The Boss's Bride

‘And I would make very sure that their reputation suffered,’ she added as she headed in the same direction. ‘I’m a very good—negotiator.’ The bookcase wasn’t fixed to the wall, and she held it steady as the baby hauled himself upright and put one foot on the bottom shelf—from where the books had all been removed. Yesterday. In haste. ‘Did you really expect me to fail?’

‘No. You’re a very resourceful lady.’

‘Clever,’ she corrected with a grin. ‘The word is “clever”. No,’ she added softly.

Nathan looked at her, looked at the bookcase, thumped to his bottom and went to investigate the wastepaper basket instead.

‘We’ll have to—’ she began.

‘We?’

Pursing her lips, eyes alight with self-mockery, she corrected, ‘I will have to get someone to screw it to the wall. I called in at the hospital,’ she added quietly. ‘No change. I said you’d be in later.’

He nodded.

Her eyes on the baby, she said, ‘He’s adjusted very well, hasn’t he? It’s only when he wakes up…It breaks my heart,’ she added softly, ‘to see the look of expectancy on his face, as though this time it will be his mother, but then he smiles…He’s such a happy baby.’

‘I thought you didn’t like babies?’ he mocked softly.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like them; I said I didn’t know anything about them. Has he had his lunch?’

He nodded again.

‘Then I’ll take him up for his nap.’ Scooping up the baby, she walked out. Hitching up her skirt, she climbed over the baby-gate and walked slowly upstairs. And, almost against her will, the feel of the warm, squirmy body in her arms woke something inside that she thought would never again entirely sleep. She’d never had very much to do with babies, and would have said, even as little as a week ago, that she wasn’t maternal. And yet this energetic little scrap was beginning to tug on her heartstrings as no one else ever had.

Gently stroking his hair, she walked into his bedroom and laid him in his cot. ‘Go to sleep,’ she ordered softly as she bent to give him a kiss. Putting a light blanket over him, she smiled into the big blue eyes staring up at her. He was beautiful, and appealing, and he made her want to smile. Even Adam wasn’t immune, though he tried to pretend he was.

Walking across to the window, she drew the curtains. Picking up the baby alarm, she went quietly out. Back in her own room, she changed out of her suit into a loose skirt and top, shoved her feet into flat, comfy sandals, clipped the alarm to her belt, and went down to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee from Lydia.

The housekeeper wasn’t a great one for chatting, but then neither was Claris. Accepting her coffee with a smile, she walked back to the study. Adam still stood in the centre of the floor, wiping his hands, a look of distraction on his strong face. And the phone was ringing.

Picking up the receiver, she listened, nodded, then agreed quietly, ‘That will be fine.’ Replacing the phone, she scribbled a note in the diary and then glanced at her employer. He had moved to stare through the door into the side garden. ‘Mackenzie will come and see you about the land on Friday afternoon,’ she told him.

He gave an absent nod and began to walk out, no doubt to continue tinkering with his old car. The old car that was entered in the endurance rally to be held the following month. The rally he would now have to miss.

Seconds later he was back.

‘That woman’s out there,’ he informed her, almost accusingly.

Her lips twitched. ‘Which woman?’

‘Puce.’

‘Puce?’ she asked in bewilderment as he headed towards the hall, and then realised who he meant. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m going to have a shower.’

‘Adam,’ she warned.

Ignoring her, he continued out, and she heard his soft footsteps as he ascended the stairs.

Moments later Lydia appeared, to tell her that a Mrs Staple Smythe was here.

With yet another invitation? Claris wondered. Tempted to tell Lydia to get rid of her, she opened her mouth to do so, and then changed her mind. Perhaps she ought to see her, try and get things onto a warmer footing. Alienating neighbours was never a good plan. ‘Show her into the lounge, would you, Lydia?’ she asked resignedly.

‘Tea? Best china?’

‘I’m tempted to tell you to use chipped mugs, if we had any, which I don’t suppose we do…’

‘I’m sure I could manufacture some,’ Lydia proposed helpfully.

Laughing, Claris shook her head. ‘No, but use the smallest cups you can find. I feel I ought to see her, but I don’t want a prolonged visit.’ Upsetting Mrs Staple Smythe wouldn’t achieve anything, might even do untold harm, and this was why Adam paid her so well, after all: to deal with the minor, and sometimes major irritations in his life. Mrs Staple Smythe, she thought gloomily, was definitely one of the latter ones. But she had clout, Claris had discovered, and if Adam’s life was to run smoothly then the Mrs Staple Smythes of this world couldn’t be entirely ignored. Unfortunately.

Walking across the hall, she observed the other woman unseen for a moment. She looked as though she were mentally pricing every ornament and picture. The puce of last evening had been replaced by yellow. Pearl studs graced her ears, a pearl choker her neck. Rather overdressed for an afternoon visit.

Claris cleared her throat and walked into the room. ‘Mrs Staple Smythe,’ she greeted politely. ‘How nice of you to call. Won’t you sit down? The housekeeper will bring us some tea.’

‘Thank you.’

When she was seated, Claris took the chair opposite.

‘I thought I saw Mr Turmaine…?’ Allowing the question to hang in the air, Mrs Staple Smythe waited.

‘He’s unavailable, I’m afraid. What can I do for you?’

‘I don’t imagine you can do anything for me, Miss Newman,’ she said with a sweetness that grated. ‘It was merely a social call.’

‘I see.’ And reproof that they hadn’t sent a little note to thank her for her party? Deciding that offence was better than defence, Claris added, ‘I was just about to pen you a thank-you note. As you can no doubt imagine, having only just moved in, everything has been at sixes and sevens, but there’s really no excuse for my tardiness.’

‘ Your tardiness?’ asked Mrs Staple Smythe pointedly, and then gave a silly little laugh. ‘I get so confused with all these modern arrangements, people living together. “Partners” they call them now, don’t they?’

‘Do they?’ Claris asked unhelpfully.

Not one whit discomfited, and clearly determined to find out all she could, Mrs Staple Smythe continued, ‘Small towns are such a hotbed of gossip. You were seen arriving with the baby, and naturally everyone was—interested.’

‘Naturally,’ Claris agreed.

Glancing at the baby alarm still clipped to Claris’s belt, she asked. ‘He’s yours?’

‘His name’s Nathan,’ Claris answered naughtily, as though she’d misunderstood the question, ‘and here comes Lydia with our tea.’

Smiling at the housekeeper, who could make a clam appear voluble, Claris asked her to put the tray on the small table. Lydia nodded and retreated.

‘She isn’t local,’ Mrs Staple Smythe commented.

‘No. Do you take milk and sugar?’

‘Milk, no sugar. You come from London, do you?’