About the Author
JACQUELINE BAIRD began writing as a hobby, when her family objected to the smell of her oil painting, and immediately became hooked on the romance genre. She loves travelling and worked her way around the world from Europe to the Americas and Australia, returning to marry her teenage sweetheart. She lives in Ponteland, Northumbria, the county of her birth, and has two teenage sons. She enjoys playing badminton, and spends most weekends with husband Jim, sailing their Gp.14 around Derwent Reservoir.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE COST OF HER INNOCENCE
RETURN OF THE MORALIS WIFE
PICTURE OF INNOCENCE
THE SABBIDES SECRET BABY
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Giordanni’s Proposal
Jacqueline Baird
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
‘NO, NO, nein, nada, non. Is that clear enough for you, Mike? Or do I have to spell it out? N-O.’
‘Don’t be so negative, Beth, darling,’ Mike drawled, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. ‘You know you’ll have fun, you always do with me.’
Beth stared down at her stepbrother in exasperation, but a hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her wide mouth. He really was the limit. Sprawled in her one and only comfortable chair, with one long leg draped over the arm, negligently swinging an expensively shod foot, he was the epitome of casual male elegance. The price of his shoes would have kept her for a month, she thought wryly. But that was Mike: handmade shoes, Savile Row suits, nothing but the best would do. Image was everything, according to Mike.
‘Much as I love you, Mike, I am not going to dress up as a French tart to your matelot and let you throw me around the boardroom of Brice Wine Merchants, even if, according to you, the firm is celebrating its centenary and the chairman’s birthday, and whatever else you care to tag on. The answer is still no.’
‘But, Beth, I have a two-hundred-pound bet with my boss, the marketing director. He said I wouldn’t dare liven up the chairman’s party with an impromptu cabaret. Of course, I said I would, and I can’t afford to lose.’ He glanced up at her, his blue eyes narrowing assessingly on her lovely face. ‘Unless, of course, you lend me the two hundred quid.’
‘Oh, no! No way! Lending money to you is the equivalent of throwing it down the drain. You made the bet; you get out of it. Or, better still, why not ask one of your numerous girlfriends?’
‘Ah, well, there’s the rub… For the past six months I’ve concentrated exclusively on one particular, lovely girl.’ His handsome face took on the expression of a love-sick puppy dog, much to Beth’s astonishment. ‘Elizabeth is the perfect woman for me. She is beautiful, intelligent and wealthy, and I fully intend to marry her one day. But unfortunately, when I suggested the wheeze to her, she told me to grow up and act responsibly, hence my throwing myself on your mercy.’
Mike in love… That Mike was contemplating marriage was mind-boggling. ‘You really want to marry the girl?’ Beth asked incredulously.
‘Yes, more than anything else in the world.’
There was no doubting his sincerity; it was in his eyes, the unusual seriousness of his tone, the way he straightened up in the chair, before continuing, ‘Which is why I daren’t take the chance of asking another girl. If Elizabeth found out it would be curtains for me. She’s very strong on fidelity. But as you’re my stepsister, even if the joke does get out, she might be mad for a while, but at least she’ll know I wasn’t unfaithful.’
Then Beth did smile. This was typical of Mike’s convoluted logic: it never occurred to him for a moment to forget the whole stupid idea. She remembered the first time she had met him. Home for Beth and her mother had been a small cottage in the village of Compton, not far from Torquay in Devon. Her late father had been an artist who’d never quite made it big before he died tragically young of a cerebral haemorrhage. Her mother also considered herself an artist, but in truth was a run-of-the-mill singer, who, between marrying men, craved fame. The summer Beth had met Mike, her mother had been performing in the summer season cabaret at a local theatre in Torquay. It was at the theatre that Leanora had met Ted, Mike’s father. He’d been a widower and the agent of the star of the show.
After a whirlwind romance her mother and Ted had decided to marry. Beth, at eight, had been dressed up as a flowergirl in satin and lace, while Mike, at twelve, was supposed to be an usher. After a civil ceremony performed by a registrar they had, along with about a hundred guests, all descended on Torquay’s largest hotel for the wedding breakfast.
During the reception Mike had crept under the top table unseen, except by Beth, and had tied the groom and the best man’s shoelaces together. When the best man stood up to speak, the groom had been tipped backwards off his chair, and, as his arm was around his new bride at the time, Leanora had gone flying as well.
Thinking about it now could still bring a smile to Beth’s face, and the four years that their parents had been a couple had probably been the happiest of Beth’s childhood. They’d divorced when she was twelve, and Beth had spent the rest of her formative years at a convent boarding school, but Mike had always kept in touch; his letters and the few holidays they’d shared had been some of the brightest spots in her otherwise pretty miserable teenage years.
Which was why, she thought wryly three days later, as she stepped into the elevator of the Brice building at six o’clock on a Friday evening, she was about to make a fool of herself for the umpteenth time. Because of Mike…
‘It is not too late to change your mind, Mike.’ She cast an imploring glance at the man standing beside her. He was dressed in a long trenchcoat, as Beth was herself, perfectly suitable attire for an overcast October day in London. But the black beret perched at a flamboyant angle on his fair head looked decidedly odd.
‘Stop worrying. It’ll be fine. I’ve arranged with Miss Hardcombe, the Chairman’s secretary, to start the music as we walk in the door. We throw off our coats and go into a one-minute routine, the same one we did for the school concert, and hey, presto, it’s over! I am two hundred pounds better off, plus I score Brownie points with my boss for imaginative thinking.’
‘But it’s ten years since we last danced together at that school concert! We were just children, and still young and stupid enough to think we were going to be showbiz stars, for heaven’s sake! We should have at least practised. I am bigger, slower and terrified,’ Beth cried as the elevator door slid back.
It went fine at first. There were a few raised eyebrows as they entered the boardroom, but as bottles