Fire Beneath the Ice

She followed Wolf into his office and placed the work on his desk.

"You've been busy." He was looking at the pile of correspondence as he spoke, but she felt the _words were the proverbial two-edged sword and remained silent.

"Sit down, Lydia."

She sank into the chair facing his desk as he seated himself without taking his eyes off her troubled face.

"I didn't know you knew my financial director," he said slowly, his voice expressionless but as cold as ice.

"You didn't mention it."

She stared at him helplessly. What on earth was the matter with the man?

Why did it matter to him who she knew anyway?

"I..." There was something so chilling in his face that it was freezing her thoughts.

"I didn't know I had to," she said weakly, his aggressiveness making her feel twice as guilty as she did already.

"How long have you known him?"

This was ridiculous, she thought frantically. Pull yourself together, Lydia, explain you are a friend of Anna's, talk to the man. But she couldn't; those ice-blue eyes were totally unnerving and, when she thought back to how the little tableau in the office must have seemed, embarrassment sent its red fingers all over her face.

"I don't know. “She tried desperately to think of how long Anna and Mike had been married.

"I think-- ' " No matter. “He straightened suddenly in his chair as though he had just come to a decision, and she stared at him, alarmed.

"Do you often wear your hair loose for the office?" he asked coldly as his gaze moved to the soft, silky locks lying in a shining veil across her shoulders.

"My hair?" She raised an unconscious hand to her head as she stared back at him. What had her hair to do with this?

"I prefer it tied back in the sort of style you wore yesterday," he said coolly.

"As my secretary you have a certain reputation to maintain, and a neat, unassuming _appearance gives the sort of impression I like in my staff.

There are always men who are inclined to stand and waste time by the desk of a pretty woman, given the slightest encouragement."

She really couldn't believe what she was hearing. She stared at him open-mouthed as she wondered if what she had heard was what he had really said.

"Exactly what are you saying?" she asked, after a moment of stunned silence.

"I'm saying that I would prefer a more discreet hairstyle," he said calmly as he picked up the phone that had begun to ring on his desk and gestured for her to leave. "If you don't mind."

There was nothing she could do but leave him to take the call, but as she returned to her own office her wits returned along with a flood of hot colour in her face. The cheek of it. The abso

lute cheek of it!

Once that call ended she would tell him that she did mind, she minded very much, the arrogant, overbearing-- "Could I leave this with you for Mr. Strade, please?" She came out of her silent fury to see one of the office juniors timidly holding out a large sealed envelope.

"It's from Mr. Collins in Personnel."

"Of course." Lydia smiled at the nervous girl, who couldn't have been a day over sixteen, as she took a deep, silent breath. When that call ended, Wolf

Strade, when it ended. But half an hour later she was still waiting, by which time her anger had cooled, along with her face, and reason had asserted itself. This was a golden opportunity to get on her feet financially, and if she had to put up with this unpleasant, unreasonable male chauvinist pig as the cloud on which the silver lining was placed, then so be it.

But surely he didn't expect to choose her clothes and _her hairstyle, did he?

Even the reputable Mrs. Havers couldn't have tolerated that, surely? She sat back in the chair with a puzzled little sigh. She didn't understand a thing about this man and, worse still, she didn't understand how he could get under her skin so badly.