The Tycoon's Takeover. Liz Fielding

laughed. ‘You mean I get a Claibourne and a Farraday? This is so special!’ As she turned to face the cameras for the PR shots she snuggled up to him, before taking his arm and sweeping towards the escalator, leaving India trailing in their wake.

      ‘We should have lunch, Mr Farraday,’ she said, as they arrived at the book department and she finally released him.

      ‘How I wish that were possible,’ he said, with every appearance of deepest regret. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ He looked around at the queue of women clutching copies of her book to be signed. ‘I appear to be keeping you from your fans.’ And with that he gave India a look that seemed to say, Well? How did I do? Could Peter Claibourne have done it better? And the answer, of course, was no. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Then, to India, ‘I need to make a phone call.’

      ‘Please, use my office.’

      She could have gone with him, but she was glad of a moment to herself. She wasn’t taking anything for granted, however, and used the internal phone to call Sally.

      ‘Mr Farraday is on his way up. You can give him the event list for June, but he isn’t to see the new office plans. Or anything else.’

      ‘Anything?’ Sally replied, with a throaty chuckle.

      A distraction in the form of her sexy secretary, whose highest ambition was to flirt for her country in the Olympic Games, might be useful, but try as she might she couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for the idea. Instead, rather lamely, she said, ‘Oh, please…’

      She couldn’t quite understand why the idea bothered her, and she put it firmly out of her mind, returning to pose for photographs for the website with the author and some of her fans.

      After that there was nothing to stop her going back to her office and rejoining her shadow. The temptation to go down to the archives—a place where she could not be found unless she wanted to be—and hide out for the rest of the day was compelling.

      She pushed open the door to the stairs. Up or down?

      She’d never know, because Jordan Farraday was leaning, one shoulder against the wall, legs casually crossed, cutting off any chance of escape. She jumped nervously, and to cover her reaction laughed. ‘Mr Farraday. I thought you were using my office to make your phone call.’

      ‘I didn’t need a desk and I have my mobile.’

      ‘In other words it was simply a device to escape being pressed into joining the lady for dinner instead?’

      ‘I’ve already got a dinner date. With you.’ And he dropped the cellphone he’d been using into his pocket. ‘What next?’

      ‘Coffee,’ she said as, cut off from retreat, she took the stairs up to her office, cursing herself for not having thought of inviting the author to join them. She glanced back over her shoulder and found her eyes were on a level with his. They were dark as pitch and just as unfathomable. ‘You wouldn’t be able to walk away so easily if you were running the show.’

      ‘When I’m running the show, Miss Claibourne, I’ll pay someone else to play clown. I’d offer you the job, since you enjoy it so much, but somehow I don’t think you’d want to work for me.’

      Ignoring his comment about playing clown—but mentally filing away the fact that he planned on putting in a manager to use against him—she said, ‘It would make better sense to leave things the way they are.’

      ‘For you, maybe. Not for me. But you already know that.’

      Yes. She knew. While her father had been running the store he’d been able to do whatever he wanted and all Jordan Farraday could do was stand by and watch. He wasn’t going to leave things the way they were because he wanted that power for himself. Just for the sake of it? Or did he already have plans that he knew she wouldn’t like?

      ‘What time does your next party turn arrive?’ he asked, interrupting this disturbing chain of thought.

      ‘I wouldn’t let our celebrity chef hear you describe him as a party turn. Not when he’s got a knife in his hand.’ She ran her swipe card through the security lock and swept through the door and down the corridor, stopping by Sally’s office to ask for coffee and check for messages. ‘And schedule a meeting for me with the training manager, will you, please? As a matter of urgency. That woman in the nursery department didn’t cope well today.’

      ‘She’s just acting manager, isn’t she? While the manager is on holiday?’

      ‘Yes, and I’m afraid it showed. We need to make sure everyone knows how to deal with these one-off emergencies. We can’t rely on Mr Farraday to be around to take charge and hold hands next time.’ She glanced up, challenging him to admit it. Disconcertingly, he smiled, and for a moment she couldn’t think what she’d been going to say next. ‘And…um…’

      ‘The hospital?’ Sally prompted, flirting dangerously with an I-told-you-so smile.

      ‘Check and see how our mother-to-be is doing. As soon as we’ve got a result I’ll want flowers, and a basket of baby stuff in an appropriate colour. And a nice big C&F teddy. It’ll look good in a photograph if they’re prepared to do a PR piece. I’ll want a photographer with me this evening when I visit—with luck we’ll catch them on an emotional high that they want to share with the rest of the world.’

      ‘I’ll get onto it. We need to finalise the details of the retirement party for Maureen Derbyshire too, when you’ve got a minute.’ And she turned to Jordan Farraday. ‘Don’t miss it, JD. It’s going to be quite a party.’

      ‘I fear Mr Farraday finds our small concerns rather dull, Sally,’ she said, before he could respond. Then, turning to him, ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mr Farraday, but when Maureen leaves it’ll be the end of an era. She started work here on the day she left school. Fifty years ago.’

      ‘Then she must have known my grandfather.’

      Damn! She hadn’t thought of that. Point scoring off JD Farraday was going to be tricky. But she smiled and said, ‘Yes, I imagine so.’

      ‘I’m sure she’d be thrilled if you could find time to join us,’ Sally said, innocent as a baby. ‘It’s on Thursday evening. In the Roof Garden Restaurant.’

      ‘I’ll be there,’ he said, his gaze never leaving India’s face, mocking her as if, despite her secretary’s invitation, he understood that she didn’t want him popping up all over the place. ‘On the understanding that India saves the first dance for me.’