Billionaire, Boss...Bridegroom?

CHAPTER TWO

ON MONDAY MORNING, Bella left her flat at what felt like the crack of dawn. For the last couple of years, she’d been able to set her own working hours—meaning that she could sleep in until ten a.m. and work until late, which suited her body clock better—but she knew that she needed to make a good impression on her first day at Insurgo. Particularly given what had happened at her first meeting with the boss. She couldn’t afford to put a single foot wrong from now on, not if she wanted to keep her job and get her finances back on track.

And getting up early would take her mind off what had been a truly lousy weekend. Seeing Grace—the person she’d always looked up to as a tower of strength, someone who knew exactly what to do to sort out any given situation—fall apart had shocked Bella deeply. Right now Grace was in the almost same position that Bella had been in six months ago: recovering from a wrecked relationship, worrying about her job and her home and her finances, and feeling as if the sun would never rise again.

OK, so Grace had been the dumper rather than the dumpee, in this case, and she hadn’t lost her best friend and the contents of her bank account as well as her partner; but it was still going to be a huge change in Grace’s life. Even though it had definitely been the right decision.

Privately, Bella thought her sister had had a lucky escape. Howard was a nice enough guy, but he was completely under his mother’s thumb. Marrying him would’ve basically meant having the rest of her life run by Cynthia of the Eagle Eyes and Concrete Hair, the most cold and judgemental woman that Bella had ever met. And finding another job might just mean that Grace’s new employer would appreciate her and give her the promotion she deserved. At Sutton’s, Grace had been totally taken for granted. They’d expected her to work way more than her fair share of hours, under the guise of being ‘almost family’, but they hadn’t actually given her any of the privileges of being ‘almost family’.

Howard had barely raised a single argument when Grace had gone to see him on the Saturday morning and called off the wedding. So he clearly hadn’t loved Grace enough to fight for her. And Bella thought her sister deserved a lot better than a man who was nice enough but didn’t have a backbone and would never stand up for her.

Today was a new chapter in both their lives. And hopefully this one would be better for both of them.

Bella paused outside the Insurgo Records building. The basement was a recording studio and practice rooms that local bands could book as well as being used by the Insurgo artists; the ground floor and mezzanine comprised a seriously upmarket café—the sort that offered coffee made in a way that looked more as if it was some kind of laboratory experiment than a hot drink, but apparently brought out the floral notes in the coffee; and the top two floors were the record label’s actual offices.

‘All righty. Welcome to your new life,’ she told herself, and went inside.

She was the first member of staff to arrive in the office after Tarquin, Hugh’s second-in-command—to her relief, Hugh didn’t seem to be there yet—and Tarquin handed her a design brief, a portable CD player and a pair of headphones. ‘Welcome to Insurgo, Bella,’ he said with a smile. ‘We’re doing a limited edition of coloured vinyl for Lacey’s third single. She’s one of our singer-songwriters. I’ve given you a rundown here of our target market, her career history, and the PR schedule. What I need you to do is have a listen to the album—the song we’re releasing is the fourth track on the CD—and come up with some ideas for the vinyl cover and a promo T-shirt, based on what you hear. Or if you have ideas for other promo items, bring them along. If you’d like to have a second listen in one of the studios rather than working on headphones, just yell and I’ll sort it out. And then maybe we can talk about it, later this afternoon?’

‘That sounds fine,’ Bella said, smiling back. She was being thrown in at the deep end, but she’d always thrived on that. And this was her chance to shine and prove they’d made the right decision in hiring her.

‘This is your desk, over here,’ he said, and ushered her over to a desk by the window with a drawing board and a computer. ‘As soon as Shelley—our admin guru—comes in, we’ll get you set up with a password and username. The meeting room’s on the floor above, along with Hugh’s office, the staff kitchen and the toilets. I’m over there in the corner, and I’ll get everyone else to come over and introduce themselves as they come in.’

‘That’s great,’ Bella said, trying to damp down the sudden flood of nervousness. She was good with people. She knew she’d find her place in the pack and quickly work out how to get the best from the people she worked with. She always did. But these first few hours in a new role were always crucial.

‘Is there anything else you need before you start?’ he asked.

Yes, but she couldn’t exactly explain why she needed to see the boss without making things awkward. But she’d just thought of the perfect excuse to go up to the next floor. Hopefully Hugh wasn’t in yet, so she could leave the neatly wrapped parcel in her bag on his desk. Or, if he was at his desk, hopefully he’d be alone and she could snatch two minutes to apologise to him in person while the kettle boiled. She smiled. ‘How about I make us both a coffee?’

‘Excellent idea. Thank you.’ Tarquin smiled back. ‘Mine’s black, no sugar. I’m afraid it’s pretty basic stuff in the staff kitchen—tea, instant coffee and hot chocolate—but help yourself to whatever you want. If you’d rather have something fancier, you do get a staff discount downstairs at the café.’

‘That’s good to know. And instant does me just fine. At this time of the morning, any coffee works,’ Bella said with a smile.

To her relief, she discovered that Hugh’s office was empty. So she wouldn’t have to confront him quite yet, then. There was a pile of post set neatly in the middle of his immaculate desk; she left the package and accompanying card on top of it. Then she boiled the kettle and made herself and Tarquin a mug of coffee before heading downstairs to her desk and making a start on the design briefs. And please, please, let Hugh Moncrieff accept her apology.

* * *

Hugh wasn’t in the best of moods when he drove his car into the tiny car park behind the record label offices. His shoes had just about recovered from their ordeal on Friday night, and his dry cleaner had said that there would be no problem with his suit. But he hadn’t been able to get Bella Faraday out of his head.

Worse still had been the slew of texts and emails and answering machine messages over the weekend from his mother, his brothers and their partners, all reminding him that his brother Nigel’s engagement party was coming up and they couldn’t wait to see him. Which meant that Hugh was in for another bout of familial nagging. Why was he still messing about with his record label? When was he going to treat it as the hobby it ought to be and get himself a proper job?

He knew what the subtext meant: he was the baby of the family, so they’d let him have his dream and do his degree in music instead of economics. Now he was thirty, they all thought it was about time he gave up his financially risky business and joined the long-established family stockbroking firm instead. Which was why Bella’s comment about him looking like a stockbroker had really touched a raw nerve on Friday night.

He happened to like his life in London, thank you very much. He loved what he did at Insurgo—finding promising new talent and polishing their rough material just enough to make them commercially viable without taking away the creative spark that had caught his ear in the first place. Insurgo had made a name for itself as an independent label producing quality sound, from rock through to singer-songwriters, with a sprinkling of oddities who wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Hugh was proud of what he did. He didn’t want to give it up and be a stockbroker like his older brothers Julian, Nigel and Alistair.

But the question that drove him really crazy was when his family asked when he intended to find a nice girl and settle down. That wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Jessie had cured him of that particular pipe dream. He knew his family meant well, but couldn’t they see that they were still prodding a bruise?

His business, his heart and his music had all taken a battering. And finding a new, suitable girlfriend wasn’t going to repair any of the damage. Sheer hard work and some quiet support from his best friends had rescued his business, but nowadays his heart was permanently off limits. And the music that had once flowed from his fingers and filled his head had gone for good. He didn’t write songs any more. He just produced them—and he kept a professional distance from his artists.

He ran through a few excuses in his head. None of them worked. Even being in a full body cast wouldn’t get him a free pass. He was just going to have to turn up, smile sweetly at everyone, and metaphorically stick his fingers in his ears and say ‘la-la-la’ every time his career or his love life was mentioned. Which he knew from experience would be about every seven minutes, on average.

He collected a double espresso from the café on the ground floor—on a morning like this one, a mug of the instant stuff in the staff kitchen just wasn’t going to cut it—and stomped up to his office, completely bypassing the team. What he needed right now was music. Loud enough to drown out the world and drown out his thoughts. A few minutes with headphones on, and he might be human enough again to face his team without biting their heads off even more than he normally would on a Monday morning.

And then he stopped dead.

On top of the post he’d been expecting to see, there was a neatly wrapped parcel and a thick cream envelope. It wasn’t his birthday, and the parcel didn’t look like a promo item. It was the wrong shape for a CD or vinyl, and in any case most unsigned artists pitching to him tended to email him with a link to a digital file on the internet.

Intrigued, he untied the ribbon and unwrapped the shiny paper from the parcel to discover a box of seriously good chocolates.

Whoever had sent them had excellent taste. But who were they from and why?

He opened the envelope. Inside was a hand-drawn card: a line-drawing of a mournful-looking rabbit with a speech bubble saying ‘Sorry’. Despite his bad mood, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Whoever had sent this was saying they knew he wasn’t a happy bunny—and Hugh had a very soft spot for terrible puns.

He opened the card to find out who’d sent it, and a wad of banknotes fell out.

What?

Why on earth would someone be giving him cash?

He scanned the inside swiftly. The writing was beautifully neat and regular, slightly angular and spiky—the sort you’d see on hand-drawn labels in an art gallery or upmarket bookshop.

Dear Mr Moncrieff

Thank you for rescuing us on Friday night and I’m very sorry for the inconvenience we caused you. I hope the enclosed will cover the cost of valeting the taxi, dry-cleaning your suit and replacing your shoes. Please let me know if there’s still a shortfall and I will make it up.

Yours sincerely

Bella Faraday

He blinked. She’d said something on Friday evening about reimbursing him, but he really hadn’t been expecting this. Since the parcel and the card had been hand-delivered, that meant that their new graphic designer must already be at her desk. Most of his team didn’t show their faces in the office until nearly ten, so she was super-early on her first day.

And, although he appreciated the gesture, it really wasn’t necessary. His shoes had survived and the rest of it hadn’t cost that much. He really ought to return the money.

He picked up his phone and dialled his second-in-command’s extension. ‘Can you send Ms Faraday up?’

‘Good morning to you, Tarquin, my friend,’ Tarquin said dryly. ‘How are you? Did you have a nice weekend? What’s new with you?’

Hugh sighed. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, Tarq.’

‘Get out of the wrong side of bed, did we? Tsk. Must be Monday morning.’

Hugh knew he shouldn’t take out his mood on his best friend and business partner. Particularly as Tarquin dealt with all the stuff Hugh didn’t enjoy, and with extremely good grace, so Hugh could concentrate on the overall strategy of the label and actually producing the music. ‘I’m sorry. All right. Good morning, Tarquin. How are you? Did you have a nice weekend?’

‘That’s better. Good, and yes, thank you. I’ll send her up. And be nice, sweet-cheeks—apart from the fact that it’s her first day, not everyone’s as vile as you are on Monday mornings.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Hugh said, but he was smiling as he put the phone down again.

* * *

Bella was leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, listening to the music. Lacey, the singer, had a really haunting voice, and the song was underpinned by an acoustic guitar and a cello. The whole thing was gorgeous, and it made Bella think of mountains, deep Scottish lochs, forests and fairies. Maybe she could design something with mist, and perhaps a pine forest, and...

She yelped as she felt the tap on her shoulder; reacting swiftly, she sat bolt upright, opened her eyes and pulled off the headphones.

Tarquin was standing next to her, his face full of remorse. ‘Sorry, Bella. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.’

Bella’s heart was galloping away. ‘You did give me a bit of a fright,’ she said. ‘I was listening to the CD—it’s really good.’

‘Yeah, we think so, too.’ He smiled. ‘Lacey’s a bit of a character. She always performs barefoot.’

‘Like a fairy.’ The words were out before Bella could stop them. ‘Sorry. Ignore me. Did you want something?’

‘Yes. Hugh just called down. Can you go up to his office?’

Uh-oh. This must mean that Hugh had seen her parcel and her card. And she had absolutely no idea what his reaction was going to be. ‘Um, sure,’ she said.

‘Don’t look so worried. The boss knows it’s your first day, so he probably just wants to say hello and welcome you to Insurgo,’ Tarquin said kindly.

Bella wasn’t so sure. If that was the case, why hadn’t Hugh come down to the open-plan office? She had a nasty feeling that she wasn’t going to be hearing a welcome speech but a ‘goodbye and never darken our doorstep again’ speech. Clearly the parcel she’d left on her new boss’s desk hadn’t been anywhere near enough of an apology.

Her fears must have shown on her face because Tarquin said, ‘His bark’s worse than his bite. He just isn’t a Monday morning person, that’s all. Whatever he says, don’t take it to heart, OK? Everyone else in the office will tell you the same—and if he does say something horrible to you, he’ll come and apologise to you in the afternoon when he’s human again. It’s just how he is.’

‘Right,’ Bella said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. ‘I’ll, um, be back in a minute, then?’ She switched off the music, scribbled the word ‘mist’ on a pad to remind herself what she’d been thinking about, and then headed for Hugh’s office, her stomach churning. Hesitantly, she rapped on the closed door.

‘Come in,’ he said, sounding brusque.

Tarquin obviously hadn’t been joking when he’d said that the boss wasn’t a Monday morning person.

And then her jaw almost dropped when she walked in. The last time she’d seen Hugh Moncrieff, he’d been clean-shaven and wearing a formal suit. Today, he was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with the Insurgo Records logo on it, and his dark hair looked as if he’d dragged his fingers through it instead of combing it. Teamed with the shadow of stubble on his face, it made him look as if he’d just got out of bed. He should’ve looked scruffy and faintly disgusting. But the whole package made him seem younger and much more approachable—not to mention sexy as hell—and her mouth went dry. Oh, help. She really had to remember that he was the boss, not just another one of the team. That made him totally off limits. And, besides, she didn’t want to risk her heart again. Which gave her a double reason not to act on the desire flickering through her—even if he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever met.

He indicated the box of chocolates sitting on his desk. ‘Why?’

Hugh was clearly a man of few words when it came to work. Or maybe it was his Monday morning-itis. ‘Why the gift? Or why chocolates?’ she asked.

‘Both.’

‘The gift is to say thank you, because you went way beyond the call of duty on Friday night. They’re chocolates, because I can hardly buy a man flowers,’ she said. ‘Did I give you enough money to cover everything, or do I still owe you?’

He handed her the envelope, which felt thick enough to contain most—if not all—of the money she’d enclosed with the card. ‘My shoes survived, and the taxi and dry-cleaning bill weren’t much,’ he said.

She knew that wasn’t true. The taxi firm would’ve charged him for valeting the cab and for lost earnings while the cab was out of action, being cleaned. ‘I’d rather you kept it,’ she said, putting the envelope back on his desk. ‘To cover the inconvenience.’

‘No need,’ he said firmly. ‘Is your sister OK? She looked terrible.’

Bella was grateful he hadn’t mentioned the ‘incident’. ‘Grace barely even drinks, normally,’ she said, not wanting him to think badly of her sister. ‘Friday was totally out of character for her. She’s the sensible and together one who sorts everything out; I’m the flaky and unreli—’ She stopped mid-word, realising what she was about to blurt out. ‘Not when it comes to my job, obviously. I’m very together where my work is concerned,’ she added swiftly.

‘But in your personal life you’re flaky and unreliable?’ he asked.

‘Not unreliable, even—just the one who opens her mouth without thinking things through,’ she said ruefully. ‘As you’ve just heard.’

‘But you rescued your sister when she needed your help,’ he said softly. ‘That definitely counts in your favour. Is she OK?’

‘She will be,’ Bella said. ‘I’ve never known her to drink three glasses of champagne in a row, let alone on an empty stomach. I think that’s why... Well. What happened, happened,’ she finished, squirming slightly.

‘Thank you for the chocolates. They’re appreciated,’ he said. ‘And you have good taste.’

‘I have good taste in a lot of things.’ And then, when she saw the momentary flicker in those amazing blue eyes, she wished the words unsaid. ‘I wasn’t flirting with you,’ she added quickly.

His expression said, much. ‘Take the money,’ he said. ‘I don’t need it. Use it to take your sister out to dinner or something.’

‘Just no champagne, right?’

This time, he smiled. ‘Right. Welcome to Insurgo, Ms Faraday.’

‘Thank you, Mr Moncrieff.’ Formality was good. It put distance between them. And it would stop her getting crazy ideas about a man with a mouth that promised sin and eyes that promised pleasure. Ideas she most definitely couldn’t let herself act upon.

‘Are you settling in all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Tarquin’s given me my first brief and I’m working on it now. The limited edition single.’ She paused. ‘He said it was coloured vinyl. I have to admit, I don’t know that much about how records are physically made. Can the vinyl be any colour you like?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you could do clear vinyl with little wisps of mist running through it?’

He looked surprised. ‘Yes. Would that tie in with your design?’

‘It’s what the music makes me think of. Obviously it’s just an idea at this stage,’ she said swiftly, not wanting to put him off. ‘I’ll do some rough mock-ups of three or four ideas, and then I’m discussing them with Tarquin this afternoon.’

‘Good. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.’

She blinked, surprised. ‘You’re going to be in the meeting as well?’

‘Not that one,’ he said. ‘But when you and Tarquin have agreed which one to work on, then you come and convince me.’

‘Challenge accepted.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Oh, for pity’s sake. This wasn’t about a challenge. This was about...about...