lawyers have asked for three months to come up with a rebuttal of the Farraday claim to run Claibournes. As a delaying tactic I’ve had to ‘play nice’ and offer the Farradays an opportunity to see how we run Claibourne’s—from the inside.
Niall Farraday Macaulay will be contacting you shortly to arrange a convenient schedule for him to shadow you during April. The man is an investment banker and would, no doubt, love a chance to get his hands on the Claibourne & Farraday assets. I need you to convince him that it’s in his best interests to leave them with us.
That the Farradays accepted an invitation to shadow our roles in the company suggests they see it as an information-gathering opportunity. Please be on your guard.
Indie
CHAPTER ONE
ROMANA CLAIBOURNE, juggling a desperately needed carton of her favourite coffee, a small leather overnight bag and a couple of designer carrier bags, searched her handbag for her wallet in a state of rising panic. Not that the panic was entirely due to her missing wallet, or even Niall Farraday Macauley’s annoying decision to make his presence felt on today of all days.
In spite of anything her sister might believe, there were worse things in the world than men with Farraday in their name.
Worse even than being late.
That was nothing new—she’d never been early for anything. Yet India’s crisp little voice mail message this morning had been very clear on one point. Punctuality was essential. Niall Macaulay wanted to discuss shadowing arrangements with her at twelve o’clock sharp and she was to drop everything and be on time. Nothing—not even the opening event in Claibourne & Farraday’s annual charity week—was more important. This was a crisis.
And this was the good part of her day.
‘Sorry…’ She threw an apologetic glance at the cab driver. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere. I had it when I picked up—’
‘In your own time, miss,’ the man replied, cutting her short. ‘I’ve got all day.’
She glanced up. ‘Have you?’ Then, realising he was being sarcastic, she pulled a face and redoubled her efforts to find the elusive wallet. She knew she’d had it when she picked up her dress because she’d used her charge card. Then, after she’d got India’s message, coffee had seemed essential and she’d needed change to pay for it.
She re-ran the scene in her head. She’d ordered, paid and stuffed the wallet into her pocket…
Her relief was short-lived.
Reaching into the depths of her coat was just one stretch too far and the coffee-carton made an escape bid.
Hitting the pavement, it bounced, spun and then the lid flew off, releasing a hot tide of latte. Romana watched as in what seemed like slow-motion it washed over the gleaming, handmade shoes of a passing male before splashing spectacularly up the legs of his trousers.
The shoes, and the legs, came to a halt. The carton was picked up on the point of a furled silk black umbrella and she followed its progress until it came to a stop six inches from the second button of her coat.
‘Yours, I believe,’ the owner of the trousers said.
She took the carton. A mistake. It was now wet and sticky and the apology which had leapt instantly to her lips transformed itself into a disgusted, ‘Eeeugh.’
And then—mistake number two—she looked up and nearly dropped the carton again. He was everything a tall, dark stranger could and should be, and for a moment she froze, quite literally lost for words. Apologise. She must apologise. And find out who he was.
Even as she opened her mouth she realised that he was far from being impressed by his unexpected encounter with one of the most sought-after women in London. The man’s expression encompassed entire sections of the thesaurus, involving the words “stupid”, “blonde” and “woman”, and the apology died on her lips.
It didn’t matter. He clearly wasn’t interested in anything she might have to say. He had already turned and was walking quickly through the gilded portal of Claibourne & Farraday, leaving her on the pavement with her mouth still open.
Niall Macaulay was expected, and was whisked up to the penthouse office suite where he handed his coat and umbrella to the receptionist before retreating to the cloakroom to wipe the coffee off his trousers and shoes. Tossing the paper towel in the bin, he glanced at his wrist-watch with irritation. He’d had scarcely enough time to make this appointment, and now that stupid woman had made him late.
What on earth had she been doing, juggling a carton of coffee with enough designer bags to keep a small country out of debt? She couldn’t even control her hair.
But it didn’t matter. Romana Claibourne was late, too. He declined her secretary’s offer of coffee, accepted her invitation to wait in Miss Claibourne’s opulent office and crossed to the window, trying not to dwell on a dozen other, more important things he should be doing at that moment.
‘Not your day, miss, is it?’ the cabby remarked as Romana continued to stare after the man. What a grouch… ‘Do you want a receipt?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Here—’ She handed the man a banknote. ‘Keep the change.’
She was still holding the dripping carton. There were no rubbish bins in the street and she was forced to carry the thing at arm’s length up to her office.
Her secretary relieved her of the carton, took her bags and her coat. ‘I’m expecting a Mr Macaulay. I can’t spare him more than five minutes so I’m counting on you to rescue me…’ she began, then caught the girl’s warning look.
‘Mr Macauley arrived a couple of minutes ago, Romana,’ she murmured. ‘He’s waiting in your office.’
She spun around and saw a man standing at the window, looking out across the rooftops of London. Oh, knickers! He must have heard her. Great start. She grabbed a tissue, wiped her hands, and abandoned any thought of lipstick repair or getting her hair under control—but then there wasn’t enough time in the world for that. She just smoothed her skirt, tugged her jacket into place and stepped into her office.
Niall Macauley was impressive, at least from the rear. Tall, with perfectly groomed dark hair, and a suit in which every stitch had been placed by hand expensively covering his broad shoulders.
‘Mr Macaulay?’ she said, crossing the office, hand extended in welcome as he turned. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’ About to explain her lateness—without mentioning coffee—she discovered that her legitimate excuses were redundant and instead found her mouth gaping like a surprised goldfish as he turned to her and took her hand.
There was, she thought, an almost Gothic inevitability that Niall Macaulay and the grouch she’d drowned with her coffee should be the same person. It was, after all, the first of April. All Fools’ Day.
‘Did my secretary offer you…?’
‘Coffee?’ he completed for her when she faltered. He spoke in a deep bass voice that she knew, just knew, would never be raised above that quiet, controlled level. No matter how provoked. She’d already had an example of his exceptional powers of self-control.
