The Tycoon's Takeover Read online

  “Is that the way the Claibournes close a deal?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry? Did you want something in writing?”

  “Nothing so formal.” Even while she was sending frantic signals to her brain, he raised his hand, sliding his fingers through her hair, cradling her head, holding her captive. He gave her his personal interpretation of sealing an agreement with a kiss.

  This was a kiss intended to make a lasting impression. He was completely in control, while she was hot, flushed and vibrantly aware that every cell in her body was being given a wake-up call.

  “Now,” he said, “we have a deal.”

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the climax of my new trilogy, BOARDROOM BRIDEGROOMS.

  I do hope you’ve enjoyed reading about the three talented Claibourne sisters—Romana, Flora and India. I’ve loved writing their stories, bringing to life the drama and emotion as they’ve clashed with the Farradays, three dynamic businessmen determined to regain control of Claibourne & Farraday, “the most stylish department store in London.”

  This time it’s India’s turn to meet her match in a thrilling showdown. Elegant, clever and wedded to her career, India is about to find herself locked in a clash of wills with the irresistible Jordan Farraday. A power struggle in the boardroom and…out of it….

  With love,

  Liz Fielding

  Liz Fielding is the winner of the 2001 RITA® Award for Best Traditional Romance. To find out more about the author, visit her Web site at www.lizfielding.com

  LIZ FIELDING

  The Tycoon’s Takeover

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  WHO GOT HITCHED, CELEBRITY magazine

  SECRET WEDDING IN SAMARINDA

  Samarinda, fast becoming the ‘must go’ destination for those seeking a get-away-from-it-all break, was host to a very private wedding ceremony for Flora Claibourne and Bram Farraday Gifford last week. These charming pictures show the happy couple taking their vows in the stunning setting of the Royal Botanical Gardens, surrounded by wild vanilla orchids, a feature of this delightful venue.

  This is the second Claibourne/Farraday wedding in as many months. Forebears of the two families founded London’s favourite department store in the nineteenth century, but relations between them, at times, been reduced to near feud status over control of the store.

  The new generation, however, have refreshingly decided that it’s better to make love than war. Flora’s younger sister, Romana, and Bram’s cousin, Niall Farraday Macaulay, were married recently in Las Vegas.

  We look forward to a new era of co-operation at Claibourne & Farraday, and wish both couples every happiness.

  CITY DIARY, LONDON EVENING POST

  Another Claibourne/Farraday merger.

  There’s a new spirit of co-operation abroad at London’s oldest department store, Claibourne & Farraday. The present generation of the two founding families—who famously never talk to one another—are doing more than talk as they finally meet face to face to thrash out the future of the company in the new century. The marriages between the two younger Claibourne sisters and Farraday heirs have been quiet affairs, however, suggesting that nothing is yet settled at the top.

  India Claibourne is still Managing Director, and my sources suggest that Jordan Farraday is determined to supplant her in the immediate future. We’ll be following events at the store with close interest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘HAVE you seen this, JD?’

  Jordan Farraday turned from the e-mail that had just arrived in his inbox. His secretary was offering him a magazine, folded back at the ‘Who Got Hitched’ page. ‘You read Celebrity magazine, Christine? I had no idea you were that interested in the loves and lives of the rich and famous.’

  ‘I live in hopes of seeing you in there one of these days,’ she replied, as he took the magazine from her. ‘Having a little fun.’ Then, ‘I wasn’t sure if you knew.’ She paused. ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I knew.’ He glanced at the photograph of his cousin, caught at the moment he placed a wedding ring on Flora Claibourne’s finger, and felt an unexpected pang of something he couldn’t quite identify. Envy? It was ridiculous—and yet Bram looked different…complete. As if he’d found something he’d been looking for all his life. Nonsense, of course. It was just the reflected glow of satisfaction from a woman who’d got exactly what she wanted. ‘There’s a paragraph in the late edition of the Evening Post,’ he said. ‘Presumably they picked it up from this.’

  ‘Bram didn’t call you? Before? After?’

  He looked up, a wry smile twisting his mouth. ‘Would you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Those Claibourne girls are quite something. I wonder what they use?’

  ‘Use?’

  ‘Spells, charms, love potions…’ she offered. ‘I’d have said that your cousins were two of the most unlikely marriage prospects in London.’ Then, with a slight gesture that deferred to him, ‘After you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said drily.

  ‘Yet first Niall and now Bram have succumbed with a speed that suggests something added to the water.’

  ‘Grief fades in time. The playboy life loses its charm. They were ready to fall in love,’ he said dismissively. ‘My mistake was to put them in close contact with two of the most interesting women in London.’

  ‘And you’re about to spend a month in the company of interesting woman number three. Their big sister. The boss lady who’s presumably taught them everything they know. Are you crazy?’

  ‘No, Christine, single-minded.’ He glanced again at the photograph. ‘Unlike my cousins, who seem to have had other things on their minds, regaining control of a department store is my priority. At the end of the month I shall have done just that.’

  ‘You don’t need to shadow India Claibourne for five minutes, let alone a month, to achieve that.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I don’t. But it’s polite to give the lady a chance to make her case.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re up to something.’ And when he didn’t bother to deny it, she said, ‘It’ll all end in tears.’

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the plan.’

  ‘If you’re suggesting they’ll be her tears, I think you should go back to the drawing board,’ she said, retrieving the magazine and holding up the picture as a warning. ‘Consider what happened to your cousins when they got involved with the Claibourne girls.’

  ‘That was just a sideshow, Christine. This is the main event.’

  ‘You’re playing with fire.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ he pointed out.

  ‘When it comes to taking a chance with money, I’d put my last silk shirt on you. This is different.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I don’t know what I’m doing?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ she declared. ‘I’m simply suggesting that if you value your freedom you should invent a crisis that requires your presence on the other side of the world for the next month. Leave the Claibourne & Farraday business to the lawyers.’

  ‘Bolt for cover? And have the City Diary editor amuse his readers with the suggestion that I’m running scared of India Claibourne? They would enjoy that.’

  ‘There are worse things than being laughed at. Marriage isn’t just a word, JD. It’s a sentence. I know. I served nearly ten years before I managed to tunnel out.’<
br />
  ‘Christine, we’ve worked together for a long time. You know me probably as well as anyone on this earth. Are you really suggesting that I won’t be able to spend a few hours in the company of India Claibourne without falling so hopelessly in love with her that I’ll be on my knees within the month?’

  ‘Accounts are already organising a sweepstake on how long you’ll last,’ she replied.

  It did not escape his notice that she hadn’t answered his question. But then she didn’t know the full history. For his cousins control of Claibourne & Farraday was just good business. For him it was personal. Deeply personal.

  This wasn’t just about a department store. That was the public dispute, one that had been thoroughly rehearsed thirty years earlier, and the outcome was a foregone conclusion—as India Claibourne must know. Her father must have warned her that she couldn’t win, but she was stubbornly refusing to accept the inevitable, refusing to play by the rules.

  He wasn’t taken in for a minute by her invitation for him and his cousins to spend time at the store, to ‘shadow’ her and her sisters, see how the store was run in this high-tech media age. She was just playing for time while she and her lawyers tried to find some loophole in the partnership agreement that would allow her to remain in control.

  Not that he was complaining. If he’d planned it himself, it couldn’t have worked out better.

  That he would take over from Peter Claibourne now that he’d retired was inevitable. India Claibourne’s decision to put up a fight, giving Jordan the opportunity to reverse history, humiliate her as her father had humiliated his mother, was icing spread thickly on the cake.

  Christine was still waiting for some response, he realised. ‘A sweepstake?’ he repeated. ‘On what, exactly?’

  ‘On how many days it will be before you, um, get down on your knees.’

  ‘My knees? And why would I do that?’

  ‘To propose to the lady. Beg her to marry you.’

  ‘Oh, please!’

  ‘I realise that’s an alien concept for a man of your wealth, name and all-round fanciability. But it cannot have escaped your notice that she’s got a matching set.’

  No, it hadn’t escaped his notice. India Claibourne was as lovely as she was rich. But she had one fatal weakness: she’d do anything to keep control of Claibourne & Farraday. ‘And a proposal would be enough, would it? For some lucky soul to win this sweepstake?’

  ‘A diamond on the lady’s finger is one option,’ she admitted. ‘But the hot ticket is for a wedding.’

  ‘Within a month? How likely is that?’

  She held up one finger. ‘Niall Farraday Macaulay married Romana Claibourne in Las Vegas on Day 29.’ A second finger. ‘Bram Farraday Gifford married Flora Claibourne in Saraminda on Day 30. I’m sure that anything they can do, you can do better.’ Then, with a grin, ‘Three’s a charm, JD.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, here’s the word from the horse’s mouth. If you’ve got money to waste on such nonsense, make sure you draw the number with “No Wedding” written next to it. Believe me, whatever gossip you may read in your magazine, it’ll take more than a seductive smile to get me in front of a registrar.’

  ‘The lady has more. A whole department store more. Why don’t you save time—and lawyers’ fees—and propose a dynastic marriage? That way you both win. You have to admit that she’d make any man a stunning consort.’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing. And I thought you were opposed to marriage on principle?’

  ‘Arranged marriages are different. The participants have more realistic expectations. And this would be more like an advantageous merger of two companies—something you know all about.’ Taken with the idea, she went on, ‘I can’t understand why it hasn’t happened before—in the days when marriages were arranged for gain, rather than left to chance. The families must have been close at one time.’

  ‘There has been quite enough dynastic marriage-making in the last few weeks without me joining in. And I don’t need a consort, no matter how stunning she is. All I need is for the Claibournes to hand over what is rightfully mine with the minimum of fuss.’

  ‘If it was minimum fuss you wanted you’d have sent in the lawyers two months ago. You want something else, and I have no doubt you’ll get it. I just hope it makes you happy.’ Then, ‘But don’t eat or drink anything while you’re at the store. Oh, and don’t, whatever else you do, get a haircut in the salon.’ And she grinned. ‘Just in case India Claibourne uses hair clippings to cast her spells.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got something important to be getting on with while I’m making my presence felt at London’s favourite department store tomorrow, Christine. Swapping knitting patterns, perhaps? Or phoning your daughter to discuss her latest pregnancy?’ he suggested, signalling that as far as he was concerned that particular subject was now closed.

  ‘Don’t do it, JD,’ she said, not in the least bit intimidated. But then he hadn’t expected her to be.

  ‘Or maybe you should give careful thought to the possibility of taking early retirement and becoming a full-time grandmother,’ he continued, his expression still in neutral. ‘I could get one of those sexy girls with long legs and a degree in Business Studies to replace you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh? And why not?’

  ‘Precisely because I’m not sexy. I’m safely middle-aged, plump and motherly,’ she said, heading back to her own office. ‘You know I’m not going to fall in love with you and make life difficult in the office. I’m also the best secretary in the world. Probably.’ When she reached the door, however, she paused and looked back at him. ‘Twenty-one days,’ she said. ‘If she gets you on Day 21, I win the sweep.’

  ‘Try and get your money back,’ he suggested. ‘Sell your ticket to someone really gullible.’

  ‘Goodnight, JD. Don’t work too late. All work and no play…’ She left the proverb hanging, closing the door gently behind her as she left for the night, and he finally smiled. She might be talking rubbish about India Claibourne, but she was right about one thing. She was the best secretary he’d ever known and he wouldn’t be trading her in for a younger model any time soon. Then, as he turned back to his PC and the e-mail from India Claibourne, his smile faded. It wasn’t long. Just one line. It said:

  Two down, one to go. Are you ready to quit, Mr Farraday?

  Clearly she’d been afraid that with his advance guard neutralised by her lovely sisters he might change his mind about shadowing her during June. This was a ‘dare-you’ challenge to his masculine pride.

  Christine was wrong, he decided as he switched off the screen. He wasn’t the one playing with fire. It was India Claibourne who was about to get her fingers…and anything else she cared to risk…burned.

  India Claibourne paused in front of the department store that had borne her family name for nearly two centuries and looked up.

  Claibourne & Farraday.

  A byword for class and style. The name said it all.

  In fact it said rather too much.

  The Farraday grated. A lot. Their silent partners hadn’t done much—other than accumulate capital and take their share of the profits—in living memory. Her living memory, anyway.

  She didn’t have a problem with that. They were equal partners and were entitled to their share of the profits—welcome to them—as long as they kept out of her way. But they weren’t keeping out of her way. Since her father’s sudden retirement, following his heart attack, they had become disturbingly vocal.

  ‘Good morning, Miss India.’ The commissionaire tipped his top hat to her.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Edwards.’ She paused, stepping to one side, out of the way of early arrivals at the store. ‘The customers seem eager this morning.’

  ‘Summer is always busy, miss. London is full of visitors and they all come to Claibourne’s.’

  She smiled at the way he automatically shortened the name.

  Claibourne’s.
<
br />   It had a ring to it. It was easy to say. And once she’d seen off Jordan Farraday that was what the store would become. Claibourne’s.

  No more Farradays. Ever.

  ‘My wife showed me the wedding picture of Miss Flora in Celebrity magazine last night,’ he continued, as she lingered at the entrance, her fertile imagination supplying a pleasing picture of the frontage with just one name above the door. ‘She looked quite radiant. It’s wonderful for the store…both Miss Romana and Miss Flora marrying Farradays.’

  Which brought her swiftly back to reality. Jordan Farraday’s advance guard, his cousins and partners in his bid to take over control of the store, were now her brothers-in-law.

  Her delaying tactics—having the Farradays shadow them to see what running a department store actually entailed—had backfired. Badly.

  But she smiled nonetheless. ‘It’s very exciting for them. For all of us. I wish I could have been with them.’ Her sisters, however, having fallen under the Farraday spell, had chosen to get married first and only tell their families afterwards. Or, in Flora’s case, leave them to find out like everyone else when they read it in the newspaper.

  She couldn’t fault their reasoning. In their shoes, she’d have done the same.

  Meanwhile they were all wisely keeping their heads down in their honeymoon hideaways, leaving the field clear for the main battle.

  It was between her and Jordan Farraday now. But then, it always was going to be between the two of them. She was in control of the store, sitting in the seat he believed to be rightfully his.

  Her sisters, his cousins, were interested parties. But she and Jordan were the ones with the most to gain—or lose.

  She had one month left—this month—to show him that if the Farradays thought they could run Claibourne & Farraday in their spare time they were wrong. This was no longer an emporium for gentlemen, a place where the customers were all known personally.