Читать книгу The Heiress's Secret Baby - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 8
ОглавлениеGABE FINISHED TOWEL-DRYING his hair and grabbed the clean shirt Rachel had brought him. Pulling it on, he began to button it up slowly, once again running the morning’s unexpected events through his mind. What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem, he’d been reacting. A sure sign he’d allowed himself to mix business and pleasure that bit too often. Not enough sleep and too many office flirtations.
What a first impression! Although he wasn’t sure what had thrown her more—the kiss or the news of his appointment.
He couldn’t blame her for being less than pleased with either but he was here and he was staying put. Unlike Polly Rafferty he didn’t have the advantage of bearing the founder’s name, but he was just twenty-eight, already the vice CEO of Rafferty’s and his goal of running his own company by thirty was looking eminently doable.
Things were nicely on track to get the results he needed, to learn everything he could and in two years look for the opportunity he needed to achieve his goal. Because life was short. Nobody knew that better than Gabe.
He pushed the thought away as he strode out of the bathroom and along the passage that led to the office. It was time to eat some humble pie.
‘Nice shower?’
Gabe came to a halt and stared at Polly Rafferty. Was that a smile on her face?
‘Rachel tells me you’ve been working all hours,’ she continued. ‘I just want to thank you. Obviously it was less than ideal that I wasn’t back before Raff left but it’s such a relief that you were here to help out.’
‘I was more than happy to step in.’ Gabe leant against the door frame and watched her through narrow eyes.
Polly seemed oblivious to his gaze. She was leaning back in his chair—correction, her chair—completely at her ease. She had taken off her jacket and it hung on the hat stand in the corner, her bag tossed carelessly on the floor beneath it. Her laptop was plugged into the keyboard and monitor, his own laptop folded and put aside. Several sheets of paper were stacked on the gleaming mahogany desk, a red pen lying on top of one, the crossed-out lines and scribbled notes implying great industry. It was as if she had never been away.
As if he had never been there.
Polly looked up, pen in hand. ‘You haven’t had breakfast so I suggest you take an hour or so while I get to grips with a few things here, then we can discuss how it’s going to work moving forward. Starting with a permanent office and an assistant for you.’ She couldn’t be more gracious.
In fact she was the perfect hostess. Gabe suppressed a smile; he couldn’t help approving of her tactics. Polly was throwing down the gauntlet. Oh, politely and with some degree of charm but, still, she was making it clear that absence or no absence this was her company and he was the incomer.
‘You don’t want your grandfather’s office?’ he asked. ‘I assumed that you would want to move in there.’
A flicker of sadness ran over her face disturbing the blandly pleasant mask. ‘This room belonged to my great-grandfather. The furniture and décor is just as it was, just as he chose. I’m staying here.’
But she wasn’t going to offer him the bigger room either; he’d stake his reputation on it.
‘I don’t need an hour.’ He pushed off the door frame. ‘I am quite happy to start in fifteen minutes.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Gabe.’ The smile was back. ‘But please, take an hour. I’ll see you then.’
The dismissal was clear. Round one to Polly Rafferty.
That was okay. Gabe didn’t care about individual rounds. He cared about the final prize. He inclined his head as he moved towards the door. ‘Of course, take as long as you need to settle back in. Oh and, Polly? Welcome back.’
Polly held onto the smile as long as it took for the door to close behind the tall Frenchman then slumped forward with a sigh. It had taken her just a few minutes to reclaim the office but it still didn’t feel like hers. It smelt different, of soap and a fresh citrusy cologne, of leather and whatever was in that disgusting green drink Gabe had tossed down so easily. She’d sniffed the glass when he was in the shower and recoiled in horror—until then she didn’t think anything could be as vile as the look of the smoothie, but she’d been wrong.
Her coffee smelt off too. It must be the jet lag and all the travelling she’d done in the last week—nothing smelt right at the moment. Her stomach had twisted with nausea at the mere thought of caffeine or alcohol and even the eggs she had tried to eat at the airport.
Polly pushed the thought away. Whining that she was tired and that she felt ill wouldn’t get her anywhere. She needed to hit the ground running and not stop.
Walking over to the massive art deco windows that dominated the office, she peered through their tinted panes at the street below. Coloured in red and green it looked like a film maker’s whimsical view of the vibrant West End. Polly had always loved the strange slant the glass gave on the world. It helped her think clearly, think differently—helped her see problems in a new way.
And right now she needed all her wits about her.
‘Gabriel Beaufils,’ she said aloud, her mind conjuring up unbidden the tall man lounging at his ease, jeans riding low, bare chested, the water still dripping from his wet hair. What did that tell her?
That he was shameless. That he was beautiful.
Polly shook her head impatiently, replacing the image in her mind with the man that had just left. Leaning insouciantly against the door, wet hair slicked back. Still in jeans but now they were more sedately paired with a crisp white linen shirt. No tie. Laughter in his eyes.
That was better. Now what could she deduce from that? He didn’t care what people thought about him, what she thought about him. That he was confident and utterly secure in his charm. That he was underestimating her.
She could work with that.
What else? Polly pulled herself away from the view and returned to her desk, running her fingers possessively over the polished wood. Okay, let’s do this. She pulled up a search engine and typed in his name. ‘Who are you, Monsieur Beaufils?’ she murmured as she hit enter.
The page instantly filled with several engines. He had left quite the digital trail.
Polly sat back and began to read. Some of it she knew. He was from an affluent background, his family the proud makers of a venerable brand of wine. However, Gabe had left home in his late teens, gone to college in the States and stayed on to do his MBA while working at one of the biggest retail chains there.
‘Good,’ she muttered, returning to the results page and scanning the next paragraph, an article written about him just a few months ago. ‘What else?’
Two years ago he had returned home to France, to Paris, to take charge of digital sales at Desmoulins. The young up-and-coming whizz-kid introducing innovation into one of Paris’s most venerable grande dames had made quite a stir. Was that what he was planning to do here?
So much for his business history. Personal life? She moved through several lines of results. Nothing. Either he was very discreet or he didn’t have a private life.
Polly’s mouth tingled as if his lips were still hovering above hers. Despite herself she flicked her tongue over them as if she could still taste him. Discreet it was. That was a very practised kiss.
She took the cursor back to the top of the page and hit the images button. Instantly the page filled with photos of Gabe, smiling, serious, in a suit...in head-to-toe Lycra.
Hang on? He was wearing what?
She hovered over the image of Gabe walking out of a lake, wetsuit half undone, and Polly resisted the urge to zoom in on his chest. She checked the caption. He was a triathlete.
Gabriel Beaufils. Confident, charming, discreet and competitive.
She could handle that.
A smile curved her mouth. This was going to be almost too easy.
* * *
‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I got caught up in something.’
As a matter of fact he was precisely on time—Polly would bet money that Gabe Beaufils had been standing outside the office watching a stopwatch to make sure he walked back in exactly one hour after she had dismissed him.
She would have done the same thing herself. Interesting.
Not that she was going to let him know that. She kept her eyes locked on her computer screen, giving every impression that she too was busy. ‘I hope you had a nice breakfast.’
‘Yes, thank you, most important meal of the day.’ There was a dark hint of laughter in his voice.
‘So they say.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘I’m usually too busy to remember to eat it.’
She had meant the glance and the smile to be brief, dismissive, but there was an intensity in his answering look that ensnared her. How could eyes be so dark, so knowing? Heat burned her cheeks, a shiver of awareness deep inside.
Reluctantly she pulled her gaze away, staring mindlessly at her computer screen, reading the same nonsensical sentence over and over again.
‘You should take care of yourself, Polly.’ His voice was low, caressing. ‘Neglecting your body is not wise.’
‘I don’t neglect my body.’ She wanted to pull the defensive words back as soon as she had uttered them.
‘I exercise and eat well,’ she clarified not entirely truthfully but she didn’t want to admit to her snacking habits to him. Not when he was evidently so healthy. And fit. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to look up again, to sweep her eyes over him from head to toe, lingering on the muscles she knew were lurking under that crisp white shirt. ‘I just don’t make a big deal of it.’
She pushed her chair back and stood. ‘I am going to do a walkabout,’ she said. ‘Would you care to accompany me?’
He stayed still for a moment, that curiously intent look still in his eyes, and then nodded courteously as he pulled the door open and held it for her.
Polly sensed his every movement as he followed her back out into the light, glass-walled foyer, awareness prickling her spine.
Rachel looked up as they walked by, curiosity clear on her face. Polly had no doubt that she was emailing all of her friends with a highly scurrilous account of her boss’s encounter with a half-naked Frenchman. Let her; Polly would fill her PA’s forthcoming days so completely that she wouldn’t even be able to dream about gossiping.
It wasn’t far from her office to one of the discreet doors that led out onto the shop floor. This was what Rafferty’s was all about. No matter how essential the office functions were they existed for one purpose—to keep the iconic store in business. Polly ensured that every finance assistant, every marketing executive spent at least one week a year on the shop floor. Just as her great-grandfather had done. She herself spent most of December on the shop floor serving, restocking and assisting. The buzz and adrenaline rush were addictive.
‘I’ve spoken to Building Services,’ she said as she slid her pass through the door lock, turning with one hand on the handle to face Gabe. ‘I am going to turn Grandfather’s old office into the boardroom. It’s bigger than any of the meeting rooms, far too big for one person—and I think he’ll be pleased with the gesture. He is still President of the Board.’
Polly knew everyone expected her to move into the vast corner suite but couldn’t face the thought of occupying her grandfather’s chair, feeling him second-guessing her all the time, disapproving of every change she made.
‘And me?’ It was said with a self-deprecating and very Gallic shrug but Polly wasn’t fooled. There was a sharpness in his eyes.
‘The old boardroom.’ It was a neat solution. Polly got to keep her office, her grandfather would hopefully feel honoured and Gabe would get a brand-new office in keeping with his position. But not a Rafferty office, not one with history steeped in its walls.
‘Building Services are confident they can create a room for your assistant with no major infrastructure changes and there’s already a perfectly good cloakroom. You can start picking wallpaper and furniture this week and it should be ready end of next week.’
‘And where do I work in the meantime?’ His voice was still mild but Polly was aware of a stillness about him, a quiet confidence in his gaze. She didn’t want to push too far, not yet. Reluctantly she discarded her plan that he sit in her foyer, with Rachel, or that she find him a spare desk in one of the bigger, open-plan offices where the rest of the backroom staff worked.
‘We can fit a second desk in my room,’ she said. ‘Just until you’re settled. But, Gabe? No more sleeping in the office, no more using my assistant to sort out your laundry and...’ she swallowed but kept her gaze and voice firm ‘...you remain fully dressed and act appropriately at all times. Understood?’
Gabe’s mouth quirked. ‘Of course,’ he murmured.
‘Good.’ She pushed the door open.
This was it, this was where the magic happened.
Polly blinked as she stepped out. They had entered the home furnishings department on the top floor and the lights were switched to full, purposely dazzling to best showcase the silks, cushions, throws, ceramics, silverware and all the other luxury items Rafferty’s told their customers were essential for a comfortable home. Beneath them were floors and galleries devoted to technology, books, toys, food and, of course, fashion.
Polly’s heart swelled and she clenched her fists. She was home.
And yet everything had changed. She had changed.
She had hoped that being back would ground her again but it was odd walking through the galleries with Gabe. If her staff greeted her with their usual respect, they greeted him with something warmer.
And how on earth did he know every name after what? Three or four weeks?
‘Bonjour, Emily.’ Polly narrowed her eyes at him as they entered the world-famous haberdashery room. Had his accent thickened as he greeted the attractive redhead who had turned the department into the must-go destination for a new generation of craft lovers?
‘How is your cat? Did the operation go well?’ He had moved nearer to Emily, smiling down at her intimately.
Polly’s head snapped round. No way. He knew the names of every staff member and all about the health of their pets too?
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Beaufils, she’s desperate to go outside but she’s doing really well.’ Emily was smiling back, her voice a little breathy.
‘They can be such a responsibility, non? I ’ave...’
Had he just dropped an aitch? Really? Polly had known him for what, an hour? And she already knew perfectly well that Gabe spoke perfect, almost accentless English. Unless, it seemed, he was talking to petite redheads. She coughed and could have sworn she saw a glimmer of laughter in the depths of his almost-black eyes as he continued.
‘I ’ave been looking after Mademoiselle Rafferty’s cat for the last few weeks. He is a rascal, that one. Such a huge responsibility.’
‘They are,’ Emily said earnestly, her huge eyes fixed on his. ‘But worth it.’
‘Oui, the way they purr. So trusting.’
That was it. Polly felt ill just listening. ‘So greedy,’ she said briskly. ‘And so prone to eviscerating small mammals under the bed. If you’re ready, Gabe, shall we continue? Nice work,’ she said to Emily, unable to keep a sarcastic tone from her voice. ‘Keep it up.’ And without a backwards glance she swept from the department.
* * *
It had been an interesting morning. Gabe was well aware that he had been well and truly sized up, tested and judged. What the verdict was he had no idea.
Nor, truth be told, was he that interested. He had his own weighing up to do.
Tough, but not as tough as she thought. Surprisingly stylish for someone who lived and breathed work; the sharp little suit she was wearing would pass muster in the most exclusive streets in Paris—unusual for an Englishwoman. He liked how she wasn’t afraid of her height, accentuating it with heels, the blonde hair swept up into a knot adding an extra couple of centimetres.
And she wasn’t going to give him an inch. The solution to the offices was masterful. It was going to be fun working with her.
He loved a good game.
Gabe strode through the foyer, smiling at Rachel as she looked up with a blush. Maybe he should have gone a little easier on the flirting. He wouldn’t make that mistake with his own assistant—he would request a guy or, even better, a motherly woman who would keep all unwanted callers away and feed him home-made cake. He made a note to keep an eye on the ‘interests’ section of any applicants’ CVs.
He opened the door to Polly’s office without knocking; after all they were sharing it.
‘This is going to be fun,’ he said as Polly looked up from her computer screen, trying unsuccessfully to hide her irritation at the interruption. ‘Roomies, housemates. We should take a road trip too, complete the set.’
Bed mates would really make it a full hand but he wasn’t going to suggest that. Totally inappropriate. But, despite himself, his eyes wandered over her face, skimming over the smattering of freckles high on her cheeks, the wide mouth, the pointed little chin. She kissed like she spoke—with passion and purpose—but there was none of the coolness and poise. No, there was heat simmering away behind that cool façade.
Heat he was better off pretending he knew nothing about.
‘I’ll let you have a lift in the company car. Will that do?’ She looked unamused. ‘Did you decide on office furniture? There’s a temporary desk for you there.’ She nodded over towards the wall where a second desk had already been set up, a monitor and phone installed on its gleaming surface.
‘I’ll be here a week or two at the most according to Building Services and then you’re free of me.’
‘Hardly,’ she muttered so low he could barely make out her words then spoke out in her usual crisp tones. ‘Are you available to talk now?’
‘Certainement, if you need me to be.’ He didn’t mean to let his voice drop or to drawl the words out quite so suggestively but the colour rising swiftly in her cheeks showed their effect all too clearly. ‘It would be good to start again, properly,’ he clarified.
‘Good.’ Polly waited until he had taken his seat at his new desk. It wasn’t quite as good a position as hers, which faced the incredible windows. When Gabe had sat there absorbed in his work he would look absently up every so often, only to be struck anew by the light, the simple artistry of the stylised floral design.
Now his view was the bookshelves that lined the opposite wall—and Polly, her desk directly in his eyeline. She swivelled her chair towards him, a notepad and pen poised in her hand, her legs crossed.
The only way this was going to work was if he behaved himself in thought and deed. But he was a mere man after all and better souls than him would find it hard to stop their gaze skimming over the long willowy figure and the neatly crossed legs. Incredibly long, ridiculously shapely legs. Of course they were.
‘You’ve got a pretty impressive CV,’ she said finally. ‘Why Rafferty’s?’
‘That means a lot coming from you,’ he said honestly. ‘Oh, come on,’ as her brows rose in surprise. ‘Polly Rafferty, you set the standard, you must know that. I came here to work with you.’
‘With me?’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, there’s a lot you can learn from me as well. In some ways Rafferty’s is stuck in the Dark Ages, especially digitally. But, you have done some great things here over the last few years. I have no problem admitting there are still things I need to learn if I am going to be a CEO by the time I’m thirty...’
‘Here?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you let me?’
‘You’d have to kill me first.’ She shook her head, her colour high.
‘That’s what I thought. No, maybe a start-up, or even my own business. I’ll see nearer the time.’
‘You’re ambitious. It took me until I was thirty-one to make it.’ Her eyes met his coolly, the blue of her eyes dark.
‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘A little competition keeps me focused.’ He shrugged. ‘Rafferty’s is possibly the most famous store in Europe if not the world. It’s the missing piece in my experience—and I have a lot to offer you as well. It’s a win-win situation.’
She leant back. ‘Prove it. What would you change?’
He grinned. ‘Are you ready for it? You only just got back.’
The corners of her mouth turned up, the smallest of smiles. ‘Don’t pull your punches. I can take it.’
‘Okay then.’ He jumped out of the chair and began to pace up and down the room. It was always easier to think on his feet; those months of being confined to bed had left him with a horror of inaction.
‘Your social media lacks identity and your online advertising is practically non-existent—it’s untargeted and unplanned, effectively just a redesign of your print advertising. I suggest you employ a digital marketing consultant to train your existing staff. Emily is very capable. She just needs guidance and some confidence.’
He looked across for a reaction but she was busy scribbling notes. Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘This is part of the problem. You’re what? Writing longhand?’
‘I think better with paper and pen. I’ll type them up later.’ Her voice was defensive.
‘Non, the whole company needs to think digitally. The sales force need tablets so they can check sizes and styles at the touch of a button, mix and match styles.’
‘We have a personal touch here. We don’t need to rely on tablets...’
‘You need both,’ he said flatly. ‘But what you really need is a new website.’
There was a long moment of incredulous silence. ‘But it’s only three years old. Do you know how much we spent on it?’
Polly was no longer leaning back. She was ramrod-straight, her eyes sparkling, more in anger than excitement, Gabe thought. ‘Too much and it’s obsolete. Come on, Polly.’ His words tumbled over each other, his accent thickened in his effort to convince her.
‘Do you want a website that’s fine and gets the job done or do you want one that’s a window into the very soul of Rafferty’s? You have no other stores anywhere—this is it. Your Internet business is your worldwide business and that’s where the expansion lies.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
This was what made him tick, made his blood pump, the adrenaline flow—planning, innovating, creating. It was better than finishing a marathon, hell, sometimes it was better than sex. ‘A site that is visually stunning, one that creates the feel and the look of the store as much as possible. Each department would be organised by gallery, exactly as you are laid out here so that customers get to experience the look, the feel of Rafferty’s—but virtually. Online assistants would be available twenty-four hours to chat and advise and, most importantly, the chance to personalise the experience. Why should people buy from Rafferty’s online when there are hundreds, thousands of alternatives?’
She didn’t answer, probably couldn’t.
‘If we make it better than all the rest then Rafferty’s is the store that customers will choose. They can upload their measurements, their photos and have virtual fittings—that way, they can order with certainty, knowing that the clothes will fit and suit them. Cut down on returns and make the whole shopping experience fun and interactive.’
‘How much?’
‘It won’t be cheap,’ he admitted. ‘Not to build, maintain or staff. But it will be spectacular.’
She didn’t speak for a minute or so, staring straight ahead at the window before nodding decisively. ‘There’s a board meeting next week. Can you have a researched and costed paper ready for then?’
Researched and costed? ‘Oui.’ If he had to work all day and night. ‘So, what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘There must be something you want to do, something to stamp your identity firmly on the store.’
‘I have been running the company for the last year,’ she reminded him, her voice a little frosty.
‘But now it’s official...’ If she wasn’t itching to make some changes he had severely underestimated her.
She didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the windows. ‘We have never expanded,’ she said after a while. ‘We always wanted to keep Rafferty’s as a destination store, somewhere people could aspire to visit. And it works, we’re on so many tourist tick lists; they buy teddies or tea in branded jars, eat in the tea room and take their Rafferty’s bag home. And with the Internet there isn’t any real need for bricks-and-mortar shops elsewhere.’
‘But?’
‘But we’ve become a little staid,’ Polly said. She rolled her shoulders as she spoke, stretching out her neck. Gabe tried not to stare, not to notice how graceful her movements were, as she turned her attention to her hair, unpinning it and letting the dark blonde tendrils fall free.
Polly sighed, running her fingers through her hair before beginning to twist it back into a looser, lower knot. It felt almost voyeuristic standing there watching her fingers busy themselves in the tangle of tresses.
‘We were one of the first stores in London to stock bikinis. Can you imagine—amidst the post-war austerity, the rationing and a London still two decades and a generation from swinging...my great-grandfather brought several bikinis over from Paris. There were letters of outrage to The Times.
‘We were the first to unveil the latest trends, to sell miniskirts. We were always cutting edge and now we’re part of a tour that includes Buckingham Palace and Madame Tussauds.’ The contempt was clear in her voice. ‘We’re doing well financially, really well, but we’re no longer cutting edge. We’re safe, steady, middle-aged.’ Polly wrinkled her nose as she spoke.
It was true; Rafferty’s was a byword for elegance, taste and design but not for innovation, not any more. Even Gabe’s own digital vision could only sell the existing ranges. But it was fabulously profitable with a brand recognition that was through the roof; wasn’t that enough? ‘Can a store this size actually be cutting edge any more? Surely that’s the Internet’s role...’
‘I disagree.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘We have the space, the knowledge, the passion and the history. The problem is, it takes a lot for us to take on a new designer or a new range, to hand over valuable floor space to somebody little known and unproven—and if they have already established themselves then we’re just following, not innovating.’
‘So, what do you plan to do about it?’ This was more like it. Her eyes were focused again, sharp.
‘Pop-ups.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Pop-ups. Bright, fun and relatively low cost. We can create a pop-up area in store for new designers whether it’s clothes, jewellery, shoes—we’ll champion new talent right here at Rafferty’s. Sponsor a graduate show during London fashion week in the main gallery.’
That made a lot of sense.
‘But I don’t just want to draw people here. I want to go out and find them—it could be a great opportunity to take Rafferty’s out of the city as well. Where do we have the biggest footfall?’
It was a good thing he’d pulled those eighteen-hour days; he could answer with utter confidence. ‘The food hall.’
‘Exactly! The British are finally understanding food—no, don’t pull a superior gourmet French face at me. They are and you know it. There are hundreds of food festivals throughout the country and I want us to start having a presence at the very best of them. And not just food festivals. I want us at Glyndebourne, Henley, the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Anywhere there’s a buzz I want Rafferty’s. Exclusive invitation-only previews to create excitement, with takeaway afternoon teas and Rafferty’s hampers—filled with a selection of our bestselling products as souvenirs.’
Gabe rubbed his chin. ‘Will it make a profit?’
‘Yes, but not a massive one,’ she conceded. ‘But it will revitalise us, introduce us to the younger market who may think we’re too staid for them. Make us more current and more exciting. And that market will be your domestic digital users.’
Gabe could feel it, the roar of adrenaline, the tightening in his gut that meant something new, something exhilarating was in the air. ‘It would create a great buzz on social media.’
She nodded, her whole face lit up. ‘It all works together, doesn’t it? I am presenting at the board meeting too. It’s less investment up front than you will need—but this is something untried and untested and the current board are a little conservative. You support me and, once I’ve checked your finances and conclusions, I’ll support your digital paper. We’ll have a lot more impact if we’re united. Deal?’ She held out her hand.
Gabe worked alone. He preferred it that way. Sure, he had good relationships with his colleagues, liked to make sure they were all onside but he didn’t want or brook interference.
Freedom at home and at work. That way he never had to worry about letting anyone down.
But this was a great opportunity—to be part of the team dragging Rafferty’s into a new age. How could he refuse? He took her hand, cool and elegant just like its owner.
‘Deal.’
