At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  And that was another thing she was going to have to find time to do. Ben needed a birthday present and there was no way she could afford the Xbox she knew he really wanted.

  It wasn’t as though she particularly wanted him to spend all his free time playing on one, but ‘all his friends had one’ and she felt guilty. That sharp knife twisted a little more as she felt there was something else she wasn’t able to provide for her sons.

  Of course, Russell could—and he probably would. That hurt almost as much. Jemima hurried along the pavement towards the tube station. Thank goodness she had this job. She had to keep everything in perspective and keep positive. Things were going to get better.

  If she dropped her time sheet off with Amanda tonight she could pick up her cheque personally rather than wait for the post. If she did that the money would be cleared in her account in time for her to use it to buy something for Ben. Maybe, at a stretch, it might even be possible to be the parent who gave the present that would make her son’s eyes light up. There’d be no harm in seeing how much an Xbox actually did cost.

  It was all going to be fine. Everything was falling into place. Except, of course, she’d also got to make a detour to Rachel and Alistair’s flat, not to mention find the time to hire a marquee, book a caterer, a florist and some kind of medieval-type musicians. And all for a wedding that was scheduled to take place in under three months.

  Let alone that she wanted to make it perfect. But poor Alistair. There was never a good time to lose a parent, but so close to their wedding it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Somewhere in the depths of her handbag her mobile phone started to ring. She stopped and made a frantic search for it in the dark depths of her bag.

  ‘I gather we’ve got a wedding to organise,’ Miles said into her ear as soon as she answered.

  Jemima shifted her handbag to her other shoulder. ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Alistair gave it to me. I’m to offer my help. As best man he considers it my duty, even though I’m a confirmed wedding phobic and of doubtful use.’

  Despite everything, Jemima could feel herself start to smile. ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘More or less. Where are you now?’ he asked.

  Even though she knew, Jemima automatically looked up at the huge sign. ‘Rayners Lane. I’m outside the tube station. Why?’

  ‘I thought you might want to take a detour and pick up Rachel’s wedding box. Apparently it’ll make everything easy.’

  ‘So she says. It’s in the kitchen by the kettle.’ Jemima walked inside the station. ‘I’ll go and get it this evening. I can’t go now or I’ll be late for work.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know the boss. He’s prepared to be very understanding.’

  What was it about Miles that kept her on the edge of laughter? Moments ago she’d been worried about all the responsibility of taking over the planning of Rachel’s dream wedding, but with a handful of sentences he’d managed to twist the situation into something that would be almost enjoyable.

  ‘Does that mean I can start charging you from now? An extra hour on my time sheet…’

  ‘No.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘But it means I’ll buy you lunch while we go through Rachel’s exacting requirements.’ Then the line went dead.

  Lunch with Miles.

  How exactly did she feel about that?

  Chapter Seven

  MILES felt a vague sense of injustice. No doubt Alistair’s father hadn’t intended to inconvenience him by falling so ill, but the fact remained that his carefully laid plans to keep his distance from Jemima had come to nothing. And what really bothered him about it was that he was pleased.

  He ended his call to Jemima with a feeling of smiling anticipation, and all because she’d agreed to accept his help with booking a few tedious things for an equally tedious wedding. He hated weddings. He hated the ridiculous top hat and cravat he almost always had to wear at them. He hated the long and usually poor quality speeches that made the whole business so interminably lengthy. His own excepted—obviously.

  Miles played with the paper-clips in the Perspex box in front of him, letting them rise and fall. He didn’t even believe in marriage as an institution. Not really. Why did two intelligent people, who purported to love each other, need a piece of paper to hold them together?

  It made no sense. His mother was right about that. It was an outdated dinosaur of an institution that belonged… Miles smiled to himself, pleased at the neat symmetry of his thoughts. It was an outdated institution that belonged in medieval times.

  If he believed Alistair and Rachel had thought of that and were silently laughing he would feel a darn sight better at spending his time trying to book various people who spent their professional lives taking money off other people who thought they’d achieve nirvana if the flowers matched the lining of the best man’s jacket.

  Miles stood up abruptly and walked through to the small kitchen area. His hands went through the practised procedure of making coffee while his mind tried to analyse why he felt so…

  So…

  He pulled a distracted hand through his hair. He wasn’t quite sure how he did feel. All he knew was that he was ridiculously pleased to be having lunch with Jemima. It felt like a result. It made no sense at all, but that was how it felt and the suspicion slid into his mind that all he’d been waiting for had been an excuse to break his decision to keep his distance from her.

  And that didn’t make any sense at all. There was nothing about Jemima that should draw him to her. In fact, there was a great deal which should have prevented it.

  So why? Miles returned to his desk and sipped his coffee. The truth was he didn’t know who Jemima was—and that was fascinating.

  The realisation hit him with a sudden force that there were few people, if any, whom he couldn’t sum up within the first few minutes of meeting them. But Jemima had him guessing.

  There was a…tension between the image she presented to the world and the Jemima he suspected lurked beneath the surface. It was as though she’d got used to hiding behind an image she felt safe with. One that ensured people didn’t notice her. Couldn’t hurt her? Every so often a different Jemima would peek out from behind the façade. The Jemima she would have been if life hadn’t acted like a pumice stone.

  That was the Jemima that fascinated him—if she existed. And she might not. He pulled a lever file closer and began to flip through the neatly typed pages. Miles pulled a highlighter pen out of the pot before him and selected a sentence in the second paragraph to shade orange.

  It was quite possible his interest in her was entirely altruistic then. He’d had a glimpse of what her life was like and he wanted things to be better for her. Nothing wrong with that.

  So what was worrying him? It was just lunch. A working lunch. An hour discussing weddings. Miles smiled. Not that risky then.

  The trouble was, when the time came it didn’t feel as though his interest in her was altruistic. It felt personal. And it felt very risky from the moment she looked up from the computer screen and smiled at him.

  His mouth automatically curved in response—for no other reason than it had felt good to be smiled at. He’d had a pig of a morning and yet one smile seemed to put everything back into kilter.

  ‘Ready for lunch?’

  ‘Two seconds,’ she said, turning back and carefully saving everything. ‘Do you think I’m going to need an umbrella?’

  Miles avoided watching her fingers moving over the keyboard by turning away. ‘We’re only going a few hundred yards and if there’s a sudden shower we can take cover.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jemima stood up and walked over to the tall cupboard, pulling out her handbag and a plastic carrier bag. ‘Rachel has given us so much to look through.’

  Miles said nothing. He was watching the way her simple knee-length skirt moulded beautifully across her bottom. Jemima had great legs too. He remembered them from when she’d stood on her kitchen worktop to make a hole
in the ceiling. Long, long legs…

  Jemima reached up to adjust her hairclip. He swallowed and struggled not to notice how the thin fabric of her white blouse pulled tight across her chest.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What?’

  She opened up her hand to show two broken pieces of brown plastic. ‘My hairclip’s broken.’

  Dark red hair fell round her face and Miles felt a tightening in his groin area. Very, very risky, a little voice whispered in his head. ‘It looks good loose,’ he said brusquely, turning towards the door.

  ‘It doesn’t. It looks a mess.’ Jemima sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted the kind of hair that was so smooth a hairgrip would slip out. Do you know what I mean?’

  Hair like Verity Hunt’s. Miles knew exactly what she meant. Hair that could be twisted into something that looked more like a sculpture. Hair like her sister’s. Although he thought he understood why she wanted it, he also thought she was seriously undervaluing what nature had given her.

  ‘It used to look better when I had layers cut into it. Still—’ she shrugged and threw him a warm smile ‘—it doesn’t really matter, does it.’

  It suddenly seemed really important that she believed him. The way she looked probably shouldn’t matter, but the way she felt about herself certainly did. ‘If you want my opinion,’ he said as he held the door open for her, ‘I’d go for the curls. They’re very sexy.’

  He closed his eyes briefly. Had he actually said the word ‘sexy’ out loud? He hadn’t meant to do that, but Jemima was certainly looking at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Sexy?’

  There was no backing away from it now. He pulled a smile into his eyes, searching for the ground between casual and complimentary. Something that wouldn’t have him brought up before a sex-discrimination board. ‘I think so.’

  She just looked at him for a moment and then she laughed. ‘I think men are strange.’

  ‘No question,’ he agreed easily. Miles led the way down the stairs. ‘Although this should appeal to your practical nature…’

  Jemima glanced across at him, a question in her equally sexy green eyes.

  At the bottom of the stairs he leant in close to say quietly, ‘Just think how much time you’d save in the morning if you didn’t bother to straighten it.’

  She gave a husky laugh. It ripped through his senses as much as the light rose-scented perfume that hung about her.

  ‘Actually, that’s quite a persuasive argument.’

  ‘Felicity,’ Miles said, pausing by the reception desk, ‘Jemima and I are having a working lunch. I’m on my mobile if you need us.’

  The receptionist’s speculative glance did absolutely nothing to make him feel more relaxed. As they stepped outside Miles reached up and loosened his tie. It was becoming difficult to breathe, but then the air was muggy.

  ‘So,’ he said, making a real effort to keep his voice light and teasing, ‘why do you hate your hair so much?’

  ‘Because it’s red.’ She looked up and smiled—one of those inexpressibly sweet smiles that made him feel as if something intensely precious was being given to him.

  ‘Mainly that, I think. There’s no hiding when you have red hair. You always stand out. Wherever you go, whatever you do.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  She laughed at him, changing the hand she was holding the carrier bag in. ‘Only if you like that kind of attention. I leave all that to the other members of my family.’

  From the little he knew of Verity Hunt, Miles imagined she did. Jemima seemed to echo what he was thinking. ‘I’m the quiet one. Imogen is a natural campaigner, like my mum. They always seem to be working on some big issue or other.’ She smiled across at him. ‘Verity is an entertainer. She loves being the centre of everything.’

  ‘And you?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, I much prefer to keep in the background. I don’t like people talking about me and pointing me out. My dad used to say I was a “facilitator and nurturer” and that I’d get places because I’d slog away at it.’

  Miles thought that was a good description of her. Quietly conscientious—but that didn’t do justice to the wicked sense of humour she possessed. ‘Used to?’

  ‘He died. Three years ago.’ Jemima changed the hand she was holding the carrier bag in for a second time. ‘He was a fairly formidable man—but very lovely.’

  It fascinated him hearing about her family. It began to make it easier to understand why she’d made some of the decisions she had. But if he’d hoped knowing more about her would assuage his curiosity, he was destined for disappointment.

  He found the more she told him, the more he wanted to know. It was rather like playing pass the parcel. There was a prize beneath each layer of wrapping paper, but everyone knew the real treasure was found at the absolute centre of the parcel.

  Miles reached out for the bag she was carrying and, after a moment’s hesitation, she let him take it. ‘This is heavy. What’s Rachel got in here?’ he asked, looking down.

  ‘Her box file.’ Jemima laughed, a sudden mischievous light shining in her green eyes. ‘And just about every bridal magazine that’s been published since Alistair proposed to her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s serious stuff.’

  He peeked in the top of the bag. ‘It would seem so.’

  Jemima dodged a group of teenage backpackers. ‘Rachel’s even left me seven pages of detailed instructions. Apart from the fact that I hope Alistair’s dad turns out not to be dangerously ill, I really hope she’s not away too long. The sooner she takes back control of this extravaganza the better.’

  Just that one glance in the top of the carrier bag had him silently echoing her sentiment. ‘Considering we’re not fans of the whole confetti and white ribbon scenario, we’re not the best choice for this assignment, are we?’ he remarked, turning the corner and walking down towards the piazza.

  She didn’t appear to be listening as her attention was caught by a living statue. Miles smiled, watching her expression as the ‘Victorian lady’ suddenly moved and startled a group of Japanese tourists. ‘It’s amazing how they do that. How does anyone keep still so long?’

  ‘I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to. It must be so boring.’ Jemima looked up at him. ‘You know the boys would love it down here. I ought to bring them one weekend.’

  ‘Why haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know really.’ She looked around at the milling crowds, the Italian-style piazza, the jugglers and mime artists. ‘I suppose I just hadn’t thought of it. I must, though. Perhaps it’s something I could do for Ben’s birthday.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Saturday week.’ For a moment her face crumpled, then he watched as she took control of whatever emotion was gripping her. ‘He’s going to be nine.’

  ‘Is that what’s bothering you? That he’s growing up?’

  She glanced across at him as he steered her towards the large glass-covered building. ‘Of course not. Why did you think that?’

  ‘My mother found it difficult. The passing of one’s youth, I suppose…’ He trailed off.

  Miles watched her swallow. ‘No. I don’t feel like that. Each stage has been fun.’ And then, ‘Why do you think I’m upset?’

  Miles merely smiled at her. He wasn’t about to say that he’d spent the past week surreptitiously studying her. That he could read her expressions effortlessly and gauge her moods. He knew when she was typing something she found boring, when she couldn’t read his handwriting, when she was thinking about something else…

  And he knew when she was sad. Like now. It had washed over her quite suddenly.

  Jemima shrugged. ‘It’s stupid really. Ben will be with his dad on his actual birthday.’ She shot him a brave smile that twisted something inside him. ‘It’s the first time it’s happened since Russell left. Not bad in almost three years, but I’m finding it difficult. It almost happened last year, but since our divorce was s
o recent Russell didn’t push it. This year…’ She bit her lip.

  His reaction to her words surprised him. For a man with his background, a man whose mother must have been abroad for at least three of his childhood birthdays, he would have expected to feel very little empathy, but his pain surprised him. ‘Is Ben having a party?’

  ‘They’re going bowling. Ben’s really excited about it. He’s not talked about much else all this week.’

  Miles ran through the myriad responses open to him while the waiter took their order. The temptation was to accept what she said at face value. That was the socially acceptable thing to do. Or he could risk offering a sympathetic platitude or two. Or…he could say what he really thought.

  ‘Hell, that’s hard,’ he said, as soon as the waiter walked out of hearing.

  Sadness flickered across her face and she looked down.

  ‘So are you going to do something special on a different day?’ Miles asked, watching her closely. The last thing he wanted to do was to make her cry.

  He reached out and played with the sugar sachets in the bowl in the centre of the table. ‘You’ve got to remember I’m essentially very immature, but I’d be inclined to get in first and do something spectacular.’

  Jemima looked up on a surprised laugh. ‘It does make you want to do that.’

  ‘What’s stopping you? It’s your weekend coming up isn’t it?’

  The instinctive response was ‘money’, but she knew it wasn’t that. She wanted to behave well and responsibly. She didn’t want Ben to guess how much she was hurting at the thought of not being at his party and not being able to tuck him up in bed on his birthday. He was coming up nine years old, for goodness’ sake. She was the adult here. If she let on she was unhappy about it, she’d spoil it for him.

  And it was ridiculous anyway, because she was going to see him first thing. She was going to be able to give him his present, see him open it…