‘So? What was the problem with your debit card?’
‘Nothing. Ria’s card machine was playing up and, since I couldn’t wait, I dashed across the road to the ATM.’
‘You fell for that?’ he asked in a way that suggested she could wave goodbye to her credibility as it flew out of the window.
Sorrel let slip an expletive. He was right. She was an idiot.
Not even her soft-as-butter sister, Elle, would have been taken in by that old chestnut. But this was Ria! Okay, she was as organised as a boxful of kittens, but so warm, so full of love.
So like her own mother.
Right down to her unfortunate taste in men.
She sighed. Enough said. Lesson learned. Move on. But it was time to put this exchange on a business footing. Alexander West hadn’t bothered to ask who she was, no doubt hoping he could shoo her out of the door quick sharp, and forget that she existed.
Time to let him know that it wasn’t going to happen.
‘How is your sister?’ he asked, before she could tell him so. ‘You said she was rushed into hospital? Was it serious?’
‘Serious?’ She blinked. Hadn’t she said?
Apparently not. Well, his concern demonstrated thoughtfulness. Or did he think it was just an excuse to cover her stupidity? The latter, she was almost sure...
‘Incurable,’ she replied, just to see shock replacing the smug male expression that practically shouted, ‘Got you...’ ‘It’s called motherhood. She had a girl—Fenny Louise, seven pounds, six ounces—practically on the hospital steps. Her third.’ She offered him her hand. ‘I know who you are, Mr West, but you don’t know me.’ Despite a kiss that was still sizzling quietly under her skin, ready to re-ignite at the slightest encouragement. ‘Sorrel Amery. I’m the CEO of Scoop!’
Her hand, which had been resting protectively on the frosted container, was ice cold, a fact she realised the minute he took it and heat rocketed up to her shoulder before spiralling down into parts that a simple handshake shouldn’t reach.
Was he plugged into the National Grid?
‘Scoop?’ There went the eyebrow again.
‘It’s not a question,’ she informed him, briskly, retrieving the hand rather more quickly than was polite. ‘It’s an exclamation.’ She began to return the containers to the freezer before both she and their contents melted. None of them were going anywhere in the immediate future. ‘We deliver an ice-cream experience for special events. Weddings, receptions, parties,’ she explained. ‘This order is for a tennis party Jefferson Sports are hosting at Cranbrook Park to show their new range of summer sports clothing and equipment in action to the lifestyle press. The house has recently been restored,’ she added, ‘and converted into a hotel and conference centre.’
‘Jefferson Sports?’
‘They’re a major local company. Manufacturers and retailers of high-end sports gear, and clothing. Camping equipment...’
‘I know who they are.’
‘Then you’ll understand the importance of this order,’ she said, determined to press the advantage now that she had snagged his interest. ‘It’s a media event. The idea is that the gossip magazines and women’s pages will publish a lot of pretty pictures, which will get everyone rushing out to buy the sexy new racquets, pink tennis balls and the clothes that the tennis stars will be wearing at Wimbledon this year.’
‘Pink?’
‘Pink, mauve, blue...designer colours to match your outfit.’
‘Please tell me that you’re kidding.’
‘You think there will be outrage?’ She risked a smile—just a low-wattage affair. ‘Letters to The Times? Questions raised about the legality of the balls? All bags of publicity for Jefferson Sports.’
‘Always assuming that it doesn’t rain.’
‘The forecast is good, but there’s a picturesque Victorian Conservatory, a classical temple, a large marquee and a load of celebrities. The pictures will be great whatever the weather.’
She’d seized the opportunity to promote their company to Nick Jefferson when he’d called at her office to book ‘Rosie’ for his youngest child’s birthday party. Rosie had been a hit and, when he’d invited her to tender for this promotional party, she’d beaten off the competition with her idea for a ‘champagne tea’ delivered in mouth-sized bites of ice cream—witty, summery, fun.
There were going to be major sports stars amongst the guests, all the usual ‘celebrities’ as well as a couple of minor royals, and the coverage in the gossip magazines and Sunday newspapers would give them exposure to their core customer base that not even the biggest advertising budget could deliver.
Without Ria’s ices she would not only miss that opportunity, but, if she didn’t deliver, her reputation would be in ruins and all her hard work would have been for nothing.
‘Mr West...’ calling him Alexander hadn’t worked and she was in dead earnest now; it was vital to convince him ‘...if I don’t deliver a perfectly executed event for Jefferson my reputation will disappear faster than a choc ice in a heatwave.’ Worse, it could backfire on the rest of the business. ‘If that happens, Ria won’t be the only one up the financial creek without a paddle and...’ since he’d already admitted that he was in some way responsible for Ria’s problems there was no harm in playing the guilt card ‘...you’ll have two insolvencies on your conscience.’
‘If you relied on Ria,’ he replied, unmoved, ‘you deserve to sink.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’ She had always been aware that there was an element of risk working with Ria, but until now she’d been managing it. Or thought she had.
‘It’s a harsh world.’
‘So you’re going to let the taxman take us both down?’
‘If we don’t pay our taxes, Miss Amery, everyone loses.’
‘I pay mine!’ she declared, furiously. ‘On the dot. Along with all my bills. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Well, you’re never here, are you? Do you have a job, Mr West, or do you just live on handouts from gullible women?’
‘Is that what you think? That I’m the reason Ria is in trouble?’
His voice, soft as cobwebs, raised the gooseflesh on her arms. Had she got it totally wrong?
Renowned for being calm in a crisis, she was totally losing it in the face of the kind of body that challenged her notion of what was attractive in a man. Slim, elegant, wearing bespoke tailoring...
He was so not her type!
Not in a million years.
She mentally hung a Do Not Touch notice around his neck, counted to three and took a deep breath.
‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ The ability to hang on to a calm demeanour in the face of disaster was a prime requisite of the events organiser, but right now she was running on her reserve tank with the red light flashing a warning. ‘Can we at least check and see if she’s made the sorbet?’ she suggested, resisting the urge to rub her hands up and down her arms to warm them and instead reaching for a white coat and slipping it on. Settling a white trilby over her hair. A statement of intent. ‘It has a very short shelf life and by the time you and the Revenue sort out the paperwork it will be well beyond its best-before date. So much sorbet down the drain. A waste of everyone’s money.’
‘I’m sure you’re only worried about