A Suitable Groom

He should have known better. Even up to their eyes in such desperately important last-minute decisions as colour schemes for flowers and balloons, the problem of how they were going to seat three women who had all, at one time or another, been married to the same man, and where in the world they were going to find a small boy who would not object to wearing satin knee breeches, Poppy and Dora, his two darling sisters, had still found time to plot yet more mayhem with which to plague him.

Well, they could plot without him. He refused to take any further part in the proceedings. His club might be dull, but women were excluded from any part of it, and with Dora in temporary possession of his house he was quite prepared to stay there until the wedding. He would have stayed there until after the wedding, until every vestige of confetti had been plucked from the borders, every trace of heel-marks removed from his immaculate lawns by a bad-tempered gardener. Unfortunately, it was his duty to give away the bride and, since duty was something he had never shirked, that small personal revolution was denied him.

He paused at the entrance to the dining car and caught the steward’s eye.

‘Good morning, Mr Kavanagh. We’re a bit full this morning. The ladies seem to be taking advantage of the special discounted fare to visit the spring sales. We don’t usually see you on Friday,’ he said, glancing around, ‘or I’d have kept you a table. I’m afraid you’ll have to share …’

Yet more irritation. He was not in the mood for company. He had been looking forward to a quiet journey, during which he could read the City pages and forget all about his sister and her wedding.

Instead, he found himself being shepherded towards a two-seater table where a woman was perusing the menu.

No, that really was the last straw. The barrier of a newspaper was enough to deter most men from fatuous conversation; women, he knew from experience, were trickier. Bringing up two younger sisters had taught him just how tricky they could be. Peter should really know better than that. But one glance was sufficient to reassure him; the seat opposite her was occupied by a large hatbox. Excuse enough to move on.

He spotted an empty space at the far end of the compartment, but as he turned to point it out to the steward the woman forestalled him.

‘Do move that tiresome hatbox and sit down,’ she invited, in a low, husky voice. She had lowered the menu a little, and was regarding him over the top of it so that he could see a sweep of smooth platinum-blonde hair and a pair of the most extraordinary silver-blue eyes. As he hesitated, torn between a desire to avoid company and common courtesy, the expression in those eyes suggested that she knew precisely what was going through his mind, and was sufficiently entertained by his dilemma to stir the pot a little and see how he coped. ‘I don’t bite,’ she promised, without a trace of a smile.

Under normal circumstances he would simply have murmured something polite but distant and kept on moving. It was her eyes that kept him riveted to the spot, her eyes and her air of authority, of a belief in herself and confidence that he would do exactly as she said. Rare qualities in a woman. Rare enough to divert him from his purpose, although her beauty alone should have been enough for that.

Assured, elegant, she was old enough to be interesting, young enough to turn heads. No. That was wrong. She had the kind of bone structure that would still be turning heads when she was ninety. And she was definitely not going to the spring sales. The heavy grey silk of her skirt was too perfect a complement for her eyes to be a chance bargain, and the pearl studs in her beautifully shaped ears had the lustre that only a natural oyster could produce. A lustre that the lady herself matched to perfection.

He realised with something of a shock that she was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. Yet there was more than beauty; there was a touch of mischief in those eyes that made him absolutely certain that she would prove a far more entertaining companion for the journey than his newspaper. His suddenly heightened pulse-rate was evidence enough of that. The distant table and its promise of a peaceful journey quite suddenly lost its appeal. But eagerness would be a mistake.

‘If you’re quite sure I wouldn’t disturb you? I could easily sit further along—’ The train lurched obligingly just at that moment, so that he was forced to grab the back of her seat. He smiled apologetically. ‘Perhaps I’d better just sit down.’

‘Perhaps you had,’ she agreed, her answering smile polite, nothing more. And yet there was something.

Intrigued, he lifted his overnight bag onto the luggage rack next to a small Vuitton suitcase that presumably was the property of the lady. Then he picked up the hatbox.

It was light, but awkward. Clearly too large for the overhead luggage rack, and there was no room for it beneath the table, although checking this out had given him the opportunity to admire a pair of long, slender legs and narrow, well-shod feet that matched the rest of the lady.

The hatbox, however, remained a challenge to his ingenuity. But not for long.

Thrust into control of a major industrial conglomerate whilst still in his twenties, Fergus Kavanagh did not lack ingenuity, and he had fine-tuned delegation to an art form. He turned and handed the box to the steward.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to find somewhere safe to stow this, Peter,’ he said, then sat down, nodded briefly to his breakfast companion and flicked open his copy of the Financial Times. It was what that reserved creature of habit, the English businessman, would be expected to do, and every instinct was telling him that the lady would not allow him to ignore her for long.

For a moment Veronica regarded the crisply cut dark head of hair, the glimpse of broad forehead and long, rather thin fingers holding the paper—all that was visible of Mr Fergus Kavanagh behind his Financial Times. And she was glad of a moment’s respite.

Her heart was pounding like a drum. She hadn’t felt so nervous since she had negotiated her first big contract. Kavanagh’s business career suggested a man prepared to take a risk, prepared to be unconventional, but on first acquaintance he seemed nerve-rackingly distant, a touch austere.

Yet there was something about the way he was holding his newspaper, a stillness that suggested he was not reading but waiting for her to make a move.

Then there was that promising smile, brief though it had been, fanning laughter lines about his eyes, almost as if he knew … Maybe, beneath the disguise of that pinstriped suit and old-school tie, there beat the heart of an adventurer after all. She certainly hoped so. In fact, she was counting on it.

‘Would you care to look at my menu?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Whilst Peter is disposing of my hat?’

Fergus smiled under cover of his newspaper. He was human enough to enjoy being proved right. The lady’s looks were Grace Kelly cool, but her voice was as sexy as sin—sin leavened with laughter. He suspected that if he peered over his newspaper those silvery eyes would be laughing at him, too, perfectly aware that his initial intention had been to pass her by, delighted that she had waylaid him. But why? She didn’t look like the kind of woman who picked up strangers over the breakfast table, so why did he have the feeling that he had just been caught on a hook and was about to be reeled in?

‘Thank you,’ he replied, gravely polite, glancing at her briefly. Definitely laughing. The deepening creases at the corners of her mouth gave him an odd little lift to his spirits, banishing the black mood in which he had boarded the train. ‘But that won’t be necessary,’ he said, countering her move and then making one of his own. ‘Peter knows what I want.’

He was offering her an opening, and he wondered what she would do with it. Start with a polite question, perhaps? You travel on this train regularly, then? Or maybe it would be disbelief. You mean, you have the same breakfast every day? Or maybe she would take his response as a rebuff and let it go. He didn’t think so. The lady wanted something. Bachelors, wealthy bachelors, developed a sixth sense for such things.

She kept him waiting for a longish pause, during which Fergus found it quite impossible to concentrate on the headline in front of him. Then she said, ‘The piece about your takeover bid is on page fourteen. If that is what you’re looking for.’

Takeover? So, she not only knew who he was, but followed the financial pages. He was right. She was a lot more interesting than the newspaper. He lowered it for the pleasure of looking at her more directly. And she was lovely. More than lovely. There was nothing of the chocolate box beauty about her; it went deeper than that, deeper than bone structure, perfect skin, gleaming hair. There was much more to her than that—character, a mouth quick to laugh, eyes to die for. Being reeled in by this lady, he decided, would be a pleasure.

‘Takeover?’ he queried, taking the bait.

‘Your takeover of GFM Transport. There’s a photograph of you along with the article. Not a very flattering one, I have to admit.’ She paused again. ‘But then, newspaper photographs are always rather lifeless, don’t you think?’ She made the smallest, most expressive of gestures with long, slender fingers. ‘I thought perhaps you were interested in what the FT had to say about it.’ Her shoulders moved imperceptibly in a minimalist shrug. ‘The takeover, that is. But maybe you’re not that bothered.’ Then, when he didn’t immediately reply, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.’ She wasn’t sorry. ‘The journalist suggested that it was an “astute” move,’ she added encouragingly. Not a bit sorry.

‘Astute?’ Fergus folded the newspaper and put it on the table. A woman who read the FT was interesting enough to break through even the legendary reserve of the British male, and he was sure she knew it, had banked on it. ‘He wasn’t concerned that I was tying up capital in something of a sideshow?’ he asked, testing her a little to see whether she had actually read the article, or merely scanned the headline.

‘Is that what your board thought?’ she asked. Some of them. Not that it was any of her business. But it had been the right question.

‘Is that what you think?’

‘It would be presumptuous of me to have any kind of opinion on the matter. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. But I’ve interrupted you for long enough. Please do continue reading your newspaper, Mr Kavanagh.’ She let the line out a little, a skilled angler playing him like a big game fish, taking care not to strike too quickly.

‘Thank you,’ he said, a touch drily, but he continued to regard her thoughtfully as she handed the menu card to Peter and ordered her breakfast. ‘Should I know who you are?’ he asked, once the steward had departed.

‘Should you?’ Veronica’s heart was still beating too fast. Lord, but he was perfect. Exactly the man for the job. He didn’t immediately answer her, taking his turn to keep her waiting. She smiled as she acknowledged his silence … This was a game and she sensed that he knew it. But would he be prepared to play? ‘There’s no reason why you should, Mr Kavanagh. My name is Veronica Grant. I’m Marketing Director for Jefferson Sports.’ And she offered him her hand.

Slim, fine-boned, ringless, her nails polished to a deep plum-coloured perfection—a perfect complement to her lovely mouth, Fergus thought, dragging his mind back from the orchard at Marlowe Court in high summer, and his boyhood raids on the sweet dark fruit that grew there.

But then, everything about her was perfection, from the curve of her platinum-blonde hair to the toes of her handmade shoes.

Jefferson Sports. They had their headquarters in the centre of Melchester, an elegant tower block with an exclusive shopping mall in the atrium. The company had grown out of all recognition since it had been formed by a family of well-known sportsmen to take commercial advantage of their name, but since Nick Jefferson had stepped into the top slot it had begun to spread its wings and take off in a big way. And this woman was part of the team. More than interesting.

‘How d’you do, Miss Grant?’ he said, taking her hand and shaking it solemnly.

‘How d’you do, Mr Kavanagh?’ she replied, with equal gravity. The steward arrived with a large tray. Two boiled eggs, brown toast and China tea for her. A pair of kippers, white toast and coffee for him. ‘Please, do read your newspaper,’ Veronica invited while the steward laid out the food. ‘I shan’t mind a bit. You probably hate conversation over breakfast. Most men seem to.’

He found himself wondering whom she shared her breakfast with. Then rather wishing he hadn’t.

Besides, she shouldn’t make unfounded judgements about him. He was not antisocial over breakfast. When Dora and Poppy stayed over at Marlowe Court, with or without their partners, he was more than happy to talk. Well, usually he was happy to talk. Not today. Today he was furious with the pair of them.

Miss Grant, however, mistook his silence for assent. ‘I’ve disturbed the smooth start to your working day,’ she continued apologetically. ‘I do hope you won’t be short-tempered with your secretary because of me.’

‘I can assure you, Miss Grant, that the smooth running of my day was severely disturbed long before I boarded this train. And, since I’m not going to my office, my secretary is quite safe. But then, she’s far too important to my well-being to be used as a verbal punchbag.’ Her eyes lingered momentarily on his business suit, but she didn’t enquire where he was going, or why. Instead, she began to lightly tap the shell of her egg. Fergus found her lack of curiosity profoundly irritating. Women were supposed to be terminally inquisitive, weren’t they? He buttered his toast and forked up a mouthful of fish. ‘Today,’ he said before he could stop himself, ‘I have to see my tailor.’

That wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t have to visit his tailor today. Any time next week would have done, but it had made as good an excuse as any for fleeing his own house in the middle of his sister’s wedding preparations. Not that Dora had looked as if she had believed him. But then, Dora was irritated at having her plans frustrated.

‘Your tailor?’ Veronica Grant didn’t look as if she believed it, either. ‘Oh. I thought there might be some crisis with the takeover.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Are you an interested stockholder by any chance?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ she said, not in the least intimidated by the sudden fierceness of his answer. ‘Just interested.’