by Liz Fielding
He wanted her company? ‘Why?’ she asked carelessly. Then worked it out for herself. ‘Oh, of course. The tea. Twenty-two men can eat a lot of sandwiches.’
‘Sandwiches,’ he confirmed. ‘Cakes. Scones. How are your scones?’
‘Of all the chauvinist, sexist things I’ve ever heard—’ She was, unusually, lost for words. Nothing, but nothing, would induce her to spend a weekend slaving over a breadboard while the men were, well…being men.
And yet her curiosity was piqued. What was Jordan Farraday really like behind the cool smile and the uniform of the City? Chalk-stripe suit, white linen shirt and a tie that would open any door. It looked good on him, very good, and if he lingered for any length of time in the menswear department sales of that particular combination would soar, she knew. But it was still a uniform of a kind. Shorthand for everything he represented.
In the country, relaxing with friends, his guard down, she’d learn far more about him than he’d ever reveal while he was wearing that suit. She’d never have a better chance to get to know the man. Or find out what he really wanted. Because she wasn’t convinced that he saw himself stepping into her father’s shoes.
Enigmatic, distant, never fodder for gossip columnists, the man was practically invisible. The one indisputable fact that her researchers had uncovered about him was that running a department store—even a store with the cachet of Claibourne & Farraday—would be very small beer to JD Farraday.
She realised that he was waiting, brows slightly raised, for her to complete her tirade regarding the exploitative nature of the male.
She just knew he had some slick phrase ready to make her appear foolish. ‘I thought you said your cricket weekends were a work-free zone,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘We all leave our laptops and our mobile phones at home. Even the women,’ he added—a touch mockingly, she thought. ‘But we still have to eat.’
‘Twenty-two hungry men?’
‘Twenty-four. Don’t forget the umpires.’
‘Heaven forbid.’ Then, ‘Oh, I get it. You’re all expected to take along a woman to pitch in and do the chores while you’re having fun—someone to peel the potatoes and make sure you don’t starve. And you’re fresh out of women.’
Except she couldn’t believe that. He’d never be short of a woman to wash his socks. Or make his sandwiches. Someone tall and slender and blonde…
‘Not necessarily a woman,’ he said, interrupting her train of thought—something he was remarkably good at. ‘We have no fixed ideas regarding gender roles. One of our batsmen is a woman. Her husband makes the best bacon sandwiches in the world.’ He held his finger and thumb a couple of inches apart. ‘This thick.’
‘Yummy,’ she replied unenthusiastically, trying not to look at his long fingers, the way his thumb curved… ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, feeling suddenly rather warm and sitting back in her chair, putting the maximum distance between them, ‘that baking really isn’t my thing. In fact my rock cakes are indistinguishable from builders’ rubble.’ She lifted her shoulders a millimetre. ‘Sorry.’ Then, ‘If you’re short of a partner why don’t you invite your interior designer along? I’m sure she’ll make incredibly elegant sandwiches, with the fillings co-ordinated to match your team colours.’ Oh, miaow! She couldn’t believe how catty that sounded. ‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to don a pinny and pitch in. She’s got more to gain than I have.’
‘She might think that. She’d be wrong.’ And he smiled again. She wished he wouldn’t do that! ‘While you have the fate of an entire department store hanging in the balance.’
Jordan watched India’s expression as she battled with an urgent desire to fling her glass of water over him.
That he deserved it, glass and all, he didn’t doubt. It was a pity. Inviting her to spend the weekend with him had come out of nowhere. It hadn’t been planned, which bothered him slightly. He didn’t do spur of the moment. Not when it was this important.
If he’d planned it he’d have made rather more effort to make sure she said yes. Presented it as an opportunity for her to pitch her case. Offered her some personal advantage in accepting.
His timing had been way off…but then it had been that kind of day. He’d been doing the right thing, saying the right thing, but he wasn’t getting the responses he expected. It was as if ever since that girl went into labour the world had been slightly out of kilter.
Or maybe it was from the moment he’d looked up and realised India Claibourne was a lot more than a beautiful face.
He’d anticipated a pampered woman, living off her name, running the store as hobby while someone else did all the hard work. Just as her father had done. A day spent at her shoulder, watching her at work, had given him the unsettling feeling that she was the one her father had left the hard work to in recent years.
Not that she made it look that way.
There was an effortless ease in the way she covered the ground, handled queries, got things done. He knew just how much real effort that took out of hours, after business was done for the day. How much background knowledge was needed to make decisions—the right decisions—on the move. He understood that kind of effort.
He’d thought he understood India Claibourne. He’d done his homework, studied her form. It was easy to admire her for her looks, her style. It came as something of a shock to realise that he admired her for her brain.
Not that cleverness would help her. His intention to evict India Claibourne and her sisters from the boardroom of Claibourne & Farraday, claim it for his own, was fixed, immutable. And the cleverer she was, the greater the triumph.
Yet he couldn’t help wishing he’d handled his invitation to join him for weekend with a little more finesse. It might have been thrown out on the spur of the moment, but on this occasion, he suspected, impulse knew better than intellect.
The glass of water remained untouched on the table and she kept very still, presumably while she counted to ten. Then, as if she’d made up her mind about something, she once more reached for the silky dark curtain of hair that brushed her cheek—a giveaway gesture, though quite what it was giving away he hadn’t decided—and hooked it behind her ear.
‘Where do you stay?’ she asked. The question was so unexpected that it took him a moment to organise a coherent answer. Was she offering him a second chance to tempt her? And if so, why? ‘During this sporting excuse for overeating?’
He brain freewheeled for a moment. ‘One of our members has a country house with its own cricket pitch.’ He ignored the odd little heartleap at the thought of spending a weekend in her company, away from the mahogany splendour of Claibourne & Farraday. All day he’d been conscious of her hair shining at his eyeline, swinging, sliding silkily as she turned to look up at him. Conscious of the subtle scent she wore. The way she moved…
‘That sounds rather grand.’
He forced himself, instead, to ponder what advantage she’d perceived in taking up his invitation. There had to be one. ‘It’s very informal,’ he assured her.
‘No suits, no highheels, no mobile phones for two whole days? It sounds almost irresistible.’
Her mind was made up, he realised, torn between wariness and triumph. She was going to come. She was simply going through the motions of allowing herself to be talked into it. ‘There are fines for anyone caught using a phone of any description,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s harsh.’
‘It’s one way of raising money for the good cause nominated for the weekend.’
She smiled. ‘You mean they all subscribe to the theory, but the reality is more than they can cope with?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I haven’t had a break in months. Even with the prospect of buttering endless slices of bread, it is tempting.’
Was that it? Could it be that she was simply tempted by the prospect of a weekend in the country?
With the enemy? How likely was that? She could undoubtedly call on any number of friends who’d
be happy to entertain her.
And yet the prospect of continuing this verbal fencing match in more relaxed surroundings was unexpectedly exciting.
‘Is that a step up from “maybe” to “definite”?’ he asked.
‘It’s a step up to definitely…’ her lashes swept down, disguising her thoughts ‘…maybe.’ No—it wasn’t likely at all. This was purely business. She had no intention of relaxing—whatever she might say—and neither would he. ‘No business?’ she pressed, as if mocking him.
‘Absolutely none,’ he replied. ‘And it isn’t all catering, I promise. There is a staff. But with so many of us…’ He left her imagination to fill in the blank. ‘There’s a heated outdoor pool for those who get bored lying in a deckchair watching the game.’
‘Oh, now I’m seriously tempted,’ she said. ‘How soon would you have to know?’
‘I’ll have a bag in my car on Friday. If you want to come, just show up in the car park at six.’
‘And if I don’t?’
He felt an overwhelming urge to push her into coming with him. ‘Then we’ll both spend a summer weekend in London, shut in an office going through the financial statements for the last year along with your sales projections for the coming year,’ he said, offering her a vision of hell. ‘Both of us wishing we were sitting in a country meadow eating asparagus and strawberries fresh from the kitchen garden.’
‘The asparagus might just be the clincher,’ she admitted, with an unforced smile that lit up her face in a manner that revealed the professional business smile for what it was—genuine enough, and a pleasure in itself, but with a touch of reserve that was missing from the real thing. Then, as their food arrived, ‘I’ll see how the week develops and let you know.’
He knew better than to push for a decision, and as they gave their full attention to their meal he steered the conversation to safely neutral ground. A recent art exhibition. An Oscar Wilde revival they’d both seen. Finding common ground. Touching minds. Discovering that they had a lot more than a department store in common.
But they didn’t linger, declining dessert and coffee and by mutual consent walking the short distance back to the Claibourne & Farraday car park, passing the silent store with its exquisite window displays.
At the main entrance she paused and glanced up at the two names, side by side. ‘They’ve been there a long time. It seems extraordinary that we’ve never met before,’ India said, after a moment.
He turned to look down at her. ‘Maybe you should ask your father the reason for that.’
‘Dad?’ Her face was lit up by the window displays and he saw the frown creasing the wide space between her brows. ‘Why? What’s it got to do with him?’
She hadn’t a clue, he realised. Had no idea about her father’s role in what had happened thirty years earlier. ‘That’s for him to tell you, not me.’
‘He’s away. Convalescing after his heart attack. You know that.’
‘So I heard.’ The man hadn’t had the courage to tell her that she didn’t stand a chance of hanging onto the store. Or did he hope—head in the sand—that by removing himself from the scene he would defuse the situation? That the Farradays would leave India and her sisters to run things undisturbed? Surely he couldn’t be that naïve? ‘Come on. I’ll see you to your car.’
For a moment she looked as if she might dig her heels in, demand to know everything that he knew. Maybe something in his expression warned her that it was a waste of time. Or maybe it was just the suggestion that she needed a man to walk her down a quiet side street in the middle of London at any time of the day or night that turned those warm brown eyes to stone.
Whatever the reason, she spun on her heel and without another word headed for the car park at the rear of the store so fast that he was forced to lengthen his stride to keep up with her.
‘India—’ he began, not knowing exactly what he intended to say, only that he didn’t want to end the day on a sour note.
‘I’ll see you in the morning, Jordan,’ she said briskly, not looking back as she approached her Mercedes coupé, unlocking the door with the remote control on her key-ring.
‘For the meeting with the surveyor at eight o’clock,’ he said, bending swiftly to open it for her, holding it as she slid behind the driving wheel and started the engine. ‘I’ll be here,’ he said, closing the door and then taking a sharp step backwards to avoid her car as she swung it out of the parking space and accelerated towards the ramp in a manner that suggested she was not entirely enthusiastic about the idea.
He remained where he was for a moment, angry with himself for putting her on the defensive—that had been careless—and disturbed by an unfamiliar feeling of regret.
‘Was that Miss India?’ He turned as a security guard materialised at his side, a little short of breath and clutching a small cardboard box. ‘She normally comes into the security office before she goes.’
‘She was in something of a hurry…Gareth,’ he said, glancing at the man’s security badge. ‘Can I help? I’m Jordan Farraday,’ he added, when the man looked doubtful. ‘You’ll have seen the name above the door.’
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘There’s no reason why you should. What’s the problem?’
‘Well, it’s these.’ He held out the box for Jordan to check the contents. And if he’d ever believed in Santa Claus he’d have thought it was Christmas.
India pulled into her parking space at the riverside apartment block she called home. For a moment she just sat there, her hands wrapped tightly about the steering wheel.
What on earth was going on? What did her father know about the dispute with the Farradays? He’d kept the golden share from her. What else hadn’t he told her?
What did Jordan know that she didn’t? Why his resentment of the Claibournes? There had been no Farraday heir thirty years ago.
Even now Jordan didn’t want the store. What he wanted was control of the assets. The final say when it came to making the big decisions. And the biggest decision was whether to sell out to one of the major retail groups.
Her father had had offers, she knew. He might have been a very average businessman, less interested in Claibourne & Farraday than in the glamorous young women who shopped there. But at least he hadn’t taken the easy option and sold out to the highest bidder. Would Jordan do that?
She stirred. She wouldn’t find any answers sitting behind the wheel of her car, and she took the box of old files from the boot and carried them up to her apartment.
Once there, she showered and changed into a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt, soft with washing and as comfortable as an old slipper. Then she curled up on the sofa, nursing a mug of tea between her hands, and stared at the files. Willing them to contain something that would clear up all the unanswered questions. Putting off the moment when she’d have to look at them, suddenly afraid that they would only make things worse.
It wasn’t like her. She dealt with problems head-on. No shilly-shallying. No beating about the bush. But this one was different.
Or maybe it was simply the edgy day she’d had. That constant feeling of being on trial, her every move under the microscope of Jordan Farraday’s dark, critical gaze.
And the rather odd evening they’d spent together hadn’t helped.
One minute they’d been baiting each other, so that she’d wanted to tell him to do his worst and walk out of the restaurant. The next she’d been offered a tantalising glimpse of something so like perfect harmony that it seemed all she had to do was put out her hand, take his, and say, This is crazy. We’re partners. We should be working together, not fighting each other.
Crazy, indeed.
She smothered a yawn. She was tired, a little confused, and for the first time since the letter from Jordan Farraday’s lawyer had landed on her desk, turning her life upside down, she actually considered the reality of losing the store. The possibility that all her plans might come to nothing. That she’d have to
stand back—as the Farradays had done for thirty years—and watch helplessly as Jordan took control.
But she had never run away from anything in her life and this wasn’t the time to start. She put down the cup and reached for a file.
As her fingers closed around it there was a long peal on the doorbell.
CHAPTER FIVE
INDIA, her hand stretched out to take the folder, froze momentarily. Then, with a guilty feeling of relief at the interruption, she uncurled herself from the sofa and went to answer the door.
‘Okay, what is it this time, George? Coffee, milk…?’ she began as she flung it open. Her voice dried on ‘bread’. It was not her neighbour, with his forgive-me smile, but the mouth-drying presence of Jordan Farraday that filled her doorway.
She experienced a reprise of that take-your-breath-away moment, a rerun of the instant she’d set eyes on him that morning, as his unexpected appearance on her doorstep left her momentarily bereft of words.
And this time there was no interruption to give her breathing space, no moment of grace in which to recover her wits—or her poise. Just shocked silence as his gaze was momentarily transfixed at the sight of her hair—caught up in a band to keep it from her face—before it swept down over her T-shirt, taking in the shapeless jogging pants before coming to rest on her bare feet.
And then he smiled.
Oh, great.
Here she was, determined that he should be left in no doubt that she was a top-flight business woman, capable of controlling a multi-million-pound retail empire without disturbing a hair of her immaculately coiffured head, and on Day One he’d caught her without the protective armour of her ‘image’. Without a scrap of make-up, her hair caught up in a childish hairband that a ten-year-old wouldn’t have worn out in daylight, and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, wearing her oldest, most cherished, ‘comfort’ clothes.
He, of course, still looked as a crisply immaculate as he had when she’d first set eyes on him twelve hours earlier. She sweated blood to maintain a public image of unruffled perfection. He clearly achieved this desirable state without raising so much as one of those expressive eyebrows.