Read the book: «The Boss's Bride»

PROLOGUE

WITH an air of profound boredom, Adam Turmaine wandered over to an old print hanging above the hall table. Extending one finger, he touched it to the bottom right-hand corner. ‘What does that say?’

Claris leaned closer and informed him drily, ‘Treasury of Mechanical Music.’

‘Most appalling writing I’ve ever seen in my life. What am I doing here?’

‘Waiting to meet your aunt.’

Removing his gaze from the ancient map of Rye, he gave his companion a long look of contemplation. ‘Do I have an aunt?’

Claris’s lip twitched.

‘I’ll take that as an affirmative, although why you would think I’d be even remotely interested in meeting a distant relative, I can’t imagine.’

‘Because she’s family?’ she guessed. ‘Because there have been anonymous phone calls hinting that her financial advisor is ripping her off?’

‘What a singularly disgusting expression, and you really must stop trying to fit me with this mantle of concern for other people’s affairs,’ he drawled as he returned his attention to the map. ‘How long have you worked for me?’

‘You know how long I’ve worked for you.’

‘Then you should know by now that I’m not in the least family-minded.’ Turning, he gave her a warm smile. ‘You’d better point her out to me.’

‘Adam! You must know what your aunt looks like!’

‘Must I? Why?’

Eyes full of amusement, she merely looked at him.

‘It’s been years, Claris,’ he excused himself. ‘The last time I saw her was at my uncle’s funeral.’ Glancing into the reception room behind her, he encountered several pairs of eyes all looking at him. They smiled in disconcerting unison. He didn’t smile back. ‘Who are all these people?’

‘Local dignitaries, I think. It’s only natural they would want to meet you.’

‘Is it? Have I ever evinced an interest in meeting a complete stranger?’

‘No,’ she denied drily.

‘Then I can’t imagine why they should. We only arrived a few days ago, and already I’m expected to visit…’

‘Colonel Davenport,’ Claris put in helpfully.

‘Colonel Davenport,’ he agreed. ‘A man I do not know, have never to my knowledge met, and whom I have no desire to meet, but who seems to think it imperative I concern myself with local vandalism.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t know you,’ she murmured, tongue in cheek.

‘But you do,’ he informed her softly, ‘which makes it all the more amazing that you seem to expect me to concern myself in my aunt’s affairs. And what colossal cheek on my part it would be to assume that she’s incapable of looking after her own investments.’ Halting, he suddenly gave a small frown. ‘On the other hand…’

Claris waited.

‘My memory of her, which I would be the first to admit can sometimes be faulty—’

‘Selective,’ Claris put in.

‘—is of a fluttery woman who couldn’t string two sentences together.’

‘I expect you made her nervous.’

He looked genuinely astonished. ‘Why on earth would I make her nervous?’

Claris gave a wry smile. ‘Do you have any other relatives?’

He pulled a face. ‘What a sobering thought. I had hoped I didn’t have any.’

‘You don’t mean that…’

‘I don’t?’ Adam asked in surprise.

‘No. So now come and meet her. You can’t stand out in the hall all evening—’ Breaking off, because she knew her employer could do just that if he had a mind to, she added, ‘Please?’

Adam sighed. ‘Very well, but I do wish you would curb this enthusiasm you have for pitching me into situations I have no desire for.’

‘ I pitch you? You were the one who accepted the invitation.’

‘I didn’t understand the details—oh, God, who’s this?’

Turning quickly, Claris stared at a very large lady in puce who was emerging from the rear of the hall. The woman halted, beamed, and then held out both hands as though greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Mr Turmaine!’

Adam deftly avoided an embrace.

‘I had no idea you’d arrived!’

And someone’s head was going to roll, Claris thought in amusement, for that little oversight.

‘I’m your hostess. Mrs Staple Smythe.’

Claris could see a rude comment coming, so she kicked Adam’s ankle. Hard.

He grunted something.

‘And is this your wife?’

‘I don’t have a wife,’ he denied coldly.

‘Oh. Only we assumed…’

‘Yes?’ he queried hatefully.

‘Nothing, it’s not important,’ she denied hastily. ‘But please don’t stand out here being shy. Come and meet everyone.’ She gave Claris a look of query, and when neither of them enlightened her she gave another awkward smile and turned to go into the room.

‘Shy?’ Adam queried, sotto voce.

She gave a little choke of laughter and urged him in their hostess’s wake.

‘Your aunt Harriet is here,’ she continued, ‘and longing to meet you again. She’s such a dear friend…’

‘Is she?’ he enquired, in a tone of voice that made it quite clear that he found such a friendship totally incomprehensible.

Slightly unnerved, she halted. ‘Let me get you both a drink.’

It was left to Claris to thank her. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to be nice,’ she reproved Adam.

‘Yes, it would. She’s the sort of woman I most dislike.’ Scanning the crowded room, he finally pronounced, ‘I think my aunt’s the one in grey.’

‘Then go and talk to her.’

‘And then we can go home?’ he asked hopefully.

She merely smiled, knowing very well that he would go home when he wanted, exactly when he wanted, with no care as to whom he offended.

He took his drink from his hostess’s hand, and before she could launch into further conversation walked away.

‘He’s gone to talk to his aunt,’ Claris explained mildly.

‘Then he’s heading in the wrong direction,’ she said waspishly.

Claris gave another little choke of laughter. ‘It’s a long time since he’s seen her.’

Handing Claris her drink—a rather watery-looking white wine—she said almost petulantly, ‘I don’t know who you are.’

Claris felt momentarily sorry for her hostess, who had obviously had such high hopes of Adam Turmaine, but Adam behaved as he wanted to behave, with no thought for anyone’s feelings but his own. She wondered if she ought to warn her. ‘I’m Claris Newman,’ she explained, really rather unhelpfully, she knew, but her boss did so abhor anyone knowing his business. And that included the role his assistant played in his life.

Before Claris could even attempt to minimise the hostility her hostess was obviously feeling, she broke in hurriedly, ‘Will you excuse me? I naturally need to circulate.’

‘Of course.’ With an amused light in her eyes at her dismissal, Claris watched Mrs Staple Smythe forge a way to Adam’s side. Foolish woman. She was only going to open herself up to more snubs. Adam hated pretension. But then, Adam hated a lot of things, especially parties, which made it all the more amazing that he had actually volunteered to come to this one.

Carefully moving to a nearby corner, where she would be out of the way, she watched her employer. He was a tall, slim man, with a languid elegance. Working for him was better than watching a play. A townie at heart, Claris hadn’t been sure she was going to like living in the country, and after meeting these people tonight she was even less sure. On the other hand, if she hadn’t come with him to this small village near Rye she would have had to leave him, and she really didn’t want to work for anyone else. Which, on the face of it, seemed crazy. Spoilt by reason of his vast wealth, he was selfish, and mocking, but he set her challenges that no other employer ever had. He also set her heart beating erratically, she thought sadly, and that, quite simply, couldn’t be allowed. Wouldn’t be allowed.

With a rather self-mocking twist to her mouth, she moved her gaze to the others in the room. She thought they looked a self-important lot. Not that she would probably have much to do with them.

Various people came up, introduced themselves, asked her questions, which she evaded, and then, thankfully, she was left alone—so that they could talk about her. She wasn’t being paranoid; she could tell by the sidelong glances she kept receiving that she was being discussed. She felt amused rather than alarmed, and dismissed the matter from her mind.

Adam was now talking to a woman in blue—hopefully the aunt. A young slender woman with dark hair stood beside them, staring at Adam as though he was the answer to all her prayers. Perhaps he was. The woman in blue broke away, and headed towards Claris.

Here came the inquisition. There was always an inquisition. On the rare occasions she accompanied Adam to a function, usually to pick someone’s brains for him, interrogation had always been part of the evening. Almost paranoid about his privacy, Adam deliberately never explained their relationship, and people found it hard to understand how such a good-looking, successful man could have such a drab for his escort. Lips twitching into a smile at her analogy, she stared down into her drink. She wasn’t a drab, but then neither was she a great beauty. Her copper hair tended towards ginger rather than beech trees, her fair skin was freckled, and her wide grey eyes held amusement rather than mystery. But she was clever. Which was why Adam employed her.

‘And you are?’ a haughty voice enquired, and Claris looked up quickly. The woman in blue stood in front of her. She was a handsome woman, a little on the thin side, perhaps, but elegant. Certainly not the nervous babbler that Adam had remembered. If indeed this was his aunt.

‘Claris Newman,’ she introduced herself. ‘Are you Mrs Turmaine?’

‘Yes. How well do you know him?’ she demanded bluntly.

‘Well enough.’

‘Is he permanently fixed down here?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I did. He said to ask you.’

Claris merely looked at her.

‘Hmph. What’s this I hear about a baby?’

‘I don’t know,’ she denied. ‘What is it that you hear?’

A look of aggravation crossed her face. ‘You were seen arriving with one.’

‘Was I?’

‘Yes. Is it his? Are you sleeping with him?’

‘Are you always this rude?’ Claris countered.

‘In love with him?’

‘None of your business,’ she reproved, without inflexion.

Turning, Mrs Turmaine stared across the room at her nephew. ‘Time he was married and settled down. Good-looking men who play the field are usually bad news.’

Were they? To whom? Claris wondered. After sipping her drink, which was awful, she wedged it onto the crowded table beside her. Moving her eyes back to Adam, she considered his aunt’s statement. Yes, he was good-looking—no, she mentally denied, the man was devastating, but not necessarily bad news. He could sometimes be very rude. Must run in the family. His aunt was even ruder. He could also be aggravating, kind, and thoughtful. He also had a great deal of charm. When he cared to use it. His dark hair was thick, with a slight curl, his brown eyes direct. He was clever and challenging, and generous when he wanted to be. And, no, she wasn’t in love with him. She was attracted to him, she admitted, and it was an attraction she fought every minute of every day, but she was not in love. Any more than he was in love with her. The thought that it might even be conceivable brought a warped smile to her face. She wasn’t even sure that he was capable of loving. He was fond of his godson, which was the only reason he had moved to the house outside Rye—so that he could care for him whilst his parents were in hospital recovering from a horrendous car crash. His London apartment was totally unsuitable for a baby; the baby’s home was in Norfolk, and too far for easy access to the hospital, so they had come to the house he owned in the village of Wentsham. Little Nathan was probably the nearest he’d ever come to loving another human being. By his own admission he had no desire to marry, have children of his own…

‘What does he do?’

Wrenching her attention back to his aunt, Claris asked with deliberate vagueness, ‘Do?’

‘Yes, do. It surely can’t be a secret!’

‘No-o,’ she denied, ‘but I would prefer that you ask him yourself.’

‘I know he owns property,’ Harriet said crossly, as though it was some sort of sin.

‘Yes.’

‘And an electronics firm.’

‘Yes.’

‘And land. He’s extremely wealthy.’

‘Is he?’ asked Claris, who knew almost down to the last penny how much he was worth.

With eyes as direct as her nephew’s, Harriet Turmaine stared at Claris for some moments in silence. ‘It’s none of my business what he does, but I’ll give you a word of warning. This is a small community—old-fashioned, some might say—but if the baby’s yours, and he’s the father, and if he’s intending to stay here, he’d do better to marry you. I shan’t live in his pocket,’ she promised bluntly. ‘It’s not my way. No need to worry that I’ll interfere. Couldn’t if I wanted to. Don’t like people much.’ With an abrupt nod, she walked away.

Interesting, Claris thought. Related to Adam by marriage, not blood, astonishingly, she seemed very much like him. With a small smile, Claris made her way towards her employer, who was looking bored. She raised her eyebrows at him and amusement leached into his eyes.

‘Bored, Claris?’ he asked naughtily.

She gave him a look of mild derision and removed the glass from his hand. ‘Say goodbye to your hostess,’ she instructed him.

His amusement deeper, he went to do so.

‘Always does as he’s told, does he?’ a soft voice asked from beside her, and she turned to look at the young woman who had been talking to him.

‘Not always, no,’ she denied pleasantly. ‘It was nice to have met you,’ she added, by way of dismissal.

‘But you haven’t.’

‘No,’ Claris agreed.

‘I’m Bernice Long. Harriet’s niece. Her sister’s daughter. I expect we’ll meet again.’

It sounded like a warning. ‘Yes. Goodnight.’ A small smile on her mouth, she made her way towards their hostess, who had one hand resting rather intimately on Adam’s sleeve.

‘Thank you for a pleasant evening,’ Claris murmured, and Mrs Staple Smythe turned with a look of irritation.

‘I’m sure I don’t know why you have to leave so soon. You’ve only just arrived.’

‘Yes, but we don’t like to leave the baby too long.’ As an exit line, it was as good as any. With a last smile, she walked out. She wanted very badly to laugh.

‘A ghastly evening,’ Adam commented as they stepped outside.

‘Yes. I don’t think we endeared ourselves.’

‘Were we meant to?’ he drawled.

She laughed. ‘And if that is a sample of Rye hospitality…’

‘It isn’t, and this isn’t Rye. It’s a small village. Probably inbred,’ he commented indifferently as he headed towards the gate.

‘Well, you would know. You were born here.’

‘But I haven’t lived here since the age of eight. And eight-year-olds, my dear Miss Newman, aren’t known for their perspicacity.’

‘No,’ she agreed as she walked with him along the narrow lane. The well-manicured, immaculately hedged lane. Twenty or so detached houses and a small general store seemed the sum total of the community. Adam’s house was the last one on the right-hand side. Not that it could be seen behind its high brick wall, but that was where it was, and where she would be living for the next few months.

They walked in silence for a few moments, and then she asked curiously, ‘What was she like?’

‘Who?’

‘Bernice Long. The young woman you were talking to.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was talking to anyone.’

In other words, Claris thought wryly, mind your own business. ‘What did you think of your aunt?’

‘I don’t think I thought anything,’ he denied. ‘Why the remark about the baby?’ he asked, in the sort of voice that had often reduced past secretaries to tears. He’d had a great many secretaries, or so she’d been told. None of them had lasted very long.

‘I was being naughty,’ she said simply.

‘Then I would appreciate it if you would learn to contain it, and not make injudicious remarks.’

‘It wasn’t injudicious,’ she denied, without offence. ‘Your aunt had already asked me about it.’

‘And you told her?’

She slanted him a glance of derision.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised.

‘Accepted. She said she didn’t intend to live in your pocket.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘But I suspect the same couldn’t be said of Mrs Staple Smythe.’

‘Then you had best make sure my pockets are always unavailable, hadn’t you? And don’t sigh.’ With one of his quicksilver changes of moods, he promised humorously, ‘I’ll let you look after the baby tomorrow.’

‘How kind. Sadly, I will be unable to take you up on your generous offer. If you want your printer replaced, I shall have to go to London and bully someone.’

‘Bully them over the phone.’

‘But it works so much better face-to-face,’ she informed him softly as she pushed open the narrow side gate that led into the extensive grounds. ‘Anyway, I have to see the letting agent about my flat.’ She thought it might also be wise to try and change the sub-lease from long-term to short. In case she needed a bolt-hole. Having met the residents, she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to like living in Wentsham.