An Excellent Wife?

An Excellent Wife?
CHARLOTTE LAMB

Wanted: a wife of convenience James had never been in love. He intended to marry a woman who didn't make demands, or who would change his life… . So why did he find Patience Kirby so attractive? She certainly wasn't his idea of marriage material! For one thing, she was a sparky redhead, while he'd always preferred cool blondes.For another, he was used to a peaceful, elegant life-style, and Patience's home was full of kids, old people and animals; noise, warmth and caring… . But in order to have her in his bed, did James have to make Patience his wife?MAN Talk There are two sides to every story - now it's his turn!

His mind had a new, worrying tendency to wander away from anything to do with work (#uac9bb2fa-2b76-5354-a26d-6164cfafa883)Letter to Reader (#uf4c58516-713b-5dda-813f-d409de9192e1)Title Page (#u595eaf61-3742-5e0f-b82d-906459eb8977)CHAPTER ONE (#ub7e06a8c-bf58-564d-adb9-938b61604837)CHAPTER TWO (#ub23cf528-fa3c-5449-bdce-6b3b55a661cb)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

His mind had a new, worrying tendency to wander away from anything to do with work

What is the matter with you? he asked himself furiously, finding himself doodling a face on his blotter. Big eyes, warm mouth...James scribbled blackly all over it and put down his pen. He would not, must not think about Patience Kirby.

Dear Reader,

Traditionally, a romance novel is seen through a woman’s eyes, but I have often wondered how her man sees the same events. Are men more like us than we realize? Are they as unsure of themselves, are their feelings as deep, do they get hurt, do we baffle them, keep them awake the way they do us? Do they need love to make their lives complete? When Harlequin Presents suggested I write a story entirely from the man’s point of view I jumped at the chance to find the answers to some of these questions. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Sincerely,

An Excellent Wife?

Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN the phone began to ring in the outer office James ignored it, expecting his secretary to pick it up, or, failing that, her current assistant, a girl with hair of an improbable yellow, the colour of a day-old chick, which was very suitable since, in his opinion, she had the brains of one, too, not to mention an irritating habit of flinching every time James spoke to her. This morning, however, neither woman answered the phone. The ringing went on and on, without cessation, making it impossible to concentrate on the complex financial analysis he was studying.

At last James could stand the noise no longer. Springing to his feet, he strode to the door of his secretary’s office and flung it open. ‘Why don’t you answer that phone?’

He stopped in mid-sentence, seeing that the room was empty and that there was nobody in the smaller room beyond, the door of which already stood open.

His entire secretarial staff appeared to have deserted him. The place was a Marie Celeste. Computers were switched on, their screens blinking, a fax machine was churning out paper in a comer and a pile of letters stood waiting to be signed, but of human beings there was no sign, except for himself, and the still shrill and ringing telephone.

‘Where the hell are they?’ James leaned across the desk to pick up the phone to silence it, his jet-black hair falling over his eyes. It was getting too long; he must have it trimmed. But he hadn’t had time; he was far too busy this week.

‘Hallo?’ he curtly said, and was met with silence for a second, as if the caller had been taken aback by his impatient tone.

Then a husky female voice said, ‘I want to speak to Mr James Ormond, please.’

Miss Roper had a telephone routine which James had heard a thousand times. He followed it now, more or less, not precisely in her words, let alone her cool, clear, modulated tones, in fact more in a terse growl, asking, ‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Patience Kirby,’ she said, as if expecting to be recognised, then added, ‘Mr Ormond won’t know me, though.’

He’d already realised that. The name meant nothing to him, and if she represented some company she would surely have said so. As she clearly did not, he was not wasting his precious time on her. That was what he employed Miss Roper to do—weed out time-wasting callers and make sure he wasn’t inconvenienced. Miss Roper could deal with this woman when she got back.

‘Ring back later,’ he curtly advised, starting to put the phone down.

Before he could do so, the soft voice implored, ‘Oh, please! Is that...? Are you Mr Ormond?’

‘Ring back later,’ he repeated, his cold grey eyes swivelling to stare accusingly at his secretary as she came hurrying through the door with her blonde assistant trailing after her.

Hanging up the phone, James snapped at the two women, ‘Why am I having to waste my time answering your phone? Where have you been?’

The blonde girl gave a terrified little baa, like a lamb confronted by a wolf, and backed out of Miss Roper’s office into her own with that halfwitted expression on her face which he recognised all too well. Why on earth had Miss Roper appointed her?

James had gradually got into the habit of leaving the hiring and firing of the secretarial staff to Miss Roper. He had come to trust her judgement, but this girl was not one of her successful appointments. He must have a word on the subject when he wasn’t so busy. The girl must go; it was disconcerting to have her backing away from him in such obvious panic every time she saw him. It was making James feel like some relation of Jack the Ripper.

Miss Roper said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Ormond, the girls in Admin were giving a coffee party for Theresa; we just shot along there with our presents for a few minutes. She’s leaving today, as you know...’

‘I didn’t know. I don’t even know her, come to that. Theresa who?’

‘Theresa Worth. She’s on the switchboard, a girl with short black hair and glasses.’

Dimly James remembered her from that description. ‘Oh, that girl! Why is she leaving? Got a better job? Or did you fire her?’

‘She’s having a baby.’

He raised his brows. ‘Is she married?’

His secretary observed him with a wry expression. ‘Don’t you remember? She got married last year and we gave a party for her. You let us use the canteen.’

‘I remember that,’ James said, voice cold. They had created havoc in the place, throwing food about, from the sight of the floor, and chucking those paper streamers that fire out of cardboard cases and stick to everything for miles around. The cleaners had complained bitterly next day.

Miss Roper looked guilty, as well she might.

‘Is this girl going for good? She isn’t just having maternity leave?’ asked James.

‘No, sir, she and her husband are moving back to Yorkshire. Theresa isn’t coming back.’

‘Just as well; she seems to have been quite a nuisance so far.’

‘She’s very popular,’ Miss Roper told him indignantly. ‘We all like her.’ Even if you don’t, said her brown eyes. ‘And I assure you, Mr Ormond, we weren’t gone more than a minute, and I told the switchboard not to put any calls through until we got back. I’m very sorry you were disturbed. I’ll investigate and make sure whoever put the call through comes along to apologise in person.’

‘No, don’t bother, I’ve already wasted enough time. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

‘It won’t,’ she promised, very flushed.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing her look so flustered before. She was always so neat and calm, a small sparrow of a woman with brown hair and eyes, who wore a lot of brown, too: brownish tweed skirts in winter, brown linen in summer, with crisp white shirts.

She wore grey and black, too, actually, but whenever James thought about his secretary he imagined her in brown. The colour expressed something essential in her personality. Brenda Roper was older than him by twelve years. When James had begun working at the bank, fourteen years ago, after leaving university, Miss Roper had been assigned to him by his father, then managing director, who had handpicked her from the various candidates, and she had been with James ever since.

In the beginning, when he’d been unsure about himself and struggling to find his feet in a family firm run by a dictatorial father, James had found her efficiency slightly intimidating, which was why he had insisted on calling her Miss Roper, instead of using her first name. Using surnames to each other had seemed to put their relationship on the right footing, made James feel more in charge, less of a newcomer.

They still continued the same polite formality today, although James knew that most of his executives were on first-name terms with their secretaries. From time to time James had hovered on the point of using Brenda Roper’s first name, but had always drawn back from changing a long-established and successful habit.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving the office?’ he demanded. ‘Anyone could have walked in here, could have stolen the cash from the safe or operated the computers, retrieved secret information from the private files, endangered one of our projects.’

‘Not without the code words, Mr Ormond,’ Miss Roper said quietly. ‘Nobody can hack into our private computers without those, and you and I are the only ones who know the codes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you we were going out; I didn’t want to interrupt you.’

‘In that case, why did you both go? You should have left the halfwit behind. At least she can answer phones, even if she can never take a message properly.’