Читать книгу P.S. I'm Pregnant: Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal - Heidi Rice - Страница 13

BY THE time Daisy had packed up the stall with Juno that evening and trudged back to her bedsit, she’d decided the conversation with Brody in Gino’s café had been his crazy idea of a joke. Either that or she’d been dreaming.

He couldn’t be serious about blackmailing her into a trip to New York. This was the twenty-first century—people didn’t do that sort of thing. Well, not people with any semblance of decency.

She turned on the light and toed off her shoes, every cell in her body weeping with exhaustion after a virtually sleepless night and ten solid hours on her feet—not to mention the day’s emotional trauma. Thank you so very much, Connor Brody. Pulling off the bangles on her wrist, she dropped them into her jewellery box, then sat on the bed and unclipped her silver ankle bracelet. She’d just forget the whole ridiculous episode.

She hadn’t even told Juno about Brody’s threat. She’d forced herself to calm down before returning to the stall—her lips still red and puffy from Brody’s goodbye kiss—and had put a few things in perspective. Brody could not possibly have been serious. So why bother Juno with the details?

Edging her curtain back, Daisy peeked at the windows of

Brody’s house. Pitch black. Thank goodness. He must be in Paris. She huffed. Good riddance.

She let the curtain drop, lay down on the bed and stared at the fairy-tale motif she’d painted on the ceiling last winter. A blue-eyed, black-haired cherub winked at her cheekily from behind a moonbeam.

She shifted onto her side and tucked her hands under her cheek—the damn cherub reminding her of someone she did not want to be reminded of.

Sunday and Monday flew by in a flurry of work and other related activities. Daisy manned the stall, ran a class on silk-screen printing at the local community centre, got stuck into her latest clothes designs and did her regular slot at the Notting Hill Arts Project—happily getting neck-deep in tissue paper, glitter and PVA glue as she helped her group of five-to ten-year-olds make their costumes for this year’s Notting Hill Carnival. Just as she’d suspected, there had been no word from Brody. By Tuesday night, the events of the weekend had been as good as forgotten—give or take a few luridly erotic dreams.

Bright and way too early Wednesday morning, her three days of denial came to an abrupt end.

‘Daisy, Daisy, open up, dear.’ Mrs Valdermeyer’s excited voice was punctuated by several loud raps on the door. ‘A package has arrived for you. Special delivery no less.’

Daisy rolled over, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Stumbling out of bed, she checked the Mickey Mouse clock on the mantelpiece and groaned. It was still shy of seven a.m.

She pulled the door open and her landlady whisked past, holding a small brown-paper parcel aloft like a waiter on silver-service duty. She laid it ceremonially on the bed. Then turned to Daisy and bounced up on her toes.

‘Isn’t it exciting?’ She clapped her hands. ‘It’s from that handsome young man next door—it says so on the front.’

Daisy felt a much louder groan coming on, but bit it back.

‘What’s going on?’ Juno stood in the doorway, wearing her Bugs Bunny pyjamas and a sleepy frown.

‘Daisy has a package from a gentleman admirer. Isn’t it exciting?’ Mrs Valdermeyer plopped down on the bed and patted a spot next to her. ‘Come in, Juno, and let’s watch her open it.’

Daisy felt the groan start to strangle her. Fabulous. When had her bedroom become package-opening central?

‘What gentleman admirer?’ Juno asked. Walking into the room, she glanced at the package. ‘Oh, him,’ she scoffed.

Daisy opened her mouth to speak—and start ushering her audience out the door—when Mrs V interrupted her. ‘Don’t be such a grump, Juno dear.’ She whisked a pair of scissors out of her dressing gown with a flourish. ‘The man is positively delicious and he saved Mrs Pootles from a fate worse than death. Daisy could do a lot worse.’ She offered Daisy the scissors. ‘In fact Daisy did do a lot worse—remember that awful Gary?’

‘Do I ever,’ Juno replied, sitting next to Mrs Valdermeyer. She caught Daisy’s eye. ‘But I’m not sure this guy is that big an improvement.’

‘Well, he’s certainly a lot better looking,’ Mrs Valdermeyer shot back.

‘We’re not dating, Mrs V,’ Daisy interceded, before her landlady got totally the wrong idea. ‘So there’s no need—’

‘Why ever not, dear? He’s loaded, you know. Which, I might add, comes in very handy if the passion fades.’

Daisy grabbed the scissors, resigned to opening the package as quickly as possible before the conversation deteriorated any further.

She snipped the string and folded the paper back carefully, aware of the two pairs of eyes watching every move she made. Her heart pummelled as she opened the lid.

Please don’t let him have put crotchless knickers in here. Or something equally tacky.

But as she upended the box she was surprised to see three envelopes of varying sizes and a slim, black velvet case bounce onto the bed.

‘How marvellous. Jewellery. Open that last, Daisy,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said, thrusting the first of the envelopes into Daisy’s hand. ‘Jewellery needs to be properly savoured.’

Once Daisy had opened all three of the envelopes, Mrs Valdermeyer was practically doing cartwheels around the room and Juno’s frown had turned into the San Andreas fault.

Daisy slumped onto the bed, stunned. In her lap she had a first-class return ticket to JFK dated for twelve noon that coming Sunday, a carefully typed itinerary of her travel arrangements signed by someone called Caroline Prestwick and a gold credit card in her name.

Her hand shook as Mrs Valdermeyer thrust the jewellery case into her lap on top of the other booty. Daisy picked it up, and found another envelope attached to the bottom of the case.

She ripped it off, stared blankly at her name scrawled on the front in large, block letters and then tore it open. Inside was a sheet of thick textured white paper with the Brody Construction logo stamped across the top. As she scanned the contents of the letter her fingers began to tremble.

Angel Face,

I found the sparkles in Paris and thought they would suit. Get anything else you need with the card—and don’t spare yourself. I want you to look the part.

There’s a car booked for the airport. See you at The Waldorf.

Connor

PS: I’ve my solicitor on speed-dial if you don’t show.

‘It’s all so wonderfully romantic,’ Mrs Valdermeyer crooned over her shoulder. ‘Two weeks at The Waldorf and a gold credit card. You’re going to have the time of your life, Daisy.’

‘What does he mean about his solicitor?’ Juno said.

‘I’m not going.’ Daisy folded the letter and shoved it back in its envelope. She couldn’t possibly go. Okay, somewhere in the last few days she’d got over her anger, and for a moment Mrs Valdermeyer’s industrial-strength enthusiasm had almost blinded her to the truth. For a split second she’d seen herself on Connor’s arm decked out in glitters and her best posh frock. She’d never been further than Calais on a school trip so she felt she was entitled to get momentarily carried away. But she couldn’t do it. And what had he meant by ‘I want you to look the part’—as if she were his personal mannequin? The cheek of the man.

‘Of course you’re going, my dear. Don’t be absurd,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said.

‘I really don’t think she should,’ Juno piped up. ‘She’d be totally at his mercy and—’

‘Stop right there, Juno.’ Mrs Valdermeyer got up and took Juno’s arm. ‘I want you out of here. Daisy and I have to talk about this in private,’ she said, dragging Juno to the door.

Before Juno had a chance to say anything else, she’d been shoved over the threshold and had the door slammed at her back.

Mrs Valdermeyer brushed her hands together. ‘Right, now the most unromantic woman in the Western World has gone, let’s discuss this properly.’

She sat down next to Daisy, laid a hand on her knee.

‘You don’t understand.’ Daisy fisted her fingers on Connor’s perfunctory letter. ‘It’s not romantic at all. He just needs a girlfriend to hang on his arm for a couple of weeks. We’re not even dating. It’s a business thing. Or something.’ She let out a trembling breath. The truth was, he thought so little of her, he hadn’t even had the courtesy to tell her why exactly he needed her there.

Daisy shoved Connor’s letter and the jeweller’s case back in the box—ignoring the cold fingers of regret gripping her stomach.

How pathetic that she felt depressed she couldn’t go. She was her own woman, she didn’t need a man to complete her and she certainly didn’t need some too-sexy-by-half egomaniac sweeping her off her feet only to dump her back down to earth again two weeks later.

‘He may very well think that,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said gently, resting her knarled hand over Daisy’s. ‘But I suspect there’s a bit more to it.’

Tears pricked Daisy’s lids—and made her feel even more pathetic. ‘Like what?’ she said, cynicism sharpening her voice.

‘Daisy, dear. Men don’t ask a woman on a first-class, all-expenses-paid trip to New York just for the sake of a business deal.’

‘He didn’t ask me,’ Daisy said, the tears she was busy ignoring clogging her throat. ‘He told me. And I think he’s expecting some pleasure mixed in with his business to justify the expense.’

Mrs Valdermeyer chuckled fondly. ‘He is a scoundrel, isn’t he? Just like my third husband, Jerry.’ She patted Daisy’s leg, still chuckling. ‘But once you’ve tamed him, my dear, you’ll see they’re the very best kind. Both in bed and out.’

Daisy tried to smile at the old lady’s irascible tone, but somehow she couldn’t muster more than a strained grimace. ‘I don’t want to tame him. Believe me, it would involve far too much work.’

Mrs Valdermeyer took Daisy’s hands in hers. ‘Look at me, dear.’ Daisy lifted her eyes, saw that the old woman wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too seriously? Surely, this is about a man and a woman having a marvellous adventure together. Nothing more. And you’ve had far too few adventures in your life to let one as spectacular as this pass you by.’

Daisy huffed. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I had enough adventures to last me a lifetime before I ever came here.’

‘No, you didn’t. Those were your mother’s adventures. They don’t count. This is going to be your adventure and you’re going to enjoy every minute of it. You need to get out there and experience life before you can think about finding love, you know.’

A flutter of butterfly wings began to beat under Daisy’s breastbone. She tired to ignore them. ‘I really don’t think…’

Mrs Valdermeyer held up her finger to silence her. ‘Don’t think, Daisy. You’re a dear sweet girl who thinks far too much, mostly about everybody but herself. For once, don’t think, just feel.’ She patted Daisy’s knee. ‘Take it from me, I’m an old woman and there are a few things I’ve learned. You’ve got the rest of your life to plan things out, to do the right thing, to be cautious and careful and responsible. That’s what you have to do when you start a family—that’s what your mother should have done and didn’t. And if you find the right man to do it with it won’t be boring, let me tell you. But you’re young, and free and single and you get to be spontaneous now, to live life as it comes and take whatever fun and excitement you can grab.’ She picked up the velvet jeweller’s case. ‘Now, I want to know what sparkles your handsome scoundrel picked out for you in Paris. Don’t you?’

Mrs Valdermeyer placed the case back in Daisy’s lap.

Daisy stared at the embossed gold lettering on the top, ran her finger over the textured velvet. She sighed. What the heck. What harm could it do to take a quick peek? She lifted the heavy case in one hand and opened the lid.

The sight of the emeralds winking on a lattice of silver chains had her heart leaping into her throat and threatening to choke her. She took an unsteady breath and touched the precious stones.

The butterflies went haywire as the fanciful, fairy-tale images that had been hovering at the back of her mind came into sharp, vivid and all-too-real focus.