The Tycoon's Takeover. Liz Fielding
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breath. The knowledge sent a ripple of excitement through him that was far more pleasing than all his cold, calculating plans.
Before the month was up she would surrender everything to him. More than surrender. She was the one playing with fire and she was going to get burned.
And with that pleasing thought he went after her.
‘Ladies, gentlemen…’ She didn’t raise her voice, or rap on a table, yet there was an immediate hush in the coffee shop, a tribute to a presence that was rare in a woman. Confidence, self-belief, a power that came from within. She was a worthy adversary. ‘I just wanted to thank you all for your patience. You can continue with your shopping whenever you’re ready.’ For a moment she was deluged with questions about the young mother-to-be. ‘I’ll be calling the hospital later for news of our newest customer,’ she continued, ‘and if the parents give their permission we’ll post news of the birth on our website.’ Then, checking her watch, she turned to him and said, ‘I have to go. I’ve got an author arriving for a book-signing in a few minutes.’
‘I saw the posters when I arrived. Is it simply a meet-and-greet? Or will you have to stand by and hand her an endless supply of pens?’
‘She can manage her own pens, but she does merit the full red carpet treatment. Fortunately she doesn’t have time for lunch today.’ Then, ‘Or maybe I make a less attractive lunchtime companion than my father. He always took her to the Ritz and plied her with champagne,’ she added, with a sideways glance from beneath dark glossy lashes that appeared to suggest that if he took over he’d have that pleasure to look forward to.
‘You could do that.’
‘I don’t think either the Ritz or the champagne would make up for my father not being there to flirt with her.’
‘He’s certainly had plenty of practice,’ he agreed blandly. Then, as her cheekbones flushed pink with anger, ‘I’d have doubted a book department was a cost-effective use of space these days,’ he said as they both reached out to press the button to summon the lift. He beat her to it by a fraction of a second, and their fingers tangled momentarily before she snatched them back, as if stung. Her nails were polished the same deep burgundy-red as her suit. As her smooth, soft lips. ‘Can you compete with the big book chains?’ he enquired, making an effort to concentrate on business.
‘The decision to close the book department was made several weeks ago,’ she replied. Again that little sideways flicker of eyelashes. This time they said, You see? I’m one step ahead of you. ‘It’s part of the rationalisation of floor space that’s in progress at the moment. We’ve started on the top floor, as you must have noticed.’
‘Impossible to miss,’ he agreed. ‘It must make concentration difficult.’
‘I never have any difficulty in concentrating on the important stuff.’ The lift arrived and they got in. ‘Ground floor, please,’ she said, abandoning competition in favour of making it appear that he was at her beck and call. He pressed the button that would take them to the ground floor without comment. She was, he had to admit, a fast learner. ‘We’re reducing the office area by half. My father has retired…’ she glanced at him ‘…but then you know that.’ She paused momentarily, as if expecting him to enquire after the man’s health. When he didn’t, she went on, ‘And Flora rarely uses her office, so they are both being ripped out. Romana’s office is being remodelled to provide space for the two of us—the centre partition will be movable, for full-scale planning meetings. Once that’s done, my office will go too.’
‘May I see the plans? I’d like to know what you’re doing with the space you’ve made. The reasoning behind the changes. When you have a moment.’
‘I’d be delighted to explain what we’re doing, Mr Farraday. Just as long as you accept that I’m extending you a courtesy, not seeking your approval.’
‘Of course. Control is absolute. We both understand that.’ He certainly wouldn’t be seeking approval from the Claibournes for his plans. Their helpless howls of rage as he sold the store would only sweeten his triumph.
They reached the ground floor and he followed her across the entrance lobby to the main door, where a staff photographer was waiting, along with a group of fans eager to catch the first glimpse of their idol. ‘Any sign of her, Mr Edwards?’ she asked the commissionaire.
‘She’s stopped just down there at the traffic lights. You’ve got about thirty seconds.’
‘The white stretch limo,’ she explained. ‘The lady is a celebrity. She likes to make an entrance.’ Then, ‘Maybe we’ll have a little time between the book-signing and the celebrity chef.’
‘Celebrity chef?’
‘In the food hall at twelve o’clock. He’s making some Italian dish to promote a new product line. I’m afraid you’ve chosen a rather hectic day to visit us, but maybe we can find some time to look at the plans before he arrives.’
He didn’t miss her suggestion that he was ‘visiting’. That this was her territory. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to run the programme for the rest of the month by me too,’ he said, reminding her that his visit wasn’t a day-trip. ‘When you have a moment.’
‘I’m sorry. This must seem very tedious to you. But a store of this size needs to provide constant entertainment value—something to draw the crowds.’
‘And you keep a very high profile.’
‘It’s not the way you do things in your world, I know, but then high finance is, by its very nature, a secretive business.’
‘I think the word you want is confidential.’
‘Is there a difference?’ She glanced up at him with those cool dark eyes. ‘Apart from tone?’
Not that much in the meaning, perhaps, but in the dismissive manner in which she said it there was a world of difference. ‘Tone is everything.’
‘Perhaps. This is different. Every day is showtime, and since it’s my name above the door I have to be centre stage.’ Meaning that he’d have to be front and centre too, when he took over? ‘Our customers like the fact that if something goes wrong I’m here, not hidden away in some anonymous head office.’
Again there was the slightest pause, as if she expected him to say something. Did she really expect him to comment? Promise that he’d be on call for any customer with a complaint? She did something with her shoulders. Nothing as definitive as a shrug, but it made its point loud and clear. It said that he didn’t measure up to her ideal of a CEO for Claibourne & Farraday. It was a situation that she apparently found immeasurably satisfying, if the small smile tucking up the corners of her mouth was anything to judge by.
‘I’ll check my diary,’ she continued. ‘I might have that “moment” to run through the event schedule later. Of course there’s nothing stopping you from picking up a programme at the information desk. Or even going to the website to check it out for yourself.’
‘Like your customers, I prefer the personal touch. You can tell me all about it this evening.’ Which dealt with her smile, reducing it to a puzzled frown. ‘After we’ve visited the hospital. Over dinner, perhaps?’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You do manage to find a little time to eat?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’ve cleared my diary in order to indulge you, Miss Claibourne. I think I’m entitled to a little consideration in return.’
‘India, honey!’ Before she could respond, she was enveloped in the warm embrace of her guest.
India greeted the exuberant author with more than usual warmth. She deserved it for rescuing her from having to cope with a remark that she suspected had been finely judged to wind her up.
He’d indulged her?
He made her sound like some wilful little girl, who’d been given her own way under sufferance,