Accepting the Boss's Proposal
What did he think her evening was like? Miles Kingsley really had no idea how the other half lived. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, keying in the password.
‘I went to see the new production of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. It’s not my favourite play, but it was excellent. That reminds me,’ he said, finishing off the last of his coffee. ‘Send some flowers to Emma Lawler at Ashworths for me. The address is in that box. I’ve got an account with Weldon Florists. Ask for Becky.’
Jemima flicked through the ‘A’ section and pulled out the ‘Ashworths’ card. She couldn’t quite believe he was asking her to do this. One would think he’d manage to send his own girlfriend some flowers and not have to get his secretary to do it for him.
‘Not roses. Try for something more…’
‘More what?’ Jemima asked, her pencil hovering over the pad.
Miles flashed a smile. ‘Neutral. Tell Becky it’s the end of a beautiful friendship. She’ll know what you mean.’
Good grief. Was he really ending a relationship so casually? ‘And what message do you want?’
Miles picked up his file. ‘The usual. Thanks for a nice evening and I’ll be in touch,’ he said cheerfully, putting his mug down on her desk. ‘When you’ve got a second, I’d love another coffee. No rush.’
Miles rubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck and listened to the high-pitched panic on the other end of the phone. Some days….
If the blasted woman, and that was putting it mildly, had done as he’d advised there wouldn’t be a picture of her in the News of the World. He let his long fingers idly play with the paper-clips he kept in a small Perspex box. She’d been in the business long enough to know the kind of caption she’d get if she got caught without make-up—so what had possessed her to go out like that? It was hardly rocket science to know there’d be one or two paparazzi, at least, who’d be hanging about on the off chance of their getting something.
Well, it seemed they’d hit the jackpot. No editor alive would have been able to resist pictures like that. He sat back in his chair and mouthed ‘coffee’ at Jemima, who was coming in with the morning mail.
Did his temporary secretary ever crack a smile? The woman seemed to be perpetually frowning. Or perhaps it was just him that had that effect on her? Jemima was efficient enough, but she wasn’t like Zoë and the sooner she was back from Hong Kong the better. Given a choice he really would prefer a bit of humour in his working day.
‘Lori,’ he interrupted the distressed woman on the other end of the phone, ‘there’s nothing we can do about pictures that are already in the public domain. I know we’ve got an injunction out on the topless photographs you did when you were twenty, but this really isn’t the same situation and I—’
Miles frowned in irritation as she launched off again. Her famously husky tones transmuted into something quite uncharacteristic. Lori obviously needed to vent her spleen somewhere and he was a safe pair of hands.
‘It’s not the same situation at all. Lori, you need to keep a low profile at the moment. You and I both know how this works. Give it a couple of weeks and they’ll be after the scent of someone else’s blood—’
He watched as Jemima came back in to the room carrying his coffee. She’d eased off slightly on the formal clothes since her first morning, but she was still the most ‘old before her time’ woman he’d met in a long time. She dressed like a woman between forty and fifty and yet he was sure she was younger than that. She could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.
Miles studied her intently. She probably would look dramatically more attractive if she did something with her hair other than tie it back in a low pony-tail. It was the most amazing colour. A natural redhead. His mouth curved into a sexy smile. It wasn’t often you met a natural redhead.
‘Lori, it’ll be two weeks at worst.’ He picked up his pen and started to doodle on the A4 pad in front of him—large abstract boxes which he shaded in with swift strokes. Then he wrote ‘Keira’, around which he put flourishing curlicues. ‘If any member of the royal family do anything remotely newsworthy it’ll be less than that.’
Jemima placed his coffee in front of him and he looked up to mouth his thanks. It irked him that he couldn’t get any real response out of her. She didn’t talk about anything personal. Not her husband, nor her children. Nothing. She didn’t even seem to have any kind of social life. A question as to what she’d done the night before had elicited a blank look.
And she didn’t seem to like him much. Every so often he would catch her watching him with those big green eyes and her expression wasn’t complimentary. She seemed to be on the verge between contempt and amusement. All in all, he wasn’t sure what to make of her.
He turned his attention back to Lori. ‘Just make sure you don’t give any kind of statement to the press. Do you understand me? It’s very important.’
Miles finished his call and flicked through his mail. There was nothing there that particularly caught his attention and his eyes moved over the doodles he’d drawn on his pad of paper—Keira. Keira Rye-Stanford. Now she was one very…sexy woman. That wraparound dress she’d worn last night had seemingly been held together with one very small bow. Just one pull would have…
He stood up and walked over to the door between his office and the outer one. ‘Jemima.’
She looked up from the computer screen, a small frown of concentration on her forehead. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you arrange to have some flowers sent to a Keira Rye-Stanford at—’ he pulled the name of her art gallery out from the recesses of his memory ‘—at Tillyard’s. You’ll find the address in the directory.’
‘Keira Rye-Stanford?’
He could hear the censure in her voice, as though she were reminding him he’d sent flowers to someone entirely different three days earlier. ‘That’s right.’
‘What would you like to send?’
Miles conjured up an image of Keira—a Celtic beauty with a soft Irish lilt and a very seductive glint in her blue eyes. She was a woman who probably received flowers often. And that meant one needed to be creative.
He smiled. ‘A dandelion.’
Jemima looked up, her pencil poised on her pad. ‘You want to send a dandelion?’
‘With a message:
Roses are red, Violets are blue,
This is a Dandelion, but it’s for you.
Ask them to wrap it in cellophane with a big bow and deliver it to the reception desk at Tillyard’s.’
‘A dandelion?’
‘Trust me,’ he said with a wink as he headed back towards his office, ‘it works. Every time.’
Jemima finished writing his message and thumped her pencil down on top of the pad.
He stopped. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
Jemima’s green eyes flashed, but she answered smoothly. ‘If the florist does, I’ll let you know.’
‘She won’t. She’ll just charge me the earth,’ he said, shutting the door to his office.
What was Jemima’s problem? Anyone would think he was asking her to pick the blasted dandelion herself, instead of picking up the telephone and calling a florist he had an account with. Becks would think it a giggle. He could guarantee she’d make a first rate job of it. Keira would receive a disproportionately large cellophane-wrapped weed tied together with a classy ribbon. Perfect.
His telephone buzzed and he picked up the receiver with a casual, ‘Miles.’
‘It’s an Emma Lawler. She’s says it’s personal.’ His temporary secretary’s voice was bland.
‘Thanks, Jemima. Put her through.’ Miles sat back in his chair and waited for Emma’s breathless voice to speak before he said, ‘Did you get my flowers?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘PLEASE come tonight. It’ll be fun. Alistair’s best man is going to be here—and he’s single.’
Jemima closed her eyes against Rachel’s voice. Why did she do this? Why did everybody do this?
‘You’ll like him.’
‘I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone else,’ Jemima protested weakly, carrying the phone through to the lounge and curling up in one oversized sofa. Been there, done that and burnt the T-shirt. The man who could get under her defences was going to have to have more ability than Houdini himself.
‘Just because Russell is a complete arse it doesn’t mean all men are.’
She knew that, of course she did. Not that Russell was an ‘arse’, as Rachel put it. If he had been it would have made everything so much easier. He was a nice man—who didn’t love her any more. He was very sorry about it, but…
He just didn’t. Simple as that, apparently. He’d sat down opposite her in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon and explained that he needed time apart. Time to think about what he wanted from life. Of course, in the end he’d decided he’d rather have a blonde account executive from Chiswick called Stefanie.
How had that happened? Had he woken up one morning and suddenly realised he felt nothing for her? Or had it been something that had come on gradually, almost without him noticing it? Jemima shook her head as though to rid herself of those thoughts. Dissecting every part of their marriage like that was the surest way of going insane. Sometimes she felt as if she was hanging by a thread anyway.
‘I’m not trying to pair you up, really. He’s not your type.’ Rachel’s voice seemed to radiate happiness. ‘We just thought it would be a nice way of you two meeting before the wedding. The boys are with Russell this weekend, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then,’ Rachel said, as though that settled everything. ‘No point sitting in on your own. Alistair is cooking—so you don’t have to worry about food poisoning.’
Jemima gave in to the inevitable. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’
‘Just you. Come early. I’ve been dying to show you the Jimmy Choo sandals I’ve chosen to go with my dress. I’ve had to take out a second mortgage, but they are to die for and since I’m only going to do this once…’ She broke off. ‘Hell, I’m sorry. That was really insensitive of me.’
The contrition in her friend’s voice brought a smile to her face. ‘Don’t be daft.’ Her finger followed the shape of the agapanthus leaf design on the sofa fabric. ‘Alistair’s lovely and I’m sure you’re going to be very happy together.’
‘I really should try and engage my brain before I speak. It’s just this wedding stuff is all-encompassing. I don’t seem to be able to think about anything else at the moment. It’s all dresses, bouquets, flowers, table settings…I’m really sorry. And I haven’t even asked you anything about your new job yet. What a cow I am!’
‘There’s not a lot to tell.’ Jemima idly twisted the navy-blue tassel at the corner of the cushion. ‘I’ve only done a couple of weeks.’
And I hate it. I hate being away from the boys. Hate missing meeting up with my friends. Hate my life being different from the way I planned it. No point saying any of that. There was no way Rachel would understand how she felt about working at Kingsley and Bressington.
‘Are the girls you’re working with nice?’
‘Girls’ was just about the only way to describe them. Jemima thought of Saskia with her board-flat stomach, Lucinda with her exquisite and very large solitaire engagement ring, Felicity with her nails…
‘Everyone’s very friendly.’
‘But?’ Rachel prompted. ‘Go on, tell me. I can hear it in your voice. How’s it going really?’
There was going to be no escape. ‘Everyone’s incredibly friendly,’ she said slowly. ‘Just a little young, maybe. I feel a bit like Methuselah.’
‘You’re only thirty,’ Rachel objected. ‘And so am I, for that matter! Nothing old about being thirty.’
Jemima smiled. ‘Well, I reckon the average age of the female staff is about twelve. Thirteen at the outside. And I don’t think there’s a woman in the building apart from me who doesn’t have prominent hip-bones and the kind of skin that doesn’t need foundation. It’s all a bit depressing.’
Rachel gave a cackle of laughter. ‘You should be used to that. Growing up with Verity as your sister must have been really depressing.’
‘You’d think so,’ Jemima agreed, ‘but honestly, Saskia makes even my sister look fat. They all sit around at lunchtime telling each other they’re completely full on a plate of lettuce and make me feel guilty for eating a cheese sandwich. At least Verity moans about being hungry.’
‘You’re wicked. What about the guy you’re working for?’
‘England’s answer to Casanova?’ Jemima said with a sudden smile. ‘He’s nice enough. Very calm in a crisis, obviously brilliant at his job and completely full of himself. Yesterday he got me to send a dandelion to this poor woman he’d met at a party the night before. Says it works every time…’
Jemima trailed off as she watched her ex-husband’s silver BMW drive up the road.
‘Did it work?’
‘Rachel, I’m going to have to go. I’ve just seen Russell arriving. I’ll see you tonight.’
Jemima finished the call and called out, ‘Ben. Sam. Daddy’s here.’
She glanced across at the mantelpiece clock. He was five minutes early. He’d now sit in the car until it was exactly ten. She hated the way he did that. Why couldn’t he be like other absent fathers and gradually drift out of their lives? It would be so much easier if he simply disappeared.
Guilt slid in—as it always did. She shouldn’t have thought that. She didn’t mean it. It was great that Russell didn’t let his boys down. Turned up when he said he would. Great that he paid everything he should—and on time. Really, really great.
Jemima uncurled from the sofa and threw the cushion across to the armchair. It just didn’t feel so great.
‘Ben. Sam.’ She walked to the foot of the stairs and shouted again. ‘Ben? Did you hear me? Daddy’s here.’
Ben appeared, shuttered from all emotion. Almost. His eyes were over-bright and his body was stiff. ‘I don’t want to go.’
She hated this. ‘I know, darling,’ she said softly.
‘I want to go to the football tournament.’ Ben walked slowly down the stairs. ‘Everyone’s going to be there. Joshua’s mum is going to take a picnic.’
‘I know, but Daddy has been looking forward to seeing you. He loves his weekends with you.’
The front doorbell rang. Jemima glanced at her wrist-watch. Exactly ten o’clock. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Russell was so…damn reasonable.
She looked at Ben as he picked up his bag. ‘It’ll be fun when you’re there.’ What a stupid thing to say. That wasn’t the point. Ben was eight years old and he wanted to play football with his friends. Of course he did…
‘You’ll be okay.’
He nodded.
‘And you’ll have a really great time.’
Ben put his backpack on his shoulders. ‘What are you going to do, Mum?’
‘Me?’ What was she going to do without them? Cry a little…Miss them a lot…The same as every other weekend they spent with their father. ‘I’m going to spend the day trying to decorate the bathroom, maybe get some tiles up, and then I’m going to go and have supper with Rachel and Alistair. I’ll be fine.’ She forced a bright smile and wondered how convincing she was. ‘It’s not long. Just one night and you’ll be home again.’
The doorbell rang again.
‘Will you go and hurry Sam up for me?’
She watched him climb the stairs and counted to ten before she opened the front door. It didn’t matter how prepared she thought she was, seeing Russell always felt strange. In the space of a millisecond she remembered the first time he’d kissed her, the proposal in a felucca in Vienna, the way he’d cried when Ben was born…
Russell looked good. Clearly he’d decided to keep up his gym membership and she liked the way he’d let his hair grow a little longer. Jemima wrapped her arms protectively around her waist. ‘Ben’s just gone to find Sam. They’re all ready.’
Russell nodded. ‘There’s no hurry.’ Silence and then, ‘How are things?’
‘Fine.’
Another pause. ‘That’s excellent.’ He rattled his car keys and looked uncomfortable.
He always did that too, Jemima thought. What exactly did he think she was going to do? Cry? Scream at him? He flattered himself. She was a long way past that. ‘You?’
‘Yes, well, we’re fine.’ He stood a little straighter. ‘Stef’s just got a promotion…’
‘That’s…great.’
‘She’s heading up a team of three.’
Jemima nodded. She was proud of herself for being so grown-up and dignified. But why exactly did Russell think she’d be interested in the career progression of the woman he’d left them for? No, she corrected swiftly. The woman he’d left her for.
‘Daddy!’ Sam hurled himself along the hallway. ‘It’s Daddy!’
The change in Russell was instantaneous. The smile on his face gripped her heart and screwed it tight. He reached down and caught the tornado. ‘Hiya, imp.’
‘I’ve lost another tooth.’ Sam pulled a wide grin, showing a huge expanse of pure gum.
‘Did the tooth fairy come?’
Ben pushed past. ‘There’s no such thing. It’s Mum. No one believes in the tooth fairy any more.’
Above his head Russell met her eyes. Jemima gave a half smile, then a shrug. ‘Have a good time.’ She reached out and touched Ben’s head. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Then she had to watch the three of them walk to the car.
She really hated this.
Still.
How many weekends had it been now? Was there ever going to be a time when it didn’t feel as if part of her was being ripped out of her body when she saw her sons walk away? She felt exactly like a piece of string which had been pulled so tight it had started to fray.
Miles locked his Bristol 407 and sauntered over to the three-storey Victorian house where Alistair and Rachel had bought their first flat together. It was nice. High ceilings, plenty of original features, good area…and that oh, so rare commodity—outside space in the form of a tiny courtyard garden.
Normally he really enjoyed his visits to their home. Every so often it was pleasant to spend an evening where there were no demands placed on him, no expectations. They were a calm oasis in a life that was becoming increasingly pressured.
But…
He pulled a face. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely looking forward to the next few hours. An evening spent discussing weddings wasn’t exactly high on his list of favourite things to do with a Saturday night. But hey…
He reached up and rang the bell. If his old school friend had finally decided to take the plunge, the least he could do was be there to see it. The poor beggar probably only had a year or so before their country place in Kent was filled with bright plastic toys and the first of several mini-Mackenzies. Grim.
The door opened suddenly and Rachel met him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you’d be Jemima,’ she said, glancing up the tree-lined street. ‘I wonder where she’s got to. I bet her car is playing up. She was coming early to look at my shoes.’
‘Would you like me to look at your shoes?’ he asked lazily.
Rachel turned back to him. ‘You behave or I’ll make you wear a pink floral waistcoat! Go on in.’
‘For you—anything,’ he glinted, leaning forward to place a light kiss on her cheek.
‘You’ll find Alistair in the kitchen doing something clever with the duck.’
She shut the door behind him and Miles shrugged out of his tan leather jacket and threw it over the oak church chair they kept in the hall. ‘So, tell me, will I fancy the bridesmaid?’
‘Quite possibly—’ she grinned up at him ‘—but I doubt it’ll be reciprocated. She’s a woman of taste and discernment. Actually, I don’t think I have any friends who would deign to join your harem.’
Miles smiled and wandered through to where Alistair was stirring something in a small saucepan. He looked up as his friend walked in. ‘Talking about Jemima?’
‘He wants to know whether he’ll fancy her,’ Rachel said, leaning over to see how the sauce looked. ‘Should it be that lumpy?’ Then, as the doorbell rang, ‘That’ll be her. Excellent.’
Alistair watched her leave with an expression of amusement and turned back to his sauce. ‘Lumpy! Just about escaped with her life. Miles, grab yourself a drink.’
Miles sauntered over and poured himself out a large glass of red wine from the bottle on the side. ‘You?’
‘Got one,’ Alistair said, with a nod at the glass by his side. ‘How’s work? I saw Lori Downey’s double page spread and thought you might be having it tough.’
Miles grunted and took a mouthful of the full-bodied wine. ‘This is nice.’
‘Rachel and I got it in Calais last month. Our car was so laden it’s a wonder we weren’t stopped.’ In the hallway they could hear the mumble of female voices. ‘Sounds like Jemima’s here at last.’
Miles perched on a high bar stool, feeling more relaxed than he had done all week. He set his wineglass down on the side and idly started stirring the sugar in the bowl. ‘I’ve got a Jemima temping for me at the moment. Amanda sent her to me.’
‘Good?’
‘She’s fine.’
Alistair smiled. ‘Damned with faint praise.’
‘Something like that. You can’t fault what she does when she’s in the office, but she arrives at the last possible moment and leaves as soon as she can. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t socialise with the girls.’ Miles picked up his wineglass. ‘She dresses like her mother and obviously thinks my florist bill is too high.’
‘Can’t blame her for that. Rachel thinks your florist bill is too high.’
The voices from the hall became louder.
Miles watched as Alistair carefully decanted his sauce into a jug. ‘That doesn’t say much for Rachel’s judgement. Are you sure about marrying her?’
Alistair laughed. ‘One of the most attractive things about Rachel is that she prefers me to you. Go easy on the futility of marriage stories tonight. Jemima’s been through a traumatic divorce. Russell left her with a house to renovate and two boys to bring up on her own. She’s a bit brittle.’
‘So I’m not even allowed to flirt with the bridesmaid—’ He broke off as soon as the door opened, but he could see from Alistair’s face that he thought they may have been overheard. He felt a vague sense of sympathy. If he knew anything about women—and he did—Rachel would have her fiancé’s kneecaps for that fauxpas.
‘Miles—’ Rachel’s voice sounded ominously clipped ‘—this is Jemima. My bridesmaid.’
He turned round, ready to pour oil on troubled waters…and felt his smile falter. It was as if he’d stepped through a portal to an alternative universe. Rachel was standing with her arm tucked through Jemima Chadwick’s.
And, stranger than that, Jemima Chadwick as he’d never seen her before.
Her red hair was a riot of curls and she was dressed in a simple linen sundress. She looked crumpled, curvy and surprisingly sexy. He felt that familiar kick in the pit of his abdomen that was pure reflex. It was all a bit surreal.
‘This is Miles Kingsley. Alistair and Miles were at school together and, scarily, have known each other for something like thirty years.’
Somehow he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Thoughts were whizzing through his head, but they didn’t stay still long enough to know whether they were worth putting words on. Even a simple hello seemed to elude him.
Alistair leapt into action, clearly motivated to bonhomie by the ‘brittle’ mistake. ‘Absolutely right. Miss Henderson’s class. Aged five. Abbey Preparatory School, Windsor. What can I get you to drink, Jemima?’
She moved further into the room. ‘White wine would be lovely. Thank you.’
Jemima Chadwick.
Here.
And looking so different. Smelling of…roses. Her red curls still damp…
Miles found that his mind was thinking in expletives. It was almost unbelievable that Jemima Chadwick could have transformed herself so entirely. The woman who’d left the office on Friday evening bore very little resemblance to the one who’d arrived for dinner tonight.
At work she looked…bland. Completely invisible, as though she didn’t expect to be looked at. In fact, very married. His eyes flicked to her ring finger. Nothing. He’d not noticed that. He hadn’t noticed she had legs like that either…