by Liz Fielding
It required a clear head to plot the seduction and downfall of a woman. Clouded by desire, it could all so easily go wrong. Before he knew it, a man could find himself falling in love.
There was no sign of India’s car. Presumably, after a night of playing mother to the kittens, she’d overslept. Under any other circumstances he’d have taken great pleasure in giving her a wake-up call. Reminding her of her inadequacies.
But she was going to be mad enough with herself for being late, for leaving him to walk through the alterations with the surveyor, he decided as he made his way up to the top floor. It was quite unnecessary for him to heap coals on the bonfire.
Or maybe it was the thought of her answering the telephone, her eyes slumberous, her dark hair tousled and spread over the pillow. He knew he’d rather be lying beside her as she surfaced slowly to full consciousness, witnessing the soft curve of her smile as she saw him there, than on the other end of a phone line making her frown.
‘Good morning, JD,’ Sally said as he walked into her office.
He covered his surprise at seeing her at her desk. ‘Good morning, Sally. Do you normally start this early?’ he asked.
‘It depends,’ she replied enigmatically, and yawned. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll leave it until after the surveyor’s given us the tour.’
‘Ah.’ The flat tone of her voice was enough to warn him that appearances could be deceptive, that he should take nothing for granted. ‘You’ve missed the surveyor, I’m afraid. The meeting was brought forward to seven.’
He smothered the hot flare of irritation. While he’d been giving his imagination free rein India Claibourne had been one step ahead of him. ‘At whose request?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ Wouldn’t, more like. ‘Indie asked me to apologise on her behalf for getting you out of bed so early on a fool’s errand. She would have phoned, but she didn’t have your number at home and apparently it isn’t listed.’
‘And where is she now? Gone back to her own bed to catch up on her lost sleep?’
‘Excuse me?’
He recognised a stonewalling secretary when he met one. ‘What time will she be coming back?’
‘Oh, right. Well, after the surveyor left she went downstairs to go over the plans for refurbishing the book department with the maintenance manager.’
‘Are you sure? Her car isn’t in the car park.’
‘She left it at the garage on her way in. For a service.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’ll probably find her in the staff canteen now, getting some breakfast. Since she had such an early start. Do you want me to bleep her and let her know you’ve arrived?’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll join her there. If you’ll point the way?’
‘It’s down in the basement.’ And she gave him directions. He walked down through the store. Not open for another couple of hours it was, nevertheless, a hive of activity. Cleaners were busy putting on the gloss, staff in Glassware were unpacking a consignment of Lalique angel-fish and assembling a glittering new display. Everything had to be perfect when the doors opened to the public, but the perfection had to be attained without visible effort.
His mother had told him how a cardboard box left on the sales floor after the store had opened would bring down the wrath of a department head: being a Farraday hadn’t shielded her from that.
It was the first time he’d seen it for himself. Unlike his mother—or the Claibourne girls—he’d never worked in the store in school and university vacations. It was like a theatre in the frantic moments before the curtain went up, he thought. And for the first time he caught a spark of the excitement, the mystery. The magic.
He found the canteen, bought himself a cup of coffee and crossed to a table in the corner where India was nibbling at a slice of toast while she read through a file, apparently oblivious to his presence.
She looked up when he put down the cup he was carrying, hooking a dark, silky wing of hair behind her ear, exposing the satin skin of her neck that had been such a feature of his disturbed night. ‘Good morning, Jordan.’
He said nothing, but instead extracted a business card from his wallet and placed it on top of the file she was reading. ‘My telephone number,’ he said, holding it there with the tip of one finger while he spoke. ‘For future reference.’
Not that there was going to be a future.
She ignored it. ‘Sally phoned to say you were on your way down ten minutes ago. Did you get lost?’
‘No, I walked down through the store. I’ve never been here when it’s closed.’ He tapped the file in front of her, before sitting in the chair opposite. ‘And, since I anticipated Sally’s call, I thought I’d give you time to put away anything you didn’t want me to see.’ Not that she’d find anything to help her. No matter how old and dusty the file.
‘What a gentleman,’ she said, and rewarded him with the briefest smile. ‘I’m afraid this is nothing more exciting than the sales figures for swimwear.’ She made an open gesture over the file. ‘Would you like to see how well we’re doing?’
‘I can wait until the end of the month.’
‘Well, just say if you change your mind,’ she said, then indicated her plate. ‘Do help yourself to toast. It’s freshly made. Or maybe you’d prefer something more substantial? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’
‘I had mine a couple of hours ago,’ he said, taking a slice. ‘Before I went into my office. If you’d let me know this was going to be a wasted journey I could still be there, doing something useful.’
‘But you’d have missed the pleasure of walking through the store before the doors open. I always think it’s rather like a great orchestra tuning up…’ She stopped, made a dismissive little gesture with her fingers. ‘A little fanciful for a hard-headed business tycoon, no doubt.’
‘No doubt,’ he replied.
She regarded him thoughtfully, clearly aware that his response was open to more than one interpretation. He loved that quickness. If she had any kind of case, she’d be a formidable opponent.
‘I’m sorry you feel you’ve wasted your time, Jordan. If I’d known you would be in your office I’d have called you.’ Then, after an almost imperceptible pause, ‘Although I was under the impression that you wanted to shadow me throughout my working day. You’ve already missed an hour.’ Oh, right. She was sorry. And she was happy to have him at her side twelve hours a day. And he was the Maharajah of Bengal. ‘Do you normally start so early?’ she asked.
‘I like the office when it’s quiet. Unlike you, however, I don’t expect my secretary to join me at dawn.’
‘Hardly dawn,’ she protested. ‘The sun was well above the horizon when I left home. Besides, Sally came in early on a flexi-working arrangement. She’s taking the afternoon off.’ His doubt must have shown because she said, ‘Personnel will confirm that it was arranged weeks ago if you don’t believe me.’ Then added, ‘Although why I should lie…’
‘And the surveyor?’ he said, ignoring her slightly puzzled frown. It was beautifully done, but he knew when he was being given the runaround. ‘What’s the story there?’
‘Oh, poor man. He rang me at six. He broke a tooth last night and his dentist offered to fit him in with an emergency appointment before his surgery.’
And she looked at him with those clear bright eyes that were hovering on the brink of a smile, defying him to challenge her.
‘Flexi-time all round, then.’
‘I’m very much in favour of flexibility,’ she replied, and she picked up the last piece of toast and bit into it with even white teeth.
For a woman who’d been up half the night with three immature kittens she looked fresh, wide awake and good enough to eat in a simply cut black jersey top, long sleeves pushed up a little to expose slender wrists. Around one of them was a plain, workmanlike gold wristwatch. Apart from that, and small gold earrings, she wore no jewellery. But a softly coiled silk chiffon scarf lay around h
er throat. Burgundy and gold. He had the feeling that he’d be seeing a lot of that particular colour scheme during the next four weeks.
And it would not be one day less, he promised himself. There was no way he was going to allow Miss India Claibourne to get away with giving him the run-around. He was going to stamp his authority on this store—and upon her—before he showed her the door.
Even as he thought it, he could almost hear his secretary’s voice mocking him. Warning him not to eat or drink anything. Because the Claibourne girls were witches.
Some witch. Despite her sophistication, the perfect grooming, he saw only the girl with her hair escaping from a topknot, a grey washed-thin T-shirt sliding from her shoulder, her breasts peaked eagerly against them, soft bare lips lifted to him…
The memory sparked a flood of heat that left him gasping.
‘Did you say something?’ she asked. He shook his head, tried to think of something boring. There wasn’t anything boring enough… ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch to let you know.’ She picked up his card, ran her thumb over the lettering. It felt as if she was stroking his skin. ‘About the surveyor,’ she added, in case he wasn’t quite clear what exactly she was apologising for. ‘It must be quite a problem, fitting us in around your own business commitments.’
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ he said.
‘I think one of us should. Don’t you?’ With that she glanced at her wristwatch, then, after stowing his card away carefully in her handbag and closing the file in front of her, stood up. ‘Right. Time to get on.’ She glanced at his cup. ‘Do you want to stay and finish that?’
‘No, I was just being sociable.’
He brushed the toast crumbs from his fingers.
‘Then let’s go.’ And she gave him a smile so bright that it set his teeth on edge. She was up to something.
‘Who’s looking after the kittens?’ he asked.
Her smile, impossibly, increased by several megawatts. ‘Do you want the long story or the short one?’ she asked as she headed towards the door.
‘Let’s start with the short one.’
‘They’re back with their mother.’
‘What?’
‘You should have started with the long one,’ she advised him. ‘It’s always quickest in the long run.’ He held the door for her, then crossed to the lift, pressing the button to summon it. She walked right on by. ‘We’re going to the ground floor,’ she explained. ‘Only one flight.’
‘The kittens?’ he repeated, falling in beside her.
‘Oh, yes. Did I tell you that Bonny once took a truck ride all the way to Lincolnshire?’
She knew, he decided. She’d worked out why he’d taken the kittens to her apartment and she was taking enormous pleasure in spinning out the story, explaining why his plan to present himself as a truly warm and caring human being hadn’t worked.
‘You did. Took a liking to the place, did she? Went back for another look?’
‘Thankfully—for the kittens’ sake—this time she didn’t get so far. After you left I phoned the security desk and had the officer on duty check all the day’s deliveries—they’re logged in and out,’ she explained. ‘And then call all the depots and ask them to check their vans. She wasn’t far. At the fishmarket, in fact. Kittens and mother reunited in hours.’
‘That’s good news.’ Then, pausing at the foot of the stairs, ‘You don’t look as if you’ve been up half the night.’
‘Well, thank you, Jordan, but I can take no credit for that. I was in bed with a good file before twelve. All I had to do was make one call to Security, then I delivered the kittens to George. I’ve lost count of the times he’s promised that one day he’ll do something to thank me for always being there with a loaf of bread or a cup of sugar when he needs one.’
‘Every time he needed a loaf of bread, I imagine.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. And laughed, as if he’d said something really funny. ‘Well, last night was his chance to be a hero.’
‘Well, good for George.’
‘It wasn’t really that much of an imposition. He’s a chronic insomniac. And he loves cats.’ She looked up at him, wide eyes innocent as those tiny kittens’. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like one of Bonny’s kittens, would you? It’s always a problem finding them good homes,’ she said. ‘We try to keep them in the, um, “family”.’ For a moment he thought she was going to spoil the performance by laughing again. But she covered the slip with a little cough and set off up the stairs.
He was about to suggest neutering as the sensible solution when an alternative offered itself to his fertile mind. She’d been having fun at his expense for quite long enough. It was time to turn the tables.
‘I’ll make a deal with you.’ She didn’t respond, simply waited, expecting him to wriggle and prepared to enjoy the spectacle, no doubt. ‘If I offer all of Bonny’s kittens the kind of home that most cats can only dream about—’
‘All three of them?’ She gave him a dubious look from beneath her long dark lashes.
‘Kittens need company. They’ll be able to stay together. They’ll have a proper garden, fenceposts to scratch without anyone yelling at them. Small mammals to slaughter in abundance. Cat heaven.’
‘It certainly sounds that way,’ she agreed. Then, ‘If?’
‘If?’
‘You said it was a deal. If you give the kittens a home, you said. The word implies you expect something in return.’
‘Oh, yes. But it’s nothing onerous or difficult, I promise you.’ And it was his turn to switch on the megawatt smile. ‘I just want you to upgrade your “definitely maybe” response to my invitation to join me for the weekend—make it a firm commitment. Two days out of your life in return for a lifetime of bliss for Bonny’s kittens. What do you say?’
She’d been doing so well, India thought. Congratulating herself on seeing—if somewhat belatedly—through his cynical use of three little kittens to slip beneath her guard.
He’d left the kiss a fraction undercooked to completely distract her, however. Or maybe he was confident that, like her sisters, she would crumple beneath the killer effect of the Farraday sex appeal and abandon the retail sector in favour of his bed.
She stopped that train of thought in its tracks. He’d been the one who’d stopped the kiss, not her. If he’d waited for her to object they’d have still been there…
Get a grip! She’d handled the kittens; she could handle him. He wasn’t infallible. She’d eventually caught on to what he was up to last night. He’d used them. Now it was her turn.
But Jordan Farraday was not a man to be easily embarrassed. On the contrary, he’d taken her outrageous lie about the difficulty of finding homes for the kittens—there was in actual fact a waiting list for them—and he’d turned it right around, stamped ‘return to sender’.
‘What do you say?’ He stopped on the half-landing, blocking her way, insisting upon an answer.
‘I say…’ she began, then kept him waiting while she took a slow, deep breath, ‘I say, show me this paradise for moggies and then I’ll think about it.’
His smile was the full works. Little pouches beneath the eyes—the test of a genuine smile. Teeth…seriously good teeth. A shark would envy teeth like that. Those sexy creases that deepened in his cheeks. A knockout, one hundred per cent smile, in fact. And the effect was…knockout. She was going to have to start carrying around one of those little canisters of oxygen…
‘Then we have a deal.’
‘We do?’ Maybe it was the effect of his smile, but she had no recollection of reaching the bottom line.
‘You can inspect “paradise” this weekend,’ he told her, and finally, far too late to back-pedal, she caught on.
‘You mean you’re off-loading the kittens on your unsuspecting friend? The one with his own personal cricket pitch and a heated swimming pool?’
‘I said I’d offer them a home, India. I don’t recall specifying whose home it would be
. There’ll be no objection; you have my personal guarantee.’ And he offered her his hand. ‘We have a deal?’ he pressed.
She didn’t say a word. She’d already talked herself into enough trouble. But she thought something very rude as she reached out, intending the briefest of handshakes.
His fingers closed about her hand in a cool, firm grip. The kind that evinced dependability, probity, candour. And she was forced to remind herself that a good, confidence-inspiring handshake was an essential for a man who spent his life handling vast sums of money.
It made no difference. She knew it was the measure of the man. And for the first time she found herself truly regretting their dispute. Wishing they were on the same side. He could bring so much to the store in experience, enterprise, originality.
If she could find the mysterious letter, he still might.
‘I walked into that one, didn’t I?’ she said, her smile not entirely forced, as she accepted defeat gracefully.
‘I hoped you would. You won’t regret it,’ he promised. ‘I’ll make it my personal mission to ensure you enjoy yourself.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she assured him, cooling the smile. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. He had no way of knowing that there was, somewhere, waiting to be unearthed at this ‘imperative’ moment, a letter that would break the agreement. A letter that would give her a fair chance of winning. On truly equal terms. All she had to do was find it.
All! She had no idea who’d written the note. Or to whom. No idea what this unknown someone might have considered ‘safe keeping’. But for now it would be safer if he thought he was the one with the upper hand and she was clutching at straws.
It would have helped if her father hadn’t chosen this moment to disappear from the face of the earth, with his mobile phone switched off, his e-mails left unanswered.
Sally’s advice to ‘do a Claibourne’ on Jordan surfaced briefly. As a desperate holding action. She firmly quashed the idea as preposterous. She hadn’t got the least idea how to make any man fall in love with her. She wasn’t a natural flirt, like Romana. She didn’t have him isolated on a tropical island paradise, like Flora. And Jordan wasn’t the kind of man to be easily taken in. It would have to be the real thing…