Reluctant Father

She laughed. From the start they had worked well together, and had soon discovered that they shared the same sense of humour.

‘I quite like you, too,’ she said.

‘Only quite?’ he protested, with mock anguish. ‘I must switch my manly charm up a gear.’

‘You have charm?’ Cass enquired, straight-faced

‘You never noticed?’

‘Maybe just a flicker, now and then.’

‘Which means I’m starting virtually from scratch.’ Gifford gave a noisy sigh. ‘So be it.’

In the days which they spent closeted together, Cass grew to like Gifford Tait a lot He knew what he wanted and could be autocratic, but he was also modest, funny and easy to be with. He exuded an inherent vitality which dimmed the memory of every other man she had known. Plus he was indecently sexy.

When, unexpectedly, he had to fly back to the States to deal with an urgent business matter, she had felt confusingly bereft and had spent every spare moment thinking about him.

‘Did you miss me?’ Gifford enquired, on his return a week or so later.

‘Yes,’ she said truthfully.

‘I missed you, too,’ he told her, his grey eyes serious. ‘I figure I need to spend a month getting to grips with Dexter’s, so—’

‘That long?’ she interrupted.

He gave a crooked grin. ‘That long. So I wondered whether you’d be free to show me around London at the weekends.’

‘With pleasure,’ Cass said.

They visited museums and art galleries, watched the street performers at Covent Garden, went to the theatre. They sailed down the river to Greenwich and the gleaming silver stanchions of the Thames Barrier, and shared candlelit dinners.

Their relationship deepened. Away from the office, Gifford would reach for her hand, and when he returned her to her Putney flat in the evenings he kissed her goodnight. They were passionate kisses which left her weakkneed and breathless—and wanting more.

Time flew and, all too soon, they reached the final week of his stay when they set off on a fact-finding tour of the Dexter factories.

‘How did you first start up in your business?’ Cass asked curiously one evening when they were sitting in his hotel suite.

They had spent the wet, blustery April day at a shoemanufacturing unit in the north of England. On their return, she had typed out the notes which her companion had required on her laptop, and now they were unwinding with a bottle of good white wine.

‘Thanks to dumb luck,’ Gifford replied. ‘Bruce and I were bursting with ideas, but we didn’t have either the cash or the know-how to put them into action. Then a ski-wear manufacturer happened to catch me on TV.’

‘When you were skiing?’

‘Commentating.’

She looked at him along the sofa. ‘You commentate?’ she said, in surprise.

‘Used to. At one point, I fronted a sports programme.’ He raked back the cow-lick of dark hair which persisted in falling over his eyes. ‘But I quit.’

‘Why?’

‘Didn’t care for the fame. The show was aired in several states which meant I was becoming a celebrity, but I don’t like being pounced on by strangers or having journalists pry into my private life. The ski-wear manufacturer asked if I’d promote his products,’ Gifford continued. ‘At which point Bruce and I hit him with our brainwaves. He gave us a loan, factory space and—’ he clicked his fingers ‘—abracadabra.’

‘It can’t have been that simple,’ Cass protested.

‘It wasn’t,’ he admitted, with a rueful smile. ‘As new kids on the block it took a hell of a lot of blood, sweat and tears—of lugging samples around and cold calling—before we were up and rolling, but now—’

‘Life is good?’

Reaching out a hand, he tucked a strand of silky wheat-gold hair behind her ear. ‘Right now, life is very good,’ he said softly.

Her heart began to thud. The anonymous hotel suite, the rain which pattered on the windows, the leaden evening sky—everything faded. Her only awareness was of Gifford—his touch, the husky timbre of his voice, the need which she saw in his grey eyes. A need which she suspected was reflected in her own.

He sat back, loosening his tie in what struck her as an attractively masculine gesture. ‘Your boss isn’t into blood, sweat and tears,’ he said. ‘He might get a kick out of being the big cheese and having his name painted on the best parking space, but he resents having to come into the office day after day.’

Cass hesitated. A sense of loyalty tempted her to insist otherwise—and lie through her teeth. But Gifford would know she was lying.

‘From his birth it was decreed that Stephen would take over from his father. It’s the family tradition,’ she explained, ‘but he lacks any real interest’

‘Whereas you are interested. You know what’s happening in all areas of the business, and you have savvy, which is why I asked for you to accompany me.’

‘Asked?’ Cass said. ‘It sounded more like a demand.’

A grin cut across his mouth. ‘OK, I demanded. But if Stephen’d come along he’d have been worse than useless. You’re carrying the guy. I hope he’s paying you a high salary?’

‘So high I’d be foolish to ever leave,’ she replied.

‘What goes on between you two?’ Gifford enquired as he sipped his wine. He fixed her with narrowed grey eyes. ‘You’re obviously close, and Stephen gave me the impression that—’

‘That what?’ Cass asked, when he frowned.

‘That you might have a…more personal involvement.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Stephen and me? No, you must’ve misunderstood. I’ve worked for him for a long time, but although he’s a couple of years older than me Stephen’s like a kid brother.’

‘A self-centred and petulant kid brother,’ Gifford said. He knew he was not mistaken and that the younger man had deliberately given him the wrong impression. Maybe to warn him off?

‘On occasions,’ she had to agree. ‘But he can also be kind, thoughtful and fun. His father dominates him, while his mother has always spoiled him—Stephen was a late baby and an only child—and that’s a difficult mix for anyone to handle.’

‘Parents can land their kids with all kinds of problems,’ he said gravely, and was silent for a moment. Then he gave a satisfied nod. ‘You and Stephen are just friends—good.’

‘Why good?’

‘Because it means you don’t have a serious man in your life, so—’

‘What makes you sure of that?’ Cass interrupted.

‘You haven’t phoned anyone while we’ve been on our travels or spoken about anyone.’ He shot her a suddenly worried look. ‘I don’t doubt you have to beat the guys off with a stick, but is there anyone serious?’