Valentine Vendetta (HQR Presents) Page 2

  Mistake number one. Ring someone up to try and drum up their business, and then manage to sound as unprofessional as possible! ‘It’s Fran,’ she said quickly. ‘Fran Fisher.’

  She could practically hear his mind flipping through its backlog of female names and coming up with a definite blank. But he was either too polite or too cautious to say so. Maybe he thought she was another in the long line of willing virgins offering herself up for pleasurable sacrifice!

  ‘Are you a writer?’ he asked in the wary and weary tone of someone who got more than their fair share of calls from would-be authors.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  A sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that!’ A note of caution returned to the deep voice. ‘So what exactly can I do for you, Fran Fisher?’

  ‘Actually, it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Mr. Lockhart.’

  ‘Oh?’

  In that one word Fran heard resignation—as if he was gearing himself up to withstand a crude attempt at flirtation. Which, according to Rosie—was an occupational hazard when you happened to be Sam Lockhart.

  And which meant there was nothing to be gained by playing for time. That would irritate a man like this, not intrigue him. She tried her most businesslike approach. ‘Mr. Lockhart, I understand you’re planning to hold a ball on Valentine’s Day—’

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ he snapped.

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me your name again! I’ve never met you before, have I?’

  Well, it had taken him long enough to decide that and he still didn’t sound one hundred per cent certain! She wondered how he would react if she adopted a sultry accent and purred, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘No,’ she said stiffly. ‘You’ve never met me.’

  ‘Yet you know the number of my mobile?’

  She was tempted to mention that he was stating the obvious, but resisted. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Er, your agency gave me the number.’

  ‘Well, they shouldn’t have!’ he snapped. ‘Certainly not to a complete stranger!’ There was silence down the line for a moment. ‘You’ve never met me and you’re not a writer,’ he mused. ‘So what exactly is your angle, Fran Fisher?’

  If it hadn’t been for Rosie she probably would have hung up on him there and then. How absolutely ridiculous he sounded! Quizzing her as though she were some sort of second-rate spy and he the valuable prize within her sights! ‘My “angle”,’ she said sweetly, ‘is that I’m a professional party-planner—’

  ‘But unsuccessful?’ he suggested drawlingly.

  ‘On the contrary!’ she defended. ‘I’m extremely successful!’

  ‘So successful, in fact,’ he continued, ‘that you need to spend your time making cold calls to strangers in order to drum up a little business? I thought that your line of work relied solely on word-of-mouth recommendation?’

  ‘Yes, of course it does! Normally…’ She pulled a hideous face as she imagined him standing in the room with her. She wanted to dislike him, for Rosie’s sake—and the way he was speaking to her meant that she didn’t have to try very hard. But her dilemma lay in disliking him too much. Because if that happened, it would undoubtedly show in her attitude towards him, and then he certainly wouldn’t give her the job! ‘But I have to help things on their way. I’ve been working in Ireland, you see—’

  He sounded weary. Like a man used to being bombarded with ambition. ‘And now you want to break into the market over here?’

  ‘Er…yes,’ she stumbled, caught off guard. No need to tell him that this was going to be a one-off! ‘Yes, I do. Actually, I’m quite well-known in Dublin. Ask anyone. And I’ve organised lots of fund-raisers—’

  ‘Have you really?’ he questioned, clearly not believing a word she said.

  Fran bristled. ‘I expect that if I mentioned some of my clients, their names would be instantly recognizable—even to you, Mr. Lockhart,’ she told him stiffly.

  ‘For example?’ he shot back.

  ‘I did some corporate work for the Irish Film Festival a couple of years ago, and on the back of that I got quite a few private functions. Cormack Casey, the screenwriter—he recommended me—’

  ‘Cormack?’ he interrupted, in surprise. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Well, not intimately,’ she said, then wished she hadn’t because it was obvious from the faint and disapproving intake of breath that he had misinterpreted her words. ‘I organised the catering for the baptism of his first child.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ asked Sam, in surprise. He’d been invited to that very same baptism, but a book tour in the States by one of his best-selling authors had put paid to that. ‘And if I rang Cormack—he’d vouch for you, would he?’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Triss—that’s his wife—’

  ‘I know who Triss is. I’ve known Cormack for years.’

  ‘Oh. Well, she told me they’d be happy to help with references.’ Fran suspected that the handsome Irish writer and his model wife had felt sorry for her. At the time she had been thinking about filing for a divorce from Sholto, and the baptism had been the only joyous thing in her life. She had poured her heart and soul into making the party match the moving ceremony of baptism, and she had been inundated with work ever since….

  ‘Did she?’ Sam Lockhart sounded impressed.

  Fran cleared her throat, sensing that this was just the right time to appeal to his greed. ‘The thing is, Mr. Lockhart—if you hire me to organise your ball for you, then I guarantee we will raise more money than you ever dreamed of.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk,’ Sam commented drily, then added, ‘Who told you about it, by the way?’

  ‘You mean the ball?’

  ‘No, Man landing on the moon!’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘Yes, of course I mean the ball!’

  This might have been tricky if she hadn’t anticipated the question. But Rosie had said that he was vain enough and realistic enough to know that everyone in his circle and beyond, would be clamouring for an invitation.

  ‘Oh, no one in particular,’ she said vaguely. ‘You know what it’s like. People talk. Particularly before an event has been organised—it gives them a certain cachet if they know about a highly desirable party before it’s officially been advertised.’ She drew a deep breath and added shamelessly, ‘And believe me, Mr. Lockhart—from what I understand—this is going to be the hottest ticket in town.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I already have someone in mind for the job, I’m afraid. Several women have already offered—’

  She could imagine! ‘Amateurs?’ asked Fran sharply. ‘Or professionals?’

  ‘Well, all of them have organised similar functions before—’

  ‘You know exactly where you are with a professional,’ put in Fran smoothly.

  ‘Really?’ He sounded unconvinced.

  It was time for a little feminine desperation. To see whether a breathy, heartfelt plea would get through to the man Rosie had described as a ‘virile robot.’ ‘Won’t you at least see me, Mr. Lockhart?’ she questioned.

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Well, of course you are!’ She used the soothing tone of a children’s nanny, then added a little flattery for good measure. ‘Successful men always are. But could you forgive yourself if your hectic schedule meant that your ball didn’t fulfill all your expectations, simply because you wouldn’t make time to see me?’

  He actually laughed at this—a bubbling, honeyed chuckle—and it was such a warm and sexy sound that Fran found herself gripping the receiver as though it might fly out of her fingers.

  ‘Determination is a quality I admire almost as much as self-belief,’ he mused. ‘Provided it is backed up by talent—’

  ‘Oh, it is!’

  There was a pause. ‘Very well, Miss Fisher—I’ll give you exactly ten minutes to convince me that I’d be a fool not to
employ you.’

  Thank God! ‘You won’t regret it, Mr. Lockhart,’ she enthused, hoping that her voice carried no trace of insincerity. ‘Tell me where and tell me when and I’ll be there!’

  ‘Okay. How about this afternoon?’

  ‘You mean today?’

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t mean tomorrow,’ he purred. ‘I’m flying to Europe with one of my authors later on this evening. I can see you at home—briefly—before I leave.’

  He managed to make it sound as though he was making an appointment for her at the dentist—and come to think of it, her adrenalin levels were as high as they might have been if he were a dentist! ‘In London?’ she guessed hopefully, since Rosie had already informed her that he had a flat in town and a house somewhere in the country.

  ‘No, in Cambridge,’ he stated.

  ‘Cambridge,’ she repeated faintly, her heart sinking as she thought of travelling to the flat, ploughed fields of the fens on a filthy cold November afternoon. Maybe on a fool’s mission.

  ‘Is getting to Cambridge going to be a problem for you, Miss Fisher?’ he questioned. ‘It’s hardly on the other side of the world, you know!’

  Rule number one: a party-planner must be prepared for any eventuality! ‘Problem? None whatsoever!’ she lied cheerfully. ‘Just give me a few easy-to-understand directions and I’ll be there in time for tea!’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, and Fran could have sworn that he was laughing at her.

  The light was already fading from the sky when the train pulled into Eversford station and the bleak, unwelcoming platform made Fran feel as though she was on the film-set of an old-fashioned murder mystery.

  She knotted her scarf tightly around her neck and looked around. Sam Lockhart had told her where she could get a cab and she walked out of the station into the dreary afternoon, where a fine mist of grey rain clogged the air and slicked onto the roofs of the cars like grease.

  There was no one else in the queue and the driver looked at her with interest as she told him the name of the house.

  ‘Sam Lockhart’s place,’ he commented, as he switched on his meter and pulled out of the station forecourt.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Should do. He brings us plenty of work. Thought that’s where you’d be headed,’ he said, smiling.

  Fran, who was hunting around in her handbag for a mirror, paused, mid-search. ‘Oh?’ She smiled back. ‘Can you guess where all your passengers are headed, then?’

  ‘No. Just his.’ The driver stopped at some red lights and grinned at her in his rear mirror. ‘If it’s someone glamorous getting off the London train, then the odds are that she wants to go out to Sam Lockhart’s place!’

  Fran bristled as the driver’s giveaway remark reminded her why she was here in the first place. Poor Rosie! ‘Oh?’ She thought how indignant she sounded! ‘He has a whole stream of women arriving here, does he?’

  The driver shook his head hastily. ‘Oh, no! Never more than one at a time!’ he joked. ‘And we only notice because nothing much happens around here. It’s a pretty isolated place.’

  ‘So I see.’ Fran looked out of the window as the buildings and lights of the town began to get more sparse and the landscape began to acquire the vast, untouched emptiness of perfectly flat countryside. It could have been boring, but she thought that it had a stark, distinctive beauty all of its own. Even so, its very bleakness did not fit in with her idea of where a sex god would live. Why had he chosen to settle out here, she wondered, when he could be raving it up in London? ‘Is it very far?’

  ‘Another couple of miles,’ he answered, slowing the car right down as the lane narrowed. ‘Writer, are you?’

  ‘Not me, I’m afraid!’ she told him cheerfully, and picked up her hand mirror to see what sort of face Sam Lockhart would be greeted by.

  Unexciting was the word which immediately sprang to mind.

  Her skin looked too pale, but then it always did—and the green-gold eyes could have done with a little more mascara to make the best of them. But apart from the fact that she had left in a hurry, Fran had deliberately played safe, unwilling to look as though she’d spent hours in front of the mirror in an effort to impress Sam Lockhart. Apart from the fact that it just wasn’t her style—sex gods were used to women slapping on the entire contents of their make-up bags. She knew that from living with her husband. So she would be different. Because there was one other thing she knew about that particular breed of man…they were easily bored and something different always intrigued them.

  So she had contented herself with a slick of nude lipstick which simply looked like she had been licking her lips. Just enough make-up to look as though she wasn’t wearing any at all—but only a woman would be able to tell that!

  ‘Here we are!’ said the driver. The car slowed down and began indicating right as a high, dark hedge began to loom up beside them. Before her stretched a long drive which curved off unexpectedly to the left, and impulse made her lean over to tap the driver on the shoulder.

  ‘Would you mind stopping here?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a long drive.’

  ‘I can see that. I don’t mind walking. In fact I’d rather walk. I just want to get the…feel…of the place first.’ That first gut reaction to someone’s home was invaluable. Houses and owners taken unawares told you volumes about what they were really like—and the better you knew a client, the better you would be able to judge the perfect party for their particular needs. A car drawing up outside would alert Sam Lockhart to her arrival and that would not do. She wanted to see the face of the seducer taken off guard.

  Ignoring the driver’s curious expression, she paid her fare and gave him a healthy tip.

  ‘Thanks very much, Miss. Will you be wanting to go back to the station…tonight?’ He put the question so delicately that Fran might have laughed if she weren’t feeling so indignant on Rosie’s behalf. What was Lockhart running here, for goodness’ sake? A harem?

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she answered crisply. ‘But I don’t know what time that will be—so if you’d give me one of your cards I’ll ring.’

  She waited until the red tail-lights of the car had retreated before setting off up the wide path, her sensible brown leather boots sending little shoals of gravel spraying in her wake.

  The grounds—they were much too extensive to be called a garden—wore the muddy, leafless brown of a winter coat, but the sparse flower-beds were curved and beautifully shaped, and the trees had been imaginatively planted to stand dramatically against the huge, bare sky.

  The house was old. A beautifully proportioned whitewashed villa which was perfect in its simplicity.

  And it looked deserted.

  Moving quietly, Fran crept forward to peer into one of the leaded windows at the front of the house, and nearly died with shock when she saw a man sitting in there, before the golden flicker of a log fire. A dark, denim-clad figure sprawled in a comfortable-looking armchair, his long legs stretched in front of him as he read from what looked like a manuscript.

  She came to within nose-pressing distance of the window and her movement must have caught his attention, for he looked up from his reading and his dark-featured face registered no emotion whatsoever at seeing her standing there. Not surprise or fright or irritation. Not even a mild curiosity.

  Then he pointed a rather dismissive finger in the direction of the front of the house and mimed, ‘the door’s open.’

  And started reading again!

  How very rude, she thought! Especially when she’d travelled all this way to see him! Fran crunched her way over to the front door, pushed it open and stepped inside, narrowing her eyes with surprise as she looked around.

  It wasn’t what she had expected.

  On the wooden floor lay mud-covered wellington boots, a gardening catalogue, a pair of secateurs and a battered old panama hat. Waterproof coats and jackets were heaped on the coat stand and a variety of different coloured umbrellas stood in an untidy s
tack behind the front door. The walls were deep and scarlet and womb-like and welcoming.

  So where were the wall-to-wall mirrors and the shaggy fur rugs where he made lots of love to lots of different women?

  It felt like coming home, she thought, with an unwelcome jolt. And it shouldn’t, she told herself fiercely. This was the house of the man who was responsible for Rosie’s heartache—not the house of her dreams!

  She turned and walked along a narrow corridor which led to the study and stood framed in the doorway with the light behind her.

  He looked up, all unshaven and ruffled, as if he’d just got out of bed. Or hadn’t been to bed. ‘Hi,’ he said, and yawned. ‘You must be Fran Fisher.’

  His eyes were the most incredible shade of deep blue, she noticed—night-dark and piercing and remarkable enough to eclipse even the rugged symmetry of his face. With the jeans went untidy, slightly too-long hair, making him more rock-star than literary agent.

  Yes, Fran thought, her heart pounding like a mad thing. No wonder Rosie had fallen so badly. He looked exactly like a sex god! ‘And you must be Sam Lockhart,’ she gulped.

  He shot a brief glance at his wristwatch and she found herself thinking that she had never seen a man so at ease in his own skin as this one.

  ‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘That’s me!’

  ‘Nice of you to come to the door and meet me!’

  ‘If you can’t manage to navigate your way from the front door to the study, then I think you’re in the wrong job, honey.’ He yawned again. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  Fran gazed around the room. ‘Where?’

  Sam conceded that she did have a point. Just about every available surface was given over to manuscripts of varying thicknesses. Some had even overflowed from his desk to form small paper towers on the Persian rug.

  ‘Don’t you ever clear up after you?’ she asked, before she had time to think about whether or not it was a wise question.

  ‘If you tidy manuscripts away, you lose them,’ he shrugged, as he rescued the telephone from underneath a shoal of papers. ‘At least if they’re staring you in the face you can’t hide away from the fact that you need to get around to reading them sometime!’