Dangerous Male Page 3

  She had got up early this morning and spent a good deal of time making sure that her appearance, at least, wouldn't let her down, however she might perform as a secretary, and she met Harn Durrant's critical gaze without flinching. But she couldn't tell from his expression whether he was satisfied or not, he merely removed his gaze to the row of dog-eared folders in the drawer and grunted, 'What a mess! This is the sort of outdated system I mean to dispense with.' He pushed the drawer and it closed with a clang, then drifted open again.

  He strode back to his desk and threw himself into his chair. 'Now then, Gemma, to work. Your desk's over there.' He gestured towards the far end of the long room. 'My father liked to have his secretary working in the same office with him, but I have other ideas. However, this set-up here isn't going to last long, so we may as well struggle on with it for the moment. You'll find a couple of cassettes ready to transcribe in the top drawer. I like my letters with two copies—that is, until you get the word-processor going, after which they'll be stored on disc and no copies will be required. I've arranged for your training to begin next Monday, when I shall be away. Meanwhile you can, I take it, use an electronic typewriter?'

  All this was delivered in a quick, almost aggressive tone, and Gemma felt quite stunned when he had finished. An electronic typewriter? Was that very different from the electric one she had been using at the secretarial school? She walked down the office to the typing desk. Here stood the space-age contraption that Beth had developed such a phobia about. There seemed to be two parts to it: on one side what she took to be the word-processor, with a small display screen, the size of a portable TV set, standing on top of it. On the other side was a typewriter—or what Gemma thought of as a typewriter with frills on, in the shape of rows of extra keys to right and left of the ordinary keyboard, marked with mysterious letters and symbols. Harn Durrant had followed her and was standing close behind, so close that Gemma felt vastly uncomfortable, and would have moved away except that she was hemmed in by the typing desk.

  'Well?' he shot out.

  The nearness of the man, the feeling of masculine strength and solidity that he seemed to radiate, was constricting her breathing, she swallowed with difficulty. 'I—I haven't used this particular model,' she said, indicating the typewriter part of the outfit, 'but I'm sure I can get the hang of it fairly soon. Is there an operator's guide?'

  He began to pull out the drawers in the typing desk. 'Should be. That is, if your sister didn't tear it up in a rage.'

  Gemma had made a firm resolution to keep her cool and not let the man's sarcasm provoke her, but this was too much. 'That's a rotten thing to say!' she burst out hotly. 'As if Beth would do a thing like that!' She glared at him in dislike.

  To her annoyance he smiled. Or perhaps it wasn't exactly a smile, it was just those curving eyelashes giving the impression of a smile. He folded his arms, leaning back against the filing cabinet and said, 'I wouldn't put it past her. She got quite hysterical before she finally departed.' He looked at her sideways, and still she wasn't sure if he were serious or not. 'I hope you're not an hysterical female, Gemma? One thing I can't tolerate is an excess of emotion.'

  'Don't worry, Mr Durrant,' Gemma assured him, lifting her small chin in disdain. 'As far as I can see there's only one emotion I shall be likely to feel while I'm working for you.'

  'Perhaps you'd better warn me? Or can I guess?' He really was smiling now—no question about it. He was, Gemma was forced to admit, extremely good-looking. A charmer too, with those dark-lashed eyes of his. She could imagine the kind of glamorous, sophisticated women who hung round him. No doubt they would put in an appearance soon—she was curious to see the kind of girl he would fall for.

  'I would prefer not to continue this conversation,' she said primly. Then she saw the typewriter manual at the bottom of a drawer and pounced on it. 'Ah, this is what I needed. The cassettes? Yes, they're here. And the dictation machine is the same make as the one I've been using.'

  He was still leaning back, his eyes fixed unnervingly on her. 'In your last job?' he queried softly.

  Gemma gulped. 'Yes, in my last job,' she said almost defiantly, sitting down and opening the manual, as a pointed hint that she would like to get on with her work.

  But he didn't move. 'How old are you, Gemma?' he asked suddenly.

  She looked up, startled. 'I—I'm twenty,' she lied. What was sixteen months more or less?

  'I see. You're twenty. You have just left one job and were looking for another. You had several to choose from, of course, and were on the point of making up your mind when you happened to come in here yesterday about another matter.'

  He was looking keenly at her now, and she didn't like his look, or his tone. She said nothing.

  'That the picture, is it, Gemma?'

  'Yes.' She stared at him, feeling her fingernails digging into her palms.

  'Now,' he said softly, 'suppose you tell me the truth.'

  'I don't know what you mean,' she whispered.

  'I think you do. You're not a very convincing liar, Gemma.'

  Oh well—this was the end, then. Poor old Beth's redundancy money would have to go to pay the wretched rates demand after all. Gemma stood up and re-covered the typewriter.

  'All right,' she said. 'I'm eighteen. And eight months, if I must be exact. I haven't had another job; as a matter of fact I haven't quite finished my course at the secretarial school. I'm due to take my final exams in a month.' She picked up her handbag and turned to the door. 'I'm sorry I misled you and wasted your time, Mr Durrant. I'll see Mrs Brown on my way out and tell her—'

  She was halfway to the door when he rapped out, 'Hold it!'

  Gemma stopped and stood still, facing the door. His voice had a curious effect on her, it seemed to turn her to stone, like the characters in the old myths.

  'Where do you think you're off to now? he enquired wearily. 'There's one thing you must learn, my girl, if you're going to work for me, and that's restfulness. You really must get out of this habit of jumping about and making for the door on the least provocation.'

  She turned very slowly. 'You mean—you still want to have me as your secretary?'

  He sat down and leaned back in his chair. 'I probably want my head examining, but yes, I'm willing to take a chance. Now come back and sit down and tell me why you concocted that fancy story.'

  She sat on the edge of the chair opposite. 'Well, I—' she bit the end of a scrupulously-manicured finger, a habit she had when deep in thought. 'I suppose it was really because of the rates demand. You see, Beth's salary is all we have to live on and keep the house going, and I was a bit angry about her having to use her—her hand-out, as you called it—to pay all the bills. She's been so wonderful to me all these years that I thought if I could get a job earlier than I expected to, then she could keep the money and use it for something she really wanted to do—like a trip abroad, or—or taking an art course, or something. You see, Beth's never really had any fun. So—so—' she bit the tip of her finger again '—when you took me by surprise by offering me the job, I thought—' her voice trailed off weakly as she met the grey eyes regarding her with an expression she couldn't interpret.

  'Yes, I get the picture,' he said, and added brusquely, 'And don't do that.' He stretched across the desk and grasped her arm, jerking her finger from between her lips. 'Don't you know that's a provocative gesture? Or are you completely inexperienced in other ways—as well as in office work?' he added with heavy irony.

  'Oh!' Gemma's deep blue eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away quickly. He knew how to hurt, this man, how to make one look a fool. But the fact remained that the job was still on offer and she had to put up with him. 'I didn't know,' she said with a dignity that she wasn't aware of. 'I'll remember that in future.'

  'Good,' he said shortly. 'Well, suppose we go on from where we left off, having wasted quite a quarter of an hour of office time, which I can't afford to do. The electronic typewriter—have a good look at it, stu
dy the manual, and see what you can make of it. The word-processor links on to the typewriter and you can use the whole works, or merely use the typewriter alone, at the flick of a switch. But the girl who comes to train you will explain all that to you. Meanwhile, have a go at the typewriter. If you really can't cope at all, tell me when I come in and I'll help you out. That quite clear?'

  'Yes, Mr Durrant,' Gemma said meekly. She stood up and went back to the typing desk.

  'Good,' he said again. 'I'll be down in the shop if I'm wanted.' He strode over to the door. There he paused and turned back, with that odd smile curving his lashes. 'Chin up, Gemma,' he said. 'I'm not going to eat you, you know. But you needn't tell me any more lies, because I shall know if you do.' He went out and closed the door and she heard his footsteps running lightly down the wooden steps.

  Gemma opened the thick manual of instructions. Her mind was spinning and at first she couldn't take anything in. What she needed was a strong cup of coffee to pull her wits together. It was a tremendous relief, though, that Harn Durrant knew the truth about her lack of experience. She had to admit that he had been quite decent about it. If only, she thought, she could somehow manage to cope with the work. She would like to—to show him. Oh lor', she groaned inwardly, here we go again! She really must get out of this childish habit of trying to prove something—she wasn't quite sure what.

  Resolutely she turned her attention to the manual.

  It really wasn't too difficult, she admitted half an hour later; not all that different from the modern electric machine she had been using at the college. Once she had mastered the way to set the margins and the line spacing she was ready to experiment with transcribing the letters. She plugged in the dictating machine, put in the first of the two cassettes from the top drawer, fixed the earphones and switched on.

  To hear Harn Durrant's voice, firm and deep and so close that it had a curiously intimate quality, made her jump. It was as if he had leaned over her shoulder and put his head against hers. Don't be ridiculous, Gemma, she scolded herself, you're getting a fixation about the man. As he said, he's not going to eat you, so just get on with it.

  The letters were straightforward, with hardly any deletions or corrections; he was obviously a man who didn't dither, but knew what he wanted to say and believed in getting it right the first time. Yes, that figured, that was what she would have expected. The text was all about paper, of course; about orders, delivery dates, shipments, invoices. Not too many technical terms, and what there were were familiar to Gemma. Beth had often brought work home in the years she had been employed here, and Gemma had sometimes typed letters for her on the small portable machine they kept at home. Beth had always checked them carefully, of course, and it had been practice for Gemma. Now it stood her in good stead, and terms like Aquarelle Canson and Rives Offset and Mould Made Bockingford were old friends. Using the typewriter wasn't quite so straightforward and she had to keep consulting the manual. It needed an even lighter touch than the electric machine she was used to, and it was so quiet that it seemed to be hardly working at all. At first the strip display alarmed her, but she very soon got used to that, and it was wonderful to be able to see the words appearing, glowing green on the narrow strip above the keyboard, before they were printed, so that any mistakes could be corrected before they were typed out.

  In less than half an hour she had produced her first letter, and twenty minutes later two more were finished. She changed the cassette and started on the next batch, and her spirits rose with each letter accomplished. She could really cope—it was terrific! Harn Durrant's dictation was so clear and easily followed. He had an attractive voice, Gemma allowed herself to admit—deep and resonant. It could sound very sexy, she was sure— she giggled to herself as she wondered how he would speak to one of his numerous girl-friends. (Beth had told her they turned up all the time.)

  She put a fresh wad of paper into the machine and flicked on the dictation again.

  Then she went rigid. 'Darling girl,' she heard his voice, and she didn't need to wonder any longer how it would sound to someone he was in love with. It sounded tender and caressing and a couple of semitones deeper than before. This wasn't a business letter, of course, she didn't know what it was. 'Did you think of me today, and do you keep remembering last night—as I do all the time? Write me an answer to this—to see your writing is a thrill and a real letter is so much more satisfying than just a voice on the telephone. Love me? I adore you. Yours for ever and ever—'

  That was the end of his dictation, the tape went silent. Gemma's toe slid weakly off the foot-control and an odd shock tingled through her. To hear his voice saying those words in that sexy tone, so close to her ear—it was quite shattering. Of course they weren't meant for her and she supposed she should be feeing guilty for listening. But she wasn't to know that this personal letter was on the tape he had given her to transcribe. She supposed he had written it out himself and forgotten to wipe it off the tape. She switched off the dictation machine and pulled off the headset.

  Almost immediately she heard his step on the stairs outside and her heart missed a beat. He came straight across to her desk and picked up the pile of letters, glancing through them as he leafed them over. 'Very good,' he said. 'No problems with the machine?'

  'I'm getting used to it,' she said. 'I shall get quicker with practice.'

  'Good,' he said again. 'This the lot? I'll get them signed.' He turned back to his own desk.

  'I—' Gemma began. 'There's just—'

  'Yes?' he said sharply.

  'There was another letter at the end of the second tape,' she said. Miserably she could feel her face going hot. 'It seemed to be a—a personal letter—I didn't know—'

  'Oh, that! I thought I'd wiped it.' He glanced at her crimson cheeks. 'Poor Gemma, did it embarrass you? Don't give it another thought.'

  He was actually laughing at her, the brute! In her most dignified 'secretary' voice she said, 'I take it you don't wish me to transcribe it?'

  He was still chuckling. 'I haven't reached the stage yet of having my love-letters typewritten.' He was studying her face closely. 'You really are embarrassed, aren't you? Don't tell me you've never had a love-letter yourself.'

  'I didn't think people still wrote love-letters,' she said, regaining her composure. 'Not when it's so easy to phone.'

  'Ah, that's just the point. A girl can't kiss a phone call and put it under her pillow at night, can she? Whereas a letter has a certain permanence. Come in!' as a tap sounded on the door.

  Doris, apple-cheeked and frizzy-haired, the office girl who helped Mrs Brown, appeared with two cups on a tray. 'Your coffee, Mr Durrant, and Mrs Brown says to ask Miss Lawson if she takes sugar.'

  Gemma smiled and shook her head and Harn Durrant said, deadpan, 'Miss Lawson is sweet enough without, don't you agree, Doris?'

  The girl's eyes opened wide under their light-coloured lashes as she looked from him to Gemma and back again. Then, 'Ooh, Mr Durrant, you are a one!' she blurted out, and scuttled away down the stairs.

  Harn Durrant perched on the edge of his desk and sipped his coffee, swinging one long leg pensively. 'I'd better put you in the picture, Gemma. I'll be away in London next week and I'll have to leave you to cope with any emergencies that may arise, deal with phone calls, make appointments. You've had your secretarial training—now this is the real thing, so just do your best. I'm not expecting anything vital to turn up. You'll be busy learning about the word-processor anyway. And if you really get stuck you'll have to consult Mrs Brown. That good lady is a tower of strength and common sense, but she has her hands full already, so don't waste her time unnecessarily.'

  The intercom buzzed on his desk and Mrs Brown's voice said, 'Mr Underhill is here to see you, Mr Durrant.'

  'Thanks, Mrs Brown. Send him up, please.' He turned to Gemma. 'Underhill's the architect who's hoping to get the contract for the alteration work I'm going to have done here—a reorganisation of the whole building. You'd better sit in on
this interview and then you'll get an idea of how this place is going to look when it's finished. You can make notes for your own information if you like. The more you know about the business the better.'

  There was a rather timid tap at the door and it opened to admit a tall, thin young man in cords and a polo sweater. He had an earnest expression and a flop of straight brown hair over a wide, clever brow. 'Morning, Mr Durrant.' He sat down on the edge of the chair that Harn Durrant waved him to, and put a bulging briefcase on the desk. 'Not too early, am I?' His eyes moved briefly towards Gemma, at the other end of the office, and away again.

  Harn Durrant shook his head. 'All ready for you.' He sat down opposite. 'Oh, by the way, Derek, this is Gemma, my new secretary. She'll be in the office next week while I'm away, so you can leave any messages with her.'

  The young architect half-rose from his chair, nodding and smiling. 'A pleasure, I'm sure.' His shy look of admiration was a boost to Gemma's confidence and she smiled back.

  Harn Durrant's keen eyes had lost nothing of the small exchange of glances. 'Not too much of a pleasure, Derek. Gemma isn't just a pretty face, she'll have some demanding work to get through.'

  The young man took that as a joke, although Gemma was fairly sure that it hadn't been meant as such. 'Ha, ha—yes, of course—no, I'm sure I shan't need to bother your secretary,' Derek Under hill laughed rather nervously.