they passed the window, Paula said, ‘Goodbye, Sebastian.’
He swivelled his dark head, nodded curtly, and she was so startled by the naked hatred etched on his cold and bitter face she hardly heard his muttered response. She had recognized a most dangerous enemy.
Paula was blazing mad.
Walking rapidly down the Headrow, one of the main thoroughfares in Leeds, she soon put distance between herself and the Aire Communications building. Her mind was racing. Although she had felt the sharp thrust of Sebastian Cross’s vindictive and combative personality, had readily acknowledged that he detested her and had become her arch enemy, her thoughts now centred on his father, and with good reason. Having more or less agreed to her terms right from the start, John Cross had ultimately reneged, and, moreover, in the most treacherous and despicable way.
It did not require much analysis on her part to understand why he had done so. It was apparent that he did not want to lose face in front of his domineering son, whose presence had unnerved him, made him defensive and, very possibly, more reckless than he had ever been in his entire life. Yet surely his honour and integrity were important to him too, took precedence over everything else? And what about retaining his son’s respect? She laughed hollowly at herself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. A young man of Sebastian’s perfidious nature had never made the acquaintance of those particular qualities. During the meeting, when she had understood that John Cross was not to be trusted, she had been momentarily astonished. He enjoyed a good reputation in Yorkshire’s business community, had always been considered honourable if not necessarily the wisest of men. That he would go back on his word was inconceivable to her.
Her pace accelerated, and so did her anger, as she recalled the energy and thought and time she had expended on Aire Communications. Her grandmother was going to be as infuriated as she was. Emma Harte would not tolerate being played for a fool; neither could she abide anyone who did not deal from a straight deck. Grandy would handle the situation in one of two ways. She would either shrug disdainfully and turn away in disgust, or she would treat Mr Cross to a tongue lashing the likes of which he had never heard before. Her grandmother had an intractable sense of honour, never went back on her handshake or her word, both of which were as good as a written contract, as the whole world knew.
The thought of Emma Harte putting the duplicitous John Cross firmly in his place brought a flicker of a smile to Paula’s violet-blue eyes. He deserved that if nothing else. But in reality he was facing much worse than Emma’s acid tongue and her virulent condemnation. He was looking disaster right in the eye. Bankruptcy. Total ruin. Obliteration. She knew he was convinced that he could easily find another conglomerate or company to refinance Aire. She also knew he was absolutely wrong in this foolish belief. She had her ear to the ground, and the word was out. Nobody wanted to touch Aire Communications. Not even those ruthless and rapacious asset strippers who bought companies, plundered them, and then tossed to one side the empty shells which were left.
It suddenly occurred to Paula, as she cut down Albion Street, that, Unbelievable though it was, John Cross had no real conception of what was about to happen to him or his company. She thought then of those he would take down with him, and of the many employees at Aire who would be thrown out of work. We could have saved him, more importantly saved them, she muttered under her breath. The man is unconscionable. Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her, and this was one of the mandatory rules in Emma’s special code of ethics.
‘Great wealth and power bring enormous responsibilities, and don’t you ever forget that,’ Grandy had told her time and time again. ‘We must always look after those who work for us, and with us, because they help to make all this possible. And they rely on us, just as we rely on them in other ways,’ she had constantly pointed out. Paula was well aware that there were those magnates and industrialists who were jealous of Emma Harte, and who, as adversaries, misguidedly saw her as a hard, ruthless, driven and power-hungry woman. Yet even they did not have the temerity to deny that she was eminently fair. That was something every Harte employee knew from firsthand experience, hence their extraordinary loyalty and devotion to her grandmother, and their love for her.
Paula stopped abruptly, and took several deep breaths. She must get rid of the anger boiling inside her. It was exhausting, took too much of her precious energy – energy which could be directed elsewhere and to much better purpose. And besides, rage blocked reasonable and intelligent thought. She started to walk again, but now her step was slower and more regulated, and by the time she reached Commercial Street she had managed to calm herself considerably. She dawdled a little bit, stopping to glance in shop windows, until finally she was drawing to a standstill in front of E. Harte, her grandmother’s huge department store at the end of the street. She smiled at the uniformed doorman, whom she had known since childhood. ‘Hello, Alfred,’ she said, smiling.
‘’Ello, Miss Paula,’ he responded with a benevolent grin, touching his cap. ‘It’s a right beautiful day. Yes, luvely, it is that, Miss Paula. Let’s ’ope t’weather ’olds til termorrer, for yer bairns’ baptisms.’
‘Yes, let’s hope so, Alfred.’
He grinned again and pushed open the door for her. She thanked him, hurried through the perfumery department and took the lift to her office on the fourth floor. Her secretary, Agnes, looked up as she walked in, and exclaimed, with a small frown, ‘Oh dear, Mrs Fairley, you’ve just missed Mr O’Neill. Shane O’Neill, that is, and only by a few minutes too. What a shame. He waited for quite a while, then had to rush off to an appointment.’
‘Oh.’ Paula stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback, but she recovered herself, and asked quickly, ‘Did he say why he dropped in? Or leave a message?’
‘I gathered he was passing the store and decided to say hello on the spur of the moment. No message though, other than to tell you he would be coming to the christening.’
‘I see. Anything else, Agnes?’
‘Mr Fairley phoned from London. You can’t call him back, he was on his way to a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. He’ll be arriving on schedule, at six, with your parents. The other messages are on your desk. Nothing vital.’ Agnes hesitated, then asked, ‘How did your meeting go at Aire?’
Paula made a sour face. ‘Not good, Agnes. In fact I’d venture to say that it went extremely badly.’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Fairley. I know the amount of work you put in on those dreadful balance sheets, and then the hours you devoted to the contracts.’ Agnes Fuller, prematurely grey at thirty-eight, plain of feature and with a severe expression that actually betrayed the kindest of hearts, had worked her way up through the ranks of the Leeds store. She had been flattered yet apprehensive when Paula had promoted her to private secretary. After all, Paula was the heiress apparent, and Emma Harte’s favourite; also, there were those in the store who thought she was cold, remote, unyielding and something of a snob who lacked Emma’s extraordinary common touch. But Agnes had soon discovered that Paula had none of the characteristics so unkindly attributed to her by detractors. She was reserved of nature – even a little shy – cautious and prudent, and a veritable work horse, and these traits had, very simply, been misconstrued. Over the past three years, Agnes had come to love the younger woman, was admiring of her, and considered her to be a brilliant executive who was a warm and caring person and a considerate employer.
As she peered at her young boss through her bifocals, Agnes noticed that Paula was paler than usual, and drawn. She gave her a look of sympathy mingled with regret. ‘It’s all very annoying,’ she
