Bombshell For The Boss: The Bride's Baby. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
been playing at weddings, more like a little girl let loose with the dressing-up box and her mother’s make-up—or in this case a billionaire’s bank account—than a woman embarking on the most important stage of her life. But that cake had suggested she’d been serious.
Maybe she’d just been trying to convince herself.
‘Where is this monstrous confection?’ Tom McFarlane asked.
‘The cake?’
‘Of course the damn cake!’ he said, finally snapping, proving that he was made of more than stone. ‘Did she take that with her too? Or has it already been foisted on some other unsuspecting male?’
‘That’s an outrageous thing to say, Mr McFarlane. The people I deal with are honest, hard-working businessmen and women.’ She should have stopped then. ‘Besides, no one wants a secondhand wedding cake.’ Particularly one with someone else’s coat of arms emblazoned on it.
‘They don’t? What a pity the same can’t be said about brides.’ For a moment she thought he was going to let it go. But not this time. ‘So?’ he demanded, glaring at her. ‘What will happen to it?’
Desperate to get this over with, she was once more tempted to ask him if it mattered.
The words were on the tip of her tongue but then, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the man beneath. A man who’d worked himself up from labouring in the markets to the top floor of a prestigious office building but had never forgotten how hard it had been or where he’d come from and was just plain horrified by such profligate waste and realised that, yes, to him it did matter.
‘That’s for you to decide,’ she said.
‘Then call the baker. He can deliver it to my apartment this evening.’
This was her cue to suggest that he was joking.
Had he any idea how big it was?
She restrained herself, but when she hesitated he sat back in his chair and gestured for her to get on with it.
‘Do it now, Miss Smith.’
About to ask him what he’d do with ten pounds plus of the richest fruit cake—not including the almond paste and icing—she thought better of it. Maybe he liked fruit cake.
And when he got tired of it he could always feed the rest to the ducks.
It was all downhill from there with a mass of personalized stuff—all of it now just so much landfill. Menus, seating cards, table confetti in their entwined initials, candles, crackers with their names and the date on them, filled with little silver gifts for the guests—she’d managed to negotiate the return of the gifts. Every kind of personalized nonsense, each imprinted with their names and the date of the wedding that never was.
There wasn’t a single thing that Candy had overlooked in her quest for the most extravagant, the most talked-about wedding of the season.
The list went on and on but the only other invoice to provoke a reaction was the one for the bon-bonnière.
‘Well, here’s something different,’ he said, stretching for a touch of wry humour. ‘A French tradition for wasting money instead of a British one.’
Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, she was prepared to risk a smile of her own but instead she caught her breath as, his guard momentarily down, she caught a glimpse of the grey hollows beneath his eyes, at his temple.
Maybe he heard because he looked up, a slight frown puckering his brow.
‘What?’ he demanded.
She shook her head, managed some kind of meaningless response that appeared to satisfy him, but after that she kept her head down and finally it was all done but for the last invoice. The one for her own fee, which she’d reduced by twenty per cent, even though the cancellation had caused nearly as much work as the actual day would have done.
‘It’s as well you don’t offer a money back guarantee,’ he said.
‘My company’s services carry a guarantee,’ she assured him.
‘But not one that covers parts replacement.’
Which was almost a joke but this time she didn’t even think about smiling. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr McFarlane. The bride is entirely your responsibility.’
‘True,’ he said, surprising her. ‘But maybe you’re missing out on a business opportunity,’ he continued as, finally, he wrote the cheque. ‘It would be so much simpler if one could pick and choose from a list of required qualities and place an order for the perfect wife.’
‘Like a washing machine? Or a car?’ she asked, wondering what, exactly, had been his specification for a wife. And whether he’d adjust it in the light of recent events.
Go for something less glamorous, more hard-wearing.
‘Performance, style, finish …’ She had been dangerously close to sarcasm but he appeared to take her analogy seriously. ‘That sounds about right.’ Then, as he tore the cheque from the book, ‘But forget economy. Fast women and fast cars have that in common. They’re both expensive to run. And you take a hit on the trade-in.’ He didn’t hand her the cheque but continued to look at it. ‘Good business for you, though.’
‘I’m not that cynical, Mr McFarlane,’ she assured him as, refusing to sit there like a dummy while he made her wait for him to hand it over, she set about gathering her papers.
She tucked them back into the file and stowed them in her case, taking all the time in the world over it, just to prove that she was cool.
That nothing was further from her mind than a speedy exit from his office so that she could regain control over her breathing and her hormones, both of which had been doing their own thing ever since she’d been confronted at close quarters by whatever it was that Tom McFarlane had in such abundance. And she wasn’t thinking about his money.
When everything was done she looked up and said, ‘No one, no matter who they are, gets more than one SDS wedding.’
‘Speaking personally, that’s not going to be a problem.’
And he folded the cheque in two and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
No …
‘Once has been more than enough.’
He stood up and hooked his jacket from the back of the chair before heading for the door.
No … Wait …
‘Shall we go, Miss Smith?’ he prompted, opening it, waiting for her.
‘Go?’ She stood up very slowly. ‘Go where?’
‘To pick up all this expensive but completely useless junk that I’m about to pay for.’
Oh. No. Really. That was just pointless. Besides the fact that she was now, seriously, running out of time as well as breath. Her staff didn’t need her to hold their hands, but the pop diva was paying for that kind of service.
Sylvie was really annoyed with herself about that. Not the time—that was all down to Tom McFarlane. But the breath bit.
It wasn’t even as if he’d tried. Done a single thing to account for her raised pulse rate or the pitifully twisted state of her hormones.
Apart from looking at her.
It was, apparently, enough.
‘I’m qu-quite happy to dispose of it for you,’ she said quickly. She could at least spare him the indignity of having to haul it to the recycling centre. Then, when that offer wasn’t leapt on with grateful thanks, ‘Or I can arrange to have it delivered.’
It wasn’t as if he could be in a hurry for any of it.
‘If that’s more convenient for you,’ he said. Her relief was