Escape Me Never (2 page)

She examined her hands judiciously. Bare, with neat unpolished nails. A neat face too, pale-lipped and unremarkable, her clear blue-green eyes its chief beauty. And—neat hair, when the wind and rain hadn't played havoc with it, turning it into a dark curling mop instead of the usual controlled bob. Everything about her designed so that people wouldn't give her a second look.


But today, whether she liked it or not, everyone would be looking, and making judgand the thought irritated her almost unbearably. She'd made unobtrusiveness her leitmotif, and today, through no fault of her own, she was going to be the centre of attention.


It might not be so bad, she tried to console herself. After all, executives from the
Eve
cosmetics board had visited the agency on a number of occasions. Only the new chairman, the overlord of Grant Industries, was an unknown quantity.


She tried briefly to review what little she knew about him, culled mainly from agency gossip. Quite young, she'd gathered, for the onerous position he now occupied after his father's retirement. Had spent a lot of time in the States, but for the past couple of years had been European director. Was expected to take a firm hold on Grant's worldwide business interests, but had not, frankly, been expected to interest himself in a relatively minor detail like an advertising promotion for Eve Cosmetics.


No wonder Barney was going off like a firecracker, jumping in all directions, Cass thought wrily. She could have coped adequately with Mr McDowell, and Mr Handson. But Rohan Grant was additional pressure which she could have well done without.


Sylvie popped her head round the door. 'Is it safe to come back?' she asked. 'What have you done with the body?'


'The body's alive and well, and no doubt playing hell somewhere else,' Cass said, with a faint grin.


'And you're sticking to your guns?' Sylvie asked.


'Why not?'


'Oh.' Sylvie hunched a shoulder. 'I thought you might have—compromised for once. Under the circumstances.'


Cass looked at her in mild surprise. 'But I thought you agreed with me,' she said. 'Barney's blatant sexism has always infuriated you too.'


'Yes,' Sylvie agreed. 'Although his wife seems to thrive on it,' she added drily. 'At the last Christmas party she told me she'd gone back into stockings and suspenders because he preferred them.'


'Well, good luck to her,' Cass said, shrugging. 'I hope you're not suggesting I should do the same to woo Rohan Grant and his cohorts.'


'No, that would be going too far.' Sylvie hesitated. 'Oh, what's the use in pretending. Bloody Barney wants me to persuade you out of those khaki horrors you're smothered in, and into something with a skirt. And for once, I see his point,' she added hastily as Cass opened her mouth to protest. 'Whether you want it or not, today you're the agency's spokesperson. They're going to judge us all by you, or at least Rohan Grant will. You know how important the right impression can be,' she went on appealingly. 'Cass, I feel a total heel saying these things to you, but just for once, can't you forget your aim of fading into the wallpaper—and look the successful lady you are?'


There was a silence. Cass said, 'Quite a speech. What do you want me to do? Take Barney's thirty pieces of silver and get myself a basic black?' Her tone was bitter.


'Why not?' Sylvie's voice was equable. 'You've got a part to play, so dress up for it. It might even make it easier.'


Cass bit her lip. 'That—actually makes sense,' she admitted slowly. 'All right—I'll do it, for this occasion only. Did Barney give you any further instructions?'


Sylvie giggled. 'Can you doubt it? He said we were to get something which matched your eyes and showed off your legs.' She sent Cass a droll look. 'So much for Operation Chameleon.'


And after a stunned moment, Cass found herself joining helplessly in her laughter.


But two hours later, she had stopped smiling. The clients still hadn't arrived, and any remaining hope she'd had of getting off for Jodie's open day was vanishing fast.


She sighed irritably. The day was proving a chapter of disasters from start to finish, and this—charade she'd allowed Sylvie to talk her into it, was one of the worst. The dress, a simple cream wool sheath with a cowl neck, was the most expensive garment she'd ever possessed, but she took no pleasure in it, or in the broad leather belt which cinched her waist, reducing its slenderness almost to nothing, or the matching dark brown shoes, the heels of which added over an inch to her height. And to add insult to injury, Sylvie had produced one of the
Eve
cosmetic beauty cases, and insisted on Cass touching her eyelids with a delicate tracing of pearly shadow, and smoothing a soft pink gloss on to the indignant lines of her mouth.


Sylvie, she thought sourly, seemed well pleased with her handiwork. 'It's like one of those old Hollywood movies,' she'd said, grinning. 'All we need now is for Barney to come in and say, "My God, Ms Linton—but you're beautiful".'


'I'm glad you think it's so damned funny,' Cass had snapped back.


Perhaps Sylvie had warned Barney to step warily, for all he said in the event was a quiet, 'Thanks, Cassie.'


No one else made any comment at all. But that, Cass thought caustically, was probably because they didn't recognise her. To tell the truth, she hardly recognised herself. And the reflection which looked back at -her. from the mirror was hardly a reassuring one. It was too powerful a reminder of the vulnerable girl she had been, rather than the guarded self-sufficient woman which marriage, and the subsequent bringing up of her child as a single parent, had made her. She didn't want to remember that girl, or any of the circumstances which had brought about that change in her.


She ran an irritable hand through her hair. Allowed to go its own way like this, it made her look years younger. Oh, she would be so thankful when this day was over, and she could retire back into her inconspicuous shell again.


She opened the door of the women's cloakroom and hurried into the corridor, colliding as she did so with the leading figure in a group of people just walking past.


For a startled instant, she was off-balance, sharply aware of muscular strength, and a cool, clean male scent. Then firm hands took her shoulders, steadying her, and she recoiled with a gasp.


She heard Barney say jovially, 'Cass—I've just sent Linda to find you and tell you that we're on our way to the board room now. May I introduce Rohan Grant to you. Mr Grant, this is Ms Linton who will be conducting the presentation of the campaign on our behalf today.


A man's voice drawling slightly said, 'If I've left her any breath to do it with. How do you do, Ms Linton.'


She looked at him almost dazedly, registering all kinds of things. His height, for one thing. He seemed to tower head and shoulders above anyone else in the group. His superbly cut suit accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and the lean hips and long legs. A thin, tanned face, with nose and chin strongly and commandingly marked, and a firm, straight mouth. Long-lashed hazel eyes glinting with amusement, and something else, and brown hair curling away from his forehead.


It was as if she was making notes for an inventory. She swallowed. There was no actual facial resemblance between them, but Brett's hair had been brown and his eyes hazel. And there was a terrible familiarity in that arrogant lift of the head, that unspoken assumption that he was male—all powerful, and all conquering… All so like Brett, she thought with a kind of sick horror.


Barney said sharply, 'Cass, are you all right?'


She dredged up some self-control from somewhere. She said coolly, Tine, thank you. I'll join you in the board room right away. She moved her lips in a brief meaningless smile. 'Mr Grant— gentlemen.'


Her office was empty, and she was thankful. All the material for the presentation had already been set up in the boardroom. There was only her personal folder of notes to take. She reached for it, aware that her hand was shaking a little, and her breathing ragged.


She had to get a grip on herself, she told herself sternly. There were thousands of brown-haired, hazel-eyed men in the Greater London area alone. She saw them every day on the streets, in the Tube, in the restaurants around the office. And he didn't look like Brett, she reminded herself almost frantically. It was the colouring only—and the stance which made her think…


But she couldn't forget that for a brief moment she had touched him. And he had touched her. She had actually felt the warmth of his hands on her through the fabric of her dress. She shuddered violently. The first time—the first time a man had touched her, apart from cursory, unavoidable handshakes, since Brett's death.


And it was no use telling herself that it was her own fault, that she'd crashed into him purely accidentally. Just that one fleeting contact, and she felt threatened.


She wanted to run away, to hide somewhere. But there was nowhere. And they were waiting for her. At any minute, Barney would be sending someone to hurry her up. She was needed to do her job, the job which paid the rent and supported not just herself, but her child. The job she couldn't afford to lose by keeping important clients waiting while she stayed, shivering, in her room. She must have scored zero for poise with the Grant man already. She couldn't compound the bad impression. She snatched up the folder, and her bag, then paused again.


Obeying an impulse she barely understood, she opened her bag and unzipped a small inside pocket, and took out Brett's ring, biting at the inside of her lip, as she forced it over her knuckle. Her hands had grown a little. The ring felt tight, alien on her finger.


She had never thought to wear it again, had kept it solely as a private reminder of her marriage, but now, suddenly, it seemed like the safeguard she needed and had abandoned with her shapeless khaki trousers and jacket.


But why should she suddenly be so sure she needed a safeguard? That was the question that followed her, tormenting her, all down the long corridor to the board room where they all waited.

'The problem we've had to face,' Cass said, her voice clear and even, 'has been the old one of familiarity breeding contempt. Everyone knows Eve cosmetics. The range is as established and respected as Arden or Rubenstein. Yet in spite of everything that's been done to make sure the products moved with the times, this frankly hasn't been reflected in your advertising campaigns over the past ten years, nor by the sales. Your non-allergic brands—the fact that you've produced a whole range without using animal products—all these things should have been exploited—but haven't been.'

She paused. 'The ideas we've put to you seek to put this right, and also to hammer home the message of the brand name.
Eve
is all woman, and
Eve
cosmetics are designed for all women.'

She smiled briefly and sat down, amid appreciative murmurs. But were they really enthusiastic, or merely polite. Cass couldn't gauge any more. She felt as if she'd been put through a wringer, mentally as well as physically.

And Roger enjoyed this, she thought limply. How could he, but she knew what the answer to that was. If Roger had been here, the line of questioning would have been very different. It would have been taken for granted that Roger knew his job, because he was a man. As a woman, Cass had had to prove she knew what she was talking about over and over again. And the man heading the Inquisition had been Rohan Grant.