The Corporate Bridegroom

‘You’re not working today?’ He glanced at her shopping bags in a manner that suggested he wouldn’t need a month to discover everything there was to know about her. His look suggested that he’d had her all weighed up from the moment half a carton of latte had taken the shine off his shoes.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Hadn’t you better tell the driver where you want to go?’

‘I really think it might be wiser if I faxed you a list of what I’ll be doing for the rest of the month,’ she replied firmly, ignoring his suggestion.

‘I’m sure it will make interesting reading. But I particularly want to see what you’re doing today.’

She doubted that. She really doubted that. A little shiver of fear erupted as a giggle. ‘It’s very commendable of you to take this so seriously.’

‘I take everything seriously. I’m certainly not the kind of man who believes he has nothing left to learn. Even from you,’ he added.

‘That’s very generous of you.’ Her smile disguised a level of sarcasm that she rarely stooped to. Could it be catching?

‘You are working today?’ he repeated. ‘You do draw a full-time salary?’

He made it sound as if she was somehow cheating. Taking the money but not putting in the work.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I draw a full-time salary.’ And today she was going to earn every penny, she thought, as she leaned forward to give the cab driver their destination.

India had been surprised that the Farradays had bought her delaying tactic, and it suddenly occurred to Romana that perhaps things weren’t quite as simple as had first appeared. Why else would three busy men give up so much time to shadow three young women who could teach them nothing?

Niall Macaulay had already admitted that they wouldn’t be running the store, but putting in their own management team. Did they need to prove the Claibourne women incompetent before they could hope to dislodge them from the boardroom?

But they weren’t incompetent. So everything was just dandy…

‘Miss Claibourne?’

‘What? Oh… You want to see how I earn it?’ she asked.

‘You made a big pitch back there about how hard you all work. How nobody else could do the job.’

‘I didn’t say nobody. But I don’t believe an investment banker could easily step into my shoes.’ Not this investment banker, anyway. Public relations required warmth. An ability to smile even when you didn’t feel much like it.

‘Well, you’ve got a month to convince me. Perhaps you shouldn’t waste the time.’

She glanced at him, startled by the grimness of his tone. The man certainly knew how to bear a grudge. ‘You’re quite sure about this? You wouldn’t like to reconsider?’ she asked, offering him a final chance to escape an experience she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. She’d be happy to make an exception in his case, but she didn’t want him crying foul afterwards.

‘On the contrary. I’d be interested to see what you do for the fat salary you draw on top of your share of the profits. It’s not a problem, is it?’

It was the word ‘fat’ that sealed his fate. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt. ‘Be my guest.’ And she dug out her cellphone and pressed a fast-dial number. ‘Molly, I’m on my way. Make sure there’s a spare C&F sweatshirt available.’ She eyed the man next to her. ‘Forty-four chest?’ He made no comment on her estimate, merely regarded her suspiciously through narrowed eyes. ‘That’ll do. Better make it extra long. And I’ll need an extra chair in my box tonight for another guest. Niall Macaulay.’ She spelt it out. ‘Include him in everything this week, will you? And you’ll have to double up all arrangements for the rest of the month. I’ll explain when I see you.’

‘Tonight?’ He was regarding her through narrowed eyes. ‘What’s happening tonight?’

‘A charity gala. Today is the start of a week of JOY, which is why your arrival is so untimely.’

‘JOY?’ Niall Macaulay looked slightly bemused. ‘Should I know what that is?’

‘A word for delight, pleasure, merriment?’ she offered. ‘It’s also the name of the Claibourne & Farraday charity support event that we started a couple of years ago. It’s a great public relations opportunity,’ she added pointedly.

‘Oh, yes. I remember reading about it in the annual report.’

What else? ‘We do it every year and raise a lot of cash for under-privileged children.’

‘And get a lot of free publicity at the same time.’

At last! ‘It’s not exactly free. You wouldn’t believe the cost of balloons these days. And sweatshirts. But it’s good value for money, especially for the children. Of course we do have a very good public relations department.’ She smiled at him, but only because that seemed to annoy him most. ‘You didn’t think this was a nine-to-five job, did you? I don’t keep bank hours, I’m afraid.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry, will your wife be expecting you home?’ She was catching onto this sarcastic lark. She was rather afraid she might get to enjoy it.

‘I’m not married, Miss Claibourne,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t been for some time.’

Romana wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

CHAPTER TWO

NIALL took out his mobile phone and called his secretary, reorganising his schedule for the rest of the day, dealing with queries that wouldn’t wait. At least the evening presented no problems. His date with a report on the steel industry would keep.

Romana was making calls too. One after another. Talking to an endless stream of people involved in the gala, checking last-minute details about flowers and programmes and seating.

It was possible she was attempting to impress him. Or maybe she was simply avoiding conversation. For that, at least, he should be grateful.

Staring out at the passing streets as the driver edged slowly through the city in the heavy midday traffic, he had plenty of time to regret the impulse that had prompted him to follow Romana Claibourne out of the office.

Heaven alone knew that he didn’t want to spend a minute in her company that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He had precious little time for ditzy blondes at the best of times. He had none at all for those who played at being ‘company director’ in the little time they could spare from shopping. He glanced at the designer label carrier bags, scattered about her long, narrow feet.

Encased in designer shoes with a price ticket to reflect the label, he had no doubt.

His lip curled at such conspicuous extravagance even while the man in him recognised the beauty of the feet, the slender ankles and the legs to which they were attached. There was a lot of leg to admire—Romana Claibourne clearly didn’t believe in hiding her best features.

She was pushing back her wild, thick mane of curls when she realised that he was staring at her. Every instinct warned him to turn away as she paused, querying his look. Instead, he did what he knew would most irritate her. He raised one brow…bored, unimpressed…and turned back to the more interesting view of passing traffic.

A charity gala, no matter how good the cause, wasn’t his idea of work. It wasn’t even his idea of fun. Such events were right at the bottom of his ‘must-do’ list. He’d far rather send a cheque and pass on the manufactured glamour.

But he could scarcely complain. She’d given him every opportunity to escape, offered to sort out the shadowing in a civilised manner; he’d simply assumed she was trying to get rid of him in order to get on with whatever that overnight bag had been packed for.

It was too late now to wish he’d simply asked her what she was doing for the rest of day. There was just something about the girl, the way she looked at him with those big blue eyes as if she was used to twisting men around her little finger and having them sit up and beg for more. He’d wanted her to know that he was made of sterner stuff.

The taxi finally came to a halt just upstream of Tower Bridge, where the burgundy and gold livery of Claibourne & Farraday was much in evidence on balloons and sweatshirts and a huge crowd was being whipped up into a state of wild excitement for the television cameras.

‘We’re here, Mr Macaulay.’

‘Niall, please,’ he said. Not out of any desire for informality, but because a whole month of being addressed as “Mr Macaulay” in a manner just short of insolent was not going to improve his temper.

And he could see for himself that they’d arrived.

It was what they were going to be doing that bothered him. Then, as he stepped out of the taxi and saw the C&F banner draped over the length of a very tall crane and a huge sign inviting participants to ‘Jump for JOY’, it became blindingly obvious.

He discovered that charity galas were not, after all, at the bottom of his list.