THOSE AWAKE... 

By Tessa Harvey


Rosie looked up as the tall, handsome, dark-haired man walked haughtily into her office. His eyes were a stormy grey and his potentially striking good looks were marred by a sullenness he did not attempt to disguise.
    She was on guard.
    "Pierson sent me," he stated abruptly, staring at her in such a derogatory fashion she immediately rose and faced him, flashing fire.
    "I beg your pardon." Her words were cultured and her tone cool and dismissive.
Immediately, Grayson realised his mistake. He had assumed wrongly that she was some inferior lackey. 
    "Just because I am of a proud South American heritage does not mean that I am your slave!" Her voice was like cut crystal. "Wow," Gray thought, somewhat inanely, she could almost have been the Queen herself. He felt himself flush, that she had so accurately and astutely guessed his racist thoughts.
    Unused to not being idolised - by his juniors and by even most co-workers, the young man decided to sit down anyway, without being invited. He needed to regain the upper hand. To his chagrin, she remained standing, her hands placed firmly on her beautiful desk.
    "So, Oswald Pierson referred you to me," continued the lady calmly. Sly old fox, she thought privately. "I am Lady Camelia Rosemary Smythe-Jones. I work only for myself."
    "Er, Grayson Holmes," wrong-footed and more, he thought dismally, then his hidden anger flared.




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