by Liz Fielding
He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. The word mocked him. ‘Just, thank you.’ He picked up his jacket and put it on, but he left it unbuttoned. Buttons were beyond him. He took his coat from behind the door. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday,’ he said.
‘At seven,’ she agreed, back in control, cool as ever.
And as he sat behind the wheel of his car, glad of the cold night air to chill his heated body, he swore to himself that he would match that coolness; swore that he would not phone her, would not find some other excuse to drop by, that she wouldn’t hear from him again a moment before seven o’clock on Wednesday.
Veronica leaned against the door and let out a long, slow breath. That had been close. Asking him to stay for coffee had been a mistake. Fastening his cufflinks had been a mistake.
For a moment it had been a coin-toss whether or not she grabbed him by the shirt-front, backed him up against the fridge and kissed him senseless.
If he had touched her, they would never have made the bedroom.
Which explained a lot about the cufflink-fastening game.
She looked down at the ring glinting on her finger. That was the problem. ‘This is a game,’ she said out loud, because she clearly needed reminding. ‘It’s just a game of pretend.’ So why was desire sapping the strength from her legs? Why was every cell in her body throbbing with unquenched need?
And why didn’t she sound more convincing?
‘Good morning, Julie.’
Julie pressed a button on her intercom. ‘Sally, coffee, please, and hold all calls for the next half an hour.’ She followed him into his office. ‘This is urgent, Fergus. I had Frankfurt calling all yesterday afternoon. Where on earth did you go?’
‘Shopping.’
‘Shopping?’
‘Diamonds, truffles … you know … the basic necessities of life … ’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘You’ll have to call them right now, before your first meeting.’
‘Of course, Julie. Whatever you say.’ He pressed his own intercom. ‘Sally, before you get the coffee, will you please order a spray of gardenias to be delivered to Miss Veronica Grant at her office? Jefferson Sports in Melchester. Straight away.’ Then he smiled at Julie. ‘Now, what were you saying about Frankfurt?’ The buzzer interrupted him.
‘What do you want on the card, Fergus?’ Sally asked.
‘No card.’
‘No card?’
That way he would be keeping his promise to himself. ‘If she doesn’t know who they’re from, Sally, there’s no message on earth will make any difference.’ He glanced at Julie. ‘Am I right?’ She just shook her head in disbelief. ‘Julie apparently disagrees. She has no romance in her soul,’ he said, and switched off.
‘Fergus—’
‘I’m disappointed in you, Julie.’
Julie gave up trying to pin him down to business and instead settled herself on the chair in front of his desk. ‘Have you set the date for the wedding?’ she asked.
‘November seems the favourite. Veronica’s mother seems to think it will take at least six months to organise.’
She smiled. ‘Can you wait that long?’
‘I will if I have to.’ He regarded Julie across his desk. ‘I’ll wait six years if I have to.’
‘But surely—?’
‘It’s a bit complicated, Julie.’
‘Is it?’ When he didn’t continue, she placed a folder in front of him. ‘Will this help?’
‘What is it?’
‘You asked for information on Miss Grant. This is everything I could find.’
He stared at the folder, for a moment laid his hand on the buff manila as if he might absorb through his fingers the essence of the woman, the key that would wind the clock, set her ticking … He recognised a desperation to know everything there was to know about her, everything she had ever done, every place she had ever been, and for a moment his thumb brushed the edge of the folder, flicking at it. Then he picked it up and handed it back. ‘Thank you, Julie, but I would be grateful if you would shred this.’
‘Shred it? Now?’
He glanced at her, suddenly irritable, impatient. ‘No, not now, Julie. Now we have to sort out Frankfurt.’
On Tuesday, Veronica broke with the disciplined habits of a lifetime and bought a new dress for the MBG Dinner.
For the past ten years she had bought her clothes twice a year, building a wardrobe of classics to carry her through any occasion. Simple, well-made clothes that matched and mixed. Clothes that never dated and could be worn again and again.
She had been planning to wear something simple rather than glamorous to the dinner, a black designer two-piece she’d had for ever. Elegant, classic, the straight, ankle-length skirt, and plain, long-sleeved tunic top were perfect for a businesswoman who wanted to be taken seriously. Melchester might be a city, but it had a small-town atmosphere. The men were conservative with a very small c, and their wives were suspicious with a capital S, so under normal circumstances she would have been very careful to dress down for the occasion, wear her hair in a plain chignon, add a little discreet jewellery.
But suddenly things were different, and, walking through the atrium on her way to work, Veronica saw a dress in a boutique window, a dress the colour and texture of an oriental poppy, silky, slightly crumpled, a whisper of a dress that she knew would cling to her figure and shout “look at me”. On a woman who had just become engaged to be married that would offend no one. It might even serve to remind the wives that their husbands were now quite safe in her company.
And with any luck Fergus would hear the shout, and he would look at her too.
Marriage might not be on the agenda for either of them, but they were both unattached and over twenty-one. And he was the one who had suggested that they might have fun.
She glanced at herself in the mirrored wall of the lift, eased a wayward strand of hair back into place. She might even wear her hair loose, she thought, and since the only jewellery she would wear would be the diamond on her left hand, all she would get from the Melchester businessmen’s wives would be indulgent glances.
That would be a first.
But in the heartbeat it took for the lift to reach the top of the Jefferson tower she had second thoughts. Indulgent glances? When had she ever wanted indulgent glances, for heaven’s sake? All she had ever asked was to be taken seriously, treated as an equal. If that meant dressing down, so be it. She glanced down at the smart black and gold bag she was carrying. The dress was a mistake. She’d take it back at lunchtime.
Then, while she was congratulating herself on having kept her head, the gardenias arrived. Six perfect white blooms set against dark glossy green foliage, hand-tied with a white satin ribbon. Was it any wonder that she forgot all about taking back the dress?
Nick paused as he passed her door, attracted by the scent. ‘Flowers delivered to the office?’ he said as she placed them on her desk. ‘Fergus is a man after my own heart.’
‘They may be from Fergus,’ she said, smiling a little as she adjusted the blooms. ‘Or, then again, maybe not.’
‘And I’m Charley’s Aunt,’ Nick said, laughing.
‘There wasn’t a card,’ she pointed out.
‘Why would you need a card?’ He came in, touched the edge of one perfect petal with the tip of his finger. ‘Ah, happy days. I remember them well,’ he said. ‘Although I have to admit I never thought much beyond roses. The man has style.’
‘He can cook too,’ Veronica said, unable to resist teasing him just a little.
‘Is that right?’ He was momentarily startled, then the grin was back, broader than ever. ‘Why am I surprised? I always knew that would do it.’
‘Then it’s just as well you can’t cook.’
‘Cassie keeps trying to teach me,’ he replied. ‘We just never seem to get very far.’
Whatever turned you on.
For some people it was cufflinks, for others it was slicing onions … ‘Happy
days?’ she murmured.
‘I can’t fool you, can I?’
‘You never have yet,’ she agreed.
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I wish you as happy as I am, Veronica.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, which was just as well. All she could manage was a tear that splashed on the petal he had just touched. A tear? She stared at it, as if unsure what it was.
‘Veronica, do you want coffee first, or the mail?’
‘What?’ She blinked and wrenched herself back from an abyss, a dark, familiar, empty place. It was a place she had vowed never to get close to again, and yet here she was, standing at the edge …
‘Veronica? Are you all right?’
She looked up from the flowers. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’ Of course she was fine. This was just a game, after all. Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise. She glanced at the boutique bag lying on the filing cabinet in the corner and couldn’t think why she had been going to take it back. ‘Bring me the mail first, Lucy. It’s time I started work.’
Fergus knocked at her door on the stroke of seven. She was barely ready. Still breathless. With a flush that owed more to excitement than blusher.
She’d changed three times. She’d had her hair done that lunchtime, but she’d since put it up, then brushed it out again like some nervous teenager on a first date instead of a mature, sophisticated woman who could handle any situation life was likely to throw at her. Handle it and toss it right back.
‘You look …’ Fergus appeared temporarily lost for words ‘… stunning.’ Then, as a gust of wind rattled the roses budding in pots on either side of the door, ruffled his hair, he gathered himself, stepped into her tiny hall and placed a spray of white rosebuds on the table beside her before taking her hands, kissing her cheek.
He was so damned detached, she thought. Taking care to keep his distance. It made her glad she had spent the last five minutes frantically scrambling back into the red dress, brushing her hair loose, painting on the scarlet lipstick, because without it he would never have given himself away and she would never have seen that it was all just an act.
‘I would have bet any amount of money that you would be wearing black.’
‘Would you?’ She picked up the flowers and led the way into the sitting room. ‘So obvious, don’t you think?’ she said, glancing back over her shoulder. She was flirting in a way that would normally have left her blushing. ‘Rather as if you’re hoping no one will notice that you’re a woman in a man’s world and that you shouldn’t really be there.’
‘I’m tempted to say that would be impossible. But you’d think me insufferably glib.’
She lifted the roses to her face. They had that special, very delicate spicy fragrance that the heavy-scented reds could never match. ‘Would I?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you try me?’
Unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘I’m not falling for that one.’
‘Mmm.’ Better. ‘These are lovely. Thank you. And thank you for the gardenias. They made quite an impression.’
‘On you?’
‘On everybody. Even Nick. That was the purpose, wasn’t it? To impress everyone?’
He shrugged. ‘I consider it my duty to keep your stock high with your secretary.’
‘Then consider your duty done. Lucy hasn’t stopped sighing since they arrived. It’s playing havoc with her concentration, and it hasn’t done much for her shorthand either.’
‘No more gardenias to the office, then?’
Veronica smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, she went into the kitchen to run some water for the flowers.
She was flirting with him, he realised, as he had been flirting with her, and Fergus discovered that he didn’t much like it. It was too shallow, too sophisticated, too civilised. And he leaned again the architrave, watching her hunt for a vase, fill it, put the roses in it and feather their petals with the tips of her fingers. His feelings for Veronica were not in the least civilised; they were deep, and passionate and raw.
She looked up and saw him watching her. ‘Would you like a drink before we go, Fergus?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘I don’t drink before I speak in public, either,’ she said, returning with the roses in a tall glass vase and placing them on a serpentine table where they were reflected in an oval gilt mirror.
‘You know about that?’
‘Nick mentioned it when I said you would be joining us. You’ll find that our table has been combined with the Mayor’s this evening, in order to save civic pride.’
‘Really? Was that your idea?’
She shrugged. ‘I have them occasionally. Sometimes I surprise myself.’
‘And not just yourself. You surprised the hell out of me on Friday morning.’
Her smile was suddenly less certain. ‘It’s just been one of those weeks,’ she said, then picked up a long black velvet cloak that lay across the sofa. ‘Will you help me with this?’
He took it from her. ‘Turn around.’ She did, and for a moment they too were framed with the roses in the mirror. Then he lifted the soft cloak over her bare white shoulders and eased her hair over the collar, his fingers briefly brushing the nape of her neck. She shivered, turned quickly to look up at him, her eyes huge and very dark.
‘Let’s go,’ he said abruptly. And, while he still could, he took her arm and headed for the door.
They talked in the car. They talked about the weather. They talked about the speech he was to give that night. They filled the road into the city with nothing, and it was a relief to arrive at the Guildhall at the same time as Nick and Cassie Jefferson.
‘Cassie! I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Veronica gave her a careful hug as they hurried out of the gusting wind into the shelter of the Guildhall. ‘What a night. You’d never think it was supposed to be spring.’
‘At least it’s not raining. Yet. I’ll probably leave early, but I couldn’t miss an opportunity to meet the man of the moment.’ Cassie Jefferson turned to Fergus.
‘Fergus, this is Cassie Jefferson. You may have seen her on television. Cassie Cornwell?’ she prompted.
Fergus smiled as he took her hand. ‘Of course. I bought my sister one of your books … She’s getting married next week, and I’m not sure she’s ever learned to do much more than open a tin.’
‘Who has time to eat when they’re in love?’ Cassie replied.
‘And this is Nick Jefferson,’ Veronica went on quickly, before he could reply. ‘Nick, Fergus Kavanagh.’
‘Jefferson,’ Fergus said, acknowledging his host somewhat stiffly.
‘Kavanagh.’ The two men sized one another up as they shook hands. There was little to choose between them, matched height for height; only years gave Fergus the edge in authority, stature.
Then, to Veronica’s intense relief, Fergus relaxed and smiled. ‘Fergus,’ he invited.
‘Nick.’ And Nick Jefferson smiled too. ‘Come and meet the rest of the party.’
‘What was all that about?’ Cassie murmured as they handed their wraps in at the cloakroom. ‘They were like a couple of stags preparing to fight over the females.’
‘Fergus cooked supper for me the other night and I told him about Nick’s little attempt to impress me with his cooking. Perhaps it was a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’ Cassie turned and looked up at her somewhat thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure you knew exactly what you were doing, Veronica.’ She stopped briefly, her hand flying protectively to the baby lying beneath her waist.
‘Are you all right, Cassie?’
Cassie glanced at her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just a touch of backache.’ Then, ‘Don’t look so worried, Veronica.’ And she patted her bump affectionately. ‘The infant prodigy isn’t due for another two weeks.’
Veronica regarded the glowing Cassie, the size of bump she was carrying before her, and felt distinctly uneasy. ‘Are you sure?’
Cassie laughed. ‘It’s only a twinge, Veronica.’
‘Wha
t kind of a twinge? I think it’s only fair to warn you now that I flunked first aid.’
‘That’s not a problem. I promise you, I have no intention of giving birth in the Guildhall.’
CHAPTER NINE
FERGUS had been speaking for about fifteen minutes when Cassie got up rather hurriedly.
Veronica glanced up in silent query, but Cassie put her finger to her lips and headed for the ladies’. She watched her uneasily for a moment, then a burst of laughter shook the room. She had no idea what Fergus had said, but any man who was capable of making European Monetary Union something to laugh about deserved her full attention. He got it for about a minute. After that she found herself glancing more and more frequently towards the door.
It could just be that sitting still for so long had aggravated Cassie’s backache. Maybe she just needed a little fresh air, or had met someone who recognised her from television and had kept her talking. She tried to concentrate on what Fergus was saying. Then Nick, too, glanced anxiously towards the door, caught her eye, and, without waiting for him to ask, she went to see what had happened to Cassie.
She found her in the ladies’ cloakroom, lying with her feet up on an elegant gilded chaise longue. Her soaked dress was lying discarded in a heap on the floor and she had been modestly draped in towels.
‘Cassie! What’s happened—?’
‘I just made it before the waters broke.’ She managed a smile. ‘Don’t worry—’ Don’t worry! ‘The cloakroom attendant has been brilliant. She’s gone to call an ambulance.’ Well, that was all right, then.
‘What about Nick?’
Cassie drew in a sharp breath. ‘I thought the ambulance was more important,’ she said, what seemed to Veronica like hours later. ‘But if you could let him know …’ Another pain caught her. Already? Weren’t these things supposed to be minutes apart? A lot of minutes apart? She glanced at her watch, vaguely aware that she should be timing them although she wasn’t entirely sure why.
‘Just how long have you been having backache and twinges?’ she asked as Cassie reached out and grabbed her hand as the wave of the contraction rose, peaked, receded. ‘Stupid question,’ she said, to no one in particular. ‘Will you be all right here on your own while I get Nick?’