The Tycoon's Takeover. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ Cutting off her thanks, she went on, ‘Just shift these files first,’ she said, peeling off the torn tights and replacing them. ‘I’d hate JD Farraday to fall over them and sue us.’

      ‘Why would he do that? Wouldn’t that be like suing himself?’ Then, realising that it was not a conversation with a future, she said, ‘I’ll put them in your office.’

      ‘No!’ India took a deep breath. ‘No, don’t do that. Arrange for them to be put in my car.’ The last thing she needed was Jordan Farraday looking over her shoulder as she went through them.

      Correction. The last thing she needed was Jordan Farraday. Full stop.

      CHAPTER TWO

      INDIA took another deep breath before she pushed open the door to the nursery department. She seemed to be doing that a lot this morning, but it was fortunate that her lungs were loaded with air, because she didn’t breathe again for what seemed like an age.

      JD Farraday was the kind of man who would always make the need to breathe redundant.

      He didn’t court publicity, but she’d gathered what information she could about the man. The grainy photographs from the financial pages of heavyweight newspapers had suggested an averagely good-looking, dark-haired man in his mid to late thirties. They didn’t do him justice. There was nothing average about Jordan Farraday.

      His features were arranged in the conventional manner, it was true, but the combination achieved something far from ordinary. There was something about him that transcended mere good looks.

      As if that were not enough he was taller, his hair darker—the touch of silver at his temple only emphasising just how dark—than just tall, or just dark. But that was the superficial, obvious stuff.

      What set her midriff trembling like a joke jelly, prickled her scalp and set up the tiny hairs on her skin, was the way he dominated the room, the way every person in it was looking to him for guidance, leadership.

      Jordan Farraday was the archetypal dominant male. Alpha man. Leader of the pack. The kind of man who would always make other men appear ordinary, who would attract women like iron filings to a magnet. In short, he was the most exciting man she’d set eyes on in months…years…possibly ever…

      And she’d taken him on in a winner-takes-all battle for control of Claibourne & Farraday.

      Not that he appeared in the least bit threatening at the moment. Far from it. As she stood there he crouched down to gently sandwich the hand of the very young soon-to-be-mother between both of his, reassuring her as she was fastened into a chair trolley by a paramedic, his smile a promise that he would let nothing bad happen to her.

      ‘You’re going to be fine, Serena. I’ve phoned your boyfriend and he’s going straight to the hospital.’ His voice was low, calming, like being stroked by velvet. ‘He’ll be waiting for you when you arrive.’ He glanced at the paramedics. ‘Ready?’ One of them nodded. ‘You’ll be there in just a few minutes.’ As he turned slightly the light behind him lit up a classic profile—the kind that Greek sculptors had reserved for gods. ‘Would you like me to come along with you in the ambulance?’

      By way of reply, the mother-to-be gripped his hand more tightly. ‘My bags…’ she began, less concerned with the swoon quotient of the man at her side, apparently, than the fate of her shopping. But then she was in labour—and India caught her breath again as the woman was seized by a contraction.

      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.’

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