Who's Afraid of Mr Wolfe? Read Online Free PDF Page B

allow, which meant that every now and again he had to stop and wait for her to catch up with him. The last time he did it, shesaid quickly, ‘You don’t have to wait for me, Mr Wolfe. I know my way.’
    ‘I’ve told you before, Ellie,’ Jack said, starting to walk again, ‘you don’t have to keep calling me “Mr Wolfe”. If you do, I’m going to have to call you “Miss Somerset”.’
    ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that “Mr Wolfe” has so much more comedy potential. You know, “What’s the time, Mr Wolfe?”, “What are you having for lunch, Mr Wolfe?”’
    ‘“Eaten any of the pigs in suits yet, Mr Wolfe?”’
    Now that was a surprise. She grudgingly gave him points for his sense of humour. Or perhaps he wasn’t joking. She could well imagine that Jack was a man perfectly capable of biting an account executive.
    ‘OK,’ Jack said with a wry smile, ‘“Miss Somerset” it is, then.’
    A few more yards and they were at the agency. Ellie’s gaze was drawn to the new nameplate that had been fixed to the wall when Jack had bought into the company. ‘Wiseman & Craster’ was now ‘Wiseman, Craster & Wolfe’.
    Payback time, Mr High and Mighty.
    ‘Sorry it couldn’t have been “Wolfe, Wiseman & Craster”,’ she said, not sounding at all sorry. ‘It would have read so much better.’
    Jack reached for the door handle and gave her a sidelong glance that quite suddenly made the image of a wolf licking its lips slither into her mind.
    ‘Oh, I don’t think it matters really,’ he said, pullingopen the door. ‘I don’t mind if I’m in front or behind. Any position’s fine by me.’
    Ellie wasn’t quite sure she had heard him correctly, and if she had, whether he was still simply talking about the nameplate. His face betrayed nothing, whereas she knew hers had probably gone bright red. She walked past him into reception trying not to touch him, but acutely aware of his height and breadth. He filled quite a bit of the doorframe, and as she squeezed past him, a smell of warm sandalwood reached her nose.
    Reception was the usual madhouse. Clients were arriving and leaving; leather-clad motorcycle couriers dropped off packages; pretty girls posed; and testosterone-pumped guys were leaning over the reception desk to talk to Rachel.
    Well, to talk to Rachel’s breasts to be exact.
    Gavin had spent thousands and given the contractors a nervous breakdown to create the setting for all this activity. Slate had been brought from Wales for the floor, and the walls lined with metal that had been selectively weathered and dented. The reception desk was a single solid piece of wood, distressed to look as though it were driftwood. All the seats, even the sofas, were upholstered in creased leather. It was a little like sitting in a disused industrial complex in the company of some very old cows. Jack was known to detest it.
    As Jack followed behind her, Ellie watched with amusement as people who were previously absorbed in theirown storylines nonchalantly fell over themselves to say hello to him. Rachel was out of her chair in a flash, teetering and wobbling round the desk and holding out letters for him.
    How was it possible, Ellie wondered, for Rachel to push her breasts out that far and not fall over? She couldn’t help looking down at her own breasts, which were safely stowed away out of view in her shapeless shirt. She had more going on down there than Rachel, so how come Rachel looked about three times larger? Glancing up, she met Jack’s gaze and looked away abruptly.
    ‘Thanks, Rachel,’ Jack said, taking the letters and flashing her a smile that made Rachel find an extra couple of centimetres of thrust. ‘Ooh, nice shoes today,’ he added, raising his eyebrows.
    Rachel obviously spoke fluent flirt and translated that as ‘God, those heels make you look hot’ because she contentedly purred her way back round to her side of the desk and leaned forward, treating Jack to a full view of her cleavage.