Tangling with the London Tycoon

by Suzi Jennings

  “Of course, my dear.” She winked at her nephew and adjusted her handbag purposefully in the crook of her arm. “Your secret is safe with me. I’ll go join the girls for tea.”

  “Women,” Rosco grunted, giving Kitty the full frosty chill of his CEO power as they watched Ethel follow Amanda and Fiona into the living room.

  Alone in the foyer, he turned to Kitty. “This ridiculous innuendo ends immediately after the wedding.” He pointed an emphatic index finger at her. “Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely.” She curbed the impulse to salute. Relationships, loving mothers, and interfering aunts weren’t for her. Not for real. They were all totally outside her experience.

  “So what’s in this farce for you?” The suspicion in his tone, unpleasantly close to a sneer, challenged her integrity. It snaked under her skin, like the sleazy threat of the paparazzi, and pushed her to remember all the childhood scandal she’d risen above. Scandal that Rosco Redmond’s strict moral code would find shameful.

  “I’m impulsive. And a born rescuer,” she whispered, voicing the truth of a child who’d shouldered too many adult worries in a house so uncomfortably similar to his. “All I want for the next two days is an atmosphere without arguments so I can produce perfect photos.”

  She held his gaze, watched cynicism linger in the dark navy depths of his eyes, and wished again she was wearing corporate clothes to match his tailored authority. “Plus, you deserved to know how it felt to be dragged into innuendo. We still have the paparazzi to face.”

  “We do.” He sighed, and his face softened a little, the cynicism lightening into what she hoped was respect. “I think you have enough sense to handle them, Kitty Mayfair. They can’t be more difficult than Aunt Ethel.”

  She thought there was a small smile in his tone as he picked up her camera bag and gave the street outside one last check through the security glass. “Take care of yourself out there. Walk beside me, keep your head down, and walk straight to the car. No talking.”

  She nodded and put on the glamorous sunglasses Amanda had given her, fluffed her hair around her face, and stood facing the front door. Once again she resolutely ignored the familiar grandeur around her and the memories it stirred, willing herself not to look up the stairs, not to acknowledge the dull ache developing in her heart.

  She couldn’t wait to get away from here, away from the soft Irish accent with the suggestion of a warm smile she was tempted to pretend was just for her. The last couple of hours suddenly felt like a week.

  Rosco opened the door and her heart plummeted to her boots. Paparazzi swarmed over the steps between them and their ride, a black limousine with darkened windows.

  Rosco shouldered his way down the steps, saying nothing to the calls for information about Titania.

  Kitty placed her feet just behind his, watching the smart black leather of his shoes clip their way toward the sanctuary of the car.

  They almost made it.

  The paps crowded arounded them, and Kitty could see Rosco’s hand reach for the rear door handle. Two of the guys with cameras snatched the opportunity to separate them and Kitty found herself cornered between the cameras and Rosco’s broad shoulders.

  “Hello, love,” called one of the men, his raised visor revealing a puffy, lined face squashed into his black cycle helmet. She recognized him from earlier. He was persistent. “You going to the wedding, then?”

  “What’s your connection then, love?” asked the other, lifting his camera to her face.

  She ducked her head farther toward her chest, trusting her anonymity to her hair and sunglasses, and thinking fast. If they wanted a story she’d give them one, and hopefully make her own photography assignment easier as well.

  “I’m just a lucky wedding guest. London is so romantic.”

  “Lucky you,” agreed the helmeted pap in an oily voice. “So you’ll be partying with the famous pop star. You look very pretty, love. A bit like Titania herself, from a distance, anyway.”

  “Goodness, thanks. She’s gorgeous isn’t she?” Just one last false clue. “She’ll be here on Saturday. The wedding’s in the evening. You should see the house. They’ve started decorating already. Gold and purple everywhere.”

  Kitty tapped her fingers to her lips and shrugged with a little giggle. “Oops. Too much information.”

  “That’s enough,” Rosco rumbled in her ear. Just loud enough for the paps to hear, she realized.

  Kitty felt his body move to shield hers as he reached the car door to wrench it open at last, and then she tumbled into a luxurious expanse of black leather.

  Rosco joined her, closing the door on the noisy street scene and cocooning her in blessed silence. She slid along the seat opposite him so there was no chance of their legs touching, and pressed her hands together to stop the shaky feelings starting in her stomach.

  She’d spoken when she shouldn’t have, but time would tell if her plan worked.

  “That was quite a performance,” Rosco said as his driver steered skillfully through the paparazzi still clicking at the darkened windows of the car.

  He was back in CEO mode, and Kitty couldn’t tell what he really thought. She’d have to pretend she didn’t care.

  “One last task and then I’ll leave you to prepare for your journey to Wheatbridge Village tomorrow. The rehearsal is at midday. I’ll email all instructions.”

  He selected a business card from his wallet and passed it to Kitty. “I’ve made an appointment for you at Cynthia’s Boutique, one of my mother’s favorite stores.”

  His gaze flicked over her, judging again, as it had when she’d first rang his doorbell. Was that really only a couple of hours ago?

  “I have requested a small range of suitable outfits be available to you for the wedding. Please choose one you like. All chargeable to your contract expenses. Frank will then drive you home.”

  “No thank you. I’ll take the tube.” There would be no anonymity in a flashy limousine, and she craved a bit of normality to prepare for her days ahead as a supervised photographer.

  “As you wish. Choose your outfit wisely.”

  “Wisely.” She huffed at him, cross, and too hyped to hide it. “I can dress myself.”

  “Not for this assignment. I require a totally professional image now that you’ve drawn additional attention to us by speaking to the media.”

  “That’s rich.” She enjoyed the pun, throwing her hands up to encompass the plush interior of the limo, his crisp tailoring, and the very fact that they were being chauffeured through the busy London traffic. “I’m not responsible for being dragged into this situation.”

  “I’m not revisiting that discussion. We have a contract. We have been photographed together. We will see those images published.”

  “Not my fault.” She felt hot now, claustrophobic, in the plush leather car, the tautly muscled length of him, tensed for combat, filling her senses.

  “Fault isn’t the issue.” He squared his shoulders and pinned her with a cold, impersonal glance. “Your arrival at my house may be a timely decoy, but it needs to be managed. I had no intention of being seen in public with Titania, but I wasn’t seeking to replace her, either. To control any future images of us together, I want you dressed discreetly.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked down at the business card he’d given her and couldn’t wait for the car to get her there. To escape him and the feeling of being judged and found lacking.

  She bit her lip as resentment seethed through her. All she’d wanted at the beginning of the day was a photography contract. She hadn’t asked for these complications, and she wasn’t handing over control of her wardrobe to anyone.

  Chapter Four

  The next day Rosco watched Kitty drive under the stone archway of the Wheatbridge Inn and bump to a gentle stop on the cobbles. She was thirty minutes late for their appointment prior to the wedding rehearsal.

  Not a good start, as it was only a two-hour drive from London.

  Her car was a
fanciful little vintage Citroën Dolly, oddly fitting in this picture-perfect Cotswolds country village with its gently undulating hills and dry-stone walls.

  Rosco shoved his smart phone into his shirt pocket and marched toward her.

  Kitty stepped out of the car as he approached, and he almost broke his stride, his chest constricted at the sight of her, his reprimand dying on his lips.

  She dazzled in hot pink. A tight long-sleeved T-shirt just skimming the top of her skinny jeans.

  And printed across her chest was a large juicy slice of lime. He tried not to look. But he was a citrus man from way back.

  She looked as fresh and enticing as her T-shirt.

  “Cute fruit,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She smiled and pulled the fabric away from her body to look down at the design.

  The movement accentuated her curves, and the lime seemed to suck all moisture from his mouth.

  “It’s for my sister’s restaurant, Fuchsia and Lime.” She gave a happy little bounce. “They’re new. We’re thrilled with them.”

  “Ah ha,” he managed, with an encouraging nod.

  “It’s selling well, even with the advertising slogan on the back.” She turned, twisting her hips so he could read the words while she watched him over her shoulder.

  He licked his lips. “Fuschia & Lime,” he obediently recited the first line snuggled into the curve of her waist. “Dawn ’til dark for fine food and wine,” he croaked, his throat parched beyond speech.

  “Too cheesy for you?” She chewed the corner of her bottom lip.

  “No. No. It all looks grand to me.” That was the trouble; it did look grand. She looked grand. “But we had agreed you’d be wearing something from the store I sent you to.” He stepped back and away from her.

  “Sorry, early morning duties at my sister’s restaurant and no time to change. But I’ve got my wedding outfit.” She grinned at him and stretched into the car for a distinctive silver garment bag. At full stretch, her T-shirt once again parted company with her jeans.

  Damn. He needed to get a grip and concentrate on wedding business and security priorities. He didn’t trust the way his focus could waver when Kitty appeared.

  She unzipped the bag to reveal a long skirt and short jacket. They were black and perfectly tailored—and nothing like Kitty herself.

  That was good because this lively, hot-pink Kitty seemed to threaten the tight rein he had on what he thought of as Redmond thinking. He wasn’t about to be swayed by her obvious enjoyment of life. He could never allow himself to be tempted, especially by an employee, and find he was in any way like his father.

  “Appropriate choice.”

  “I thought you’d approve. Cynthia was very helpful.”

  He looked at her sharply, as a slight teasing tone in her voice activated his female manipulation alarm.

  Kitty turned away to remove more of her gear from the car, and he allowed his annoyance to build. The woman should dress with more caution. She knew they were under possible media threat. Hadn’t she learned anything from yesterday?

  He bent down to pick up her small collection of bags. It was all the impractical little trunk of her dinky little car could hold. Who drove a car with no storage? “Do you have everything you need for the job?”

  “Of course.” She wrapped the garment bag over one arm and shouldered a folding tripod as he led her into the inn.

  “You travel light.”

  “Years of experience.”

  Her tone again snipped at his control. He was in charge. “That’s worthless if you’re late.” He wasn’t listening to her or to the temptation to keep looking at that damn slice of lime on her chest. “Today and tomorrow are under my direction.”

  He placed her luggage in the empty reception area and rang the bell. “I’ll leave you to check in. Join me in the small conference room in ten minutes. I’ve ordered refreshments.”

  And cover up, he wanted to say again. But that would tell her it continued to bother him, and he wasn’t going to make that tactical error.

  He left her without a backward glance, walked to the conference room, and unlocked the door, returning to his papers strewn across the table.

  The time waiting for Kitty hadn’t been wasted. He’d liaised with his driver, Frank, who was driving incognito in a rental car and ensured Rosco that his sisters and niece had safely, and privately, arrived at their late mother’s country house.

  It had been only two years since leukemia claimed her life, and the house was just as she had left it. His sisters used it as a country retreat, and they had no plans to sell it.

  Their privacy would be well supported by the local villagers, but it was the big city media that continued to worry him.

  He clicked through a variety of online social news sites, as he had a dozen times since the ambush on him and Kitty the day before.

  There had been nothing earlier, but now he discovered grainy images of his city house behind an enormous headline: “It’s a Gold and Purple Bridesmaid Dress for Titania.”

  His jaw tightened as a close-up photo of him and Kitty in a tight embrace was circled beside the headline.

  Titania was the main subject of the article—not that a few scraps of misinformation deserved to be called an article. But the byline under the small photograph posed the gallingly inane question, “Who’s Romancing Rosco?”

  Kitty looked cornered, and it caught at his heart. Spinning him back to his anger at the paparazzi’s intrusion.

  He’d been so fixated on not being linked to Titania, he’d allowed himself to use an employee.

  However, she had still accepted the job and signed their contract. She’d also voluntarily misled his aunt and had appeared to enjoy that almost as much as his sister.

  And as he read farther down the text, the success of Kitty’s false trail impressed him, with the words “the lucky guest’s insider details of the London wedding.” forcing him into a reluctant grin

  A heavily embroidered version of Kitty’s brief comments filled the screen. Some “journalist” obviously interviewed their own keyboard long into the night. Any problem he might have with the ethics of that evaporated as the gushing words made the London location of Amanda’s wedding sound cloyingly authentic.

  Titania’s arrival at the house just minutes after his departure with Kitty was heavily photographed in associated articles and further corroborated the fiction.

  This whole fiasco was working as well as he could have hoped.

  Kitty had showed some gumption, and he allowed the beginnings of a grudging respect. He enjoyed a fight. A fair one. And Kitty may just be an asset in this guerrilla war designed to deprive him of the prize he wanted for his mother’s company.

  It was worth fighting for. Worth winning.

  Kitty bounced into the room, looking at her cell phone and commanding his attention, her wardrobe as unbusinesslike as ever. “We’ve made the gossip sites. I told you we’d be freeze-framed into a hug. But you can’t tell who I am.”

  “I’ve seen. You’re as anonymous as you were before we met.” He wasn’t getting into the hug debate again, but her smile was infectious, and her elation lifted his spirits even further. “Great work. You thought on your feet.”

  “Anytime, boss.” Again that feminine, flirty flick-off as she took the seat opposite him. “What’s next? I thought you promised food.”

  “It’s ordered.” He watched her thumbing her way around the internet with a youthful dexterity that made him feel ancient, even though there must be only five years between them. He hated the whole “live online” thing of social media, the trigger-happy way people revealed their personal lives. There was no permanent erase button.

  His earlier concerns about the media splash she’d made came rushing back. His actions had been uncharacteristically lacking in caution when he’d pulled her into his house. And later, when he’d pushed her into his limo.

  His motives had been almost entirely selfish. To preserve his business
integrity. To avoid any association with Titania ruining his chance of winning the Sandford Palace contract.

  And that was what niggled at him now as he watched Kitty intensely scanning her screen. However upbeat she was, he’d seen vulnerability and a lick of fear in her face as they’d escaped into the limo.

  Her posture hunched, her face pinched… He hadn’t questioned it at the time. It was understandable. He’d felt hounded himself.

  But what was she afraid of? What was she hiding?

  There was that odd comment about growing up in a house like his. What childhood situation had provided her with a privileged home?

  And her website and social media pages showed no personal information. He approved the restraint, but it made her an unknown entity.

  She had proved excellent for foiling the Titania connection and for lightly managing his aunt’s matchmaking. But what about the Sandford Palace contract? The wedding would be over tomorrow, and with his supervision he knew the photos would be excellent. But the Titania-generated media intrusion had created a chink in his usually intact social armor.

  He would still be reliant on Kitty’s discretion. It would be prudent to know more about her.

  “How did you manage last night after our confrontation?”

  “No problems.” She stopped scanning her cell screen with obvious reluctance. “Why do you ask?”

  “Employer concern.”

  “I said no problems, boss.”

  He gritted his teeth against her continued use of the word “boss.” The flippant dismissal ceased to be charming.

  “Have you been ambushed by paparazzi before?”

  “No.” She speared him with a suspicious look, and he carefully blanked his face. She’d stopped the flirting and was giving him her full attention. “Were they still there when you arrived home?”

  “I spent the night in the on-site flat at work after an hour at the gym.” His personal trainer had worked late, and the intense workout had burned off much of his surplus adrenaline from the day. Otherwise sleep would have been impossible. The gym was also an excellent alibi. If he was there, he wasn’t with Titania.