by Liz Fielding
‘Why don’t you find the person who makes them and tell him that?’ he suggested. ‘If he knew you were keen to buy he might try a little harder to please.’
‘Why do you say “him”? It could just as easily be a woman. Or do you discount women in every aspect of business?’
‘I wasn’t being gender specific, simply using the convention for simplicity.’
She laughed. ‘Come off it. You never gave it a second’s thought. You just assumed someone who can set up a workshop, produce goods and get them to market has to be a man. It’s that Farradaysaurus thing again. Get up to date. We’re in the twenty-first century here.’
‘Maybe.’ Then he grinned. ‘But a hundred pounds says I’m right.’
Flora’s foreign travels rarely involved luxurious beach resorts. She went to the rural heartlands, where the women traditionally did the work and took their goods to market while the men put the world to rights over the beer their wives had brewed. Saraminda might be different, but she doubted it.
‘Done,’ she said. It would be a pleasure taking his money, she thought, returning to the earring. ‘But you do have a point. Whoever made this is undoubtedly doing the best job possible with the tools to hand. Maybe, with someone to back her, set her up with new equipment, she could achieve quality to match the design.’
‘In an ideal world we’d all have such a fairy godmother.’
‘The world is what we make it.’
‘We? As in Claibourne & Farraday?’
‘Why not? There’s nothing to stop us from waving a magic wand.’ She hadn’t actually thought that far ahead, but making such an offer would go a long way towards demonstrating her credentials as a fully paid up member of the Claibourne & Farraday board. And India—delighted that she was taking an interest—would back her judgement. Probably.
Bram half rose as she stood up, good manners so deeply inbred that even when he was being plain rude it was impossible to override them.
‘No, don’t disturb yourself,’ she said. ‘Finish your pudding. I won’t be long.’ And, still holding the earrings, she picked up her bag and walked out of the restaurant to search for the stall where she’d bought them.
Bram, ignoring her instruction to stay put, muttered something less than complimentary about women in general and Flora Claibourne in particular as, abandoning his half-eaten pudding, he tossed down enough notes to pay for their meal twice over before going after her.
She looked around with apparent surprise as he caught up with her at the jewellery stall where she was writing her name, and that of the hotel, in a notepad.
He didn’t believe that surprise. She’d known he’d follow her.
‘You shouldn’t have rushed, Bram,’ she said kindly. ‘You’ll get indigestion.’ And she tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to the puzzled stallholder.
‘This guy doesn’t know what you want.’
Flora jiggled the earrings, did a little mime that even to his untutored eyes suggested someone cutting a design from metal. ‘I want to talk to the person who made this,’ she said, then pointed to the paper.
His expression remained blank. Bram, his wallet still in hand, took out a fifty-dollar bill and showed it to the man, then pointed to the earring and the paper, making the connection suddenly very interesting. The man’s eyes lit up and he nodded vigorously.
‘Money—the universal language,’ Bram said as he returned the banknote to his wallet.
‘It should get someone to come.’
‘At least at the hotel there’ll be someone who can translate,’ he said.
‘Right…and then we can do business…’
He glanced up as her voice trailed off and realised that her gaze was fixed to his wallet. He glanced down. She was looking at the photograph.
He snapped the wallet shut, fastened it in his shirt pocket.
‘Business?’ he asked, and Flora blinked at his sharpness. ‘What kind of business?’
‘Um…I don’t know. At least, not exactly…’ It seemed to take her a moment to refocus on where they had been a few minutes earlier, tear her gaze from his pocket. ‘I’d like to take a look at the workshop where this was produced. See if there’s any way I can help.’
She gave him one of those sideways looks—thoughtful, but keeping her thoughts to herself. Leaving the questions unasked.
‘Why?’ he asked, wanting to distract her.
She lifted her head a little, her forehead puckering in a frown.
‘Why would you care?’ he persisted. ‘You buy this kind of jewellery mass produced from a factory, surely?’
‘You must be confusing Claibourne & Farraday with some other department store, Bram.’
‘Must I?’
‘When was the last time you had a good look round?’
‘Not recently. And even if I shopped there every week I wouldn’t buy this kind of stuff.’
Gradually the conversation was cranked back to the mundane.
‘Of course you wouldn’t. It’s not expensive enough. Not important enough for the kind of women you date.’
He lifted his eyebrows in a What do you know about it? look. She twitched her own brows into an Am I wrong? response and he let it go.
‘This is something a girl would buy for herself, or a friend, or a sister. For fun,’ she explained. ‘Shopping as entertainment.’
‘You’d buy them for India?’
‘Not India. She goes for the classic look. I’d buy them for Romana, though. She’s younger, funkier. They’d look fabulous on her. We’re always looking for interesting stuff for our younger customers.’
‘It’s a big market?’
‘It is if you get it right.’
‘But how do you know? How can you tell…?’ He stopped, turned to her so that they formed a still island, the crowds parting to go round them, leaving them untouched. ‘Put them on.’
‘What?’
‘Put them on,’ he repeated. ‘I want to see them in action. I want to see what you see.’
‘Now?’ she asked. ‘Here in the street?’
‘It’s just a pair of earrings, Flora. I’m not asking you to model underwear.’
For a long moment he thought she was going to tell him to get lost. But then she lifted her shoulders a fraction, passed the earrings to him to hold while she reached up to take the tiny gold studs from her ears, tilting her head first one way then the other as she removed them.
Not underwear, maybe. But this was something she would normally do at her dressing table, in the privacy of her bedroom with only a lover to see her.
It lent her movements an unexpected intimacy. As if she were disrobing just for him. And as she dropped the studs into his hand, warm from her body, and retrieved the silver earrings, her fingertips brushing against his palm, he felt a jolt of unexpected heat—like the opening of an oven door—and caught a glimpse of something beneath the disguise. Something unconsciously sensuous in the way she moved.
For a moment he could scarcely breathe.
‘Well?’ she said, when he didn’t immediately react.
‘Give me time.’ He snapped his fist shut around the studs and dropped them into his pocket. Then, taking her hand, he headed back towards the Jeep, glancing at her from time to time as the polished metal caught the light.
The earrings emphasised the length of her neck, he thought. Or maybe she was holding her head a little higher to show them off. Or maybe, without something to catch his eye, he just hadn’t been looking closely enough. She half turned to check if he was looking, and when she saw that he was lifted her hand self-consciously to her ear. The same gesture she used when touching the combs in her hair. And for the same reason. To break eye contact.
‘Leave it,’ he said roughly. ‘Let it be.’ Then, to diffuse the sudden and baffling swell of intensity, ‘Tell me again what you plan to do.’
‘It’s scarcely a plan—little more than an idea.’
‘Well, that’s perfect. What could be more
perfect than for your “shadow” to watch it evolve.’
She glanced at him, as if to check that he was being serious. Apparently convinced, she said, ‘I’m always coming across small producers like this, who make exciting stuff. Unfortunately it lacks the finish we’re looking for. Maybe, thanks to you, we can do something that will help all of us.’
‘Thanks to me?’
‘You were the one who suggested that whoever makes these is trying as hard as he can. It wouldn’t cost much to provide a proper workshop and decent tools. Maybe some training.’
‘And this would be funded by Claibourne & Farraday?’ he asked, encouraging her to expand on her idea. It sounded just the sort of woolly-minded, do-gooding nonsense that Jordan would want to know about.
‘You have to speculate to accumulate. That’s the first law of business.’ She cast another of those sideways looks in his direction. This time it held just a hint of provocation. ‘As a lawyer, Bram, I’d expect you to know that.’
He rather enjoyed her little play on words. He didn’t much enjoy the message behind it, but had to acknowledge that she was right. He was a corporate lawyer; what did he know about retail trade? Or about what would bring young women flocking into the store to buy for ‘fun’?
Not a thing. He and Jordan and Niall were a generation away from any contact with the reality of the department store their ancestor had jointly founded back in the nineteenth century. They weren’t interested in the reality. They would sit on the board but they wouldn’t concern themselves with the details.
They were only interested in the bigger picture. The financial issues. The value of the real estate they were sitting on. If—when—the moment was right they would realise their assets and sell out to one of the big high street chains looking for a London flagship store.
Once they had control, the Claibournes wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. They’d just have to take their share of the profits and be grateful that the Farraday men weren’t swayed by sentiment, only by profit.
They’d never bother with anything minor, like ‘fun’ earrings. Or the people who made them.
‘And the second?’ he said, as they wandered through the crowds in the direction of the car.
She stopped, turned and looked up at him. ‘Second?’
‘If there’s a first law of business, then it follows there must be a second.’
‘You haven’t been listening, Bram. I’ve been telling you the second law of business from the moment you began shadowing me. You have to get involved. You have to care about the smallest detail because everything has to fit together. The jackets and the earrings will blend perfectly because they have the same origins, but that’s only half the picture. What would look good with them? Gathered silk trousers in soft toning colours, perhaps? Strappy high-heeled sandals in soft leather?’ She smiled briefly, as if seeing the ensemble in her mind’s eye and liking it, then she refocused on him. ‘Buy one part of the look and you’ll want the rest.’
‘That’s what you do?’ he asked. ‘Make sure everything fits?’
‘That’s India’s job, working with the chief buyer who co-ordinates a look throughout the store. I simply provide the inspiration for a style.’
‘That’s what you call being involved?’ He forced scorn into his voice to disguise any hint of admiration.
‘It’s a lot more involved than anything you’re planning,’ she returned, just a little sharply. And then, with a considerable amount of perception, ‘If you take control, will you be taking the easy option and buying costume jewellery from a factory?’
‘Suppose you tell me why that’s such a bad idea,’ he said, opening the car door for her without bothering about whether it would offend her feminist principles. Not even thinking about it.
And she didn’t pause to tell him she could manage quite well, thank you very much. She was too busy explaining the difference between a store where everything was mass-produced and one where each item had earned its place in a display on merit.
He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised by her passion.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked as they walked through the entrance to the hotel. ‘It’s not late.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She looked at her wristwatch and realised it was still short of midnight. ‘I can’t seem to get my head around what time it is. Okay. In the cause of investigation, I’ll try a glass of the local ginger liqueur. Why don’t you go through to the bar while I check at Reception to see if there are any messages?’
She spotted the blonde, sitting on a stool at the open-air bar beside the floodlit pool as if waiting for someone who had never arrived. ‘You won’t be short of company,’ she said.
The woman had changed from a silk shirt and trousers to a clinging evening dress, but otherwise she might not have moved all day.
‘What happened to the drinks?’ Flora asked when she returned from Reception and realised that he hadn’t moved.
‘I remembered that you want to make an early start tomorrow.’ Taking her elbow, he headed in the direction of the bungalow.
At the door to her room, Flora stopped and held out her hand. ‘You still have my studs.’
He retrieved them from his pocket and waited while she removed the long silver drops from her ears and held them up for a moment, looking at them rather than at him. ‘Did you learn anything?’ she asked.
That her skin was cream silk. That long, swinging earrings were sexy. That she was self-conscious about being looked at.
‘Only that they’re pretty and that you’re probably right. They’ll fly out of the shop.’
‘You’re getting there. I particularly like the bit where you think I’m right.’ She took the studs from his palm and replaced them with the earrings she’d worn for him. ‘Take them and look at them whenever you doubt it. A souvenir of Saraminda.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Right. You can tell me some more about getting involved,’ he said, then realised she was frowning. ‘What?’
‘I’ve left the rest of the jewellery I bought in the Jeep. If you’ll give me the keys, I’ll just slip and get it.’
He had the feeling that offering to go for her would provoke one of those feminist moments, so he handed them over without a word.
Involved! What a joke! She tugged her brush through her hair. She was the last person in the world to tell someone else to get involved in anything. Her own life, personal and business, was an involvement-free zone. She’d made it her business to keep it that way.
She replaced her ear studs. Neat, unobtrusive. Almost invisible. She’d worked hard to be that way. There had been a time when she’d loved making her own earrings. Exotic, eye-catching, joyously vivid. She’d made dozens of pairs, using anything that came to hand. Feathers. Plastic. A box of brightly coloured children’s sweets.
Tonight, as Bram’s gaze had burned into her neck, it had all come rushing back.
She’d half expected him to reach out, his fingers brushing her neck as he lifted the earring, or touched it, making it swing. She’d made a tiny pair of replica swings once, hoping to provoke exactly that reaction. And the man she had been aiming to provoke had reached out and touched one. Setting it in motion.
She gave a little shiver as she climbed into bed. Some memories were not to be treasured, stored up against the bad days. Some memories caused the bad days and had to be kept locked away in the dark, where they couldn’t hurt. She closed her eyes.
And yet as she lay back against the pillows her brain refused to shut down and let her rest. It was bubbling with ideas. She couldn’t wait to talk to India and Romana about her idea for sponsoring local craftsmen. Get some feedback from them.
Bram had been cautious on their drive back to the hotel, his legal brain raising all kinds of difficulties in an attempt to fill her mind with doubts. But far from being irritated, she’d been grateful. The company lawyers would undoubtedly do the sa
me, and if she could anticipate their objections it would save a lot of time.
Maybe a charitable trust was the answer.
She would ask Bram about that in the morning. Maybe, as a lawyer, he’d be prepared to be part of it. He had given her the idea and he was a Farraday, after all. She didn’t want them taking the store from India, but there was no reason they shouldn’t be involved in something like this. It was stupid to be so divided.
There was the fabulous local cloth, too. That had been a real find. And everything she’d seen so far suggested Saraminda was going to be a hot tourist destination once the word got out.
Princess or no princess, this was going to be a productive visit, she decided. And then realised it was the first time all evening that she’d thought about her real reason for visiting the island.
Convincing Bram Farraday Gifford that she was a serious businesswoman was unexpectedly stimulating—exciting. Remembering the way she’d felt as he’d looked at her in the tailor’s shop, the way he’d looked at her wearing those earrings, she knew it was more than that. The stimulation, the excitement, had nothing to do with business. Everything to do with the man.
And then she remembered something else. The glimpse of a snapshot. A boy with his dog. Four, five years old, perhaps. With white-blonde hair. The way Bram had shut the wallet when he’d seen her looking…
At that point she gave up trying to sleep, got out of bed and switched on her laptop.
CHAPTER SEVEN
INVOLVED. The word was beginning to haunt him. His private life was barren of involvement on any meaningful level. His business life too. Corporate law wasn’t a field that dealt in the personal.
Bram had mocked Flora’s ‘involvement’, believing it to be a sham, yet he was forced to concede that Flora Claibourne was doing more for the success of the store than he ever could—ever would want to.
Her enthusiasm for improving facilities for local artisans had really got to him. She’d been well up to speed on the public relations possibilities of such a venture too. This wasn’t simply an altruistic gesture from a woolly-minded woman. It was something he’d want to pursue when the Farradays moved into the boardroom. With Flora.