by Liz Fielding
‘Maybe the younger audience just need a new store.’
‘A “Miss” Claibourne & Farraday in every shopping mall?’ She pulled a face, yet something chimed in her head. A new dedicated store…
‘So what’s your vision? Will you share it with me?’ he asked, bringing her back to him.
Was he giving her an opportunity to make her case? Prove herself? Seriously? Or did he imagine he would be able to pick it to pieces? Make her look foolish?
She could run the basics by him. Rethinking the use of space. Refreshing the interiors within the confines of the protected listed status. Getting rid of the clutter, opening everything out. Cosmetic changes. But what would he say if she told him that his name was redundant in her plans?
He insisted he was a businessman first and last. Would he see the benefit? Put that above personal recognition? It seemed unlikely.
She certainly wasn’t going to tell him without carefully thinking it through. She’d need to know a lot more about Jordan Farraday before she took the risk of telling him that she planned to relaunch the store as Claibourne’s.
‘I’d be glad to, Jordan, but not right now. Right now I have to negotiate a new contract with the company that provides our laundry services.’ She smiled. ‘It’s not all bikinis and bone china.’ She hooked her hair behind her ear, then quickly shook it free before he decided to loosen it for her. ‘Maybe we can find some time at the weekend,’ she said, summoning the waitress in order to sign the bill. ‘To talk?’
‘Break the solemn “no business” rule?’ he asked, his expression solemn, only his eyes suggesting he was teasing. ‘There’s a heavy fine for that.’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’ Then, ‘But who would know? If we took a walk, say? If we didn’t tell them?’
‘We’d have to own up. It’s an honour system.’
‘Of course. It’s for charity.’ Then, after a moment’s thought, ‘Actually, you know, if no one breaks the rules there’ll be no money to donate. It’s almost obligatory, don’t you think?’
‘Rather more than almost,’ he admitted, and he smiled, evidently pleased that she’d so quickly captured the mood of the weekend. ‘We’ll find some quiet time on Sunday morning.’
Quiet time. A walk through the country with nothing to distract them. It sounded blissful…
‘Won’t I be expected to peel potatoes, or something, for lunch?’
‘For a small fee,’ he offered, ‘I’ll fix the rota.’
‘You can do that?’ Stupid question. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘it’s a date.’ And she felt as breathless, as excited, as scared, as if she was a teenager asked out by the local ‘bad boy’.
She knew it was a risk. She knew she shouldn’t go. But there wasn’t a thing in the world to stop her from saying yes.
The Sales Manager of the laundry service arrived, determined on a substantial rates increase, took one look at Jordan Farraday, sitting to one side of India’s desk, silently observing the discussions, and was suddenly all sweet reason. A meeting that she’d anticipated would take two hours of hard negotiation was over in less than half the time.
‘Can I retain your services?’ India asked Jordan when the man had gone. ‘As a contract negotiator.’
‘You seem perfectly capable of negotiating your own contracts.’
‘I am. And I’d have got the same deal in the end, because he needs our contract just as much as we need his services. But it was a lot quicker once that guy thought he had to impress you.’
‘I didn’t say a word,’ he protested.
‘You didn’t have to. You just looked—’ she sought an appropriate adjective ‘—unimpressed. Thanks to the Evening Post, it’s public knowledge that you’re hoping to take over the store. I suspect he wanted to get the contract signed and sealed before that happened. He probably thought he’d have to cut his prices a lot more to impress you.’
‘Then he was wrong. The deal was fair; the guy has to make a profit. But don’t knock yourself. You do a very fine “unimpressed” yourself. I’m impressed.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, just a touch wryly.
He matched her smile and doubled it. ‘You’re welcome.’
She sat back in her chair, just looking at him. It wasn’t a hardship. Every woman should have a man like him about the place—a living sculpture—to look at from time to time.
‘Why are you here, Jordan?’ He made a gesture, asking if she meant ‘here’ as in sitting in this chair. She shook her head. ‘You must have better things to do with your valuable time than watch me negotiate the laundry bill.’
‘I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Maybe I’m just curious. Maybe I just want to see what all the fuss is about. Find out what’s the big attraction in running a department store.’ Maybe she shouldn’t have asked a question she knew he wouldn’t give a straight answer to. ‘I’ve done that, so why don’t we take the rest of the day off? Go out for the afternoon?’
‘Out?’ The man could change the subject without taking a pause for breath.
‘It’s a lovely afternoon, and by your own admission you’ve saved an hour. And you’ve got no other appointments for the rest of the day.’ Before she could invent something urgent, he added, ‘Not according to your diary.’
‘You looked at my diary?’ she demanded, outraged.
‘As if I would. That would have been the worst kind of prying,’ he declared, placing his hand on his heart in a gesture that didn’t fool her for a minute and adopting an expression that made her want to giggle. ‘I checked with Sally this morning, when I picked up the plans. What do you say? We could take a walk in St James’s park, feed the ducks, maybe even have an ice-cream.’
The idea of Jordan eating an ice-cream cone was so ridiculous that she very nearly succumbed. But she put on a stern expression and said, ‘I’m supposed to be convincing you that I’m a dedicated, hard-working Chief Executive.’
‘Well, relax. I’m convinced. In fact I’m sure I’ve already told you that I’d offer you the job as CEO if I thought for a minute you’d take it. We’d make a great team.’
‘With you in control and me taking orders? I don’t think so.’
‘Why don’t we give it a try? Miss Claibourne,’ he said firmly, ‘take the afternoon off.’
‘Mr Farraday,’ she replied, ‘get lost.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
JORDAN didn’t attempt to change her mind. He simply got up, leaned over the desk, and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, before walking out of her office.
For a moment India sat quite still, stunned by the suddenness of his departure, attempting to unscramble the complex mixture of emotions that surged through her.
She knew what she should be feeling. Ever since he’d walked into her store she’d been wishing him somewhere else. It was pure contrariness to be peeved just because he’d done exactly as she asked, and ‘got lost’. To want to know where he was going. What he was doing without her.
And later? What did that mean? Was he coming back? Today? Tomorrow?
What was she doing? Putting a brake on the roller-coaster ride her mind was taking, she reminded herself that she had a store to save. And she was running out of time. If she could find out who had written the letter she should be able to work out who’d been the recipient. It hadn’t been dated, but the yellowed paper suggested it was older than the rest of the contents of the file. Which begged another question. What had it been doing there?
She’d taken advantage of Jordan’s earlier absence to visit her father’s new Docklands apartment and go through his desk. She hadn’t expected to find the letter, but had hoped for some clue as to his present where-abouts. She’d organised a quiet villa for him in the south of France after his cruise, but he’d stayed there no more than a week, and where he’d gone from there, she had absolutely no idea.
She’d been stunned to find a postcard
with a Lahore postmark, reminding his cleaner that he’d loaned his flat to an old friend for a week. Lahore? Pakistan? What on earth was he doing there? And would his heart stand it? She’d put through a call to the Consul, hoping he might have called there. He hadn’t.
Now, her second port of call was Maureen Derbyshire. She’d worked in the registry, where the files and records were stored, for fifty years, had run it for the last thirty, and knew every scrap of paper in it. It was possible she’d recognise the handwriting…
Maureen read the note. ‘You’re looking for this letter? I can tell you now that it’s not here.’
No, she hadn’t expected it to be that easy—although overlooking the obvious was always a mistake. ‘I was hoping you might recognise the handwriting. Or even the notepaper.’
‘Not offhand, but I’ll look through some of the older files. The legal stuff. I might find a match.’ She frowned, then said hesitantly, ‘You know, hiding something is all very well, India, but unless someone else knows about it you might as well throw it on the fire.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘If the letter still existed your father would have told someone. When he was so ill.’
‘He didn’t tell me about the golden share agreement.’
‘Which rather proves my point. You always were his favourite; if he had the letter, or knew where it was, he would have used it. Just as the Farradays would have done thirty years ago, if they’d had it.’
Shaken by the simplicity of the woman’s logic, India photocopied the note, then snipped off a piece of the handwriting that gave no clue to its disturbing contents before shredding the rest of the copy. Then she took a sample of the notepaper before returning it.
She wanted to stay. Ask Maureen what had happened when her father took over. Ask her about Kitty Farraday and her dreams. ‘I have to go. I’m needed at the main reception desk…’
‘Go. Leave this with me. I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Thank you.’
Despite Maureen’s gloomy prognosis, India’s step was lighter as she ran up the stairs to the ground floor. She felt happier than she had done for weeks. She didn’t know why, just that something had changed. That something inside her had shifted focus. Then, as she hurried through the store, she caught herself glancing over her shoulder and she realised what—or rather who—it was.
Jordan Farraday.
The man had been on her mind for weeks. From the day the Post had announced her appointment as Managing Director. Within hours he’d issued a legal challenge, citing the golden share agreement, effectively putting her life on hold.
Since then he’d invaded her every waking thought, coloured her actions. She’d looked at pictures of the man, raided the newspaper libraries, trawled the internet for background. She’d even read his entry in Who’s Who, for heaven’s sake. And then he’d walked into her store, as arrogant a piece of manhood as she’d ever come across.
He’d made her angry, made her want to giggle like a girl, and forced her to confront things she’d hadn’t given a second’s thought in a long time. And he’d done something no one else had ever done.
He’d made her heart stop with a kiss.
Later? When?
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Claibourne, but according to him—’ the receptionist gave the waiting courier a look that could have left him in no doubt about who should really be apologising ‘—you have to sign for this personally.’
India signed his receipt and took the large cardboard envelope. When she saw the sender’s name—JD Farraday—all lightness of spirit evaporated.
She’d seen him an hour ago. What could be so important that it required an addressee-only signature? Was it the coup de grâce?
She’d told him to get lost. Was he responding with a writ to remove her? Had he just been teasing her, toying with her…?
She tore it open, but the envelope inside was not from any lawyer. Was that better? Or worse? It was heavy cream paper, square—very like the stationery she used for her private correspondence. Her name—India—was handwritten in thick, bold strokes.
She raised the flap with her thumb, her hand shaking. Inside were two tickets to a sell-out concert being given by a sensational young violinist at the Festival Hall that evening.
The note attached said, ‘I’ll be on the terrace at seven. J.’
Later.
Jordan leaned on the terrace wall, staring across the river. Seeing nothing. Only wondering if she’d come. Trying to tell himself that this was simply part of his game plan.
It was like fishing. In order to catch your prey, you had to use the right bait. And he’d done his homework. He’d known that India Claibourne was a regular patron of the Festival Hall long before she’d told him so, and the tickets had been bought weeks ago, in the certainty that they’d be worth their weight in gold. Which was considerably less than they’d cost.
He’d known that inviting her out on a date was never going to work. He’d pushed her into dinner last night. He’d found a way to twist her arm into joining him for the weekend. There was no future in that. The lady had to want to come—which was why, tonight, he was playing the gentleman, offering her the choice. Having first made it as hard for her to say no as he knew how.
Hard. But not impossible.
With any other woman he’d have put money on her making him wait just long enough for him to wonder whether she wouldn’t turn up. Five…seven minutes maximum. No longer, just in case he wasn’t a patient man and didn’t like being kept waiting.
India wasn’t any other woman. She was a match for him, which meant he should have been able to anticipate her response. In fact, it meant her response was never going to be predictable.
He glanced at his watch. She was already ten minutes late. Eleven. He straightened, dragged his hands through his hair, rubbed them over his face, as if somehow he could eradicate the aching spread of regret, rub out the realisation that if she didn’t come he’d lost more than a cynical gamble that he could manipulate her…
The thought snagged, caught up on a hot shaft of desire, as he turned and saw her walking towards him.
Tall, exotically dark, stunningly beautiful, in a high-necked jacket cut from heavy silk, its gold embroidery catching the evening sunlight, and softly gathered trousers narrowing into a stitched cuff at the ankle. A vision in burgundy and gold.
He would have put money on it. She wasn’t going to miss any opportunity to make that statement.
It didn’t matter. She was here. He’d called and she’d come. Whether she knew it or not, he was already in control.
So why didn’t it feel like a victory?
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said as she joined him. ‘I set out in good time but there was an accident by Vauxhall Bridge. I thought the cab driver was going to explode.’
‘You’re fine.’ Much more than fine. As he took her hand, bent to kiss her cheek, he caught the faintest trace of jasmine. She’d matched her scent to her look, and on an impulse he glanced down and saw the delicate tracery of hennaed designs that patterned her hands. He had a momentary, mind-blowing vision of those hands against his skin. ‘We’ve got time for a drink,’ he offered, in an effort to divert the thought. Get her into the bustle of the bar. Dilute the impact of her presence in the crowd.
‘Do you mind if we don’t? I’ve been inside all day and I’d like the chance to enjoy the fresh air.’ He offered his arm without a word, glad that she’d said no. She took it, looping her arm through his, laying her hand on his sleeve and turning to walk with him. ‘Did you take your stroll in the park this afternoon?’ she asked, glancing up at him, the merest suggestion of suppressed laughter in her eyes. ‘How was the ice-cream?’
‘Chastened by your puritan work ethic, I went back to my office and did a lot of boring stuff instead.’
The laughter bubbled over. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t just to check out rumours of an office sweepstake on the consummation of a romance bet
ween us?’
‘You saw the Post?’ Stupid question. Obviously she’d seen it.
‘Required reading,’ she assured him. ‘You made quite a splash, Jordan. The City Diary, entertaining as it was, was small beer compared to the photograph of you with our celebrity author. And you with Serena, her baby in your arms. What a pity they didn’t get you with the chef…’ Her pause was majestic. ‘Or you’d have made the…um…hat trick.’ And she caught her lower lip in her teeth to stop herself from laughing out loud.
There was no point in standing on his dignity—besides, he wanted to see that laugh. ‘I expected the photograph of me with the baby,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘But did they really have to suggest that I had personally delivered the infant on the nursery department floor?’
‘Why would a newspaper spoil a good story by sticking to the truth? And you have to admit it makes the store look good,’ she said. ‘Very caring.’
‘It might make the store look good. But if my mother sees it—’ and someone would undoubtedly send it to her ‘—it will make her broody for grandchildren.’ He heard his words, the not-in-this-lifetime sentiment, and found himself for the first time in his life doubting them. He’d had a glimpse of something, holding that infant, watching India cradle her, her expression soft as the tiny fingers had gripped her own—had finally understood the atavistic urge to pass on the genes, seek immortality in a new generation. He felt it now, with India’s scent filling his head, the silk whispering against her skin as she walked. She was hidden from him, from everyone. Kept secret. With only her face and her painted hands to hint at the beauty concealed. He’d never seen anything more erotic, more arousing. Perhaps it was as well that they were strolling amidst the arid concrete terraces of the Festival Hall or he might have forgotten himself completely. ‘The burden of the only child,’ he said.
‘At least your mother cares, Jordan.’ And as he glanced down at her he saw the sparkle go out of her eyes. ‘She never married?’
‘No—’ He wanted to ask her about her mother. Whether she ever saw her. Wanted to know everything. ‘I think we’d better go inside.’
