Daydream when he should be concentrating on the ballroom ceiling.
Night dream about doing things with raspberry jam that would put it on the Women’s Institute banned list but, more to the point, what was she going to do about him?
So far, she’d stuck strictly to the facts, although that first piece might have raised a wry smile amongst those who remembered him.
He’d anticipated some comeback to his crack about her not fulfilling her mother’s inflated expectations. It had hurt her. It had been his intention to hurt her.
She had been the estate’s little princess while he’d been the frog who was supposed to live under a stone.
So why hadn’t she struck back hard? She knew that he’d been thrown off the estate and that was the story any real journalist would have told.
But then no real journalist would have warned him about what was going to be on tomorrow’s front page.
He called up the Observer’s website and clicked on the link to the editorial staff. She was about halfway down the list, a cool blonde looking out at the world with a confident smile, very different from the mud-spattered creature, hair tumbled about her face that he’d picked out of the ditch. Full of sass and spirit one minute, flapping her eyelashes at him the next, when she thought he might be useful to her.
Still the estate princess despite her fall from grace. She might have been bright, but not bright enough to avoid the obvious trap.
Knowing her mother, he’d have thought an unwanted pregnancy would have involved a quick trip to the nearest clinic. But maybe it hadn’t been an unwanted pregnancy. After all, she’d told him herself, she’d been in love.
Not wanting to think about it, he swept the paper up, but as he was about to drop it where it belonged, in the waste-basket, his attention was caught once again by the fairy perched on the masthead.
He was here to make her pay, but so far she’d been doing all the running. It was time to bite back.
*
‘Okay, everyone. Can I have your attention for a moment?’ Jessica Dixon, the assistant editor, stood in the centre of the large open-plan newsroom and looked around. ‘As you all know we launched this year’s “Make a Wish” campaign last week and we’ve had lots of interesting suggestions.’ She glanced at the card she was holding. ‘A facelift for the Guildhall—’
‘That’ll be the mayor trying to get it done on the cheap.’
‘If it keeps the Council Tax down I’m all for that.’
‘The Mums & Minis group are pushing for an undercover children’s play area in Memorial Park and we’ve had several requests to restore the riverside gardens after last year’s bad weather,’ she continued determinedly, ignoring several more sarcastic remarks. ‘There have also been a lot of great ideas to help individual people in need. It will be our Fairy Godmother’s job to liaise with local youth groups and—’ she looked around ‘—the really good news is that this year we have a sponsor for the Make a Wish scheme.’
‘A sponsor? Does that mean our fairy will have to wear a company logo on her wings?’ someone joked.
‘No logo. Our sponsor isn’t a company, but a private individual and we have Claire to thank for that.’
Claire, busy on a piece of village-school closures, looked up when she heard her name.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘What have I done?’
‘Quite a lot, apparently,’ Tim said, with what could only be described as a snigger. ‘It seems that your one-woman campaign to rouse the community spirit of a new arrival in the area has borne fruit.’
It took her a moment to filter through the background sound. The guildhall…sponsorship…her campaign…new arrival…
Hal?
‘Are you saying that this year’s Make a Wish is going to be sponsored by Henry North?’
‘By George, I think she’s got it!’
Hal was getting involved with the Make a Wish scheme? Why did that make her nervous?
‘What exactly is he offering? His money, his time or his labour?’ she asked, trying not to think about the powerful muscles beneath that green coverall, the soft cashmere. ‘And, more to the point, what does he want in return?’
Jessica sketched the smallest of shrugs. ‘All I know is that in return for supporting whatever major “Wish” we decide to undertake this year, Mr North has asked for just two things. One, that we help him with a Wish of his own—’
‘A Wish? The man’s a multimillionaire, what can we do for him?’ someone asked.
‘Give Claire the sack?’ Tim suggested, dodging as she threw the latest edition of the paper at him. She missed him but clean-bowled his coffee cup, splattering him with cold dregs. A result.
Life was tough enough without him suggesting that she was surplus to requirements.
‘And two,’ Jessica continued, ‘since he’ll be working with her, he’s asked to be allowed to choose this year’s Fairy Godmother.’
‘I bet it’ll be some model he’s dating…’
‘Yes, please! That would guarantee us a mention in Celebrity magazine…’
‘No!’ Then as everyone turned to stare, Claire said, ‘He doesn’t do that kind of publicity.’
‘Oh? And how would you know?’
‘She’s the local authority on Henry North,’ Tim said again.
‘Actually, it can’t be an outsider,’ she said quickly as she once again became the centre of attention. ‘It has to be someone on the staff…’
Nooooooo… But even as the words left her lips she knew what was coming and instinctively slumped down in her chair, ducking behind her monitor.
‘Quite right, Claire,’ Jessica said, approvingly. ‘This isn’t a media circus, it’s about community so if you could spare a moment? Mrs Armstrong would like a word.’
Tim, mopping up the sunrise splatter of cold coffee dregs from his shirt, paused long enough to shout an ironic, ‘Goal!’
‘Claire’s been called out of the office,’ she said, from behind her computer. If she was going to be the office joke, she was entitled to the laughs.
‘Chasing down yet another investigative piece for the front page?’
Her trip to London on expenses had not gone unnoticed, or uncommented on.
‘Only if she’s investigating the dust under her desk.’
A ripple of laughter ran around the office and, straightening up, Claire held up a dust-coated finger. ‘Actually, it’s a vital and wide-ranging report on Health and Safety in the workplace.’
‘Shouldn’t that be “elf and safety”?’
‘Who needs a duster when you’ve got a magic wand?’
‘Everyone’s a comedian,’ she said, pushing her seat back and doing her best to put a brave face on things. ‘If Mr North has seen the error of his ways and is prepared to salve his conscience by helping with a project that benefits the town, let’s make it a good one. Something to make his eyes water.’
Toughen up, be ruthless…
Meanwhile, in return for sprinkling the fairy dust of publicity on local suppliers who supported the “Wish”—free promo in the paper in return for their generosity—and hours of extra unpaid work spent drumming up that support, chasing down grants, organising local youth groups, she was about to be working with Hal North. Given the choice, she wouldn’t have done it dressed in a tutu and wings.
She paused just before she reached the door and, having pasted on a broad grin for her colleagues, she turned to face them and was confronted by the display of the week’s front pages.
Mr Mean Targets Teddies leapt out at her.
Oh, well, brave face, Claire…
‘Ladies, gentlemen…’ She waved her ballpoint over them with a flourish before executing a low curtsey. ‘I leave you to fight over the front page while I don my wings and fly away to part Mr Mean from his money.’
She’d anticipated an ironic cheer. At the very least a laugh. What she got was dead silence. She flicked a glance in Tim’s direction. He was always good for a jeer, if nothing else.
He’d paused in the act of mopping the coffee off his shirt but didn’t respond with as much as a twitch of an eyebrow and with a sudden sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she turned around.
Behind her, Willow Armstrong, the CEO of the Melchester-based Armstrong Newspaper Group which owned not only the Maybridge Observer, the County Chronicle and dozens of other titles in the region, but the local commercial radio station, was standing in the corridor.
With her, Hal North, a head taller, was looking down his long, not-quite-straight nose; piercing her with eyes that were of a blue so intense, so dark that it sucked the breath right out of her body.
‘Hal…’ Willow Armstrong, ignoring the pregnant silence said, ‘I believe you know Claire Thackeray?’
‘We have met,’ he said. His expression was grave, serious, but a gleam in the depths of those eyes suggested that he was enjoying the moment even if she was not.
No green coveralls today, not a trace of motor oil, but a lightweight grey tweed suit that was exactly right for the well-heeled gentleman about his business in a country town.
‘Claire, Mr North has read about our “Make A Wish for Maybridge” programme and has generously offered to support us this year. Since you’ve shown such a passionate interest in Cranbrook Park,’ she added smoothly, not suggesting by as much as a flicker of an eyelash that she’d seen that ‘Mr Mean’ headline, ‘he has asked to work with you on the flagship project.’
This was her prompt to say something, but clearly not the word that had momentarily threatened to slip from her lips. Fortunately, with his gaze holding her like a moth on a pin and the breathless silence of the editorial office behind her, words—as ridiculous as that seemed—had deserted her.
This was her big chance to get close to him, she told herself. Not in a ditch or over a motorcycle, but a chance to talk to him, find out where he’d been, what he’d been doing all these years.
Why he’d come back.
She could write an in-depth profile of a very successful, very private businessman. Something that mattered. Something bigger than the Observer could handle, but would make a colour spread in the County Chronicle, the group’s glossy lifestyle magazine. Maybe even make a national newspaper. Something that would lift her career a notch or two.
She should be happy…
Jessica’s surreptitious nudge in the back was sufficient to make her blink and the break in eye contact restored a little of her composure. She breathed in, placed her hand in his.
‘Hal…’ she said. ‘How unexpected. You’re always telling me that you never talk to the press.’
‘Is that why you haven’t called recently?’
‘There seemed no point.’
‘Never give up, Claire. Given sufficient incentive—’ his hand closed around hers in what was less a conventional handshake, more a ‘gotcha’ moment as he held it a little too firmly for her to pull away without making it obvious ‘—I’m prepared to talk to anyone.’
‘It was the Victoria sandwich that did it?’
‘I expected you to bring it yourself.’
‘I’ve been a bit busy.’ She swallowed. ‘What kind of support are you offering the Make a Wish project?’ she asked, doing her best to ignore the continuing firm pressure of his cool fingers around her own.
Cold hand, warm heart?
Her own fluttered a little as she recalled the way her cold lips had heated up as he’d kissed her, his long fingers encircling her ankle, sliding between her toes. That moment when he wiped the oil from her cheek.
Her knees buckled.
Her lips burned…
She rested her free hand on the door handle, told herself to get a grip. So, Brian had stuck a vile headline on a story with her name on it. It was Hal who’d told her that it didn’t matter who you hurt as long as you sold newspapers.
‘You’re in the transport business, aren’t you?’ she managed, as if her file on him didn’t contain the exact number of vehicles his company operated, the total tonnage of air cargo, shipping containers it had handled in the last tax year. When his transport company was floated on the stock exchange a couple of years back his business—if not his life—had become public property. ‘We always need help moving the goods people donate.’
‘I was thinking of something a little more hands on than that,’ he replied.
There was the slightest tightening of his grip before he released her without warning, leaving her feeling weirdly off balance, as if she had been the one hanging on. Without his support the ground seemed to slip from beneath her feet and she found herself clinging to the door handle to stop herself slithering down it to the floor. Before she could take a step back, grab a breath, steady herself, his hand had shifted to her elbow. It should have helped.
No…
‘Let’s discuss it over a cup of coffee.’
‘Coffee?’ she repeated stupidly, her pulse quickening even as she clung to the door handle as if to a lifeline.
She was keen as mustard to discuss all and everything with him over coffee or any other beverage he had in mind—if he was going to make her pay for that headline, it was going to be a two-way street—but he was up to something. She needed to marshal her thoughts, marshal her knees, marshal everything before she could handle this.
Her boss, her editor were watching. It was vital to be professional.
Cool…
Who was she kidding? His hand was warming her skin through her sleeve, a flush of heat that was spreading up her arm, through her body, touching her with an intimacy that was disturbing, unnerving, arousing…
‘Sadly, that won’t be possible,’ she said, hoping that she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. Breathe, breathe… ‘Coffee will have to wait for another day,’ she said, with every appearance of regret. ‘I’m sure Willow has explained that Fairy Godmother duties are voluntary? My job has first priority and I’m interviewing a local woman who gave birth to triplets—’ a story that had filled today’s front page thank goodness ‘—in twenty minutes. It’s one of those human-interest stories our readers love and, since I’ll be walking to the maternity unit, I need to leave now,’ she added.
After that, she was taking an early lunch so that she could take Ally home. It was half term this week and since Penny was now working five mornings a week for Hal, and Ally and Savannah had fallen out, childcare had become a lot more complicated.
Having demonstrated her independence, she managed a smile.
‘Perhaps Ms Webb could give me a call and arrange a convenient time for a meeting?’ she suggested. ‘I’d be happy to come up to the Hall. I know how busy you must be. How’s the motorcycle coming along?’
A small crease deepened at the side of his mouth, his eyes darkened imperceptibly, acknowledging the tiny prod about her bicycle, about not talking to the press, but it had been a mistake to mention the motorcycle.
‘And the rose garden?’
Shut. Up.
‘Why don’t I give you a lift to the maternity unit and you can advise me on bedding plants over lunch?’ he suggested. ‘You do eat lunch?’
‘Oh…’ The sound escaped before she could stop it, betraying her annoyance that he refused to play by anyone’s rules but his own.
She hated losing control. She’d done it once but had
created order out of the chaos of her life, making a home, creating a garden, bringing up her little girl…
Belay that.
She’d lost control when she’d run into him on that footpath. Bad enough, but with nobody’s job safe, having to rely on public transport to get anywhere and her childcare arrangements in ruins, she was juggling eels while running uphill.
‘Don’t worry about the triplets.’ Willow stepped in before she could say something she regretted. ‘I’ve been dying for an excuse to see them and I think I can still write a paragraph or two that won’t shame the Observer.’
‘Oh, but…’
‘Jessica was telling me that you’ve got childcare issues?
’ Her smile was sympathetic. ‘School holidays are a nightmare. Believe me, I know.’
Terrific! Thank you, Jessica.
‘Actually, I’ve been talking to Brian,’ she continued, ‘and we’re agreed that now the Make a Wish scheme has grown so large it needs someone whose sole responsibility is to coordinate it. Liaise with local companies, the voluntary and youth groups, keep an overview of progress, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes?’ No!
‘He’s offered to release you from his team for the next couple of months.’
Months!
‘But…’
…I’m a journalist.
The words stuck in her throat as she realised exactly what Hal had done.
‘You can handle the Wishes from home just as easily as the office, which will make life a little easier for you and,’ she added, ‘you will make a delightful Fairy Godmother.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said, making one last bid for her job. ‘If it’s authenticity you’re after, maybe I could point you in the direction of Jessica?’ If she was going down, she was going down fighting. ‘She looks exactly like the grandmotherly FGM in Ally’s book of fairy tales.’
Willow laughed, patted her arm as if she appreciated the joke, but then said, ‘Hal has some really interesting ideas that you’ll want to include in the voting list on Saturday, so I suggest you start there. Send me a weekly update and anything you need just ask.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but turned to Hal. ‘I’ll tell Mike that you’re looking for local craftsmen, Hal. I’m sure he’ll know someone who can help with your ceiling.’
‘Thank you, Willow. I appreciate that.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘The triplets!’
They both watched in silence as, having tossed her metaphorical hand grenade, she moved quickly to the front door to avoid the fallout.
‘Impressive woman,’ Hal said, finally.
‘Yes. She is.’ Her idol as it happened. They’d gone to the same school, although she’d been years later and Willow Armstrong had started as a journalist on their sister paper in Melchester, doing the ‘human interest’ stories, just like her. That was as far as the comparison went. Willow had been offered a job on a national newspaper but had turned it down, choosing instead to stay in Melchester and manage the Armstrong group. ‘And a busy one,’ she added. ‘She’s not just a figurehead, she really does run the whole show.’
The Last Woman He'd Ever Date (Mills & Boon Modern Tempted) Page 9
