Doukakis's Apprentice

She swallowed hard. This was worse than she’d thought.

She was in a seriously bad way if she found a man’s wrist sexy.

‘I’m expecting news of your accident to hit the headlines within the hour. If your father is watching, then he’s going to get in touch. If he tries to contact you I want you to dial two on the phone by the bed. It goes through to the master suite.’

Her mind was so busy creating an image of what he would look like naked that it took Polly a moment to process what he was saying. News of her accident? ‘There weren’t any TV cameras there. They were just photographers and a couple of reporters. It’s not going to be on the news.’

‘Yes, it is.’

His words sank slowly through her bruised skull. ‘But—you told them?’ Images of him naked vanished in an instant. It was as if someone had pulled the power cord on her brain. Sickness rose inside her and her cheeks flamed as she acknowledged her own gullibility. ‘Oh, my God—you used my accident as a publicity stunt.’

‘I was not responsible for your accident. You made the decision to leave the building and take on a pack of gossip-hungry journalists.’ His cool response was the final straw.

Reeling from the discovery that his help had been driven by a desire to flush her father out of hiding, Polly grabbed the door to the bathroom to steady herself. ‘And to think that just for a moment there I thought you were a nice guy who didn’t want me found dead on my own in the house.’ Her light tone painted a thin veneer over the hurt. ‘You should have talked to me before you went to all that trouble. I could have told you that it won’t make any difference to my father. I could be in Intensive Care and he still wouldn’t come.’

His dark brows were already locked in a deep frown as he digested her emotional confession. ‘You’re saying that your father would see the news that you’re in hospital and still not get in touch?’

His appalled response drove her mood lower still. If there was one thing worse than having a parent who didn’t care, it was the world knowing about it.

Why on earth had she told him that much?

It was the headache, she thought miserably. ‘Look, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime. I hope your conscience doesn’t keep you awake.’

He stared at her for a long moment and it was obvious he wanted to say more. Instead, his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I want to know.’

‘Why? So that you can call the paparazzi and have them take close-ups?’ Feeling worse than she’d ever felt in her life, Polly stalked into the bathroom, slammed the door and defiantly turned the key in the lock.

Damn.

Discovering that tears stung the cut next to her eye, she ground her teeth and held back the emotion, knowing that a crying fit would simpl

y add to her throbbing headache.

‘Miserable man—vile, inhuman machine—’ Venting in front of the mirror, she wet the corner of a towel and gingerly touched her head. ‘Oww.’ Gritting her teeth, she tried to analyse why she felt so let down. She was used to looking out for herself, wasn’t she? She’d always done it. She didn’t need Damon Doukakis flying to her rescue.

So why did she feel so let down? Why did it matter that his reasons for dumping his date to come and find her had been self-serving?

Polly stared at her white face in the mirror.

Because, just for a moment, she’d been taken in by those distracting flashes of chemistry. Just for a moment she’d forgotten this was all about his sister and made the mistake of thinking he cared about her a little bit.

That was what you got for dropping your guard.

Trying to ignore the pain, she took her time in the bathroom, wanting to make sure he’d gone before she emerged.

When she finally opened the door, the room was empty.

On the bed was a suitcase, presumably packed with the clothes she’d put on the list.

Fantastic Franco obviously worked fast.

On the table next to the bed were painkillers and a jug of water.

Polly sniffed, determined not to be grateful. Delivering painkillers didn’t make him thoughtful.

She swallowed them and then pulled on the lacy shorts and camisole she wore to bed, trying not to think about the serious-faced Franco packing her clothes. Digging out her BlackBerry from her bag, she checked her e-mails. Having satisfied herself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning, she settled on top of the bed, pulled out her notebook and started to scribble down thoughts for the following day’s meeting. Determined to show Gérard that he’d done the right thing appointing them as his agency, she sketched out a few new ideas until drowsiness got the better of her and she flopped back onto the pillows.

His hand locked around a glass of whisky, Damon watched the news report from the hospital. There were stills of Polly being lifted into an ambulance, blood visible on her face, and an interview with the doctor who refused to comment on her patient’s condition. It was enough to drive to most laid-back parent to the nearest telephone.