Kitabı oku: «We'll Always Have Paris»
Praise for Jessica Hart
‘Sweet and witty, with great characters and sizzling sexual tension, this one’s a fun read.’
—RT Book Reviews on Honeymoon with the Boss
‘Strong conflict and sizzling sexual tension drive this well-written story. The characters are smart and sharp-witted, and match up perfectly.’
—RT Book Reviews on Cinderella’s Wedding Wish
‘Well-written characters and believable conflict make the faux-engagement scenario work beautifully … and the ending is simply excellent.’
—RT Book Reviews on Under the Boss’s Mistletoe
‘Hart triumphs with a truly rare story … It’s witty and charming, and [it’s] a keeper.’
—RT Book Reviews on Oh-So-Sensible Secretary
About the Author
JESSICA HART was born in West Africa, and has suffered from itchy feet ever since, travelling and working around the world in a wide variety of interesting but very lowly jobs—all of which have provided inspiration on which to draw when it comes to the settings and plots of her stories. Now she lives a rather more settled existence in York, where she has been able to pursue her interest in history—although she still yearns sometimes for wider horizons.
If you’d like to know more about Jessica, visit her website: www.jessicahart.co.uk
Also by Jessica Hart
The Secret Princess
Ordinary Girl in a Tiara
Juggling Briefcase & Baby
Oh-So-Sensible Secretary
Under the Boss’s Mistletoe
Honeymoon with the Boss
Cinderella’s Wedding Wish
Last-Minute Proposal
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
We’ll Always Have Paris
Jessica Hart
MILLS & BOON
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For Isabel, dear friend and research advisor,
with love on her own Chapter Ten.
CHAPTER ONE
Media Buzz
We hear that MediaOchre Productions are celebrating a lucrative commission from Channel 16 to make a documentary on the romance industry. MediaOchre are keeping the details under wraps, but rumours are rife that an intriguing combination of presenters has been lined up. Stella Holt, still enjoying her meteoric rise from WAG to chat show host, says that she is ‘thrilled’ to have been invited to front the programme, but remains coy about the identity of her co-presenter.
One name being whispered is that of the economist, Simon Valentine, whose hard-hitting documentary on banking systems and their impact on the very poorest both here and in developing countries has led to a boom in micro-financing projects that is reputed to be revolutionising opportunities for millions around the world. Valentine, a reluctant celebrity, shot to fame with his crisp analysis of the global recession on the news, and has since become the unlikely pin-up of thinking women throughout the country. MediaOchre are refusing to confirm or deny the rumour. Roland Richards, its flamboyant executive producer, is uncharacteristically taciturn on the subject and is sticking to ‘no comment’ for now.
‘No,’ SAID Simon Valentine. ‘No, no, no, no, no. No.’
Clara’s cheeks were aching with the effort of keeping a cheery smile in place. Simon couldn’t see it on the phone, of course, but she had read somewhere that people responded more positively if you smiled when you were talking.
Not that it seemed to be having an effect on Simon Valentine.
‘I know it’s hard to make a decision without having all the facts,’ she said, desperately channelling her inner Julie Andrews. The Sound of Music was Clara’s favourite film of all time. Julie had coped with a Captain and seven children, so surely Clara shouldn’t be daunted by one disobliging economist?
‘I’d be happy to meet you and answer any questions you might have about the programme,’ she offered brightly.
‘I don’t have any questions.’ Clara could practically hear him grinding his teeth. ‘I have no intention of appearing on your programme.’
Clara had a nasty feeling that her positive smile was beginning to look more like a manic grin. ‘I understand you might want to take a little time to think about it.’
‘Look, Ms … whatever you’re called …’
‘Sterne, but please call me Clara.’
Simon Valentine ignored the invitation. ‘I don’t know how to make myself clearer,’ he said, his voice as tightly controlled as the image that stared out from Clara’s computer screen.
She had been Googling him, hoping to find some chink in his implacable armour, some glimpse of humour or a shared interest that she could use to build a connection with him, but details of his private life were frustratingly sparse. He had a PhD in Development Economics—whatever they were—from Harvard, and was currently a senior financial analyst with Stanhope Harding, but what use was that to her? You couldn’t get chatty about interest rates or the strength of the pound—or, at least, you couldn’t if you knew as little about economics as Clara did. She had been hoping to discover that he was married, or played the drums in his spare time, or had a daughter who loved ballet or … something. Something she could relate to.
As it was, she had established his age to be thirty-six and the story of how he had quietly used his unexpected celebrity to revolutionize the funding of small projects around the world. So great had been the uproar in response to the programme he had written and presented that the big financial institutions had been forced to rethink their lending policies, or so Clara had understood it. She had read lots of stories from small collectives in sub-Saharan Africa, from farmers in South America and struggling businesses in South East Asia, as well as in the more deprived parts of the UK, all of whom had credited Simon Valentine with changing their lives.
It was all very impressive, but Simon himself remained an elusive figure. As far as Clara could see, he had been born a fully fledged, suit-wearing economist who had no interest in celebrity for its own sake.
There were no snaps of him staggering out of a club at four in the morning, no furtive shots of him shopping with a girlfriend. The ideal, of course, would have been some cheesy shots of Simon Valentine showing his ‘lovely home’ in the gossip mags, but Clara wasn’t unreasonable. She had known that was a long shot, but she had thought she might at least find a picture of him at some reception, glass in hand.
But no. All she had was this corporate head and shoulders shot. He had the whole steely-jawed, gimlet-eyed thing going on, which Clara could sort of see the appeal of, although it didn’t do much for her. His tie was straight and rigidly knotted, his jacket stiff, his shoulders squared. The guy had some serious control issues, in Clara’s opinion.
Come to think of it, he had a definite Captain von Trapp quality to him, although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Christopher Plummer. Obviously. Still, Clara could imagine him summoning his children with a whistle.
Hmm. The thought gave her a definite frisson. Perhaps a rousing rendition of Edelweiss would do the trick?
‘Are you listening to me?’ Simon Valentine demanded.
Hastily, Clara jerked her mind back from Salz burg. ‘Of course.’
‘Good, then I say this for one last time. I have no intention of appearing on your programme.’ Simon spoke very distinctly and with exaggerated patience, as if addressing a naughty child. ‘I don’t need time to think about it now, just as I didn’t need time when you emailed me the first time, or when you rang me for the fourth. My answer was no then, just as it’s no now, and as it is always going to be. N. O. No. It’s a very simple word. Do you understand what it means?’
Of course she understood. She might not be an academic like the rest of her family, but she had mastered the English language. It was Simon Valentine who didn’t understand how important this was.
‘If I could just expl—’ she began desperately, but Simon, it appeared, had had enough explanations.
‘Please do not try and call me again, or I will get very angry.’
And he cut the connection without waiting for her reply.
Clara slumped, making a face at the phone as she switched it off and tossed it onto the desk in defeat. Now what?
‘Well? What did he say?’
She spun her chair round to see the director of Romance: Fact or Fiction? hovering in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, Ted,’ she said. ‘He’s just not going to do it.’
‘He’s got to say yes!’ Ted wrung his hands, the way he had been wringing them ever since Clara had first come up against a flat refusal from Simon Valentine. ‘Roland’s already promised Stella that Simon Valentine is on board!’
‘Ted, I know. Why else do you think I’ve been harassing him?’ But Clara was careful not to snap. Ted was one of her closest friends, and she knew how anxious he was about the new flat he and his partner had just bought.
More wringing of hands. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ With a sigh, Clara swung back to contemplate her computer screen. Simon Valentine gazed austerely back at her, the inflexible set of his lips taunting her with the impossibility of ever getting him to change his mind.
Puffing out a frustrated breath, Clara stuck her tongue out at him. Maturity was everything.
‘Why can’t Stella front the programme with someone else? Someone more approachable and more likely to take part? The Prime Minister, for instance, or—I know!—the Secretary General of the United Nations. Now there’s someone who’d make a great presenter. I could give the UN a ring now … I’m sure it would be easier than getting Simon Valentine to agree.’
Her mouth turned down despondently. ‘Honestly, Ted, I’ve tried and tried to talk to him, but he just isn’t interested. You’d think he’d at least consider it after doing that programme on micro-financing, but he won’t even let me explain.’
‘Did you tell him Stella was super-keen to work with him?’
‘I tried, but he doesn’t know who she is.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Ted gaped at her. ‘I don’t see how he could have missed her!’
‘I don’t get the impression Simon Valentine watches much daytime television,’ said Clara, ‘and I’m guessing the Financial Times doesn’t devote much space to footballers’ wives and girlfriends. This isn’t a guy who’s going to have a clue about celebrities.’
Ted grimaced. ‘Better not tell Stella he’s never heard of her or the fat really will be in the fire!’
‘I can’t think why she’s so obsessed with Simon Valentine anyway,’ grumbled Clara. ‘He’s so not her type. She should be going out with someone who’s happy to be photographed all loved-up in Hello!, not a repressed economist. It’s mad!’
Ted perched on the edge of her desk. ‘Roland reckons she wants a relationship with Simon to give her gravitas,’ he confided. ‘Apparently she’s desperate to shake off her WAG image and be taken seriously. Or maybe she just fancies him.’
‘I just don’t get it.’ Clara studied Simon’s photo critically. Even allowing for the vague Christopher Plummer resemblance, it was hard to see what all the fuss was about. Talk about buttoned-up!
‘Did you hear that audience figures for the news have rocketed since he’s been doing those analyses of the economic situation?’ she said, mystified. ‘Women all over the country have been switching on specially in the hope of seeing him, and now they’re all tweeting each other about how sexy they think he is.’ She shook her head at the photograph.
‘They’re calling him the Dow-Jones Darling now,’ said Ted, and Clara snorted.
‘More like the Nikkei Nightmare!’
‘You ought to watch the news. You can’t understand Simon Valentine’s appeal until you’ve seen him in action.’
‘I do watch the news,’ Clara protested. She wasn’t entirely superficial! She caught Ted’s eye. ‘Sometimes, anyway,’ she amended.
‘I made a point of watching the other night before I called him the first time so that I could tell him how brilliant he was—not that I ever got the chance to suck up,’ she remembered glumly. ‘I can see that he knows what he’s talking about, but the whole he’s-so-gorgeous thing has passed me by. He didn’t smile once!’
‘He’s talking about the global recession,’ Ted pointed out. ‘Not exactly laugh-a-minute stuff. You can hardly expect him to be cracking jokes. What do you want him to say? Have you heard the one about the rising unemployment figures?’
‘I’m just saying he doesn’t look as if he’d be much fun.’
‘Simon Valentine appeals to women’s intellect,’ said Ted authoritatively, and Clara rolled her eyes.
‘Like you’d know!’
Ted ignored that. ‘He’s obviously fiercely intelligent, but he explains what’s happening in the financial markets so clearly that you can actually understand it, and that makes you feel clever too. He only got invited to comment that first time because someone else wasn’t available but he’s a natural on camera.’
‘I know. It’s odd, isn’t it? It’s not as if he’s incredibly good-looking or anything.’
‘It’s not about that,’ said Ted with all the authority of a film director. ‘It’s about a complete lack of vanity. He clearly doesn’t care what he looks like, and he’s talking about a subject he’s utterly comfortable with, so he’s relaxed, and the camera loves that. I can see exactly why the BBC snapped up that documentary. There’s a passion about the way he talks about economics … it is kind of sexy.’
‘If you say so,’ said Clara, unconvinced.
‘It was Simon who sold the proposal when Roland pitched it to Channel 16. The suits loved the idea of putting him with Stella.’
Clara could just about get that. Stella Holt was a popular daytime television chat show host, famous for her giggle and revealing dresses. Who better to contrast with her than Simon Valentine, the coolly intelligent financial analyst who had somehow managed to make the global recession a sexy subject? The commissioning editors at Channel 16 had lapped it up, just as Roland Richards had said they would.
You didn’t need to be Simon Valentine to know that the economic outlook was bleak for small television production companies like MediaOchre. They were incredibly lucky to have a programme commissioned at all, as Roland kept reminding them. If it wasn’t for that, the whole company would be folding.
As it was, they had the money—an extraordinarily generous budget under the circumstances. They had Ted as an award-winning producer, and a camera and sound crew lined up. They had the locations chosen and deals set up with airlines and hotels. They had Stella Holt to add the celebrity glamour that would pull in the viewers.
All they needed was Simon Valentine.
As Roland also kept reminding Clara.
‘You’re the production assistant,’ he told her. ‘I don’t care what you do, but get him on board or this whole thing is going to fall apart, and it won’t just be you that’s out of a job. We’ll all be out on the streets!’
So no pressure then.
Remembering, Clara put her head in her hands. ‘There must be some way of persuading Simon to take part. He won’t talk on the phone or respond to emails … I need to talk to him face to face. But how?’
‘Can’t you get contrive to bump into him at a party?’ Ted suggested.
Clara lifted her head to jab a finger at the screen. ‘Does he look like a party animal to you? He doesn’t do anything but work, as far as I can see. They even do those interviews in his office, so I can’t even throw myself at him in the lift at the BBC.’
‘He must go home some time. Hang around outside his office and then follow him.’
‘Excellent idea. I could get myself arrested as a stalker. Although it might come to that. Anyway, he drives to work. It’s very un-ecological of him,’ said Clara disapprovingly.
They brooded on the problem for a while. Ted took the other chair and spun thoughtfully round and round, while Clara Googled in a desultory fashion.
‘We could send a surprise cake to the office,’ Ted suggested at last.
‘And I could deliver it.’ Clara paused with her fingers on the keyboard and considered the idea, her head on one side. ‘I’d be lucky to get past reception, though.’
‘I was thinking more of you jumping out of it,’ said Ted, and she flattened her eyes at him.
‘Oh, yes, he’s bound to take me seriously if I jump out of a cake! Why don’t I turn myself into a call girl and be done with it? And don’t even think about mentioning that idea to Roland!’ she warned, spotting the speculative gleam in Ted’s eyes. ‘He’ll just make me do it.’
She turned back to the computer. ‘Shame he doesn’t appear to have any children. I could inveigle my way in as a governess and charm him into agreeing with my heart-warming song and dance routines.’
‘You’d be better off pretending that you’re setting up a weaving cooperative somewhere in the Third World,’ said Ted, who was used to Clara drifting into Sound of Music fantasies. ‘He’s very hot on credit systems for small organisations that are struggling.’
‘We’re a small organisation that’s struggling,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Or we will be if he doesn’t agree to take part!’ She scrolled down the screen, looking for something, anything, that might help her. ‘Pity he isn’t hotter on self-promotion, but it’s always the same story. It’s about the projects, not about him—oh …’
Ted sat up straighter as she broke off. ‘What?’
‘It says here that Simon Valentine is giving a lecture at the International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies tomorrow night.’ Clara’s eyes skimmed over the announcement. ‘There’s bound to be drinks or something afterwards. If I can blag my way in, I might be able to corner him for a while. I’d have to miss my Zumba class, mind.’
‘Better than losing your job.’ Ted sprang up, newly invigorated. ‘It’s a brilliant idea, Clara. Wear your shortest skirt and show off your legs. Times are too desperate to be PC.’
Clara sniffed. ‘I thought I’d dazzle him with my intellect,’ she said, and Ted grinned as he patted her on the shoulder.
‘I’d stick to my legs if I were you. I think they’re more likely to impress Simon Valentine.’
Clara tugged surreptitiously at her skirt. She wished now that she had worn something a little more demure. Surrounded by a sea of suits in varying shades of black and grey, she felt like a streetlamp left on during the day in a fuchsia-pink mini-dress and purple suede killer heels. The other members of the audience had eyed her askance as she edged along the row and collapsed into a spare seat at the back of the room. On one side of her a brisk-looking woman in a daringly beige trouser suit bristled with disapproval. On the other, a corpulent executive leered at her legs until Simon Valentine began to speak.
There had been no problem about talking her way in without a ticket—Clara suspected the mini-dress had helped there, at least—but once inside it was clear that she was totally out of place. She fixed her attention on Simon, who was standing behind a lectern and explaining some complicated-looking PowerPoint presentation in a crisp, erudite way that appeared to have the audience absorbed.
It was all way over Clara’s head. She recognised the odd word, but that was about it. Every now and then a ripple of laughter passed over the room, although Clara had no idea what had been so funny. She picked up the occasional word: percentages and forecasts, public sector debt and private equity. Something called quantitative easing.
Hilarious.
Abandoning her attempt to follow the lecture, Clara planned her strategy for afterwards instead. Somehow she would have to manoeuvre him into a quiet corner and dazzle him with her wit and charm before casually slipping the programme into the conversation.
Or she could go with Ted’s suggestion and flash her legs at him.
Clara wasn’t mad about that idea. On the other hand, it might be more effective than relying on wit and charm, and it would be worth it if she could stroll into the office the next day. Oh, yeah, she would say casually to Roland. Simon’s on board.
Roland would be over the moon. He would offer her an assistant producer role straight away, and then, after a few thought-provoking documentaries, she could make the move into drama. Clara hugged the thought to herself. She would spend the rest of her career making spell-binding programmes and everyone would take her seriously at last.
A storm of applause woke Clara out of her dream.
OK, maybe an entire high-flying career was a lot to get out of one conversation, but she was an optimist. Climb every mountain, and all that. It could happen and, at the very least, convincing Simon Valentine to take part would save her job and mean that Ted could stay in his flat.
There was the usual scrum to get out of the room to the drinks reception afterwards. The International Institute for Trade and Developing Economies was as stuffy as its name suggested. It was an imposing enough building, if you liked that kind of thing, with elaborately carved plaster ceilings, portraits of stern Edwardian economists lining the walls, and a grand staircase that Clara longed to dance down. It was just begging for a sparkly dress and a Ginger Rogers impersonation.
The reception was held in the library and by the time Clara got in there the glittering chandeliers were ringing with the rising babble of conversation. Grabbing a glass of white wine, she skulked around the edges of the crowd, trying to look as if she understood what everyone was talking about. She recognized several famous journalists and politicians, and the air was thick with talk of monetary policy frameworks, asset bubbles and exchange rate policies.
Oh, dear, if only she was a bit more knowledgeable. She would never be able to dazzle Simon Valentine at this rate. Clara was careful to avoid eye contact with anyone in case they asked her what she thought about the credit crisis or interest rate cuts. She didn’t want to be exposed as the imposter that she was.
The atmosphere was so intimidating that Clara was tempted to turn tail and go home before she was outed as utterly ignorant, but this might be her only chance to talk to Simon Valentine face to face. She couldn’t go until she had at least tried. It would be too shaming to go into work the next day and admit that she’d lost her nerve.
Humming under her breath to bolster her confidence, Clara scanned the crowds for her quarry and spotted him at last, looking so austere in a grey suit that everyone else seemed positively jolly in comparison. Several women in monochrome suits of various shades were clustered around him, nodding fervently at everything he said. Those must be his groupies, thought Clara disparagingly, unable to see what it was about Simon Valentine that made obviously intelligent women fawn over him.
Not that he seemed to be enjoying the experience, she had to concede. He had a definite air of being at bay, and she saw him steal surreptitious glances at his watch.
Seriously, the guy needed to relax a bit, Clara decided. He was holding a glass but not drinking from it and, as she watched, he put it back on a passing tray, offered a smile so brief it was barely more than a grimace to his disappointed fans and started to make his way out of the crush.
Terrified that he was leaving already, Clara drained her second glass for courage and headed after him. She couldn’t let him get away without at least trying to buttonhole him.
Pushing her way through the crowds, she followed him out into the cavernous entrance hall in time to see him striding purposefully towards the cloakrooms. He was going to get his coat and leave, and her chance would be gone. She would have sat through a lecture on economics for nothing!
It was now or never.
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she hurried after him. ‘Dr Valentine?’ she called breathlessly.
Simon bit down on an expletive. His lecture had gone very well, but he would much prefer to have left immediately afterwards. Instead, he’d had to stand around and make small talk. He’d barely stepped into the library when a whole gaggle of women had descended on him. Ever since he had appeared on the news explaining the blindingly obvious about the financial situation, he had become a reluctant celebrity.
At first it had seemed an excellent idea. His firm was all for it, and Simon himself believed it was important for people to understand the economic realities of life. He had no problem with that, and the opportunity to bring new thinking about micro financing to global attention was too good to miss. He was delighted that the ensuing documentary had had such an impact, but had been totally unprepared for the effect of his television appearances on female viewers.
It was all very embarrassing, in fact, and the intent way some women had taken to hanging on his every word made him deeply uncomfortable. If they were that interested in economics, why didn’t they go away and read his articles instead?
And now, just when he’d managed to escape for a few minutes’ quiet, here was another one.
For a moment Simon considered pretending that he hadn’t heard her, but some of his so-called fans could be annoyingly persistent, and he wouldn’t put it past some of them to pursue him right into the Gents. So he paused, clenched his jaw, and fixed on his least welcoming expression.
But when he turned, the young woman coming after him didn’t look at all like one of his normal fans, most of whom tended to hide their silliness at being fans in the first place beneath a veneer of seriousness. There was nothing serious about this girl.
His first impression was of vivid colour, his second of a spectacular pair of legs. In spite of himself, Simon blinked. He doubted very much that the Institute had ever seen a skirt that short before, or shoes that frivolous.
He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the legs before he made himself look away from them. Just because Astrid had left, he didn’t have to start leering at the first pair of decent legs to come his way.
‘Yes?’ he said uninvitingly.
She offered him a friendly smile. ‘I just wanted to say that I enjoyed your talk very much,’ she said, still breathless from the effort of hurrying after him in those absurd shoes. ‘I thought you made some excellent points.’
Simon eyed her suspiciously. ‘Oh? Which particular points?’ he said. Maybe it was unfair to put her on the spot, but he didn’t feel like being helpful.
‘All of them,’ she said firmly, only to falter as her gaze met his. She had an extraordinarily transparent expression, and Simon could see her realising that as an answer it was less than impressive and dredging up something she remembered from the lecture.
Which turned out to be not very much.
‘What you said about qualitative easing was particularly interesting,’ she offered with an ingenuous smile.
‘Really? That’s strange, as I was talking about quantitative easing.’
‘That too,’ she said.
He had to give her points for trying. Most of his ‘fans’ did their homework in an attempt to impress him when they met. This one clearly hadn’t bothered.
‘You’re interested in the banks’ asset policies?’
‘Fascinated,’ she said, clearly lying, but meeting his eyes with such limpid innocence that Simon felt an unfamiliar tugging sensation at the corner of his mouth. It took a moment before he recognized it as amusement, and he pressed his lips together before he actually smiled.
Now that he looked at her properly, he could see that she wasn’t particularly pretty. Once you got past the animated expression, her features were really very ordinary, with ordinary brown hair falling in a very ordinary style to her shoulders. And yet she seemed to shimmer with a kind of suppressed energy, as if she were about to break into a run or fling her arms around, that made her not ordinary at all.
She made Simon feel vaguely unsettled, and that wasn’t a feeling he liked.
‘Were you even at my lecture?’ he demanded.
‘I sat through every riveting minute of it,’ she assured him.
‘And how much did you understand?’
He saw a brief struggle with her conscience cross her face before she opted, wisely, for honesty. ‘Well, not everything … that is, not a lot … in fact, none of it, but I do admire you a lot, obviously.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The truth is, I don’t know anything about economics. I’m here because I really need to talk to you.’
‘I’m afraid I only talk about economics, so if you don’t know anything about the subject it’s likely to be a very short conversation,’ said Simon curtly and made to turn away but she clutched at his arm.
‘I won’t keep you a minute, I promise,’ she said and plunged into a prepared speech before he could shake his arm from her grasp. ‘My name’s Clara Sterne, and I—’
But she had already said enough. Simon’s eyes narrowed. ‘As in the Clara Sterne who has been ringing and emailing me and apparently doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no?’
‘Oh, you recognize my name? Good,’ said Clara brightly.
Simon’s mouth tightened. ‘Spare your breath!’ he said, flinging up a hand as she opened her mouth to go on. ‘No, I will not participate in your ridiculous television programme. Once and for all … No!’
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