Miss Prim and the Billionaire

Hilarity? Yes. It had been a joy and a joke at the same time—exhausting each other, triumphing over each other, never knowing who was the winner, except that they both were.

‘Cassie, my sweet beloved, why do you tease me?’

‘To get you to do what I wanted, of course.’

‘And did I do it to your satisfaction?’

‘Let’s try again and I’ll let you know.’

‘You clearly believe that business comes before pleasure,’ he told her now in a voice that the years hadn’t changed. He spoke English well, but with the barest hint of a French accent that had always enchanted her.

How many women, she wondered, had been enchanted by it since?

‘Smith recommended you to me in the highest possible terms,’ Marcel continued. ‘He said nobody knew as much about my new property as you.’

‘I hope I can live up to Mr Smith’s praise,’ she said primly.

‘I’m sure you will.’ His reply was courteous and mechanical.

‘Do you mean to make the hotel similar to La Couronne?’

‘I see you’ve been doing your homework. Excellent. There will be similarities. I aim to provide many facilities, like a conference centre.’

‘I wonder if the building is big enough for that.’

‘I agree. There will need to be expansion. I want the best firm of builders you can recommend.’

For a while he continued to talk about his plans, which were ambitious, and she made notes, not even raising her head when the waiter appeared with their tonic water.

Her hand, and one part of her brain, were working automatically. There was nothing in him to suggest recognition, no tension, no brightening of the eyes. His oblivion was so total that she even wondered if she was mistaken and he wasn’t her Marcel after all. But when she stole a sideways glance she knew there had been no mistake. The shape of his head, the curve of his lips, the darkness of his eyes; all these she knew, even at a distance of years.

This was her Marcel.

Yet no longer hers.

And no longer really Marcel.

The same was true of her. Cassie was gone for ever and only Mrs Henshaw remained.

He moved and she hastened to bury herself in her work. When she dared to look up he had filled her glass. In her best businesslike voice she said, ‘I happen to know that the owner of the building next door has been thinking of selling.’

‘That would be useful for my expansion. Give me the details and I’ll approach him. Do you have any more information?’

She scribbled some details and passed them to him.

‘Excellent. I’m sure Smith told you that I need an assistant to work with me on this project. You’d do better than anyone.’

‘That’s very impulsive. Don’t you need more time to think about it?’

‘Not at all. The right decisions are very quickly made. And so they should be.’

For a moment she was fired with temptation. To take the job, be with him day after day, with him not knowing who she was. The prospect was so enticing as to be scary.

But she could not. She must not.

‘It’s impossible,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Why? Would your husband object? He doesn’t mind you working for Smith.’

‘I’m divorced.’

‘So you’re the mistress of your own destiny and can do as you choose.’

She almost laughed aloud. Once she’d imagined exactly the same, and been shown otherwise in the most brutal fashion.

‘Nobody chooses their own destiny,’ she said. ‘We only think we do. Wise people remember that.’

He gave her a curious look. ‘Are you wise, Mrs Henshaw?’ ‘Sooner or later we all become wise, don’t we?’ ‘Some of us.’

As he said it he looked directly at her. She met his eyes, seeking recognition in them, but seeing only a blank. Or merely a weariness and disillusion that matched her own.

‘Things are moving fast in the property world,’ he said, ‘as I’m sure you know. When I tell Smith that I’ve decided to employ you I’m sure he’ll release you quickly.’

He’d decided, she noted. No suggestion that she had a decision to make.

‘I need a little time to think,’ she hedged. ‘I’ll pay you twice what you’re getting now.’ ‘I could lie about the amount.’

‘And I could check with him. I won’t, though, I trust you. Don’t worry, I’m a hard taskmaster. I’ll get full value from you.’

‘Now, look—’

‘I won’t take no for an answer. Fine, that’s settled.’ ‘It is not,’ she said, her temper rising. ‘Please don’t try to tell me what to do.’

‘As your employer I shall expect to.’ ‘But you’re not my employer.’ ‘I soon will be.’

He’d always liked his own way, she recalled, but he’d used charm. Now charm was gone, replaced by bullying. Perhaps she couldn’t entirely blame him after the way he’d suffered. But still she knew she had to escape.

‘Mr Falcon, I think it’s time you understood—’

‘Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it?’

The words, coming out of nowhere, startled them both. Approaching them was a large man with an air of pathological self-satisfaction.

‘Oh, no,’ she groaned. ‘Not him.’

‘You know this man?’

‘He’s Keith Lanley, part financial journalist, part muckraker. He spends his days scurrying around trying to work out who’s going to go bankrupt next.’