Seeing that she was overwhelmed, Lucy had walked round and started answering the phone. It was a simple matter to explain that the receptionist was unavailable and to offer to take a message, and it was surprising how many people simply said that they would call back later.
Imogen, the harried receptionist, had looked at her gratefully when the rush was past.
‘What were you doing here?’ she asked when she had thanked her.
‘I’m looking for a temporary job.’
Imogen smiled. ‘You’ve got it. When can you start?’
So here Lucy was on Monday morning. Tugging down the jacket of the suit she had borrowed from Meg, she mentally squared her shoulders. Around her streamed smartly dressed men and women, all hurrying past with purposeful strides, and in spite of herself she was caught up in the buzz of the City. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad.
Granted, she was no high-powered executive with millions to play with before lunch, and receptionist might not have been her first choice of career, but it was perfect for now. Guy would have to walk past her every day, and Lucy couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw her sitting behind the reception desk.
He had been long gone by the time she’d woken the morning after their visit to Giovanni’s. Lucy had been relieved that she didn’t have to face him while the memory of that shattering kiss was still tingling along her veins, but there was a bit of her that was a little miffed that he hadn’t bothered to say goodbye before she moved out to stay with Meg.
She had left her mobile phone number with a scribbled note of thanks. It didn’t seem that she could go without a word, even if it hadn’t bothered Guy to do just that. Besides, how else could he get in touch with her about his mother? Lucy had told herself that was all she was thinking about when she’d written the note. It had nothing whatsoever to do with making sure that he had no excuse not to contact her.
Imogen was waiting to greet her in the dramatic atrium with a roof that soared upwards past a mezzanine floor. The reception desk was strikingly shaped and set near the glass-sided lifts. It bristled with the latest technology that Lucy eyed askance at first but, once Imogen had showed her how to use it, it didn’t seem quite so intimidating and she thought she might be able to manage it after all.
Lucy was kept busy dealing with a steady stream of visitors and phone calls while Imogen, who seemed to be an authority on Dangerfield & Dunn, filled her in on the background to the bank. The name that cropped up most often was Guy’s.
‘He’s just a figurehead, right?’ Lucy asked at last, and Imogen looked shocked.
‘He’s Chairman and Chief Executive.’
‘Well, yes, but it’s a family bank, isn’t it? Presumably he only gets to be Chairman because he’s a Dangerfield. Who does all the real work?’
‘He does,’ said Imogen reprovingly. ‘Guy’s the one who makes the decisions. I think it’s been a bit of a battle in the boardroom since his father died,’ she confided, ‘but he’s turning things round and Dangerfield & Dunn are now the leaders in ethical investment. He’s only thirty-three, but Guy Dangerfield is already a name to be reckoned with in the financial world,’ she finished proudly.
It was soon obvious that Imogen was Guy’s biggest fan. ‘He’s lovely to work for, and so thoughtful! I’ve got a friend in marketing who’d been working for ages on a Open University degree, and when she passed Guy sent her flowers and a bottle of champagne.’
‘It sounds to me as if he’s got a thoughtful PA,’ said Lucy, unimpressed, but Imogen leapt instantly to his defence.
‘It was Guy’s idea,’ she insisted. ‘And when he found out one of the other girls had been going through a bad time at home, he told her to take the day off and sent her a voucher for a day at a spa!’
Imogen sighed. ‘He’s so gorgeous, too. Well, you must have seen him. It’s enough to make a girl wish she wasn’t happily married,’ she went on without waiting for Lucy’s answer. ‘Not that he’d look at me even if I wasn’t,’ she said honestly. ‘He always has incredibly glamorous girlfriends.’
‘You’re glamorous,’ said Lucy, and told herself that she didn’t care in the least that Guy had a taste for glamour and sophistication as opposed to, say, a free spirit in jeans and a T-shirt. Imogen was just confirming what she had already guessed from Guy’s apartment.
‘Not like Cassandra Wolfe,’ said Imogen, but she looked pleased nonetheless.
‘Who?’
‘You know! The supermodel!’
‘Oh…yes.’ Lucy had never been particularly interested in gossip columns but even she had heard of Cassandra Wolfe, one of the few celebrities who could be referred to simply by her first name.
So she was presumably the Cassie Guy had mentioned so casually at Giovanni’s. Remembering what she had seen of Cassandra Wolfe, Lucy wasn’t at all surprised Guy’s mother had thought she was too thin.
Imogen, it seemed, was an endless source of information about Guy. ‘She and Guy split up a couple of months ago and now Cassandra’s back with her ex-boyfriend.’
‘The rock singer?’ It was all coming back to Lucy now. There had been some big scandal before she’d left for Australia.
Imogen nodded. ‘I’d have stuck with Guy if it was me,’ she said.
‘So was Guy very upset when she left him?’ Lucy couldn’t help asking.
‘Not so as you could tell,’ Imogen admitted. ‘He always seems in a good humour when I see him, and he’s got a lovely smile.’
Lucy knew the smile she meant.
‘He went out with some titled girl after Cassandra, but we never saw her here,’ Imogen went on. ‘I haven’t heard of her for a while, but Guy’s been away in Australia.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Maybe he’s on the market again. I hope so.’
Lucy fixed her with a mock severe look. ‘I thought you were happily married?’
‘I am.’ Imogen grinned. ‘But you’re not, are you? You could be in with a chance!’
‘With Guy Dangerfield? I don’t think so. He’s not my type,’ said Lucy casually, in spite of some very uncomfortable memories jumping up and down and insisting that he had been
Imogen looked at her as if she were mad, but Lucy rushed to change the subject. She couldn’t help thinking that they had talked about Guy quite enough. Anyone would think that she was interested in him.
There was no sign of him coming in to work and, having looked forward to his expression when he saw that she had met her challenge, Lucy was vaguely disgruntled at the fact that he hadn’t bothered to come in. He was probably playing golf or squash, she decided with an inward sniff. Perhaps he would swan in later when the lifts weren’t so busy and he wouldn’t have to mingle with the workers.
She could picture the scene perfectly. A limousine like the one that had met them at Heathrow would pull up outside and out would step Guy, ready for a couple of hours of being toadied to by the likes of Imogen before it was time to go home.
Lucy’s lips pursed at the thought. No, she for one wouldn’t be rushing to bow and scrape when he arrived. Yes, Guy was generous, she’d give him that, but as he himself had pointed out, he could afford it. And generosity didn’t stop him being deeply irritating, and the kind of man who would kiss you till your bones melted and then tell you it was only a kiss.
And then leave the next morning without even bothering to say goodbye.
‘Here he is!’ Imogen hissed, sitting up straighter. Lucy was looking at the doors where a limousine had drawn up, but there was no sign of Guy yet.
‘Where-?’ she began, turning to Imogen and following her gaze to the bank of lifts, where three men had evidently just stepped out.
Guy was talking and the two others were listening deferentially. All three were immaculately dressed in suits, but somehow Lucy saw only Guy. He had his back to her and her heart jerked in instant recognition of the set of his shoulders, of the back of his head and the air of suppressed energy he exuded. There was a kind of coiled power in the easy way he held himself and at the sight of him Lucy felt as if a great fist were clenching and unclenching deep inside her.
They were all shaking hands now and his two companions disappeared back into the lifts while Guy headed for the car waiting outside in blatant disregard of the double yellow lines.
