Niall bent to kiss her cheek.

Gossamer light, it was a kiss that asked questions he hadn’t been aware of framing. As he straightened, he saw that her eyes were wide with surprise.

“You’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly.

“Fine?” Romana snapped. “Of course I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. I don’t need a Farraday man to tell me that.”

In fact, that kiss had been something else. It was the fizz of electricity that had shot through her when she’d kissed him. Somehow he’d got under her skin, and even now her lips burned, throbbed, wanting more.

She took another sip of water to cool them.

She didn’t want his reassurance. She refused to think about what she really wanted. It wasn’t going to happen, because all he wanted was Claibourne & Farraday. Her store. Her life.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my brand-new trilogy, BOARDROOM BRIDEGROOMS. Claibourne & Farraday is “the most stylish department store in London.” It’s a store filled with precious and beautiful things from every part of the globe. On the retirement of their father, the three talented Claibourne sisters are all set to take the store into the twenty-first century. Romana as head of public relations. Flora, a designer with an instinct for a “look.” India, the oldest of the sisters and passionate in her love for the store, stepping into her father’s shoes as managing director.

But the Farradays, three dynamic businessmen with plans of their own for Claibourne & Farraday, are determined to take full control of the store back into Farraday hands.

India invites the Farraday cousins to “work-shadow” the sisters in order to find out what it takes to run a department store like Claibourne & Farraday. First, lovely, high-spirited Romana Claibourne takes on the frozen heart of Niall Farraday Macaulay and brings it to meltdown….

With love,

Liz Fielding

To find out more about Liz Fielding, visit her Web site at www.lizfielding.com

BOARDROOM BRIDEGROOMS!

It’s a marriage takeover!

The Corporate Bridegroom
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

PRESS RELEASE

CLAIBOURNE & FARRADAY are pleased to announce that Miss India Claibourne is to be appointed Managing Director with immediate effect.

Miss Romana Claibourne and Miss Flora Claibourne have been appointed full board members.

CITY DIARY, LONDON EVENING POST

Has sexual equality finally penetrated the hallowed portals of London’s oldest and most stylish department store?

With today’s announcement that India Claibourne, 29, is to step into her father’s shoes as Managing Director of Claibourne & Farraday, an era ends as one of the last bastions of male domination is finally breached.

It seems the gorgeous Claibourne girls, who have been part of the management team since they were old enough to dress up as elves and help Santa in his grotto, have decided it’s time to put an end to the nineteenth century male imperialism of the founders.

Not since 1832, when C&F founders, valet Charles Claibourne and butler William Farraday, hammered out an agreement of succession that hands a ‘golden share’ and total control to the oldest male heir of either family, has their authority been challenged.

Will the Farraday men take this lying down? Watch this space.

MEMORANDUM

From: JORDAN FARRADAY

To: NIALL FARRADAY MACAULAY

BRAM FARRADAY GIFFORD

I’m sure you’ve already seen the attached newspaper clipping. To answer any questions you may have, I have issued an immediate legal challenge to India Claibourne’s position as Managing Director.

The Claibourne response is interesting. They have not, as I had expected, taken the feminist stance, or fallen back on sexual equality legislation. They instead evinced surprise that three such ‘busy men’ could find the time to assume day-to-day running of a ‘retail outlet’.

It is possible that they suspect it is our intention to liquidise the considerable assets in the C&F trademark and property and sell out which, once we gain control, they will be powerless to prevent. They must be convinced otherwise, which is why I have agreed to the suggestion that we each spend some time work-shadowing them during the next three months.

The Claibournes apparently hope to demonstrate that their ‘hands-on’ experience is a greater asset to Claibourne & Farraday than our years in the City. A delay of three months in the spirit of co-operation will do us no harm if, as I suspect it will, this ends up in court. The inside knowledge gained will serve us well if we have to go to court in order to evict them from the boardroom.

The timetable I’ve agreed is that Niall will shadow Romana Claibourne during April, Bram will do the same with Florence Claibourne during May, and I will work with India during June. I attach a dossier on each of your respective partners for you to study. Please give as much time as you can spare to this project without it appearing to intrude on your normal activities.

I realise this is an imposition but, as joint shareholders, I ask you to remember that the reward will be total control of a prime retail investment and one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the country.

EMAIL

To: Romana@Claibournes.com

cc: Flora@Claibournes.com

From: India@Claibournes.com

Subject: Niall Farraday Macaulay

Romana

The lawyers have asked for three months to come up with a rebuttal of the Farraday claim to run Claibournes. As a delaying tactic I’ve had to ‘play nice’ and offer the Farradays an opportunity to see how we run Claibourne’s—from the inside.

Niall Farraday Macaulay will be contacting you shortly to arrange a convenient schedule for him to shadow you during April. The man is an investment banker and would, no doubt, love a chance to get his hands on the Claibourne & Farraday assets. I need you to convince him that it’s in his best interests to leave them with us.

That the Farradays accepted an invitation to shadow our roles in the company suggests they see it as an information-gathering opportunity. Please be on your guard.

Indie

CHAPTER ONE

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.

CHAPTER TWO

NIALL took out his mobile phone and called his secretary, reorganising his schedule for the rest of the day, dealing with queries that wouldn’t wait. At least the evening presented no problems. His date with a report on the steel industry would keep.

Romana was making calls too. One after another. Talking to an endless stream of people involved in the gala, checking last-minute details about flowers and programmes and seating.

It was possible she was attempting to impress him. Or maybe she was simply avoiding conversation. For that, at least, he should be grateful.

Staring out at the passing streets as the driver edged slowly through the city in the heavy midday traffic, he had plenty of time to regret the impulse that had prompted him to follow Romana Claibourne out of the office.

Heaven alone knew that he didn’t want to spend a minute in her company that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He had precious little time for ditzy blondes at the best of times. He had none at all for those who played at being ‘company director’ in the little time they could spare from shopping. He glanced at the designer label carrier bags, scattered about her long, narrow feet.

Encased in designer shoes with a price ticket to reflect the label, he had no doubt.

His lip curled at such conspicuous extravagance even while the man in him recognised the beauty of the feet, the slender ankles and the legs to which they were attached. There was a lot of leg to admire—Romana Claibourne clearly didn’t believe in hiding her best features.

She was pushing back her wild, thick mane of curls when she realised that he was staring at her. Every instinct warned him to turn away as she paused, querying his look. Instead, he did what he knew would most irritate her. He raised one brow…bored, unimpressed…and turned back to the more interesting view of passing traffic.

A charity gala, no matter how good the cause, wasn’t his idea of work. It wasn’t even his idea of fun. Such events were right at the bottom of his ‘must-do’ list. He’d far rather send a cheque and pass on the manufactured glamour.

But he could scarcely complain. She’d given him every opportunity to escape, offered to sort out the shadowing in a civilised manner; he’d simply assumed she was trying to get rid of him in order to get on with whatever that overnight bag had been packed for.

It was too late now to wish he’d simply asked her what she was doing for the rest of day. There was just something about the girl, the way she looked at him with those big blue eyes as if she was used to twisting men around her little finger and having them sit up and beg for more. He’d wanted her to know that he was made of sterner stuff.

The taxi finally came to a halt just upstream of Tower Bridge, where the burgundy and gold livery of Claibourne & Farraday was much in evidence on balloons and sweatshirts and a huge crowd was being whipped up into a state of wild excitement for the television cameras.

‘We’re here, Mr Macaulay.’

‘Niall, please,’ he said. Not out of any desire for informality, but because a whole month of being addressed as “Mr Macaulay” in a manner just short of insolent was not going to improve his temper.

And he could see for himself that they’d arrived.

It was what they were going to be doing that bothered him. Then, as he stepped out of the taxi and saw the C&F banner draped over the length of a very tall crane and a huge sign inviting participants to ‘Jump for JOY’, it became blindingly obvious.

He discovered that charity galas were not, after all, at the bottom of his list.

Charity bungee-jumping was right off the page.

‘It’s not always like this,’ Romana said, as she turned from paying the cab driver. ‘Some days are quite dull.’ She tucked the receipt into her wallet, then looked up and flashed a quick smile at him. ‘Although not many—not if I can help it.’

‘You’re going to jump?’ he asked. Silly question. Of course she was going to jump. She was being paid to have fun and she was enjoying every stupid, reckless minute of it.

‘Do you wish you’d gone back to your office when you had a chance, shadow-man?’ The challenge was light enough, but it was unmistakable. It said, Where I go, you follow.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I’m finding the experience highly informative, but you appear to have misinterpreted the word “shadow”. You could have saved yourself the bother of organising a sweatshirt for me. I’m not playing follow-my-leader, Romana. I’m simply observing.’

She glanced up at him. ‘Scared, huh?’

He let that go. He had nothing to prove. There had been a time when he’d been as reckless as a man could be. But life had a way of mocking you. The gentlest of pastimes could be more dangerous than jumping into thin air.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ he asked.

‘Me? Good grief, no. I’m scared of heights.’ For a moment he believed her, then, when she had him hooked, she grinned. ‘How else do you think I managed to drum up so much sponsorship?’

‘You could have pinned your victims down and threatened to pour coffee over them unless they signed on the dotted line?’ he offered. She was bright and bubbly, and no doubt very good at this kind of mindless nonsense, but she wasn’t his idea of a company director.

She acknowledged his bull’s-eye with the slightest nod. ‘I’ll bear that in mind for next year. Thanks for the tip.’

‘There won’t be a next year.’

‘Well, no, not a bungee-jump, but…’ She suddenly realised that he wasn’t referring to the bungee-jump, but the imminent eviction of the Claibournes from the boardroom. ‘But I’ll come up with something equally exciting,’ she continued firmly. ‘If you’d like to show your own enthusiasm it’s not too late to phone your office and drum up some sponsorship yourself. It’s for a great cause, and I’m sure there are any number of people who’d pay good money to see you jump a hundred feet from a crane with an elastic band tied to your feet.’ Her smile was gratingly sweet as she offered him her phone. ‘It’s being broadcast on the internet,’ she added, ‘so they’ll be able to watch the whole thing live and get their money’s worth.’ Then, because she couldn’t resist it, ‘I’ll sponsor you myself.’

He’d just bet she would, but he shook his head. ‘I’ll stick to the arrangement we made. You do whatever you usually do. I’ll observe.’ No hardship on the eye, at least. Just on the brain. ‘You are jumping?’

‘One of the Claibournes had to make the opening jump and since India and Flora suddenly discovered pressing appointments elsewhere…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a pity, though. If I’d known you’d be here I could have billed us both as the opening jump. We’ve already got the front page of Celebrity magazine for next week, but with you arriving out of the blue we could have sold pictures to the financial pages, too.’

‘How much have you raised in sponsorship?’

‘Personally?’ She glanced up at the crane. ‘Is it worth risking my neck for fifty-three thousand pounds do you think?’

‘Fifty-three thousand pounds?’ He was impressed, but he wasn’t about to show it. ‘That many people want to see you scared to death?’

‘Scared to death?’ Her eyes widened, making them appear impossibly large.

‘Isn’t that the point? You make a big thing out of being terrified of heights so your sponsors pay out to hear you scream.’

There was a pause before she said, ‘I must make sure to give them value for money. Thanks for reminding me,’ she said as her attention was claimed by a young woman bearing a sweatshirt.

‘Who’s the dishy bloke?’

‘Dishy?’ Romana didn’t have to follow her assistant’s avid gaze. Molly could only be talking about Niall. ‘He’s not dishy.’ He was mind-numbingly gorgeous. The kind of man that would have a girl dropping coffee and everything else if he so much as smiled. Maybe that was why he didn’t smile. It was too dangerous.

‘Crumbs, Romana, get your eyes tested. You don’t often get tall, dark and the look of the devil all in one package.’

That summed him up perfectly, and she felt a little tremor somewhere in her midriff that had nothing at all to do with jumping into space. ‘Should a married woman be having such thoughts about a man who is not her husband?’

‘I’m married, Romana. Not dead.’

‘Well, you can put your eyes back in their sockets. He might be good to look at but I promise you he’s not nice to know. The man is dour. With a capital D. A real cold fish. His name is Niall Macaulay and he’s one of the Farraday clan—’

‘I didn’t know there were any real live Farradays.’

‘Unfortunately they’re as real and as live as you can get. This one is a dominant male of the species and he’s going to be shadowing my role with the company for the next month.’ And marking her out of ten for technique. She didn’t think he’d be interested in artistic merit.

‘You mean he’s the one being squeezed into your box at the gala tonight? You lucky cow! Do you think he’d like some coffee?’ she asked hopefully.

‘He needs something,’ she said, with feeling. ‘A charm implant would be a definite improvement. But I’d advise against offering him coffee if you value your life.’ She looked up at the crane and shivered. ‘One of us has to be at the gala this evening.’

‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to smile for the cameras. It’ll probably be the cover picture, so when you put on that sweatshirt make sure the C&F logo is front and centre. I’d stay and help, but I have to meet the caterers at the theatre.’

Smile for the camera? Smile?

A teeth-baring grimace was all she could manage as she stared in the mirror and retouched her lipstick for the television camera which would follow her every move once she emerged from the caravan. She’d have bitten it all off long before she reached the jump platform. Not good. She put the lipstick in her pocket, along with her handbag mirror, for a last-minute touch-up. If she could keep her hand sufficiently steady.

She caught herself fluffing her hair. Again. Holding her arms firmly at her sides, she fixed a smile to her lips and emerged from the caravan to be met by the television director.

‘Great,’ she said absently as he ran through what would happen. But her mind was somewhere else. On Niall Macaulay, who was standing a few yards away. It was hard to tell if he was regretting his decision to join her. His expression gave nothing away. ‘Sure you won’t join me, Niall? A Farraday jumping would be the icing on the cake. And it would really prove your commitment.’

The director spun to look at him. ‘Hey, this is great. If you could just change as quickly as you can, Mr Farraday—’

‘The name is Macaulay.’ The director looked confused. ‘Niall Farraday Macaulay. And there are more than enough people around here desperate to fling themselves into space for a good cause. I don’t want to be selfish and hold things up.’ Romana gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t fooling her with his lack of selfishness. ‘I’ll sponsor Miss Claibourne instead.’

Romana was temporarily speechless. It was the second time he’d done that to her today, and she didn’t like it.

‘Niall Farraday Macaulay?’ she asked him as she went to weigh in. ‘You really are called that?’

‘It’s a family tradition. A reminder that our time will come.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ she said. Then turned away to take the card to be handed to the jump team. She took it in fingers that were losing any sense of feeling. Only her mouth was working, running away with her, joking to the camera about getting vertigo standing on a high kerb…

It avoided having to think about what was ahead.

She wasn’t thinking at all, or she might have distracted the photographer from Celebrity magazine when he wanted to take a picture of the two of them together. Yet, even numb with terror, the PR side of her brain was saying Go for it! This would get people talking, create a buzz…and wasn’t it vital to demonstrate her ability to take advantage of a photo opportunity?

‘Claibourne & Farraday working in partnership for deprived children everywhere,’ she prompted, offering a hand to Niall. Her jumping and him watching. Nothing new there.

He sketched a smile, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. He probably did, she realised, and felt instantly guilty; there might be some perfectly good reason for his lack of good humour. And for not taking part in the jump.

A solid grasp of the principles of gravity and plain good sense, perhaps?

‘Get really close, warm and caring…’ the photographer encouraged. Niall was surprisingly co-operative, putting his arm around her shoulders before she could reconsider. It felt almost shockingly good to be tucked up against him. ‘Lovely…big smile…’

Startled by the direction her thoughts were taking, she glanced up at him. The breeze from the river was whipping up his perfectly cut hair and feathering it across his forehead, and as he smiled to order it was plain that, physically, the man had everything. Style, good looks and a set of teeth any film star would pay a fortune for.

The minute the photographer finished, Niall let his arm drop. The smile, however, remained. A warning that she had indeed made a mistake by drawing attention to his presence. It was something the columnist at Celebrity would seize on and speculate about at length. And if his photograph appeared on the front cover India would never forgive her.

‘They’re waiting for you,’ he said, the smile turning into the smallest of frowns as she stepped onto the hoist with legs that didn’t appear to belong to her and made a grab for the safety rail as it began to rise. Had he realised how scared she was? Did it matter?

‘What’s the view like?’ The presenter’s voice in her ear prompted her.

Aware that the mini-cam would be picking up the fact that her eyes were tight shut, she managed to blurt out, ‘I’m saving it for a surprise when I get to the top.’

The sound of laughter reached her over the loudspeaker, and as the hoist came to a halt she instinctively opened her eyes as she stepped onto the platform. Big mistake. Behind her, her escape route returned to the ground. In front of her London seemed to shift beneath her feet and she felt the colour drain from her face.

‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said, grabbing the first solid object that came to hand. Everyone laughed.

She joined in, trying not to sound hysterical. But she was out of time. As the hoist came to a halt behind her, with its first load of paying jumpers, she said, ‘Could someone unpeel my fingers from this rail?’

‘I thought this was all in a day’s work for you.’

Niall Macaulay. Riding to her rescue. She knew he’d seen her fear… ‘You dropped this.’ He handed her the card with her name and weight on it. ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the excitement.’

She glanced at the card, frowning at the implication that she had tried to get out of jumping. She would have turned and glared at him for being such a know-all, but she wasn’t prepared to move that much. Besides, this was a live broadcast.

‘Well, thanks. It’s good to see Claibourne & Farraday working together.’ Even in extremis she still remembered to mention the company name.

‘No problem. It’s what a shadow’s for. To pick up the mistakes. Can I offer some help there?’

More sarcasm, but Romana was beyond caring about the feud. Her knuckles were bone-white as she gripped the cold metal.

‘My hero,’ she said, as Niall peeled her fingers one by one from the rail.

The bungee-team, eager to get started, fixed up the bungee. When they’d finished, it was Niall who reached out a hand to help her to her feet. It was oddly comforting, and she kept her eyes fixed on his face. That way she wasn’t so conscious of the drop. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, she noticed, as if smiling hadn’t always been such a strain. ‘It’s quite normal to be scared,’ he said.

‘Scared? Who’s scared?’ She put the fingers of her other hand in her mouth and pulled a face at the camera. Clowning was the only way she was going to get through this.

‘It’s safer than falling out of bed,’ he assured her.

‘You can guarantee that?’ she asked. ‘You’ve tested the theory? How many beds have you fallen out of?’ The grammar wasn’t great, but it raised a laugh from the crowd and stopped Niall Macaulay from smiling. A hundred-percent success.

‘Ready, Romana?’

Belatedly recalling Molly’s reminder to smile, she retrieved her hand from Niall, took out her mirror and lipstick and made a big performance of retouching the colour. ‘Got to look good in the photographs,’ she said, beyond shaking. She wasn’t feeling anything very much at all, just a sort of numb weightlessness, and she bared her teeth in the nearest approximation to a smile she could manage. ‘Now I’m ready.’ She handed the lipstick and mirror to Niall. ‘Any last-minute advice?’

‘Don’t look down?’ He picked her up from behind and for a moment held her hard against his chest. The warmth was welcome, and for the first time since she’d stepped onto the hoist she felt safe. Then he took a step forward.

A gasp of fright escaped her. ‘Are you going to throw me over?’ She’d intended to whisper, but the microphone attached to her sweatshirt picked up every syllable.

‘Not this time,’ he murmured, his response covered by a burst of laughter. Then he placed her carefully on the edge of the platform, with her toes sticking out into clear space. Her toes didn’t like it, and clawed desperately at the inside of her shoes. Only his hand, still on her shoulder, was keeping her from fainting. Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea…

‘On the count of three,’ he murmured against her ear. ‘And don’t forget to scream.’

CHAPTER THREE

NIALL watched Romana fly. It was a spectacular jump by any standards. Only an underlying suspicion that she was actually scared rigid had prompted him to bring up the card.

Watching her in the hoist, he’d been sure that she was going to lose it completely. And, no matter who was running the company, he had a financial stake in its image.

He should have known that the fooling around was for the camera. He hadn’t been sure until she’d pulled out the lipstick, but her hands had been steady as a rock. It was all just part of the act. She’d certainly put on a show for her sponsors.

All she’d forgotten was the blood-curdling scream.

Someone opened a bottle of champagne and pushed a glass into her hand. Romana didn’t dare put it to her mouth. The glass would have shattered against her chattering teeth. She just gripped it tightly as around her the crowd chanted a slow countdown for the next jumper.

For a moment she thought she’d be all right, but just as the next bungee reached its full length and then snapped back her entire stomach relived her own experience. She pushed the glass into the hand of the person standing nearest to her and fled to the caravan so that she could be violently sick in private.

When she’d washed her face, and rinsed her mouth out with water, she realised that her phone, still lying on the chair where she had abandoned it earlier, was ringing.

‘Ramona Claibourne.’

It was Molly. ‘Are you all right? We’ve got a television on here, and when I saw you make a run for it I wondered—’

‘If breakfast was a mistake? Believe me, it was. Is everyone demanding their money back?’ She was still shaking. ‘I wouldn’t blame them. I couldn’t even manage a decent scream. My throat was apparently stuffed with hot rocks.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You looked terrific. And the jokey stuff was very convincing. I shouldn’t think anyone guessed how scared you really were. I can’t imagine how you’ll top it next year—unless you can think of something that involves Mr Dour getting his shirt off,’ she added hopefully. ‘I’d sponsor him for that myself.’

Ramona’s mouth dried at the thought. Fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door and she was saved from having to comment.

‘It’s open,’ she called, and turned to see the man himself, with a frown that might have been concern creasing his forehead. She didn’t want his concern. ‘Come to pay up?’ she asked, with a lack of graciousness she regretted the minute he laid a cheque on the table, along with her lipstick and mirror. ‘That’s very generous,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

He gave a small shrug, as if it was nothing. ‘Don’t let me interrupt your call.’

‘Oh, it’s just Molly. She saw the jump…’ The least said about that the better. ‘She’s trying to think of some way of topping it. She seems to think you, minus your shirt, would be a good start,’ she said, and was assailed by wails of anguish from her assistant. ‘Why don’t you talk it over with her?’ she suggested, handing over her phone. ‘And she’ll need your address so that she can book you a car for tonight. Six o’clock. Black tie.’

‘Six?’ he repeated. ‘Isn’t that a little early for the theatre?’

‘I’m working, not having fun. I do all the organising beforehand. I make sure everything goes smoothly throughout the evening, and then I make sure everyone is happy afterwards.’

‘While I watch?’

‘No one is insisting you come, Niall. You’re the one demanding to see what I do every minute of my working day.’ Which today would end somewhere past midnight.

She turned away, avoiding a game of ‘chicken’ to see who could outstare the other. She knew she’d lose. She didn’t bother to change back into her suit, but folded it neatly and put it into her bag, then glanced in the mirror as she slid her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it.

Her reflection warned her that she was looking less than her best. The colour had leached from her skin, leaving two vivid patches of blusher and making her look like a rag doll. She took a tissue and scrubbed at her cheek-bones. In the meantime, having considered her response and apparently got the message, Niall relayed his address to Molly.

Romana retrieved her phone and her bags and flung open the caravan door.

‘Where are you going now?’ he asked, following her.

‘Why don’t you come along and see?’ He gave her a look that suggested he was quick learner—he was asking first. ‘First I’m going home to hang up my dress. I would have done it earlier, but I had to meet you instead. Then I’m going back to the store to have my hair done,’ she told him, walking quickly to the road.

‘No lunch?’

She felt ill at the thought. ‘No,’ she said, glancing at the workmanlike watch on her wrist. ‘No time. We have to go.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the hairdo.’

‘Good decision. I can fix most things,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but an appointment with George on a gala night is not one of them. I’ll see you at the theatre.’

‘Don’t you think it would be more sensible for us to share a car?’

Share? Working with him was going to be difficult enough; she had no intention of extending the time they spent together. ‘Is your concern ecological or financial?’

‘Neither. I simply thought you could brief me about this evening on the way to the theatre. Speaking of which, you put on quite a performance yourself just now,’ he said, keeping step with her and giving her no chance to argue. ‘You nearly had me fooled.’

She had no way of telling whether he meant her performance pretending to be scared, or her performance covering up the fact that she was totally terrified. ‘Only nearly?’

‘How many jumps have you made?’

She smiled as she stopped and turned to hail a passing taxi. There was something very pleasing in the discovery that he wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought he was.

‘I’ll see you at the theatre, Niall,’ she said as she climbed aboard, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Romana, swathed in a dark-red salon wrapper, regarded herself in the mirror, searching vainly for some clue as to what about her appearance had so irritated Niall Macaulay.

It couldn’t just have been the incident with the coffee that had made him so surly. It had, after all, been an accident. Unfortunate, perhaps, especially in view of the subsequent meeting, but in the travails of life it was nothing. Less than nothing.

A kind man would have said so. A generous man would at the very least have allowed her to apologise before walking away.

But he wasn’t kind, or generous. Oh, he’d been quick to cover himself with his offer of sponsorship—quick to pay up, too. Her flash of guilt was immediately squashed. When you had money to spare, that kind of generosity was easy. Her father had always been swift to put his signature on a cheque for birthdays or at Christmas, when all she’d really wanted was for him to hug her, tell her that he loved her. He’d never seemed capable of managing anything quite that difficult.

George appeared in the mirror behind her. ‘Big day, Romana,’ he said.

‘A bad day.’ First bungee-jumping. Then a haircut. How much worse could one day get?

‘No sacrifice is too great to promote the store.’

‘This is as far as I’m prepared to go,’ she assured him. The haircut was all part of the week of publicity for the store and had been planned for months. Faced with proving her total commitment, she knew nothing would make a more public statement than cutting her trademark hair to publicise the salon.

The stylist hesitated, apparently not eager to be the cause of bitter tears of regret. ‘You’re really sure about this? I should warn you that while your girlfriends will love it—’

‘Great. They’re the ones to impress. Let’s do it.’ Still he hesitated. ‘Come on, George, I haven’t got all day.’

‘You do realise that the men in your life will hate it?’

‘Who has the time for men?’

‘Friends, acquaintances, your father?’

‘I stopped being Daddy’s little girl when I was four.’ When her mother had found someone younger, better-looking, even titled…

‘Any man you’ve ever met, then. Any man who’s ever seen your photograph in the gossip mags. You must be aware that half the men in London are in love with your hair. They’ll want to lynch me—’

‘What’s a little pain if it means you’ll get your picture in the papers?’ Still he hesitated. ‘For heaven’s sake, George, it’s just hair. Cut it.’

And for the second time that day she closed her eyes.

Niall Macaulay looked up at the impressive façade of Claibourne & Farraday. Once a small emporium catering exclusively to the aristocracy, it had, over the generations, expanded until it occupied one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in London.

Jordan was obsessed with the need to reclaim it for the sake of family pride. Bram’s mind took a more logical path—the Farraday claim had to be protected in the face of a raft of new legislation.

A new agreement, something more equitable, would certainly put an end to the feud mentality that had prevailed among the older generation since control of the store had shifted from the Farradays to the Claibournes. It had been at a time when the women’s movement had been gaining ground, and Jordan’s mother had expected her claim to be taken seriously. Jordan had never forgiven Peter Claibourne for brushing her aside, and Jordan had been brought up listening to her complaining about it.

Niall’s own desire to claim the ‘golden share’ had nothing to do with sentiment. Romana Claibourne was right. He wanted control so that they would be in a position to liquidise the assets and reinvest the money in something less subject to the whim of public taste. The retail sector was a minefield, definitely not a place for the unwary.

With a nod to the doorman who opened one of the huge doors for him, he paused on the threshold to gain his bearings. While one of C&F’s burgundy and gold liveried vans delivered his weekly groceries, it had been more than four years since he’d actually walked around the store.

He’d been with Louise. Choosing china, bedlinen, touring the departments, making a wedding list. He’d left all the decisions to her… It was to be her house; he’d wanted her to have everything just as she wanted it. All he’d wanted to do was watch her. Be with her. See her lovely face change from query as she turned to ask his opinion, knowing his answer would be the same— “You choose” —to just a smile…

He ached at the memory, but that happiness was long gone. And this would be his last opportunity to reacquaint himself with the store—check out any changes—as if he was just one more browsing customer. After tomorrow everyone would know who he was.

He’d better make the most of it. And, as he’d missed lunch, he’d begin by checking out the restaurants.

Romana reached up on automatic, and flinched when her hand encountered nothing but space where her hair had once been.

‘Eat this and stop fussing, Romana. Your hair looks wonderful.’ Molly handed her a sandwich she’d brought up from the Buttery, hoping to tempt her to a late lunch. ‘George is a genius.’

‘I know. I’ll get used to it. Probably. Any last-minute panics? How’s it going at the theatre?’

‘Relax. The programmes have been delivered, the florists are arranging for England and the caterers are all set. No one has cancelled. Everything is running like silk.’

‘Those are words calculated to freeze the blood in my veins.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘That’s an impossibility.’

‘Honestly, everything’s organised to the last full-stop.’ Then, ‘I saw your hunk, by the way. In the Buttery when I picked up your sandwich.’

Romana frowned. ‘My hunk? Since when did I have a hunk to call my own?’

‘Well, not so much a hunk,’ Molly replied maddeningly. ‘He’s more your James Bond type. Tall, dark and deadly. If he were shadowing me he wouldn’t be eating alone.’

‘What?’ Then, belatedly catching on, ‘Are you telling me that Niall Macaulay is in the store?’

‘Well, yes. I assumed you’d come back together. You didn’t know he was here?’

‘No, I did not. Of all the sneaky… Did he see you?’

‘I don’t think so. He was talking to someone on his mobile, and after your toe-curling suggestion that I was smitten with him there was no way I was going across to ask if he was enjoying his lunch. He might he gorgeous to look at, but you’re right—he is a bit daunting. Not the kind of man you’d wave at in a restaurant on such short acquaintance.’

‘I wouldn’t wave at him if I were drowning. Call Security, please, Molly.’

She looked aghast. ‘You’re not going to have him thrown out!’

‘Of course not. I simply want to know what he’s up to.’

Common sense told her that he could have been in the store every day for the last year, compiling a whole host of black marks against the Claibourne clan. Intuition warned her that this wasn’t so, that he was merely taking his last chance of anonymity to look around on his own. It was, after all, exactly what she’d have done in his shoes. But she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

‘I want to know everywhere he goes, who he talks to, what he looks at. Any incidents. I want a full report on my desk first thing in the morning.’

Niall checked out all the restaurants and coffee shops, each very different. There was even a Japanese-style sushi bar, which surprised him. All of them were busy.

He ate his belated lunch in the Buttery, only because it looked the least inspired of the choices available. He gave it perhaps six out of ten. And he was being generous.

Leaving the restaurant, he began to tour the store. It hadn’t changed noticeably since the refit in the early twentieth century, and was still steeped in the dated luxury of mahogany and burgundy carpeting that was the store’s signature.

The customer base was younger than he’d anticipated, though.

The Claibournes must be doing something right.

Jordan wouldn’t want to hear that. He only wanted to know what they were doing wrong.

He first noticed that he had a ‘tail’ as he wandered through the book department.

It was, he thought, a poor use of expensive selling space. Typical of a department that had once been popular but had outlived its time. It couldn’t compete with the new bookstore chains, with their coffee shops and cut prices.

He took her by surprise as he stopped to make a note and the woman following him turned away a little too quickly, drawing attention to herself.

He’d seen Romana’s assistant dash into the Buttery. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence and he’d assumed she hadn’t seen him. It would appear that he was making rather too many assumptions.

In his wide experience of human nature he’d learned to trust first impressions, that glimpse of the unguarded personality before a man or woman realised they were being observed.

Romana Claibourne had climbed out of a taxi hampered by a clutch of carrier bags, in heels a touch too high for good sense and a skirt too short for anyone who anticipated being taken seriously. And with enough hair to stuff a mattress flying in all directions. His first impression had been of a scatty mantrap who wouldn’t hesitate to use her looks to get what she wanted.

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