by Sarah Morgan
His hand locked around a glass of whisky, Damon watched the news report from the hospital. There were stills of Polly being lifted into an ambulance, blood visible on her face, and an interview with the doctor who refused to comment on her patient’s condition. It was enough to drive to most laid-back parent to the nearest telephone.
But the phone remained ominously silent.
What would it take, he wondered, to flush Peter Prince out of his love nest? Clearly more than an injured daughter.
What sort of man saw that his daughter was in hospital and still didn’t call her?
Contemplating that question, Damon drained the whisky. Responsibility towards family flowed through him, as much a part of his being as the blood that was his life force. He could no more abdicate that responsibility than he could stop breathing.
From the moment the police had broken the news about his parents he’d buried his own feelings and focused all his energies on providing for his sister.
Clearly Peter Prince felt no such sense of obligation.
Damon thought back to that day a decade earlier when he’d received the call from the school. He’d walked out of an important meeting to go to his sister and, yes, he’d given her a hard time. Children, especially teenagers, needed rules and discipline. But his abiding memory of that day wasn’t anything to do with Arianna. It was of Polly Prince, standing in one corner of the office, alone and defiant as he’d torn strips off her. Alone. There had been no sign of her father. At the time, Damon had taken that evidence of lax parenting to be the reason his daughter had slid so far off the rails.
Now he was wondering whether ‘lax’ should be replaced with ‘absent’.
Just what part had the man played in Polly’s life?
His phone buzzed. As he answered the call Damon glanced towards the guest room but the door remained firmly closed and he wondered uneasily if he should have checked on her again. The doctor had told him she needed someone around.
Trying to block out an unsettling image of Polly stretched unconscious on the floor of the guest bathroom, he spoke to his pilot an then terminated the call and considered his options.
Of course she wasn’t unconscious.
The girl was tougher than Kevlar.
But the image stayed with him as he gave a soft curse and strode through the apartment towards the guest suite. One look, he promised himself. As long as she was breathing, he’d leave her alone.
Pushing open the door, he saw her curled up in a ball on top of the bed, a notebook face down on the white silk cover, ink from a discarded pen spreading black blotches across the delicate fabric.
But it wasn’t the ink that caught his attention. It was the exceptional pallor of her face. Remembering the doctor’s comment that she should have stayed in hospital, he crossed the room swiftly, his overriding emotion one of concern. Was the wound bleeding again? He gently pushed her hair away from her face and the soft strands flowed over his hand like liquid gold, the scent of it distracting him from his purpose.
Reminding himself that he was supposed to be checking her head, he stroked her hair back and studied her face.
There were dark violet shadows under her eyes and the livid bruise on her forehead was an angry smudge. Asleep, she looked younger than ever.
How did she feel, he wondered, knowing that her father didn’t care enough to call?
Staring down at her, he remembered the words she’d thrown at him in the boardroom.
‘If there’s an emergency, I’m expected to handle it.’
To her credit, she’d been trying to handle it all day. Whatever he might think of the way he used office space, there was no denying that she’d worked hard to help settle the staff into their new surroundings and she’d defended them with a passion that had surprised him.
Wondering how anyone so small could be so monumentally aggravating, Damon gently removed the offending pen from her limp fingers and put it on the table next to the bed.
As he leaned forward and pulled the duvet over her, the pink notebook tumbled onto the floor.
Damon retrieved it, smoothed the crumpled pages, and was about to close it when something caught his eye.
Run, breathe, live…
She’d scribbled the words over the pages of her notebook in scrawling, loopy handwriting but what caught his attention were the other combinations.
Run, live
Run right
Live to run
Feel alive
She’d obviously been playing with a million combinations in an attempt to come up with a tagline that worked for the brand.
His attention still fixed on the book, Damon sank onto the side of the bed. With no qualms about delving into her privacy, he flicked back to the beginning, reading what she’d written.
One thing stood out with startling, unsettling clarity.
He’d been completely and utterly wrong in his assessment of Polly Prince.
The creative brain behind every brilliant campaign belonged to the girl lying on the bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
POLLY woke to an insistent buzzing sound. Cracking open one eye, she was dazzled by an intense beam of light and she gave a moan and stuck her head under the pillow. ‘Turn that spotlight off.’
‘It’s the sun.’
‘Well, what’s the sun doing up at this time?’ Irritable, she stuck her head under the pillow and then howled with pain as it brushed against her wound. ‘Ow. That hurts. And that noise is—’
‘You set the alarm on your phone.’ A strong bronzed hand appeared in front of her face and he picked up her BlackBerry and silenced the noise. ‘It’s six o’clock.’
‘Nooooo. It can’t be …’ Her voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘Go away.’
‘You are welcome to turn over and go back to sleep, but you’ve slept without moving all night and I wanted to know you were alive.’
‘I’m not alive. No one is ever truly alive at this hour of the morning.’ She gave a whimper and huddled under the covers. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You feel ill?’ His voice was tight. ‘I will call the doctor and ask him to come.’
‘I don’t need a doctor. I’m always like this in the morning whether I’ve banged my head or not. I’m not a morning person. I have to wake up slowly in my own time. What are you doing in my room anyway? I suppose you’re sitting there planning new methods to use me to flush my father out of hiding. I’m just a worm on a hook.’ All the horrors of the night before rushed down on her and Polly touched her fingers to her forehead. ‘Did you put your hook through my head?’
‘No, but that’s still on my list of possible actions.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Just for the record, I’m in your room because I was worried about you.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Most of the night. I slept in the chair. I wanted to be sure you didn’t develop any of the signs the doctor mentioned.’
Carefully, so that she didn’t brush her wound again, Polly cautiously removed the pillow and looked at him. Some time during the night he’d changed out of his tuxedo, discarded his bloodstained shirt and showered. Casually dressed in black jeans and a polo shirt, he looked every bit as striking as he did in a suit.
‘You don’t look like a guy who slept in a chair.’ He looked sickeningly energetic, she thought gloomily, resentful at being forced to start her day confronted by all that vibrant masculinity. ‘You watched me sleeping? Isn’t that a little creepy?’
‘It’s boring. You’re not very exciting when you’re asleep.’ Despite the mockery in his tone, his words jarred uncomfortably with the forbidden thoughts she’d been having.
‘So why did you watch me? Were you afraid your hostage might die?’
‘You are not my hostage.’
‘You brought me here so because you’re hoping my father will come and find me, not because you care about me, so stop the saint act. That makes me your hostage.’
Stunned by the discovery that he’d spe
nt the night watching over her, Polly sat up slowly and noticed the cup of coffee on the low table next to the bed. The aroma of fresh coffee seduced her brain, sliding underneath her defences. ‘Oh—is that for me?’
‘Yes. I’m fast learning that your preference is for pink, but I’m afraid I don’t own a pink cup.’
She didn’t know which irritated her more—his dry tone, or the fact that he radiated vitality while she felt like a wet rag.
‘Of course you don’t. You’re the sort of man who has to constantly prove his masculinity by bossing everyone around. A real man isn’t afraid to have pink in his life. It’s a very happy colour. Real men often wear pink ties or pink shirts.’
‘Real men?’ His sardonic smile was the final straw and she glared at him over the rim of the mug.
‘Yes. And by that I don’t mean all that muscle and testosterone stuff. ‘Her eyes dropped to the hint of dark stubble that was already shadowing his jaw. ‘Masculinity isn’t just about looking as if you can split a log with one swing of an axe.’ Which he did. Oh, God, how could a man look so incredibly good first thing in the morning? Particularly after he’d slept in a chair. Stubble on most men just looked unkempt. On Damon Doukakis it simply amplified his ferocious sex appeal. It wasn’t fair.
‘I’ve split logs in my time, but I confess I’ve never done it wearing a pink shirt.’
Assailed by an unsettling image of those broad shoulders swinging an axe, Polly was about to put the mug down when she spotted the ink on the bedcover. ‘Oh, no! Did I do that? I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep holding my pen.’
‘Your pink, fluffy, happy pen. The one that is necessary for all your creative thinking.’
Something in his tone didn’t sound quite right but Polly was too mortified by the damage she’d caused to work out what. She licked her finger and rubbed at the stain. When that didn’t work, she looked at him apologetically. ‘I’ll buy you another duvet cover. I know you have a low opinion of me but damage to property isn’t on my usual list of crimes. I really am sorry.’
‘Compared to most of the disasters that appear to happen when you are around, I would say I escaped lightly. Get dressed. I want to talk to you.’
‘What have I done this time?’
‘That’s what I intend to find out.’
Polly racked her brains to think of something he could have discovered that might have got her into trouble. Was this something about the way they’d decorated the office? ‘It’s not a great time to talk right now. I need to get going if I’m going to make my train to Paris.’
‘A moment ago you were all but unconscious. You’re not going to Paris.’
‘I slept like the dead because I’m really tired, not because I banged my head. I haven’t slept properly since you rang me to tell me that you were about to ruin my life. And I have to go to Paris. The staff are depending on me to keep that account.’ Trying to wake herself up, Polly pushed her hair away from her face and winced as she encountered the bruise. ‘If I hurry, I can still make it.’
‘Why are you so determined to protect the staff?’
‘What sort of a question is that? Because I care about them, that’s why. I don’t want them to lose their jobs—especially because part of the blame for the current mess lies with my father. I feel responsible. They’ve always been kind to me. And helpful. When I first started in the company I’d just left school—I was clueless.’
‘You didn’t go to university?’
Polly thought wistfully of the prospectuses they’d shredded. ‘I went straight to work in my father’s company when I left school. I learned on the job. You can learn a lot about something by doing it.’ Knowing that someone like him was never going to agree with her, she slumped back against the pillows. ‘Anything else you want to know?’
Her notebook landed on the bed next to her and she stared at it, her cheeks hot as she mentally ran through all the secrets that might have been revealed from that book.
He waited a beat. ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘It made for extremely illuminating bedtime reading.’
‘It’s very bad manners to read someone else’s private notes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I suppose you also peep through keyholes and listen at doors.’
‘Yesterday I asked you who came up with the creative ideas. Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?’
‘I told you it was a team effort. That’s the truth.’
‘The tagline and thinking behind the running shoe campaign came from you. If this notebook is to be believed, you’re responsible for every decent creative idea that has come from Prince Advertising in the past three years. I’ve been looking through the portfolio and your company accounts—’
Polly flinched. ‘More bedtime reading? You obviously like a good horror story.’
‘More like a mystery. My financial director, Ellen, has unpicked the finances and those numbers make for interesting reading. Why did everyone agree to take such a drastic pay cut?’
‘You have a female financial director?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Why did we take a pay cut? Because no one wanted anyone to be made redundant. Close your eyes while I find something decent to wear. You’re right, I can’t have this sort of conversation in my pyjamas.’ Sliding out of bed, Polly grabbed something from her suitcase and shot towards the bathroom. ‘As I said, we’re a team. We’re in this together.’
‘You clearly have significant creative talent. Why wasn’t it recognised?’
The compliment stopped her in her tracks. Her smile faltered. ‘You think I have talent?’
‘Answer my question.’
Holding the clothes in front of her like a shield, she shrugged. ‘You met the board.’
‘When you hinted that they’d stolen your work, I assumed you were talking about the spreadsheets.’
Polly just looked at him and he sighed.
‘They claimed credit for all your ideas, didn’t they? When they pitched for business, you were part of the team?’
‘I had to be. No one on the board was able to present the ideas. So they went along as the figurehead and I did the talking.’
‘And you won High Kick Hosiery.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘We should have won that account.’
‘We were better. Which just goes to show that even a hot desk doesn’t always produce hot ideas. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch.’ The mere thought of battling her way through the train station made her want to lie down in a dark room, but she’d rather walk to Paris in bare feet than admit that to him.
‘You’re not travelling on a train. A doctor will examine you and then if he says you’re fit to fly then we’ll go to Paris on my jet.’
‘Your jet? Er—why?’
‘Because I don’t travel by train.’
‘No, I mean—’ She licked her lips. ‘Why are you coming? I’m assuming you’re not joining me for a romantic mini-break.’ She hoped that being flippant would break the tension between them.
It didn’t.
He was obviously as aware of it as she was because he narrowed his eyes.
‘I make you nervous. Why?’
Her stomach curled and her mouth dried. What was she supposed to say to that? Because you have monumental sex appeal. ‘You’re the boss. You can fire me.’
His eyes held hers. ‘That isn’t why you’re nervous.’
Wondering why she was such a mess when it came to men, Polly gave what she hoped was a dismissive shrug. ‘Look, there’s a lot going on, OK? Gérard’s business is important. He has one of the largest marketing budgets in Europe. It’s not just about this brand, it’s about the rest of his portfolio. If I do well in this meeting, he might give us more business.’
‘That’s why I’m coming with you. You shouldn’t be seeing someone of his seniority on your own.’
‘You mean you don’t trust me not to mess it up.’
‘On the
contrary. I want to watch you in action. I want to know more about your novel creative process.’ Infuriatingly calm, he glanced at his watch. ‘Get dressed. We’ll finish this discussion later.’
‘Well, that’s something to look forward to. Yippee.’ She subsided as he shot her a warning look.
He walked towards the door and then paused. ‘You ought to know that an hour ago I had a call from the private investigator I hired to track your father. It seems that he’s also in Paris.’
‘Oh?’ Was it wrong not to be pleased that he’d been tracked down? Her mouth was dry and she wondered whether it was the bang on the head that was making her feel sick or whether it was the thought of weathering the reality of her father’s next relationship. And this time it would be worse because the woman in question was Arianna. Her friend. Damon’s sister. ‘He could be in Paris. My father is a romantic person.’
‘There is nothing romantic about a relationship between a fifty-four-year-old guy and a twenty-four-year-old girl.’
‘You don’t know that. You’re very judgemental.’
‘When it comes to protecting my family, yes, I’m judgemental.’ His voice was suddenly hard. ‘And, talking of judgemental, I hope you put ‘formal business wear’ on the list you gave Franco. If you’re going to take on the responsibility of a high-flying business executive then you need to look like one. You may be used to flouncing into work in party clothes, but if you’re meeting a vice president of marketing you need to clean up your image. The French appreciate chic. The look you should be going for is high-class and elegant.’
Smug in the knowledge that there was so much more he yet had to discover about her, Polly couldn’t resist a dig of her own. ‘Is that how your team was dressed when they didn’t win the pitch? You’re very traditional. Maybe the client didn’t want traditional. He said he was blown away by our creativity and individuality.’
‘Presumably he wasn’t referring to your appearance.’ Polly gave an innocent smile. ‘Or maybe he just has a thing for flamingos. I’ll get dressed and meet you in the living room. I need to make some calls before we leave. And for goodness’ sake get changed into something more rigid and formal. I’m not taking you to Paris wearing those jeans.’ Without giving him the chance to reply, she escaped into the bathroom and bolted the door.
