Fire Beneath the Ice

"She's a widow and likes the company," she added quietly.

"Be back in the office by twelve, Mrs. Worth." The flick of a switch signalled the end of their conversation and she stared at the closed door of his office as her heartbeat returned to normal. He really was the original ice-man but. She sank down on the upholstered typist's chair at the smart desk as her thoughts raced on. He had given her a chance and she was honest enough to admit that quite a few men in his position would have hesitated in taking on a secretary with a young daughter in tow, however temporary the position, in view of the travelling and long hours the job entailed.

She was back in the outer office within half an hour of leaving it, after a brief explanatory phone call to her mother, who responded with matern

al encouragement, after which Lydia gulped a hasty cup of coffee in the splendid canteen and decided against one of the delicious meals on offer. She bought a pack of ham sandwiches to eat later--she was far too nervous to eat anything now in spite of having skipped breakfast once the agency rang--and returned to the thickly carpeted, hushed opulence of the top floor. The grandeur of the huge building had begun to get through to her, and the fact that she was working for a multimillionaire who could buy and sell half of

London if he so chose was more than a little awe-inspiring.

It wasn't that she didn't think she could handle the job, she thought feverishly as she opened the drawers of her desk to familiarise herself with the contents, it was just. Just what? she asked herself irritably. What on earth was the matter with her? Since Matthew's untimely death from undiagnosed genetic heart disease just a few weeks after Hannah was born, she had kept both herself and her tiny daughter, as well as running a home and coming to terms with the emotional package of grief and anger her loss had entailed. So why was she letting an ice-cold individual like Mr. Strade get to her? It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous! She nodded mentally and took a few deep, calming breaths as she forced her heartbeat to behave. She was mature and sensible and perfectly in control of her emotions and her life, not some giddy schoolgirl with no responsibilities and no brain.

"You're back already?" She came out of her reverie abruptly as a cool voice spoke from the doorway, and raised her eyes to meet the direct blue gaze trained on her face.

"Ready for work?"

"Of course, Mr. Strade." She smiled mechanically as she tried to keep her nervousness from showing. She could understand why those girls before her could have been initially attracted to him--he really was an absolute dish--but surely within ten minutes of meeting him those ice-blue eyes would have frozen over even the most ardent female heart? She "had never met a less approachable man in her life.

"Wolf."

"What?" She forgot to be polite as she stared at him open mouthed

"We are going to be working in close contact for a ridiculous number of hours a day, so I suggest we drop the formality," he said coolly.

"I understand your first name is Lydia?" She nodded weakly.

"And mine is Wolf."

"It is...?" She really wasn't handling this very well, she thought miserably as she watched the hard mouth tighten at her reaction. It was perfectly clear he had had this conversation more times than he would have liked in his life, but with a Christian name like that it was hardly surprising! She stared at him as she tried to pull herself together. And when added to his appearance and whole demeanour "My father was a wild-life expert involved in an expedition studying the Canadian timber-wolf at the time of my birth," he said coldly, after a few uncomfortable seconds had ticked by.

"Unfortunately he thought the name rather apt for his baby son and my mother did little to dissuade him."

"Oh." She blinked tensely.

"You haven't got a middle name, have you?" she asked tactlessly.

A glimmer of a smile touched the hard mouth for an instant as he turned away.

"Fortunately, no. I hardly dare think what that would have been. Now, if you'd care to bring your notebook...?"

What an incredibly stupid thing to say, Lydia, she berated herself fiercely as she followed him into the massive office a moment later.

The little incident had been a perfect opportunity to impress him with her diplomacy and discreet delicacy; and all she had managed was, "You haven't got a middle name, have you?" She cringed mentally.

"Do stop looking so tragic."

"What?" For the second time in as many minutes, he took her completely by surprise and it showed.

"In spite of my name, I really don't eat little girls for breakfast, especially when they look like you," he added surprisingly as the shuttered gaze passed remotely over her clear, creamy, translucent skin in which the dark brown of her heavily lashed eyes stood out in startling contrast to the ash-blonde of her hair.

"Your colouring is most unusual."

"It's natural." She raised a defensive hand to her hair, sensing criticism as her mind flew back to the remarks he had made on her predecessors.

"I'm sure it is," he said gravely, without a glimmer of amusement in either his face or voice, although she felt, _somehow, that that was exactly what he was feeling. "Now, do you think you could relax a little? We've one hell of an afternoon in front of us and it would be a great help if you could ease up a little."

She nodded tightly as anger replaced the nerves. He really did have the most colossal cheek! She wouldn't be feeling like this if he had been halfway to normal. Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face because the quirk to his mouth was definitely wry as he lowered his gaze to the papers on his desk. "Right, then, if you are ready?"

She was conscious, somewhere towards evening, of being utterly astounded at the speed and energy with which Wolf Strade devoured the workload in front of him, despite a hundred and one interruptions every two minutes and numerous telephone calls for which she, at least, was pathetically grateful. It gave her a chance to check her frantic shorthand and gather thoughts in order for the next barrage.