The Valentine Affair

“Where’s your bedroom?” he demanded hoarsely of the girl in his arms About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“Where’s your bedroom?” he demanded hoarsely of the girl in his arms

He continued. “If I have to waste time kicking in all the doors, I’ll be forced to make love to you here....”

“I thought you could find any woman’s bed-room... just like a homing pigeon coming to roost!” Alex giggled, waving him toward a room at the end of the corridor.

“Cheek! It’s high time I taught you some manners,” Leo growled in rough, unlover- like tones as he strode swiftly down the passage and into her room.

“Oh, yeah?” She laughed. “You’ll be lucky!”

“You’re right....” he agreed quietly, swiftly stripping off his clothes as he gazed down at the glinting blue eyes and soft trembling lips, the thick mane of fair, sun-bleached hair and the high, firm breasts of her slim figure. “I’m definitely a very lucky man!”

MARY LYONS

was born in Toronto, Canada, moving to live permanently in England when she was six, although she still proudly maintains her Canadian citizenship. Having married and raised four children, her life nowadays is relatively peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and, for a time, lived in a turbulent area of the Middle East. She still enjoys a bit of excitement, combining romance with action, humor and suspense in her books whenever possible.

The Valentine Affair!

Mary Lyons

CHAPTER ONE

The London Chronicle Monday 4th February

JAMES BOSWELL’S SOCIAL DIARY

MARRIED BLISS...?

FOLLOWERS of the social scene will be interested to hear that glamorous, wickedly attractive Leo Hamilton (pictured right at a polo match) has finally met his fate...and is set to many Fiona Bliss, 26, heiress of the ‘Bliss Margarine’ fortune.

Mega-rich banker Leo, 31—who gained a silver medal for fencing in the last Olympics, and is the son of society hostess Lady Lucas by her first marriage to the late Hon. Jack Hamilton—has up to now successfully avoided the clutches of matrimony, despite being linked in the past with so many beautiful women.

However, I am reliably informed that the happy couple will announce their engagement at next week’s St Valentine’s Ball—organised by Lady Lucas in aid of the National Society for Orphaned Children.

Leo and Fiona were unavailable for comment, but Fiona’s mother, Ethel Bliss, is said to be ‘delighted and very happy’.

The silver-grey Porsche made its way carefully through the crowded streets of the City of London, before coming to a halt outside a large, old Victorian building, currently the headquarters of the Hamilton banking empire.

‘She’s all yours, Benson,’ the tall, dark-haired man drawled, unfolding his long limbs from the low-slung vehicle and tossing the car keys to the commissionaire, before visibly wincing at the sound as he slammed the door shut.

‘Had a hard night, Mr Hamilton...?’

‘A real blinder!’ Leo agreed with a tired grin, before striding quickly up the steps and into the building.

‘Ah, there you are, Mr Hamilton,’ his personal assistant called out, hurrying to meet him as he exited the lift on the first floor. ‘Your uncle would like to see you at ten o’clock.’

‘Did he say why?’

His assistant shook her head. ‘Lord Hamilton’s sacretary merely passed on the message. Although it may have something to do with the press conference, which is now scheduled for eleven-thirty,’ she said, almost running to keep up with his long stride as she consulted the notepad in her hand. ‘Your mother has phoned, and is most anxious to contact you. And...and I’d like to offer my own warmest congratulations. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.’

‘Mmm...?’ Leo shot her a brief, puzzled glance as he entered the blessed sanctuary of his office. Throwing his briefcase onto a black leather sofa, he sank down into the large, comfortable chair behind his desk.

‘OK, Dora—hold all phone calls until I’ve had at least two cups of black coffee. On second thoughts,’ he added with a tired smile, ‘maybe you’d better just keep the black coffee flowing until further notice. And if you can find my dark sunglasses I’ll promise to love you for ever!’ he groaned, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes.

‘It looks as though it was some celebration party last night,’ Dora said some minutes later, placing a cup and saucer on the desk in front of him.

‘You’re so right,’ Leo agreed with a heavy sigh, and wondering—not for the first time—why on earth he’d agreed to attend Alan Morton’s stag night which, starting on Friday night, had continued for most of the weekend. It was beginning to look as if his mother had been right when she’d accused him of getting too old for all-night rave-ups chiefly composed of wine, women and song. Maybe it really was time that he settled down to a life of quiet domesticity...?

‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ his assistant asked, handing him a pair of dark glasses.

‘Dora-you’re an angel! What would I do without you?’

Gazing down at the tall, handsome, lounging figure with a fond smile, Dora reflected that even now, when clearly suffering from a massive hangover, Leo Hamilton was far and away the most good-looking man she’d ever worked for.

Well over six feet tall, his lean, broad-shouldered figure was only part of his dark attraction. Recently returned from a skiing holiday, his tanned features were emphasised by the thick black wavy hair sweeping down over his well-shaped head to curl over the edge of his collar.

Although he was only aged thirty-one, there were several strands of silver amongst the dark hair at his temples. While the green eyes beneath their heavy lids, set above an aquiline nose, only hinted at the sensuality which was clearly evident in the curved line of his wide mouth, she had no doubt that he was just about every red-blooded woman’s dream hero.

And definitely not boring, Dora reminded herself with an inward grin. The apparent ease with which he managed to charm the socks off so many beautiful women was truly astounding. As was the amount of money he spent at the local florist!

It was strange, she reflected, how the past three years seemed to have sped by in a flash. In fact, ever since Mr Hamilton had joined the bank—originally founded by a distant ancestor and now headed by his uncle, Lord Hamilton—it seemed as if the old building had been hit by a typhoon. Because while the outside world might regard her boss as a mere social dilettante and fun-loving playboy, those long-serving members of staff, such as herself, definitely knew better.

As she’d told her husband, after reading about Mr Hamilton’s engagement in the paper at breakfast that morning. ‘Well, all I can say is—he might play hard, but he works even harder.’

‘Tell me about it!’ her long-suffering partner had muttered. ‘Maybe, now the bloke’s getting married, you won’t have to stay so late at the office.’

However, as she returned now to the mountain of paperwork in her own room, Dora had severe doubts on that score. She definitely knew a workaholic when she saw one. And, despite the recent addition of more secretarial staff to cope with the ever-increasing workload, Mr Hamilton continued to carve his way through a formidable amount of business.

‘Maybe you can tell me what the hell’s going on!’ Leo ground out in exasperation, after summoning her back to his office a few minutes later. ‘I’ve just had a weird phone conversation with my mother. Quite honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that the old girl had been suddenly struck down with senile dementia!’

He brushed long, tanned fingers roughly through his dark hair. ‘From what I could make out—and it wasn’t easy—she seemed very excited about some engagement of mine. But, after looking through my diary, I can’t find anything out of the ordinary. Can you throw any light on the subject?’

Dora gazed at him in astonishment for a moment, before giving a short gurgle of laughter.

‘Oh, come on, Mr Hamilton! I know you like a good joke. But, since the news was in the paper this morning, I don’t think there’s much point in trying to keep it a secret, do you?’

‘Keep what a secret...?’

‘Why, your engagement, of course.’ She beamed down at him. ‘In fact, I’m sure that I speak for everyone here in the bank when I say that I wish you and the young lady every happiness in your forthcoming marriage, and...’

Her voice died away as her employer slowly removed his dark glasses to reveal glittering emerald-green eyes, now regarding her with a cold, stern expression from beneath their heavy lids.

‘My “forthcoming marriage”...? Well, I must say that sounds very interesting,’ he drawled in a dangerously soft voice. ‘However, since we both know that I’m suffering from a monumental hangover, I wonder if you would be kind enough to tell me just who I’m apparently supposed to be marrying.’

‘Well, I thought...the report in the paper clearly stated that... I mean, I wouldn’t normally have dreamed of saying anything, but there it was in black and white, and...’

‘Hold it!’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Why don’t you sit down, and let’s take it from the top, hmm?

‘Thank you, Dora,’ Leo said a few minutes later. ‘I think that I’ve now got the picture.’ With a stony expression on his face, he waited for his assistant to leave the room before picking up the telephone on his desk.

‘Ah, Fiona...?’ he drawled as his call was answered. ‘I’ve just heard some interesting news about our “forthcoming marriage”. I don’t suppose you’d happen to know how such an item found its way into the newspapers...?’ he enquired with hard irony, leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the ornate plaster ceiling.

‘Oh, yes...you’re absolutely right,’ Leo murmured some moments later. ‘I definitely think we should have a meeting to discuss our engagement—and as soon as possible!’

Feeling like death warmed up, Alex Pemberton gazed around the large room, relieved to note that she wasn’t the only one present at this Monday morning editorial conference who was looking somewhat the worse for wear. Thanks to the flu epidemic—which had swept through the newspaper office like one of the plagues of Egypt—she’d done virtually no work for the past ten days, and wasn’t looking forward to being cross-examined by her editor, Mike Tanner.

While she waited for Mike to bring the meeting to order, Alex was still wondering why she’d been asked to join the editorial conference. Such meetings were normally only attended by the Chronicle’s most senior journalists—not small-fry, junior members of the staff, such as herself.

However, Mike Tanner was clearly a law unto himself. His appointment as editor of the London Chronicle just over six months ago had brought about a completely new, dynamic wind of change in the newsroom.

Head-hunted by the paper’s owners, Mike had obviously been appointed to rescue the falling circulation of what had once been a quality newspaper but which, over the years, had become both old-fashioned and outmoded. So far Mike seemed to have been achieving brilliant results, and was clearly determined to give the other tabloids a run for their money.

Having only joined the paper a few months before the new editor, Alex knew that she was incredibly lucky to have survived the brutally ruthless purge which had swiftly followed Mike Tanner’s arrival. Since her only previous experience had been working for local, suburban weekly newspapers, she’d been quite certain that she was going to be sacked—just another minor casualty amongst so many of the older, well-known journalists.

But, when called to his office, she’d been surprised to find that she still had a job. And even more amazed to discover that Mike had found time, amidst the hectic schedule of his first week in charge of the paper, to check up on her work to date.

‘I liked the angle you took on the trials and tribulations of being a pop star’s wife. And that piece on the reclusive millionaire wasn’t at all bad, either,’ he’d told her, before adding with a grim smile, ‘A pity you missed the fact that he was getting married for the fifth time only two days after the article was printed.’

‘I know,’ she’d admitted with a sigh. ‘I felt such a fool!’

However, Mike had merely barked, ‘We’ve all slipped up once or twice at the start of our careers. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

‘I will,’ she’d promised fervently, not only overjoyed at finding herself still in gainful employment, but thrilled to be appointed as a regular feature writer for the paper’s magazine supplement. In fact, the only fly in the ointment was having to work with ghastly Imogen Hall-Knightly. If only...

‘Right. Let’s get this show on the road.’ Mike’s harsh, grating voice brought her abruptly back to the present.

Removing a large, fat cigar from between his lips, he blew a thick cloud of grey, evil-smelling smoke down the long table. ‘I’ve called you all here today because I’m not happy with our circulation figures. Yes, they’re rising,’ he added over a muttered protest, ‘but not as fast as I’d like. And, as I’ve already told Miz Imogen “all-nightly”, here, I’m definitely not at all happy with our Saturday magazine.’

Alex struggled to keep her face straight as the older woman’s lips tightened into an angry line.

Recently appointed as a deputy editor in charge of the weekend magazine—a glossy supplement entitled, The Chronicle on Saturday—Imogen was already a highly unpopular member of staff. Despite having gained a reputation as a first-class journalist, she’d managed to rub just about everyone up the wrong way. And Mike Tanner—fiercely proud of his poor, working-class back-ground—seemed to take a delight in mispronouncing the surname of a woman he considered a raving snob.

‘And just what, in your opinion, is wrong with the magazine?’ Imogen demanded angrily.

‘Just about everything,’ Mike snapped. ‘But mostly it’s become loo damn boring! It needs some zing and pizzazz...plus a lot more human interest articles. It certainly doesn’t need reviews of a book on some obscure philosophy about which our readers know little and care less.’

‘There’s no harm in trying to educate our readers, surely?’

‘Education?’ Mike exploded, chomping violently on his cigar. ‘What our readers want is entertainment—and don’t you forget it!

‘But, leaving aside the magazine for a moment, just look at what we’ve got in today’s edition of the Chronicle,’ he continued, jabbing an angry figure down at the newspaper open on the table in front of him. ‘I’m ashamed to be the editor of such rubbish!’

There was a deathly silence as Mike glared around the table before pointing a stubby nicotine-yellowed finger at the girl sitting next to Alex. ‘I want a radical overhaul of the fashion page, Tessa. And as quickly as possible!’

‘Er...right,’ Tessa muttered nervously. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

‘Well, for starters, like every other red-blooded man, I’m sick and tired of those ultra-thin models—who look more like stick insects than living human beings. I’ll give you double the spread if you can find some women with a decent bust.’

Tessa grinned. ‘Your word is my command, Mike. Nothing under a 36C—right?’

‘I’m glad that at least someone around here has got the message!’ He threw a malicious grin at Imogen, before turning to the City editor. ‘OK, Ben—I want less of those boring share tips, and a lot more about financial scams in high places. Now, I hear on the grapevine...’

Alex, who had little interest in City gossip, took the opportunity to beg some aspirins from Tessa. ‘I was feeling a lot better earlier this morning. But I can’t seem to get rid of this thumping headache.’

‘No problem,’ the other girl murmured, opening her handbag and producing a small bottle of white pills. ‘Hang on to them—I’ve got plenty more in my desk. I hope you feel better soon.’

‘So do L’ Alex smiled ruefully as she poured some water into a glass from the carafe on the table and swallowed the aspirins. ‘Especially since I haven’t even managed to read a newspaper for the past week.’

‘Well, you’d better catch up as fast as possible,’ Tessa cautioned softly. ‘Because, while it looks as though I’ve got off fairly lightly, I hear Mike is out for blood. And woe betide anyone who can’t come up with at least one brilliant, sparkling idea for a new feature.’

‘Thanks for the gypsy’s warning,’ Alex muttered, brushing a hand through her thick mane of dark blonde hair and desperately trying to pummel her brain into thinking of something as their editor’s voice rose several decibels.

‘You’ll have to do better than this—or you’ll be out on your ear!’ Mike was roaring at James Boswell, the editor of the social diary.

‘Research shows that our readers like nothing better than a really juicy divorce, political sex scandals—or reading about high jinks in royal circles,’ he continued grimly. ‘So why give them this feeble piece about some idle-rich banker who’s decided to get married to a margarine heiress?’

‘Well, I had a hot tip...’

The editor gave a loud exclamation of disgust. ‘As far as I can see it’s totally uninteresting. There’s nothing exciting about margarine, for heaven’s sake. Why should our readers give a toss about this guy? I’m sorry, James—but you’re going to have to do a whole lot “butter” than this!’

James swallowed hard. ‘Actually, it is an interesting piece of news,’ he maintained stubbornly, over the rumble of laughter which had greeted his editor’s pun.

‘Mainly because the man in question is a regular Casanova,’ James continued, a distinct note of envy in his voice. ‘I’m told he’s got more luscious, stunning-looking girls queuing up to jump into his bed than I’ve had hot dinners! So, the news that he’s finally decided to take the plunge into matrimony is going to make a lot of glamorous, well-known women very unhappy.’

‘OK, OK, maybe there is a story there,’ Mike grudgingly agreed. ‘But, if the guy has really been such a stud, why didn’t you say so in words of one syllable? Why bother with all this “avoided the clutches of matrimony” nonsense, when what this piece clearly needs is some quotes from angry, disgruntled ex-girlfriends?’

As the other man muttered some excuse about the laws of libel and the difficulty in getting anything past the Chronicle’s lawyers, Tessa gave Alex a quick nudge.

‘James is right. That’s definitely what I call a nice piece of male crumpet,’ she whispered, grinning as she passed Alex her copy of the paper, open at the social page.

Pointing to the picture of a handsome, dark-haired man standing beside his horse at a polo match, Tessa added with a giggle, ‘I always go for men dressed in sexy, skintight breeches. In fact, he can leave those long leather riding boots outside my bedroom door any night he pleases!’

But, strangely, Alex didn’t seem to be listening to her friend’s comments, her face growing pale as she stared fixedly down at the newsprint in front of her.

‘My dear boy.’ Lord Hamilton beamed at his nephew. ‘I don’t suppose I’m the first person to congratulate you on the news of your engagement. However, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve decided to settle down, at last.’

‘Well, the truth is...’

‘The truth is that I was becoming a little worried about you,’ the older man told him sternly. ‘Quite frankly, it hasn’t done this bank any good to have the gossip columns carrying reports of your idle, loose behaviour.’

‘Oh, come on, Uncle!’ Leo gave a snort of wry laughter. ‘I hardly see myself as some sort of Lothario. In fact, most of the stuff printed in the newspapers was complete moonshine!’

‘Of course, I’ve nothing against young men sowing their wild oats.’

‘I should think not,’ Leo grinned. ‘Especially when, according to my mother, you painted the town red in your younger days.’

‘Yes, well...that was a long time ago.’ The older man gave his nephew a slightly sheepish smile. ‘As you know, I’ve been happily married to your aunt Emily for the past thirty years. Which is why,’ he added firmly, ‘I’m relieved to know that you’ve clearly decided to settle down and put that sort of life well behind you.’

Wishing that he didn’t feel quite so mentally sluggish, and wondering how to explain that his future wasn’t quite as clear-cut as his uncle seemed to think, Leo was forestalled as Lord Hamilton rose to his feet.

‘The thing is, dear boy, for some time I’ve been wanting to make you a full partner and director of this bank. So, following the good news this morning, I’ve already had a few words with most of the other members of the board, and they’ve all agreed to your appointment.’

‘Hang on!’ Leo interjected swiftly. ‘I’d like to discuss this matter a lot more thoroughly before you take any action. The thing is, I’m not exactly... Well, the fact is...’

‘My doctors have been telling me that I should slow down and think about retirement,’ the older man continued, ignoring the younger man’s words as he walked over to the large window in his office and stared down at the traffic below. ‘And, having no children of my own, it’s a great relief to know that my own nephew will eventually be succeeding me as managing director.’

‘I’m really very flattered that you think I could do the job,’ Leo assured him. ‘And I do understand that you’d like a member of the family to continue as head of this bank. However, your colleagues may well feel—with a certain amount of justice—that I’m far too young for the job. Not to mention the fact that it could well appear to be a bad case of nepotism.’

‘Nonsense!’ His uncle turned around to face him. ‘You’ve worked very hard over the past few years, and fully earned your spurs.’

‘Surely there’s no need to make a decision straight away?’ Leo protested, desperately wishing that his head didn’t feel as if it was full of cotton wool. ‘I mean I’d like to have some time to think about it, and...’

“There’s nothing to think about,’ his uncle stated firmly, walking back to his desk and gathering papers together as his secretary came into the room, followed by two assistants. ’Now, I mustn’t keep the board waiting. Maybe we can have a word later this afternoon?’

‘But, I really do need to talk to you...’

‘Later, dear boy. Later...’ Lord Hamilton muttered, hurrying out of the room.

Swearing under his breath with baffled frustration, Leo wandered slowly back to his own office, quite unable to see how he was going to extricate himself from what was rapidly becoming a very complicated situation.

Alex glanced cautiously down the table, relieved to see that Mike Tanner was now leaning back in his chair, happily puffing on his second cigar of the morning, and regarding with satisfaction the pale faces and cowed figures around the table.

Her editor obviously believed that putting the fear of God into his staff helped to keep them on their toes in what was an ever-increasingly tough and competitive market. And, to be fair, he wasn’t far short of the mark. Threatened with the risk of losing their jobs, it was amazing how many new, creative and exciting ideas had been put forward during the past hour.

Unfortunately, Alex’s brain had obstinately refused to come up with anything that Mike would regard as creative, let alone interesting. The fact that she’d escaped unscathed so far didn’t mean a damn thing, since Alex knew that she would soon be in the firing line. Why else would Mike have demanded her attendance at this morning’s editorial meeting, when such conferences were only normally attended by the paper’s leading journalists?