True Colours Page 7

  Peter was already waiting for her, standing alone looking out the plate glass doors at the fountain in the forecourt, his hands in his pockets. He must have been watching for her reflection in the glass, because he turned as she walked towards him. He’d changed into a charcoal grey suit, hand-tailored, Italian she was quite sure, and, as he moved, she could see it was lined with claret silk, setting off his silk tie. His look was approving. And hungry.

  Catching her breath, she stopped a couple of feet from him, opened her mouth to speak, but he was there ahead of her, ‘I hope you’ve got something on under that coat.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Shocked, Caroline opened her eyes wide, found herself rooted to the spot. Thank God no one could hear him.

  ‘It’s the sort that drops to the floor in movies, isn’t it? The kind of coat you dream about when you’re stuck in the snow in a dug-out in Chechnya with a gang of shit-scared kids for company.’

  ‘Is it?’ It wasn’t often Caroline was stuck for words but right now she really was.

  ‘It is. Definitely.’ Peter took a step towards her, narrowing the gap between them, filling it with an electrical charge that almost made her jump backwards. ‘So where do you want to eat? You suggest somewhere, it’s ages since I was in Dublin.’

  Move. Caroline willed herself to move, to close the gap a little further. There was something she had to tell him. She pulled her hands out of her pockets to smooth the collar of her coat away from her face, cleared her throat, braved a step forward. She needed to get this next bit out of the way as fast as possible.

  ‘I have a small confession. I should have mentioned it earlier.’

  Peter raised one sandy eyebrow and looked at her down his nose, the bridge of which, she realised, was twisted slightly like it had been broken, making him look even more interesting. His mouth pursed, he was looking at her half-amused like she was a precocious child, waited for her to continue.

  Caroline glanced nervously at the huge entrance doors. She had to get this over with before someone she knew walked in and blurted it out for her.

  ‘You see...’ how should she put this? Inwardly Caroline winced, there was only one way....’I’m actually seeing someone. Well, we’re engaged. So...’

  ‘So, you don’t want to have dinner?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Her reaction was instantaneous, surprised them both, ‘No, I’d love to have dinner with you, but you just need to know, that’s all. You might not want to have dinner with me.’ Caroline emphasised the last word, managed to make it sound arch.

  Peter shrugged. ‘I’m on my own in the big city, why would I not want to have dinner with a beautiful woman, even an engaged one?’ It was the way he said woman. She could feel herself melting, dissolving like an ice sculpture into a pool on the floor.

  She nodded, ‘Okay. So that’s fine then.’

  ‘It is. Fine.’ Was he teasing her?

  Outside there was a flash of headlights as the long, sleek shape of a silver Mercedes S550 pulled around in front of the doors. The car...

  ‘It does mean though that going to a restaurant could be a bit tricky.’

  ‘Tricky.’ He was nodding. He was definitely teasing her. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes and, dear God, he was looking at her like all he was interested in was what was under her coat. If things continued like this, she really would be in a puddle on the floor before they even got into the car. Drawing a breath, Caroline tried to pull herself together

  ‘So, I took the liberty of ordering a car. Have you seen the Wicklow Mountains? They really are rather lovely at night.’

  ‘The Garden of Ireland isn’t that what they call them?’ He made it sound like the Garden of Eden, ‘Sounds good to me.’ He took another step towards her, closing the gap between them, put out his elbow so she could slip her arm through his, ‘Show me the way... I’m all yours.’

  Now that was an offer she couldn’t refuse...

  ELEVEN

  ‘So that’s for Thursday is it? Do you really think you can get back from the factory in Poland in time for the meeting in Cannes on Friday?’

  Sitting across the desk from her boss, Jocelyn Blake swished the full skirt of her favourite ruby taffeta dress over her knees, like a hen settling her feathers, and peered at Sebastian with concern over her half-moon glasses.

  They’d had an early start, but he really wasn’t with it today, had just put down the phone after speaking to his operative in Poland and had agreed to view their factory in Gdansk and have dinner with him there, when he’d been talking all week about getting over to Cannes and giving their chap a roasting before they opened for business at nine. It was most unlike him. He was normally so methodical.

  Jocelyn knew he relied on her a lot for the minutiae, but he was always so thorough; he was the one who had built one of his grandfather’s businesses, a small property development company, into the global concern it was today. Over the years they’d won deals and lost them, but she’d never seen him quite like this, this preoccupied.

  For a moment, Jocelyn wondered if the New York deal that Jackson was negotiating was the problem – they were buying a bank after all – but as she turned it over in her mind she couldn’t think of any major acquisition that had ever bothered Sebastian like this before, no matter how big. There was that journalist too, but Jocelyn was pretty sure Sebastian had straightened her out, explained that whoever was giving her information was making it into something it wasn’t. The girl was a young slip of a thing, looking for her big break, had arrived scowling, looking like she was going to chew Sebastian up and spit him out, but she’d left the office smiling. There was something else on his mind – there had to be.

  Most definitely in a world of his own, Sebastian obviously hadn’t heard her. Jocelyn watched as he ran his gold fountain pen through his fingers, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle of the leather-bound blotter in the centre of his desk, oblivious not only to her, but to the office, to the heavy rain outside, torrents of water buffeting the floor-to-ceiling windows like a tsunami. Spring in Dublin…rain and more rain. Goodness, she hoped it would be better weather for the wedding.

  The wedding.

  Suddenly it clicked and Jocelyn almost slapped her forehead in disgust at not recognising the obvious. It had to be the wedding that was bothering him.

  Leaning forward, Jocelyn was about to say something helpful about nerves being completely natural, or that everything would fall into place on the day – anything to snap Sebastian out of whatever was occupying his mind so fully, to get him back to the job at hand – but she checked herself. The last thing she needed was for him to lose his temper and accuse of her interfering. They both knew she’d never been keen on Cormac’s sister Caroline, found her airs and graces hard to stomach on a good day. In fact, from the moment Caroline had first appeared on the scene, Jocelyn had been treading very carefully. The day Sebastian had revealed the news of their engagement, he’d accused her of having a face like a prune, had ranted on about the joyful messages they’d received from Cormac and his family. At the time, secretly, Jocelyn had wondered if he wasn’t feeling a bit prune-like himself, was using her reaction as some sort of excuse for his own lack of enthusiasm. After all, she’d made her thoughts abundantly clear that first morning when Caroline had swanned into the office and tried to barge in on a board meeting, so he should hardly have been surprised. Jocelyn paled at the memory.

  ‘Of course he’ll see me!’ Arching one eyebrow (with emphasis) in response to a woman whom she obviously perceived to be little more than a secretary, Caroline had been marching through Reception towards the lift when Jocelyn had caught her arm, and restrained her very firmly but in the nicest possible way, saying ‘he’s in a meeting. A crisis meeting with the board of one of his companies. I’m under strict instructions not to interrupt until he calls. I’m very sorry but you’ll have to wait.’

  Eyeing Jocelyn’s hand on her arm, Caroline had been about to deliver one of the cutting remarks she reserved for impertine
nt staff, to create an opening scene in one of the one-woman dramas she specialised in. But something about Jocelyn’s tone stopped her. Rapidly reassessing the situation, she had paused for a moment, her disdain hanging in a noxious cloud that filled Reception. Then, rooting in her Prada handbag, with not a little glee, she had produced Sebastian’s watch. ‘Perhaps you could give him this; he left it in the shower.’ Smiling sweetly, she then turned on her heel and headed out of the building, throwing as a parting shot over her shoulder. ‘Tell him to call when he’s free. I’m going shopping in town. I’ll be on my mobile.’

  Looking at the worn leather strap and scratched silver bevel of Sebastian’s beloved Tag Heuer, Jocelyn had suddenly had an alarming flash of impending doom, a startling feeling of precognition that this wasn’t going to turn out well. She cursed herself. This was all her fault…

  It had been her idea for him to ask Caroline Audiguet-O’Reilly to dinner – realising sometime mid-morning that the invitation to the Chinese Ambassador’s residence for a private dinner with the visiting Chinese Minister of Trade and the CEO of one of China’s largest corporations was for two, and that for Sebastian not to turn up with a date might be considered highly offensive. By chance, moments before, Caroline had called to say she was in town, could collect her brother’s binoculars any time before Friday...

  Agonizingly, as Jocelyn looked back on it, it had actually taken her some time to persuade Sebastian that a) he really did need a date for the dinner, that in Chinese culture a huge emphasis was placed on family and turning up without a date could be viewed as a slight on the Ambassador’s hospitality, and b) that Caroline was perfect. His reaction came back to her like a speeding boomerang: ‘what Cormac’s little sis? Good God woman, she’s a nightmare!’ But, as Jocelyn had explained to him, Caroline had attended the Sorbonne and had made small talk at enough dinners with French prime ministers to know exactly the right etiquette and tone to adopt. So, Jocelyn had reasoned, Caroline was perfect. And, more importantly, there wasn’t anyone else available who even came near the mark. Of course, when Sebastian had called to see if she was free, explaining the dilemma, Caroline had revelled in it, her ‘but I couldn’t possibly, I’ve nothing to wear,’ met with the suggestion that she pop into The Designer Rooms in Brown Thomas and put whatever she needed to buy on his account. That had been the start of it. And if Jocelyn had had any inkling that Caroline would begin to weave a very sticky web around her prey, a man who could offer her all the material benefits she required in life, as well as a hereditary title and a castle to boot, Jocelyn would most definitely have suggested she attend the dinner herself instead.

  ‘What?’ Sebastian narrowed his eyes and looked at Jocelyn like he was trying to work out why she was there.

  Jocelyn raised her eyebrows, ‘Gdansk on Thursday, Cannes on Friday. You’ll be flying through the night after a heavy dinner. I can’t imagine you’ll be in the best shape to deliver the bad news to the French at eight o’clock in the morning. And you’re at the theatre with Caroline on Friday night. ‘

  Suddenly tuning back in, Sebastian looked startled.

  ‘Am I? Damn. You’re right. Can you fix it? Get me sorted out so I can see everyone. We can’t move the meeting on Friday, but see what you can do.’ He paused for a moment, ‘And just remind me what we’re doing today again…’

  ‘Alex Ryan at ten about the decorating, you put her back an hour, actually that’s in ten minutes now, and you’ve a conference call with Jackson in New York at eleven.’

  ‘New York. Of course. Look, we’ll have to put off the Polish chap until next week. He was so enthusiastic on the phone about how well things were doing I must have got carried away. Tell him we need to reschedule so I can give him more time. That should do the trick. He’s worked damn hard out there; I want to give him his due.’

  ‘No problem.’ Then tentatively, ‘Are you okay today? You seem a bit preoccupied.’

  Again, startled, Sebastian’s eyes flashed momentarily like a small child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Fear, shock? Jocelyn couldn’t put her finger on it. When he replied she detected a hint of defensiveness.

  ‘Me? I’m fine. Lot on my mind I suppose. New York’s tricky; I’m sure Jackson’s got it all under control but we can’t afford any cock-ups.’

  Jocelyn nodded knowingly, hoping she was giving the impression that she was satisfied by his response, her multi-tiered candelabra earrings jangling with each movement of her head. Then, thinking a change of subject was in order she said, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Alex’s ideas, aren’t you? I think she’s going to be very good for us. A whole new look.’

  A whole new look. Sebastian ran his pen through his fingers again, then, as if coming to some sort of decision in his head, tapped the end of it hard on his desk. The sharp rap it produced seemed to signal a change in his mood, as grinning broadly at Jocelyn, shaking off whatever was on his mind, he nodded his agreement.

  ‘High time we had a change, don’t you think? It’ll sharpen everyone up. We’ll see what she has for the office and you can sort out the stuff for that shopping centre while I brief her on the apartment. Then we’ll be all set for the Minister when he finally turns up. I want you in on that meeting though, and we’ll tape it. I don’t want him pulling some sort of fast one.’

  Jocelyn’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise, ‘As if an elected member might try to bribe you…’

  Sebastian grinned broadly, feeling back on form for the first time in days, ‘God forbid…’ Before he could say any more, the buzzer went on his desk and a female voice said, ‘Ms Ryan’s on her way up Mr Wingfield.’

  In the lift, Alex had her eyes shut and was counting to one hundred in sevens. Anything to keep her mind off walking through the doors of his office. Anything to calm the swarm of bees trying to escape from her stomach. Her briefcase over her shoulder, she could feel her palms beginning to sweat. She had wedged the A3 laminated mood boards she’d spent the weekend working on under her arm, large sheets of thick cream cardboard crowded with colour patches, fabric samples and shots of sculpture and architecture that summarised the looks she thought best met the brief. In her clear, flowing handwriting, rounded and generous, she had summarised the various images that Venture Capital could achieve, had taped a spread-sheet of the projected costs to the back of each board and had another copy in her briefcase. She was as ready as she could hope to be. But some things she would never be ready for.

  As the lift pinged upwards from the ground floor, she looked down at her heeled crocodile pumps, trying to focus on something solid, mundane, trying to clear her head for the meeting Her shoes were golden brown to match her chocolate tweed suit and ruffled champagne silk blouse, the top buttons open to reveal her tan, it had taken her ages to decide what to wear. Her black trouser suit had seemed the obvious choice, but, when she had thought about it last night, half her wardrobe spread across her double bed, it had seemed too defensive somehow. And the last thing she wanted to be was defensive. Whatever about the past, whatever about that kiss, she had a job to do and needed to look like she was in control, even if she was shrivelling inside like an autumn leaf, a leaf about to fall off the tree and plummet to earth.

  Finished with her shoes, she had closed her eyes again, was trying to focus instead on images of success before she arrived on the top floor. Ellen MacArthur bringing Kingfisher across the finish line at Les Sables d’Olonne after 94 days single-handed circumnavigation in the Vendee Globe race; Ernest Shackleton travelling 800 miles through the ice and snow with four of his shipmates to get help for his stranded crew; the last American Idol X-Factor guy, whatever his name was, hearing the news that he had won the five million dollar deal. So absorbed in her thoughts she’d missed hearing the lift ping and the doors glide open. Jocelyn’s greeting almost made her drop her briefcase with fright.

  ‘Ah Alex, how lovely to see you.’

  Eyes flying open, Alex did an Oscar-winning job of turning her expression of shock into one
of delighted surprise. ‘Jocelyn! So good of you to meet me.’ It sounded a bit thin, even to Alex. Stepping out of the lift, she continued conspiratorially, ‘I was just visualising some of the options for your new look. It helps so much to be on site and get a feel for the schemes that will work best.’

  Grinning broadly, obviously thrilled with this insider trick, Jocelyn could hardly contain her excitement, her eyes bright, earrings jangling like alarm bells.

  ‘Super, super. I just KNEW you were perfect for the job. I can’t wait to see your ideas. Come this way, Sebastian’s inside and the coffee’s hot.’

  It took all the composure Alex could muster to cross the hall to the double doors of Sebastian’s office. She could feel the colour in her cheeks rising and prayed that her makeup and tan would be enough to hide her blush. But there was nothing she could do about her heart, thundering in her chest so loudly that she was sure Jocelyn could hear it. Thankfully, Jocelyn didn’t seem to notice, but swept on ahead, holding the door open and ushering Alex through like a film star arriving at a premiere. And just like a premiere, the lights inside were dazzling, every bulb in the tangled chandelier reflecting off the polished surfaces, the marble floor, the glass of the conference table, the white sofas. Beyond the huge windows the storm had darkened the sky so much it could have been midnight, heavy black clouds crowding around the huge windows like paparazzi after a story. But Alex hardly noticed.

  Sitting on the sofa, relaxed, loose-limbed, one elbow resting on his knee, absentmindedly holding a mug of coffee was Sebastian. Despite the sound of her heels on the floor, he didn’t look up, was apparently lost in concentration, scanning a pile of documents in front of him, his forehead creased. Just like the last time they had met, he had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar unbuttoned, tie loose, but today his shirt was pale pink, thick woven cotton, his trousers a fine wool navy pinstripe. Smart and sexy. Very sexy. Unconsciously, her eyes were drawn to his shirt straining across the breadth of his shoulders, to the strength in his muscular forearms, and Alex felt that long forgotten kick in the pit of her stomach. Just like when she was seventeen, just like the time she landed in his arms in the tumbledown Mill House, so close she could feel the heat of his body through her thin t-shirt, smell the scent of his soap, feel his hands hot on her back.