Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Boss?

Two weeks. She had two weeks’ holiday to sketch the portrait and work in at least two full sittings before heading back to work. She could finish the portrait at home over the next few weekends and collect the rest of her fee. With a bit of luck, there might be a little left over from paying Amy’s university fees to squeeze in a quick holiday somewhere warm and sunny.

Now that—she shivered in the icy wind—would be nice.

Exhaling slowly, Toni glanced from side to side to find a gap in the stream of people who had their heads down, their umbrellas braced forward against the driving sleet and rain and oblivious to anyone who might walk in their way.

Seizing on a momentary lull, Toni dashed out onto the road in the stationary rush hour traffic. She had almost made it when she had to dive sideways to dodge a bicycle courier and planted her right foot into a deep puddle. Dirty cold water splashed up into her smart high heeled ankle boots and trickled down inside, making her gasp with shock.

Hissing under her breath, Toni stepped up onto the kerb and inside the porch.

A brass plaque set into the old stone read: ‘Elstrom and Sons. Map-makers’ in the most stunning cursive script.

Blowing out hard, Toni rolled back her shoulders and tried to think positive thoughts. A flutter of nervous apprehension winged across her stomach.

This was so ridiculous.

She was here to paint Scott’s portrait. That was all. The small fact that he did not actually want his portrait painting was not important.

Much. She peered through the tiny squares of thick old glass set into the door but couldn’t see a thing—no lights or movement.

She ran her hands down the front of her raincoat and lifted her chin, stretched her hand out and rang the doorbell.

Instantly a low buzzing sound came from the door and a green light flashed.

Oh. Right. Security door. Well, that made sense.

She turned the handle, pushed the door a little and stepped inside.

Water dripping from every part of her, Toni shook the rain from her hair and instantly inhaled the glorious deep, rich aroma of antique wood, polished leather and that certain delicious muskiness that came from old manuscripts and bound books.

Laughing and half choking in the slightly dusty air, a sudden smile caught her unexpectedly.

Strange, Toni thought. That smell. It was so distinctive. She inhaled deeply and instantly recognized it. Of course. Her mother used to have a tin of beeswax and linseed oil mixed with lavender under the sink and brought it out whenever she dusted her father’s studio, which wasn’t often, considering how rarely any flat surface remained uncluttered with paperwork and art exhibition catalogues and letters and, occasionally, bills.