The Corporate Bridegroom Page 5

  ‘I’m glad you received it safely,’ he said, quickly cutting her off before she said something totally outrageous. Or repeated her accusation of cynicism.

  ‘I’m wearing it tonight,’ she finished, refusing to be thwarted. And she lifted her hand, the strands of platinum shimmering enticingly as they slipped back, to offer him her slender wrist.

  He’d bought the scent solely for its name. Confronted with the reality, he found himself longing to take her wrist, lift it to his face, touch it to his lips. To hold her and tell her she must never, never do anything that scared her ever again.

  Which was doubtless just what she meant him to feel. She really was the most accomplished flirt. Was it a conscious decision to distract him? Or did it just come naturally to her?

  Whatever, he really couldn’t allow her to think he was that gullible. ‘As a penance?’ he enquired, ignoring her proffered wrist. ‘It really wasn’t necessary. In fact the assistant insisted on telling me that it was for daytime wear. Was she wrong? Or merely incompetent?’

  If he’d hoped to irritate her by criticising the store personnel, leaving her with her wrist extended and no one to fawn over it, he’d failed miserably. She frowned, but not with annoyance.

  ‘May I?’ she said, and without waiting for an answer she reached for his tie, straightening it, twitching it into place with the lightest of tugs, the gentlest of touches.

  It was the most intimate of gestures, evoking bittersweet memories of Louise and a sharp guilt that moments before he’d had nothing, no one, in his head but Romana Claibourne. But before he could react, move, it was over.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, leaning back a little. ‘Even shadows have to be perfect in every detail.’ Then, apparently satisfied, she looked up and answered his question. ‘I’m sure the assistant knew exactly what she was talking about, Niall. I don’t normally wear scent to the theatre…there’s nothing worse than sitting near someone wearing an overpowering perfume, is there? This is light, though.’ And she lifted the inside of her wrist to sample it for herself. ‘Quite…inoffensive.’ But she didn’t offer her wrist a second time for his opinion.

  It had occurred to him, belatedly, that scent was such a personal gift that she might have been insulted by his gesture. He’d certainly never expected her to wear it. Now, dragging his thoughts back to the present, to reality, he said, ‘It was not my intention to offend you.’

  ‘Then well done,’ she said, gravely. ‘You succeeded.’ Only a tiny tuck in the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

  The wretched girl had been teasing him. Still was.

  ‘Romana…’ She turned away as her sister arrived, saving him from the need to respond. Giving him time to catch his breath. ‘Everything looks wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, Molly’s done a fine job. India, may I introduce Niall Farraday Macaulay? He’s begun the arduous task of shadowing me, as you can see.’

  India Claibourne, taller than her sister, with her dark hair perfectly cut in a sleek bob, was quite unlike Romana. Turning to him now with a cool smile, she offered her hand briefly. ‘You’re very keen, Mr Macaulay.’ Despite the polite smile she was unable to disguise the edge in her voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, Miss Claibourne. Romana explained that her job isn’t confined to the hours between nine and five. I’m making every effort to be fair.’

  ‘None of us work nine to five—as you and your partners will discover if you can keep up,’ she said crisply, before turning away as someone claimed her attention.

  He watched her for a moment before turning back to Romana. ‘No one would take the two of you for sisters,’ he said. ‘She’s not a bit like you.’

  ‘Not a bit,’ she agreed. ‘But then we have different mothers.’ She removed her arm from his, lifting her smooth pale shoulders in a barely perceptible shrug. ‘We all have different mothers.’ Then, ‘Sorry, Niall.’

  ‘Sorry? What for?’

  ‘She’s the one with brains, class and style. I’m the one with too much hair and an out of control coffee-cup.’

  She’d summed up his first impression of her in a sentence. It irritated him that she could see through him so easily, that he’d let his prejudice show.

  ‘You’ve dealt with the hair,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Just a public relations exercise on behalf of our new stylist, Niall. I’m a walking advertisement for the store.’ She touched her necklace. ‘This is part of a new range commissioned by Flora. And even the scent is our new line. I’m afraid you picked the wrong sister.’

  He caught a discordant undertone in the teasing note of her voice. Did the youngest Claibourne feel overshadowed by her clever and glamorous sibling? Was that just the tiniest hint of an inferiority complex?

  ‘On the whole I think not. I’m sure India is best left to Jordan. I wouldn’t have missed all this fun for the world.’

  ‘Fun!’ She gave him a sharp look, her brows raised in surprise.

  ‘Isn’t it meant to be fun?’ And he smiled. She wasn’t the only one capable of teasing. The only surprising thing about it was that he’d thought he’d forgotten how.

  Romana sat back in the car and sighed. ‘One down, five more days to go.’

  ‘You were worried?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ She glanced at Niall as he fastened his seatbelt. ‘You have no idea how many things can go wrong.’

  ‘Like one car arriving instead of two?’

  She bridled inwardly at his implied criticism. Molly had booked an extra car to collect Niall, but getting him home again appeared to have slipped through the cracks. In the kind of schedule she’d been coping with it was understandable.

  ‘Good grief, that’s nothing. I could have taken the Underground at a pinch.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ he replied. ‘Not in that dress.’

  Much as it pained her to admit it, he had a point. ‘Called a minicab, then,’ she said. ‘A minor mix-up over cars for the bit-players is nothing to get worked up about. No one who matters was inconvenienced.’ That was not entirely true. She wasn’t at all happy at being forced to spend any ‘off-duty’ time in such close proximity to the man. He gave her the impression that he knew exactly what she was thinking. And she hadn’t a clue what was going on his mind. It was just too disturbing.

  ‘That implies that either I’ve not been inconvenienced or that I don’t matter,’ he said, taking her by surprise. She hadn’t thought he was the kind of man to make a fuss over such a small detail. Maybe he was simply trying to wrongfoot her by picking her up on every little problem.

  ‘You’re my shadow,’ she reminded him. ‘What applies to me, applies to you.’ She glanced at him, offering him the opportunity to dispute the way she viewed the situation. He didn’t take it.

  All evening she’d been conscious of him at her back, watching her as she’d kept one step ahead of the action, smoothing out any small wrinkle that might mar the perfection of the evening.

  All evening she’d been aware of the scent he’d bought her. Subtle, elusive, indefinable. Inescapable. And, like the sudden heat in his eyes as she’d offered her wrist to him, deeply disturbing.

  ‘To be honest, I’d have thought you’d have welcomed a little drama,’ he said, wrenching her out of her thoughts. ‘It would have given you a chance to demonstrate your competence in a crisis.’

  He just couldn’t resist it, could he? Well, she was happy enough to rise to his bait on this occasion. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’ Probably because she wasn’t a complete idiot. ‘I see now that I should have organised some small calamity for that very purpose. Nothing too dreadful; a mishap with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, perhaps. A drunken waiter with amorous intentions towards Her Royal Highness. My mistake. But then…’ she held the pause just long enough to let him know exactly what she was thinking ‘…I assumed it would be the quality of the entertainment provided in conjunction with a total lack of drama behind the scenes that would impress you most
.’ She waited politely for him to admit that he was.

  There was only the slightest hesitation before he said, ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, where can I drop you?’

  ‘I’d be more comfortable if we did it the other way around.’

  ‘Such gallantry really isn’t necessary, Niall. This isn’t a date, it’s business, and Claibourne & Farraday are equal-opportunity employers.’ Something to stress in the present circumstances. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I live in Spitalfields,’ he said, and when she hesitated, confounding herself for a fool, added, ‘I thought it might be out of your way.’

  Oh, it was. Miles. Which was why he’d suggested dropping her first. Not gallantry, just common sense. She was glad of the darkness in the rear of the car as she blushed for her stupid remark about it not being ‘a date’. Nothing could have been further from either of their minds, so what on earth had made her say such a thing?

  Tiredness, perhaps. Or hunger. She hadn’t eaten since she’d snatched a bite of that sandwich mid-afternoon, and she’d been too busy to indulge in the exquisite savouries provided by the C&F caterers during the interval tonight. It was too late to regret her haste in rebuffing his thoughtfulness, and, having made such a prickly point of dropping him first, she simply nodded to the driver.

  ‘Spitalfields, please,’ she said. Then, as the car pulled smoothly away from the kerb, ‘Spitalfields? Have you lived there long?’

  ‘About four years.’

  ‘How unexpected. I would have placed you in Kensington, or Chelsea. A small town house in one of those discreet cul-de-sacs off the King’s Road, perhaps.’ Anywhere but the vibrant, newly fashionable East End.

  ‘It’s convenient for the City, and the restaurants are good.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m a member of the area development board.’ Catching her doubtful look, he added, ‘Jack the Ripper doesn’t live there any more.’

  ‘I thought that was Whitechapel,’ she said, trying to recall what she knew about Spitalfields. Then, with a sudden flash of insight, ‘Oh, do you live in one of the old silk-merchants’ houses?’ She’d seen a programme on television about the regeneration of the area. ‘Eighteenth-century?’ She dredged her memory. ‘Built by the Huguenots, now being rescued from generations of multi-occupancy and re-gentrified?’

  ‘The house was practically derelict when I bought it. Restoration is still very much a work in progress.’ He shrugged. ‘With not much progress, to be honest. Louise was part of an action group to restore the houses, and without her…’ He stopped, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Louise? She was your wife?’

  ‘Yes. She was an architectural historian. We met when her campaign group was trying to raise finance to buy the house and restore it. So I bought it.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘It seemed like a good investment.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And I wanted Louise to have the pleasure of restoring it. Returning it to its glory. As the owner, I was able to drop in any time.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You fell in love with her.’

  ‘The first time I saw her,’ he admitted. ‘A year later I gave her the house as a wedding present.’

  ‘Before the restoration was complete?’

  ‘I couldn’t wait that long.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s so…’ He glanced at her sharply. About to say romantic, she stopped herself just in time. Instead she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He frowned. ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I’d assumed you were divorced.’ She’d suddenly realised that he wasn’t. ‘If you’re still living in the house you gave her, that’s clearly not the case,’ she said. Then, sensing his hesitation. ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

  He closed his eyes briefly, as if the memory still pained him physically, before he said, ‘There’s no need to apologise. She died four years ago.’

  She didn’t ask, but he told her anyway. Perhaps used to the tactful silence of curious strangers and wanting to get it out of the way.

  ‘We were in the Indian Ocean. She brushed against a coral outcrop when I took her out on a reef, snorkelling.’ He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘A scratch, that’s all. Nothing. She was dead within a week.’

  Romana swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then the time scale registered. Four years ago. He’d lived in the house for four years. He’d bought it for Louise as a wedding present. They’d been on their honeymoon.

  ‘Hence the lack of progress,’ he said. Romana felt rather than saw the suggestion of a shrug. ‘She’d give me hell for not getting on with it. For not finishing what she started.’

  ‘No!’ Without thinking Romana reached out and touched his arm. ‘No, really. It must be very difficult to cope with. I’m sure she’d understand.’

  ‘Are you?’ That appeared to amuse him. ‘India put me very much in mind of her tonight. They share the same colouring—dark eyes and hair. The same fine bones.’ He paused, looked at her without a trace of the anguish she’d been imagining. Without any emotion at all. As if he’d made a conscious decision to shut down the feeling, responsive part of himself. ‘The same forthright manner,’ he added.

  Embarrassed by her impetuous gesture, by her desire to offer him comfort that he plainly didn’t want, Romana snatched back her hand. ‘In that case I hope she doesn’t haunt you, or you’re in deep trouble.’ She realised belatedly that her gesture was the least of her worries. Her impetuous mouth had always been the problem. ‘Er…I’ll shut up now.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Tell me about tomorrow. What excitement have you got in store for me?’

  The dry manner in which he said that word excitement made her forget all about her embarrassment. If he’d been anyone else, she’d have assumed it had been deliberate.

  ‘Excitement? You want excitement? Well, this is your lucky week. Tomorrow begins with a visit to a special-needs adventure play facility we financed with last year’s fund-raising. Official opening, photographs, meet the press. Pictures of happy kids for the website.’

  ‘All of them wearing Claibourne & Farraday sweatshirts, I have no doubt.’

  ‘Of course. It’s a PR exercise. Don’t forget to bring yours.’

  He gave her a look that suggested she’d be lucky. Well, India would certainly prefer it if he remained anonymous. No one would bother with some stiff-necked man in a suit, observing from the sidelines. With any luck the press would take him for someone from the Health & Safety Executive. ‘That’s if you decide to come,’ she said. ‘It’s not compulsory.’

  ‘And in the afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘A celebrity auction at the store. Bits and bobs of the famous. Football kit signed by one the premier teams. Film stars’ underwear, ditto. You know the sort of thing. If I’ve got it right it’ll be a media madhouse.’

  ‘You’ll understand, I hope, if I leave my chequebook at home?’

  ‘You’ve been more than generous already, Niall. The money will be well spent, I promise. You’ll see that for yourself, tomorrow morning.’

  He made no comment. ‘And in the evening?’ he asked.

  ‘In the evening…’ Oh, knickers! There was no way she could even suggest he joined in the entertainment lined up for the evening. ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Straight home, put my feet up, fall asleep in front of the TV. You can catch up on your decorating. Oh!’ She covered her mouth with both hands.

  He reached across and, taking her wrist, removed one hand from her mouth. ‘Tell me, Romana…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Hungry?’ That was the last question she’d expected.

  ‘You’ve been running around since six o’clock, making sure everyone was having a good time. The catering was lavish, but I didn’t see you eat a thing. And you missed lunch.’ His face bore the suggestion of a smile, but it was probably just the shadow from the streetlamps they
were passing. ‘I just wondered if you were hungry.’

  ‘Because I keep putting my foot in my mouth?’ she asked.

  ‘Spitalfields coming up, sir,’ the driver said.

  He gave the name of the street and then turned back to her. ‘Maybe…’ he began, a touch hesitantly. ‘Maybe you’d like to see the house? And I’ll make us both some supper.’

  ‘But it’s late. The driver—’

  ‘I’m sure he’d welcome an extra hour of overtime. If your budget will stand it?’

  About to refuse—she was tired and she had no desire to get cosy over scrambled eggs with Niall Macaulay—she reconsidered. She had to take any opportunity offered to get to know the man a little better. She had a huge stake in the success of Claibourne’s. All her energy, years of her life… There was no way she was going to surrender it to a banker with a ledger for a heart.

  She backed away from that image. It wasn’t true. He was cool…cold, even…but he hadn’t always been that way. She needed to understand what made him tick, discover what might convince him to leave things as they were.

  ‘My budget is well in hand,’ she said, then swallowed a yawn and glanced at the driver. ‘Would that be all right? Can you come back in an hour?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  Niall led the way up a small flight of steps and unlocked the front door. He switched on a light and stood back to let her inside. The half-panelling in the hall had long ago been painted in the kind of green that was now packaged and sold expensively as a “heritage” colour, then decorated with free-form flowers and foliage, much faded but still lovely.

  ‘This is original?’ she asked, astonished.

  ‘Yes. Fortunately it had been boarded over. There’s a room upstairs, too, where we found the original decoration beneath some old wallpaper. I’ll give you the tour later, but we’ll eat first. Come through to the kitchen; it’s warm in there.’

  He indicated an aged sofa pushed back against the far wall of a large and comfortable kitchen. There was nothing stainless steel and modern about it. Nothing fancy. It was the sort of kitchen where a dozen or more people might gather, after a hard day of doing whatever architectural historians and restorers did, to eat and drink and talk into the night.