statement—though why the family should be uneasy about a guy like James being admitted to their ranks, Lisa couldn’t begin to fathom—she asked, ‘Where’s Father?’
Again the odd sensation of unease. Arthur Clayton glanced initially at his son and then his wife. He spoke for the first time since Lisa had joined them. ‘He’s with our top advertiser in the study. He shouldn’t be long. It’s not ideal—a private family celebration and all that. But apparently his time in the UK is extremely limited.’
‘And we’ve been nattering away for far too long,’ Honor said bracingly. ‘Time to circulate. Come, Arthur! You can make your speech as soon as Lisa’s father appears—and I presume he’ll want to say a few words of his own to mark the occasion. Everyone here knows, of course, but we have to make the engagement official.’ Smiling fixedly, she dragged her husband into the main reception rooms and Lisa asked, ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Ben? At first I thought your parents were unhappy about Sophie’s wedding plans. But it’s not that, is it?’
‘Problems over advertising revenue,’ he confessed, keeping his voice down, uneasy about being overheard. ‘But nothing for you to worry about, old thing. Is that dress new? It looks as if it cost a fortune.’ He changed the subject, not wanting to pursue it there, a slight frown pulling his brows together as glanced at the elegant creation she was wearing. A slip dress in pale coffee-tinted layered chiffon decorated with swirling patterns of toning sequins, the bodice held up by narrow sequined straps.
Her fingers slid away from his arm as she waited for the unwarranted spurt of anger to die down. He had always been ultra careful about money, she knew that and, far from irritating her, she had seen the character trait as vaguely amusing. She didn’t expect him to change, of course she didn’t, but it would have been nice if he’d complimented her on her appearance before niggling about how much the dress had cost.
Dismissing her reaction as absurd—they didn’t have the type of relationship that demanded sloppy compliments—she gave him a slight smile of conspiracy. ‘It’s hired for the evening—but don’t tell anyone!’
She accepted the reward of his grin, the warm hand that slid around her tiny waist, with a small curve of her lips, a dimpling cheek. But there was more. ‘Don’t patronise me, Ben. If we have money problems I should know about them.’ Number crunching was his department, not hers; he didn’t interfere with her editorial input, but this was different.
Ben hunched his shoulders uncomfortably and for a moment Lisa believed he wasn’t going to enlighten her. Then he shot her a wry glance. ‘We didn’t want to worry you. After all, your father might talk him round.’
‘Who?’
‘The top guy at Trading International. He’s threatening to withdraw the company’s advertising.’
‘And that’s serious?’
‘You bet your sweet life it is! High fashion leather wear, the Los Clasicos range of jewellery, wine, gourmet cheeses, luxury hotels and apartments worldwide. Withdraw that lot and we’re up the creek without a paddle.’
‘That bad.’ Lisa sucked her lower lip between her teeth. Shouldn’t she have seen this coming? What major advertiser would stick with a magazine with circulation figures in slow and seemingly unalterable decline? ‘What chance is there of Father talking him around?’
Ben shrugged. ‘God knows!’ He drew her away from the window. ‘I shouldn’t have told you—don’t let it spoil our evening, Lise. If everything goes pear-shaped and Lifestyle folds, we’ll be OK. With my qualifications and your experience we’ll find other work. Hold that thought while we mingle.’
Smiling, chatting, doing her best to act as if all was right with her world, Lisa felt hollow inside, her eyes straying continually to the study, where her father was trying to persuade a hard-nosed business mogul not to pull the plug. Many of the guests tonight were on the staff of Lifestyle. By this time next month they could all be out of work, her father and Arthur Clayton looking into the bleak face of failure.
How could Ben possibly expect her to dismiss all that from her mind and console herself with the thought that he and she would be OK?
He couldn’t be that selfish, could he? She shook her head in instinctive negation. Of course not. He’d only said that in an effort to cheer her up, not wanting their special evening to be spoiled for her.
As she accepted a flute of champagne someone put into her hand she saw her father and her heart banged against her breastbone.
It was impossible to tell from his expression whether or not he’d been successful. As always, her father kept his feelings to himself.
Silence fell, as if the sheer presence of the man had commanded it. When he spoke, talking of his happiness at the further cementing of the relationship between the two families, the words went in one ear and straight out of the other. And when Ben slid the diamond hoop on her wedding finger her face ached from smiling and the growing applause, the chorus of Ooohs and Aaahs, the glasses raised in cheerful toasts, slid past her consciousness, leaving no ripples at all.
All she was aware of was her father’s stern features, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was standing just beyond the chattering group surrounding her and Ben. One tight-jawed sideways inclination of his head had her murmuring her excuses and threading her way towards him.
Taking the champagne glass from her fingers he said, ‘You are needed in the study.’
‘Me?’ Lisa noted the impatient tightening of his thin mouth at what he would see as her idiotic questioning of his perfectly plain statement and to deflect the sarcastic comeback she knew from experience was in store for her she hurriedly asked, ‘How did it go? Ben told me there were problems.’
What could the big-shot want with her? An assurance that she had a pile of must-read, breathtakingly fascinating articles in her in-tray? The sort of stuff that would guarantee a huge upsurge in readership? As if! Anything remotely startling or contentious would be immediately scotched at editorial meetings by the partners.
Skirting her question, Gerald Pennington remarked coolly, ‘As I said, you seem to be needed. As far as I can tell, all you can do is try not to make matters worse. It shouldn’t take long and then you can enjoy the rest of your evening.’
Yeah, right, Lisa thought resignedly as she went to answer the summons. Her hand on the study door, she paused for a moment, psyching herself up to deliver the spiel of her life. If she could make the future editorial input sound really cutting edge maybe she could swing the balance in their favour. Though ‘cutting edge’ didn’t gel with anodyne accounts of boring society gatherings or fashion articles aimed solely at the seriously wealthy.
If she messed up her father would never forgive her. Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered to try to please him, why she wanted what she had never had—the warmth of his approval.
Wrinkling her neat nose, pushing her relationship with her father to the back of her mind, she straightened her spine, plastered a smile on her face and walked into the study.
And he was there, leaning against the edge of Arthur Clayton’s desk, his long, immaculately trousered legs crossed at the ankles, black eyes cold and hard, narrowed on her face.
Her stomach jumped in shock. ‘There has to be a mistake.’ Her voice sounded echoey through the buzzing in her ears. She took a step backwards, one hand outstretched as she felt for the door. Coming face to face with Diego Raffacani last night had been bad enough, stirring painful memories back to life. But here—posing as a major advertiser—
‘No mistake, I assure you. Sit down, Miss Pennington.’
He edged fully upright, feet apart, long-fingered hands resting on narrow hips, the jacket of his suit parting to reveal a matching waistcoat smoothly clinging to his powerful torso. The picture of sartorial elegance—no sign of the slightly shabby, casually dressed and ultra laid-back Spanish lover who had broken her heart.
The formality of his address helped