The Corporate Bridegroom
Page 1
Niall bent to kiss her cheek.
Gossamer light, it was a kiss that asked questions he hadn’t been aware of framing. As he straightened, he saw that her eyes were wide with surprise.
“You’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly.
“Fine?” Romana snapped. “Of course I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. I don’t need a Farraday man to tell me that.”
In fact, that kiss had been something else. It was the fizz of electricity that had shot through her when she’d kissed him. Somehow he’d got under her skin, and even now her lips burned, throbbed, wanting more.
She took another sip of water to cool them.
She didn’t want his reassurance. She refused to think about what she really wanted. It wasn’t going to happen, because all he wanted was Claibourne & Farraday. Her store. Her life.
THE CORPORATE BRIDEGROOM
Liz Fielding
www.millsandboon.com.au
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PROLOGUE
PRESS RELEASE
CLAIBOURNE & FARRADAY are pleased to announce that Miss India Claibourne is to be appointed Managing Director with immediate effect.
Miss Romana Claibourne and Miss Flora Claibourne have been appointed full board members.
CITY DIARY, LONDON EVENING POST
Has sexual equality finally penetrated the hallowed portals of London’s oldest and most stylish department store?
With today’s announcement that India Claibourne, 29, is to step into her father’s shoes as Managing Director of Claibourne & Farraday, an era ends as one of the last bastions of male domination is finally breached.
It seems the gorgeous Claibourne girls, who have been part of the management team since they were old enough to dress up as elves and help Santa in his grotto, have decided it’s time to put an end to the nineteenth century male imperialism of the founders.
Not since 1832, when C&F founders, valet Charles Claibourne and butler William Farraday, hammered out an agreement of succession that hands a ‘golden share’ and total control to the oldest male heir of either family, has their authority been challenged.
Will the Farraday men take this lying down? Watch this space.
MEMORANDUM
From: JORDAN FARRADAY
To: NIALL FARRADAY MACAULAY
BRAM FARRADAY GIFFORD
I’m sure you’ve already seen the attached newspaper clipping. To answer any questions you may have, I have issued an immediate legal challenge to India Claibourne’s position as Managing Director.
The Claibourne response is interesting. They have not, as I had expected, taken the feminist stance, or fallen back on sexual equality legislation. They instead evinced surprise that three such ‘busy men’ could find the time to assume day-to-day running of a ‘retail outlet’.
It is possible that they suspect it is our intention to liquidise the considerable assets in the C&F trademark and property and sell out which, once we gain control, they will be powerless to prevent. They must be convinced otherwise, which is why I have agreed to the suggestion that we each spend some time work-shadowing them during the next three months.
The Claibournes apparently hope to demonstrate that their ‘hands-on’ experience is a greater asset to Claibourne & Farraday than our years in the City. A delay of three months in the spirit of co-operation will do us no harm if, as I suspect it will, this ends up in court. The inside knowledge gained will serve us well if we have to go to court in order to evict them from the boardroom.
The timetable I’ve agreed is that Niall will shadow Romana Claibourne during April, Bram will do the same with Florence Claibourne during May, and I will work with India during June. I attach a dossier on each of your respective partners for you to study. Please give as much time as you can spare to this project without it appearing to intrude on your normal activities.
I realise this is an imposition but, as joint shareholders, I ask you to remember that the reward will be total control of a prime retail investment and one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the country.
EMAIL
To: Romana@Claibournes.com
cc: Flora@Claibournes.com
From: India@Claibournes.com
Subject: Niall Farraday Macaulay
Romana
The lawyers have asked for three months to come up with a rebuttal of the Farraday claim to run Claibournes. As a delaying tactic I’ve had to ‘play nice’ and offer the Farradays an opportunity to see how we run Claibourne’s—from the inside.
Niall Farraday Macaulay will be contacting you shortly to arrange a convenient schedule for him to shadow you during April. The man is an investment banker and would, no doubt, love a chance to get his hands on the Claibourne & Farraday assets. I need you to convince him that it’s in his best interests to leave them with us.
That the Farradays accepted an invitation to shadow our roles in the company suggests they see it as an information-gathering opportunity. Please be on your guard.
Indie
CHAPTER ONE
ROMANA CLAIBOURNE, juggling a desperately needed carton of her favourite coffee, a small leather overnight bag and a couple of designer carrier bags, searched her handbag for her wallet in a state of rising panic. Not that the panic was entirely due to her missing wallet, or even Niall Farraday Macauley’s annoying decision to make his presence felt on today of all days.
In spite of anything her sister might believe, there were worse things in the world than men with Farraday in their name.
Worse even than being late.
That was nothing new—she’d never been early for anything. Yet India’s crisp little voice mail message this morning had been very clear on one point. Punctuality was essential. Niall Macaulay wanted to discuss shadowing arrangements with her at twelve o’clock sharp and she was to drop everything and be on time. Nothing—not even the opening event in Claibourne & Farraday’s annual charity week—was more important. This was a crisis.
And this was the good part of her day.
‘Sorry…’ She threw an apologetic glance at the cab driver. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere. I had it when I picked up—’
‘In your own time, miss,’ the man replied, cutting her short. ‘I’ve got all day.’
She glanced up. ‘Have you?’ Then, realising he was being sarcastic, she pulled a face and redoubled her efforts to find the elusive wallet. She knew she’d had it when she picked up her dress because she’d used her charge card. Then, after she’d got India’s message, coffee had seemed essential and she’d needed change to pay for it.
She re-ran the scene in her head. She’d ordered, paid and stuffed the wallet into her pocket…
Her relief was short-lived.
Reaching into the depths of her coat was just one stretch too far and the coffee-carton made an escape bid.
Hitting the pavement, it bounced, spun and then the lid flew off, releasing a hot tide of latte. Romana watched as in what seemed like slow-motion it washed over the gleaming, handmade shoes of a passing male before splashing spectacularly up the legs of his trousers.
The shoes, and the legs, came to a halt. The carton was picked up on the point of a furled silk black umbrella and she followed its progress until it came to a stop six inches from the second button of her coat.
‘Yours, I believe,’ the owner of the trousers said.
>
She took the carton. A mistake. It was now wet and sticky and the apology which had leapt instantly to her lips transformed itself into a disgusted, ‘Eeeugh.’
And then—mistake number two—she looked up and nearly dropped the carton again. He was everything a tall, dark stranger could and should be, and for a moment she froze, quite literally lost for words. Apologise. She must apologise. And find out who he was.
Even as she opened her mouth she realised that he was far from being impressed by his unexpected encounter with one of the most sought-after women in London. The man’s expression encompassed entire sections of the thesaurus, involving the words “stupid”, “blonde” and “woman”, and the apology died on her lips.
It didn’t matter. He clearly wasn’t interested in anything she might have to say. He had already turned and was walking quickly through the gilded portal of Claibourne & Farraday, leaving her on the pavement with her mouth still open.
Niall Macaulay was expected, and was whisked up to the penthouse office suite where he handed his coat and umbrella to the receptionist before retreating to the cloakroom to wipe the coffee off his trousers and shoes. Tossing the paper towel in the bin, he glanced at his wrist-watch with irritation. He’d had scarcely enough time to make this appointment, and now that stupid woman had made him late.
What on earth had she been doing, juggling a carton of coffee with enough designer bags to keep a small country out of debt? She couldn’t even control her hair.
But it didn’t matter. Romana Claibourne was late, too. He declined her secretary’s offer of coffee, accepted her invitation to wait in Miss Claibourne’s opulent office and crossed to the window, trying not to dwell on a dozen other, more important things he should be doing at that moment.
‘Not your day, miss, is it?’ the cabby remarked as Romana continued to stare after the man. What a grouch… ‘Do you want a receipt?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Here—’ She handed the man a banknote. ‘Keep the change.’
She was still holding the dripping carton. There were no rubbish bins in the street and she was forced to carry the thing at arm’s length up to her office.
Her secretary relieved her of the carton, took her bags and her coat. ‘I’m expecting a Mr Macaulay. I can’t spare him more than five minutes so I’m counting on you to rescue me…’ she began, then caught the girl’s warning look.
‘Mr Macauley arrived a couple of minutes ago, Romana,’ she murmured. ‘He’s waiting in your office.’
She spun around and saw a man standing at the window, looking out across the rooftops of London. Oh, knickers! He must have heard her. Great start. She grabbed a tissue, wiped her hands, and abandoned any thought of lipstick repair or getting her hair under control—but then there wasn’t enough time in the world for that. She just smoothed her skirt, tugged her jacket into place and stepped into her office.
Niall Macauley was impressive, at least from the rear. Tall, with perfectly groomed dark hair, and a suit in which every stitch had been placed by hand expensively covering his broad shoulders.
‘Mr Macaulay?’ she said, crossing the office, hand extended in welcome as he turned. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’ About to explain her lateness—without mentioning coffee—she discovered that her legitimate excuses were redundant and instead found her mouth gaping like a surprised goldfish as he turned to her and took her hand.
There was, she thought, an almost Gothic inevitability that Niall Macaulay and the grouch she’d drowned with her coffee should be the same person. It was, after all, the first of April. All Fools’ Day.
‘Did my secretary offer you…?’
‘Coffee?’ he completed for her when she faltered. He spoke in a deep bass voice that she knew, just knew, would never be raised above that quiet, controlled level. No matter how provoked. She’d already had an example of his exceptional powers of self-control. ‘Thank you, but I believe I’ve had all the coffee I can handle from you for one day.’ As he released her hand, it seemed to Romana that there was just a hint of stickiness.
And the word ‘crisis’ took on a new depth of meaning.
This man was one of their ‘silent’ partners? It had never occurred to her to wonder, until recently, why they were so silent when their name was over the front door. If she’d thought about them at all, she’d assumed they were too old, or maybe just not interested in working when the dividends from the Claibourne family’s industry was more than adequate to sustain three averagely lazy millionaires.
It was only after their father’s near fatal heart attack that she and her sisters had discovered the truth. That, far from being sedentary, their partners—the venture capitalist, the banker and the lawyer—were empire-building on their own account.
And now they wanted the Claibourne empire too.
This was the banker. A man who’d already demonstrated that he was cool to freezing point. And it was her task to convince him that she was an efficient businesswoman capable of running a major company. She hadn’t made a great start.
It was okay. It would be okay. He’d just caught her on a bad day. Tomorrow she’d be fine. She’d soon make up lost ground, demonstrate her worth. Heck, until she’d taken charge of public relations the store had been about as exciting as a dowager duchess. She’d turned it around. She could handle this.
Right now, though, she was approaching the worst moment in her life, and the last thing she needed was an encounter with Mr Frosty.
‘I’m really sorry about the coffee,’ she said, attempting to match him with a smile about as cool as it could get and still be a smile. ‘I would have apologised if you’d given me the chance.’ She waited for him to acknowledge that he should have done that. He didn’t. ‘Do please send me the cleaning bill for your trousers.’ Not a flicker of emotion crossed his cold features and she found herself saying, ‘Or you could slip out of them now and someone from Housekeeping will give them a sponge and press…’
She had been trying to help, but instead she had a mental flash of him pacing her office in boxer shorts and blushed. She never blushed. Only when she said something truly stupid. This was clearly a ‘truly stupid’ moment. She glanced at her watch.
‘I have to be somewhere else in about ten minutes, but you’re perfectly welcome to use my office while you wait,’ she added, just so that he understood she wasn’t going to stick around and keep him company. Trouserless.
Any other man of her acquaintance would, by now, be grinning like an idiot and praying that his luck was in. It wouldn’t be, but Niall Macaulay wasn’t to know that. It made no difference; he still gave her a look that would have chilled a volcano. No, she definitely couldn’t compete in the coolness stakes, but at least that was a discernible reaction.
Whether it was better or worse, she couldn’t say and she nervously fluffed her hair. It was a ‘girly’ gesture that men either loved or loathed—and one that she’d thought she’d got well under control. Clearly Mr Macaulay would loathe it. Which made it suddenly seem very attractive. She preferred any reaction, even a negative one, to nothing. So she did it again, this time loading the irritation factor by smiling at him. Not a cool smile this time, but one of those big, come-and-get-me smiles. The kind of smile that would have left the average man sitting up and begging like an eager puppy. Not Mr Macaulay. But then he wasn’t average. He was more of just about anything.
He was also ice, through and through.
‘Miss Claibourne, I’ve been asked by my cousin to spend some time shadowing you at work. Assuming, that is, you can spare valuable time from shopping to actually do any.’ She followed his gaze, which had come to rest on the pile of designer bags she’d deposited on the sofa.
‘Don’t knock shopping, Mr Macaulay. Our ancestors invented shopping for fun. It made them rich men and it’s the shopping habit that keeps the dividends rolling in.’
‘Not for long, surely,’ he replied, with a lift of one dark brow, ‘if the directors shop elsewhere.’
‘Play shop?’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you actually served behind the counter.’ It was her turn to keep silent while her brain spun wildly. India had warned her to just do her job, keep quiet and not make smart remarks. Unfortunately her mouth had a mind of its own. ‘Do you?’ he pressed.
‘Not now,’ she admitted. ‘But we’ve all done it in the past, when we were learning the business. Do any of you really know the first thing about running a department store? The retail industry isn’t for amateurs.’
‘Really?’ That at least appeared to amuse him. Or was that a suggestion that he considered her the amateur? If that were so, he did have a lot to learn.
‘Really. You might be the world’s greatest investment banker, but would you know how many pairs of silk knickers to order for the Christmas market?’
‘Would you?’ he asked.
Oh, yes. It had been a question in the trivia quiz on the store’s website, that she’d run in the dead month of February. Before she could have the satisfaction of telling him the number, he continued, ‘I’m certain you don’t get that closely involved in day-to-day matters. You have department heads and buyers whose job it is to make those decisions.’