Bombshell For The Boss: The Bride's Baby

‘For his money rather than his name, apparently, since she chose not to relinquish her own.’

For a moment there, when the word charity had been invoked, he’d found himself on the back foot but he quickly rallied. These people stood for everything he loathed.

Privilege, inherited wealth, a belief in their own innate superiority.

People for whom charity meant nothing more than another social event.

For a while he’d been dazzled too. Then completely blinded. But he had both feet firmly back on the ground now.

‘It’ll take more than playing charity queen to get Lady Annika back inside Longbourne Court,’ he said.

‘Well, actually Lady Annika—’

‘I mean it,’ he cut in, not interested in her ladyship. ‘Give the Ribbon mob a donation if you think they’re doing a good job, but get rid of her. And her Fayre with a y and an e.’ He snorted with disgust. ‘Why do they spell it like that?’

‘Beats me,’ she replied, ‘but I’m afraid you’re stuck with it. Even if it wasn’t far too late to ungive permission, I wouldn’t. Celebrity magazine are covering the event—which is why we need a dress rehearsal so that they can get photographs. Your conference centre is about to get the kind of publicity that money just can’t buy.’

‘You didn’t know I was planning a conference centre.’

‘Oh, please! What else are you going to do with it? Live here? On your own? Besides, our favourite architect, Mark Hilliard, sent me a sheaf of forms from the Planning Department.’

‘He didn’t waste any time!’ Then, realising that Pam was looking at him a little oddly, ‘Which is good. I stressed the need to get on with it when I spoke to him.’

‘Oh? You managed to find time to speak to your architect.’

‘It was a matter of priorities. The sooner we get started on this, the better.’

‘In that case, the publicity is good news.’

‘You think? This may come as a surprise to you, Pam, but the people—the women—who read gossip magazines, who go to Wedding Fayres, spelled with a y and an e, do not organise conferences.’

‘I arrange conferences,’ she pointed out.

‘You are different.’

‘Of course I’m not. And I never miss an edition of Celebrity.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Am I?’ She didn’t bother to reassure him, just said, ‘You’re nothing but an old-fashioned misogynist at heart, aren’t you, Tom?’

‘You can’t get around me with compliments—’

‘And maybe the teeniest bit of a snob?’

‘A snob!’ On the contrary, he was the self-made man whose bride-to-be had decided that, once spending his money—egged on by her old school chum, Miss Smith—had lost its novelty, and the mists of lust had cleared, he wasn’t good enough to marry.

‘An inverted one,’ she elaborated, as if that was any better.

‘I’m a realist, Pam.’

‘Oh, right, that would be the realist who fell off the edge of the earth six months ago, leaving me to hold the fort?’

‘Which disproves your misogynist theory. If I disliked women, why would I leave you in charge while I took some much needed time out? Unlike you, I don’t take three holidays a year. And why would I have appointed you as my CEO in the first place? Besides, I kept in touch.’

‘Because I’m damn good at my job,’ she said, answering the first two parts of his question. ‘But, for your information, the occasional email to keep me up to date with the real estate you’ve been vacuuming up on whichever continent you happened to be at the time so that I could deal with the paperwork, is not keeping in touch.’

‘I’m sure I sent you a postcard from Rio,’ he said. The only one he really remembered was the one he hadn’t sent.

‘“Wish you were here”? Chance would have been a fine thing. Besides, I wanted to know how you were.’ Then, ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘I’m fine, okay!’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘Truly. But I decided that since I was taking a break I might usefully expand my empire while I was about it.’

‘That’s not expanding your empire, it’s called displacement activity,’ Pam said, giving him what his grandmother would have described as an old-fashioned look. ‘If you were a woman, you’d have bought shoes.’

‘Which proves my point about women,’ he said. ‘Real estate is a much better investment.’

‘And, assuming you were thinking at all, which I take leave to doubt,’ Pam continued, ignoring that and returning to the third part of his question, ‘I’d suggest it’s because you don’t think of me as a woman at all.’

‘Which is the highest compliment I could pay you.’

‘Is that right? And you’re surprised that Candy Harcourt dumped you?’

Surprised was not actually the first word that had come to mind. Relieved … Evading the question, he said, ‘So, is this Wedding Fayre your idea of payback for leaving you to do your job?’

‘Well, if I’d known you were going to be here, that would definitely have been a bonus. As it is, like you, I was being realistic. This is business. I am doing my job. Looking after your interests in your absence.’ She gave him a long, hard look. ‘And, as my last word on that subject, I suggest you go down on your knees and thank Candida Harcourt—or should I say The Honourable Mrs Quentin Turner Lyall—for letting you off the hook.’

‘She actually married him?’

‘It’s true love, according to Celebrity.’ Then, when he scowled at the mention of the magazine, ‘Be grateful,’ she said, misunderstanding his reaction. ‘Divorce would have cost you a lot more than the fancy wedding she ran out on.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He dragged his hair back from his forehead. It immediately flopped over his forehead again. It needed cutting …

‘It’s not you that I doubt.’ She shrugged. ‘Impoverished aristocracy are always a risk. Marrying for money goes with the territory. In the old days they had no choice but to stick with the deal, but these days divorce is just as profitable. Not that I’m suggesting your only attraction was fiscal.’

‘In other words, she was just amusing herself with a bit of rough? Got carried away for a moment …’

Something else she had in common with her old school chum, Sylvie Smith. No wonder she’d cried. He’d only lost Candy while her indiscretion could have lost her the ermine and the guaranteed seat at the next coronation …

Pam raised her hands in a gesture that could have meant anything but, taking the opportunity to change the subject, he indicated the noises off in the entrance hall.

‘I appear to have no choice but to accept that this is a done deal. How long is it going to last?’

‘The Fayre? It’ll all be over by Monday.’

‘A week? I’ve got to put up with pink ribbons on my gates for a week?’ he demanded.

‘Be glad this isn’t Italy—everyone would be congratulating you on the birth of a daughter.’