The Tycoon's Takeover

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Just ensure that I’ve got a room to myself,’ she said—just in case he decided his ‘personal mission’ to ensure her enjoyment included making up for her wasted three years, two months and… No, she’d lost count of the days. ‘Having to bunk with the cricket team would not be my idea of a good time. Now, I really must get on if I’m going away for the weekend.’ But he didn’t move. And he didn’t let go of her hand.

  ‘Is that the way the Claibournes close a deal?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry? Did you want something in writing?’

  ‘Nothing so formal.’ He raised her hand to his lips, and she knew what was coming. But even while she was sending frantic signals to her brain he raised his free hand, sliding his fingers through her hair, cradling her head, holding her captive. ‘I had in mind something more along the lines of that old song title…you remember the one?’ He didn’t wait for her to confirm or deny it, but instead gave her his very personal interpretation of sealing an agreement with a kiss.

  This time there were no half measures. No playful brushing of lips in an opening gambit that offered the opportunity for a swift check—should the opponent wish to end the game.

  This was a kiss intended to make a lasting impression, one that her lips responded to instinctively, ignoring the belated stop signals flashing from her brain. They’d been given a foretaste of something wonderful last night, a promise that there was more to come. They were too busy collecting on that promise to let anything as boring as common sense stop their fun. And Jordan Farraday took full advantage of their decision to go it alone.

  His mouth was cool against hers. Cool and completely in control. His tongue was like silk as he took his own sweet time about extracting her promise. While she was hot, flushed and vibrantly aware that every cell in her body was being given a wake-up call. Only when she was captivated, boneless, breathless, did he finally lift his head and offer her his lazy half smile—the one that made her want to smile right back.

  Lost for words she might have been, but worse, far worse, was the contented little tell-tale sigh that escaped her lips.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we have a deal.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  INDIA was speechless. Not that it mattered—if she could have thought of anything to say she wouldn’t have had the breath to say it.

  Taking advantage of the situation, Jordan took her by the arm as he steered her up the remaining stairs and through the door into the Cosmetic and perfume departments.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are we doing here?’

  She’d forgotten. For the life of her she couldn’t remember. Her mind, usually razor-sharp, had been reduced to a squishy mass of marshmallow. Fortunately the department head spotted her and came to her rescue. ‘Good morning, Miss Claibourne. We’re all set up, if you’d like to come and see.’

  She introduced Jordan, although it was clear the man already knew who he was—and what he was doing in the store. ‘We’re introducing a new line of cosmetics. Something for the younger customers,’ he explained, addressing himself to Jordan. ‘It’s a major market and rather a new one for us. Miss Claibourne has been making huge strides in getting the 15-25-year-old age group through the doors. Today we’re offering decorative henna painting as an incentive.’

  ‘Buy one, get one free?’ Jordan suggested.

  India, breath restored, had had quite enough of this cosy all-men-together chat. ‘Claibourne & Farraday is not a supermarket,’ she said.

  ‘The henna painting is simply a draw, Mr Farraday,’ the department manager intervened swiftly.

  The man clearly thought he was talking to the next Managing Director of Claibourne & Farraday, and was intent on making a good impression. Did everyone believe that? she wondered. Were all her staff busy mentally adjusting their allegiances even as she stood there? ‘It’s very popular,’ she said, determined to regain command.

  ‘Is it? Show me,’ Jordan said. He still had her elbow gripped firmly in his hand and he crossed to the waiting chair and lowered her into it. Her legs, not quite recovered from the force of his kiss, buckled without resistance. He glanced at the henna artist. ‘Miss Claibourne will make the perfect guinea pig. She has lovely hands.’ As if to demonstrate, he took one of them, palm up, straightening her fingers with his thumb in a gesture that was pure caress and sent shock waves of desire to her already sensitised body. Did he know what he was doing?

  He seemed to be looking at her palm for ever before he turned her hand over, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to repeat his courtly gesture and lift it to his lips. Right here. In front of her staff. A demonstration of his power…his control.

  ‘Miss Claibourne has always been a great ambassador for the store.’ The department head’s smooth compliment short-circuited the static build-up in the air around them.

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ And, letting her go, Jordan stepped back to allow the artist to set to work.

  Fleetingly, she was tempted. Tempted just to sit back and have exotic designs painted onto her hands like some pampered harem creature. Her hands painted, her body anointed with sweet scented oils, then wrapped in silk and delivered to the Sultan. A sultan with Jordan Farraday’s face.

  She gave a little gasp as common sense reasserted itself. ‘It’s an interesting idea, but I’ll pass,’ she said firmly. And, gripping the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, and began to walk quickly in the direction of the nearest escalator.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She hadn’t gone three yards before he was beside her. His voice demanded her attention. As if he was already in control. Well, he wasn’t in control of her.

  ‘I’m going to powder my nose, Jordan.’ Or, roughly translated, she was grabbing a breathing space to take a healthy dousing in cold water. Walking—running—away from him while she was still in control of her senses. ‘I’d invite you along, so that you can see how the other half do it, but the other occupants might not take kindly to your presence.’

  ‘I thought there were washroom facilities on a lavish scale for the directors on the top floor. A private bathroom for every office.’

  ‘Niall told you that, did he?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Niall took one look at your sister and forgot I existed.’

  ‘What a pity she isn’t here now, to work the same trick for me.’ Make her forget that her lips were still throbbing from the kiss he’d taken without so much as by your leave. Treating them as if they were his personal help-yourself counter in a sweet shop. Make her forget that intimate caress as he’d stroked his thumb over her hand, sending shivers of anticipation to every part of her body. She’d been scared of what he might do to her beloved store. Suddenly the fear was on a deeper, more personal level. What might he do to her?

  The answer, right now, appeared to be nothing. A muscle moved in the corner of his mouth. It might have been a suppressed smile; more likely bitten-back irritation that his kiss hadn’t had a more lasting impact. That was all. There was no other visible or verbal reaction.

  She realised she’d been holding her breath, waiting for an explosion that hadn’t come. She wanted him to explode, lose control, as she’d so nearly done. Forget ‘doing a Claibourne’. She’d be better advised to ensure that he didn’t use the Farraday magic to sweep her off her feet.

  ‘You’re right, of course. There were private bathrooms installed in each of the director’s offices—with no expense spared—by your grandfather,’ she said, edgily sweeping her hair behind her ear.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he said, reaching up to free it, let it swing back over her cheek, over his fingers that lingered for moment. ‘It’s perfect just the way it is.’ Then, ‘I remember them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bathrooms.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d ever been here. Behind the scenes.’

  ‘Not for a very long time,’ he admitted. ‘But my mother had one of those offices. I did those visits t
o Santa when I was a small boy, just like you. Came to be fitted for my first school clothes.’

  She tried to imagine Jordan as a small boy. She couldn’t do it. ‘Your mother? What did she do?’ But, recalling the letters in the old files, she knew the answer even before the question had escaped.

  ‘Dreamed dreams. Formed exciting plans to update the store, waiting for the older generation to move over so that she could make it happen,’ he said. ‘Just what you’re doing now, India. Until, like you, she found events overtaking her.’

  ‘I see.’ And finally she did see. She’d thought she was the first woman to have fought for her place at the head of the company. Clearly she wasn’t. It explained a lot. His antagonism towards her father. The bad feeling between the families.

  It didn’t explain the kisses…

  ‘I’ve left a copy of the plans for the alterations on my desk,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you go on up, take a look at them? I’ll be right up.’ Just as soon as she’d had a moment to collect her thoughts.

  ‘I’ll pick up the plans,’ he said, ‘but then I’ll leave you in peace for the rest of the morning.’ About to ask him what had happened to the month he was supposed to be devoting exclusively to her, she came to her senses just in time. ‘Keep lunchtime free, though.’ Not so much an invitation as an order, she thought. Maybe that was the way it was in his world. He spoke and people jumped. Willingly.

  ‘You mean I don’t get a shadow-break at lunch?’

  ‘Neither of us do.’

  She should have been angry, yet his tone was warm enough for her to give him the benefit of the doubt. And there was the suspicion of a smile in the way his eyes creased at the corners. ‘I’ll reserve a table in the Roof Garden Restaurant. One o’clock?’ she suggested.

  ‘One o’clock will be fine. But I find the store a little…public. I’ll ask my secretary to book something and ring you with the details.’

  Give him the benefit of the doubt and he’d take advantage every time, she thought. Of her lips. Her hands. Her hair. ‘There’s no need to put her to so much trouble. I’m happy being in public.’

  ‘On show for your customers?’

  The more people around the better, as far as she was concerned. He hadn’t kissed her in public. Yet. ‘It gives the customers confidence if you eat in your own restaurants, Jordan. The Roof Garden at one.’

  And this time she didn’t give him the opportunity to contradict her, but stepped onto the escalator and was whisked smoothly away from him.

  ‘For a man who hates publicity, you’ve had quite a day.’ His secretary looked up from the first edition of the Evening Post as Jordan hooked his hip onto the corner of her desk, picking up a handful of mail awaiting his attention, flicking through it ‘Nice photograph. Pity it isn’t for real.’

  She turned the paper towards him. The picture of him, Serena and her baby was like a hundred others he’d seen in newspapers over the years. The only difference was that in the others the man in the picture was the baby’s father.

  ‘She’s rather young for me, don’t you think?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. You’re thirty-seven. It’s time you started putting your talent for funding growth industries into making babies instead of money. What were you doing playing midwife in the nursery department at C&F, anyway?’

  ‘Beating India Claibourne at her own game. She was wandering around playing lady of the manor while I got on with the job.’

  ‘How did she take that?’

  Jordan thought about it for a moment, then smiled. ‘Her smile was as wide and as genuine as a crocodile’s.’

  ‘Oh, shame on you, JD. I’ve seen photographs. She has a lovely smile.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What’s she like? She looks very elegant—very aristocratic in her photographs. But then she has the genes. Her father was quite the handsomest man in London in his day. A real pin-up and quite irresistible. I met him once years ago. The man is utterly charming.’

  ‘He could charm a nun out of her knickers.’

  ‘And her mother was stunning. Exotic.’

  ‘Her father was—probably still is—a philanderer, and her mother abandoned her when she was three months old. But you’re right. India Claibourne is lovely.’ He found himself thinking about the moment he’d taken her hand, felt it trembling in his. He’d wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, promise her anything…

  ‘JD?’

  Christine was regarding him with a dangerously thoughtful expression and he smiled. ‘She’s clever too. Kitty Farraday mark two,’ he said, thinking about his own mother. ‘And equally doomed to disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, right. Is that why you took her out to dinner last night? To soften the blow?’

  He frowned. ‘How do you know I had dinner with India last night?’

  She picked up the paper. ‘Page seven. City Diary,’ she said, then read. “‘Is Jordan Farraday going for the hat trick? Will he claim India Claibourne along with the department store that bears both their names, healing the thirty-year-old feud with a personal as well as a business partnership? The ongoing saga of the fight for control at Claibourne & Farraday took another romantic twist last night, when Jordan Farraday and India Claibourne were spotted after hours, dining à deux at Giovanni’s…’”

  ‘Oh, please! Stop!’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s fairly predictable stuff, considering recent events.’ She offered him the paper. He declined the pleasure of reading about his supper ‘à deux’ with a shake of his head.

  ‘I wonder how the Post found out that we dined at Giovanni’s? Apart from the two of us, only you knew about it.’ He cocked a brow at her. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to advance your cause in the hope of winning the sweepstake?’ He waited. ‘The Post seems to know all about that, too.’

  ‘You’ve already read this, haven’t you?’

  ‘No. I had a call from Celebrity magazine. They quoted it in full, asking me for a comment. My brisk “no comment” only provoked the offer of a stunning amount of money to cover the wedding.’

  ‘Well, don’t blame me. The Post have probably got a “most wanted” call out on sightings of the two of you together. Take a leaf out of Niall and Bram’s book and run away now,’ Christine advised, ‘before it turns into a media circus.’

  ‘Come on, Christine. I don’t need this.’

  ‘No? Well, maybe Miss Claibourne does,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t hurt her cause to have you appear to be wooing her, would it? It would certainly make everyone think twice before assuming that you were about to take over.’

  He’d thought that Christine was having a little fun at his expense. Maybe he was being naïve. He had history as proof of how far the Claibournes would go to take, keep control of the store.

  ‘See what you can find out. Discreetly. I don’t want to excite any more interest in this affair.’

  ‘Nice choice of words.’ Then, ‘You really can’t blame the Post for running with the story, especially when you’re being so co-operative. Giovanni’s isn’t the first restaurant that leaps to mind when you’re considering a working supper. Did she enjoy herself?’

  ‘India? I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Then she must be one very cool young woman. Did you?’ she pressed.

  ‘She’s interesting,’ he said, non-committally.

  ‘As well as beautiful and clever. An unbeatable combination.’

  He got to his feet. ‘I have to go. I’m having a working lunch with a beautiful, clever and interesting lady in C&F’s rooftop restaurant. The venue is her choice. I’m telling you now so that you can send out for the late edition of the Post and read all about it.’

  ‘Did you look at the plans for the top floor?’

  Jordan had spent lunch questioning her about the catering arrangements at the store. They had four restaurants, three coffee shops and a sushi bar, and they were always busy. He’d asked intelligent questions—if she had a suspicious nature she’d hav
e to wonder if he’d been advised what questions to ask by someone in the business. He must know people, have provided finance for new restaurants. Celebrity chefs were a growth industry.

  Eventually he’d seemed satisfied, and now it was her opportunity to bring up the plans.

  ‘I glanced at them. Your architect appears to have done a good job in a very short time. You did say that Niall put forward the idea?’

  She hadn’t, but since she didn’t know what Niall had told him she had no choice but to allow that a Farraday had had some input. This wasn’t the moment to be caught out in a lie.

  ‘He and Romana discussed it, apparently. They were both in a hurry to clean up after some PR event and Niall was shocked at the profligate waste of space—’

  ‘More likely irritated that there was no excuse to share a bathroom.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Maybe. Whatever the reason, it sometimes takes an outsider to spot the obvious.’

  ‘Niall isn’t an outsider. He’s a partner.’

  ‘A sleeping one,’ she pointed out. Jordan raised an eyebrow back at her. ‘He brought a fresh eye to things,’ she continued, doing her best to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘Romana wrote a report and e-mailed it to me.’

  ‘From her honeymoon?’

  ‘There,’ she said, offering his own words back to him with a wide and generous gesture. ‘You see how dedicated we are.’

  He smiled at that. ‘I never doubted it for a moment, India. Or the usefulness of a “fresh eye”. This is a beautiful and successful store, but it’s rather stagnated under your father’s stewardship. A fresh eye is exactly what it needs.’

  ‘And it’s got one. Since I became a director,’ she said, ‘I’ve been working hard on attracting a more youthful customer base. The trick is not to put off the people who love it just the way it is. Not to startle them.’