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Authors: Liz Fielding
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point. He pulled back her chair and opened the restaurant door for her.
‘You’ll need an evening dress, by the way. I should have said earlier, but I imagine you’ve got some neat classic to cover every eventuality in your wardrobe?’
This totally accurate summation of the clothes she wore to work irritated Tara. Of course she kept her clothes simple. No one wanted a secretary that flashed and jangled, but he made it sound like a failing. As if she had no imagination.
She retrieved her bag from her office and located her key. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Adam. Thank you for dinner.’
‘It’s late. I’ll walk you home.’
‘Do you walk Jane home?’ she asked, before she considered the wisdom of such a question.
His brows closed in a slight frown. ‘There’s no need—’ The phone began to ring. ‘Hold on.’ He lifted the receiver. ‘Adam Blackmore.’ A warm smile creased his face. ‘Jane.’ There was genuine pleasure in his voice. ‘Did you? I went down to the wine bar with your replacement for a bite to eat.’ His eyes flickered across to Tara. ‘She has possibilities, but she wears her skirts too long.’ He laughed at whatever Jane had said, then perched on the edge of her desk and, more serious, asked, ‘What did the quack say?’
Tara turned and walked quickly to the lift. The door slid open immediately and although she heard him call her name she didn’t look back, but stepped inside and pressed the button.
For the second time that evening she ran the length of Victoria Road and didn’t stop until her own front door was bolted behind her.
She knew what kind of man Adam Blackmore was. A ruthless, single-minded man who would use her and throw her away whenever it suited him. She was every kind of a fool to even think about him. But a sharp stab of pain that had jabbed like a knife into her chest when he had said, oh so casually, that Jane didn’t need to be walked home. Tara banged her fist against the wall and fought back the stupid, humiliating tears. Jane was the perfect secretary. One who never went home.
Her phone rang. She knew it was him. No one else would ring this late. For a moment she considered leaving it to the answering machine. Then she grabbed the receiver. If he thought she hadn’t got home safely he might just come to check and she was in no mood to face him.
‘Tara Lambert.’ There was no answer. ‘Hello?’
‘That sounds marginally more friendly.’ His voice was grim. ‘I just wanted to be sure that you got home safely. Why didn’t you wait for me to take you?’
‘There was no need. I walk home from work every evening by myself.’
‘At eleven o’clock?’
‘Well, no,’ she allowed. ‘But then I’m not quite the slave driver you are.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘And I am quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘Is that right?’ His low voice vibrated into her bones. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. But you’d better hope there’s someone else around next time you’re in need of a knight errant.’
She gasped. ‘Some knight errant!’
‘Better than you know, Miss Tara Lambert. Better than you deserve.’
‘How dare you presume to judge what I deserve. You know nothing about me. Nothing! And I wish you’d stop calling me Miss Tara Lambert in that patronising tone of voice.’
‘I’m not—’
‘If you’re going to patronise me, at least get it right.’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘It’s Mrs. Mrs Tara Lambert.’ She let the phone drop back onto the cradle and let out a long shuddering sigh. Stupid. Why had she done that? Simply to score a point? A cheap, meaningless point. The phone rang again but she ignored it and when the machine cut in the caller hung up. She wondered briefly if he would come hammering at her door. It didn’t seem likely.
Tara looked across at the photograph on the mantel. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel,’ she whispered. But what she was sorry for, exactly, she couldn’t have
‘You’ll need an evening dress, by the way. I should have said earlier, but I imagine you’ve got some neat classic to cover every eventuality in your wardrobe?’
This totally accurate summation of the clothes she wore to work irritated Tara. Of course she kept her clothes simple. No one wanted a secretary that flashed and jangled, but he made it sound like a failing. As if she had no imagination.
She retrieved her bag from her office and located her key. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Adam. Thank you for dinner.’
‘It’s late. I’ll walk you home.’
‘Do you walk Jane home?’ she asked, before she considered the wisdom of such a question.
His brows closed in a slight frown. ‘There’s no need—’ The phone began to ring. ‘Hold on.’ He lifted the receiver. ‘Adam Blackmore.’ A warm smile creased his face. ‘Jane.’ There was genuine pleasure in his voice. ‘Did you? I went down to the wine bar with your replacement for a bite to eat.’ His eyes flickered across to Tara. ‘She has possibilities, but she wears her skirts too long.’ He laughed at whatever Jane had said, then perched on the edge of her desk and, more serious, asked, ‘What did the quack say?’
Tara turned and walked quickly to the lift. The door slid open immediately and although she heard him call her name she didn’t look back, but stepped inside and pressed the button.
For the second time that evening she ran the length of Victoria Road and didn’t stop until her own front door was bolted behind her.
She knew what kind of man Adam Blackmore was. A ruthless, single-minded man who would use her and throw her away whenever it suited him. She was every kind of a fool to even think about him. But a sharp stab of pain that had jabbed like a knife into her chest when he had said, oh so casually, that Jane didn’t need to be walked home. Tara banged her fist against the wall and fought back the stupid, humiliating tears. Jane was the perfect secretary. One who never went home.
Her phone rang. She knew it was him. No one else would ring this late. For a moment she considered leaving it to the answering machine. Then she grabbed the receiver. If he thought she hadn’t got home safely he might just come to check and she was in no mood to face him.
‘Tara Lambert.’ There was no answer. ‘Hello?’
‘That sounds marginally more friendly.’ His voice was grim. ‘I just wanted to be sure that you got home safely. Why didn’t you wait for me to take you?’
‘There was no need. I walk home from work every evening by myself.’
‘At eleven o’clock?’
‘Well, no,’ she allowed. ‘But then I’m not quite the slave driver you are.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘And I am quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘Is that right?’ His low voice vibrated into her bones. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. But you’d better hope there’s someone else around next time you’re in need of a knight errant.’
She gasped. ‘Some knight errant!’
‘Better than you know, Miss Tara Lambert. Better than you deserve.’
‘How dare you presume to judge what I deserve. You know nothing about me. Nothing! And I wish you’d stop calling me Miss Tara Lambert in that patronising tone of voice.’
‘I’m not—’
‘If you’re going to patronise me, at least get it right.’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘It’s Mrs. Mrs Tara Lambert.’ She let the phone drop back onto the cradle and let out a long shuddering sigh. Stupid. Why had she done that? Simply to score a point? A cheap, meaningless point. The phone rang again but she ignored it and when the machine cut in the caller hung up. She wondered briefly if he would come hammering at her door. It didn’t seem likely.
Tara looked across at the photograph on the mantel. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel,’ she whispered. But what she was sorry for, exactly, she couldn’t have
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