In her place, she probably wouldn’t give a damn about how good-looking a man was either. She swallowed. In her place, she’d want someone exactly like Jordan Farraday holding her hand…
He glanced around. A few feet away a hovering assistant was holding a couple of bags, and as he straightened to take them he saw her standing in the doorway. For a moment he remained perfectly still as their gazes locked, held, and for a long moment she was his prisoner.
‘Miss Claibourne…’ She jumped at the sound of her name and the moment passed as the department manager came between them. ‘We’ve had quite a morning.’
‘So I see,’ she said, making an effort to give the woman her full attention, despite the charged feeling at the back of her neck that suggested JD Farraday’s gaze was still fastened firmly upon her. ‘It appears one of our customers left her shopping trip rather late.’
‘Well, no harm done. Mr Farraday has been wonderful. He calmed that silly girl when no one else could.’ India thought that was probably a first. It seemed unlikely that was his usual effect on girls—or women—of any description. ‘Then he phoned her boyfriend, and when people wouldn’t move away he sent them all over to the coffee shop for complimentary coffee and cakes.’
About to ask why it had been left to him, why the manager hadn’t done all that herself, she bit back her irritation at the woman’s ineffectiveness, and her lack of sympathy, and concerned herself with the fact that Jordan Farraday had witnessed it and taken charge.
So much for throwing him off balance.
It was not a great start.
‘I hope it was all right to do that?’ the woman added uncertainly, when India didn’t immediately respond.
‘Absolutely right,’ she said, discovering for herself what the expression ‘through gritted teeth’ actually meant. ‘Should anything like this happen again, don’t hesitate to do that,’ she said, and made a mental note to have the training department bring it up at the weekly workshops they ran for the managerial staff. With a reminder not to refer to the customers as ‘silly’ under any circumstances.
‘Miss Claibourne.’ The quiet authority of his voice matched his appearance. Just the way he said her name necessitated another deep breath before she turned to confront JD Farraday.
‘Mr Farraday.’ She extended her hand in a manner she hoped was sufficiently businesslike to counteract the breathlessness of her voice. Perhaps it didn’t matter. If her reaction—and she was famously difficult to impress—was anything to go by, he must believe that all women were chronically breathless. ‘I had assumed you’d call before you arrived, or I would have come straight up to my office instead of taking my usual morning walk through the store.’ She glanced at the mother-to-be, who was rapidly disappearing behind the door of the goods lift. ‘You seem to have kept yourself busy, however.’
‘It’s been an interesting morning,’ he admitted.
‘A little different from your office in the City.’
‘We do have women in the City. Some of them even have babies, although we do encourage them to take maternity leave rather than have them in the office.’ She’d expected him to be dour, cool. He was the enemy, after all. They both knew that. Yet his wry smile indicated a sense of humour, and the firm manner with which he clasped her hand, held it, suggested that he’d waited all his life to meet her.
Making a determined effort to collect herself, she retrieved it. ‘We’d rather they didn’t do it here either,’ she admitted. ‘But there’s nothing like being thrown in at the deep end. Since I arrived too late to do anything more than hold things up I thought it best to leave you to it. You seemed to be managing,’ she added, in another of those ‘gritted teeth’ moments. Then, ‘I was under the impression that you were going to be holding the young lady’s hand while she’s whizzed through the traffic to the hospital.’
‘I thought someone should offer,’ he replied. As a criticism of her department manager’s ineffectuality it was masterly in its understatement. ‘However, the paramedics were kind enough to assure me that I’d be in the way. They suggested I might to go along later—with her shopping.’ He held up a couple of their trademark dark red glossy carrier bags, the store’s name printed in elegant copperplate gold lettering. She had a momentary flash of her vision of the way it would be—Claibourne’s, all in lower-case modern type—once she’d seen him off. ‘They didn’t seem to think she’d have much use for it in the next hour or so.’
‘What? Oh, no, I imagine not.’ She looked around. ‘Excuse me.’ The assistants were busy returning the department to normal, and she crossed to thank them for the way they’d handled a difficult situation.
‘You will let us know what happens, won’t you, Miss Claibourne?’
‘Of course. Maybe you’d like to choose a card and sign it from everyone in the department? I’ll phone the hospital later, and when we know that everything has gone smoothly I’ll take it to the hospital with some flowers. And her shopping. Maybe one of you would be kind enough to take it up to my office?’ She turned to JD Farraday. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer to go on behalf of the store?’ she offered. ‘See the job through?’
‘Since I’m spending the next month observing you at work, Miss Claibourne, I think you should give her the flowers,’ he said, surrendering the bags to a blushing assistant. ‘While I watch.’
Before she could quite make up her mind whether he was being serious or sarcastic, he smiled, which short-circuited any but the most positive thoughts, making it difficult to remember that it was her intention to spend as little time as possible in his company.
‘If you’ve nothing more pressing this evening, of course you’re most welcome to join me. But it’s not compulsory. Even a “shadow” has statutory rights regarding working hours,’ she said, making an effort to keep things cool and businesslike. Then she spoiled it all by smiling right back. ‘Excuse me, I’d better just go and let everyone know they can resume shopping.’
For a moment, the space of a heartbeat, as he’d looked up and seen India Claibourne standing in the doorway watching him, Jordan had known he’d made a mistake. That his secretary had been right and that he was playing with fire. That he should run, not walk away from this woman.
He already knew she was lovely. Every single photograph of her, since her first photo-call at the age of four, sitting on Santa’s knee in the C&F Christmas grotto, had been filed away with the newspaper articles on the store supplied by a cuttings agency.
With her little cap of dark hair cut into a neat fringe, her eyes huge with the excitement of it all, there had been the promise of beauty even then.
As she’d grown into a lively teenager, a dashing young woman, her face had changed from that of a round-cheeked child into the fine-boned elegance of genuine beauty. One with style, class and the indefinable something extra which made a woman special: the something extra that reminded a man there was more to life than making money.
Only her eyes had never changed. They were still huge, eager, burning with life, and for a moment the heat they generated had seared him in a vivid affirmation of Christine’s warning on the dangers of playing with fire.
Then she’d turned away to speak to her department manager and common sense had kicked in.
He was that rarest of commodities, a wealthy bachelor. His world had never been short of lovely women. But he hadn’t lost his head over one of them yet, and there was absolutely no chance of him losing it over India Claibourne.
That wasn’t his plan at all. In this relationship there would be only one loser.
For a moment he watched her walk across the sales floor towards the coffee shop. Tall, willowy, her long legs emphasised by high, high heels, her elegant figure merely sketched at by the suit she was wearing. Burgundy-red, rich and dark and expensive, with discreet