by Liz Fielding
She pulled a face. ‘I was beginning to think you were thawing into a human being, Niall Macaulay.’
He thought meltdown was probably a closer analogy. He might be naturally immune to the sex-kitten image. But make that a sex kitten with brains, charm, a steely core of determination to win at any cost…
‘Don’t let the jeans fool you.’
She glanced across at them, her gaze lingering for a moment before she said, ‘I like the jeans.’
Never had he felt so self-conscious about what he was wearing, but, since that was clearly her aim, he resisted the urge to reply in kind and they drove in silence until he indicated left at an approaching junction.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To get lunch,’ Niall replied. ‘I’ve got a table at the Weston Arms.’
‘You don’t mean that place down by the river?’
‘Don’t I?’
‘I do hope not. Look at us!’ And quite suddenly she laughed. A soft, throaty chuckle that would have melted permafrost. ‘Jeans, an open-necked shirt and enough sticky fingerprints to set up a glue factory. And that’s just you.’ She brushed her hand over her trousers. ‘And look at these poor things!’ He tried very hard not to. He failed. The fine linen had dried out quickly enough, but it was now creased, with grubby patches on the knees. ‘And my hair.’
‘It doesn’t look any different to me.’ Not true. Her wild tumble of curls had been thoroughly tamed by the hairdresser for the previous night’s gala. His efforts hadn’t survived her doze on his sofa, and the soaking had finished the job, so that it now curled softly about her ears and into the enticing hollow at the nape of her neck.
‘Forget it, Niall. They wouldn’t let either of us inside the front door.’
He jerked his mind back from the void.
‘You may have a point.’ Lunch in a romantic riverside restaurant was the last thing he should be contemplating. Molly was one tricky lady.
‘There’s no “may” about it. Besides, I don’t have time to do lunch at the Weston full justice. It’s a leisurely occasion there.’
‘Is it? I’ve never been there at lunch-time.’ The point scoring was petty. But irresistible.
‘You should try it one Sunday.’
He refused to bite. He wasn’t going to the Weston with her now or at any other time. ‘Maybe you’d better call and cancel the reservation.’ He indicated the car-phone. After she’d done that, he said, ‘Have you any idea where we might eat without causing eyebrows to be lifted and noses to wrinkle in disdain?’
‘There’s a drive-thru burger place by the next roundabout.’
‘So?’
She grinned. ‘So, after this morning I crave the artery-hardening comfort of a double-decker cheeseburger with large fries.’
‘Followed by the nerve-jangling caffeine high of a large cola, no doubt?’
‘Total bliss. Lead me to it.’
‘I don’t know about bliss, but I guess it beats making polite small talk over starched linen.’
‘Polite?’ She feigned surprise. ‘You’d planned on being polite? Maybe I should have taken the restaurant option after all.’
‘Too late,’ he said, turning into the drive-thru. He stopped by the window, placed their order, paid, and then, after picking up the food, pulled into a parking bay so that they could eat.
‘Well, this is different,’ he said, opening the brown paper sack and handing Romana her lunch.
She opened the box containing her burger, picked it up and then, licking at some sauce that had dribbled onto her finger, said, ‘There’s a lot to be said for fast food. I’d have been chewing through the table leg by the time we’d been served at the Weston…fine restaurant though it is.’ As she bit into the bun everything oozed out of the sides, involving a lot more finger-licking. ‘Oh, yes…This is soooo good.’
There was a natural earthiness about her that was utterly compelling, and Niall found it an effort to drag his gaze from her fingers. She had tiny hands, slender fingers, nails painted the same vivid pink as her lips. No rings. Not even for fun. Some mayonnaise dribbled down her thumb and it was all he could do to restrain himself from taking her hand and sucking it clean.
‘Maybe we could try something more civilised after the fashion show?’ he suggested. ‘Maybe, since we’ll be at the Savoy, we could have supper in the grill?’
‘You’re a glutton for punishment.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Don’t you think you’ll have had enough of me by then?’
‘Maybe you have other plans?’ he enquired, sidestepping the question of just how much of her company he could take and at the same time offering her a graceful get-out. Or the chance to show that she was running scared. She took neither.
‘You’ve got to be kidding. I haven’t any time to spare for a social life this week.’
‘It wouldn’t be social,’ he pointed out. ‘We’d be working. It would be subsistence. Fully tax-deductible.’
Which certainly put her in her place. ‘Thanks, but we’re not doing that well on the food front. I wouldn’t want to fall asleep with my face in the food.’ She still wanted to get to know him better, find out what made him tick. What he was really after… She wouldn’t do that in some anonymous restaurant where, with the table between them, he could keep her at a distance both physically and mentally. ‘I really would like to see the rest of your house some time, though.’
‘You’re suggesting we try supper again?’
He couldn’t resist reminding her of that, could he?
‘Er… I don’t think so—’ Romana caught sight of the dashboard clock and gave a little yelp. ‘We have to go.’ She stuffed the remains of their impromptu picnic into the brown paper sack, sucked the sauce off her thumb and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. ‘I’ll just get rid of this.’
‘Wait.’ She turned to take the napkin he was holding, but instead he leaned towards her and, catching the back of her head in his palm, gently wiped the corner of her mouth with it. Then he turned her chin with the tips of his fingers and did it again on the other side.
For a moment his stone-grey eyes seemed to soften, warm, become the eyes she’d seen as he’d woken her last night—in the split second before he’d reverted to the iceman. She caught her breath, held it as the look went on, and on until she was certain that he was going to kiss her. Her lips heated up and she knew she wanted him to kiss her. Instead he released her chin and held up the napkin between two long, slender fingers. ‘Mayo,’ he said, before tucking the napkin into the bag.
Romana scrambled out of the car and dumped the bag in the nearest bin. Mayo! She took a deep breath—another mistake since, instead of a head-clearing blast, she filled her lungs with air tainted by the smell of burgers and traffic fumes from the nearby dual carriageway.
How could this get any worse? She’d thought he was going to kiss her—worse, had wanted him to kiss her—when all he’d been doing was mopping up the mayo that had squidged all over her face. The second time that day he’d stopped her from looking stupid.
And what had he seen in her eyes?
A reflection of what she’d seen in his?
She hadn’t imagined that. And the thought made her skin prickle with excitement.
She returned to the car, concentrated on fastening her seatbelt as Niall started the engine, looking anywhere but at him. Then, as he began to move off, she said, ‘I’d advise putting the top down.’
‘It’s not exactly mid-summer.’
‘No, but it’s fine and dry. Of course if you’re happy for your car to smell of burgers and fries for the next week…’ She shrugged. Why should she worry?
She resisted the urge to rub at her cheek. Scrub away the stirring sensation where he’d touched her. Mayo! No wonder he’d changed his mind about that kiss. As she let slip an involuntary mew of embarrassment, Niall glanced at her.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
He looked doubtful, but didn’t press it. ‘Have you got a scarf?’
he asked.
‘Don’t you know that men who drive convertibles are supposed to keep a supply in the glove compartment for the use of the women in their life?’
Appalled that she’d stooped to such blatant probing, she didn’t wait for him to tell her that there were no women in his life. She didn’t want to hear that. Instead, she opened the glove compartment and checked for herself. It contained nothing but a small first-aid box and a torch. Not so much as a hairpin to suggest that a woman had ever been in the car and marked the territory as her own.
She tutted, but with a warm little spot somewhere deep inside. ‘Not one,’ she said.
‘Scarves or women?’ he asked. Well, it wouldn’t take Freud to analyse that little performance. Then he shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll just have to invest in an air-freshener.’
‘There’s no need for that.’ She took a long chiffon scarf from her bag and wound it around her hair. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t have one. Just that you should be prepared.’
By way of reply, he hit the button that folded down the roof.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DRIVING with the hood down had the advantage of precluding conversation. It didn’t stop her from thinking about that nearly kiss, though. Or what it would have meant.
She loved what she did. Every late night. Every early morning. The nervous tension. She lived for it, and for Claibourne & Farraday. And this man was trying to take all that away from her. And she’d been about to let him kiss her? No…she’d really, really wanted him to kiss her. This man was special. He exuded power and that scared her just a little bit. But in a way that was hot, and sexy, and…
‘Just drop me off at the corner,’ Romana said abruptly, as they inched through the early-afternoon traffic. ‘You can cut through and avoid the worst of the traffic.’ Then, when he didn’t answer, ‘The auction starts at four, if you can face it, although I’m quite happy to give you time off for good behaviour after this morning.’ Her smile felt brittle and false. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
‘You’re too kind, but really—’ he smiled, too, but with the look of a man who wasn’t about to fall for such an obvious ruse ‘—I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘You must be crazy. Or did you read in this morning’s papers that we’re auctioning a pair of rhinestone-studded jeans worn by—’ she lowered her voice to a suitably awed whisper to murmur the name of a well-known sex bomb ‘—in her last movie? And that she’s going to be there to model them?’
‘Incredible as it may seem,’ he replied confidentially, ‘that story never made it to the Financial Times.’
‘No? Well, I am surprised. There’s big money being spent on pop and sports ephemera.’ She shrugged. ‘Not to worry. When the jeans make a fabulous amount of money they’ll have to report that.’
‘Fabulous amounts of money will do it every time,’ he agreed. ‘I wish you luck.’
‘Luck has nothing to do with it. It takes grovelling, begging and pleading on an epic scale to get the kind of stuff that will generate serious publicity. And a lot of personal contacts.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind should I ever be tempted to get personally involved in such nonsense.’
‘You have to get personally involved, Niall. That’s the whole point. These people give generously—not just their possessions, but their time—because they know me.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘As I said, the auction starts at four o’clock, but I suggest you get there early if you want a seat. I’ll leave a pass for you at the staff underground car park.’
‘No need for that,’ he said, turning down the narrow street that led to the rear of the store. ‘I brought a change of clothes with me. I just need the use of the chairman’s washroom.’
‘I’m sorry, Niall, I wish I could help, but India keeps the key chained to her wrist.’ Then, prompted by a wicked impulse to annoy him further, she added, ‘I’m afraid you’re just going to have to stand in line and use mine.’
It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment his attention was claimed by the parking attendant, who was attempting to redirect him to a public car park. She leaned across him to look up at the man. ‘It’s all right, Greg, Mr Macaulay is working with me on a temporary basis. I’ll organise a swipe card for him.’
‘Sorry, Miss Claibourne, I didn’t recognise you with the headscarf.’ He nodded. ‘Mr Macaulay.’ The barrier was lifted and they drove through.
‘Over to the left. You can’t use the chairman’s washroom, but my father’s parking space isn’t being used at the moment. You might as well take it while you’re shadowing me.’
‘Only on a temporary basis, then?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s face it, if the Farradays should ever manage to regain control of the store, your cousin Jordan is going to want it all for himself.’
‘When,’ Niall said. ‘When we take control.’ As he took a suit bag from the rear he looked up, briefly, at the imposing building. ‘And he’s welcome to the parking space. I’ll be running the financial aspects of the business from my own offices in the City.’ As if on cue his phone rang, and Romana walked ahead while he dealt with some complex detail that needed the personal attention of the boss.
She nodded to the security guard at the rear entrance and headed for the staff lifts, where she waited while he paced back and forth, explaining something at length. Clearly it was rather more than a detail. It made her wonder again why the Farradays had agreed to India’s shadowing plan when it must be a major inconvenience. Hadn’t they realised what running a vast retail outlet involved? There was a lot more to it than estimating knicker sales.
‘You’ve got it all worked out, then?’ she asked, when he finally joined her.
‘What? Oh, yes.’
Stupid question. They’d obviously been planning this for months. Years, probably. ‘Will you ever bother to come to the store?’ she asked.
‘Store?’ She realised his mind was still on his phone call. ‘Oh, probably not,’ he said, returning to Claibourne & Farraday business. ‘I’ve got more important things to do than “shop” for amusement these days.’
‘It’s just as well you’re in a minority, or we’d all be out of business,’ she said. But as she punched in the code to summon the private lift that would take them straight to the top floor she wished it were Niall Macaulay’s nose.
She’d thought he’d begun to understand—as he’d spent time with those great kids—to realise that the store was more than just a business. That it had a heart and soul. That it wasn’t just a money bin but a real community of staff and customers.
She’d clearly been fooling herself.
Like the kiss that had never happened, it was just self-delusion. Maybe it was time to get real.
As she stepped into the lift she turned to him, holding the door open but blocking his way so that he couldn’t join her. ‘So tell me, shadow-man, what was the point of your grand tour yesterday? Were you checking for dust behind the fixtures?’
‘I thought about it, but since I didn’t want to get thrown out I resisted the temptation to run my finger along the skirting boards.’
He did that every time. Made her mad and then made her want to laugh. Or cry. But this time she refused to let herself to be distracted.
‘What about sloppy sales staff?’ she enquired. ‘I’m sure you hoped to find a few of those.’ When he didn’t answer she put her hand behind her ear. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
‘I’m sure every member of your sales staff is a wonderful human being with nothing but the interests of the store at heart,’ he assured her, and a smile was a definite possibility. It was in his eyes—just hadn’t quite made it to his mouth yet. ‘I was simply trying to get a feel for the place.’
‘You failed.’
‘I didn’t realise it was a test.’
‘No?’ She managed a smile of her own. ‘It’s a one-way thing, is it? You scrutinise us, but we have to believe you can run a department store simply because
you say you can?’ She didn’t allow him to answer. She knew what his answer would be. That this wasn’t about running a store, but about controlling a multimillion-pound business. ‘Well, Niall, since you’ve got half an hour to spare, while I take a shower, I suggest you try again. Only this time look at the people. The customers. The staff. Watch their faces. Listen to the enthusiasm in their voices. And when you’ve got a handle on the romance of the place, the human factor that makes Claibourne & Farraday great, ask one of the sales staff to ring through to my office and someone will bring you up to the top floor.’ She paused. ‘But if the magic eludes you, I’d advise you to go back to your counting house…’ She indicated the telephone in his hand. ‘They need you more than we do. You can safely leave real life to the experts.’
‘Real life—’
‘Real life,’ she repeated, and on a sudden impulse she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his in the merest suggestion of a kiss, dealing with that suggestion of unfinished business in the car park. Just to remind him what real life was all about. Just to remind herself. The heat of his mouth took her by surprise, and for a minute she nearly lost it. ‘Oh,’ she said, dragging her mind, and her panting hormones, back to business, ‘you might find time to work on your apology while you’re about it. Since you still have that hurdle to leap.’ Then, her finger poised on the door’s ‘close’ button, she smiled at him. ‘But just in case I don’t see you again, thanks for lunch,’ she said, adding before the door shut between them, ‘It was really special.’
As the lift began to ascend, Romana slumped against the rear and stared up at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure what had just happened. Where that little speech had come from. Or why she was suddenly so very angry with him.
She did know that until the Farradays stopped seeing the store as nothing more than a trophy, to be won at all costs, they were all just going through the motions. That what they were doing was a complete waste of time. It came as something of a shock to realise just how much she hoped she wasn’t wasting her time. And not because she was desperate to save the store from being taken over by the ‘bean counters’.
