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