by Liz Fielding
‘A bad day.’ First bungee-jumping. Then a haircut. How much worse could one day get?
‘No sacrifice is too great to promote the store.’
‘This is as far as I’m prepared to go,’ she assured him. The haircut was all part of the week of publicity for the store and had been planned for months. Faced with proving her total commitment, she knew nothing would make a more public statement than cutting her trademark hair to publicise the salon.
The stylist hesitated, apparently not eager to be the cause of bitter tears of regret. ‘You’re really sure about this? I should warn you that while your girlfriends will love it—’
‘Great. They’re the ones to impress. Let’s do it.’ Still he hesitated. ‘Come on, George, I haven’t got all day.’
‘You do realise that the men in your life will hate it?’
‘Who has the time for men?’
‘Friends, acquaintances, your father?’
‘I stopped being Daddy’s little girl when I was four.’ When her mother had found someone younger, better-looking, even titled…
‘Any man you’ve ever met, then. Any man who’s ever seen your photograph in the gossip mags. You must be aware that half the men in London are in love with your hair. They’ll want to lynch me—’
‘What’s a little pain if it means you’ll get your picture in the papers?’ Still he hesitated. ‘For heaven’s sake, George, it’s just hair. Cut it.’
And for the second time that day she closed her eyes.
Niall Macaulay looked up at the impressive façade of Claibourne & Farraday. Once a small emporium catering exclusively to the aristocracy, it had, over the generations, expanded until it occupied one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in London.
Jordan was obsessed with the need to reclaim it for the sake of family pride. Bram’s mind took a more logical path—the Farraday claim had to be protected in the face of a raft of new legislation.
A new agreement, something more equitable, would certainly put an end to the feud mentality that had prevailed among the older generation since control of the store had shifted from the Farradays to the Claibournes. It had been at a time when the women’s movement had been gaining ground, and Jordan’s mother had expected her claim to be taken seriously. Jordan had never forgiven Peter Claibourne for brushing her aside, and Jordan had been brought up listening to her complaining about it.
Niall’s own desire to claim the ‘golden share’ had nothing to do with sentiment. Romana Claibourne was right. He wanted control so that they would be in a position to liquidise the assets and reinvest the money in something less subject to the whim of public taste. The retail sector was a minefield, definitely not a place for the unwary.
With a nod to the doorman who opened one of the huge doors for him, he paused on the threshold to gain his bearings. While one of C&F’s burgundy and gold liveried vans delivered his weekly groceries, it had been more than four years since he’d actually walked around the store.
He’d been with Louise. Choosing china, bedlinen, touring the departments, making a wedding list. He’d left all the decisions to her… It was to be her house; he’d wanted her to have everything just as she wanted it. All he’d wanted to do was watch her. Be with her. See her lovely face change from query as she turned to ask his opinion, knowing his answer would be the same— “You choose” —to just a smile…
He ached at the memory, but that happiness was long gone. And this would be his last opportunity to reacquaint himself with the store—check out any changes—as if he was just one more browsing customer. After tomorrow everyone would know who he was.
He’d better make the most of it. And, as he’d missed lunch, he’d begin by checking out the restaurants.
Romana reached up on automatic, and flinched when her hand encountered nothing but space where her hair had once been.
‘Eat this and stop fussing, Romana. Your hair looks wonderful.’ Molly handed her a sandwich she’d brought up from the Buttery, hoping to tempt her to a late lunch. ‘George is a genius.’
‘I know. I’ll get used to it. Probably. Any last-minute panics? How’s it going at the theatre?’
‘Relax. The programmes have been delivered, the florists are arranging for England and the caterers are all set. No one has cancelled. Everything is running like silk.’
‘Those are words calculated to freeze the blood in my veins.’
‘You worry too much.’
‘That’s an impossibility.’
‘Honestly, everything’s organised to the last full-stop.’ Then, ‘I saw your hunk, by the way. In the Buttery when I picked up your sandwich.’
Romana frowned. ‘My hunk? Since when did I have a hunk to call my own?’
‘Well, not so much a hunk,’ Molly replied maddeningly. ‘He’s more your James Bond type. Tall, dark and deadly. If he were shadowing me he wouldn’t be eating alone.’
‘What?’ Then, belatedly catching on, ‘Are you telling me that Niall Macaulay is in the store?’
‘Well, yes. I assumed you’d come back together. You didn’t know he was here?’
‘No, I did not. Of all the sneaky… Did he see you?’
‘I don’t think so. He was talking to someone on his mobile, and after your toe-curling suggestion that I was smitten with him there was no way I was going across to ask if he was enjoying his lunch. He might he gorgeous to look at, but you’re right—he is a bit daunting. Not the kind of man you’d wave at in a restaurant on such short acquaintance.’
‘I wouldn’t wave at him if I were drowning. Call Security, please, Molly.’
She looked aghast. ‘You’re not going to have him thrown out!’
‘Of course not. I simply want to know what he’s up to.’
Common sense told her that he could have been in the store every day for the last year, compiling a whole host of black marks against the Claibourne clan. Intuition warned her that this wasn’t so, that he was merely taking his last chance of anonymity to look around on his own. It was, after all, exactly what she’d have done in his shoes. But she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
‘I want to know everywhere he goes, who he talks to, what he looks at. Any incidents. I want a full report on my desk first thing in the morning.’
Niall checked out all the restaurants and coffee shops, each very different. There was even a Japanese-style sushi bar, which surprised him. All of them were busy.
He ate his belated lunch in the Buttery, only because it looked the least inspired of the choices available. He gave it perhaps six out of ten. And he was being generous.
Leaving the restaurant, he began to tour the store. It hadn’t changed noticeably since the refit in the early twentieth century, and was still steeped in the dated luxury of mahogany and burgundy carpeting that was the store’s signature.
The customer base was younger than he’d anticipated, though.
The Claibournes must be doing something right.
Jordan wouldn’t want to hear that. He only wanted to know what they were doing wrong.
He first noticed that he had a ‘tail’ as he wandered through the book department.
It was, he thought, a poor use of expensive selling space. Typical of a department that had once been popular but had outlived its time. It couldn’t compete with the new bookstore chains, with their coffee shops and cut prices.
He took her by surprise as he stopped to make a note and the woman following him turned away a little too quickly, drawing attention to herself.
He’d seen Romana’s assistant dash into the Buttery. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence and he’d assumed she hadn’t seen him. It would appear that he was making rather too many assumptions.
In his wide experience of human nature he’d learned to trust first impressions, that glimpse of the unguarded personality before a man or woman realised they were being observed.
Romana Claibourne had climbed out of a taxi hampered by a clutch of carrier bags, in heels a touch to
o high for good sense and a skirt too short for anyone who anticipated being taken seriously. And with enough hair to stuff a mattress flying in all directions. His first impression had been of a scatty mantrap who wouldn’t hesitate to use her looks to get what she wanted.
He didn’t doubt for a moment that she usually got it.
Scatty or not, she’d wasted no time in sending a store detective to keep an eye on him, check what he was up to. That took some nerve, he thought as he glanced at his watch and headed for the exit, determined to fit in a couple of hours at his own desk before the gala.
But he really couldn’t let her get away with the idea she’d outsmarted him.
Romana was on the point of leaving when Molly caught up with her at the lift.
‘I can’t stop—’
‘You’ll want to know about this.’ She handed her a shiny burgundy gift-carrier, with Claibourne & Farraday in copperplate gold lettering.
‘What is this?’
‘The store detective you sent to shadow your shadow just brought this up to the office. Mr Macaulay asked her to give it to you with his compliments.’
She groaned. ‘He spotted her?’
‘Apparently.’ The girl was grinning.
‘It’s not funny, Molly.’
Her giggle suggested otherwise. Romana opened the bag. Nestling inside was a carton of a new scent that had been on display that week. Summer Shadow.
‘I do love a man with a sense of humour, don’t you?’
‘This isn’t humour,’ Romana snapped. ‘The man hasn’t got a sense of humour. This is…’ She hesitated. She’d been going to say sarcasm. Again. But it was subtler than that. ‘…irony.’
Niall fastened the studs in his shirt, then picked up his bow-tie. Louise had joked that he’d only married her because he couldn’t tie the thing himself.
Four years. She’d been gone four years. Four years of a life so empty that it echoed like an unfurnished room.
He picked up the photograph in the heavy silver frame that stood on the dressing table, lightly touched the lovely face that smiled back at him. Dark, aristocratic—the complete opposite of Romana Claibourne in every way, he told himself.
Then, quite unexpectedly, he found Romana’s riveting blue eyes intruding between them. And for a split second he couldn’t tell the difference.
Romana fastened the platinum wire choker about her throat and the matching cuffs on her wrists—they were part of the African collection commissioned by Flora after her research trip the previous year, and they’d just gone on sale in the store. The simplicity would offer a stark contrast to the diamonds that Her Royal Highness would be wearing to the gala; there was absolutely no point in trying to compete.
She’d kept her dress simple too. Understated. Tonight she was one of the supporting cast, ensuring that things ran smoothly behind the scenes while India took centre stage. But she still had to look perfect. Hair, nails, makeup. Everything but the dress a showcase for the store.
Was Niall right about that? Should she be wearing something from their own fashion department? But then it was so much easier for men. A well-cut dinner jacket and a starched shirt was all it took. They could wear the same suit, shirt, cuff-links for years and no one would notice. But still…
She’d worked so hard on building a fresh, lively new image for the store. Still had so much to do. For the first time she seriously began to consider the possibility of losing it. And how much that would hurt. She could not let that happen.
She picked up the scent Niall had sent her and wondered if she’d underestimated the man. Not intellectually. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he was clever with a capital C. But was it possible that, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, he understood the retail sector?
That he had a sense of humour?
On an impulse, she sprayed her wrists with the fragrance. It was green and cool, like the beautiful opaque glass container. Cool as Niall Macaulay. She found herself smiling. Whatever else he was, when it came to making a point, the man wasn’t cheap.
And not always cold, she thought, remembering how warm and safe she’d felt with his arm about her. How, just for a moment, she’d forgotten that she was scared to death.
A ring on the doorbell brought her back to reality and she dropped the scent as if burned, scarcely believing that she’d used it.
The reality was that Niall Macaulay was the enemy, plotting to claim Claibourne & Farraday for his own. As she picked up her wrap and her bag and headed for the door, she said out loud, ‘It isn’t going to happen.’
She wasn’t going to let it happen.
CHAPTER FOUR
NIALL crossed the cordoned-off section of pavement where the television camera was already set up and the paparazzi were already camped out. No one took any notice of him. He was too early to be anyone interesting.
He showed the pass Molly had entrusted to the driver of the car sent to collect him and was admitted to the theatre. Every pillar in the foyer was entwined from floor to ceiling with flowers and tiny white lights, a triumph of the florist’s art. And centre stage, exactly where he’d expected her to be, was Romana Claibourne, directing the positioning of a display board.
She was wearing a simple, unadorned figure-hugging dress of dark blue satin, a miracle of tailoring that clung to her curves without any visible means of support. It didn’t need adornment. Stunning in its simplicity, its style, it was the kind of dress designed to make a man long to get his hands on it—and the figure it so inadequately concealed.
A man who’d lived in a sexual limbo, unresponsive to even the most seductive advances since the death of the woman he’d loved, he found his unexpectedly earthy response to Romana Claibourne’s volatile charms deeply shocking.
And it wasn’t just the figure-hugging dress but her hair that claimed his attention. The wild—and, to him, unappealing—mane had gone, and now a tumble of tiny curls framed her face, curling onto the nape of her long and very beautiful neck. She’d highlighted its exposure with a choker made from dozens of thin strands of platinum wire. It gave her the appearance of some African queen.
She had been transformed from a ditzy-looking blonde he’d have crossed the road to avoid into the most stunning young woman. A man, if he didn’t have a care, could lose his head. And his heart.
He took an instinctive step backward, as if the thought threatened him in some way. How could it? He didn’t have a heart to lose. He’d given it without reservation to the only woman he would ever love.
But the men struggling to place the heavy boards exactly where she wanted them appeared to have lost theirs to Romana, falling over themselves to please her as she flattered and flirted with them.
He stayed where he was for a while, watching as she had them move the display four times before she was entirely happy with the result. Throughout the operation she was courteous, charming, and when they had done exactly as she wanted her smile was angelic. They were her slaves.
Once again he was torn between the cynical belief that she was simply using her very obvious feminine appeal to get what she wanted and a disconcerting certainty that her charm was the real thing.
Putting his trust in cynicism, he crossed the thick carpet to join her before she turned and caught him standing in the shadows.
‘Good evening, Romana,’ he said, glancing at the boards, curious to see what all the fuss had been about.
Romana half turned. ‘Oh, Niall, you’ve arrived,’ she said, and he could tell, from the slight edge to her voice, the slight flush to her cheeks, that she’d been aware of him the moment he’d arrived. His skin prickled with tension, every cell in his body suddenly on fire; the fact that they were adversaries only served to heighten his awareness of her. ‘Just when the hard work has been done.’
The sharpness betrayed her. The attraction was mutual. He felt a quick surge of power. The forgotten thrill of mentally fencing with a beautiful woman, knowing it could only end in one place. The fact that it was
impossible lent an extra edge of danger.
‘On the contrary, I watched proceedings with every bit as much interest as you.’ He raised a brow, daring her to suggest she’d done anything more than direct operations. ‘That is what I’m supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Watching? If you’d wanted another porter—’
She held up a hand, stopping him with an elegant gesture. She wore bracelets—cuffs of platinum wire that matched the choker at her throat—on each wrist. As she raised her hand the strands of platinum rippled against smooth ivory skin. ‘You’ve made your point, Niall. You’re here to observe, not take part.’ For a moment she looked at him as if she could see right through him, read his mind. But then, how hard could it be? She indicated the display board. ‘So. Observe.’
He found it harder than it should have been to turn away and look at the photographic collage of the projects supported by the charity week, the happy children it had helped. A perfect example of a picture being worth a thousand words. ‘Very impressive.’ He watched her reach up to adjust a photograph that had become loose during the move. ‘And it’s very effective PR.’
‘How cynical you are, Niall.’
‘Am I wrong?’ he asked.
She looked as if she might tell him just how wrong he was. What she said was, ‘No, of course not.’
He’d rather have heard what she was really thinking. ‘What do you do for the rest of the year?’ he asked. ‘I imagine one bungee-jump goes a long way.’
‘It seemed like for ever,’ she replied, and glanced back at him briefly.
He saw again an echo of fear in her eyes. It was gone in a heartbeat, but she wouldn’t fool him again.
‘You’re right, though,’ she added. ‘It isn’t all champagne and glamour.’
She finished smoothing the photograph and stepped back to admire the finished effect while she recovered herself. It took no time at all, apparently, because she turned and looked up at him with a smile that suggested she was quite over her fright. A tiny, mischievous smile. ‘I’m so sorry, Niall. I forgot to thank you for the scent. I’m—’