The Independent Bride

by Sophie Weston

  Steven ground his teeth. Oh, boy, what a great judge of women he had turned out to be! Fifteen years on and he was still making the same mistakes! Had he learned nothing?

  The door banged back on its hinges and the producer swept in.

  ‘Hi, Steven. Sorry I wasn’t around when you got here. You know what it’s like! Met everyone?’ He was scribbling on his clipboard.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Steven with restraint.

  ‘Yes, I heard you’d already had a run-in with the Tiger Cub.’

  ‘I take it you mean Ms Calhoun?’

  ‘Yup.’ Martin Tammery looked up briefly. ‘Isn’t she something?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Steven, as frostily as any of his Victorian predecessors as Master of Queen Margaret’s. ‘Though, to be fair, I cannot state positively that it was Ms Calhoun. She did not do me the courtesy of introducing herself.’

  Martin stopped scribbling. His eyebrows rose. ‘Whew.’

  ‘I assume, however, that is who the woman was. On the basis of Indigo’s briefing.’

  ‘Er—yeah.’ A grin began to break through. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a lively programme. Great. Where is she? Or have you savaged her so badly she won’t even stay in the same room?’

  ‘Very funny,’ snapped Steven. ‘That woman is more likely to beat me about the head with a stiletto heel.’

  Which was the exact moment at which she came back into the room with Windflower.

  ‘Ms Calhoun,’ said Martin with enthusiasm, surging forward.

  She had done something to her face, thought Steven. Her eyes looked larger—even larger—and deceptively melting. Deceptive! That was the word to hang onto.

  ‘Don’t think you and Professor Konig have been properly introduced,’ said Martin wickedly. ‘Let me do the honours. Steven’s a big name these days. But he was my tutor when I was at college. Steven—Ms Pepper Calhoun.’

  Pepper was taken aback. Behind the producer, Lord Zog was glaring like a hanging judge. There were not a lot of ways to play this one, short of eyeball to eyeball. And that might not be a good thing before they went on television together. Pepper passed her options under rapid review and decided on breezy good humour.

  ‘Hi, Professor.’

  She held out a hand. Being British, male and superior he would have to shake it. She had come to know the type. They might be cold as ice and hard as reinforced concrete, but they made a fetish of good manners.

  Professor Lord Zog ground his teeth visibly. But she had read him right. He took her hand and shook it firmly.

  Pepper bit back a smile. ‘Big name, huh?’ she said innocently. ‘Sorry I don’t recognise you. I’ve only been in the UK a couple of months.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lord Zog arctically.

  Pepper bit back a smile. ‘Tell me what I should know about you,’ she invited.

  But that didn’t annoy him as much as it ought to. For a moment he looked fixedly at her mouth, his face absolutely expressionless. And then he began to look faintly amused.

  ‘Martin exaggerates. I’m a simple biochemist, Ms Calhoun. I got my invitation to the ball because I set up a company called Kplant which has had a bit of luck.’

  Bit of luck? Pepper was taken aback. Kplant had been the success story of the new companies sector three years ago.

  She frowned. ‘Food technology, right? On the edge of getting a full quote?’

  For a moment he looked taken aback, then said smoothly, ‘You’re a little premature. Maybe. In the fullness of the time.’

  Pepper’s eyes narrowed. She thought, He’s said that before. And he’s wary of me. Why?

  Aloud she said, ‘Maybe? But surely every guy wants his business to turn into a quoted company? That’s the point of starting a business in the first place.’

  His expression didn’t change. But somehow she knew she had hit home. She thought, I’ve made him mad.

  ‘You think so, do you?’ There was an odd note in his voice.

  Pepper thought, No, I haven’t made him mad. Actually, that’s given him a real kick. That’s exactly what he expected me to say. And he despises me for it.

  Their eyes locked. Smouldering.

  And Pepper thought—Hey, I know this guy.

  Martin intervened. ‘Hey, guys. Save it for the programme. In fact, let’s go to the studio now.’ He flipped a hand at one of the hovering girls. ‘Take care of Ms Calhoun’s little girl for a bit, will you?’

  ‘She’s not—’ said Pepper.

  But he was already off, talking hard. He shot them along the corridor, running rapidly through the details of the format, the signals they would get. ‘The audience are sixteen to eighteen. Wide achievement range. Lively, from what we’ve seen so far. Interested in everything from the music business to banking. You may get some unexpected questions. Can you handle them?’

  Steven Konig shrugged. ‘I’ll play it by ear.’

  And what about me? raged Pepper silently. Or does he think he’s going to be doing all the talking? Yeah, I just bet he does. I asked him about his damned company but he hasn’t asked a thing about me. He doesn’t think I count at all!

  But still she couldn’t get it out of her mind that she had met him somehow, somewhere before. But where? And if she remembered why didn’t he?

  Except, of course, that he probably hadn’t thought she counted last time either. She gritted her teeth and marched into the studio behind him, telling herself to keep calm. She needed to present an image of a woman in control. It wasn’t going to help her cause if she started off by kicking Professor Steven Konig on live television. But it was a temptation. Pepper had to admit to herself that it was a temptation.

  Later, she promised herself. And pinned on a professional smile as she took her seat and looked round at the cameras.

  Steven could feel her bristling at his shoulder. His lip curled. What had she got to bristle about? He was the one who had been wasting his time for weeks—no, make that months—daydreaming about a completely fictional woman!

  Time to wake up, he told himself grimly. No, time to grow up. He listened to the host’s smooth introduction and simmered.

  The first question went to Pepper. It was from a girl in tattered jeans asking about start-up capital. Pepper answered sensibly enough. For some reason that made Steven’s irritation bubble over.

  ‘You would, of course, know so much about raising capital,’ he said, almost before she had finished. ‘With the huge resources of the Calhoun empire behind you.’

  The host blinked. Before he could intervene, though, Pepper was sitting bolt upright in her chair and glaring.

  Steven frowned so mightily that his strongly marked brows nearly met.

  ‘Face it,’ he said implacably. ‘You have a load of advantages that the rest of us can’t call on. Family money, family business, tradition, contacts—’

  To say nothing of a good line in make-believe innocence! Good enough, in fact, to sucker in even a man who’d thought he knew every damned trick that women were up to. Oh, no, Pepper Calhoun had no right to bristle.

  ‘You’ve got it made,’ he concluded. A muscle worked in his jaw.

  Pepper gave him a glittering smile. How could he ever have been attracted to the woman? He must have been light-headed with tiredness on that damned flight.

  ‘An entrepreneur has to use everything he can,’ she said sweetly. She smiled round the audience. ‘You will all have people you know. They will have skills or contacts. Use them. The British seem to think it’s not fair, somehow. You have to grow out of that.’

  Steven stiffened. She’s calling me a schoolboy, he thought in disbelief.

  Their eyes met. She smiled again. That smile said, as clearly as any look could, Round One to me, I think.

  It set the tone for the rest of the programme.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ muttered Martin Tammery in the control box, swinging between the monitors. He hugged himself in ecstasy.

  The audience picked up the edgy atmosphere. Soon they were as
king questions aimed at bringing either Pepper or Steven out of their corner fighting.

  It was all within the bounds of civilised behaviour—just. But there was no disguising the fact that the two distinguished guests loathed each other. And then, suddenly, it went out of control.

  And the question which started it could not have been more innocent.

  ‘So do you think it’s fair that women should be asked to lose weight in order to get a job in a boutique?’ someone asked.

  Steven looked bored. He drummed his nails on the arm of his chair.

  Pepper fielded it smoothly. ‘Yes, I’ve read about that case. I think it reasonable for an employer to expect an employee to take care of his appearance. And if we’re realistic we tend to choose staff to reflect our client base, for all sorts of good marketing reasons. But weight as such is a different issue. There are all sorts of reasons why people become overweight, and some of them they can’t help…’

  And all of a sudden Steven’s simmering anger exploded.

  ‘Oh, please. That is such nonsense.’ He slewed round in his chair and glared at her. ‘It’s a simple equation. If you take in more energy than you use in exercise you store up fat. You can do something about it or you can ignore it. But don’t give me that nonsense not being able to help it. If it was important enough you would do something about it. And I’m tired of women banging on about their weight as if it’s nothing to do with them.’

  He was thinking of Courtney as he said it, with her thousands of excuses for doing exactly what she wanted and her complete refusal to accept responsibility for anything. He was completely unprepared for the effect.

  Pepper said absolutely nothing. She seemed transfixed, sitting as still as if an arrow were still in her and if she moved she would bleed to death.

  ‘What?’ said Steven, irritated. ‘What?’

  He realised that she had whitened so much he could make out skilful make-up dusted over her perfectly bloodless cheeks. She looked sick.

  There was the tiniest pause. But the silence felt as if it went on for ever. Then the host pulled himself together and moved on to the next question. Then another.

  Pepper came back to life, answering her questions, even cracking a couple of jokes. But she did not meet Steven’s eyes any more. And when the closing music sounded through the studio she got up and walked out without a word to anybody.

  As soon as the music died Windflower came over and stood in front of him. How was it possible for a nine-year-old to have a face like a hanging judge? Steven thought, irritated.

  ‘That lady is crying,’ she announced.

  Steven was harassed. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Grown-ups don’t cry.’

  Windflower gave him a look of ineffable scorn and didn’t bother to reply.

  He stood up and looked at the doors through which Pepper had disappeared. Was the blasted woman really crying? Damn! Laminated feminists weren’t supposed to cry. He didn’t even know what he’d done. But it was his fault; he knew that without a shadow of a doubt. If Windflower’s expression hadn’t told him, his own vague sense of unease would have done so.

  And Martin Tammery confirmed it. The producer arrived, rubbing his hands with glee.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Just brilliant. Couldn’t be better. Come and have a drink to celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate?’ Steven raised his brows. ‘But it felt terrible.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Martin, unconvincingly. He bustled him back to the subterranean hospitality room. ‘Yes, Ms Calhoun turned out to be a handful, didn’t she? They’re all the same, these businesswomen. Trouble in pearl earrings. But on this occasion it’s going to be worth it.’

  Steven shook his head, bewildered.

  ‘A spat like that is worth its weight in gold in the ratings,’ Martin explained kindly. ‘In fact Disgusted of Sunderland will probably have started ringing in already—’ He broke off abruptly.

  Pepper Calhoun had stalked into the hospitality suite with her head high and her normally soft brown eyes snapping.

  Martin grabbed the programme’s researcher by the elbow and hissed in her ear, ‘Keep her sweet. Keep her here.’ And ducked out of the side door before Pepper’s gimlet glance could nail him to the carpet.

  The researcher was a lot more nervous of Pepper than she had been before the programme. She stepped forward nervously. ‘C-can I offer you something to drink, Ms Calhoun?’

  If Pepper had been spiky before the recording, now she looked as if she drank hot blood. And was thirsty for a top-up right now.

  ‘Water,’ said Pepper grimly. ‘A lot.’

  Steven went over to her.

  ‘Putting out the fire?’ he drawled.

  As an olive branch, it had a few design flaws. She would think he was laughing at her. He realised that the moment he said it. But it was too late to recall his words.

  Pepper turned a flaming look on him.

  ‘Anyway, it’s all over,’ Steven said, busily making bad worse.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Pepper. ‘It’s on videotape. Highly saleable videotape.’

  Steven blinked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the researcher comfortingly. ‘They edit a lot. They’ll edit out any bad bits before they sell it on to another network.’

  Pepper looked at her. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Six months,’ said the researcher, flushing.

  ‘I see,’ Pepper crisply. ‘Well, let me give you an insight into how the media work. When you’ve been here longer, you’ll find out that they edit out the boring stuff. What just happened in there was not boring.’

  Steven could not help himself. He laughed.

  Pepper ignored him. ‘In fact it’s probably this crummy little outfit’s passport to prime time,’ she said dispassionately.

  Even Steven looked disconcerted at that.

  The researcher said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Pepper looked straight at Steven Konig. ‘Bad behaviour always brings in the punters,’ she said in a level voice.

  The heavy eyebrows rose. ‘Are you telling me off, Ms Calhoun?’

  ‘I’m saying you could do with some lessons. In media management. In courtesy,’ said Pepper, still dispassionate. And quite deadly.

  His eyes flickered, as if she had struck home. But he said in a mocking voice, ‘You mean you’re allowed to call me a tyrant, but if I say women should take responsibility for their own wellbeing, I’m a foul oppressor?’

  Her eyes flashed. But her tone stayed cool. ‘I think you should have shown a little more restraint, yes.’

  He snorted. ‘Courtesy is supposed to go in both directions, you know.’

  ‘I do. I was.’ She took the water that the researcher poured for her and drank it down in one go. ‘Unlike you.’

  ‘How?’ said Steven, exasperated. ‘Why?’

  ‘You were ungentlemanly,’ she said, drawling as deliberately as he. ‘And you know it.’

  He snorted. ‘If you can’t stand the heat, you should have stayed out of the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, I can stand the heat, Professor Konig. I was brought up in the kitchen,’ she said dulcetly. ‘Were you?’

  He looked startled. ‘Is that a threat?’

  Pepper permitted herself a smile. She had a wonderful smile when she wanted, and she knew it. It made her eyes dance and lit up her whole face.

  ‘No, no,’ she said, cooing like the southern belle her grandmother had always wanted her to be. ‘Not a threat. A declaration of war.’

  She walked out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARTIN TAMMERY was not pleased with his assistant. ‘I told you to hang on to Pepper Calhoun,’ he snapped. ‘How could you let her storm off like that?’

  Steven’s conscience stirred. No other woman was going to have grounds to call him unchivalrous today. He stepped in front of the woman.

  ‘I’m the one you’d better yell at, Martin. We had a row, Ms Calhoun and I.’

  Ma
rtin could not shout at his influential guest. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it can’t be helped,’ he said, though not very graciously. He caught sight of Windflower, sitting watchfully in her corner, and gave a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, she’s left her child behind. She’ll be back.’

  ‘The child is mine,’ said Steven curtly.

  Martin’s eyebrows flew up.

  ‘Never mind the child. Ms Calhoun and I have unfinished business. You’d better give me her phone number.’

  Martin gave a crack of laughter. ‘You think she’d take a call from you? In your dreams!’

  Steven was exasperated by all this emotionalism. ‘Why on earth shouldn’t she?’

  Tammery exchanged glances with the assistant. ‘Well, you did just call her a fatty on national television.’

  ‘What?’

  Steven’s roar lifted Windflower out of her chair and brought her to his side. He put his hand on the child’s shoulder absentmindedly.

  ‘What are you talking about? I never called her anything!’

  ‘I bet she’ll blame me,’ Martin pursued, not listening. ‘They always do. Get themselves into a fight and, hey, presto, it’s the Machiavellian producer who set it all up.’

  ‘I’d never say a thing like that,’ said Steven, really perturbed. ‘Not to anyone. And, anyway, she isn’t fat.’

  ‘Well, she’s a bit chubby,’ said Martin fairly. ‘Anyway, all women think they’re fat. In fact, if it we hadn’t been going out live, I bet I’d have her lawyers on the phone already.’

  ‘Lawyers?’ Steven didn’t believe it. ‘You’re as crazy as she is.’

  ‘Believe me, she’d have that bit edited out if she could,’ Martin assured him. He looked alarmed, a sudden thought obviously striking him. ‘We did get her to sign that release, didn’t we?’

  ‘What bit?’ shouted Steven, stampeded into bad grammar by sheer exasperation.

  The assistant did not seem to have noticed Steven’s chivalrous defence. She was too agitated to pay attention to anyone but her boss.