The Tycoon's Takeover

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Since I’m spending the next month observing you at work, Miss Claibourne, I think you should give her the flowers,’ he said, surrendering the bags to a blushing assistant. ‘While I watch.’

  Before she could quite make up her mind whether he was being serious or sarcastic, he smiled, which short-circuited any but the most positive thoughts, making it difficult to remember that it was her intention to spend as little time as possible in his company.

  ‘If you’ve nothing more pressing this evening, of course you’re most welcome to join me. But it’s not compulsory. Even a “shadow” has statutory rights regarding working hours,’ she said, making an effort to keep things cool and businesslike. Then she spoiled it all by smiling right back. ‘Excuse me, I’d better just go and let everyone know they can resume shopping.’

  For a moment, the space of a heartbeat, as he’d looked up and seen India Claibourne standing in the doorway watching him, Jordan had known he’d made a mistake. That his secretary had been right and that he was playing with fire. That he should run, not walk away from this woman.

  He already knew she was lovely. Every single photograph of her, since her first photo-call at the age of four, sitting on Santa’s knee in the C&F Christmas grotto, had been filed away with the newspaper articles on the store supplied by a cuttings agency.

  With her little cap of dark hair cut into a neat fringe, her eyes huge with the excitement of it all, there had been the promise of beauty even then.

  As she’d grown into a lively teenager, a dashing young woman, her face had changed from that of a round-cheeked child into the fine-boned elegance of genuine beauty. One with style, class and the indefinable something extra which made a woman special: the something extra that reminded a man there was more to life than making money.

  Only her eyes had never changed. They were still huge, eager, burning with life, and for a moment the heat they generated had seared him in a vivid affirmation of Christine’s warning on the dangers of playing with fire.

  Then she’d turned away to speak to her department manager and common sense had kicked in.

  He was that rarest of commodities, a wealthy bachelor. His world had never been short of lovely women. But he hadn’t lost his head over one of them yet, and there was absolutely no chance of him losing it over India Claibourne.

  That wasn’t his plan at all. In this relationship there would be only one loser.

  For a moment he watched her walk across the sales floor towards the coffee shop. Tall, willowy, her long legs emphasised by high, high heels, her elegant figure merely sketched at by the suit she was wearing. Burgundy-red, rich and dark and expensive, with discreet gold buttons. Claibourne & Farraday’s livery colours.

  That she’d chosen to wear it today in order to make some kind of statement he never doubted for a second.

  She’d fight him for possession of her domain with her last breath. The knowledge sent a ripple of excitement through him that was far more pleasing than all his cold, calculating plans.

  Before the month was up she would surrender everything to him. More than surrender. She was the one playing with fire and she was going to get burned.

  And with that pleasing thought he went after her.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen…’ She didn’t raise her voice, or rap on a table, yet there was an immediate hush in the coffee shop, a tribute to a presence that was rare in a woman. Confidence, self-belief, a power that came from within. She was a worthy adversary. ‘I just wanted to thank you all for your patience. You can continue with your shopping whenever you’re ready.’ For a moment she was deluged with questions about the young mother-to-be. ‘I’ll be calling the hospital later for news of our newest customer,’ she continued, ‘and if the parents give their permission we’ll post news of the birth on our website.’ Then, checking her watch, she turned to him and said, ‘I have to go. I’ve got an author arriving for a book-signing in a few minutes.’

  ‘I saw the posters when I arrived. Is it simply a meet-and-greet? Or will you have to stand by and hand her an endless supply of pens?’

  ‘She can manage her own pens, but she does merit the full red carpet treatment. Fortunately she doesn’t have time for lunch today.’ Then, ‘Or maybe I make a less attractive lunchtime companion than my father. He always took her to the Ritz and plied her with champagne,’ she added, with a sideways glance from beneath dark glossy lashes that appeared to suggest that if he took over he’d have that pleasure to look forward to.

  ‘You could do that.’

  ‘I don’t think either the Ritz or the champagne would make up for my father not being there to flirt with her.’

  ‘He’s certainly had plenty of practice,’ he agreed blandly. Then, as her cheekbones flushed pink with anger, ‘I’d have doubted a book department was a cost-effective use of space these days,’ he said as they both reached out to press the button to summon the lift. He beat her to it by a fraction of a second, and their fingers tangled momentarily before she snatched them back, as if stung. Her nails were polished the same deep burgundy-red as her suit. As her smooth, soft lips. ‘Can you compete with the big book chains?’ he enquired, making an effort to concentrate on business.

  ‘The decision to close the book department was made several weeks ago,’ she replied. Again that little sideways flicker of eyelashes. This time they said, You see? I’m one step ahead of you. ‘It’s part of the rationalisation of floor space that’s in progress at the moment. We’ve started on the top floor, as you must have noticed.’

  ‘Impossible to miss,’ he agreed. ‘It must make concentration difficult.’

  ‘I never have any difficulty in concentrating on the important stuff.’ The lift arrived and they got in. ‘Ground floor, please,’ she said, abandoning competition in favour of making it appear that he was at her beck and call. He pressed the button that would take them to the ground floor without comment. She was, he had to admit, a fast learner. ‘We’re reducing the office area by half. My father has retired…’ she glanced at him ‘…but then you know that.’ She paused momentarily, as if expecting him to enquire after the man’s health. When he didn’t, she went on, ‘And Flora rarely uses her office, so they are both being ripped out. Romana’s office is being remodelled to provide space for the two of us—the centre partition will be movable, for full-scale planning meetings. Once that’s done, my office will go too.’

  ‘May I see the plans? I’d like to know what you’re doing with the space you’ve made. The reasoning behind the changes. When you have a moment.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to explain what we’re doing, Mr Farraday. Just as long as you accept that I’m extending you a courtesy, not seeking your approval.’

  ‘Of course. Control is absolute. We both understand that.’ He certainly wouldn’t be seeking approval from the Claibournes for his plans. Their helpless howls of rage as he sold the store would only sweeten his triumph.

  They reached the ground floor and he followed her across the entrance lobby to the main door, where a staff photographer was waiting, along with a group of fans eager to catch the first glimpse of their idol. ‘Any sign of her, Mr Edwards?’ she asked the commissionaire.

  ‘She’s stopped just down there at the traffic lights. You’ve got about thirty seconds.’

  ‘The white stretch limo,’ she explained. ‘The lady is a celebrity. She likes to make an entrance.’ Then, ‘Maybe we’ll have a little time between the book-signing and the celebrity chef.’

  ‘Celebrity chef?’

  ‘In the food hall at twelve o’clock. He’s making some Italian dish to promote a new product line. I’m afraid you’ve chosen a rather hectic day to visit us, but maybe we can find some time to look at the plans before he arrives.’

  He didn’t miss her suggestion that he was ‘visiting’. That this was her territory. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to run the programme for the rest of the month by me too,’ he said, reminding her that his visit wasn’t a day-trip. ‘When you have a mome
nt.’

  ‘I’m sorry. This must seem very tedious to you. But a store of this size needs to provide constant entertainment value—something to draw the crowds.’

  ‘And you keep a very high profile.’

  ‘It’s not the way you do things in your world, I know, but then high finance is, by its very nature, a secretive business.’

  ‘I think the word you want is confidential.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’ She glanced up at him with those cool dark eyes. ‘Apart from tone?’

  Not that much in the meaning, perhaps, but in the dismissive manner in which she said it there was a world of difference. ‘Tone is everything.’

  ‘Perhaps. This is different. Every day is showtime, and since it’s my name above the door I have to be centre stage.’ Meaning that he’d have to be front and centre too, when he took over? ‘Our customers like the fact that if something goes wrong I’m here, not hidden away in some anonymous head office.’

  Again there was the slightest pause, as if she expected him to say something. Did she really expect him to comment? Promise that he’d be on call for any customer with a complaint? She did something with her shoulders. Nothing as definitive as a shrug, but it made its point loud and clear. It said that he didn’t measure up to her ideal of a CEO for Claibourne & Farraday. It was a situation that she apparently found immeasurably satisfying, if the small smile tucking up the corners of her mouth was anything to judge by.

  ‘I’ll check my diary,’ she continued. ‘I might have that “moment” to run through the event schedule later. Of course there’s nothing stopping you from picking up a programme at the information desk. Or even going to the website to check it out for yourself.’

  ‘Like your customers, I prefer the personal touch. You can tell me all about it this evening.’ Which dealt with her smile, reducing it to a puzzled frown. ‘After we’ve visited the hospital. Over dinner, perhaps?’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You do manage to find a little time to eat?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’ve cleared my diary in order to indulge you, Miss Claibourne. I think I’m entitled to a little consideration in return.’

  ‘India, honey!’ Before she could respond, she was enveloped in the warm embrace of her guest.

  India greeted the exuberant author with more than usual warmth. She deserved it for rescuing her from having to cope with a remark that she suspected had been finely judged to wind her up.

  He’d indulged her?

  He made her sound like some wilful little girl, who’d been given her own way under sufferance, but who would shortly be sent to bed unless she was very, very good.

  And then the author spotted him, and lit up like the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. ‘Who,’ she demanded, ‘is this beautiful man?’

  India was about to introduce them, and invite Mr Farraday to escort the lady novelist up to the book department, when the beautiful man in question pre-empted her. ‘Farraday,’ he said, taking her hand with a dazzling smile. ‘Jordan Farraday.’

  She laughed. ‘You mean I get a Claibourne and a Farraday? This is so special!’ As she turned to face the cameras for the PR shots she snuggled up to him, before taking his arm and sweeping towards the escalator, leaving India trailing in their wake.

  ‘We should have lunch, Mr Farraday,’ she said, as they arrived at the book department and she finally released him.

  ‘How I wish that were possible,’ he said, with every appearance of deepest regret. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ He looked around at the queue of women clutching copies of her book to be signed. ‘I appear to be keeping you from your fans.’ And with that he gave India a look that seemed to say, Well? How did I do? Could Peter Claibourne have done it better? And the answer, of course, was no. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Then, to India, ‘I need to make a phone call.’

  ‘Please, use my office.’

  She could have gone with him, but she was glad of a moment to herself. She wasn’t taking anything for granted, however, and used the internal phone to call Sally.

  ‘Mr Farraday is on his way up. You can give him the event list for June, but he isn’t to see the new office plans. Or anything else.’

  ‘Anything?’ Sally replied, with a throaty chuckle.

  A distraction in the form of her sexy secretary, whose highest ambition was to flirt for her country in the Olympic Games, might be useful, but try as she might she couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for the idea. Instead, rather lamely, she said, ‘Oh, please…’

  She couldn’t quite understand why the idea bothered her, and she put it firmly out of her mind, returning to pose for photographs for the website with the author and some of her fans.

  After that there was nothing to stop her going back to her office and rejoining her shadow. The temptation to go down to the archives—a place where she could not be found unless she wanted to be—and hide out for the rest of the day was compelling.

  She pushed open the door to the stairs. Up or down?

  She’d never know, because Jordan Farraday was leaning, one shoulder against the wall, legs casually crossed, cutting off any chance of escape. She jumped nervously, and to cover her reaction laughed. ‘Mr Farraday. I thought you were using my office to make your phone call.’

  ‘I didn’t need a desk and I have my mobile.’

  ‘In other words it was simply a device to escape being pressed into joining the lady for dinner instead?’

  ‘I’ve already got a dinner date. With you.’ And he dropped the cellphone he’d been using into his pocket. ‘What next?’

  ‘Coffee,’ she said as, cut off from retreat, she took the stairs up to her office, cursing herself for not having thought of inviting the author to join them. She glanced back over her shoulder and found her eyes were on a level with his. They were dark as pitch and just as unfathomable. ‘You wouldn’t be able to walk away so easily if you were running the show.’

  ‘When I’m running the show, Miss Claibourne, I’ll pay someone else to play clown. I’d offer you the job, since you enjoy it so much, but somehow I don’t think you’d want to work for me.’

  Ignoring his comment about playing clown—but mentally filing away the fact that he planned on putting in a manager to use against him—she said, ‘It would make better sense to leave things the way they are.’

  ‘For you, maybe. Not for me. But you already know that.’

  Yes. She knew. While her father had been running the store he’d been able to do whatever he wanted and all Jordan Farraday could do was stand by and watch. He wasn’t going to leave things the way they were because he wanted that power for himself. Just for the sake of it? Or did he already have plans that he knew she wouldn’t like?

  ‘What time does your next party turn arrive?’ he asked, interrupting this disturbing chain of thought.

  ‘I wouldn’t let our celebrity chef hear you describe him as a party turn. Not when he’s got a knife in his hand.’ She ran her swipe card through the security lock and swept through the door and down the corridor, stopping by Sally’s office to ask for coffee and check for messages. ‘And schedule a meeting for me with the training manager, will you, please? As a matter of urgency. That woman in the nursery department didn’t cope well today.’

  ‘She’s just acting manager, isn’t she? While the manager is on holiday?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m afraid it showed. We need to make sure everyone knows how to deal with these one-off emergencies. We can’t rely on Mr Farraday to be around to take charge and hold hands next time.’ She glanced up, challenging him to admit it. Disconcertingly, he smiled, and for a moment she couldn’t think what she’d been going to say next. ‘And…um…’

  ‘The hospital?’ Sally prompted, flirting dangerously with an I-told-you-so smile.

  ‘Check and see how our mother-to-be is doing. As soon as we’ve got a result I’ll want flowers, and a basket of baby stuff in an appropriate colour. And a nice big C&F teddy.
It’ll look good in a photograph if they’re prepared to do a PR piece. I’ll want a photographer with me this evening when I visit—with luck we’ll catch them on an emotional high that they want to share with the rest of the world.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it. We need to finalise the details of the retirement party for Maureen Derbyshire too, when you’ve got a minute.’ And she turned to Jordan Farraday. ‘Don’t miss it, JD. It’s going to be quite a party.’

  ‘I fear Mr Farraday finds our small concerns rather dull, Sally,’ she said, before he could respond. Then, turning to him, ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mr Farraday, but when Maureen leaves it’ll be the end of an era. She started work here on the day she left school. Fifty years ago.’

  ‘Then she must have known my grandfather.’

  Damn! She hadn’t thought of that. Point scoring off JD Farraday was going to be tricky. But she smiled and said, ‘Yes, I imagine so.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d be thrilled if you could find time to join us,’ Sally said, innocent as a baby. ‘It’s on Thursday evening. In the Roof Garden Restaurant.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said, his gaze never leaving India’s face, mocking her as if, despite her secretary’s invitation, he understood that she didn’t want him popping up all over the place. ‘On the understanding that India saves the first dance for me.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I CAN’T believe how young she is,’ India said as they left the hospital early that evening. ‘Or maybe I’m just getting old.’

  ‘That must be it,’ Jordan said. She glanced at him sharply and his eyes creased into the kind of smile designed to make a woman go weak at the knees. He was teasing her, she realised. Which was unexpected and had to be against the rules in a situation like this. But then Jordan Farraday undoubtedly made up the rules as he went along. ‘What did you have to offer to get her to do those publicity shots?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’ She’d taken a photographer with her, hoping to catch the new parents in a mood to share their news with the world. They had been. For a price. She and the new mother had done their deal in the man-free environment of the nappy-changing room. Serena hadn’t wanted her boyfriend to know the details either. ‘Between her and me.’