Bride for a Price
By
Stephanie Howard
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
‘I wouldn’t seriously entertain your proposal for a minute,’ Olivia stated.
Matthew shrugged again with apparent indifference. ‘It’s the only way you’ll get Garland’s back.’
Quite possibly. But there were limits to the lengths to which even she was prepared to go. ‘It’s a preposterous suggestion,’ she insisted. Just the thought of it made her shudder.
‘Preposterous or no, it’s your only chance.’ An amused smile flitted across his face. ‘I certainly have no intention of making a similar proposal to your brother.’
Very funny. Trust him to make a joke out of it. As she struggled to think up some crushing rejoinder, he turned to catch the waiter’s eye and signalled for the bill. ‘If you want Garland’s back as badly as you say, you would be wise to think seriously about my offer.’
Then, as the waiter came and laid the bill, enclosed in a discreet folder, in front of him, he reached for his pocket-book and smiled a knowing smile. ‘For those things one wants badly in life, there’s always a price to be paid. In this case, it’s up to you to decide whether or not you’re prepared to pay it.’
First published in Great Britain 1989
by Mills & Boon Limited
© Stephanie Howard 1989
Australian copyright 1989
Philippine copyright 1989
This edition 1989
ISBN 0 263 76444 3
CHAPTER ONE
‘Thank heavens for dear old dependable Lewis! How would I ever manage without him?’
Olivia frowned with concentration as she bent her shiny, neat dark head over the sheets of figures and statistics that the company’s director-cum-accountant had thoughtfully prepared for her. Statistics and figures were not Olivia’s strong point, as she was all too willing to concede, but right now she desperately needed to have these particular statistics at her fingertips. They were her armour and her strongest weapon in the battle that lay ahead.
As the office door opened, she glanced up, her blue eyes smiling at the tall, distinguished figure with the iron-grey hair who came into the room. ‘Ready?’ he asked her with a sympathetic nod. ‘I think we ought to make a move.’
Olivia straightened. ‘He hasn’t arrived yet, has he?’ In spite of herself, she felt a tremor of alarm.
But Lewis threw her a reassuring smile as he adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate dark suit and glanced at the slim gold watch at his wrist. ‘Not yet, Miss Garland,’ he confirmed. ‘But the chauffeur radioed through just a couple of minutes ago. They should be here in less than a quarter of an hour.’
Olivia nodded. ‘Good,’ she said. And she meant it, despite another slight flutter of nerves. She had been trying to arrange this meeting for more than two months, and she could even now scarcely believe that the accursed Matthew Jordan, the man who was currently blighting her life, had finally deigned to make the journey to Chester to meet her face to face.
She stood up, pushing aside the sheets of bewildering data that she had been poring over for the past couple of hours. If she didn’t know it now, she never would.
She smoothed the slim skirt of the deep navy suit she wore and nervously touched the high-buttoned collar of the contrasting cream silk crêpe-de-Chine blouse. With her glossy dark hair, wide-set deep blue eyes and flawless ivory complexion, the colours were discreetly flattering—while the neat chignon and precise, tailored lines of her clothes helped to project a professional image. An image she was fervently hoping effectively masked her inner turmoil.
She glanced gratefully at Lewis. Thank heavens she had him on her side! ‘Is everything ready?’ she enquired.
‘Just as we planned, Miss Garland. Come and have a look for yourself.’
Olivia followed him to the door, smiling slightly to herself at the way he so adamantly insisted on addressing her as Miss Garland. He always had, ever since he had joined her father’s fast-growing little electronics company ten years ago as chief accountant and she had still been a skinny tomboy of barely fifteen years of age. She, like her parents—and even her baby brother Richard—had always called him by his first name. But Lewis was a strict adherent to the old, more formal ways.
‘I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be respectful,’ he had protested with a firm shake of his distinguished grey head when she had invited him to address her by her Christian name. ‘You’re the boss’s daughter. I merely work here. I’d feel happier if we just left things as they are.’
And so they had—though nothing was any longer as it had been then, Olivia thought ruefully to herself as they walked briskly now along the corridor and through the swing doors into the main entrance hall. For one thing, she was no longer the boss’s daughter. Garland’s, as an independent company, had quite simply ceased to exist. Her father’s sudden, unexpected death three years ago and her mother’s hasty, ill-advised marriage to electronics mogul Roland Jordan had seen to that. Though the full extent of her mother’s folly had come to light only a matter of months ago when she and her new husband had been tragically killed in a skiing accident in France.
Within months of the ill-fated union, it had been revealed, another, even less felicitous union had been arranged. And had been finalised on the very day the new Mr and Mrs Jordan had set off for the slopes of Val-d’Isère. It had both saddened and sickened Olivia to discover that, behind her own and her brother’s backs, Garland’s had been taken over lock, stock and barrel by Roland’s mighty, grasping Jordan Electronics.
‘What do you think, Miss Garland?’
As Lewis spoke, Olivia interrupted her bitter reverie to glance ceilingwards at the big, bright banner strung across the entrance hall. ‘Give Us Back Our Company!’ it demanded unequivocally. Then she turned to squint through the plate-glass doors at the little knots of loyal employees who were parading up and down in the chilly April sunshine bearing placards with similar slogans. She smiled with satisfaction at Lewis. ‘I reckon Jordan should get the message.’
Lewis smiled back. ‘I reckon he should.’
‘Let’s just hope it’ll have the desired effect and persuade him to agree to our demands.’
‘It has to.’ Lewis’s normally composed features creased into a frown of concern. ‘If the man has any decency at all, he has to see that what we’re demanding is no more than our right. Your right,’ he amended diplomatically. ‘Yours and your brother’s.’
Olivia sighed. ‘Above all, my brother’s.’ For it was Richard’s future that this fight was all about. She had her own little business. Her father had set her up with the art gallery when she was twenty-one. And the plan had always been that baby brother Richard, nine years younger than herself and currently away at boarding-school, would one day take over Garland’s. She smiled agreeably at Lewis. ‘Let’s just hope that, as you say, the man has a streak of decency. Unlike his uncle Roland.’ Though, in her heart, she doubted it.
Olivia had met Roland Jordan only once and had disliked him on principle—though subsequent developments, she now felt, had proved her instant judgement right. Now, her instinctive feelings towards his heir and successor, his nephew Matthew Jordan, were equally unremittingly negative. Somehow, she strongly suspected, the man whom she was about to meet would be as unprincipled and lacking in decency as his uncle had proved to be.
Which was why she had organised this hostile little reception for him. At the very least, it would embarrass him a
nd put him on the spot. It would be the last thing he was expecting and it was bound to unnerve him a bit.
It was just at that moment that the chanting started up outside as the groups of demonstrators came to fife. ‘It sounds as though they’ve spotted the car,’ Lewis remarked in a quiet voice. He straightened his shoulders. ‘This is it.’
The chanting was gathering momentum— ‘Jordan out! Jordan out!’—but with just the right degree of aggression, nothing unruly, as Olivia had decreed. Yet it sent a sharp chill through her bones, all the same—and a corresponding tight smile to her lips. If it had this chilling effect on her, how must it be affecting Matthew Jordan, the man at whom it was directed?
The big black company Daimler came suddenly into view through the plate-glass doors and swept to a silent halt. This was it, as Lewis had said. The moment she had so long been waiting for. Betraying her faint nervousness, Olivia unconsciously raised one hand to smooth the already immaculately smooth dark chignon at the back of her head. She had nothing to be nervous about, she told herself firmly. Lewis was there to support her. And, what was more, she had right on her side.
The man in the back seat of the Daimler didn’t bother to wait for the chauffeur to come round and open up the door for him. Instead, the instant the big car drew to a halt, the passenger door opened and he stepped outside.
Olivia squinted curiously, anxious to size him up, and it crossed her mind with a flicker of annoyance that he was not at all what she had been expecting. She had envisaged some slightly stuffy-looking middle-aged executive dressed in a regulation pinstripe suit. This man was much younger—in his middle thirties, she guessed. Tall, dark-haired and broad-shouldered—and dressed in a sharply cut navy suit that, even from this distance, she could tell bore some stylish Italian designer label.
All of that was irritating enough, but what irritated her even more was the fact that, in spite of the increased volume of chanting that went up as he hurried up the short flight of steps to the glass front doors, there was absolutely nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he was even faintly embarrassed by the demonstration. Unnerved, he most certainly was not. On the contrary, there was an expression almost of disdainful amusement on his dark-tanned features as the plate-glass doors buzzed open automatically and he came striding into the hall.
And there was something so powerful about his presence, something that commandeered the eye, that Olivia almost failed to notice the blonde girl carrying the briefcase who had emerged behind him out of the car and was scurrying behind him up the steps.
In a few short strides he had crossed the entrance hall and was standing in front of Olivia, his hand outstretched. ‘Miss Garland, I presume? Matthew Jordan,’ he announced.
As, briefly, they shook hands, Olivia found herself looking into a face of strong, firm lines-straight nose, square jaw and a pair of deep hazel eyes beneath straight black brows that spoke of a shrewd and ruthless intelligence. The clasp of his hand was firm and cool, discreetly authoritative. And his tanned complexion and strong, athletic build suggested a man who spent as much time engaged in outdoor, physical pursuits as he did ensconced behind a desk.
It would take a great deal more than a few chanting demonstrators to unnerve Matthew Jordan, she guessed.
But Olivia was not unnerved easily either, though a shaft of uneasiness went through her. Holding his gaze without a flicker, she gestured towards the grey-haired man at her side. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Lewis Ottley who, as you know, has been running Garland’s since my father died.’
The two men shook hands, then Matthew Jordan turned with a slight smile to introduce the blonde girl at his side. ‘Celine Barbour, my personal secretary,’ he informed them economically.
For the first time Olivia looked at the girl properly, taking in the wide, coquettish, liberally made-up eyes, the fluffy, expensively coiffed hairdo and the highly impractical and unbusinesslike cream-coloured two-piece she was wearing. And, as they exchanged greetings, for no good reason she was aware of a sharp buzz of antipathy. Celine Barbour, she sensed, was not destined to become a bosom pal.
But it was the blonde girl’s boss who was once more claiming Olivia’s attention as he cut in now in a sarcastic tone, ‘I would suggest, Miss Garland, that you bring your protesters indoors now. I think they’ve adequately made their point.’ Then a hint of steely amusement sparked deep in the hazel eyes as he added in blatant mock concern, ‘Besides, it must be rather chilly for them out there.’
His air of easy superiority rankled. ‘They’re not complaining,’ she shot back sharply.
‘But I am.’ The amusement had gone from his eyes. His tone was clipped, uncompromising. His gaze swept her suddenly flushed face as he added for good measure, ‘Perhaps you would also be good enough to arrange the immediate removal of this.’ He indicated with evident distaste the banner that stretched across the entrance hall. ‘And I do mean immediate, Miss Garland.’
Almost visibly, Olivia winced. They had barely met and already the gloves were off. She had just been delivered a sharp reminder that, whether she liked it or not, Matthew Jordan was the boss around here now. But she managed to look back at him steadily and responded with almost tangible sarcasm, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d be so sensitive.’
He smiled back at her without humour. ‘I would suggest there’s a very great deal you don’t know about me, Miss Garland. But please don’t alarm yourself about my sensitivities.’ He paused, his expression endorsing the harsh message in his words. The burden of over-sensitivity, Olivia could all too clearly see as with growing resentment she met his eyes, was not something that Matthew Jordan would be likely to suffer from. He underlined this observation now by adding peremptorily, ‘Just make sure that this eyesore is removed and that ridiculous mob dispersed. Before I leave,’ he emphasised.
‘I’ll see to it, Mr Jordan.’ It was Lewis who cut in now, his tone conciliatory as he threw Olivia a soothing look. And he was right, she thought, cursing herself for her sharp, quick tongue that had so far only succeeded in further antagonising the man she desperately needed to reach an agreement with. Her roughshod tactics had done more harm than good. And she felt a surge of gratitude for Lewis’s timely subtlety as he made a discreet signal to the watching receptionist before continuing, ‘I suggest we adjourn for our meeting now.’ Then he turned and led the way through the swing doors and along the corridor to the boardroom at the end. ‘This way, Mr Jordan.’
They took their places round the polished oval mahogany table where notepads and pencils, water jugs and glasses had already been laid out. Matthew Jordan at the head, with his secretary placed decoratively on his right. On his left, Olivia, and next to her, a little further down the table, Lewis, her essential ally.
There was a stiff, strained silence as the blonde Celine took some papers from the black leather briefcase and slid them across the table towards her boss. Inwardly, Olivia made a face. So he had come prepared for battle, too—though he didn’t even glance at the papers as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and idly picked up the yellow pencil that lay on the notepad in front of him.
He had particularly well-shaped hands, Olivia couldn’t help but notice. Long-fingered, strong-looking and unadorned with rings, the tan of his skin contrasting sharply with the immaculate white cuffs of the shirt he wore. Clever, manipulative hands, she found herself thinking with mounting disapproval, that somehow perfectly complemented the clever, manipulative gleam in his eyes.
He came straight to the point, his gaze fixed on Olivia as he spoke. ‘We’re here to discuss the recent merger between Garland’s and Jordan Electronics. Unfortunately, Miss Garland appears to be of the opinion that there are still a few wrinkles to be ironed out.’
She held his eyes, irritated by his offhand tone of voice. ‘A few wrinkles is not how I would describe the problems, Mr Jordan. I would say they were much more fundamental than that. I happen to be contesting the very validity of the merger.’
&
nbsp; ‘I thought you’d already done that. And lost,’ he added pointedly, a superior smile curling round his lips.
Olivia glared at him. ‘I’m aware of that,’ she assured him cuttingly. How could she be anything else after three months of legal wrangling that had left her spiritually exhausted and severely out of pocket? The courts had come down unequivocally on the side of Jordan’s. The merger was perfectly legally valid. ‘What I’m contesting now,’ she bit at him between clenched teeth, ‘is its moral validity.’
Matthew Jordan seemed to find that amusing. He smiled briefly, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘Moral validity?’ he repeated, watching her. ‘I thought this was to be a business discussion. I had no idea that you intended extending the proceedings into the realms of moral philosophy.’
‘Not your strong point, I’ve no doubt.’ Then she added recklessly, ‘Straightforward theft appears to be more in line with the Jordan family’s repertoire.’
As the amusement drained abruptly from his face, to be replaced with an expression like splintered glass, Olivia silently cursed herself for having gone too far again. Her accusation was undoubtedly true, but in the circumstances she might have been wiser to couch it in somewhat more diplomatic terms. She dropped her gaze awkwardly, as he ground back angrily at her, ‘Perhaps, Miss Garland, you would care to elaborate on that last remark?’
As she fumbled for words, a reluctant apology on her lips, Lewis came to the rescue again. ‘I fear Miss Garland is expressing herself badly. She is, quite understandably, deeply distressed by the events of the past few months. The death of her mother—a terrible blow.’ He spoke quietly, urging forbearance, all the while fiddling selfconsciously with the heavy gold signet ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand. ‘And then this totally expected development regarding the takeover of her family’s firm—’
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