But then, that was what happened when you allowed your soon-to-be-ex-wife to ruin what should have been a very pleasant evening, he reflected ruefully. Frank Allen and his wife were old friends of his, and he knew Marcie had been relying on him to persuade the media tycoon to back her bid for network stardom.
She’d already done some TV work, appearing on chat shows, celebrity quizzes and the like, but she wanted to be taken seriously. She wanted to bury her bimbette image once and for all, and make her name with her own daytime talk show.
It had been a long shot at best. Jake knew that. Frank Allen hadn’t been in the business for more than forty years without being able to spot an amateur when he saw one. Marcie looked good on panel shows, when her contribution meant less to the producers than her appearance, but she simply didn’t have what it took to take centre stage.
Jake had suggested she ought to consider acting lessons, but Marcie had quickly vetoed that idea. She hadn’t become the most successful photographic model of the decade by admitting she didn’t have what it took to further her career. She didn’t want to hear that she needed more than good looks to make it in the very competitive world of television. Because other people had done it, she confidently believed that she could do it, too.
She had taken the fact that Jake hadn’t turned up at the restaurant as a personal slight. Even though he’d sent a message to both Marcie and Frank Allen—in Marcie’s case enclosed with an enormous bouquet of red roses, which he’d had the devil’s own job to acquire at half-past nine at night—explaining that he’d been inadvertently held up and apologising for letting them down, she’d still been furious.
Finding him waiting for her at her apartment when she’d returned home had not placated her. She’d virtually thrown the bouquet at him, declaring that he’d deliberately ruined the evening, that he cared more for his estranged wife and her snotty-nosed brat than he did about her.
There had been no reasoning with her, and Jake had eventually scooped up the bouquet and left the apartment. He’d deposited the roses in the nearest wastebin. He’d been angry, too, but whether it had been with himself or her he hadn’t cared to speculate.
Which was why he was at his desk before the rest of the staff turned in, scowling at his computer screen, wishing last night had never happened. And not just because of the row with Marcie. They’d had rows before, and no doubt would again. That was a given in their relationship. But because last night for the first time he’d learned that Isobel’s daughter had a wit and a personality all her own.
Until then he’d hardly spoken to the child. His dealings with her mother had been brief at best, and his memories of Emily were of a shy toddler, hiding behind Isobel’s skirts, or a sulky pre-teen, who’d resented his presence.
Well, she’d resented his presence last night, too, he conceded. To begin with, anyway. But afterwards, after they’d discovered a common interest in computer games, she’d become almost friendly. She’d actually laughed at his efforts to keep up with her, and he’d felt an unexpected surge of admiration at her ability to keep two steps ahead.
That was why he felt so bad about what had come after, he thought now, stabbing savagely at the keys. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt the kid. It wasn’t his fault that Isobel had never told Emily the truth, but he’d felt bloody guilty when she’d got so upset.
Which was the real reason why he hadn’t joined Marcie and the Allens at the restaurant. After what had happened he hadn’t felt like being sociable with anyone, even Marcie, and when she’d come home, accusing him of God knows what, he’d almost lost it. The temptation to tell her that the world didn’t revolve about her selfish little life had trembled on the tip of his tongue, and he’d known he had to get out of there before he said—or did—something he’d regret.
And he did regret it this morning, he told himself grimly. He’d been more than generous with Isobel over the years, and he had no reason to feel guilty because she’d chosen to keep her daughter in the dark. What had Emily said? That she was almost eleven? Yes. Definitely old enough to understand that people—even people you loved—didn’t always do what was expected of them. He wasn’t the traitor here; Isobel was. Emily’s mother had betrayed their marriage by having an affair with another man.
Piers Mallory.
His best—ex-best—friend.
And she was the result.
He was concentrating so hard on the display he’d brought up on the computer screen that he wasn’t aware he was no longer alone. When a hand descended on his shoulder he swore violently, turning a savage face to the intruder.
Shane Harper, his second-in-command, lifted both hands in mock surrender.
‘Hey, the door was open,’ he said, strolling round Jake’s desk. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He paused, evidently hoping for vindication. ‘You’re early. Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Something like that.’ Jake’s mouth flattened into a rueful grin. ‘Sorry for the profanity. I was miles away.’
‘In some dark chasm, by the sound of it,’ remarked Shane drily. ‘I’ve got coffee in my room. Want some?’
Jake pushed back his chair from the desk and got to his feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said, raking back his hair with a careless hand. ‘That sounds good. Lead me to it.’
Shane’s office, like Jake’s and those of the other senior members of staff, opened onto a huge room where many of the other employees worked. Wooden screens divided the floor into booths that gave a semblance of privacy to their occupants. Already one or two operators were at their desks, computer screens flickering to life, eyes blinking owlishly over the mugs of coffee that seemed a necessary jump-start to the day.
Jake followed Shane into an office very like his own and leaned against the door to close it. Then he sprawled into a chair across the desk from Shane’s, licking his lips in anticipation when the other man put a mug of steaming black liquid into his hand.
As expected, the coffee was rich and aromatic, the caffeine exactly what he needed to jump-start his own day. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the instant variety Emily had served him the night before, and he felt a renewed surge of irritation at the thought of Isobel telling her daughter they couldn’t afford any better.
That was a lie, pure and simple. The allowance he made his wife, plus what she earned herself, should keep them in relative luxury. But there was no denying that the apartment was beginning to look shabby, and Emily wasn’t likely to lie about something like that. So where was the money going? What was she spending it on?
‘Hello? Earth to McCabe? Did you just bail out on me again?’
Shane’s words brought him out of the deepening depression he’d been sinking into, and Jake pulled a wry face as he took another swallow of his coffee.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, trying to concentrate on what was happening in the present instead of drifting back into the past. ‘Lack of sleep, I guess. What were you saying?’
‘I asked if you’d enjoyed your evening at L’Aiguille,’ declared Shane good-naturedly. ‘You obviously had a hell of an evening, but I don’t know if it was good or bad.’
Jake grunted. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he said, setting the mug down on the desk and rubbing his palms over his knees. ‘I didn’t get to L’Aiguille.’ He grimaced. ‘Marcie wasn’t pleased.’
‘I can believe it.’ Shane arched disbelieving brows. ‘What happened? I thought you’d arranged to have dinner with the Allens.’
‘We had. Marcie did.’ Jake lifted his hands and folded them at the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t.’
Shane frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’