Prescription For Love (Destiny's Child Book 1)

by Zee Monodee

  “What’s his name?”

  “Huh?” She blinked, coming back to reality, feeling the sting of heat on her skin. From the shame? Then she caught herself and shook it off. “Oh, him. Jeremy. Jeremy Wickham.”

  Gayle rolled her eyes. “Wickham, you say? No wonder you’re in this predicament. Wait a second. He’s the one you told me is engaged to that rich Indian heiress, isn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’ve got yourself in a mighty pickle, girl.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  Way to point out the obvious! She slapped her palm on the armrest as frustration started to get the better of her.

  “Sweets, take it easy, okay? No point crying over spilt milk. You don’t need to tell him if you don’t want to, but it would help to have his medical history.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  Not when he’d run back to his precious Shilpa the second the heiress started talking to him again. She’d been with him when he’d been free. Not only was she not a homewrecker, she also wanted nothing from him, much less his support in this parenting business.

  “It’s you and you alone, then?”

  She took a deep breath. Time for the plunge. “Yes.”

  Gayle watched her for long seconds. “Okay. I’ll need to run some more tests, but I’ll put you on prenatal vitamins and folic acid right away. The date you gave me is your conception date, so this means you’re at least two months along. An ultrasound will help shed more light on the situation.”

  Gayle paused to answer the phone, leaving Jane to absorb the information she’d just been given.

  The words merged in a jumble in her head, and a dull ache picked up behind her eyes.

  Gayle cradled the receiver again.

  “Jane, I have an emergency. This is what we’ll do: today is Thursday, and I’m slotting you for an ultrasound on Monday. By then, we should have the results back. I’ll tell one of the nurses to get some blood samples from you before you leave.” She pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “Make sure you take these twice a day. I’ll ask the nurses to give you a bundle of information on pregnancy and the benefits you are entitled to as an expecting mother.”

  Gayle stood, removed her white lab coat, and picked up her jacket from the hanger near the door. She paused there and turned towards Jane. “Don’t worry, luv. You’ll be fine. I’ll see you Monday then. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” She waved at Gayle’s departing figure.

  In the silence of the big office, she closed her eyes. Was some semblance of calm too much to ask for? God, she didn’t need this. Not now, not ever. Still, she had no escape, and would have to face the situation head on.

  In a moment, though. She couldn’t do this right now.

  She sagged in her seat, exhaustion claiming her.

  She had to admit she had felt overly tired lately, and on some days, had woken up with nausea churning her stomach. Never one to throw up unless she stuck her fingers down her throat, for she knew just how easily she’d be tempted to throw up the little she even ate if she took that road, she had borne the sick feeling, ascribing it to her hectic work schedule, late nights, and coffee diet.

  Coffee! Had she drunk too much and put the baby at risk? What would she do if that were the case? And how had it escaped her notice when she hadn’t gotten her usually mild periods that this could be the sign of something else? Again, she’d ascribed this lack of her monthlies to her hectic work pace, thinking stress and burnout were taking their toll on her.

  “Ms. Smithers?”

  She popped her eyes open. A young nurse stood beside her, her smile warm and friendly. Jane smiled back.

  “The doctor said you needed some blood samples taken. Can you please come to the examination room?”

  Jane grabbed her leather Birkin and followed her. The sight of the dark blood filling the clear tube made her queasy, but she managed to keep herself in check. Twenty minutes later, she was leaving the private practice, stuffing her bag with a load of prospectus and other information sheets while catching a cab to head to work.

  Throughout the trip, she hung onto the door handle for dear life as the driver confused the busy roads of central London with a Formula One racetrack. Young fellow, she mused, as she ran her gaze over his shaved head and pierced ear, a diamond stud glinting bright against his café-au-lait skin. Another Lewis Hamilton wannabe. She chuckled. What was it with men and their need for speed? Still, as long as he dropped her off at the Vista Standard Bank in The City in one fully functioning piece, he could burn the asphalt all he wanted.

  One and a half pieces, a little voice sang, and her spirits dampened.

  How was she going to deal with this? A baby hadn’t been in her plans for the future, let alone the present. When one knew her erratic course record with men—she picked out the jerks, and only the jerks picked her—not surprising then that she didn’t consider a semidetached house on the outskirts of Greater London with a Ford in the garage, a dog, and a handful of kids in the handkerchief-sized garden as her dream life destination. No. She’d need a husband for that, too, and men, the ‘good’ kind that married their girl and loved her, didn’t seem to trip over themselves to propose to her. Truth be told, she’d never been proposed to, and while that fact had hurt when she’d turned thirty, a couple years later, it no longer had any impact on her.

  So what was she to do now that her life had taken a ninety-degree turn?

  The car slammed to a halt with a screech of its tires, sending a wash of bile up her throat. Throughout the ride, the contents of her stomach had rolled and ebbed, making her feel green. Speed and sharp turns were things she would need to steer clear of if she wanted to ease her nausea and not start looking like a leprechaun.

  After paying the driver, she exited the car, walked up the stone steps of the bank, and entered the marble lobby, heading straight for the private lift that led to the office of the bank’s CEO, Umberto Rinaldi.

  Her title said she was the big boss’s personal assistant, but few would realize how much this umbrella term encompassed. Secretary, planner, bail-out-of-trouble minion, cover-his-arse-in-every-business-deal ghost partner, love-life organizer, and as quirky as it sounded, friend. She was all this to the big man himself.

  The metal doors slid open, and she stepped out onto the plush, slate-grey carpet that ran through the whole room where one half provided a luxuriously appointed waiting room and the other held her desk and work equipment.

  She took a deep breath as she walked with a steady step towards her office. A glance at the slinky, silver ESPRIT watch on her left wrist showed her it was ten o’clock. She needed to have some urgent request slips signed by the boss, as was the case every day, and have them dispatched to the relevant departments before eleven so business could continue as usual.

  No time to waste dwelling upon her situation. The job came before everything at this time of the day. And thank God for that, for the escape it would provide for at least a few hours.

  After fishing her keys from her purse, she dropped the bag next to her chair and opened the drawer containing the suede folder with all the confidential requests neatly arranged in it.

  Clutching the file, she closed the drawer with her hip and headed to the large, double-panelled doors leading to the most private sanctum of the bank after the vaults.

  After a sharp knock, she stepped in and scanned the wide, richly appointed room. Tiny dust motes drifted in lethargic motions where the rays of the March sun slanted through windows framed by heavy, tied-back, red velvet curtains. Heavy books bound in green and gold were displayed on mahogany shelves that ran along one whole wall, with dark wood furniture strategically displayed around the office, making one think of the posh setting of an elegant country club.

  Amidst all this Old World splendour, she couldn’t see a living soul. A groan escaped her. He wasn’t here. Again. How many times would she have to tell him he had to physically be in the office duri
ng working hours?

  A small sound caught her attention. A little beep, followed by the swish of fabric moving against leather. She zoomed in on the executive chair, turned so that the back faced the door.

  The sod. He’d tricked her again into thinking he wasn’t here.

  With quick but silent steps, she went around the chair and faced the distinguished-looking gentleman sitting there.

  He raised dark, stricken eyes to her. She looked him up and down, noting the large phone clutched tight in one palm, fingers of the other hand on the screen. He didn’t move at first, then shook his head. A few strands of his thick, silver hair broke free and brushed over his wide forehead.

  Her turn to shake her head.

  “You’re playing Candy Crush again?”

  He gave a sheepish smile in reply. A bank CEO not attending to his urgent duties in order to play a silly game on his phone. How had such an immature man risen to such lofty heights? She sighed. And how had she been the lucky one to land him as boss?

  His shoulders slumped before he turned on his full Italian charm and smiled at her with a kind of charisma that would put George Clooney to shame.

  But this didn’t work on her, and she placed her hands on her hips, the folder still in her grasp while she peered down at him from her full five-foot-ten height.

  “I swear, if you didn’t need that phone for important calls and e-mails, I’d snatch it from you. I bet you spent the whole morning playing this stupid game.”

  To anyone listening, it might sound strange for a personal assistant to be speaking to her boss in this manner. But seven years ago, when she’d started working for Umberto, she had realized nothing but schoolmistress severity worked on the man. To the world, he was this mighty financial magnate who took on the riskiest deals and emerged the victor. Behind the scenes, Jane had learned that the reason for his success was the potent Mediterranean charm he ladled in buckets on clients, friends, and foes alike.

  The actual work behind every deal wasn’t Umberto’s doing. It was hers. He simply strolled in to conclude the contracts. His previous string of personal assistants had all quit barely a month into the job after viewing the staggering amount of work that would be required of them. Lucky for her she had degrees in administration, finance, and banking. The knowledge had come in handy for bailing him out of all the potential crises that had nearly arisen due to his laid-back attitude.

  “Come on, Jane. It was only for ten minutes or so.”

  She glanced at the screen. “You moved twenty-one levels in ten minutes this time? Congratulations.”

  Their gazes locked in a clash of wills.

  After a stifling moment, he sprang to his feet and walked past her, pocketing the phone in his jacket. “Relax, my dear. There is nothing on the agenda today.”

  “There’s the meeting with Brinks Corporation at two,” she dropped with unaffected cool as he strutted around the office.

  He stopped in his tracks, his face turning ashen. “That’s today?”

  She wanted to smile at his discomfited expression, but refrained. And tamped down the sigh she yearned to let out.

  “Yes. And in case you’re wondering, yes, too, I do have your back covered with all the prep work.”

  He threw his hands up, gesturing to the skies. “You are a true gem.”

  “Yeah, so you say.” The sigh did come out this time. If she’d had a pound for every time she’d heard that, she’d have made a million or so this way today. “Papers for you to sign.”

  She placed the folder on his desk.

  He came back to the chair and slid into it, put on his reading glasses, and signed the documents, one after another.

  She was about to leave his office when he called her.

  “Could you have flowers delivered to Livvie? Red roses would be perfect.”

  She stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. Wait a second, she had heard right the first time?

  “Say that again?”

  He sighed as if dealing with a child who didn’t understand a thing. Jane’s blood did a single turn in her veins before it reached boiling point. She hated it when he patronized her like that.

  “Olivia.” He stressed out the name. “It’s her birthday. Can you have five dozen red roses sent to her flat?”

  She’d heard him right the first time. Livvie was Olivia Rinaldi, his ex-wife. He’d been in touch frequently with her in the past weeks, after a communications drought of years.

  “Red roses? For your ex-wife?”

  He grew all flustered, face going red. “What’s so wrong with that? She always loved red roses.”

  Jane closed her eyes and sent out a silent prayer asking God to grant her patience. Umberto couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to embroil her in his complicated love life. No time would be a good time, but she had already received such disturbing news today. She didn’t have it in her for more, much less an argument with him. She would totally lose, but something inside her refused to just lie down and roll over to acquiesce to his wish.

  Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “You never ask me to send red roses to a woman unless you have her in your sights. Is Olivia a good target now?”

  He tsk-ed. “She’s not a target. I love her.”

  And if she had a pound for every time she’d heard that one … Loving someone, though, not just Livvie Whitmore.

  “Yes, I bet you do,” she said with a sigh.

  Of course, he hadn’t thought things through. No, that was her job, apparently, to figure out all the contingencies in everything from work contracts to his love life. Speaking of potential future hurdles …

  “And what will your son think about all this? You said yourself he doesn’t want you anywhere close to his mother.”

  A grimace on his features told her she’d crossed the line. Umberto chalked his long-time estrangement from his only child, Michael, as his biggest failure.

  “Sorry, I overstepped my bounds.” It hurt her to see him dejected. Loath as she was to admit it, she had come to think fondly of the old codger. “Umberto, after the last woman you ditched, I told you I would no longer take part in your little games of cat and mouse. And I’m certainly not going to do it where your ex-wife is concerned.”

  And where your formidable son could surely get involved. Michael Rinaldi was rumoured to be even more of a shark than his father, one with actual, always-sharpened teeth that ruthlessly ripped his opponents to shards when the urge to bite struck him. Which, apparently—if the financial papers were to be believed—happened quite often.

  Add to this the fact that in the past years, she’d seen her fair share of women, most of them half-brained bimbos, coming in and going out of his life. She’d kept tabs because she’d been the one who’d ‘arranged’ the conquest strategies—aka where to buy what jewellery, which restaurant to book and how long in advance, etc.—and also handled the debriefing once he’d moved on to another fancy. She’d faced everything from weepy messes to hysterical hellcats tearing the place apart.

  “Aw, come on, Jane.”

  The pleading in his tone brought her back to reality, facing, well, this basket case in front of her. God, she sure had her work cut out for her.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while. Another raise. What do you say to that?”

  No one really wanted to spit on extra money earned legally, but this was nothing but a tactic to make her succumb. She also couldn’t be bought, thank you very much.

  “No. How am I going to explain another raise when I file my tax return? You already gave me one last December.”

  Not that she needed to provide an explanation, but she doubted he’d recall that.

  “Please, Jane. Just this once.”

  The pouting lower lip? No way! She clenched her teeth. “Do it yourself.”

  “A company car, then.”

  “I don’t even have my driving license.”

  She’d never been behind the wheel of a ca
r, the very thought enough to make her break out in hives. Her father had died in a very spectacular car crash during a Paris-Dakar race.

  “An unlimited card at Harvey Nichols?” he tried.

  “I already have one.”

  And at Harrods’. Trammell’s. St Yves, too. But he wouldn’t know that. She doubted Umberto would give a thought to her life outside of the sphere of his existence. It might never have crossed his mind that she could even come from the same world as he …

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jane. Just help me, will you?”

  She hated being played for a fool, but when Umberto gave her that sad, beaten-dog look, she was almost certain she would give in. Despite appearing like a cad, Umberto Rinaldi was a nice man. Many a time, she’d pictured him as some sort of father figure in her life. Consequently, no wonder she was totally screwed.

  “Oh, heck.” She cursed under her breath. “Isn’t five dozen a bit over the top?”

  “No. Everyone will send her one or two. I want to stand out.”

  And you will.

  She should know by now which battles to pick. On a sigh, she walked out of the office and headed for the phone on her desk to call the florist.

  ***

  “Happy birthday, Mum.”

  Michael Rinaldi engulfed the petite Olivia Whitmore-Rinaldi in a one-armed hug as they stood on the threshold of her flat in Belgravia, in the left wing of a restored Victorian mansion. His other hand held a fragile bouquet of delicate, exotic orchids.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  She threw both arms around him as she stood on tiptoe, the top of her blonde head barely touching his chin, trying to smother him in her embrace, but failing given the discrepancy in their sizes.