The Millionaire's Daughter

‘Architect.’

Larsen glanced down at her, surprised. ‘The architect. He’s designed Tony’s imperial palace on the river. Didn’t you know?’

‘Sorry,’ Annis said, not sounding it. ‘Lost the plot on that one. Too busy. I’ve been setting up my own business, you know.’

Laszlo, a banker, did know. All too soon he was telling Konstantin how brilliant she was, how her clients sang her praises. He went on until his hostess claimed his attention.

Annis drew a relieved breath and debated whether she dared risk picking up her coffee again. She looked at the high tide in the saucer and decided against it.

‘Why am I so clumsy?’ she asked the air.

‘Why worry? It clearly doesn’t affect your success.’

Annis turned her head. She wasn’t flattered. Their private battle wasn’t over yet. They both knew it. So she was deeply suspicious when he paid her a compliment.

‘Success?’

‘If you’ve got de la Court on the books, you’re a success,’ he said positively.

‘You know him?’

‘We have a lot in common. Small operation. High technology. Unique personal vision. Probably both geniuses, if he’s on your books, maybe I could use you.’

‘You could use a modesty transplant,’ said Annis, outraged.

He was still pursuing his own line of thought. ‘There seems to be a problem in the London office and I don’t know what it is. Do you think you could handle it?’

Annis was tempted to say a number of things she would probably regret later. But Roy was teaching her caution.

‘Depends,’ she said not very graciously.

Konstantin looked amused. ‘A good consultant’s answer. No promises, no commitment.’

Annis curbed her irritation. ‘I mean it depends on the problem.’

He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Look,’ she said with heat, ‘I’ve seen everything from geriatric product to a homicidal manager. I can make suggestions about new product lines. I’ve no cure for mania.’

‘Oh, that wouldn’t be a problem for us,’ he said airily. ‘There’s no manager in the London office.’

Annis stared. ‘You’re joking, right?’

He looked faintly annoyed. ‘Why should I be? Cut into the twenty-first century, Ms Carew. This is the digital age. We talk all round the world by tickling a mouse. Managers are an anachronism. Now, want to take us on?’

Well, that was probably the answer to his problem, Annis thought. Whether he would accept it, of course, was another matter. She had met self-willed geniuses before and they did not make rewarding clients. She pursed her lips.

‘We’ve got a lot on at the moment…’

He did not moderate his triumph. ‘I thought not.’

She narrowed her eyes and fixed him like a gimlet. ‘But I can see that this one could be a challenge. I’ll take a look and give you a quote.’ She fished under the chair for her bag and pulled out her personal organiser. ‘When would suit you?’

It was bravado, of course. She never thought for a moment he would take her up on it. Did she? Three days later Annis was still asking herself that.

Vitale and Partners had a small, crowded office in a late-eighteenth-century house in Mayfair. There were papers and magazines on every chair so there was nowhere for a visitor to sit. The phones rang all the time. The water dispenser was leaking and the coffee machine looked about to explode. People ran past her at the trot, shouting incomprehensible instructions to each other. The girl in charge of this chaos was standing in a half-open doorway being shouted at.

‘Great,’ muttered Annis.

She scooped a pile of glossy style magazines off the sofa and plonked them on the floor. That gave her somewhere to sit down. She did.

And rose swiftly. She had sat on an umbrella. It was nearly but not quite closed and a couple of its spikes had attached themselves like a hungry sea anemone to her smart grey skirt. It was also, she found as she tried to detach it, still wet.

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the girl who was still being rebuked.

The girl sent her a harassed look, turned back to the room from which the invective was pouring, hesitated…

Annis lowered her voice and, as she had been taught, projected.

‘Excuse me.’

Everyone in the vestibule froze. Even the ringing telephones seemed to falter briefly.

Then another door banged back on its hinges.

‘Workaholic Carew,’ said Konstantin Vitale. He looked delighted. ‘I wondered when you’d get here. You’re late.’

‘I’ve been here fourteen minutes,’ Annis said precisely. ‘And I’ve been bitten by an umbrella.’ She gestured to her unwanted appendage. ‘Can you unhook me, please?’

‘Ah. I’ve heard about that habit of yours,’ he said, weaving his way through the debris.

‘Of mine?’ Annis was nearly speechless.

‘And seen it at work,’ he went on. ‘Death to household appliances and crockery, aren’t you, Carew?’

He detached the thing and cast it back onto the sofa.

Annis retrieved it.

‘You want an old umbrella?’ he said, eyebrows raised.

‘I think,’ she said with restraint, ‘that it might be a good idea to remove it before someone else sits on it.’

He pulled a face. Clearly the sort of detail that was way beyond his lofty consideration, thought Annis. She found she was shaking with temper.

He crooked a finger at the girl in the doorway. ‘Lose this man-eating umbrella, will you, Tracy?’

Summoned by the big cheese, the girl did not hesitate any longer, Annis noticed. She also noticed that the girl looked at him almost with worship as she removed the umbrella from his disdainful fingers.