A Stranger's Kiss

How long will it take?’ He didn’t bother to ask if she could do it. He simply expected that she would.
    ‘Does your permanent secretary work these hours?’ she asked.
    ‘Finding it too much for you already, Tara? Not got what it takes after all?’
    She ignored this. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ He frowned, not understanding the question. ‘Your secretary. Jenny told me that she’s on sick leave.’
    ‘So you’ve met Jenny.’
    ‘She came up to see me. She had the oddest notion of making me feel welcome. Explaining where everything was and telling me the names of a few people I might need to know.’
    She had also taken the trouble to explain that Adam rarely interfered with the running of his many business interests, leaving it to the bright young men he put in charge, offering advice only when it was applied for. He spent his time working on new ventures, apparently. Developing new ideas.
    ‘Oh, yes.’ He wasn’t in the least bit put out by her implied criticism. ‘Jane is...’ He hesitated and Tara caught a flash of white teeth in the subdued light of the car park as if something had finally amused him. ‘No need to concern yourself. Jane isn’t suffering from anything infectious,’ he assured her.
    So his lunch appointment had been with his secretary. Clearly she wasn’t that sick. ‘That’s not much comfort, Adam. Malnutrition isn’t catching.’
    ‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere with me, Tara. I am aware you haven’t had time for a meal and I’ll organise some supper for us upstairs. You can eat when you’ve finished.’
    ‘Thank you.’ But her dry tone drew no response.
    The private lift whisked them swiftly to the penthouse suite and Tara went straight to her office and began to work. She was tired, hungry and ridiculously close to tears which wasn’t like her. But the day had been fraught with tensions, she had missed breakfast because she overslept and if she allowed herself to think about it too much she would begin to shake.
    ‘How much longer?’
    While she had been working Adam had changed from his dark business suit. Now pale, well-washed denims stretched tightly across his hips and thighs, emphasising the arrogant maleness of the man. Tara dragged her eyes back to the printer.
    ‘It’s printing now.’
    ‘Then come and eat,’ he said, leading the way to his apartment and another world.
    His drawing room was vast. The pale polished floor seemed to stretch forever, interrupted only by Persian rugs and furniture that would have been equally at home in a modern art gallery. One wall consisted of the familiar arched windows beyond which the lights of the May Valley were spread beneath them. Opposite, the wide expanse was broken by an open fireplace where flames flickered over an enormous log. The fireplace was flanked on either side with a pair of Mark Rothko canvasses, huge subtle areas of colour that seemed to suck her in and wrap around her mind.
    Tara stopped in the doorway, silenced by the simple beauty of it.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘I...’ She couldn’t think of any comment that did not sound banal and instead offered him the faintest smile. ‘I was just wondering if you expected me to polish the floor in my spare time.’
    His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘You won’t have any spare time, Tara.’
    ‘Oh?’ Her smile was forced. ‘You do realise that I charge by the hour?’
    ‘And double after six o’clock I have no doubt. I guarantee that I’ll get every penny’s worth,’ he said, his buccaneer’s eyes appearing to dance in the shifting light from the fire. Or perhaps she was just feeling light-headed for want of food. As if he could read her mind he led her across to a table laid for two and pulled back a chair.
    ‘Help yourself,’ he commanded and while she ladled rice and a rich, spicy beef dish onto two plates, Adam poured them both glasses of a rich red wine.
    She ate slowly, with total concentration, savouring every mouthful, until replete, she sat back with a little sigh.
    ‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked with apparent amusement.
    Hunger pangs assuaged she was prepared to be generous. ‘Much,’ she assured him.
    ‘I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.’
    ‘You didn’t cook it yourself?’ she asked, in mock surprise. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, regarding him with total innocence. ‘Of course not. Silly me. Why would you bother to cook when you obviously own the wine bar at the bottom of the