here’s something different,’ he said, stretching for a touch of wry humour. ‘A French tradition for wasting money instead of a British one.’
Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, she was prepared to risk a smile of her own but instead she caught her breath as, his guard momentarily down, she caught a glimpse of the grey hollows beneath his eyes, at his temple.
Maybe he heard because he looked up, a slight frown puckering his brow.
‘What?’ he demanded.
She shook her head, managed some kind of meaningless response that appeared to satisfy him, but after that she kept her head down and finally it was all done but for the last invoice. The one for her own fee, which she’d reduced by twenty per cent, even though the cancellation had caused nearly as much work as the actual day would have done.
‘It’s as well you don’t offer a money back guarantee,’ he said.
‘My company’s services carry a guarantee,’ she assured him.
‘But not one that covers parts replacement.’
Which was almost a joke but this time she didn’t even think about smiling. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr McFarlane. The bride is entirely your responsibility.’
‘True,’ he said, surprising her. ‘But maybe you’re missing out on a business opportunity,’ he continued as, finally, he wrote the cheque. ‘It would be so much simpler if one could pick and choose from a list of required qualities and place an order for the perfect wife.’
‘Like a washing machine? Or a car?’ she asked, wondering what, exactly, had been his specification for a wife. And whether he’d adjust it in the light of recent events.
Go for something less glamorous, more hard-wearing.
‘Performance, style, finish …’ She had been dangerously close to sarcasm but he appeared to take her analogy seriously. ‘That sounds about right.’ Then, as he tore the cheque from the book, ‘But forget economy. Fast women and fast cars have that in common. They’re both expensive to run. And you take a hit on the trade-in.’ He didn’t hand her the cheque but continued to look at it. ‘Good business for you, though.’
‘I’m not that cynical, Mr McFarlane,’ she assured him as, refusing to sit there like a dummy while he made her wait for him to hand it over, she set about gathering her papers.
She tucked them back into the file and stowed them in her case, taking all the time in the world over it, just to prove that she was cool.
That nothing was further from her mind than a speedy exit from his office so that she could regain control over her breathing and her hormones, both of which had been doing their own thing ever since she’d been confronted at close quarters by whatever it was that Tom McFarlane had in such abundance. And she wasn’t thinking about his money.
When everything was done she looked up and said, ‘No one, no matter who they are, gets more than one SDS wedding.’
‘Speaking personally, that’s not going to be a problem.’
And he folded the cheque in two and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
No …
‘Once has been more than enough.’
He stood up and hooked his jacket from the back of the chair before heading for the door.
No … Wait …
‘Shall we go, Miss Smith?’ he prompted, opening it, waiting for her.
‘Go?’ She stood up very slowly. ‘Go where?’
‘To pick up all this expensive but completely useless junk that I’m about to pay for.’
Oh. No. Really. That was just pointless. Besides the fact that she was now, seriously, running out of time as well as breath. Her staff didn’t need her to hold their hands, but the pop diva was paying for that kind of service.
Sylvie was really annoyed with herself about that. Not the time—that was all down to Tom McFarlane. But the breath bit.
It wasn’t even as if he’d tried. Done a single thing to account for her raised pulse rate or the pitifully twisted state of her hormones.
Apart from looking at her.
It was, apparently, enough.
‘I’m qu-quite happy to dispose of it for you,’ she said quickly. She could at least spare him the indignity of having to haul it to the recycling centre. Then, when that offer wasn’t leapt on with grateful thanks, ‘Or I can arrange to have it delivered.’
It wasn’t as if he could be in a hurry for any of it.
‘If that’s more convenient for you,’ he said. Her relief was short-lived. ‘I assume you’re not planning to charge me for storage?’
‘Er, no …’
He nodded. ‘I’m leaving the country tonight—my diary has been cleared, the honeymoon villa paid for—but I can hold on to the cheque until I get back next month and we can finish this then.’
What?
‘I’ll give you a call when I get back, shall I?’
Give her a call …?
Everyone had their snapping point. His had been the wedding cake. This was hers.
‘You have got to be joking! I’ve already rearranged my afternoon for you and been kept waiting nearly an hour for my trouble. And I’ve got a party this evening.’
‘Your social life is not my problem.’
‘I don’t have a social life!’ she declared furiously.
‘Really?’ His glance was brief but all-encompassing, leaving her with the feeling that she’d been touched from head to foot in the most intimate way. And enjoying every moment of it.
Then he lifted one brow the merest fraction as if he knew …
‘Really,’ she snapped. Every waking moment of her life was spent making sure other people had a good time. ‘This is business. And my van, unlike me, can’t do two things at once.’
For some reason, that made him smile. And she’d been right about that too. Something about the way one corner of his mouth lifted, the skin crinkled around his eyes. The eyes heated …
‘No problem,’ he said, bringing her back to earth. ‘For a reasonable fee, I’ll hire your company one of mine.’
Beneath the riotous collage of balloons, streamers and showers of confetti with which Sylvie’s van—the one presently engaged elsewhere—was painted, you could just about make out that its original colour was, like her mood, black.
Tom McFarlane’s van was an identical model. Equally glossy and well cared for and equally black. In
