In Bed With the Boss

She moved restlessly and thought, It’s not only that.

Apart from those few fleeting moments when she’d thought she’d sensed something between them, he’d given no other sign he’d been struck by this strange fever, this unquenchable thirst.

She had to smile slightly at her flowery imagery, but it was a wistful little smile all the same. And she found herself wondering if there was a current woman in his life, perhaps not significant but …?

She sat up and put her cup down as she heard sounds indicating that Nicky and Nemo had returned from the beach. She would have to be very careful there. Bad enough to have his father clutch her heartstrings, but both of them!

So, yes, it could be well and truly said that she was running away. She’d just have to be less obvious about it. She’d have to be on guard, but at least for the next three days she could also be her practical, down-to-earth self.

She didn’t meet Max again until dinner.

She hadn’t planned on eating alone with him, but when she’d suggested to the housekeeper that she might eat with the rest of the staff, the idea had been knocked smartly on the head.

She was told that Mr Goodwin had ordered dinner for seven-thirty, with Miss Hill.

They were seated on the terrace at a small table. The larger tables had been cleared away and the clear plastic blinds had been lowered to keep out the cool night air. The lights on the jetty were reflecting in the indigo waters beyond and two flaming braziers lit the steps down to it.

They were consuming another elegant meal, seafood chowder followed by a veal and mushroom casserole—Alex had the feeling that nothing less than elegant and delicious was ever served in this house.

‘How did you get on with Nicky after I brought him back from the beach?’ Max queried and looked around with a grimace. ‘It’s very quiet and peaceful.’ Max’s hair still looked wind-ruffled, Alex noted.

‘Fine. We drew and coloured in—he’s very artistic. We played Snakes and Ladders and Snap and that took us up to his supper time.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘He requested fish fingers, to the horror of your housekeeper—she didn’t have any—but in the end he was perfectly happy with fresh fish and home-made chips.’

Alex paused and laid down her knife and fork to raise her wine glass to her lips. After she’d sipped the golden liquid, she added, ‘His previous nanny, if not his grandmother or his mother, seems to have instilled a good routine. By seven o’clock, after we took Nemo for a walk, he was ready for bed with no fuss, no bother.’ She paused again. ‘He calls you Max.’

Max Goodwin studied her thoughtfully. Gone were the elegant outfits—she was back to ultra-casual: jeans and a jumper. Gone also was any semblance of make-up, although she hadn’t been able to restore her hair to its former unmanageable, mousey knot. And her glasses were back on. But without the layers of extra clothing she’d worn the first time he’d met her, her lean, slim lines were evident and easy on the eye. He even caught himself on the thought that it was a pity those long, slim, gorgeous legs were covered up.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There seemed to be a bit of difficulty with Dad, so I suggested it.’

Alex glanced at him, then resumed eating her veal. ‘How did you get on with him?’ she asked presently.

Max Goodwin pushed his plate away. ‘He’s disconcertingly like me in some ways.’

‘That’s not so surprising,’ she said with a humorous little look and couldn’t help herself asking, ‘What way, particularly?’

Max stared towards the braziers and Alex followed the line of his gaze to watch their pale smoke wreath against the navy sky and to see the hearts of the orange flames resemble molten gold. ‘He doesn’t take much on trust.’

‘Do you think she, his mother—?’ She stopped and looked down at her plate.

‘What?’ he queried, returning his gaze to her.

‘Nothing,’ she murmured, and pushed her own plate away. ‘That was delicious. Would it be too much to hope one isn’t about to be tempted by a dessert you simply can’t refuse?’

‘Do I think his mother—what, Alex?’

‘Look, it’s none of my business.’

‘You’ve told me that before, but you are virtually replacing her and we have spent several hours now, you and I, virtually joined at the hip.’

She looked up to see him watching her with a noticeable spark of irony in his eyes.

She took a little breath. ‘That doesn’t mean to say—’

‘Oh, for crying out aloud! You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t curious.’ He thumped his empty glass down on the tablecloth.

She scowled suddenly. ‘All right! I was just wondering how she explained your absence at the same time as telling him you were wonderful!’

‘I have no idea,’ he said moodily. Then he closed his eyes briefly. ‘Cathy was, probably still is, like Scheherazade. She’s an artist, she paints, and if there’s such a thing as an artistic temperament she has it in spades. She’s quixotic, she can turn life with her into an Aladdin’s cave of delight or the opposite. She comes and goes between you and her art—or whatever takes her fancy. She’s impossible to pin down but she can be irresistible. She’d have spun Nicky some tale. What she may not have taken into account is—’ He stopped and shrugged.