He Was Gone

When he stopped talking Irene had a fair idea of the gist of the negotiations he was undertaking as well as a familiarity with the territories they covered. It would be a huge coup for Fullbuster Grey if they scored this breakthrough into the Chinese market, she realized.

Then he glanced at his watch and drained his beer.

‘I should get going. Thank you for your time, though.’ He stood up and retrieved the cooler bag from the bar and a colourful bunch of gerberas, white daisies and asparagus fern wrapped in cellophane.

It was when they got to the foyer and she collected her bags and jacket that he said humorously, ‘I hope you haven’t parked too far away, Irene?’ He ushered her into the lift.

‘I don’t have a car.’

He frowned and hesitated before pushing a button. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I don’t drive.’

He looked at her for a moment as if she might have escaped a lunar landscape, and Irene had a secret desire to laugh.

‘So how do you get about?’

‘Buses,’ she said gravely. ‘I also have a bicycle. And, very occasionally, taxis.’

‘Where do you live?’ She told him.

‘That’s on my way.’ He pushed the basement button and the doors closed. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘You really don’t need to do that, Mr Fullbuster,’ she protested. ‘I’m quite used—’

‘Irene,’ he said with his eyes glinting, ‘a piece of advice, don’t argue with me. Especially not when I’m being at my best because it may not last that long.’

The lift came to rest at the basement floor and the doors slid open. ‘Well—’ She temporized.

‘Besides which,’ he added, eyeing her carrier bags, ‘you’ve got an awful lot of loot on you by the look of it, all paid for with my money—you could get robbed, mobbed, anything, and I wouldn’t appreciate that.’

‘Are you saying so long as the “loot” was OK, you wouldn’t mind what happened to me?’ she demanded.

‘Now that is putting words into my mouth,’ he drawled. ‘But enough of this chit-chat, let’s go!’

Irene had no choice but to follow him as he strode across the garage towards a gleaming navy-blue Bentley that looked brand-spanking new.

‘Wow!’ She pulled up and couldn’t help gazing at the car admiringly, her ire dissolving somewhat. ‘I don’t know much about cars but this is something else!’

‘Yes, a beauty, isn’t she? So damn classy—if she were a girl I could marry her.’

Irene had to laugh as he unlocked the boot and they deposited her bags, the flowers and the wine in it, then he unlocked the doors and she climbed into the cream leather and walnut interior. It even smelt beautiful inside.

‘Is it a conscious decision not to drive?’ he queried as he nosed the car up the garage ramp and onto the street. ‘A “greenie” decision?’

Irene wrinkled her nose. ‘I would love to say so, and I do think too many of them are wrong, but it’s a practical decision. I don’t have a garage and I’m so used to taking buses and so on.’ She waved a hand.

‘What is your economic situation?’ he asked with a sudden frown.

Irene watched the city street slide beneath the bonnet of the Bentley. It had

rained while she’d been upstairs and the slick surface was reflecting myriad lights as the tyres hissed over them.

‘My parents did have a nest egg that came to me,’ she told him. ‘After—’ she stopped for a moment and swallowed ‘—after the accident they died in, my Mother Superior was appointed my trustee. My school fees were paid out of it, and my university expenses et cetera, and there was enough left for me to buy a terrace house, so I’m actually a woman of some substance even if I don’t have a car!’ She turned to him with a cheery grin.

But Murad Fullbuster noticed the added sparkle to her eyes behind her glasses, tears, he suspected, and felt a spark of pity for this orphan.

He said only, though, ‘Good on you! Is this it?’ He pulled the Bentley up outside a row of terrace houses in the inner suburb of Spring Josephine.

‘Yes. Thank you very much for this. I suppose I’ll see you again at…’ Irene glanced at him enquiringly ‘…well, the cocktail party tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘What have you got on tomorrow morning? I just thought you might be interested in the state-of-the-art conference room and meeting the other interpreters.’

‘I would, normally, but it seems I have all sorts of other appointments tomorrow morning. Hair, nails, facials.’ She grimaced.

Murad Fullbuster frowned and turned to study her. He’d opened his door to retrieve her stuff from the boot so the overhead light was on.

‘You don’t—you don’t,’ he said as his dark blue gaze roamed over the very au naturel girl he’d hired as an interpreter—actually rather refreshingly natural, he found himself thinking suddenly, ‘need to go overboard.’

Irene hid a smile. ‘Mr Fullbuster, since I have it on good authority I would feel like Cinderella otherwise, I intend to do what is necessary not to feel that way. But I don’t intend to go overboard. If anything, I was a restraining influence.’

It dawned on Murad that this girl had turned the tables on him, that, far from being crushed by his makeover request, she was even laughing at him. ‘How so?’

he queried with a tinge of foreboding.

‘I kept reminding your Mrs Paxton, who is a dear actually, and the wardrobe co-ordinator, that, while I didn’t need to look like Cinderella, I didn’t need to outshine the guests either. And it’s only the clothes you’re paying for.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s not necessary, Irene.’

She shrugged. ‘It is to me. That side of it is rather personal and it’s not a question of it would probably be like a drop in the ocean for you—it’s my pride. So please don’t you argue with me, Mr Fullbuster.’

Murad found himself laughing involuntarily as Irene put up her chin and stared haughtily at him. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ he replied with his lips twitching. ‘Let’s get your things.’

He not only got them out of the boot for her, he carried some of them up the short path from the pavement to her front door.

‘Give me your key. I’ll open the door for you.’

‘I—it’s probably under that flowerpot,’ she said unthinkingly and pointed to a pot bearing lavender.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said as he deposited the bags he was carrying onto the garden bench and lifted the pot. ‘This is the first place a would-be thief would look! Not that,’ he added, ‘it would do him much good tonight because it’s not there.’

He straightened, dusted his hands and eyed the eleven other pots grouped around her front door ominously then somewhat bemusedly. ‘What is this?

They’re all herbs if I’m not mistaken.’ ‘Yes. I like to use them in cooking.’

He turned his attention back to her. ‘That’s fine, but it’s insanity to hide your door key like that. So where should I look next? The basil, I recognize that one and the mint of course, also the parsley—’

‘I do make a random choice every day,’ she broke in nervously, ‘and I only

do it in the first place because I have a horrible habit of losing keys. Hang on!’ She banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘I’ve been away, haven’t I? So it must be in my bag. Let’s see.’

She started to rummage through her bag, then clicked her tongue exasperatedly and upended the tote onto the bench seat.

‘How many times a day do you have to do this?’ he enquired.

‘Not that often,’ she told him. ‘What’s more, it’s all your fault. Ah! Here it

is.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘My fault? I don’t see—’

So she interrupted him to tell him how her day had panned out thanks to his

urgent need of a Mandarin speaker.

‘Is it any wonder I’m not quite as organized as I should be?’ she finished severely, only to realize he was shaking with silent laughter.

‘It’s not funny,’ she said as he opened the door for her. ‘It is funny,’ he disagreed. ‘Where’s the light?’

‘Just round the corner but you don’t need to—’

‘I have no intention of coming in, Irene,’ he said somewhat dryly, ‘just in case your Mother Superior is issuing all kinds of red alerts or clear-and-present- danger signals from up above—I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly as her expression changed. ‘Strike that. All right—’ he looked down at her ‘—I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Thank you for putting up with—all the difficulties of the day.’

But for a moment, before he left, his eyes roamed over her in a rather narrowed, probing way that puzzled her.

Then, with a light, quick flick of his fingers on her cheek, he was gone.

She was not to know that as he drove off Murad Fullbuster was surprised to find himself thinking that, were he free, he would enjoy taking his new

interpreter out for a meal. He had a favourite little seafood restaurant that something told him she would enjoy; it was un-pretentious but comfortable and the food was the work of a chef who really understood his sauces and combined them with whatever was the fresh catch of the day.