So now, duly labelled, she sat in Veronica Taylor's office while the PA rang through to the next-door office to inform her boss-their boss, with any luck-that Yancie Dawkins was there.

Anticipating that the great man would squeeze her into his busy schedule about two minutes before he went for his lunch around one, Yancie had barely read five pages of her book before he buzzed through to say he would see her now.

Yancie, wishing she'd spent her waiting time re-rehearsing the tale she was about to tell, quickly put her paperback in her shoulder bag and, feeling oddly nervous-which was totally absurd, she told herself-she went to the other door in the room, knocked briefly, and went in.

Thomson Wakefield was just as she remembered him. Today he wore a dark suit, striped shirt and, as he rose from his chair to indicate she should take the seat she had used a week ago, she saw he was as tall, and as nearly good-looking, as ever.

'Good morning,' she broke the silence that emanated from the non-talkative brute. Br, afternoon,' she corrected, crossing to the chairnot a glimmer of a smile! Here we go-it was like treading through sticky treacle. `Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,' she heard herself say-creepy or what?

Yancie clamped her lips shut, and took the seat he offered; only the ever present knowledge of how much she wanted this job-nay, needed this job-prevented her from getting up and marching out again.

She looked at him. His glance flicked over her. If he observed her name tag neatly in place-and from the little she knew of him she suspected he missed little-he did not comment. In fact he said nothing at all for a good few seconds, but unsmilingly took in her neatly brushed shoulder-length ash-blonde hair and complexion-once rated by some male as exquisite. Wakefield was totally unaffected.