your client.’ He regarded her stonily. ‘And I imagine Mr Lyall did go absent without leave?’
Oh, Lord! ‘Actually, he… No. He asked me for some time off…’
He sat back, apparently speechless.
‘Are you telling me you actually gave him leave to elope with a woman whose wedding you were arranging?’ he said, after what felt like the longest pause in history.
This was probably not a good time to give him the ‘dying grandmother’ excuse that she’d fallen for.
When Candy had borrowed Quentin for bag-carrying duties on one of her many shopping expeditions it had never crossed Sylvie’s mind that she’d risk her big day with the billionaire for a fling with a twenty-five-year-old events assistant. Even one who’d eventually make her a countess. He came from a long-lived family and the chances of him succeeding to his grandfather’s earldom before he was fifty—more likely sixty—were remote.
And, while she’d been absolutely furious with both of them, she did have a certain sympathy for Quentin; if a man like Tom McFarlane had succumbed to Candy’s ‘assets’, what hope was there for an innocent like him?
But, despite what she’d told Tom McFarlane, when Candy had finished with Quentin and he did eventually return, she was going to have explain that, under the circumstances, he couldn’t possibly continue working for her. Bad enough that it would feel like kicking a puppy, but Quentin was a real asset and losing him was going to hurt. He had a real gift for calming neurotic women. He was also thoroughly decent. It would never occur to him to go to a tribunal for unfair dismissal.
Maybe it was calming Candy’s pre-wedding nerves—she had gone into shopping overdrive in those last few weeks—that broad sympathetic shoulder of his, that had got him into so much trouble in the first place.
Tom McFarlane, however, having fired off this last salvo, had returned to the folder in front of him and was flicking through the invoices, stopping to glance at one occasionally, his face utterly devoid of expression.
Sylvie didn’t say a word. She just waited, holding her breath. Watching his long fingers as they turned the pages. She could no longer see his eyes. Just the edge of his jaw. The shadowy cleft of his chin. A corner of that hard mouth…
The only sound in the office was the slow turning of paper as Tom McFarlane confronted the ruin of his plans—marriage to a woman whose family tree could be traced back to William the Conqueror.
That, and the ragged breathing of the woman opposite him.
She was nervous. And so she should be.
He had never been so angry.
His marriage to the aristocratic Candida Harcourt would have been the culmination of all his ambitions. With her as his wife, he would have finally shaken off the last remnants of the world from which he’d dragged himself.
Would have attained everything that the angry youth he’d once been had sworn would one day be his.
The good clothes, expensive cars, beautiful women had come swiftly, but this had been something else.
He hadn’t been foolish enough to believe that Candy had fallen in love with him—love caused nothing but heartache and pain, as he knew to his cost—but it had seemed like the perfect match. She’d had everything except money; he had more than enough of that to indulge her wildest dreams.
It had been while he was away securing the biggest of those—guilt, perhaps for the fact that he’d been unable to get her wedding planner out of his head—that she’d taken to her heels with the chinless wonder who was reduced to working as an events assistant to keep a roof over his head. How ironic was that?
But then he was an aristocratic chinless wonder.
The coronet always cancelled out the billions.
When it came down to it, class won. Sylvie Smith had, after all, been chosen to coordinate the wedding for no better reason than that she’d been to school with Candy.
That exclusive old boy network worked just as well for women, it seemed.
Sylvie Smith. He’d spent six months trying not to think about her. An hour trying to make himself send her away without seeing her.
As he appeared to concentrate on the papers in front of him, she slipped the buttons on her jacket to reveal something skimpy in dark brown silk barely skimming breasts that needed no silicone to enhance them, nervously pushed back a loose strand of dark blonde hair that was, he had no doubt, the colour she’d been born with.
She crossed her legs in order to prop up the folder she had on her knee and for a moment he found himself distracted by a classy ankle, a long slender foot encased in a dark brown suede peep-toe shoe that was decorated with a saucy bow.
And, without warning, she wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.
He should write a cheque now. Get her out of his office. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the invoice in front of him and snapped, ‘What in the name of blazes is a confetti cannon?’
‘A c-confetti c-cannon?’
Sylvie’s mind spun like a disengaged gear. Going nowhere. She’d thought this afternoon couldn’t get any worse; she’d been wrong. Time to get a grip, she warned herself. Take it one thing at a time. And remember to breathe.
Maybe lighten things up a little. ‘Actually, it does what it says on the tin,’ she said.
His eyebrows rose the merest fraction. ‘Which is?’
Or maybe not.
‘It fires a cannonade of c-confetti,’ she stuttered. Dammit, she hadn’t stuttered in years and she wasn’t about to start again now just because Tom McFarlane was having a bad day. Slow, slow…‘In all shapes and sizes,’ she finished carefully.
He said nothing.
‘With a c-coloured flame projector,’ she added, unnerved by the silence. ‘It’s really quite…’ she faltered ‘…spectacular.’
He was regarding her as if she were mad. Actually, she thought with a tiny shiver, he might just be right. What sane person spent her time scouring the Internet looking for an elephant to hire by the day?
Whose career highs involved delivering the perfect party for a pop star?
Easy. The kind of person who’d been doing it practically from her cradle. Whose mother had done it before her—although she’d done it out of love for family members or a sense of duty when it was for community events, rather than for money. The kind of person who, like Candy, hadn’t planned for a day job but who’d fallen into it by chance and had been grateful to find something she could do without thinking, or the need for any specialist training.
‘And a “field of light”?’ he prompted, having apparently got the bit between his teeth.
‘Thousands of strands of fibre optic lights that ripple in the breeze,’ she answered, deciding this time to take the safe option and go for the straight answer. Then, since he seemed to require more, ‘Changing colour as they move.’
She rippled her fingers to give him the effect.
He stared at them for a moment, then, snapping his gaze back to her face, said, ‘What happens if there isn’t a breeze?’
Did it matter? It wasn’t going to happen…
Just answer the question, Sylvie, she told herself. ‘The c-contractor uses fans.’
‘You are joking.’
Describing the effect to someone who was anticipating a thrilling spectacle on her wedding day was a world away from explaining it to a man who thought the whole thing was some ghastly joke.
‘Didn’t you discuss any of this with Candy?’ she asked.
His broad forehead creased in a frown. Another stupid