‘Just pay him back.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u734ad934-79b3-55f1-81cc-b961b1e656cf)
FRAN’S fingers hovered uncertainly over the push-button telephone and she smiled at the irony of her situation. She was actually shaking. Shaking. She who was frightened of no man or no thing, was trembling like a schoolgirl at the thought of ringing Sam Lockhart.
Five minutes earlier she had already tapped the numbers out before hanging up immediately in a panic. Then thought how absolutely stupid that was! What if he had one of those sophisticated telephones which told him exactly who had called? He was probably used to lovesick women dialling the number and then changing their minds and hanging up. Did she want to arouse his suspicions by doing the same?
She punched the numbers out again, and listened to the ringing tone, certain that some minion would answer his mobile phone for him.
‘Hel-lo?’ The deep, velvety voice ringing down the line was as unexpected as it was irresistible. It had to be him—minions didn’t sound like sex gods—and Fran had to frown with concentration to keep her voice steady.
‘Sam Lockhart?’ she said.
‘Speaking.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Mr. Lockhart, you don’t know me—’
‘Not unless you decide to tell me your name, I don’t,’ he agreed softly.
Mistake number one. Ring someone up to try and drum up their business, and then manage to sound as unprofessional as possible! ‘It’s Fran,’ she said quickly. ‘Fran Fisher.’
She could practically hear his mind flipping through its backlog of female names and coming up with a definite blank. But he was either too polite or too cautious to say so. Maybe he thought she was another in the long line of willing virgins offering herself up for pleasurable sacrifice!
‘Are you a writer?’ he asked in the wary and weary tone of someone who got more than their fair share of calls from would-be authors.
‘No, I’m not.’
A sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that!’ A note of caution returned to the deep voice. ‘So what exactly can I do for you, Fran Fisher?’
‘Actually, it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Mr. Lockhart.’
‘Oh?’
In that one word Fran heard resignation—as if he was gearing himself up to withstand a crude attempt at flirtation. Which, according to Rosie—was an occupational hazard when you happened to be Sam Lockhart.
And which meant there was nothing to be gained by playing for time. That would irritate a man like this, not intrigue him. She tried her most businesslike approach. ‘Mr. Lockhart, I understand you’re planning to hold a ball on Valentine’s Day—’
‘Are you a journalist?’ he snapped.
‘No, I’m not!’
‘Who are you, then?’
‘I told you—’
‘I don’t need you to tell me your name again! I’ve never met you before, have I?’
Well, it had taken him long enough to decide that and he still didn’t sound one hundred per cent certain! She wondered how he would react if she adopted a sultry accent and purred, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘No,’ she said stiffly. ‘You’ve never met me.’
‘Yet you know the number of my mobile?’
She was tempted to mention that he was stating the obvious, but resisted. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Er, your agency gave me the number.’
‘Well, they shouldn’t have!’ he snapped. ‘Certainly not to a complete stranger!’ There was silence down the line for a moment. ‘You’ve never met me and you’re not a writer,’ he mused. ‘So what exactly is your angle, Fran Fisher?’
If it hadn’t been for Rosie she probably would have hung up on him there and then. How absolutely ridiculous he sounded! Quizzing her as though she were some sort of second-rate spy and he the valuable prize within her sights! ‘My “angle”,’ she said sweetly, ‘is that I’m a professional party-planner—’
‘But unsuccessful?’ he suggested drawlingly.
‘On the contrary!’ she defended. ‘I’m extremely successful!’
‘So successful, in fact,’ he continued, ‘that you need to spend your time making cold calls to strangers in order to drum up a little business? I thought that your line of work relied solely on word-of-mouth recommendation?’
‘Yes, of course it does! Normally…’ She pulled a hideous face as she imagined him standing in the room with her. She wanted to dislike him, for Rosie’s sake—and the way he was speaking to her meant that she didn’t have to try very hard. But her dilemma lay in disliking him too much. Because if that happened, it would undoubtedly show in her attitude towards him, and then he certainly wouldn’t give her the job! ‘But I have to help things on their way. I’ve been working in Ireland, you see—’
He sounded weary. Like a man used to being bombarded with ambition. ‘And now you want to break into the market over here?’
‘Er…yes,’ she stumbled, caught off guard. No need to tell him that this was going to be a one-off! ‘Yes, I do. Actually, I’m quite well-known in Dublin. Ask anyone. And I’ve organised lots of fund-raisers—’
‘Have you really?’ he questioned, clearly not believing a word she said.
Fran bristled. ‘I expect that if I mentioned some of my clients, their names would be instantly recognizable—even to you, Mr. Lockhart,’ she told him stiffly.
‘For example?’ he shot back.
‘I did some corporate work for the Irish Film Festival a couple of years ago, and on the back of that I got quite a few private functions. Cormack Casey, the screenwriter—he recommended me—’
‘Cormack?’ he interrupted, in surprise. ‘You know him?’
‘Well, not intimately,’ she said, then wished she hadn’t because it was obvious from the faint and disapproving intake of breath that he had misinterpreted her words. ‘I organised the catering for the baptism of his first child.’
‘Did you indeed?’ asked Sam, in surprise. He’d been invited to that very same baptism, but a book tour in the States by one of his best-selling authors had put paid to that. ‘And if I rang Cormack—he’d vouch for you, would he?’
‘I certainly hope so. Triss—that’s his wife—’
‘I know who Triss is. I’ve known Cormack for years.’
‘Oh. Well, she told me they’d be happy to help with references.’ Fran suspected that the handsome Irish writer and his model wife had felt sorry for her. At the time she had been thinking about filing for a divorce from Sholto, and the baptism had been the only joyous thing in her life. She had poured her heart and soul into making the party match the moving ceremony of baptism, and she had been inundated with work ever since….
‘Did she?’ Sam Lockhart sounded impressed.
Fran cleared her throat, sensing that this was just the right time to appeal to his greed. ‘The thing is, Mr. Lockhart—if you hire me to organise your ball for you, then I guarantee we will raise more money than you ever dreamed of.’
‘That’s fighting talk,’ Sam commented drily, then added, ‘Who told you about it, by the way?’
