. I'll have a desk moved in; telephones, computers, whatever you need to do your job. But I'll be here, too, watching you, every minute of the day and night.'

  Caro stared at him, feeling oddly under threat. She did not know if she could stand the ordeal of spending that much time alone in here with Gil Martell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The first morning, Caro didn't see much of Gil, as it turned out, because he was out of the office on his usual tour of the store to talk to the various supervisors and floor managers and check on any problems or worries they had. His secretary silently cleared his desk of every .nap of paper, when he had gone, locking most of the material into his desk or a filing cabinet, while Caro drily watched her through her lashes. The other woman didn't say anything, but she didn't need to—she was making it all too plain that she did not trust Caro an inch.

  Caro and her team spent that morning talking to the store's accounts manager, who treated them remotely, with reluctance, as if they were germs he might catch. His manner to Caro was lofty, slightly incredulous—his eyes made it clear that he couldn't believe she was any good at her job; she was too young, for one thing, and, for another, she was a woman. He, of course, was middle-aged, a short, stout man with a little black moustache above his prim lips. Caro had met men like him all her working life, men who could not believe she hid brains and who suspected she owed her job to her father. Men like Gil Martell, for instance.

  Once Caro had got everything she wanted from him, she coolly dismissed him, and she and her team settled down to extract every last ounce of information from the accounts. She could learn all about a company in an amazingly short time, deduce from what she saw what was being kept hidden and focus on all the problem areas and loss-making departments. She knew it wouldn't take her long to draw up a detailed profile of the company.

  No doubt everyone knew, by now, that the store might be about to change hands, and the staff must be very worried. People always were when they heard of a change of ownership. They felt their jobs might be threatened, and Caro could understand their anxieties; she sympathised with them, although she couldn't say so without disloyalty to her father. So she just did her own job, although she often wondered when her father would at last be satisfied and stop his empire-building.

  When Gil Martell did arrive that morning it was a brief visit before lunch, and he was polite and distant, which suited Caro. She preferred not to have him around while she did her job.

  That first day was typical of the days which followed. She realised very quickly that Gil was not the type of managing director who sat in his office all day, or who delegated. He was out of his office as much as he was in it, and he certainly both worked hard and did not delegate. She soon began to know his routine, and, of course, she set up a routine of her own.

  At noon each day, her staff went to lunch, but Caro stayed at work. She brought food with her: a light snack, a tub of cottage cheese, perhaps, some rye crispbreads and an apple, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Gil Martell usually went out to lunch; she gathered from what she overheard that he lunched important clients, suppliers, importers.

  Around the fourth day, Gil Martell came back while she was in the middle of her snack. 'Is that all you're having for lunch?' he enquired, inspecting the remains of her meal. 'You can use the staff canteen if you want to; they do a very good meal.'

  'I prefer to bring my own, thanks.'

  'Suit yourself.' He shrugged.

  'I always do,' Caro assured him, and he showed her his teeth in an angry smile. 'I believe you.'

  The air bristled, their eyes quarrelled, then Gil turned away and strode over to his own desk. He sat down, opened a locked drawer, and began skimming through the pile of documents he extracted. Caro forced herself to look down at her own work, tried to concentrate on ii, but she was nervously conscious of him, on the other side of the room. She kept remembering what had happened between them in that fitting-room—his hands on her body, his lips moving softly on her bare skin. Each time the image flashed through her mind she felt heat Mare up inside her. She fought to control her breathing, afraid that he might hear her, guess what she was thinking about.

  The phone rang and she jumped, then automatically stretched out her hand to answer it. 'Yes?'

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Gil's hand on the phone on his own desk and realised he had been going to take the call, too.

  'Reception desk,' said the voice in her ear. 'The ( ountess of Jurby is here and would like to see Mr Martell. Shall I send her up?'

  'Hold on,' Caro said, lowered the receiver and looked briefly at Gil. 'It's for you.'

  He picked up his own phone; Caro hung up and pretended to be engrossed in her work, but out of the corner Of her eye she watched him.

  'Yes? What?' He frowned, his fingers tapping his desk, then said, 'Yes, put her on.' There was a pause, then he said in a low voice, 'What on earth are you doing here? You know Colin will go crazy if he finds out!'

  Caro couldn't help listening, knowing that he was talking to that woman, the one who had caused the fight in the nightclub, and because of that had made Gil's grandmother deci
de to sell Westbrooks. Was Gil the Countess's lover? Was she planning to divorce her husband to marry Gil? Caro's computer made a shrill sound and she bit her lip crossly, realising she had made a stupid mistake, mis-keyed a whole line of figures.

  She wasn't concentrating. Concentrate! she ordered herself. Stop eavesdropping on conversations which aren't your business!

  'You're leaving him?' Gil's voice rose, then he took a deep breath. 'Wait down there, I'll join you in two minutes.'

  He slammed the phone down and stood up. Caro kept her eyes riveted on her computer. So the Countess was leaving her husband? Was Gil running to her eagerly, or in panic? Did he want her to be free, or was he appalled by the idea? He had had so many other women; was this one different?

  He came past her desk and halted. She felt his eyes like lasers and warily looked up.

  'You won't repeat any private conversations you hear in this office,' he warned, his lips barely parting to let the words out, his face harsh with menace.

  She smiled coolly, and didn't bother to answer, hoping to infuriate him. She did.

  'Do you hear me?' he snarled, voice rising.

  'I should think everyone in the store can!' Caro snapped back.

  'Working in my office, you're in a privileged

  position-- ' he began and she interrupted, impatiently.

  'It was you who insisted that I work in here! It wasn't my idea!'

  'You probably put it into my head,' he muttered, scowling.

  'Oh, don't be so ridiculous!'

  He had a brooding look on his face. 'Women are good at doing that. They plant ideas in a man's subconscious and then let him imagine he thought of them all by himself! Look at Adam and Eve. Adam would never have thought of eating that apple if Eve hadn't whispered in his ear.'