loan nor a bigger overdraft.’
John sighed. ‘Well, as the Silicon Valley set-up is in an even bigger mess than we are, that means we’ve no alternative but to negotiate with Salingers.’
‘It won’t be easy. They’re a tough lot. They have us over a barrel and they know it.
‘Even so, we can’t afford to let them have the controlling interest if we can possibly help it. We need to keep it down to no more than forty-five per cent of the shares.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Go up to fifty per cent if you have to. When are you going to see them?’
‘I’m going to their Baker Street offices first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s good, we’ve no time to spare. Who will you be seeing?’
‘I’ve an appointment to see a Mr Calhoun, one of their top men.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. He’s a tough nut to crack, by all accounts.’
Wanting to take the worried look off her father’s face, Perdita hastily changed the subject. ‘Oh, by the way, Sally mentioned that she’d like to pop in later, if that’s all right with you?’
‘It’s fine by me.’
‘She said something about getting her own back.’
He grinned. ‘She has a pocket chess set, and the last game we played, I beat her.’
Then seriously, ‘I take it she’s looking after you all right?’
‘Can you doubt it?’
‘Not really. Sometimes I wonder how we ever managed without her.’
When their previous housekeeper had left to get married, Sally Eastwood, an attractive English widow of forty-five, home from the States after her American husband died, had taken the post.
Hard-working and sunny-natured, in the ensuing six months Sally had proved to be an absolute gem. Born and bred in Lancashire, she had soon become part of the family.
A tap at the door announced the lunchtime trolley.
‘Well, I’d better be on my way,’ Perdita said, stooping to kiss her father’s cheek.
‘The best of luck for tomorrow, lass,’ he said, touching her hand.
Then, obviously trying to hide his anxiety, ‘I don’t hold out much hope of reaching an agreement straight away though, heaven knows, we need to.’
‘If there does seem to be any chance of an agreement, will you need to consult Elmer first?’
‘No. He’s given me carte blanche to do whatever is necessary to save the company.’ Then, quickly, ‘When you’ve been to see Calhoun, you’ll let me know how things are going?’
‘Of course.’
She and her father had always been very close, and Perdita knew how much he hated being hors de combat at this crucial time.
Her face soft and concerned, she went on, ‘I know you’d much rather you or Martin were doing this negotiating, but—’
‘That’s just where you’re wrong, lass,’ he broke in firmly. ‘You’ve got what it takes, and I think your chances of pulling it off are appreciably better than mine. Or Martin’s, for that matter.’
Martin, who lived with them in London and ran the Technical Information side of the company, was the only son of Elmer Judson, John’s American business partner. As well as being the apple of Elmer’s eye, Martin was also a lifelong favourite of John’s, taking the place of the son he had never had.
So for him to say that she had a better chance of pulling it off than either himself or Martin was high praise indeed.
Pleased by his vote of confidence, Perdita had walked back through the park. Feeling hungry, and lured by the sight of an empty bench in the sun, she had sat down to eat the sandwiches that Sally had packed for her, before continuing back to work.
Once back at the company’s Calder Street offices, she would grab a quick cup of coffee before starting the afternoon’s work.
While her father was convalescing, and Martin was in Japan on urgent business, Perdita was to all intents and purposes, running the firm.
Whilst coping with the extra pressure of work, she was struggling to make the final preparations for her wedding to Martin, which was now only six weeks away.
He had bought her a beautiful diamond solitaire, and their engagement had been officially announced early that spring, bringing in its wake an absolute whirl of activity.
But things were finally coming together. The church and the caterers had been booked, her dress was being made by Claude Rodine, and yesterday, after consulting her father, she had made the final arrangements for a marquee to be erected on the lawn of their home in Mecklen Square.
Now, all that still remained to be done was…
Her train of thought was suddenly and violently derailed by the sight of a tall, well-built man with dark hair leaving a taxi that had just drawn up outside Piccadilly’s Arundel Hotel.
Brought up short by the shock, Perdita stopped dead in her tracks, scarcely aware that another pedestrian following on her heels had to sidestep abruptly to avoid walking into her.
No! It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! She had to be mistaken.
But, as the man paid the driver and turned to head for the hotel entrance, she knew that she had made no mistake. She could have picked out that clear-cut, handsome profile from a million others.
‘Oh, dear God,’ she breathed.
Jared.
Jared who, after all this time, still had the power to stop her heart.
He had reached the entrance when, as if sensing her presence, he paused and looked back.
Always in the past, on entering even a crowded room, he had known precisely where she was without having to look.
Now, as he turned his head and their eyes met, she felt as if she had been kicked in the solar plexus.
While she stood and gazed at him, rooted to the spot, he smiled slowly, mirthlessly.
That smile made her blood run cold. The moment she had dreaded, and felt in the depths of her being was inevitable, had arrived.
Adrenalin surged through her and, though she knew it was hopeless, knew he wouldn’t let her go so easily, she turned blindly to run.
As he moved to intercept her headlong flight, a taxi that had pulled up alongside her to drop a fare started to draw away.
Dragging open the door, she scrambled in anyhow and, weak-kneed and trembling, her heart
