“Settling.” He favored her with a sympathetic smile. “You’re not the only one who has had to go through this. Everyone comes to a turning point in their lives eventually, especially people like us. We have to decide what’s more important, work or the people we love. For me, the most important thing was saving my marriage and seeing my children grow up. I finally realized that there would always be another story, another emergency demanding my attention. But there might not ever be another chance at this life.”
Their perspectives might be slightly different from opposite sides of the same editorial desk, but she felt the truth of his words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have the heart of a romantic.”
“Just don’t tell my wife. She’ll expect roses when I get home tonight.” Melvin rose from his perch on the edge of the table. “Come, we have three more prints to review. I’ll have another batch by Wednesday, I think.”
“Thank you, Melvin.”
“Hey, I’m as invested in making this show a success as you are.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Melvin squeezed her shoulder as he brushed by. “I know.”
Chapter Nine
What now?
Ian tapped his pen on the edge of his desk, stealing a look at his mobile before he shoved it into his drawer. Ten o’clock on Monday morning. Not even thirty-six hours since he’d left Grace at the door of Asha’s flat. It was too early to call her for another date, wasn’t it?
He was rubbish with these kinds of rules.
It wasn’t as if he and Grace had ever gone in for tradition, anyway. They’d sped from first date to inseparable to living together in the space of two months, and after that, they had spent every waking, nonworking moment together. He couldn’t help but think it was those assumptions that had left him blindsided by her disappearance before, and it seemed foolish to make the same mistakes a second time.
Even if he was fairly certain the only thing that could get her out of his head was a lobotomy.
He pulled his mind back to his computer, where an in-box full of emails still demanded his attention before his first appointment. Dena hadn’t lasted a week, and not having an assistant had gone from annoying to concerning. A small business it might be—at least in terms of employees—but the sheer volume of paperwork necessitated a full-time position. He hoped that a capable replacement was waiting somewhere in today’s interview schedule.
Instead of tackling the steadily building in-box, though, he found himself thinking about how much he had missed the feel of Grace in his arms. How that kiss good night had been much too brief—
“Ian, your ten o’clock is here.”
Ian jerked his head up. Jamie’s assistant stood in the doorway in all her tweed-suited glory, a young woman standing uncertainly behind her. “Yes, thank you, Bridget. Ms. Marusic, please come in.”
The candidate smiled shyly and took a seat in front of his desk. She was younger than he’d thought from her CV—perhaps only twenty-five. Brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, dark brown eyes, a suit every bit as conservative as Bridget’s. In fact, were he to choose a word to describe her, “brown” would be the only logical answer.
He shuffled papers until he found her CV. “You have worked for two very large corporations since you graduated from university four years ago. Tell me why you want to work for us.” Ian always asked this question, more for his own amusement than any real insight he gained. Mostly it was a way to filter those without enough common sense to keep their mouths shut.
“I’m an excellent assistant. You need an assistant.”
“Fair enough. You type sixty words per minute; you’re proficient in all the software we use. Are you comfortable setting up conference calls and taking notes in meetings?”
A single nod. “Of course.”
Well, she wouldn’t be bothering him with useless chatter, at least. He quizzed her on the rest of her qualifications, which she answered quietly and succinctly. “Do you have any questions?”
“Do you conduct random drug testing?”
Ian blinked at her and then rose smoothly to his feet. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Marusic. We’ll be in touch.”
His day’s other interviews weren’t much better. Either the candidates didn’t have the skills or they had odd requirements, like the inability to work every other Wednesday or the need to bring their puppy to the office. A headache began to throb behind Ian’s left eye, joining the increasing pain in his muscles from last night’s overenthusiastic workout. By four o’clock, the in-box on his desk was still piled high, and he was no closer to finding an assistant than he had been that morning. Fortunately he only had to suffer through one more disaster.
He was clearing his desk, shoving paperwork into his briefcase, when a light knock sounded on the glass partition door. He glanced up to find a petite, black-haired woman standing in the doorway. Dressed in a conservative navy skirt suit with an ivory silk blouse and low-heeled shoes, she looked every inch the corporate assistant. His hopes lifted. “Ms. Grey, I presume?”
“And you would be Mr. MacDonald,” she answered in a pronounced Scottish accent. Her eyes flicked over his desk and the half-packed state of his briefcase. “Did I come at a bad time? I’d be happy to reschedule.”
“No, not at all.” He held out a hand to the chair across from the desk and seated himself again. “You’re Scottish.”
“I am.” Her mouthed turned up slightly. “As are you.”
Ian chuckled, sifted through the remaining paperwork, and found her CV. “Based on your schooling, I’d expected you to be American. You did your undergrad work at Yale and then completed a master’s degree in financial economics at Oxford.”
“I hope that won’t be a problem for you. Cambridge man and all.”
So she’d done her homework as well, even if her slight smile said she was teasing. “Not unless you happened to be on the men’s rowing team.” He returned to her qualifications. “You’ve held positions at some of the largest consulting firms in England, where most likely you hired your own assistants. So tell me, what are you doing here, Ms. Grey?”
“I have all the requisite skills. I’m capable of handling multiple projects simultaneously, but I don’t find ordering your lunch or picking up your dry cleaning beneath me. I speak fluent French and German, which may come in useful as the company expands, which I expect it will, given the aggressive rate of growth the corporation’s restaurant side has shown in the last several years.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
“I understand that.” Ms. Grey swallowed, the first break in her confidence since her arrival. “I’m in need of a job, Mr. MacDonald. I left my last position for personal reasons, and all my employers but that one will give me glowing references.”
“Ms. Grey, you are overqualified for this position.”
“I understand that as well.”
Ian sighed. He would regret this. He knew better than to hire someone who would want to move on to bigger and better things. Then again, his last several hires hadn’t worked out so well. “Well, I have no doubt you’re capable of handling the job. I have several more interviews to conduct this week, and then I’ll make a decision. Are your references attached?”
“They are.” Ms. Grey rose and gathered her handbag. “Thank you, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Please, call me Ian.”
Her smile froze. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d prefer to call you Mr. MacDonald.”
“Very well, Ms. Grey. I’ll be in touch.” He watched her walk precisely out the door, handbag tucked under her arm. She might not be willing to admit it, but he had an idea why Ms. Grey had left her last job.
But that wasn’t his concern, and despite the fact he’d managed to ignore what really was weighing on his mind all day, he couldn’t any longer. He picked up his phone and dialed.
Chapter Ten
For five nights, Grace dreamed about London, Ian, and photography. On the sixth, she drea
med about war.
She sat straight up, strangling in her blankets and drenched in cold sweat. The thin blue light through the louvers suggested early morning, but the fact she heard nothing from the bedroom meant either Asha was already gone or for once Grace had made it through a nightmare without screaming.
Grace fell back against the pillows and lifted her watch in front of her face to read its glowing dial—7:30. Thank God. Asha had left hours ago, and she wouldn’t have to put on a happy face. She’d hoped her streak of flashback- and nightmare-free nights might be a sign that coming to London was loosening her memories’ hold.
She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
As her heartbeat slowed and she concentrated on the air moving in and out of her lungs, the nightmare’s grip loosened enough that she remembered why she’d been anticipating this day.
Saturday. Her “second date” with Ian.
A smile came to her lips, banishing the rest of her lingering dread. It seemed he’d developed a taste for surprises, because even though he had called on Monday to ask her out for Saturday, he’d refused to give any hint as to what they were doing. His only instructions had been “dress warmly and comfortably and bring your camera.”
Grace had spent the next four days trying to figure out what he might have in mind, while Asha nagged Jake to wheedle the information out of Ian. But Ian was apparently being tight-lipped even with his mates, because Asha turned up nothing helpful.
By the time Ian buzzed the intercom at 10:00 a.m., Grace’s stomach had rejected butterflies in favor of stampeding water buffalo. She pressed the button to let him up and spent the next two minutes lecturing herself on how silly it was to feel nervous. When the knock finally came, she counted to five to gather herself, then opened the door. “Hi there.”
Ian shut the door behind him and automatically flipped the knob on the latch. He was wearing his weekend uniform of chinos and a light pullover, the clingy knit emphasizing his lean, muscled physique. Grace tried not to linger on the thought as she breathed in his spicy aftershave. He’d probably come straight from his club. She barely resisted the impulse to run her fingers through his hair to see if it was still wet. Why it should matter to her if it was, she couldn’t fathom.
His eyes swept over her, his expression appreciative, though she didn’t know what he could find to appreciate in her faded jeans and plain T-shirt. Then his gaze was back on her face, and he smiled. “Ready to go?”
She pulled on a cabled sweater draped over the back of the sofa, settled her newsboy cap on her head, and picked up her camera bag. “Ready if you are. Where exactly are we going?”
He opened the door for her. “Not telling yet. But I hope you don’t mind a drive.”
“A drive? When did you buy a car?”
His smile widened. “A few years ago. Just wait.”
They emerged from the front door of her building onto the pavement, and Grace stopped short, her mouth dropping open at the roadster parked at the curb. “No. You didn’t.”
“I did.” He positively oozed satisfaction. He probably thought she’d forgotten.
She circled the car with a slow smile, trailing a finger along the glass-like surface of the pristine black-and-silver paint job. “Sixty-six, right? Like we always talked about? Wherever did you find it? There can only be a handful of these left.”
“It had been sitting in a farmer’s barn in Yorkshire for thirty years. Took it off his hands for a song, even though it cost me half my savings to restore.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Unless you plated it in gold.”
“Once again you overestimate my net worth.”
She laughed and went back to her giddy examination of the restored roadster. When she finished her circuit, he had the passenger door open for her. She slid into the seat and flashed him a smile. “She’s a beauty all right. Let’s see how she runs.”
When Ian climbed into the driver’s side, she raised her eyes significantly to the soft-top roof. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Roadsters are not made to be driven with the hood up. Everyone knows that. It’s a universal rule.”
“Still my Grace,” he murmured, the sudden light in his eyes out of proportion with the statement, but he climbed out and retracted the top, clipping it into place behind the narrow rear seat. Then he was sitting beside her again, twisting the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life.
“Nothing like these old carbureted beasts, huh?” Grace ran a hand reverently across the dash. “They may be a little short on horsepower by modern standards, but they make up for it in character. You’re going to let me drive it, right?”
“Not a chance. I’ve seen you drive.”
“I’m an excellent driver! I learned on the LA freeways.”
“And if that weren’t reason enough to keep the keys from you, you perfected your skills in developing countries where the concept of lanes is optional. Don’t count on it.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, but as he navigated west through the London streets, she had to admit it was both a spectacular car and a beautiful day. This was the type of trip she’d always envisioned when they’d talked about restoring a classic. If he were to have a car in London with all the associated expenses, he’d said, it must be purely frivolous. No saloon or estate or petrol-sipping subcompact; only pure British muscle, something with enough thrill to make it worth the time and effort.
Earlier, seeing him in his tuxedo mingling with London’s high society, she’d wondered if that man still existed. The surprise dinner date had been her only indication that he’d not gone completely staid and conservative on her.
His positively wicked smile when he “accidentally” grazed her thigh while reaching for the gear lever was another.
“So this is how you impress the ladies these days?” She wasn’t particularly easy to impress, but so far he’d managed it rather well.
“You are the first lady who has been in this car. Except for Mum, briefly, and she was less than enthralled.”
“That’s to be expected. She doesn’t seem like the convertible type. Besides, you’re not dating your mum.”
“I’d certainly hope not.” Then he sent her a teasing glance. “Is that what we’re doing? Dating?”
“Considering this is the second surprise trip you’ve concocted, and you kissed me good night last time, what else would you call it?”
“Showing you all London has to offer?”
Something in his eyes, even in the brief moment he looked away from the road, made her insides go jittery again. But she put on an understanding expression. “I see now. So this is all just a public service.”
“Exactly.”
“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re not in charge of the tourist board. You wouldn’t be able to keep up with demand.”
“Winning you over that quickly, am I?”
You have no idea, she thought. She swiftly changed the subject. “So, I’m curious. You asked me all about my job, but you never said how you ended up working for James.”
“Well, you knew I was getting my graduate diploma in law. After that, I did a postgrad degree for my law concentration and went to work for a multinational firm for a few years. Then Jamie opened the restaurant and got the cookbook deal. At first he just wanted some advice on business structure and legal matters. Eventually he opened more restaurants and got the BBC program, so he needed someone reliable to oversee the corporate aspects. That’s when I came on as his chief operating officer.”
Grace watched Ian’s face as he delivered the summary as if it was an explanation he’d given over and over. His tone was calm, but she saw the tightness in his jaw, the way he held the steering wheel a bit too tightly. “If you hate it so much, why do you keep doing it?”
He seemed legitimately surprised. “I don’t hate it. What gave you that idea?”
“Ian, I know you better than that. I remember how you used to talk about rowing as if it were the most fascinating topic on e
arth. Obviously this isn’t what you would have chosen for yourself. So why do it?”
“For the money. I’m grossly overpaid.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. Jamie would feel far too guilty about it otherwise. Lots of zeroes.” His casual smile felt put on, forced, despite his light tone.
“No, I don’t believe you’re in it for the money. You’ve never cared about that, and you always said you’d rather scrape by on what you could earn honestly than cave to your mum’s demands. So why?”
“Because it makes Jamie and Mum happy.”
“What about what makes you happy?”
“You made me happy, Grace.” His tone was low, barely audible. “The rest was just something to do.”
He might as well have struck her—it would have knocked the wind from her all the same. “Ian, you know I—”
“Shh, Grace, no. I didn’t mean … Can we start over?” He reached for her hand and squeezed it before bringing it to his lips, an unconscious gesture that still managed to feel natural after all these years. “I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, especially not today.”
The vise eased up a degree, and she managed to take a breath. “You know you don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”
“This may come as a surprise to you, but I like you. I want to spend time with you. And if I get to take the Healey out at the same time—”
“It’s a win-win situation.”
“Precisely.” He grinned at her, the dark mood of moments before sliding away like thunderclouds before a brisk wind. “You can begin guessing at any time, by the way.”
“No idea yet. Obviously we’re leaving London.” She stretched her hand out the window and let the wind slide through her fingers. “Do I get a hint?”
“This is your hint. Tell me when you’ve figured it out.”
Grace paid more attention to the road signs and realized they were headed southwest. By the time they gained Basingstoke and kept going, the most logical possibilities were Southampton and Salisbury. When they passed the turnoff to Southampton, she murmured, “Salisbury, it is.”
London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 9