Asking for help or acknowledging any kind of problem had never been Charles Sheridan’s strong point. Maybe he should report back on what Lucas had told him.
Heath flipped open his phone when there was a polite cough and he looked up, blinking. The car had pulled to a halt and his driver was standing on the pavement, holding the door open for him while the rain soaked into the shoulders of his smart jacket.
Apologising profusely, Heath generously tipped the driver and stepped out of the executive car his father had sent to collect him from the airport. He stood long enough to take one quick glance up at the elegant stone building that was now the London office of Sheridan Press before the reporters realised who he was and ran out from the shelter of the arched entrance, cameras flashing.
Heath pulled his coat closer as protection against the heavy rain and smiled at the press.
Dealing with the media was all part of the job—as long as they produced column inches in the financial and trade press, then he was happy.
‘Mr Sheridan. Over here, sir. Mr Sheridan, is it true that you are taking over Sheridan Press when your father retires, Mr Sheridan?’
‘What can you tell us about rumours that the printing operation is going overseas, Mr Sheridan?’
‘How do you feel about being the best man at your father’s wedding? Is it third time lucky for Charles Sheridan?’
‘Thanks for coming out in this typically English summer weather, everyone.’ Heath smiled and waved at the cameras before turning to the female reporter who had asked the last question. ‘Alice Jardine is a lovely lady who my father has known for many years as a close friend. I wish them every happiness together. Of course I was delighted when my father asked me to be the best man at his wedding this weekend—it isn’t often that happens. As for the company? Business as usual, ladies and gentlemen. And no closures. Not while I am on the team. Thank you.’
And at that, by some unspoken signal, the main entrance doors slid open and Heath stepped inside with a quick smile and a wave.
But, just as he turned away from the press, a man’s voice echoed from over his shoulder, ‘Is it true that your late mother and Alice Jardine were good friends, Mr Sheridan? How do you feel about that?’
The doors slid shut and Heath carried on walking across the pale marble floor of the hallway, apparently deaf to the question, and it was only in the solitary space of the elevator that he slowly unclenched his fingers.
One by one. Willing each breath he took to slow down as the words of that last question repeated over and over again inside his head.
Feel?
How did he feel about the fact that the woman who had been his mother’s best friend was marrying his father?
How did he feel about the fact that Alice had been with his father while his mother lay dying in a hospice?
How did he feel?
Heath tugged hard at the double cuffs of his tailor-made shirt and fought back the temptation to hit something hard.
But that wouldn’t fit into his carefully designed image.
Heath Sheridan did not get ruffled or upset or display outrageous bursts of emotion and temper. Oh, no. He played it cool. He was a Boston Sheridan and the Boston Sheridans kept their feelings buried deep enough to be icebergs.
Well, this ice man was not going to melt and let the rest of the world feel the heat of the raging temper that was burning inside him at that moment, threatening to spill out into some ill-judged outburst.
So what if his father’s choice of bride hit one of his hot buttons?
He could deal with it. Was dealing with it. Would continue to deal with it.
Ironic that he should be asked that question outside the very house where his mother had spent the first twenty years of her life. The house had been built for his grandparents, who had been part of a group of aristocratic artist writers and intellectuals in the Arts and Crafts movement in the nineteen-thirties and the Art Deco features were original and stunning, especially in the library. Two storeys of hand-carved teak shelves were connected by a circular staircase which led onto an upper-level gallery, lit by a central domed roof.
Of course it had the wow factor for visitors to Sheridan Press, who were too much in awe to take notice of the fact that the recent catalogue of Sheridan books would fit neatly into one small part of the lower shelf.
Heath remembered playing hide-and-seek in the many stunning rooms, attics and cellars when he was a boy on rare visits to London with his parents, but now it was little more than a private meeting venue for his father and his circle of artist friends like Alice Jardine.
Closing his eyes, he could almost see his mother playing the piano in the drawing room below while he played with his grandparents in the patio garden outside the open French windows. The smell of lavender and beeswax. Old books and linseed oil. Because, above everything else, this house had always been filled with artists, the dinner table chatter was about art, the library full of books and exhibition catalogues about art and, of course, every available wall had been a living, constantly changing art gallery.
The thought of Alice walking these corridors where his mother had been so very happy was something that he was slowly coming to terms with. But he wasn’t there yet. And he wasn’t entirely sure that he ever would be.
That was something else he was going to have to work on.
In the meantime? He had a wedding to survive. A wedding where it was going to be crucial to pretend that all was rosy in the Sheridan family, and father and son were working together like the dream team they were pretending to be.
Heath strolled over to the lovely polished marquetry desk and sat down heavily on an antique chair, which creaked alarmingly at the weight.
His father and his new fiancée had ordered a relaxed country house wedding—and that was precisely what they were going to get—with his help.
Heath opened up his laptop and was just about to dive into the checklist for the wedding arrangements when his cellphone rang and he flipped it open and answered without even checking to see who was calling him.
‘Sheridan,’ he said, and jammed the phone between his solid wide jaw and his shoulder blade so that he could scroll down the project plan and highlight the key activities while taking the call at the same time.
‘Heath? Heath, is that you?’ a female voice called down the worst phone line that he had ever heard. Loud crackling noises and what sounded like thunder screamed out at him.
Heath instantly focused on the call. ‘Olivia, I was starting to get worried. Did you make your flight to London on time? Sorry about the British weather but the forecast is looking good for the next few days.’
The response was a loud clattering sound as though heavy objects were being dropped onto a metal floor, and Heath held the phone a few inches away from his ear until he heard his girlfriend’s voice, which gradually became clearer. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but all the lines are down. I’m still in China. Heath?’
He closed his eyes and counted to ten before blinking. ‘Olivia, tell me that you’re joking.’
‘The tropical storm that hit three days ago has just been declared a typhoon,’ her echoing voice replied. ‘A typhoon! Would you believe it? Even the helicopters have been grounded.’
Heath pinched the top of his nose, and then quickly typed in search details for the weather in Southern China. Whirls of thick white cloud and misty shapes of land masses covered with warning symbols reflected back at him from the screen as he replied. ‘This looks serious. Are you okay? I mean, do you have somewhere safe to go until the weather clears?’
‘The valley has already flooded,’ she yelled, ‘so the whole team