The Corporate Bridegroom

CHAPTER THREE

NIALL watched Romana fly. It was a spectacular jump by any standards. Only an underlying suspicion that she was actually scared rigid had prompted him to bring up the card.

Watching her in the hoist, he’d been sure that she was going to lose it completely. And, no matter who was running the company, he had a financial stake in its image.

He should have known that the fooling around was for the camera. He hadn’t been sure until she’d pulled out the lipstick, but her hands had been steady as a rock. It was all just part of the act. She’d certainly put on a show for her sponsors.

All she’d forgotten was the blood-curdling scream.

Someone opened a bottle of champagne and pushed a glass into her hand. Romana didn’t dare put it to her mouth. The glass would have shattered against her chattering teeth. She just gripped it tightly as around her the crowd chanted a slow countdown for the next jumper.

For a moment she thought she’d be all right, but just as the next bungee reached its full length and then snapped back her entire stomach relived her own experience. She pushed the glass into the hand of the person standing nearest to her and fled to the caravan so that she could be violently sick in private.

When she’d washed her face, and rinsed her mouth out with water, she realised that her phone, still lying on the chair where she had abandoned it earlier, was ringing.

‘Ramona Claibourne.’

It was Molly. ‘Are you all right? We’ve got a television on here, and when I saw you make a run for it I wondered—’

‘If breakfast was a mistake? Believe me, it was. Is everyone demanding their money back?’ She was still shaking. ‘I wouldn’t blame them. I couldn’t even manage a decent scream. My throat was apparently stuffed with hot rocks.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You looked terrific. And the jokey stuff was very convincing. I shouldn’t think anyone guessed how scared you really were. I can’t imagine how you’ll top it next year—unless you can think of something that involves Mr Dour getting his shirt off,’ she added hopefully. ‘I’d sponsor him for that myself.’

Ramona’s mouth dried at the thought. Fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door and she was saved from having to comment.

‘It’s open,’ she called, and turned to see the man himself, with a frown that might have been concern creasing his forehead. She didn’t want his concern. ‘Come to pay up?’ she asked, with a lack of graciousness she regretted the minute he laid a cheque on the table, along with her lipstick and mirror. ‘That’s very generous,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

He gave a small shrug, as if it was nothing. ‘Don’t let me interrupt your call.’

‘Oh, it’s just Molly. She saw the jump…’ The least said about that the better. ‘She’s trying to think of some way of topping it. She seems to think you, minus your shirt, would be a good start,’ she said, and was assailed by wails of anguish from her assistant. ‘Why don’t you talk it over with her?’ she suggested, handing over her phone. ‘And she’ll need your address so that she can book you a car for tonight. Six o’clock. Black tie.’

‘Six?’ he repeated. ‘Isn’t that a little early for the theatre?’

‘I’m working, not having fun. I do all the organising beforehand. I make sure everything goes smoothly throughout the evening, and then I make sure everyone is happy afterwards.’

‘While I watch?’

‘No one is insisting you come, Niall. You’re the one demanding to see what I do every minute of my working day.’ Which today would end somewhere past midnight.

She turned away, avoiding a game of ‘chicken’ to see who could outstare the other. She knew she’d lose. She didn’t bother to change back into her suit, but folded it neatly and put it into her bag, then glanced in the mirror as she slid her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it.

Her reflection warned her that she was looking less than her best. The colour had leached from her skin, leaving two vivid patches of blusher and making her look like a rag doll. She took a tissue and scrubbed at her cheek-bones. In the meantime, having considered her response and apparently got the message, Niall relayed his address to Molly.

Romana retrieved her phone and her bags and flung open the caravan door.

‘Where are you going now?’ he asked, following her.

‘Why don’t you come along and see?’ He gave her a look that suggested he was quick learner—he was asking first. ‘First I’m going home to hang up my dress. I would have done it earlier, but I had to meet you instead. Then I’m going back to the store to have my hair done,’ she told him, walking quickly to the road.

‘No lunch?’

She felt ill at the thought. ‘No,’ she said, glancing at the workmanlike watch on her wrist. ‘No time. We have to go.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the hairdo.’

‘Good decision. I can fix most things,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but an appointment with George on a gala night is not one of them. I’ll see you at the theatre.’

‘Don’t you think it would be more sensible for us to share a car?’

Share? Working with him was going to be difficult enough; she had no intention of extending the time they spent together. ‘Is your concern ecological or financial?’

‘Neither. I simply thought you could brief me about this evening on the way to the theatre. Speaking of which, you put on quite a performance yourself just now,’ he said, keeping step with her and giving her no chance to argue. ‘You nearly had me fooled.’

She had no way of telling whether he meant her performance pretending to be scared, or her performance covering up the fact that she was totally terrified. ‘Only nearly?’

‘How many jumps have you made?’

She smiled as she stopped and turned to hail a passing taxi. There was something very pleasing in the discovery that he wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought he was.

‘I’ll see you at the theatre, Niall,’ she said as she climbed aboard, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Romana, swathed in a dark-red salon wrapper, regarded herself in the mirror, searching vainly for some clue as to what about her appearance had so irritated Niall Macaulay.

It couldn’t just have been the incident with the coffee that had made him so surly. It had, after all, been an accident. Unfortunate, perhaps, especially in view of the subsequent meeting, but in the travails of life it was nothing. Less than nothing.

A kind man would have said so. A generous man would at the very least have allowed her to apologise before walking away.

But he wasn’t kind, or generous. Oh, he’d been quick to cover himself with his offer of sponsorship—quick to pay up, too. Her flash of guilt was immediately squashed. When you had money to spare, that kind of generosity was easy. Her father had always been swift to put his signature on a cheque for birthdays or at Christmas, when all she’d really wanted was for him to hug her, tell her that he loved her. He’d never seemed capable of managing anything quite that difficult.

George appeared in the mirror behind her. ‘Big day, Romana,’ he said.

‘A bad day.’ First bungee-jumping. Then a haircut. How much worse could one day get?

‘No sacrifice is too great to promote the store.’

‘This is as far as I’m prepared to go,’ she assured him. The haircut was all part of the week of publicity for the store and had been planned for months. Faced with proving her total commitment, she knew nothing would make a more public statement than cutting her trademark hair to publicise the salon.

The stylist hesitated, apparently not eager to be the cause of bitter tears of regret. ‘You’re really sure about this? I should warn you that while your girlfriends will love it—’

‘Great. They’re the ones to impress. Let’s do it.’ Still he hesitated. ‘Come on, George, I haven’t got all day.’

‘You do realise that the men in your life will hate it?’

‘Who has the time for men?’

‘Friends, acquaintances, your father?’

‘I stopped being Daddy’s little girl when I was four.’ When her mother had found someone younger, better-looking, even titled…

‘Any man you’ve ever met, then. Any man who’s ever seen your photograph in the gossip mags. You must be aware that half the men in London are in love with your hair. They’ll want to lynch me—’

‘What’s a little pain if it means you’ll get your picture in the papers?’ Still he hesitated. ‘For heaven’s sake, George, it’s just hair. Cut it.’

And for the second time that day she closed her eyes.

Niall Macaulay looked up at the impressive façade of Claibourne & Farraday. Once a small emporium catering exclusively to the aristocracy, it had, over the generations, expanded until it occupied one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in London.

Jordan was obsessed with the need to reclaim it for the sake of family pride. Bram’s mind took a more logical path—the Farraday claim had to be protected in the face of a raft of new legislation.

A new agreement, something more equitable, would certainly put an end to the feud mentality that had prevailed among the older generation since control of the store had shifted from the Farradays to the Claibournes. It had been at a time when the women’s movement had been gaining ground, and Jordan’s mother had expected her claim to be taken seriously. Jordan had never forgiven Peter Claibourne for brushing her aside, and Jordan had been brought up listening to her complaining about it.

Niall’s own desire to claim the ‘golden share’ had nothing to do with sentiment. Romana Claibourne was right. He wanted control so that they would be in a position to liquidise the assets and reinvest the money in something less subject to the whim of public taste. The retail sector was a minefield, definitely not a place for the unwary.

With a nod to the doorman who opened one of the huge doors for him, he paused on the threshold to gain his bearings. While one of C&F’s burgundy and gold liveried vans delivered his weekly groceries, it had been more than four years since he’d actually walked around the store.

He’d been with Louise. Choosing china, bedlinen, touring the departments, making a wedding list. He’d left all the decisions to her… It was to be her house; he’d wanted her to have everything just as she wanted it. All he’d wanted to do was watch her. Be with her. See her lovely face change from query as she turned to ask his opinion, knowing his answer would be the same— “You choose” —to just a smile…

He ached at the memory, but that happiness was long gone. And this would be his last opportunity to reacquaint himself with the store—check out any changes—as if he was just one more browsing customer. After tomorrow everyone would know who he was.

He’d better make the most of it. And, as he’d missed lunch, he’d begin by checking out the restaurants.

Romana reached up on automatic, and flinched when her hand encountered nothing but space where her hair had once been.

‘Eat this and stop fussing, Romana. Your hair looks wonderful.’ Molly handed her a sandwich she’d brought up from the Buttery, hoping to tempt her to a late lunch. ‘George is a genius.’

‘I know. I’ll get used to it. Probably. Any last-minute panics? How’s it going at the theatre?’

‘Relax. The programmes have been delivered, the florists are arranging for England and the caterers are all set. No one has cancelled. Everything is running like silk.’

‘Those are words calculated to freeze the blood in my veins.’

‘You worry too much.’

‘That’s an impossibility.’

‘Honestly, everything’s organised to the last full-stop.’ Then, ‘I saw your hunk, by the way. In the Buttery when I picked up your sandwich.’

Romana frowned. ‘My hunk? Since when did I have a hunk to call my own?’

‘Well, not so much a hunk,’ Molly replied maddeningly. ‘He’s more your James Bond type. Tall, dark and deadly. If he were shadowing me he wouldn’t be eating alone.’

‘What?’ Then, belatedly catching on, ‘Are you telling me that Niall Macaulay is in the store?’

‘Well, yes. I assumed you’d come back together. You didn’t know he was here?’

‘No, I did not. Of all the sneaky… Did he see you?’

‘I don’t think so. He was talking to someone on his mobile, and after your toe-curling suggestion that I was smitten with him there was no way I was going across to ask if he was enjoying his lunch. He might he gorgeous to look at, but you’re right—he is a bit daunting. Not the kind of man you’d wave at in a restaurant on such short acquaintance.’

‘I wouldn’t wave at him if I were drowning. Call Security, please, Molly.’

She looked aghast. ‘You’re not going to have him thrown out!’

‘Of course not. I simply want to know what he’s up to.’

Common sense told her that he could have been in the store every day for the last year, compiling a whole host of black marks against the Claibourne clan. Intuition warned her that this wasn’t so, that he was merely taking his last chance of anonymity to look around on his own. It was, after all, exactly what she’d have done in his shoes. But she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

‘I want to know everywhere he goes, who he talks to, what he looks at. Any incidents. I want a full report on my desk first thing in the morning.’

Niall checked out all the restaurants and coffee shops, each very different. There was even a Japanese-style sushi bar, which surprised him. All of them were busy.

He ate his belated lunch in the Buttery, only because it looked the least inspired of the choices available. He gave it perhaps six out of ten. And he was being generous.

Leaving the restaurant, he began to tour the store. It hadn’t changed noticeably since the refit in the early twentieth century, and was still steeped in the dated luxury of mahogany and burgundy carpeting that was the store’s signature.

The customer base was younger than he’d anticipated, though.

The Claibournes must be doing something right.

Jordan wouldn’t want to hear that. He only wanted to know what they were doing wrong.

He first noticed that he had a ‘tail’ as he wandered through the book department.

It was, he thought, a poor use of expensive selling space. Typical of a department that had once been popular but had outlived its time. It couldn’t compete with the new bookstore chains, with their coffee shops and cut prices.

He took her by surprise as he stopped to make a note and the woman following him turned away a little too quickly, drawing attention to herself.

He’d seen Romana’s assistant dash into the Buttery. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence and he’d assumed she hadn’t seen him. It would appear that he was making rather too many assumptions.

In his wide experience of human nature he’d learned to trust first impressions, that glimpse of the unguarded personality before a man or woman realised they were being observed.

Romana Claibourne had climbed out of a taxi hampered by a clutch of carrier bags, in heels a touch too high for good sense and a skirt too short for anyone who anticipated being taken seriously. And with enough hair to stuff a mattress flying in all directions. His first impression had been of a scatty mantrap who wouldn’t hesitate to use her looks to get what she wanted.

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