of heights.’ For a moment he believed her, then, when she had him hooked, she grinned. ‘How else do you think I managed to drum up so much sponsorship?’
‘You could have pinned your victims down and threatened to pour coffee over them unless they signed on the dotted line?’ he offered. She was bright and bubbly, and no doubt very good at this kind of mindless nonsense, but she wasn’t his idea of a company director.
She acknowledged his bull’s-eye with the slightest nod. ‘I’ll bear that in mind for next year. Thanks for the tip.’
‘There won’t be a next year.’
‘Well, no, not a bungee-jump, but…’ She suddenly realised that he wasn’t referring to the bungee-jump, but the imminent eviction of the Claibournes from the boardroom. ‘But I’ll come up with something equally exciting,’ she continued firmly. ‘If you’d like to show your own enthusiasm it’s not too late to phone your office and drum up some sponsorship yourself. It’s for a great cause, and I’m sure there are any number of people who’d pay good money to see you jump a hundred feet from a crane with an elastic band tied to your feet.’ Her smile was gratingly sweet as she offered him her phone. ‘It’s being broadcast on the internet,’ she added, ‘so they’ll be able to watch the whole thing live and get their money’s worth.’ Then, because she couldn’t resist it, ‘I’ll sponsor you myself.’
He’d just bet she would, but he shook his head. ‘I’ll stick to the arrangement we made. You do whatever you usually do. I’ll observe.’ No hardship on the eye, at least. Just on the brain. ‘You are jumping?’
‘One of the Claibournes had to make the opening jump and since India and Flora suddenly discovered pressing appointments elsewhere…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a pity, though. If I’d known you’d be here I could have billed us both as the opening jump. We’ve already got the front page of Celebrity magazine for next week, but with you arriving out of the blue we could have sold pictures to the financial pages, too.’
‘How much have you raised in sponsorship?’
‘Personally?’ She glanced up at the crane. ‘Is it worth risking my neck for fifty-three thousand pounds do you think?’
‘Fifty-three thousand pounds?’ He was impressed, but he wasn’t about to show it. ‘That many people want to see you scared to death?’
‘Scared to death?’ Her eyes widened, making them appear impossibly large.
‘Isn’t that the point? You make a big thing out of being terrified of heights so your sponsors pay out to hear you scream.’
There was a pause before she said, ‘I must make sure to give them value for money. Thanks for reminding me,’ she said as her attention was claimed by a young woman bearing a sweatshirt.
‘Who’s the dishy bloke?’
‘Dishy?’ Romana didn’t have to follow her assistant’s avid gaze. Molly could only be talking about Niall. ‘He’s not dishy.’ He was mind-numbingly gorgeous. The kind of man that would have a girl dropping coffee and everything else if he so much as smiled. Maybe that was why he didn’t smile. It was too dangerous.
‘Crumbs, Romana, get your eyes tested. You don’t often get tall, dark and the look of the devil all in one package.’
That summed him up perfectly, and she felt a little tremor somewhere in her midriff that had nothing at all to do with jumping into space. ‘Should a married woman be having such thoughts about a man who is not her husband?’
‘I’m married, Romana. Not dead.’
‘Well, you can put your eyes back in their sockets. He might be good to look at but I promise you he’s not nice to know. The man is dour. With a capital D. A real cold fish. His name is Niall Macaulay and he’s one of the Farraday clan—’
‘I didn’t know there were any real live Farradays.’
‘Unfortunately they’re as real and as live as you can get. This one is a dominant male of the species and he’s going to be shadowing my role with the company for the next month.’ And marking her out of ten for technique. She didn’t think he’d be interested in artistic merit.
‘You mean he’s the one being squeezed into your box at the gala tonight? You lucky cow! Do you think he’d like some coffee?’ she asked hopefully.
‘He needs something,’ she said, with feeling. ‘A charm implant would be a definite improvement. But I’d advise against offering him coffee if you value your life.’ She looked up at the crane and shivered. ‘One of us has to be at the gala this evening.’
‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to smile for the cameras. It’ll probably be the cover picture, so when you put on that sweatshirt make sure the C&F logo is front and centre. I’d stay and help, but I have to meet the caterers at the theatre.’
Smile for the camera? Smile?
A teeth-baring grimace was all she could manage as she stared in the mirror and retouched her lipstick for the television camera which would follow her every move once she emerged from the caravan. She’d have bitten it all off long before she reached the jump platform. Not good. She put the lipstick in her pocket, along with her handbag mirror, for a last-minute touch-up. If she could keep her hand sufficiently steady.
She caught herself fluffing her hair. Again. Holding her arms firmly at her sides, she fixed a smile to her lips and emerged from the caravan to be met by the television director.
‘Great,’ she said absently as he ran through what would happen. But her mind was somewhere else. On Niall Macaulay, who was standing a few yards away. It was hard to tell if he was regretting his decision to join her. His expression gave nothing away. ‘Sure you won’t join me, Niall? A Farraday jumping would be the icing on the cake. And it would really prove your commitment.’
The director spun to look at him. ‘Hey, this is great. If you could just change as quickly as you can, Mr Farraday—’
‘The name is Macaulay.’ The director looked confused. ‘Niall Farraday Macaulay. And there are more than enough people around here desperate to fling themselves into space for a good cause. I don’t want to be selfish and hold things up.’ Romana gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t fooling her with his lack of selfishness. ‘I’ll sponsor Miss Claibourne instead.’
Romana was temporarily speechless. It was the second time he’d done that to her today, and she didn’t like it.
‘Niall Farraday Macaulay?’ she asked him as she went to weigh in. ‘You really are called that?’
‘It’s a family tradition. A reminder that our time will come.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ she said. Then turned away to take the card to be handed to the jump team. She took it in fingers that were losing any sense of feeling. Only her mouth was working, running away with her, joking to the camera about getting vertigo standing on a high kerb…
It avoided having to think about what was ahead.
She wasn’t thinking at all, or she might have distracted the photographer from Celebrity magazine when he wanted to take a picture of the two of them together. Yet, even numb with terror, the PR side of her brain
