the lady would not allow him to ignore her for long.
For a moment Veronica regarded the crisply cut dark head of hair, the glimpse of broad forehead and long, rather thin fingers holding the paper—all that was visible of Mr Fergus Kavanagh behind his Financial Times. And she was glad of a moment’s respite.
Her heart was pounding like a drum. She hadn’t felt so nervous since she had negotiated her first big contract. Kavanagh’s business career suggested a man prepared to take a risk, prepared to be unconventional, but on first acquaintance he seemed nerve-rackingly distant, a touch austere.
Yet there was something about the way he was holding his newspaper, a stillness that suggested he was not reading but waiting for her to make a move.
Then there was that promising smile, brief though it had been, fanning laughter lines about his eyes, almost as if he knew … Maybe, beneath the disguise of that pinstriped suit and old-school tie, there beat the heart of an adventurer after all. She certainly hoped so. In fact, she was counting on it.
‘Would you care to look at my menu?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Whilst Peter is disposing of my hat?’
Fergus smiled under cover of his newspaper. He was human enough to enjoy being proved right. The lady’s looks were Grace Kelly cool, but her voice was as sexy as sin—sin leavened with laughter. He suspected that if he peered over his newspaper those silvery eyes would be laughing at him, too, perfectly aware that his initial intention had been to pass her by, delighted that she had waylaid him. But why? She didn’t look like the kind of woman who picked up strangers over the breakfast table, so why did he have the feeling that he had just been caught on a hook and was about to be reeled in?
‘Thank you,’ he replied, gravely polite, glancing at her briefly. Definitely laughing. The deepening creases at the corners of her mouth gave him an odd little lift to his spirits, banishing the black mood in which he had boarded the train. ‘But that won’t be necessary,’ he said, countering her move and then making one of his own. ‘Peter knows what I want.’
He was offering her an opening, and he wondered what she would do with it. Start with a polite question, perhaps? You travel on this train regularly, then? Or maybe it would be disbelief. You mean, you have the same breakfast every day? Or maybe she would take his response as a rebuff and let it go. He didn’t think so. The lady wanted something. Bachelors, wealthy bachelors, developed a sixth sense for such things.
She kept him waiting for a longish pause, during which Fergus found it quite impossible to concentrate on the headline in front of him. Then she said, ‘The piece about your takeover bid is on page fourteen. If that is what you’re looking for.’
Takeover? So, she not only knew who he was, but followed the financial pages. He was right. She was a lot more interesting than the newspaper. He lowered it for the pleasure of looking at her more directly. And she was lovely. More than lovely. There was nothing of the chocolate box beauty about her; it went deeper than that, deeper than bone structure, perfect skin, gleaming hair. There was much more to her than that—character, a mouth quick to laugh, eyes to die for. Being reeled in by this lady, he decided, would be a pleasure.
‘Takeover?’ he queried, taking the bait.
‘Your takeover of GFM Transport. There’s a photograph of you along with the article. Not a very flattering one, I have to admit.’ She paused again. ‘But then, newspaper photographs are always rather lifeless, don’t you think?’ She made the smallest, most expressive of gestures with long, slender fingers. ‘I thought perhaps you were interested in what the FT had to say about it.’ Her shoulders moved imperceptibly in a minimalist shrug. ‘The takeover, that is. But maybe you’re not that bothered.’ Then, when he didn’t immediately reply, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.’ She wasn’t sorry. ‘The journalist suggested that it was an “astute” move,’ she added encouragingly. Not a bit sorry.
‘Astute?’ Fergus folded the newspaper and put it on the table. A woman who read the FT was interesting enough to break through even the legendary reserve of the British male, and he was sure she knew it, had banked on it. ‘He wasn’t concerned that I was tying up capital in something of a sideshow?’ he asked, testing her a little to see whether she had actually read the article, or merely scanned the headline.
‘Is that what your board thought?’ she asked. Some of them. Not that it was any of her business. But it had been the right question.
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It would be presumptuous of me to have any kind of opinion on the matter. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. But I’ve interrupted you for long enough. Please do continue reading your newspaper, Mr Kavanagh.’ She let the line out a little, a skilled angler playing him like a big game fish, taking care not to strike too quickly.
‘Thank you,’ he said, a touch drily, but he continued to regard her thoughtfully as she handed the menu card to Peter and ordered her breakfast. ‘Should I know who you are?’ he asked, once the steward had departed.
‘Should you?’ Veronica’s heart was still beating too fast. Lord, but he was perfect. Exactly the man for the job. He didn’t immediately answer her, taking his turn to keep her waiting. She smiled as she acknowledged his silence … This was a game and she sensed that he knew it. But would he be prepared to play? ‘There’s no reason why you should, Mr Kavanagh. My name is Veronica Grant. I’m Marketing Director for Jefferson Sports.’ And she offered him her hand.
Slim, fine-boned, ringless, her nails polished to a deep plum-coloured perfection—a perfect complement to her lovely mouth, Fergus thought, dragging his mind back from the orchard at Marlowe Court in high summer, and his boyhood raids on the sweet dark fruit that grew there.
But then, everything about her was perfection, from the curve of her platinum-blonde hair to the toes of her handmade shoes.
Jefferson Sports. They had their headquarters in the centre of Melchester, an elegant tower block with an exclusive shopping mall in the atrium. The company had grown out of all recognition since it had been formed by a family of well-known sportsmen to take commercial advantage of their name, but since Nick Jefferson had stepped into the top slot it had begun to spread its wings and take off in a big way. And this woman was part of the team. More than interesting.
‘How d’you do, Miss Grant?’ he said, taking her hand and shaking it solemnly.
‘How d’you do, Mr Kavanagh?’ she replied, with equal gravity. The steward arrived with a large tray. Two boiled eggs, brown toast and China tea for her. A pair of kippers, white toast and coffee for him. ‘Please, do read your newspaper,’ Veronica invited while the steward laid out the food. ‘I shan’t mind a bit. You probably hate conversation over breakfast. Most men seem to.’
He found himself wondering whom she shared her breakfast with. Then rather wishing he hadn’t.
Besides, she shouldn’t make unfounded judgements about him. He was not antisocial over breakfast. When Dora and Poppy stayed over at Marlowe Court, with or without their partners, he was more than happy to talk. Well, usually he was happy to talk. Not today. Today he was furious with the pair of them.
Miss Grant, however, mistook his silence for assent. ‘I’ve disturbed the smooth start to your working day,’ she continued apologetically. ‘I do hope you won’t be short-tempered with your secretary because of me.’
‘I can assure you, Miss Grant,
