The Tycoon's Takeover. Liz Fielding

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      ‘I’d be delighted to explain what we’re doing, Mr Farraday. Just as long as you accept that I’m extending you a courtesy, not seeking your approval.’

      ‘Of course. Control is absolute. We both understand that.’ He certainly wouldn’t be seeking approval from the Claibournes for his plans. Their helpless howls of rage as he sold the store would only sweeten his triumph.

      They reached the ground floor and he followed her across the entrance lobby to the main door, where a staff photographer was waiting, along with a group of fans eager to catch the first glimpse of their idol. ‘Any sign of her, Mr Edwards?’ she asked the commissionaire.

      ‘She’s stopped just down there at the traffic lights. You’ve got about thirty seconds.’

      ‘The white stretch limo,’ she explained. ‘The lady is a celebrity. She likes to make an entrance.’ Then, ‘Maybe we’ll have a little time between the book-signing and the celebrity chef.’

      ‘Celebrity chef?’

      ‘In the food hall at twelve o’clock. He’s making some Italian dish to promote a new product line. I’m afraid you’ve chosen a rather hectic day to visit us, but maybe we can find some time to look at the plans before he arrives.’

      He didn’t miss her suggestion that he was ‘visiting’. That this was her territory. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to run the programme for the rest of the month by me too,’ he said, reminding her that his visit wasn’t a day-trip. ‘When you have a moment.’

      ‘I’m sorry. This must seem very tedious to you. But a store of this size needs to provide constant entertainment value—something to draw the crowds.’

      ‘And you keep a very high profile.’

      ‘It’s not the way you do things in your world, I know, but then high finance is, by its very nature, a secretive business.’

      ‘I think the word you want is confidential.’

      ‘Is there a difference?’ She glanced up at him with those cool dark eyes. ‘Apart from tone?’

      Not that much in the meaning, perhaps, but in the dismissive manner in which she said it there was a world of difference. ‘Tone is everything.’

      ‘Perhaps. This is different. Every day is showtime, and since it’s my name above the door I have to be centre stage.’ Meaning that he’d have to be front and centre too, when he took over? ‘Our customers like the fact that if something goes wrong I’m here, not hidden away in some anonymous head office.’

      Again there was the slightest pause, as if she expected him to say something. Did she really expect him to comment? Promise that he’d be on call for any customer with a complaint? She did something with her shoulders. Nothing as definitive as a shrug, but it made its point loud and clear. It said that he didn’t measure up to her ideal of a CEO for Claibourne & Farraday. It was a situation that she apparently found immeasurably satisfying, if the small smile tucking up the corners of her mouth was anything to judge by.

      ‘I’ll check my diary,’ she continued. ‘I might have that “moment” to run through the event schedule later. Of course there’s nothing stopping you from picking up a programme at the information desk. Or even going to the website to check it out for yourself.’

      ‘Like your customers, I prefer the personal touch. You can tell me all about it this evening.’ Which dealt with her smile, reducing it to a puzzled frown. ‘After we’ve visited the hospital. Over dinner, perhaps?’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You do manage to find a little time to eat?’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘I’ve cleared my diary in order to indulge you, Miss Claibourne. I think I’m entitled to a little consideration in return.’

      ‘India, honey!’ Before she could respond, she was enveloped in the warm embrace of her guest.

      India greeted the exuberant author with more than usual warmth. She deserved it for rescuing her from having to cope with a remark that she suspected had been finely judged to wind her up.

      He’d indulged her?

      He made her sound like some wilful little girl, who’d been given her own way under sufferance, but who would shortly be sent to bed unless she was very, very good.

      And then the author spotted him, and lit up like the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. ‘Who,’ she demanded, ‘is this beautiful man?’

      India was about to introduce them, and invite Mr Farraday to escort the lady novelist up to the book department, when the beautiful man in question pre-empted her. ‘Farraday,’ he said, taking her hand with a dazzling smile. ‘Jordan Farraday.’

      She 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.’

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