The Corporate Bridegroom

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the hairdo.’

‘Good decision. I can fix most things,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but an appointment with George on a gala night is not one of them. I’ll see you at the theatre.’

‘Don’t you think it would be more sensible for us to share a car?’

Share? Working with him was going to be difficult enough; she had no intention of extending the time they spent together. ‘Is your concern ecological or financial?’

‘Neither. I simply thought you could brief me about this evening on the way to the theatre. Speaking of which, you put on quite a performance yourself just now,’ he said, keeping step with her and giving her no chance to argue. ‘You nearly had me fooled.’

She had no way of telling whether he meant her performance pretending to be scared, or her performance covering up the fact that she was totally terrified. ‘Only nearly?’

‘How many jumps have you made?’

She smiled as she stopped and turned to hail a passing taxi. There was something very pleasing in the discovery that he wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought he was.

‘I’ll see you at the theatre, Niall,’ she said as she climbed aboard, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Romana, swathed in a dark-red salon wrapper, regarded herself in the mirror, searching vainly for some clue as to what about her appearance had so irritated Niall Macaulay.

It couldn’t just have been the incident with the coffee that had made him so surly. It had, after all, been an accident. Unfortunate, perhaps, especially in view of the subsequent meeting, but in the travails of life it was nothing. Less than nothing.

A kind man would have said so. A generous man would at the very least have allowed her to apologise before walking away.

But he wasn’t kind, or generous. Oh, he’d been quick to cover himself with his offer of sponsorship—quick to pay up, too. Her flash of guilt was immediately squashed. When you had money to spare, that kind of generosity was easy. Her father had always been swift to put his signature on a cheque for birthdays or at Christmas, when all she’d really wanted was for him to hug her, tell her that he loved her. He’d never seemed capable of managing anything quite that difficult.

George appeared in the mirror behind her. ‘Big day, Romana,’ he said.

‘A bad day.’ First bungee-jumping. Then a haircut. How much worse could one day get?

‘No sacrifice is too great to promote the store.’

‘This is as far as I’m prepared to go,’ she assured him. The haircut was all part of the week of publicity for the store and had been planned for months. Faced with proving her total commitment, she knew nothing would make a more public statement than cutting her trademark hair to publicise the salon.

The stylist hesitated, apparently not eager to be the cause of bitter tears of regret. ‘You’re really sure about this? I should warn you that while your girlfriends will love it—’

‘Great. They’re the ones to impress. Let’s do it.’ Still he hesitated. ‘Come on, George, I haven’t got all day.’

‘You do realise that the men in your life will hate it?’

‘Who has the time for men?’

‘Friends, acquaintances, your father?’

‘I stopped being Daddy’s little girl when I was four.’ When her mother had found someone younger, better-looking, even titled…

‘Any man you’ve ever met, then. Any man who’s ever seen your photograph in the gossip mags. You must be aware that half the men in London are in love with your hair. They’ll want to lynch me—’

‘What’s a little pain if it means you’ll get your picture in the papers?’ Still he hesitated. ‘For heaven’s sake, George, it’s just hair. Cut it.’

And for the second time that day she closed her eyes.

Niall Macaulay looked up at the impressive façade of Claibourne & Farraday. Once a small emporium catering exclusively to the aristocracy, it had, over the generations, expanded until it occupied one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in London.

Jordan was obsessed with the need to reclaim it for the sake of family pride. Bram’s mind took a more logical path—the Farraday claim had to be protected in the face of a raft of new legislation.

A new agreement, something more equitable, would certainly put an end to the feud mentality that had prevailed among the older generation since control of the store had shifted from the Farradays to the Claibournes. It had been at a time when the women’s movement had been gaining ground, and Jordan’s mother had expected her claim to be taken seriously. Jordan had never forgiven Peter Claibourne for brushing her aside, and Jordan had been brought up listening to her complaining about it.

Niall’s own desire to claim the ‘golden share’ had nothing to do with sentiment. Romana Claibourne was right. He wanted control so that they would be in a position to liquidise the assets and reinvest the money in something less subject to the whim of public taste. The retail sector was a minefield, definitely not a place for the unwary.

With a nod to the doorman who opened one of the huge doors for him, he paused on the threshold to gain his bearings. While one of C&F’s burgundy and gold liveried vans delivered his weekly groceries, it had been more than four years since he’d actually walked around the store.

He’d been with Louise. Choosing china, bedlinen, touring the departments, making a wedding list. He’d left all the decisions to her… It was to be her house; he’d wanted her to have everything just as she wanted it. All he’d wanted to do was watch her. Be with her. See her lovely face change from query as she turned to ask his opinion, knowing his answer would be the same— “You choose” —to just a smile…

He ached at the memory, but that happiness was long gone. And this would be his last opportunity to reacquaint himself with the store—check out any changes—as if he was just one more browsing customer. After tomorrow everyone would know who he was.

He’d better make the most of it. And, as he’d missed lunch, he’d begin by checking out the restaurants.

Romana reached up on automatic, and flinched when her hand encountered nothing but space where her hair had once been.

‘Eat this and stop fussing, Romana. Your hair looks wonderful.’ Molly handed her a sandwich she’d brought up from the Buttery, hoping to tempt her to a late lunch. ‘George is a genius.’

‘I know. I’ll get used to it. Probably. Any last-minute panics? How’s it going at the theatre?’

‘Relax. The programmes have been delivered, the florists are arranging for England and the caterers are all set. No one has cancelled. Everything is running like silk.’

‘Those are words calculated to freeze the blood in my veins.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘That’s an impossibility.’

‘Honestly, everything’s organised to the last full-stop.’ Then, ‘I saw your hunk, by the way. In the Buttery when I picked up your sandwich.’

Romana frowned. ‘My hunk? Since when did I have a hunk to call my own?’

‘Well, not so much a hunk,’ Molly replied maddeningly. ‘He’s more your James Bond type. Tall, dark and deadly. If he were shadowing me he wouldn’t be eating alone.’

‘What?’ Then, belatedly catching on, ‘Are you telling me that Niall Macaulay is in the store?’

‘Well, yes. I assumed you’d come back together. You didn’t know he was here?’

‘No, I did not. Of all the sneaky… Did he see you?’

‘I don’t think so. He was talking to someone on his mobile, and after your toe-curling suggestion that I was smitten with him there was no way I was going across to ask if he was enjoying his lunch. He might he gorgeous to look at, but you’re right—he is a bit daunting. Not the kind of man you’d wave at in a restaurant on such short acquaintance.’

‘I wouldn’t wave at him if I were drowning. Call Security, please, Molly.’

She looked aghast. ‘You’re not going to have him thrown out!’