some of them even bought a book,’ Cassie said with a grin as she signed the books left on the table.
‘I know you hate these things. It was good of you to give up your morning.’
‘It was the least I could do. After all, catering for your wedding changed my life—’
‘Lunch with Nick Jefferson might well have done the same,’ Beth pointed out. ‘Have you ever considered the possibility that I might be your fairy godmother—?’
‘You’re not suggesting that Nick Jefferson is Prince Charming?’
‘Heaven forbid. I wouldn’t wish Prince Charming on any woman. Just consider... He lined up all the beauties in the land so that he could take his pick of them. And then he chose Cinderella by the size of her feet. How sad can you get?’
‘Well, when you put it like that...’
‘I do. I have to admit that you do have the daintiest little feet I’ve ever seen—but I have the feeling that Nick looks for a little more than that in a woman.’
‘Blonde hair, super-model looks?’ Cassie suggested.
‘Well, what do men know? As your fairy godmother my advice would have been to let him take you to lunch.’
‘I’d advise you to hang up your wand and quit while you’re ahead, Beth. Now, I’ve discovered this great little place down by the river. So, what do you say?’
‘Thank you?’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
Twenty floors above them in the Jefferson Tower, Nick Jefferson was facing a problem of his own. She was approaching him right now across the marble floor of the lobby. Tall, slender, with platinum hair that emphasised her glacial beauty, Veronica Grant was a distinctly superior female and since she’d been brought in as a consultant to work with the marketing department she’d had every man who worked at the headquarters of Jefferson Sports drooling over her every word, even the ones old enough and married enough to know better.
Not that she gave them any encouragement. Professional to her fingertips, she confined her conversation strictly to the job in hand. She appeared to be quite unaware of the testosterone rampaging in her wake as she walked through the building.
Appeared to be. Nick Jefferson was not entirely convinced about that. There wasn’t a woman yet born that oblivious of the ripples she caused as she walked across a room. Not when the ripples were of tidal-wave proportions. It had to be an act. Didn’t it?
The temptation to find out was almost irresistible. After all, his name headed the list of odds in the ‘Ice Queen Stakes’ that some clown had posted in the men’s room—hardly surprising in view of the fact that his family owned the business and that he was still, despite his thirty-three years, one of the few men on the list without at least one failed marriage behind him. A situation he was in no hurry to change. He’d seen the bitter aftermath of too many marriages that had ended on the rocks to be eager to rush into wedlock.
Not that his name seemed to impress Veronica Grant. She treated him with the same rather distant politeness that she bestowed on everyone else.
He wondered if she knew about the list. He’d ordered its removal the moment he’d seen it, well aware that the female thought-police of the typing pool would pounce on such political incorrectness with glee. But things like that had a way of getting around; which meant that simply asking her out to dinner the way he might any other new colleague was likely to be met with a certain amount of suspicion. He was well aware that more than one of his colleagues had made the mistake of being too eager. Her response had been a polite but definite ‘No, thank you’. No excuse. No face-saving suggestion that she was busy, or involved with someone else. Just a plain, unadorned ‘no’.
Was it just that she didn’t mix business with pleasure? he wondered. Or was she waiting for something better to come along? The heir apparent to the Jefferson Sports empire, for instance?
Veronica nodded as she fell in beside him at the lifts. ‘Hello, Nick.’ That was about as personal as her conversation got.
‘Veronica,’ he returned distractedly, stepping into the lift ahead of her, well aware that she would take instant offence at any suggestion of patronising deference to the weaker sex. Apparently she didn’t subscribe to the concept of a weaker sex and he was pretty sure that she could teach the typing pool a thing or two about PC behaviour.
‘What’s up, Nick? You look as if you’re about to report a slump in the sales figures.’
‘Do I?’ He didn’t allow his triumph at this small breakthrough to show, merely looked slightly puzzled. Then he said, ‘Oh, no. It’s my sister’s birthday next week. I’ve just bought her a cookery book—’
‘I saw Cassandra Cornwell had a signing.’
‘Yes, well, that’s the predictable gift. Now I’ve got to think of something special as a surprise.’
‘Send her a cheque.’
‘A cheque?’ That would certainly fulfil the surprise element. It surprised the hell out of him. ‘Isn’t that a bit... impersonal?’
‘But easy. And it saves time, postage and footwear. Believe me, it’s a great deal more enjoyable getting an impersonal cheque than being presented with something you’d be ashamed to put in the garbage.’
Her bluntness was refreshing, even if her assessment of his taste was less than flattering. But it was the longest conversation they’d had on any subject other than marketing in the three weeks since she’d moved into the office opposite his. Maybe he could string it out a little further, learn a little about her likes and dislikes.
‘It’s a tempting idea, but I don’t think it would go down too well with Helen. Kid sisters like to be spoiled a little, you know.’
‘Do they?’ She gave him a long, assessing glance from a pair of silvery blue eyes. ‘She can’t be that much of a kid.’
He shrugged. This was one hard female. Here he was, a warm, caring brother, worrying about a gift for his sister, and was this woman impressed? Would anything impress her? An uneasy feeling that it might be wiser to ignore the challenge on the men’s room wall abruptly hardened into determination to see just what it would take to soften her heart.
It wasn’t as if it would be a hardship, exactly. He considered the perfection of seemingly endless legs, the slender figure expensively clad in cool ice-blue linen that so exactly matched her character, the smooth platinum curve of hair. The contrast with the vivid, inviting warmth of Cassie Cornwell couldn’t have been more marked.
‘I suppose not,’ he conceded quickly, before his thoughts ran away with him. Dimpled little pouter pigeons were not his style. He’d always liked his women to have the lines of a well-bred greyhound. ‘Helen’s got four of her own.’
‘Four? Four children?’
If he’d suggested sex in the lift she couldn’t have been more shocked. ‘She started young,’ he explained. ‘And last time she had twins.’
‘In that case forget the cheque, just take
