Accepting the Boss's Proposal
NATASHA OAKLEY
From temporary secretary…Miles Kingsley's lazy smile and glinting blue eyes cause every woman he meets to instantly fall a little bit in love with him. He's always walked effortlessly through life, with his fast car and bachelor lifestyle–until he hires a haphazard new secretary, recently divorced, with two kids…To permanent wife?He wasn't meant to love her…or even like her! But Jemima's effervescent charm and wicked sense of humor have Miles reevaluating everything. She certainly isn't bedazzled by his usual gifts or flirty one-liners. So how is Miles going to convince this single mom to accept his very romantic proposal?
“Good idea?” he asked, his eyes indicating the glass London Eye capsule they were in. “Do you think your boys are enjoying it?”
Jemima couldn’t believe he was experiencing a moment of doubt about it, but his blue eyes seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It’s brilliant. They’re loving it. Thank you.”
Then he smiled, and she wondered whether it was doing her heart any permanent damage to keep beating so erratically. For thirty years she hadn’t experienced the slightest difficulty, but since meeting Miles it had been behaving very peculiarly.
“Are you?”
She nodded, feeling unaccountably shy.
“Come see,” he said, holding out his hand.
Slowly, her heart pounding, Jemima put her hand inside his. She’d seen a movie once where they’d talked about looking down and not knowing where one hand left off and the other began. It felt a little like that, except that she knew which hand belonged to whom. His hand was dark against her fair skin. It was more that she felt as if it belonged there.
Harlequin Romance
is thrilled to bring you another sparkling new book from talented author
Natasha Oakley
Her poignant and emotional writing will tug on your heartstrings.
“Her words shoot straight to your heart just like cupid’s arrow. Ms. Oakley has a special talent for making you fall in love with her characters.”
—writersunlimited.com
“One of the best writers of contemporary romance writing today!”
—cataromance.com
“Emotional, romantic and unforgettable, Natasha Oakley aims straight for your heart with richly drawn characters, powerfully intense emotions and heart-stopping romance!”
—cataromance.com
Accepting the Boss’s Proposal
Natasha Oakley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Natasha Oakley told everyone at her primary school that she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mom bring her coffee at regular intervals—a drink she didn’t like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for “crowd control,” she loves to escape to antique fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her Web site, www.natashaoakley.com (http://www.natashaoakley.com).
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u95f1049b-7427-5258-9ee8-fbf8b450d257)
CHAPTER TWO (#u218c4902-d1ce-5f0c-a073-acc4a692d765)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub5ac217e-6773-5811-9acd-05a3ca5222b7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
SHE’D made a mistake.
Jemima knew it the minute she saw what the woman on the reception desk was wearing. Kingsley and Bressington might sound like some staid turn-of-the-last-century law firm, but the reality was completely different—and the woman on the reception desk embodied exactly that.
She wore a rich brown T-shirt which hugged the kind of yoga-toned body that always made Jemima feel vaguely depressed. Dramatic turquoise jewellery picked out an exact shade in the receptionist’s vibrant skirt and brought out the colour of her eyes. Her look was overwhelmingly young…fashionable…and a world away from Jemima’s borrowed suit. Its aubergine colour might be perfect with her carefully straightened red hair, but it was entirely too formal for Kingsley and Bressington.
Nor was she quite sure how she could dress any differently tomorrow. Even if her own wardrobe wasn’t restricted to jeans and easy care fabrics, she was two children too late for that kind of body conscious clothing.
Jemima glanced around the acres of white walls, taking in the abstract paintings and sculptural plants in huge stainless steel pots. What the heck was she doing in a trendy place like this? If she didn’t know she’d be letting Amanda down she’d turn tail and run now. Fast. This wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.
Instead she made herself stand firm. She could hardly balk at her first placement and this was about so much more than one temporary job. This was about standing on her own feet, recovering her self-esteem, making a new beginning…All those trite phrases that everyone instinctively churned out when they were confronted by the rejected half of a ‘now divorced’ couple.
That she believed they were right was probably something to do with the British ‘stiff upper lip’ thing that was buried deep in her psyche. She twisted the gold chain at her neck. God forbid she should break down and cry. Or curl under her duvet and refuse to emerge until the world had settled back to the way it had been before. She had to be strong. For the boys. Everyone said so…
Jemima took a shaky breath and waited for the receptionist to finish her telephone call. She’d already been cast an apologetic ‘I’ll be with you in a moment’ look and watched with growing fatalism as the receptionist tapped her acrylic-tipped nails impatiently on the glass table while she explained why she couldn’t transfer the caller to the person they wanted.
She could do this. She could. Jemima made herself stand a little straighter and concentrated on exuding confidence. What was it Amanda had said about ‘transferable skills’? All those years of PTA involvement had to amount to something. Not to mention her degree, secretarial qualifications…
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Can I help you?’
Jemima jerked to attention, a small part of her mind still free to speculate on whether the receptionist’s long hair was the result of nature…or extensions. ‘Jemima Chadwick. I’m Jemima Chadwick. From Harper Recruitment. I’m here to temp for Miles Kingsley and I’m to ask for…’ She pulled her handbag off her shoulder and started to rummage through Visa slips and assorted pieces of screwed-up paper. Somewhere in the depths of her bag was the small notebook in which she’d written all the details Amanda had given her on Friday afternoon.
Somewhere…
‘Saskia Longthorne,’ the receptionist said with authority. ‘She deals with all temporary staff. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Too late. Just too late Jemima pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and looked down at the words she’d scribbled.
‘She won’t keep you a moment. If you’d like to take a seat?’ There was the faintest trace of a question in her modulated voice, but Jemima had no difficulty in recognising a directive.
She balled the piece of paper up in her hand. ‘Th-thank you.’
Jemima turned and went to sit on one of the seats. They were set in a semi-circular format around an unusual shattered glass coffee table and were the kind of low-slung design that required the same impossible skills as climbing in and out of a sports car. She perched uncomfortably on the edge in a vain effort to stop her skirt from riding up.
This morning she’d been hyped up for the challenge of rebuilding her life. A new beginning—and this temporary job was merely the first step. But now she was actually here…all that beautiful confidence was evaporating. Everything about Kingsley and Bressington made her feel uncomfortable. It was all so far outside of her personal experience it hurt.
But then, that was the idea. Amanda had been adamant that she ought to test her new skills in several temporary vacancies before she looked for a permanent position. She should see what kind of working environment she preferred, push the boundaries a little…As Amanda had said, she might surprise herself with the choices she’d make.
At least, that had been the theory. Sitting in Amanda Symmond’s comfortable Oxford Street offices, it had seemed like a very good idea, but right now she’d give up practically everything to be at home and loading her boys into the back of her Volvo for the school run. Safe. Doing what she knew.
As the minutes slipped by, Jemima sank back into her seat and stopped jumping at the sound of every footstep.
‘Jemima Chadwick? Mrs Chadwick?’
She looked up at the sound of a masculine voice. ‘Yes. That’s me. I…’ She struggled to pull herself out of the deep seat while still clutching her handbag. ‘I’m sorry…I was told to wait here for Saskia Longthorne,’ she managed foolishly, looking up into a pair of intensely blue eyes. ‘She deals with temporary staff and—’
‘Saskia’s been held up, it seems. So, as I’m passing…’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for helping us out. We do appreciate it.’
Jemima transferred her handbag to her other shoulder and held out her own hand. ‘You’re w-welcome.’
His hand closed over hers in that double handshake thing. The one that was supposed to convey sincerity, but was usually a sign of exactly the opposite. Tall, dark, handsome…actually, very handsome…and completely aware of it.
Everything about him was clean-cut and expensive. His suit was in a dark grey with a faint blue stripe in the weave and it fitted his muscular body as though it had been made for him. Perhaps it had. Jemima didn’t know how you judged these things.
It was easy to get the measure of the man himself though. Smooth and sharp. Too smooth…and too sharp. It wasn’t by chance he’d selected a tie in a cold ice-blue, a colour that matched his incredibly piercing eyes.
‘I’m Miles Kingsley. You’ll be working with me.’
Jemima felt her stomach drop and disappear. This was absolutely not what she wanted. He was not what she wanted. All the way here on the tube she’d been praying that Miles Kingsley would be a comfortable kind of man and easy to work for.
Amanda had told her that she’d never had a complaint from any temp about working for Miles and, in her mind, she’d pictured him as a controlled, sensible, mature man. Someone not unlike her late father, in fact. Perfect for a woman dipping one very nervous toe back into the job market.
But there was nothing ‘comfortable’ about this man. He was a cocksure thirty-something who clearly felt he was God’s particular gift to the world.
Perhaps Amanda hadn’t understood quite what she was looking for in her first job? Or perhaps Amanda had simply decided to drop her firmly in the deep end and see if she swam. That was the trouble with going to an agency owned and run by the sister of your best friend. People who thought they knew you well were all too apt to make decisions they considered to be in your best interests…without reference to what you actually did want.
‘I’ll take you up to where you’ll be working and by then I’m sure Saskia will be free to take you through our procedures.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nothing too out of the ordinary, I imagine.’
And then he smiled. A perfect balance of casual warmth and glinting sex appeal. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag. This was going to be hideous. Miles Kingsley might possibly have hidden neurosis somewhere, but if he did it was deeply buried.
How could any one individual be so completely without…? She searched for the word. So without self-doubt? That was it. He was so darn sure of himself. And all that confidence seemed to suck away what was left of hers. Perhaps she ought to ring Amanda now? Tell her she couldn’t do this job?
Jemima frowned. But how pathetic was that? She’d have to go home and tell her mother she hadn’t been able to do it. How did you do that? How did you tell a woman who’d been a senior civil servant until she’d taken early retirement that you couldn’t manage a simple temp job? Then she’d have to tell the boys…
And she wanted them to be proud of her. Wanted them to see her taking control of her life again. It would be good for them. Everybody said so.
Miles turned and crossed to the reception desk. ‘Felicity, would you hold my calls for the next five minutes or so. And would you let Saskia know I’ve collected Jemima on my way through.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Jemima watched as the receptionist became a pool of hormones at his feet. Assuming she did have hair extensions, one more flick of her lustrous locks and they might fall out. Though, to give him his due, Miles Kingsley didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps because ninety-nine point nine per cent of women he met did the same.
‘This way,’ he said, turning back to her and pointing up the wide glass and steel staircase.
Jemima gave the receptionist a tentative smile and turned to follow him.
‘Have you been temping long?’
‘No. Not really.’ Or, in fact, not at all. Probably better not to mention that, though. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag and swallowed nervously.
‘To the left here,’ he remarked, pointing down a corridor, ‘you’ll find a staff recreational room—which is a grand way of saying it’s a pleasant place to have a coffee break. Saskia will show you around later and introduce you to the other support staff. We’re a tightly knit team and I’m sure they’ll all be available to help you, should you need it.’
Jemima nodded.
‘This way.’ He stepped back and held the door open. ‘Do you know much about what Kingsley and Bressington do?’
‘Not a great deal,’ she replied stiffly. Amanda had concentrated on it being a ‘fantastic place to work’, and ‘I’ve got temps queuing up to go there. Give it a try and see what you think’. Clearly the smooth and efficient Miles expected she’d have been given a little more information than that.
She let her eyes wander about the total unexpectedness of the place. From the outside it looked like any other Victorian building in the street, but inside…Inside it had been gutted and everything chosen to ensure maximum impact. Small, but perfectly formed, it was all cutting edge and very modern. Intimidating, actually. But that was probably intentional. Anyone hiring Kingsley and Bressington to manage their public persona probably wanted to see something high-tech, stylish and controlled.
‘But you’ve worked in public relations before?’
Jemima shook her head, feeling as though she were letting Amanda down. She watched the slight frown mar his forehead and wondered, not for the first time, whether Miles Kingsley was the kind of man who’d be satisfied with her newly acquired secretarial skills. As if she didn’t know he wasn’t.
‘There are various aspects to what we do. Some of our clients are large corporations and we track and manage their image in the press, both here and abroad.’
She struggled to suppress the rising tide of panic. A six month post-graduate secretarial course hadn’t even begun to touch on anything he was talking about. Somehow she didn’t think he’d be particularly impressed that she held a Qualified Private and Executive Secretarial diploma—albeit with a distinction.
‘Others are individuals, predominantly working in the media. Many find themselves in a particularly sensitive place in their lives when they first come to us.’
‘I see.’ Another door, another corridor. It wasn’t that the building Kingsley and Bressington occupied was particularly large, it was just it was painted in similar shades of cream and it was difficult to get your bearings. There was only so much limestone and travertine a girl could take.
‘Confidentiality is an absolute prerequisite,’ Miles continued, ‘as I’m sure you realise.’
Confidentiality was something they’d covered in her diploma course. It was nice to know there was at least one part of this job she was going to find easy. ‘I wouldn’t dream of repeating anything I learn from working here. I’d consider that very unprofessional.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, holding open the door for her. ‘I know Amanda wouldn’t have sent you to us if that wasn’t the case. This is your office.’
Jemima stepped through into a room that had obviously been designed to have a wow factor. Yet more shades of cream blurred together as a restful whole and made the burr walnut desk a focal point. The computer screen on it was wafer-thin and the chair she recognised as being a modern design classic. A Charles and Ray Eames styled, if not original, chair upholstered in soft cream leather.
‘We rarely keep our clients waiting, but if there’s any delay I’ll rely on you to keep them happy until I can see them.’ He turned and pointed to some chairs clustered around yet another shattered glass coffee table. ‘Ply them with tea and coffee. Make sure they feel important.’
Jemima felt the first stirrings of a smile. Maybe Amanda had known what she was doing when she had sent her here. She knew a lot about making other people feel important. Being a satellite to other people’s bright star was what she did best. In fact, a lifetime of practice had honed it into an art form.
She glanced back towards the door and noticed the twenty or so black and white photographs grouped together on the wall. Dramatic publicity shots all autographed with love and messages of thanks.
Miles followed her gaze. ‘Some of our clients,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘You can see why discretion is imperative.’
She certainly could. Her smile widened as she recognised the chiselled features of an actor who’d scarcely been off the tabloid front pages in recent weeks. His particular ‘sensitive place’ was a pole-dancer from Northampton—allegedly.
And Kingsley and Bressington had to find a way of spinning that into a positive, did they? She couldn’t quite see how that would be possible. If Miles Kingsley could restore that actor’s persona as a ‘family man’, he was a genius.
The door opened and a young and stunning blonde in impeccably cut black trousers burst in, an A4 file tucked under her arm. ‘Miles, I’m so sorry. I was caught on the phone and couldn’t get away—’
‘Jemima had been in reception for over fifteen minutes.’ His voice sliced smoothly over the other woman’s words.
‘Felicity has just buzzed me. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Jemima interjected quickly, unsure whether the apology was for her benefit or for Miles’s.
‘If you’d like to come with me now, I’ll take you through everything.’ The other woman adjusted the file under her arm. ‘I’m Saskia Longthorne, by the way. Come through to my office….’
She was halfway to the door before she’d finished speaking.
‘Jemima might like to hang up her jacket? Put her bag down?’ Miles suggested in a dry tone.
He’d strolled over to the walnut desk and had picked up a large black diary and was leafing through the pages. Jemima glanced over as he looked up. His eyes were astonishingly bright against the minimal colour in the room. At least that was her excuse for the sudden tightening of her throat.
‘I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ He picked up the diary and carried it across to the wide double doors that, presumably, led to his own office.
Good grief. Jemima let out her breath in one slow steady stream. Miles Kingsley was a sharp-suited nightmare. No other way of looking at it.
Saskia seemed to understand what she’d been thinking. ‘I know,’ she said, walking over to a tall cupboard. ‘Miles is a walking force field. You can leave your jacket and handbag in here.’ She pulled out a hanger and handed it across. ‘It’ll be perfectly safe, but there’s a key to lock it if you prefer. Zoë always did that…and then kept the key somewhere in her desk.’
‘Zoë’s the person I’m covering?’ Jemima asked, self-consciously slipping her jacket off and putting it on the hanger.
‘Her husband’s job was transferred to Hong Kong. Just for six weeks, but Miles was as irritated as hell. He thought he’d finally found a PA who didn’t seem to want to get pregnant, when Zoë announced she had to be off anyway.’
Saskia accepted back the hanger and popped the jacket into the cupboard. ‘Not exactly a “baby-man” is Miles. More wine bar and whisky on the rocks, if you know what I mean.’
That figured, Jemima thought.
‘Zoë’s lovely so he’s holding her job open for her. We mustn’t take long over this,’ Saskia said, pushing open the door to the corridor. ‘He’ll want you back quickly. Obviously do put down nine thirty as your start time for today on your time sheet as it’s my fault we’re a little behind.’
‘Jemima, I’m going to need you to book a table at The Walnut Tree for this lunchtime,’ Miles said, opening the door to his office, presumably by magic since he had a file under one arm and a mug of black coffee in his other hand.
Jemima tucked her handbag away in the tall cupboard and glanced down at her wrist-watch. Officially she wasn’t even supposed to be here yet, but this morning the tube had been kind and the boys cooperative. He was lucky she was here. Jemima hurried across to her desk and jotted down ‘Walnut Tree’.
‘I’ve arranged to meet Xanthe Wyn and her agent there at one,’ he said, putting the file down on her desk. ‘If that’s not possible you’ll need to contact Christopher Delland to let him know the change.’
‘Okay.’
Miles took a sip of his coffee and then raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually, confirm it with him anyway. Xanthe is notoriously difficult to pin down. His number is in…’ He trailed off as her fingers had already pulled the appropriate card out of the strangely old-fashioned card system her predecessor had favoured.
‘Excellent.’ Miles flashed her that mega-watt smile that no doubt managed to melt the hardest of hearts, but didn’t do anything for her but irritate. Given the choice she would so much rather he left the charm offensive until after ten o’clock when she’d had a chance to wake up properly. Not to mention grab a coffee for herself.
Jemima flicked the switch that would boot up her computer. There was something in the gene pool of men like Miles Kingsley, she thought, which meant they had a deep inner belief that they were somehow special. That when they said ‘go’ everyone around them would naturally follow. A leader of leaders. It was in the way he moved, walked and owned the space in which he stood.
If he thought one smile would mean she didn’t notice the extra ten minutes at the start of the day, the additional twenty minutes at lunch time and the fifteen or so at the end, he was going to be disappointed when she presented her time sheet on Friday.
‘Thanks, by the way, for staying late last night.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said stiffly, finding it annoying to be thanked for something she was busy resenting.
‘Amanda didn’t say anything about you being fluent in French, but it was extremely useful. Phillipe Armond said your accent is perfect and he was very impressed.’
Jemima smiled through gritted teeth.
‘It looks like we’re going to get their business. So thanks for that. I’m going to fly to Paris to meet him for lunch some time next week. His secretary will ring you with the arrangements.’
She nodded and picked up the enormous pile of paper that had appeared in her in-tray overnight. If only he’d disappear back into his office. She desperately wanted to grab a coffee before getting started on this lot. She really couldn’t be late again tonight.
‘Did you have a good evening?’
Jemima looked up incredulously. She’d not left Kingsley and Bressington until twenty past six. Then she’d had to stand up on the tube all the way home, apologise to her mum, who was going to be late for her bridge evening, listen to Sam read, search out Ben’s missing football sock, put another load of washing through the machine…
What did he think her evening was like? Miles Kingsley really had no idea how the other half lived. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, keying in the password.
‘I went to see the new production of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. It’s not my favourite play, but it was excellent. That reminds me,’ he said, finishing off the last of his coffee. ‘Send some flowers to Emma Lawler at Ashworths for me. The address is in that box. I’ve got an account with Weldon Florists. Ask for Becky.’
Jemima flicked through the ‘A’ section and pulled out the ‘Ashworths’ card. She couldn’t quite believe he was asking her to do this. One would think he’d manage to send his own girlfriend some flowers and not have to get his secretary to do it for him.
‘Not roses. Try for something more…’
‘More what?’ Jemima asked, her pencil hovering over the pad.
Miles flashed a smile. ‘Neutral. Tell Becky it’s the end of a beautiful friendship. She’ll know what you mean.’
Good grief. Was he really ending a relationship so casually? ‘And what message do you want?’
Miles picked up his file. ‘The usual. Thanks for a nice evening and I’ll be in touch,’ he said cheerfully, putting his mug down on her desk. ‘When you’ve got a second, I’d love another coffee. No rush.’
Miles rubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck and listened to the high-pitched panic on the other end of the phone. Some days….
If the blasted woman, and that was putting it mildly, had done as he’d advised there wouldn’t be a picture of her in the News of the World. He let his long fingers idly play with the paper-clips he kept in a small Perspex box. She’d been in the business long enough to know the kind of caption she’d get if she got caught without make-up—so what had possessed her to go out like that? It was hardly rocket science to know there’d be one or two paparazzi, at least, who’d be hanging about on the off chance of their getting something.
Well, it seemed they’d hit the jackpot. No editor alive would have been able to resist pictures like that. He sat back in his chair and mouthed ‘coffee’ at Jemima, who was coming in with the morning mail.
Did his temporary secretary ever crack a smile? The woman seemed to be perpetually frowning. Or perhaps it was just him that had that effect on her? Jemima was efficient enough, but she wasn’t like Zoë and the sooner she was back from Hong Kong the better. Given a choice he really would prefer a bit of humour in his working day.
‘Lori,’ he interrupted the distressed woman on the other end of the phone, ‘there’s nothing we can do about pictures that are already in the public domain. I know we’ve got an injunction out on the topless photographs you did when you were twenty, but this really isn’t the same situation and I—’
Miles frowned in irritation as she launched off again. Her famously husky tones transmuted into something quite uncharacteristic. Lori obviously needed to vent her spleen somewhere and he was a safe pair of hands.
‘It’s not the same situation at all. Lori, you need to keep a low profile at the moment. You and I both know how this works. Give it a couple of weeks and they’ll be after the scent of someone else’s blood—’
He watched as Jemima came back in to the room carrying his coffee. She’d eased off slightly on the formal clothes since her first morning, but she was still the most ‘old before her time’ woman he’d met in a long time. She dressed like a woman between forty and fifty and yet he was sure she was younger than that. She could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.
Miles studied her intently. She probably would look dramatically more attractive if she did something with her hair other than tie it back in a low pony-tail. It was the most amazing colour. A natural redhead. His mouth curved into a sexy smile. It wasn’t often you met a natural redhead.
‘Lori, it’ll be two weeks at worst.’ He picked up his pen and started to doodle on the A4 pad in front of him—large abstract boxes which he shaded in with swift strokes. Then he wrote ‘Keira’, around which he put flourishing curlicues. ‘If any member of the royal family do anything remotely newsworthy it’ll be less than that.’
Jemima placed his coffee in front of him and he looked up to mouth his thanks. It irked him that he couldn’t get any real response out of her. She didn’t talk about anything personal. Not her husband, nor her children. Nothing. She didn’t even seem to have any kind of social life. A question as to what she’d done the night before had elicited a blank look.
And she didn’t seem to like him much. Every so often he would catch her watching him with those big green eyes and her expression wasn’t complimentary. She seemed to be on the verge between contempt and amusement. All in all, he wasn’t sure what to make of her.
He turned his attention back to Lori. ‘Just make sure you don’t give any kind of statement to the press. Do you understand me? It’s very important.’
Miles finished his call and flicked through his mail. There was nothing there that particularly caught his attention and his eyes moved over the doodles he’d drawn on his pad of paper—Keira. Keira Rye-Stanford. Now she was one very…sexy woman. That wraparound dress she’d worn last night had seemingly been held together with one very small bow. Just one pull would have…
He stood up and walked over to the door between his office and the outer one. ‘Jemima.’
She looked up from the computer screen, a small frown of concentration on her forehead. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you arrange to have some flowers sent to a Keira Rye-Stanford at—’ he pulled the name of her art gallery out from the recesses of his memory ‘—at Tillyard’s. You’ll find the address in the directory.’
‘Keira Rye-Stanford?’
He could hear the censure in her voice, as though she were reminding him he’d sent flowers to someone entirely different three days earlier. ‘That’s right.’
‘What would you like to send?’
Miles conjured up an image of Keira—a Celtic beauty with a soft Irish lilt and a very seductive glint in her blue eyes. She was a woman who probably received flowers often. And that meant one needed to be creative.
He smiled. ‘A dandelion.’
Jemima looked up, her pencil poised on her pad. ‘You want to send a dandelion?’
‘With a message:
Roses are red, Violets are blue,
This is a Dandelion, but it’s for you.
Ask them to wrap it in cellophane with a big bow and deliver it to the reception desk at Tillyard’s.’
‘A dandelion?’
‘Trust me,’ he said with a wink as he headed back towards his office, ‘it works. Every time.’
Jemima finished writing his message and thumped her pencil down on top of the pad.
He stopped. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
Jemima’s green eyes flashed, but she answered smoothly. ‘If the florist does, I’ll let you know.’
‘She won’t. She’ll just charge me the earth,’ he said, shutting the door to his office.
What was Jemima’s problem? Anyone would think he was asking her to pick the blasted dandelion herself, instead of picking up the telephone and calling a florist he had an account with. Becks would think it a giggle. He could guarantee she’d make a first rate job of it. Keira would receive a disproportionately large cellophane-wrapped weed tied together with a classy ribbon. Perfect.
His telephone buzzed and he picked up the receiver with a casual, ‘Miles.’
‘It’s an Emma Lawler. She’s says it’s personal.’ His temporary secretary’s voice was bland.
‘Thanks, Jemima. Put her through.’ Miles sat back in his chair and waited for Emma’s breathless voice to speak before he said, ‘Did you get my flowers?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘PLEASE come tonight. It’ll be fun. Alistair’s best man is going to be here—and he’s single.’
Jemima closed her eyes against Rachel’s voice. Why did she do this? Why did everybody do this?
‘You’ll like him.’
‘I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone else,’ Jemima protested weakly, carrying the phone through to the lounge and curling up in one oversized sofa. Been there, done that and burnt the T-shirt. The man who could get under her defences was going to have to have more ability than Houdini himself.
‘Just because Russell is a complete arse it doesn’t mean all men are.’
She knew that, of course she did. Not that Russell was an ‘arse’, as Rachel put it. If he had been it would have made everything so much easier. He was a nice man—who didn’t love her any more. He was very sorry about it, but…
He just didn’t. Simple as that, apparently. He’d sat down opposite her in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon and explained that he needed time apart. Time to think about what he wanted from life. Of course, in the end he’d decided he’d rather have a blonde account executive from Chiswick called Stefanie.
How had that happened? Had he woken up one morning and suddenly realised he felt nothing for her? Or had it been something that had come on gradually, almost without him noticing it? Jemima shook her head as though to rid herself of those thoughts. Dissecting every part of their marriage like that was the surest way of going insane. Sometimes she felt as if she was hanging by a thread anyway.
‘I’m not trying to pair you up, really. He’s not your type.’ Rachel’s voice seemed to radiate happiness. ‘We just thought it would be a nice way of you two meeting before the wedding. The boys are with Russell this weekend, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then,’ Rachel said, as though that settled everything. ‘No point sitting in on your own. Alistair is cooking—so you don’t have to worry about food poisoning.’
Jemima gave in to the inevitable. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’
‘Just you. Come early. I’ve been dying to show you the Jimmy Choo sandals I’ve chosen to go with my dress. I’ve had to take out a second mortgage, but they are to die for and since I’m only going to do this once…’ She broke off. ‘Hell, I’m sorry. That was really insensitive of me.’
The contrition in her friend’s voice brought a smile to her face. ‘Don’t be daft.’ Her finger followed the shape of the agapanthus leaf design on the sofa fabric. ‘Alistair’s lovely and I’m sure you’re going to be very happy together.’
‘I really should try and engage my brain before I speak. It’s just this wedding stuff is all-encompassing. I don’t seem to be able to think about anything else at the moment. It’s all dresses, bouquets, flowers, table settings…I’m really sorry. And I haven’t even asked you anything about your new job yet. What a cow I am!’
‘There’s not a lot to tell.’ Jemima idly twisted the navy-blue tassel at the corner of the cushion. ‘I’ve only done a couple of weeks.’
And I hate it. I hate being away from the boys. Hate missing meeting up with my friends. Hate my life being different from the way I planned it. No point saying any of that. There was no way Rachel would understand how she felt about working at Kingsley and Bressington.
‘Are the girls you’re working with nice?’
‘Girls’ was just about the only way to describe them. Jemima thought of Saskia with her board-flat stomach, Lucinda with her exquisite and very large solitaire engagement ring, Felicity with her nails…
‘Everyone’s very friendly.’
‘But?’ Rachel prompted. ‘Go on, tell me. I can hear it in your voice. How’s it going really?’
There was going to be no escape. ‘Everyone’s incredibly friendly,’ she said slowly. ‘Just a little young, maybe. I feel a bit like Methuselah.’
‘You’re only thirty,’ Rachel objected. ‘And so am I, for that matter! Nothing old about being thirty.’
Jemima smiled. ‘Well, I reckon the average age of the female staff is about twelve. Thirteen at the outside. And I don’t think there’s a woman in the building apart from me who doesn’t have prominent hip-bones and the kind of skin that doesn’t need foundation. It’s all a bit depressing.’
Rachel gave a cackle of laughter. ‘You should be used to that. Growing up with Verity as your sister must have been really depressing.’
‘You’d think so,’ Jemima agreed, ‘but honestly, Saskia makes even my sister look fat. They all sit around at lunchtime telling each other they’re completely full on a plate of lettuce and make me feel guilty for eating a cheese sandwich. At least Verity moans about being hungry.’
‘You’re wicked. What about the guy you’re working for?’
‘England’s answer to Casanova?’ Jemima said with a sudden smile. ‘He’s nice enough. Very calm in a crisis, obviously brilliant at his job and completely full of himself. Yesterday he got me to send a dandelion to this poor woman he’d met at a party the night before. Says it works every time…’
Jemima trailed off as she watched her ex-husband’s silver BMW drive up the road.
‘Did it work?’
‘Rachel, I’m going to have to go. I’ve just seen Russell arriving. I’ll see you tonight.’
Jemima finished the call and called out, ‘Ben. Sam. Daddy’s here.’
She glanced across at the mantelpiece clock. He was five minutes early. He’d now sit in the car until it was exactly ten. She hated the way he did that. Why couldn’t he be like other absent fathers and gradually drift out of their lives? It would be so much easier if he simply disappeared.
Guilt slid in—as it always did. She shouldn’t have thought that. She didn’t mean it. It was great that Russell didn’t let his boys down. Turned up when he said he would. Great that he paid everything he should—and on time. Really, really great.
Jemima uncurled from the sofa and threw the cushion across to the armchair. It just didn’t feel so great.
‘Ben. Sam.’ She walked to the foot of the stairs and shouted again. ‘Ben? Did you hear me? Daddy’s here.’
Ben appeared, shuttered from all emotion. Almost. His eyes were over-bright and his body was stiff. ‘I don’t want to go.’
She hated this. ‘I know, darling,’ she said softly.
‘I want to go to the football tournament.’ Ben walked slowly down the stairs. ‘Everyone’s going to be there. Joshua’s mum is going to take a picnic.’
‘I know, but Daddy has been looking forward to seeing you. He loves his weekends with you.’
The front doorbell rang. Jemima glanced at her wrist-watch. Exactly ten o’clock. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Russell was so…damn reasonable.
She looked at Ben as he picked up his bag. ‘It’ll be fun when you’re there.’ What a stupid thing to say. That wasn’t the point. Ben was eight years old and he wanted to play football with his friends. Of course he did…
‘You’ll be okay.’
He nodded.
‘And you’ll have a really great time.’
Ben put his backpack on his shoulders. ‘What are you going to do, Mum?’
‘Me?’ What was she going to do without them? Cry a little…Miss them a lot…The same as every other weekend they spent with their father. ‘I’m going to spend the day trying to decorate the bathroom, maybe get some tiles up, and then I’m going to go and have supper with Rachel and Alistair. I’ll be fine.’ She forced a bright smile and wondered how convincing she was. ‘It’s not long. Just one night and you’ll be home again.’
The doorbell rang again.
‘Will you go and hurry Sam up for me?’
She watched him climb the stairs and counted to ten before she opened the front door. It didn’t matter how prepared she thought she was, seeing Russell always felt strange. In the space of a millisecond she remembered the first time he’d kissed her, the proposal in a felucca in Vienna, the way he’d cried when Ben was born…
Russell looked good. Clearly he’d decided to keep up his gym membership and she liked the way he’d let his hair grow a little longer. Jemima wrapped her arms protectively around her waist. ‘Ben’s just gone to find Sam. They’re all ready.’
Russell nodded. ‘There’s no hurry.’ Silence and then, ‘How are things?’
‘Fine.’
Another pause. ‘That’s excellent.’ He rattled his car keys and looked uncomfortable.
He always did that too, Jemima thought. What exactly did he think she was going to do? Cry? Scream at him? He flattered himself. She was a long way past that. ‘You?’
‘Yes, well, we’re fine.’ He stood a little straighter. ‘Stef’s just got a promotion…’
‘That’s…great.’
‘She’s heading up a team of three.’
Jemima nodded. She was proud of herself for being so grown-up and dignified. But why exactly did Russell think she’d be interested in the career progression of the woman he’d left them for? No, she corrected swiftly. The woman he’d left her for.
‘Daddy!’ Sam hurled himself along the hallway. ‘It’s Daddy!’
The change in Russell was instantaneous. The smile on his face gripped her heart and screwed it tight. He reached down and caught the tornado. ‘Hiya, imp.’
‘I’ve lost another tooth.’ Sam pulled a wide grin, showing a huge expanse of pure gum.
‘Did the tooth fairy come?’
Ben pushed past. ‘There’s no such thing. It’s Mum. No one believes in the tooth fairy any more.’
Above his head Russell met her eyes. Jemima gave a half smile, then a shrug. ‘Have a good time.’ She reached out and touched Ben’s head. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Then she had to watch the three of them walk to the car.
She really hated this.
Still.
How many weekends had it been now? Was there ever going to be a time when it didn’t feel as if part of her was being ripped out of her body when she saw her sons walk away? She felt exactly like a piece of string which had been pulled so tight it had started to fray.
Miles locked his Bristol 407 and sauntered over to the three-storey Victorian house where Alistair and Rachel had bought their first flat together. It was nice. High ceilings, plenty of original features, good area…and that oh, so rare commodity—outside space in the form of a tiny courtyard garden.
Normally he really enjoyed his visits to their home. Every so often it was pleasant to spend an evening where there were no demands placed on him, no expectations. They were a calm oasis in a life that was becoming increasingly pressured.
But…
He pulled a face. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely looking forward to the next few hours. An evening spent discussing weddings wasn’t exactly high on his list of favourite things to do with a Saturday night. But hey…
He reached up and rang the bell. If his old school friend had finally decided to take the plunge, the least he could do was be there to see it. The poor beggar probably only had a year or so before their country place in Kent was filled with bright plastic toys and the first of several mini-Mackenzies. Grim.
The door opened suddenly and Rachel met him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you’d be Jemima,’ she said, glancing up the tree-lined street. ‘I wonder where she’s got to. I bet her car is playing up. She was coming early to look at my shoes.’
‘Would you like me to look at your shoes?’ he asked lazily.
Rachel turned back to him. ‘You behave or I’ll make you wear a pink floral waistcoat! Go on in.’
‘For you—anything,’ he glinted, leaning forward to place a light kiss on her cheek.
‘You’ll find Alistair in the kitchen doing something clever with the duck.’
She shut the door behind him and Miles shrugged out of his tan leather jacket and threw it over the oak church chair they kept in the hall. ‘So, tell me, will I fancy the bridesmaid?’
‘Quite possibly—’ she grinned up at him ‘—but I doubt it’ll be reciprocated. She’s a woman of taste and discernment. Actually, I don’t think I have any friends who would deign to join your harem.’
Miles smiled and wandered through to where Alistair was stirring something in a small saucepan. He looked up as his friend walked in. ‘Talking about Jemima?’
‘He wants to know whether he’ll fancy her,’ Rachel said, leaning over to see how the sauce looked. ‘Should it be that lumpy?’ Then, as the doorbell rang, ‘That’ll be her. Excellent.’
Alistair watched her leave with an expression of amusement and turned back to his sauce. ‘Lumpy! Just about escaped with her life. Miles, grab yourself a drink.’
Miles sauntered over and poured himself out a large glass of red wine from the bottle on the side. ‘You?’
‘Got one,’ Alistair said, with a nod at the glass by his side. ‘How’s work? I saw Lori Downey’s double page spread and thought you might be having it tough.’
Miles grunted and took a mouthful of the full-bodied wine. ‘This is nice.’
‘Rachel and I got it in Calais last month. Our car was so laden it’s a wonder we weren’t stopped.’ In the hallway they could hear the mumble of female voices. ‘Sounds like Jemima’s here at last.’
Miles perched on a high bar stool, feeling more relaxed than he had done all week. He set his wineglass down on the side and idly started stirring the sugar in the bowl. ‘I’ve got a Jemima temping for me at the moment. Amanda sent her to me.’
‘Good?’
‘She’s fine.’
Alistair smiled. ‘Damned with faint praise.’
‘Something like that. You can’t fault what she does when she’s in the office, but she arrives at the last possible moment and leaves as soon as she can. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t socialise with the girls.’ Miles picked up his wineglass. ‘She dresses like her mother and obviously thinks my florist bill is too high.’
‘Can’t blame her for that. Rachel thinks your florist bill is too high.’
The voices from the hall became louder.
Miles watched as Alistair carefully decanted his sauce into a jug. ‘That doesn’t say much for Rachel’s judgement. Are you sure about marrying her?’
Alistair laughed. ‘One of the most attractive things about Rachel is that she prefers me to you. Go easy on the futility of marriage stories tonight. Jemima’s been through a traumatic divorce. Russell left her with a house to renovate and two boys to bring up on her own. She’s a bit brittle.’
‘So I’m not even allowed to flirt with the bridesmaid—’ He broke off as soon as the door opened, but he could see from Alistair’s face that he thought they may have been overheard. He felt a vague sense of sympathy. If he knew anything about women—and he did—Rachel would have her fiancé’s kneecaps for that fauxpas.
‘Miles—’ Rachel’s voice sounded ominously clipped ‘—this is Jemima. My bridesmaid.’
He turned round, ready to pour oil on troubled waters…and felt his smile falter. It was as if he’d stepped through a portal to an alternative universe. Rachel was standing with her arm tucked through Jemima Chadwick’s.
And, stranger than that, Jemima Chadwick as he’d never seen her before.
Her red hair was a riot of curls and she was dressed in a simple linen sundress. She looked crumpled, curvy and surprisingly sexy. He felt that familiar kick in the pit of his abdomen that was pure reflex. It was all a bit surreal.
‘This is Miles Kingsley. Alistair and Miles were at school together and, scarily, have known each other for something like thirty years.’
Somehow he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Thoughts were whizzing through his head, but they didn’t stay still long enough to know whether they were worth putting words on. Even a simple hello seemed to elude him.
Alistair leapt into action, clearly motivated to bonhomie by the ‘brittle’ mistake. ‘Absolutely right. Miss Henderson’s class. Aged five. Abbey Preparatory School, Windsor. What can I get you to drink, Jemima?’
She moved further into the room. ‘White wine would be lovely. Thank you.’
Jemima Chadwick.
Here.
And looking so different. Smelling of…roses. Her red curls still damp…
Miles found that his mind was thinking in expletives. It was almost unbelievable that Jemima Chadwick could have transformed herself so entirely. The woman who’d left the office on Friday evening bore very little resemblance to the one who’d arrived for dinner tonight.
At work she looked…bland. Completely invisible, as though she didn’t expect to be looked at. In fact, very married. His eyes flicked to her ring finger. Nothing. He’d not noticed that. He hadn’t noticed she had legs like that either…
Miles took a sip of wine and tried to recall exactly what he’d said about his temporary secretary to Alistair…and then he winced. Thank God he could trust Alistair not to land him in it when he realised they’d been speaking about the same Jemima.
Damn. This couldn’t be happening to him.
What was the probability of Jemima Chadwick being Rachel’s bridesmaid? It had to be zillions to one. Except, of course, she was Rachel’s friend and Amanda was Rachel’s elder sister. Damn it! It wasn’t so much improbable as extremely likely.
Alistair poured out a glass of wine. ‘Miles was just saying he’s got a temporary secretary working for him at the moment who’s also called Jemima.’
Miles felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling as when your dinghy was about to capsize and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop it. He was going over. It was inevitable.
‘That’s quite a coincidence. It’s not a particularly common name, is it?’ Alistair continued, sublimely oblivious to the missile he was hurling in their midst.
‘I heard.’ Jemima looked directly at Miles. Her green eyes were steady, like lasers. ‘She dresses like her mother.’
Miles’s head jerked up.
It was like receiving a swift left to his chin. So quick he hadn’t seen it coming. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jemima could have heard what he’d said about her. In his adult life there’d probably only been a handful of occasions when he’d wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. This was one of those occasions. It was up there in number one slot along with the time his mother had given a television interview explaining that he’d been conceived in a moment of ‘peace and meditation’.
Rachel reached out for her own wine. ‘Jemima’s just started temping. Perhaps she ought to work for you, Miles.’
This was getting worse. Miles’s eyes searched out Jemima’s, a desperate apology in his own.
He watched the indecision as it passed across her green eyes. Then she gave a half smile and held out her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
His sense of relief was overwhelming. ‘And you,’ he said, stretching out his own hand. ‘Jemima…?’
‘Chadwick.’
It was fascinating to see the sudden spark of laughter light her eyes. What was it they said about still waters running deep?
‘Jemima Chadwick.’
His hand closed round hers. On the whole he thought she’d made the right choice. It was far easier to pretend they didn’t know each other. He was more than happy to go along with that. And, at the first opportunity, he’d apologise.
‘The man she’s working for sounds worse than you, Miles,’ Rachel said. ‘Apparently he sent some woman a dandelion. Or rather he got Jemima to do it.’
Miles watched a red stain appear on Jemima’s neck and gradually spread to her cheeks. It seemed that fate had struck a blow for equality. ‘Sounds fun,’ he said, releasing her hand.
The flush became a little darker. ‘I’m told it works every time,’ she shot back quickly.
‘He sounds a jerk,’ was Alistair’s observation. ‘Shall we go out to the garden? We’ve set everything out there as it’s a nice evening.’
Miles led the way outside, not sure how he was feeling any more. Honesty compelled him to admit that Jemima carried the advantage in the cringe stakes. The things he’d said about her to Alistair were completely out of order—regardless of whether she’d overheard them. His mother would have him flayed alive for comments like that. As long as Jemima did her job properly there was no reason why she should socialise or dress differently. No reason at all.
Nevertheless it was a mystery to him why someone who could look as…downright sexy as Jemima, would go to work looking like everyone’s image of the worst kind of librarian. Why do it?
Her work clothes were too safely conventional, but the difference was mainly due to her hair. How had a nondescript pony-tail become a riot of curls? She looked as if she’d stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite painting. All curves, cleavage and abandonment. Perhaps better not to allow his mind to go too far down that particular avenue. Single mums were absolutely out of bounds. Too much baggage. Far too many responsibilities.
He took the seat opposite her, the little devil on his shoulder prompting him to ask, ‘So, you’re temping?’
Jemima shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t care. With Rachel listening in, she’d have to answer him. Who knew what he might find out about her? If you were going to have an excruciatingly embarrassing evening, you might as well turn it to your advantage. Salvage whatever enjoyment you could.
‘Yes.’
‘As a secretary?’ he continued blandly.
It was worth it for the flick of those green eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you enjoying it?
Jemima reached out and took a breadstick. She snapped it in half. ‘No.’
‘Why’s that?’
She looked at him and shook her head as though she were warning him off.
‘It’s because it’s her first job,’ Rachel chipped in.
First job. Now that was interesting. Miles let his eyebrows raise a fraction and watched with complete enjoyment the blush that heated her face.
Alistair picked up his wine and stood up. ‘I’m sure that’s right, Jemima. It’s a huge lifestyle change for you. Your hair looks great, by the way. I’ve not seen you leave it curly for months.’
Jemima self-consciously touched her hair. Miles watched as she twisted one strand around her forefinger. She had no idea what that simple movement of one finger was doing to him. ‘I didn’t have time to straighten it. I had an argument with a paint pot and the paint pot won.’
‘It looks great,’ Alistair said as he headed back towards the kitchen.
Rachel nodded. ‘I keep telling her.’ She looked at Miles. ‘She won’t listen. She thinks it looks more sophisticated straight.’
He wasn’t about to enter that debate, but he was in no doubt which he preferred. ‘It’s a great colour,’ he said softly, willing her to look at him.
She wasn’t having any of it. ‘It’s red,’ Jemima said, picking up her wineglass. ‘And the bane of my life.’
Did she really think that? It was unbelievable. He watched as her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. Nice fingers. Short, tidy nails with no polish on them. That was more in keeping with the Jemima Chadwick he knew.
‘So,’ he said after a short pause, ‘you’re in your first job…?’
‘After my divorce.’ She looked at him then and there was no mistaking the warning light in her green eyes. ‘It’s a shame I’m not enjoying it more, isn’t it?’
His lips twitched. ‘Why aren’t you?’
‘My boss is very…smug. Do you know the kind of man I mean? Very difficult to take seriously.’
Her green eyes were…incredible. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? Tiny flecks of topaz worked out from dark irises. Two weeks—ten days—sitting in his office and he hadn’t noticed. He was slipping.
And she thought him smug—apparently. Miles smiled. He probably deserved that. Even so…‘When you’ve had a little more experience, perhaps you ought to consider working with me. I must speak to Amanda about it.’
Her eyes narrowed and Miles waited to see what she would do next. She took her time and snapped off another piece of breadstick before saying, ‘I don’t know whether I’d be interested. What is it that you do exactly?’
‘Public relations.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s a form of professional lying, isn’t it?’
‘Jemima!’ Rachel exclaimed, shocked.
Miles laughed and raised his glass in a mock toast. Round one to the lady. How surprising. He took a sip of his wine and placed the glass back on the table. ‘So, Jemima,’ he began and watched with enjoyment the way she tensed, ‘how do you know Rachel?’
‘We were at university together,’ Rachel answered for her. ‘Jemima and I met during freshers week and ended up sharing a house together in our second and third years. Do you remember the house we had first?’ she asked, turning to Jemima. ‘I swear it had mould in the corner of every room. It even smelt damp.’
‘What did you study?’ Miles asked.
Those green eyes flashed up at him, clearly resenting telling him anything. It added a little spice to the evening.
‘English and French.’
‘We both did,’ Rachel chimed in. ‘Except, of course, Jemima got a first, whereas I got a 2:1.’
Which rather begged the question—what the blazes was she doing working for little more than the minimum wage in a temporary secretarial job? It was none of his business, but his curiosity was piqued.
And, if he was honest, a little more than that. ‘So how come you’re temping? I’d have thought a first in English and French from Warwick would have led you in an entirely different direction.’
‘She meant to be an editor. But then she met Russell and…’ Rachel shrugged ‘…everything changed.’
‘So…you gave up everything for love?’
There was a toss of that incredible hair and then she met his eyes. ‘I gave up everything when I had my first son,’ she corrected him firmly. ‘Not that there was much to give up. I was only twenty-one and hadn’t had a chance to get started on anything.’
‘And now you’re picking up where you left off.’
‘Hardly,’ she shot back with a flash of those incredible eyes, her resentment shimmering across the table towards him. ‘When I left off I’d just got a job as an assistant editor with a small educational publisher. Now I’m a temporary secretary. If life’s a game of snakes and ladders I’ve just gone down that really big snake on square twenty-four.’
Alistair was wrong. Jemima Chadwick wasn’t brittle, she was angry. It seemed that life had hit her particularly hard. Alistair had described her divorce as ‘traumatic’, but then Miles had never witnessed a divorce that wasn’t.
In his circle the accepted opinion was that ex-wives were avaricious and bled their former spouses dry. This was the flip side of that, he supposed. His smile twisted. Jemima had been left with no career to speak of and two children to bring up alone. That was tough. No wonder she was angry.
Rachel topped up Jemima’s wine. ‘I still think you ought to think about—’
Alistair interrupted by carrying out a large platter of salmon. ‘Nigella Lawson swears this is the easy way to entertain. Just fork up what you want. The duck may be a disaster so I wouldn’t hold back.’
Rachel stood up and cleared away her central table decoration to make space. She looked around for somewhere to put it.
‘Put it behind me,’ Jemima suggested. ‘It won’t get knocked round here.’
Rachel handed over the stunning arrangement of white hydrangea, viburnum and tulips. ‘Thanks.’
‘You know this is gorgeous. You could do something like it for the wedding,’ Jemima suggested, deliberately steering the topic of conversation into a new direction.
In her opinion, Miles Kingsley had spent long enough enjoying himself at her expense. Even talking about weddings was preferable to the continual haemorrhaging of her private business. She pulled back her chair and placed the flowers carefully on the ground. ‘All these tea lights are very romantic too.’
Rachel sat down eagerly. ‘I was wondering about that. I think it would work really well with our theme—’ she sat back to add gravitas to her announcement ‘—which is going to be…medieval.’
Medieval. That wasn’t what Rachel had been talking about for the past four months. ‘What happened to “nineteen-forties Hollywood glamour”?’
Miles moved his chair. ‘Am I supposed to be understanding any of this?’
‘I find it better not to try,’ Alistair said, resting an arm along the back of Rachel’s chair.
His fiancée smiled at him. ‘We’ve managed to get Manningtree Castle. They’ve had a cancellation and slotted us in. It’s going to be beautiful.’
And an incredible amount of work, Jemima added silently. Manningtree Castle was probably the most romantic place on earth to get married, but it wasn’t a package deal by any stretch of the imagination. As far as she could recall from their initial research into the options, Manningtree Castle provided little more than the Norman keep itself and a grassy field with permission to erect a marquee.
‘Where’s Manningtree Castle?’ Miles asked.
Jemima glanced across at him. ‘Kent. It’s not so much a castle as a bit of one.’
‘And it’s not far from where Rachel and I bought our cottage. A couple of miles. No more than that,’ Alistair added. ‘They’re booked up a good eighteen months in advance so we were surprised when they called us to say they’d had a cancellation for the weekend we’d enquired about.’
‘Can’t you just imagine all those tea lights in the stone alcoves?’ Rachel’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘Or even big church candles. It’s going to be stunning.’
‘But your invitations—’
Rachel brushed her friend’s objection aside. ‘We’ll just have to resend them.’
Not to mention hire a marquee, find a caterer and local florist to decorate the keep, Jemima thought dryly. She sat back in her chair and made a determined effort not to let what she was feeling show. In her opinion, three months before a wedding was far too late to be changing the venue.
Jemima gave half an ear to her friend as she continued to lay out her artistic vision of a medieval wedding with a distinctly twenty-first century twist. No mention of the halter-neck dress in soft white satin she’d chosen four weeks earlier. What was happening about that?
She wanted to be excited for Rachel, she really did, but it all seemed rather pointless. So much effort for one day…
She speared a piece of salmon from the central platter. She was being selfish. Just because her marriage hadn’t been the happy ever after she’d hoped for wasn’t a good enough reason not to enter into someone else’s excitement. It was just difficult to summon up much enthusiasm for all this nonsense. That probably made her a horrible person, certainly a lousy choice of bridesmaid, but if she didn’t say it aloud, just thought it—that wasn’t so bad, was it?
Jemima glanced across at Miles and caught him watching her. She had the strangest feeling he’d been able to read her mind. That was impossible, of course, but…there was a definite look of…something in his blue eyes.
She turned back to concentrate on her salmon, feeling slightly shaken. Perhaps she’d been imagining it? On the other hand, perhaps they shared a mutual cynicism for big white weddings? She couldn’t believe he’d be particularly interested in the finer details of how Rachel intended to decorate the marquee.
Jemima risked a second look. He was listening to Rachel and, whatever his opinion of it all was, he was making a reasonable job of looking fascinated. He really was impossibly handsome. Strange how two eyes, a nose and a mouth could look so different from one person to another. He had a good chin too. Her mum would say it was strong and characterful, but what she particularly liked about it was the small indentation in the centre. It was kind of sexy.
Grief. What had made her think that? Jemima pulled herself up a little straighter. There was nothing sexy about a man who knew he was sexy. If that made any sense. Miles was too gorgeous. No woman wanted to be with a man who spent more time looking in the mirror than she did.
Actually that was unfair. Miles didn’t seem a vain man. He just was drop dead gorgeous. An accident of nature.
She really shouldn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t his fault any more than it was Verity’s that she’d inherited the enviable bone structure and the ability to survive on half a grape.
‘Jemima?’
She heard her name and looked up to find Rachel looking at her.
‘You’re off with the fairies. What are you thinking about?’
Thinking about? ‘Um—’ Jemima hunted for something to say ‘—um…’ Opposite her, Miles’s eyes were alight with laughter. Please God he didn’t know what she’d been thinking. She cast about for something likely. ‘Um…I was wondering what you were going to do about your dress? Surely it’s too late to change it now?’
Rachel smiled. ‘I was worried about that, but I rang the designer the second I heard Manningtree Castle was available. It’s not a problem. And she’s caught the vision absolutely.’ She gave a delighted laugh. ‘I’m so excited. It’s going to be perfect.’
‘As is my duck. I hope.’ Alistair began to gather together their plates.
Rachel picked up the central platter. ‘It had better be. He started soaking the apricots last night and he’ll be very sulky if it hasn’t worked.’ She followed Alistair back into the kitchen and Jemima was left alone with Miles.
‘Liar,’ he said softly.
Jemima looked up. ‘Pardon?’
Miles’s eyes glinted with wicked amusement. ‘You were not wondering about Rachel’s dress.’
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘Did it show?’
‘Not to Rachel, it seems. You live to daydream another day.’ There were gales of laughter from the kitchen. Miles looked over his shoulder and then turned back to her, saying quietly, ‘Do you think she’s going to ask me to wear tights and a tunic?’
‘If she does,’ Jemima whispered back, ‘you can console yourself that it’s only marginally worse than a russet-coloured waistcoat made from the fabric of my bridesmaid dress.’
The look of complete horror that passed over his face made her laugh and she was still laughing when Alistair and Rachel returned.
‘What’s so funny?’ Rachel asked as she put a warm plate in front of each of them.
‘Nothing.’
Miles cast Rachel a baleful look that was intended to charm. ‘Are Alistair and I going to be wearing tights?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Alistair said, putting his masterpiece in the centre of the table. ‘I don’t have the calves for it. Now this…is Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce.’
‘Do please notice the elegant presentation,’ his fiancée teased, looking up at him. ‘Particularly the apricot halves, watercress and blackberry garnish. It was very fiddly.’
The look of love and affection that passed between them suddenly made Jemima feel lonely. Most of the time she managed perfectly well, but just occasionally it spread through her like ink in water.
Rachel sat down. ‘You know, Alistair, I think you’ve got great calves. What about wearing tights?’
CHAPTER THREE
THE Duck Breasts with Blackberry and Apricot Sauce was a triumph, but the Poached Figs with Macaroons and Mascarpone Alistair had lovingly prepared for dessert was less successful. He was entirely philosophical about it and was threatening to invite them all back for a retry later in the month.
Jemima stirred brown sugar crystals into her coffee, surprisingly relaxed. This was so much better than staying home to decorate the bathroom, which had been her original plan for the evening. She’d almost forgotten the trail of ‘welkin blue’ footprints she’d left spread across the new vinyl floor when she’d tripped over the paint pot lid. She’d even managed to forget that Alistair thought she was ‘brittle’ and Miles had said that she dressed like her mother.
She sipped the dark liquid and let the flavours travel over her tongue. Brittle? Did she really come across as brittle? She didn’t want to be seen as brittle. She hadn’t known Alistair thought that about her. Rachel had never said.
It was probably true, though. No one knew how painful a divorce was unless they’d firsthand experience of it. It felt as if…you were being physically ripped in half. There was no other way of describing it. Her whole life, everything she’d invested in and worked for, had been shredded as though none of it had mattered. Anyone would be a little ‘brittle’ after that. Wouldn’t they?
‘Mint?’
She looked up to find Miles was holding out a plate of gold-wrapped mints. Jemima took one.
‘Rachel? Do you want one?’
‘Thank you.’
Jemima slowly unwrapped the foil-covered mint and let the conversation swirl around her. Miles Kingsley had turned out to be good company. At work he seemed…well…a complete caricature of what she’d imagined a playboy would be like.
It offended her that he seemed to select his dates with no more care than you would make a decision between a chocolate with a cream-filled centre and one with a nutty coating. Even more offensive was the way he discarded them days later, with as little thought.
It seemed the chase was what interested him. Winning. It was as though he were playing some complicated game of his own devising, and when he’d won he lost interest.
Not surprisingly, it wasn’t that simple. Miles was a much more complicated man. She’d wanted to dislike him, but she’d not been able to. Jemima spread out the foil wrapper and gently smoothed out the creases.
Maybe it was no more than that she disliked being at Kingsley and Bressington so much that it coloured her opinion of anything and everyone there. Tonight she had to admit that Miles had been fun. Kind, too. If discussing the various merits of a chocolate wedding cake over a traditional fruit one had bored her, it must surely have pushed him close to the edge.
In any case, she thought, smoothing out the final crease, his erudite endorsement of an assortment of cheeses and warm bread in favour of any cake had her vote.
Miles’s low laugh made her look up. ‘I haven’t seen anyone do that since school,’ he said, holding out his mint wrapper to her.
Jemima looked back down at the perfectly smooth gold square and back into his laughing blue eyes. A hard lump seemed stuck in her throat.
He had the most amazing eyes. So sexy. She felt like a rabbit caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak either.
‘I used to do that,’ Rachel said, spreading her own wrapper out in front of her. ‘It always used to rip, though.’
Alistair leant back in his chair. ‘That’s because you rush it. Jemima’s got patience.’
Finally Jemima managed to find her voice, albeit a huskier one than usual. ‘Jemima’s got two boys who need amusing when they go out to Sunday lunch. I make a pretty good job of putting After Eight Mint envelopes inside each other too.’
She took Miles’s wrapper and carefully eased out the creases. She was aware of Miles’s soft laughter and Rachel’s cry of irritation when her wrapper tore. Jemima kept her eyes focused on the gold paper until the last crease disappeared and she was left with a shiny square.
‘Beautifully done,’ Miles said softly.
He made even that sound seductive. No wonder he had women falling over themselves to go out to dinner with him. Like lemmings on a cliff…
Daft. She didn’t like to think how dreadful they must feel when he didn’t phone, didn’t make any effort to contact them again.
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