Читать книгу The Corporate Bridegroom - Liz Fielding - Страница 7

ROMANA CLAIBOURNE, juggling a desperately needed carton of her favourite coffee, a small leather overnight bag and a couple of designer carrier bags, searched her handbag for her wallet in a state of rising panic. Not that the panic was entirely due to her missing wallet, or even Niall Farraday Macauley’s annoying decision to make his presence felt on today of all days.

In spite of anything her sister might believe, there were worse things in the world than men with Farraday in their name.

Worse even than being late.

That was nothing new—she’d never been early for anything. Yet India’s crisp little voice mail message this morning had been very clear on one point. Punctuality was essential. Niall Macaulay wanted to discuss shadowing arrangements with her at twelve o’clock sharp and she was to drop everything and be on time. Nothing—not even the opening event in Claibourne & Farraday’s annual charity week—was more important. This was a crisis.

And this was the good part of her day.

‘Sorry…’ She threw an apologetic glance at the cab driver. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere. I had it when I picked up—’

‘In your own time, miss,’ the man replied, cutting her short. ‘I’ve got all day.’

She glanced up. ‘Have you?’ Then, realising he was being sarcastic, she pulled a face and redoubled her efforts to find the elusive wallet. She knew she’d had it when she picked up her dress because she’d used her charge card. Then, after she’d got India’s message, coffee had seemed essential and she’d needed change to pay for it.

She re-ran the scene in her head. She’d ordered, paid and stuffed the wallet into her pocket…

Her relief was short-lived.

Reaching into the depths of her coat was just one stretch too far and the coffee-carton made an escape bid.

Hitting the pavement, it bounced, spun and then the lid flew off, releasing a hot tide of latte. Romana watched as in what seemed like slow-motion it washed over the gleaming, handmade shoes of a passing male before splashing spectacularly up the legs of his trousers.

The shoes, and the legs, came to a halt. The carton was picked up on the point of a furled silk black umbrella and she followed its progress until it came to a stop six inches from the second button of her coat.

‘Yours, I believe,’ the owner of the trousers said.

She took the carton. A mistake. It was now wet and sticky and the apology which had leapt instantly to her lips transformed itself into a disgusted, ‘Eeeugh.’

And then—mistake number two—she looked up and nearly dropped the carton again. He was everything a tall, dark stranger could and should be, and for a moment she froze, quite literally lost for words. Apologise. She must apologise. And find out who he was.

Even as she opened her mouth she realised that he was far from being impressed by his unexpected encounter with one of the most sought-after women in London. The man’s expression encompassed entire sections of the thesaurus, involving the words “stupid”, “blonde” and “woman”, and the apology died on her lips.

It didn’t matter. He clearly wasn’t interested in anything she might have to say. He had already turned and was walking quickly through the gilded portal of Claibourne & Farraday, leaving her on the pavement with her mouth still open.

Niall Macaulay was expected, and was whisked up to the penthouse office suite where he handed his coat and umbrella to the receptionist before retreating to the cloakroom to wipe the coffee off his trousers and shoes. Tossing the paper towel in the bin, he glanced at his wrist-watch with irritation. He’d had scarcely enough time to make this appointment, and now that stupid woman had made him late.

What on earth had she been doing, juggling a carton of coffee with enough designer bags to keep a small country out of debt? She couldn’t even control her hair.

But it didn’t matter. Romana Claibourne was late, too. He declined her secretary’s offer of coffee, accepted her invitation to wait in Miss Claibourne’s opulent office and crossed to the window, trying not to dwell on a dozen other, more important things he should be doing at that moment.

‘Not your day, miss, is it?’ the cabby remarked as Romana continued to stare after the man. What a grouch… ‘Do you want a receipt?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Here—’ She handed the man a banknote. ‘Keep the change.’

She was still holding the dripping carton. There were no rubbish bins in the street and she was forced to carry the thing at arm’s length up to her office.

Her secretary relieved her of the carton, took her bags and her coat. ‘I’m expecting a Mr Macaulay. I can’t spare him more than five minutes so I’m counting on you to rescue me…’ she began, then caught the girl’s warning look.

‘Mr Macauley arrived a couple of minutes ago, Romana,’ she murmured. ‘He’s waiting in your office.’

She spun around and saw a man standing at the window, looking out across the rooftops of London. Oh, knickers! He must have heard her. Great start. She grabbed a tissue, wiped her hands, and abandoned any thought of lipstick repair or getting her hair under control—but then there wasn’t enough time in the world for that. She just smoothed her skirt, tugged her jacket into place and stepped into her office.

Niall Macauley was impressive, at least from the rear. Tall, with perfectly groomed dark hair, and a suit in which every stitch had been placed by hand expensively covering his broad shoulders.

‘Mr Macaulay?’ she said, crossing the office, hand extended in welcome as he turned. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’ About to explain her lateness—without mentioning coffee—she discovered that her legitimate excuses were redundant and instead found her mouth gaping like a surprised goldfish as he turned to her and took her hand.

There was, she thought, an almost Gothic inevitability that Niall Macaulay and the grouch she’d drowned with her coffee should be the same person. It was, after all, the first of April. All Fools’ Day.

‘Did my secretary offer you…?’

‘Coffee?’ he completed for her when she faltered. He spoke in a deep bass voice that she knew, just knew, would never be raised above that quiet, controlled level. No matter how provoked. She’d already had an example of his exceptional powers of self-control. ‘Thank you, but I believe I’ve had all the coffee I can handle from you for one day.’ As he released her hand, it seemed to Romana that there was just a hint of stickiness.

And the word ‘crisis’ took on a new depth of meaning.

This man was one of their ‘silent’ partners? It had never occurred to her to wonder, until recently, why they were so silent when their name was over the front door. If she’d thought about them at all, she’d assumed they were too old, or maybe just not interested in working when the dividends from the Claibourne family’s industry was more than adequate to sustain three averagely lazy millionaires.

It was only after their father’s near fatal heart attack that she and her sisters had discovered the truth. That, far from being sedentary, their partners—the venture capitalist, the banker and the lawyer—were empire-building on their own account.

And now they wanted the Claibourne empire too.

This was the banker. A man who’d already demonstrated that he was cool to freezing point. And it was her task to convince him that she was an efficient businesswoman capable of running a major company. She hadn’t made a great start.

It was okay. It would be okay. He’d just caught her on a bad day. Tomorrow she’d be fine. She’d soon make up lost ground, demonstrate her worth. Heck, until she’d taken charge of public relations the store had been about as exciting as a dowager duchess. She’d turned it around. She could handle this.

Right now, though, she was approaching the worst moment in her life, and the last thing she needed was an encounter with Mr Frosty.

‘I’m really sorry about the coffee,’ she said, attempting to match him with a smile about as cool as it could get and still be a smile. ‘I would have apologised if you’d given me the chance.’ She waited for him to acknowledge that he should have done that. He didn’t. ‘Do please send me the cleaning bill for your trousers.’ Not a flicker of emotion crossed his cold features and she found herself saying, ‘Or you could slip out of them now and someone from Housekeeping will give them a sponge and press…’

She had been trying to help, but instead she had a mental flash of him pacing her office in boxer shorts and blushed. She never blushed. Only when she said something truly stupid. This was clearly a ‘truly stupid’ moment. She glanced at her watch.

‘I have to be somewhere else in about ten minutes, but you’re perfectly welcome to use my office while you wait,’ she added, just so that he understood she wasn’t going to stick around and keep him company. Trouserless.

Any other man of her acquaintance would, by now, be grinning like an idiot and praying that his luck was in. It wouldn’t be, but Niall Macaulay wasn’t to know that. It made no difference; he still gave her a look that would have chilled a volcano. No, she definitely couldn’t compete in the coolness stakes, but at least that was a discernible reaction.

Whether it was better or worse, she couldn’t say and she nervously fluffed her hair. It was a ‘girly’ gesture that men either loved or loathed—and one that she’d thought she’d got well under control. Clearly Mr Macaulay would loathe it. Which made it suddenly seem very attractive. She preferred any reaction, even a negative one, to nothing. So she did it again, this time loading the irritation factor by smiling at him. Not a cool smile this time, but one of those big, come-and-get-me smiles. The kind of smile that would have left the average man sitting up and begging like an eager puppy. Not Mr Macaulay. But then he wasn’t average. He was more of just about anything.

He was also ice, through and through.

‘Miss Claibourne, I’ve been asked by my cousin to spend some time shadowing you at work. Assuming, that is, you can spare valuable time from shopping to actually do any.’ She followed his gaze, which had come to rest on the pile of designer bags she’d deposited on the sofa.

‘Don’t knock shopping, Mr Macaulay. Our ancestors invented shopping for fun. It made them rich men and it’s the shopping habit that keeps the dividends rolling in.’

‘Not for long, surely,’ he replied, with a lift of one dark brow, ‘if the directors shop elsewhere.’

She picked up her desk diary and began to flip through it—anything but meet that chilly gaze. ‘You clearly have a lot to learn if you imagine couturier designers would sell anything but their prêt-à-porter lines through a department store. Even one as stylish as Claibourne & Faraday.’ She gave a little breath of quiet satisfaction. She felt so much better for that. Then she glanced sideways at him. ‘Shall we match diaries? If you can spare valuable time for such trivia?’ He didn’t look that excited by the prospect. His response was the merest shrug which could have meant anything, ‘It’s just that I can’t see you and your cousins being that keen to “play shop”,’ she pressed.

‘Play shop?’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you actually served behind the counter.’ It was her turn to keep silent while her brain spun wildly. India had warned her to just do her job, keep quiet and not make smart remarks. Unfortunately her mouth had a mind of its own. ‘Do you?’ he pressed.

‘Not now,’ she admitted. ‘But we’ve all done it in the past, when we were learning the business. Do any of you really know the first thing about running a department store? The retail industry isn’t for amateurs.’

‘Really?’ That at least appeared to amuse him. Or was that a suggestion that he considered her the amateur? If that were so, he did have a lot to learn.

‘Really. You might be the world’s greatest investment banker, but would you know how many pairs of silk knickers to order for the Christmas market?’

‘Would you?’ he asked.

Oh, yes. It had been a question in the trivia quiz on the store’s website, that she’d run in the dead month of February. Before she could have the satisfaction of telling him the number, he continued, ‘I’m certain you don’t get that closely involved in day-to-day matters. You have department heads and buyers whose job it is to make those decisions.’

Only partly true, as she was sure he knew. ‘The buck stops on the top floor, Mr Macaulay. I’m simply making the point that I’ve been down there on the shop floor. I’ve worked in every department. I’ve driven delivery vans—’

‘You’ve even been one of Santa’s little helpers, according to the Evening Post,’ he interrupted. ‘How much did you learn from that?’

‘Never to do it again,’ she offered, with a genuine smile—one she hoped he might accept as a peace-offering. Then maybe they could stop sparring and start over. As equals.

‘You didn’t know about the agreement, did you?’ he responded, bypassing the peace-offering and going straight for the jugular. ‘That you’d have to surrender the store when your father retired?’

She was a fraction too long in telling him that he was wrong. While she was still reaching for words that wouldn’t make a liar of her, he said, ‘I thought not. Your father should have been honest with you all from the outset. It would have been a lot kinder.’

That would have been a first, Romana thought. If ever a man had lived with his head in the sand… ‘We have no intention of meddling with the details, you know. We’ll employ the best management team available to run the store—’

‘We’re the best management team available,’ she retorted. Probably. She had no point of comparison. But they were family. No matter how much a high-flying executive was paid, he would never care in quite the same way. ‘Leave it to us and we’ll continue to deliver the profits you’ve enjoyed for years without ever having to lift a finger.’

‘And without having any say in what happens. Profits haven’t budged in three years. The store is stagnating. It’s time for a change,’ he announced.

Oh, knickers! The banker had done his homework. She’d bet he could tell to a penny how much they’d made in the last fiscal year. Last week, in all probability.

‘The retail market has been difficult all round,’ she said. She’d already said way too much. India was right. She should have kept her head down and her mouth shut.

‘I know.’ He sounded almost sympathetic. Romana wasn’t fooled for a minute. ‘But Claibourne & Farraday appears to have become entranced with its own image as the most luxurious store in London.’

‘Well, it is,’ she declared. ‘It may not be the largest, but it has a style of its own. And it’s definitely the most comfortable store in town.’

‘Comfortable? As in old-fashioned, boring and lacking in new ideas?’

Romana almost winced at this telling description. ‘And you have them?’ she demanded. They might have sat around bemoaning their father’s refusal to modernise, get away from the mahogany and red-carpet nineteenth-century decor. Let in some light. She wasn’t about to tell Niall Macaulay that. ‘You have brilliant new ideas?’ she asked. It was far too late to keep her head down.

‘Of course we have plans.’ Niall Macaulay said this as if anything else was unthinkable. All buttoned-up in his dark suit, with not a scintilla of passion behind his stone-grey banker’s eyes, what did he think he could bring to the greatest department store in London?

‘I didn’t say plans, I said ideas. Plans are something altogether different. You might be planning to sell out to one of the chains,’ she said. ‘None of the hassle, just loads of money to play with at your bank. And if you were holding the golden share, we wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop—’

‘Romana…’ A disembodied voice from the intercom stopped her in full flow. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but if you don’t leave right now—’

Niall Macaulay glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes to the second,’ he said.

Five minutes too long, she thought. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Macaulay, fascinating as this exchange of views has been, I do have to be somewhere else right now. On Claibourne & Farraday business. I’ll have to leave you to compare diaries with my secretary. Just let her know when you can spare some time for the store and I’ll include you in my plans.’ Without waiting to listen to his views on that suggestion, she grabbed her bags and, not bothering to wait for the lift, headed for the stairs.

Spare some time? Niall wasn’t about to let a chit of a girl get away with a put-down like that. She was the one not giving full value and he was about to prove it. Collecting his overcoat and umbrella, he followed her.

‘Miss Claibourne?’

The uniformed commissionaire at the main entrance had summoned a taxi and was holding the door. She stepped in. She was in a hurry and didn’t need another dose of Niall Macaulay. ‘That didn’t take long,’ she said. Not nearly long enough. He’d obviously followed her straight down the stairs. Then, because politeness appeared to demand it, she said, ‘Can I drop you somewhere, Mr Macaulay?’

‘No.’ Her relief was short-lived as he climbed in beside her. ‘I’m going wherever you’re going, Miss Claibourne. When I said I was going to spend some time shadowing you, I wasn’t referring to some stage-managed occasion, set up for the purpose. I meant now.’

‘Now?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘You mean now, this minute?’ She laughed—an unconvincing ha-ha-ha sort of laugh—hoping that he was joking. He didn’t join in. Her mistake; the man didn’t joke. ‘Forgive me. I understood you had a bank to run. I assumed you were a busy man, that you’d want to pick and choose.’ She hoped she looked sincere when she said, ‘You might prefer not to get involved in everything I do,’ because she really meant it. She didn’t want to be involved in everything she did.

‘I’m here. You’re here. Let’s not make a performance over this. Let’s just get on with it.’

He thought she was trying to hide something, and it was very tempting to say yes and let him see for himself, but really it wouldn’t be a good start. ‘Trust me, you really don’t want to shadow me today.’

‘Trust me when I say that I really do, Miss Claibourne. If I don’t stay with you all the time, how will I ever learn?’

And she’d thought the taxi driver had been sarcastic.

‘You don’t understand. I’m not—’

‘You’re not working today?’ He glanced at her shopping bags in a manner that suggested he wouldn’t need a month to discover everything there was to know about her. His look suggested that he’d had her all weighed up from the moment half a carton of latte had taken the shine off his shoes.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Hadn’t you better tell the driver where you want to go?’

‘I really think it might be wiser if I faxed you a list of what I’ll be doing for the rest of the month,’ she replied firmly, ignoring his suggestion.

‘I’m sure it will make interesting reading. But I particularly want to see what you’re doing today.’

She doubted that. She really doubted that. A little shiver of fear erupted as a giggle. ‘It’s very commendable of you to take this so seriously.’

‘I take everything seriously. I’m certainly not the kind of man who believes he has nothing left to learn. Even from you,’ he added.

‘That’s very generous of you.’ Her smile disguised a level of sarcasm that she rarely stooped to. Could it be catching?

‘You are working today?’ he repeated. ‘You do draw a full-time salary?’

He made it sound as if she was somehow cheating. Taking the money but not putting in the work.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I draw a full-time salary.’ And today she was going to earn every penny, she thought, as she leaned forward to give the cab driver their destination.

India had been surprised that the Farradays had bought her delaying tactic, and it suddenly occurred to Romana that perhaps things weren’t quite as simple as had first appeared. Why else would three busy men give up so much time to shadow three young women who could teach them nothing?

Niall Macaulay had already admitted that they wouldn’t be running the store, but putting in their own management team. Did they need to prove the Claibourne women incompetent before they could hope to dislodge them from the boardroom?

But they weren’t incompetent. So everything was just dandy…

‘Miss Claibourne?’

‘What? Oh… You want to see how I earn it?’ she asked.

‘You made a big pitch back there about how hard you all work. How nobody else could do the job.’

‘I didn’t say nobody. But I don’t believe an investment banker could easily step into my shoes.’ Not this investment banker, anyway. Public relations required warmth. An ability to smile even when you didn’t feel much like it.

‘Well, you’ve got a month to convince me. Perhaps you shouldn’t waste the time.’

She glanced at him, startled by the grimness of his tone. The man certainly knew how to bear a grudge. ‘You’re quite sure about this? You wouldn’t like to reconsider?’ she asked, offering him a final chance to escape an experience she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. She’d be happy to make an exception in his case, but she didn’t want him crying foul afterwards.

‘On the contrary. I’d be interested to see what you do for the fat salary you draw on top of your share of the profits. It’s not a problem, is it?’

It was the word ‘fat’ that sealed his fate. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt. ‘Be my guest.’ And she dug out her cellphone and pressed a fast-dial number. ‘Molly, I’m on my way. Make sure there’s a spare C&F sweatshirt available.’ She eyed the man next to her. ‘Forty-four chest?’ He made no comment on her estimate, merely regarded her suspiciously through narrowed eyes. ‘That’ll do. Better make it extra long. And I’ll need an extra chair in my box tonight for another guest. Niall Macaulay.’ She spelt it out. ‘Include him in everything this week, will you? And you’ll have to double up all arrangements for the rest of the month. I’ll explain when I see you.’

‘Tonight?’ He was regarding her through narrowed eyes. ‘What’s happening tonight?’

‘A charity gala. Today is the start of a week of JOY, which is why your arrival is so untimely.’

‘JOY?’ Niall Macaulay looked slightly bemused. ‘Should I know what that is?’

‘A word for delight, pleasure, merriment?’ she offered. ‘It’s also the name of the Claibourne & Farraday charity support event that we started a couple of years ago. It’s a great public relations opportunity,’ she added pointedly.

‘Oh, yes. I remember reading about it in the annual report.’

What else? ‘We do it every year and raise a lot of cash for under-privileged children.’

‘And get a lot of free publicity at the same time.’

At last! ‘It’s not exactly free. You wouldn’t believe the cost of balloons these days. And sweatshirts. But it’s good value for money, especially for the children. Of course we do have a very good public relations department.’ She smiled at him, but only because that seemed to annoy him most. ‘You didn’t think this was a nine-to-five job, did you? I don’t keep bank hours, I’m afraid.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry, will your wife be expecting you home?’ She was catching onto this sarcastic lark. She was rather afraid she might get to enjoy it.

‘I’m not married, Miss Claibourne,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t been for some time.’

Romana wasn’t in the least bit surprised.