Read One Week in the Private House for Free Online Page B

cry, madam. "Clear evidence of copious weeping" is the exact requirement.'
    Julia took a deep breath. 'And what will you do to make me cry?'
    The chauffeur smiled at last. 'Whatever is necessary, madam. I have been told to use my own discretion. Perhaps you could offer a suggestion? Or should we abandon subtlety and go straight for the riding-crop? I think this is a suitable spot.'
    The ancient car jolted to a stop, and the chauffeur held open Julia's door. 'Come along, madam,' he said. 'Take off your skirt, if you please, and face the car. L^gs wide apart. We're getting close to the Private House now.'
    Day 3: Tuesday
    There were no filing clerks and no cabinets full of files, no typists and no word processors with beeping screens, no frantic executives and no rooms in which crisis meetings could be held. Terence Headman's private office was furnished as a tastefully-decorated, little-used luxury apartment on the top floor of a smart mews house - which is exactly what it was.
    Terence Headman's personal assistant was curled on a chaise longue , reading not a confidential report but what appeared to be a paperback novel. The only sounds were the ticking of a grandfather clock and an occasional rattle of crockery from the direction of the kitchen. Miss Morelli looked up, smiled vaguely, and resumed her urgent scanning of the book. She did not, in Jem's opinion, look much like the personal assistant of a notoriously hard-working corporate predator; from the razor-cut spikes of her black hair to the golden patent-leather sandals that were about to drop from her lazily swinging stockinged feet, she looked more like a model taking a mindless break between photo-sessions.
    Jem was becoming impatient. It had been surprisingly easy to make an immediate appointment to visit Headman's private office; but since then nothing had gone according to plan. Jem had taken care to dress in formal clothes, as she had expected to meet Headman in a formal office, but she had done her best to ensure that her appearance broadcast the correct seductive message. She had augmented the natural curls of her hair, and then pinned it up so that the cataract of auburn froth fell like a curtain behind her pixie-like ears; she had spent an hour over her make-up, carefully applying nail varnish, lip gloss, and face powder, and outlined her eyes and lips with painstaking precision. Her blouse was snow-white, and sheer enough to display the delicate lace tracery of her wispy bra; her skirt was short enough to reveal a glimpse of stocking-top whenever she crossed her legs, and tight enough to emphasise the curves of her bottom-cheeks. Her ankle-strap shoes, with heels even higher than those she normally wore, had been chosen to create a sensational arse-wiggle with every step she took.
    But she had had no need to bother with these subtle variations on the theme of a businesswoman's suit: Headman's private office wasn't a real office at all. And looking seductive had been a complete waste of time: she hadn't met Headman, and in any case his personal assistant, apparently wearing nothing but a black lace tunic and black lace stockings and enough gold jewellery to wipe out the national debt of a small Third World republic, made Jem feel both overdressed and dowdy. She recrossed her legs and leant forward.
    'Excuse me,' she said firmly. Miss Morelli frowned, sighed and looked up. 'Excuse me, but I didn't come here to write a piece about the interior decor of Terence Headman's apartment and the reading habits of his personal assistant. When will I meet Mr Headman himself?'
    'Only when I'm sure that Mr Headman will want to see you, Miss Fawcett. There are at least two hurdles to clear before you have any hope of meeting him. But here comes Darren; we'll find out whether you've passed the first test, shall we?'
    Darren appeared in the doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchen. He was tall, bronzed and muscular, with wavy blond hair and a square jaw that was so