Billionaire, Boss...Bridegroom?

But the man had been kind enough to let her share his taxi, so she didn’t want to be rude to him. Besides, making small talk might distract her enough to stop her worrying about whatever had sent her normally cool and capable big sister into meltdown. She smiled at him. ‘Actually, I’m a graphic designer, and I’m starting work at Insurgo next week.’

‘Are you, now?’

Something about the way he drawled the words made alarm bells ring in the back of her head. But he was a total stranger. She was making something out of nothing. ‘Yes, and I’m really looking forward to it,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘I’ll be designing website graphics, album covers and band merch. Actually, I’m still trying to get my head round the fact that I’ve just been offered my dream job.’ In an ideal world she would’ve preferred to have Insurgo as a client rather than as her employer, but working for someone full-time again meant that she’d have a regular income for a while—and right now she needed a regular income rather more than she needed her freedom.

‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ he asked.

‘Other than a stranger who’s been kind enough to let me share his taxi? No,’ she admitted.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, leaning forward out of the shadows and holding out his hand.

Bella caught her breath. He was gorgeous. Dark hair that was brushed back from his face, cornflower-blue eyes, and the kind of jawline that would’ve made him a hit in any perfume ad. She really had to resist the urge to reach out and trail her fingertips down his clean-shaven cheek. And that mouth. Almost pouting, the sexiest mouth she’d seen in a while.

Almost in a daze, she shook his hand, noting how firm his handshake was. And she studiously ignored the fact that her palm was tingling; after the way Kirk had let her down, she was officially off men. Even if this one was very easy on the eye and was wearing a beautifully cut designer suit, what looked like a handmade white shirt, a silk tie and highly polished Italian shoes.

No involvement.

Full stop.

Because she was never going to let anyone make her feel as foolish and useless as Kirk had made her feel, ever again.

‘Hugh Moncrieff,’ he said, and he waited for the penny to drop.

It took five seconds.

‘Hugh Moncrieff—as in Insurgo’s Hugh Moncrieff?’ Bella asked in horror.

‘That would be me,’ he said. And he looked as if he was enjoying her reaction.

He was her new boss? ‘But—you can’t be.’ Even though it would explain why he’d asked her if she was one of the artists; he must’ve thought that his second-in-command had signed her up in his absence.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you—you—’ She gestured to his suit. ‘You don’t look like an indie record label owner. You look like a stockbroker.’

‘The bank always likes the company’s MD to wear a suit,’ he said mildly. ‘If I’d turned up to the meeting in ripped jeans and an avant-garde T-shirt, with funky hair, they’d have seen me as less of a professional and more of a risk.’

The bank? That nasty feeling got a lot worse. If he’d been to the bank for a meeting, all dressed up, at this time on a Friday evening, did that mean the company was in trouble and her job would be over before it had even started?

Her fears must’ve shown on her face, because he said, ‘It’s our annual review, and I went for a drink with a business contact afterwards. Don’t look so worried. So you’re my new graphic designer?’

‘Bella Faraday,’ she said. ‘And I’m very good at what I do.’

‘I expect you are, or Tarquin wouldn’t have hired you,’ he said dryly.

‘So what are you doing in a taxi, when you own a record label? Why don’t you have your own car, or a limo or something to drive you around?’ The question was out before she could stop herself and she groaned inwardly. Way to go, Bella, she thought. Just grill your new boss, two minutes after you insulted him by saying he didn’t look like the owner of an indie record label. Carry on like this and you’ll be picking up your cards on Monday morning instead of starting your job.

So much for never letting herself feel foolish again. Right now she felt like a prize idiot.

‘That’s an easy one.’ He smiled. ‘My car happens to be in the local garage, having something fixed. I’d rather put my money into the business than waste it by hiring a flashy limo to do little more than wait around for me all day. Hence the taxi.’

Bella could feel the colour swishing through her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my place to question you. Look, um, please ask the cabbie to pull over and drop me off, and I’ll get out of your way and find myself another taxi.’

‘You said it was urgent—a family thing.’

‘It is.’

‘Then let me get you to the hotel. Tarquin obviously overran with the interviews and made you late in the first place, so it’s Insurgo’s fault.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she said. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But right at that moment she was more worried about Grace than about making a good impression on her new boss, so she’d accept the offer. ‘But thank you for the lift. I really appreciate this.’

‘No problem.’

She texted Grace swiftly.

In taxi now. Wait for me in Reception.

Finally the taxi driver pulled up outside the Bramerton Hotel.

‘Thank you again, Mr Moncrieff,’ she said politely. ‘How much do I owe you for the cab fare?’

‘Nothing. You’re practically on my way,’ he said.

‘Thank you. Really. And I’ll work late every night next week to make up for it,’ she said, and left the taxi before she could say anything else stupid.

When she walked into the reception area, Grace was waiting there, white-faced and silent. And there was no sign of Howard. Why wasn’t Grace’s fiancé waiting with her? Had something happened to Howard? No, of course not, or Grace would’ve said something in her texts. Not just that single word: Help, followed by rejecting Bella’s call and sending a second text: Can’t talk now. And now Bella was seriously worried. What on earth had happened?

But Grace had been right about one thing. They couldn’t talk about it here. Not with Howard’s parents’ golden wedding anniversary going on in one of the function rooms. Whatever it was, Bella had her sister’s back. And they were leaving. Now.

‘Come on. Let’s get out of here,’ Bella said softly, put her arm round Grace and led her out of the hotel.

Back in the street, she looked around for a taxi.

Then she realised that the taxi that had dropped her off was still waiting at the kerb, exactly where she’d left it. And Hugh Moncrieff was still there too, though he’d moved seats so that his back was to the cabbie. He wound the window down and beckoned them over. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

‘But—’ she began.

‘Everything’s clearly not OK,’ he said softly, looking at Grace, ‘so I’ll drop you and...your sister, I presume?’ At her nod, he continued, ‘I’ll drop you where you need to go. What’s the address?’

Bella definitely didn’t want to leave Grace alone tonight, and her own flat wasn’t big enough for two. Biting her lip, she gave him Grace’s address. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘We both really appreciate this. Especially as you didn’t have to wait.’

‘No problem.’

She helped Grace into the car. Grace still hadn’t said a word. Worried, Bella took her hand and squeezed it; but Grace didn’t return the pressure. And this time nobody seemed disposed to make any small talk. With every second, Bella felt more and more awkward.

Then, just as the taxi turned into Grace’s road, Grace threw up. All over Hugh’s posh Italian shoes and suit trousers.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled.