The Trouble with Valentine's

‘Yes.’ Hallie felt a smile coming on. ‘So what do you think?’

‘Try it on.’

And then when she did and his eyes narrowed and his face grew carefully impassive. ‘No?’ she asked. ‘It’s probably not the look you were after.’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘It is.’

Still she hesitated. ‘It’s very—’

‘Elegant,’ he said. ‘Understated. Just what we’re looking for.’

Elegant, eh? Not a term she’d normally use to describe herself. She’d won the right to choose her own clothes in her late teens and in typical teenager fashion she’d headed straight for the shortest skirts and the brightest, tightest tops. Okay, so she’d matured a little since then—she did have some loose-fitting clothes somewhere in her wardrobe but truth was they didn’t often see daylight. She had never, ever, worn anything as classy as this. The suit clung to her every curve, the material was soft and luxurious beneath her hands, like cashmere only not. Even the colour wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. And yet …

‘It’s not really me though, is it?’ she said.

‘Think of it as a costume,’ said Nick. ‘Think corporate wife.’

‘I don’t know any corporate wives.’ Hallie turned to Clea, who was busily browsing a rack of clothes. ‘Unless you’re one?’

‘No!’ said Nick hastily. ‘She’s not!’

‘It’s very grey, isn’t it, dear,’ said Clea, who glittered like a Vegas slot machine in her gold trousers and blood-red chiffon shirt with its strategically placed psychedelic gold swirls.

‘Greyer than a Chinese funeral vase,’ agreed Hallie glumly. ‘Do you have anything a bit more cheerful?’ she asked the saleswoman.

‘What about this?’ said Clea, holding up a boldly flowered silk sundress in fuchsia, lime and ivory. ‘This is pretty.’

‘Why my mother?’ muttered Nick. ‘Why couldn’t we have brought along your mother?’

‘She died when I was six,’ said Hallie, and waited for the silence that always came. She didn’t mind talking about it, honest. She barely remembered her mother but the memories she did have were good ones.

‘Sorry,’ said Nick quietly. ‘You said you’d been raised by your father and brothers but I didn’t make the connection. Try it on.’

And when she did …

‘She’ll take it,’ he told the saleswoman, and Clea nodded her agreement. ‘That’s non- negotiable,’ he said to Hallie.

So much for the rules of shopping. The dashing Nicholas Cooper had a bossy streak she was more than familiar with. ‘Lucky for you I happen to agree.’

‘His father had excellent taste in clothes as well,’ said Clea. ‘Bless his soul.’

But Hallie wasn’t listening. She was looking at herself in the mirror and her reflection was frowning right back at her as she turned and twirled, first one way and then the other. Finally, hands on hips, she turned to Nick.

‘Does this dress make me look fat?’

Two hours later, Hallie and Clea had purchased enough clothes for a six-month stint on the QEII and as far as Nick was concerned he was neither the boring geek Hallie had accused him of being when he made her get the dove-grey suit, nor the skinflint his mother claimed. No, for a man to endure so much and complain so little, he was quite simply a saint.

‘So where to now? Are we done?’ said Hallie after they’d seen Clea to her Mercedes and watched her drive away. ‘Is there anything you need?’

‘A bar,’ he muttered with heartfelt sincerity.

‘Good call,’ said Hallie. ‘I’ll come too. I never realised boutique shopping was such thirsty work. Mind you, I’ve never bought more than a couple of items of clothes at any one time before either. Who knew?’

‘You’re not going to rehash every dress decision you just made, are you?’

‘Who, me?’ She was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Only if you insist.’

Nick shuddered, spotted a sports bar a few doors up and practically bolted for the door. He needed a drink, somewhere to sit. Somewhere with dark wood, dark carpet, dim lighting, good Scotch and no mirrors. He needed it bad.

‘Ah,’ said Hallie as she slid into the booth beside him. ‘Very nice.’

‘You don’t find it a little too … masculine?’

‘Nope. Feels pretty homely to me. I have four brothers, remember?’

‘Trust me, I hadn’t forgotten. Where do they live?’

‘Wherever their work takes them. Luke’s a Navy diver midway through a three-year stint in Guam, Pete’s flying charter planes in Greece, Jake runs a Martial Arts Dojo in Singapore, and Tristan lives here in London. He’s the one I’m staying with while I do my course.’

‘Tristan?’ After Pete, Luke and Jake, a brother named Tristan sounded somewhat incongruous. ‘What does Tristan do?’

‘He works for Interpol.’

‘Paper pusher?’

‘Black ops,’ she corrected. ‘Somewhere along the line Tris was seconded by some special law enforcement group. I forget the name.’ Not quite the truth. Truth was, Hallie had never been told who Tristan worked for these days. She tried not to let that bother her. ‘But he’s a pussycat really.’

Sure he was. All black ops specialists were pussycats. It was such a caring, non-confrontational profession. ‘You know, maybe I need a different type of wife for Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘Maybe I need a brunette.’

‘I was a brunette once,’ said Hallie. ‘The hairdresser was a young guy, just starting out and we decided to experiment. He left the salon not long after that.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’m sure Tris wouldn’t really have castrated him.’

Maybe he was doomed. ‘Or a blonde,’ he muttered. ‘I could always replace you with a blonde.’

‘Ha. You can’t fool me. You’re not going to replace me now; you’d have to go clothes shopping again.’

Nick shuddered. She was right. Replacing her was out of the question.

‘Besides,’ she continued blithely, ‘It’s not as if I’m going to be telling any of my brothers the finer details of our little arrangement. They wouldn’t understand.’

On this they were in total accord.

‘So tell me about your family,’ she said, deftly changing the focus back to him and his. ‘When did your father die?’

‘Two years ago. He was a property developer.’

‘And Clea? You said she wasn’t a corporate wife. What does she do?’

‘Many people find it hard to believe but she’s an architect. A very good one.’