The Ex Who Hired Her

‘What made you think about having story time sessions?’ he asked. ‘Did your parents used to read to you a lot, or something?’

She shook her head. ‘It was Miss Shields, my primary school teacher. She used to read a few pages to us just before we went home. And she took me off the official school reading scheme and lent me books that I enjoyed a lot more.’

He should’ve guessed it hadn’t been her parents to encourage her love of reading. She’d told him once that she was the first person in her family to stay on for A-levels, let alone think about going to university.

‘How about you? Did your parents read to you?’ she asked.

‘I had a story every night.’ From his nanny. His parents had been busy at work; they hadn’t had the time to read to him.

‘And you read to your own children?’

‘I don’t have children.’ Except the one he hadn’t known about—the one who hadn’t even been born. He knew he shouldn’t ask, because he really didn’t want to hear the answer, but he couldn’t help the question. ‘You were pretty good at that. I assume you read to yours?’

For just a second, he could’ve sworn that she flinched. And she turned away as she said, ‘I read to my godchildren. Meggie’s two.’

So she still didn’t have children. Then again, pregnancy would make her face up to what she’d done when she was eighteen. And he was beginning to think that maybe Alexandra was a bit less hard-boiled than he’d believed her to be. How did she feel about the prospect of starting a new family, knowing that she’d deliberately chosen not to have a family before?

‘Excuse me. I’m sure you’re busy and I need to get some things sorted here. Thanks for your help in stacking the chairs.’ And then she fled.

CHAPTER THREE

BUT Jordan couldn’t stop thinking about it all evening. Thinking about her. Alexandra still didn’t have children. Why? Was it the guilt about what she’d done to his baby stopping her, or had her husband not wanted children anyway?

Her husband.

The words dropped into his thoughts like a clanging bell. Alexandra was married. Jordan didn’t believe in cheating. And, even if she hadn’t been married, she worked with him. How many times had he seen an office romance end in tears? And then there was the kicker: been there, done that and she’d destroyed his trust. Never again.

No, what he needed to do now was to establish a working relationship with her; maybe then he could move on and leave the demons of the past behind, locked away where they belonged.

On Tuesday night, Jordan was working late as usual. He went to make himself a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen, and noticed the light shining through Alexandra’s open door at the far end of the corridor. She was working late again, too. Now he thought about it, she’d worked late every night since she’d started. Was she trying to prove herself to him? Or was she struggling with her workload, unable to cope with the demands of the job?

He walked down the corridor, knocked on her open door and leaned against the door jamb. ‘Won’t Mr Bennett have something to say about you working this late every night?’

She looked up and simply shrugged.

She was so ambitious that she’d put her job before her marriage? he thought, stunned.

Then she gave him a cool look. ‘Won’t Mrs Smith have something to say about you working this late?’

‘Touché.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Actually, I didn’t come in to fight with you, just to say that I was making coffee and to ask if you wanted a mug, too. And, for the record, I don’t expect my staff to work the same hours as I do.’

‘I’m fine. I’m just settling in and enjoying the challenges of my new job.’ But she returned his smile, her expression softening slightly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you just then.’ She glanced down at her left hand. The ring finger was defiantly bare. How hadn’t he noticed that before? ‘I guess I should tell you that there isn’t a Mr Bennett. Well, there is,’ she amended, ‘but he’s not married to me any more. I just kept his name.’

She was single?

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

Oh, for pity’s sake. That wasn’t what this was meant to be about. He was simply trying to set up a decent working relationship between them. And maybe he should offer her the same honesty. ‘There isn’t a Mrs Smith, either,’ he admitted. ‘She went back to her maiden name after the divorce.’ And then she’d remarried.

‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.’

‘And you.’

It was the most civil they’d been towards each other since she’d walked back into his life, and Jordan was surprised at how good it felt.

The harsh overhead light showed that there were shadows under her eyes. He remembered her looking like that years ago, when she’d been studying too hard. ‘When was the last time you ate?’ he asked.

She blinked, looking surprised. ‘What?’

‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. You’ve been here for more than twelve hours. Did you actually have a lunch break today?’

‘Yes.’

Though the slight hesitation in her voice told him the truth. ‘It was a sandwich at your desk while you were working, wasn’t it?’

She spread her hands. ‘Busted. But there’s just not enough time for lunch. There’s so much I want to do.’

He knew that, from the wish list she’d emailed him. Pop-up shops, chosen by the consumer through an online poll; a Christmas bazaar showcasing local craftspeople, held in a marquee in the courtyard café; an events programme including demonstrations that would also be broadcast on the Internet; and a dozen more ideas, some of them completely off the wall but he had a feeling that she could make them work. No, she wasn’t struggling with her job. She was struggling with prioritising things—and only because she’d had so many good ideas. He’d be doing the same, in her shoes.

‘If you don’t pace yourself properly, you’ll burn out,’ he warned.

Her expression said very clearly, Right, as if you give a damn about that.

‘Actually, I do give a damn,’ he said. ‘We look after our staff at Field’s.’

‘Everyone I’ve spoken to is happy.’

That was completely out of left field. He blinked. ‘You asked my staff if they were happy?’

‘No, that wasn’t my brief. But I can tell they’re happy by the way they talk. They’re enthusiastic, they’re full of ideas, and they love the new staff suggestion scheme. You should see my inbox.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about it over dinner?’

‘Dinner?’

He pushed aside thoughts of damask tablecloths and the light from vanilla-scented candles glinting on antique silver cutlery. This was a working relationship; they weren’t picking up where they’d left off, before she’d vanished. Before the bombshells had dropped. ‘I have to eat. So do you. We might as well eat together while we discuss it.’

She shrugged. ‘I was going to stop in ten minutes anyway. I was going home to make myself an omelette.’

‘An omelette’s fine by me.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t remember inviting you back.’

He blew out a breath. ‘Sorry. That was pushy. How about a compromise?’ he asked. ‘There’s this trattoria just round the corner. It’s pretty basic, but the food’s excellent.’

She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing even further as she stared at him. ‘You’re asking me out to dinner?’

‘A working dinner,’ he clarified. ‘To make up for the fact that I haven’t had a chance to spend any real time discussing your ideas with you.’

They both knew that wasn’t what he was really saying. He’d been avoiding her, and they were both well aware of the fact.

‘So you’ll listen to my ideas.’

‘And give you feedback. Yes.’

Her expression showed that she was considering it. Weighing up the pros and cons. So she was just as wary of him as he was of her, then. Guilt talking? he wondered.

‘OK,’ she said eventually.

‘How long will it take you to get ready?’

‘As long as it takes to back up my files and shut down the computer.’

Ha. Well, of course she wasn’t going to change, or retouch her make-up, or spritz herself with perfume. This wasn’t a date. It was simply discussing work while they ate. Multi-tasking.

‘Meet you back here in ten minutes?’ he suggested.

‘Sure.’

Ten minutes later, when he met her outside her office, he was pretty sure that she’d reapplied her lipstick, but he didn’t make a comment. He simply ushered her out of the store and down the side street to the little trattoria he’d discovered a couple of years before.

‘Red or white?’ he asked as the waiter arrived to take their drinks order.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. Though I would like some water as well, please. Still, with ice.’

He remembered her preferring white wine; her tastes might have changed over the years, but he decided to play safe and ordered a bottle of pinot grigio and a jug of water. ‘Thanks, Giorgio.’

‘Prego, Jordan.’ The waiter smiled back at him.

‘If the waiter’s on first-name terms with you, I assume you eat here a lot?’ she asked.

Jordan shrugged. ‘It’s convenient. And, actually, he’s the owner. His wife’s the cook.’

She gave him a sidelong look. ‘So you haven’t actually learned to cook, yet?’

He knew what she was referring to. The time he’d taken her back to his place when his parents had been out. He’d put some bread under the grill to toast—and then he’d started kissing her on the sofa and forgotten all about the toast until the smoke detector had started shrieking. He couldn’t remember how to turn the alarm off, so they’d had to flap a wet towel underneath it and open all the windows; even then, the house had reeked of burnt toast for a whole day afterwards.

‘It’s convenient,’ he repeated. After Lindsey had left him for someone who didn’t have workaholic tendencies, he’d discovered that he really didn’t enjoy cooking a meal for one, even if it was just shoving a ready meal in the microwave. He tended to eat at lunchtime in the staff canteen, then grabbed a sandwich at his desk in the evening; and on days when he didn’t have time for lunch, he grabbed a sandwich on the run and ate at the trattoria after work.

‘What do you recommend?’ she asked, glancing over the edge of the menu at him.

‘Pretty much everything on the menu. Though the lasagne’s particularly good,’ he said.

‘Lasagne it is, then. Thank you.’

He ordered the same for both of them when Giorgio returned with the wine and water. ‘Bread and olives?’ Giorgio asked.

He glanced at Alexandra. At her nod, he smiled. ‘Yes, please.’

If anyone had told Alexandra six months ago that she’d be having dinner with Jordan Smith, and enjoying it, she would’ve laughed. Really, really scornfully.

But Jordan was excellent company. Charming, with good manners. And she was actually having a good time.

Then she reached for another piece of the excellent bread at the same time as he did; when their fingers touched, her mouth went dry. Oh, hell. She could remember him touching her much more intimately, and it sent a shiver of pure lust through her.

She mumbled an apology and withdrew, waiting for him to tear off a piece of bread before she dared go anywhere near the bread basket again.

‘The bread’s good,’ she said, hoping to cover up the awkwardness—and hoping even more that he wouldn’t guess what she’d just been thinking about.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I did wonder if you’d stick to just the olives.’

‘Why?’ For a moment, she looked puzzled. ‘Oh. Because of the carbs.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘You’re obviously used to dating twig-like women who exist on a single lettuce leaf—and maybe a nibble of celery if it’s a special night out.’

‘I don’t date twig-like women.’ He couldn’t help the slight snap in his voice. It was none of her business who he dated.

‘Another elephant,’ she said softly. ‘At this rate, we’re going to have a whole herd.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The elephant in the room. Screened off. Things we don’t talk about, things that are absolutely off limits. The past. Your marriage. Mine. The women you date who don’t eat.’ Her gaze held his. ‘Would you like to add any more to the herd?’

He really hadn’t expected this. ‘That’s very direct.’

‘I find it’s the easiest way. It cuts out the lies.’

Was she admitting that she was a liar? Or was she accusing him of being a liar? Right at that moment, he couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t the one who’d behaved badly. He wasn’t the one who didn’t even bother to say, ‘You’re dumped,’ but simply went incommunicado. Then, when he’d heard what his mother had to say about the situation and tried to find out what the hell was going on, Alexandra had simply vanished. He hadn’t been able to find her and drag the truth out of her.

‘By my reckoning,’ she continued, ‘that leaves us the weather, work or celebrity gossip as our next topic of conversation. Would you like to choose?’

There was the slightest, slightest glint of laughter in her eyes, and suddenly the tension in his spine drained away. ‘Work, I think,’ he said. ‘Before we have a fight.’

She inclined her head in recognition. ‘That’s direct, too.’

‘Yeah.’ He couldn’t bring himself to echo her words back at her. Because she was the one who’d told the lies; and they’d just tacitly agreed not to discuss it. He still wanted to know why—why hadn’t she told him about the baby? Had she ever loved him, or had his mother been right and she’d just seen him as a meal ticket for life? But he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to handle the answers to his questions; and anyway, whatever had happened in the past, right now he knew that Alexandra Bennett was going to be really good for Field’s. And his family business was the whole purpose of his life nowadays.

‘Tell me about your ideas,’ he said instead, then sat back and watched her blossom as she talked. As she expounded on her ideas her eyes shone and her face was completely animated. She clearly loved her job; this was her passion, the reason she got up in the mornings.

And then he wished that word hadn’t slipped into his head. Passion. He could remember her being passionate in bed with him, once she’d got past her shyness. Once she’d got past the embarrassment and awkwardness of her very first time, started to learn how she liked him to touch her, and what gave him the most pleasure when she touched him …

Oh, hell, he really needed to stop letting his thoughts run away with him like this.

‘So why did you pick marketing?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘Sorry?’

‘I thought you were going to be a lecturer.’

‘That’s not relevant.’

And he’d hit a nerve, judging by the expression on her face. ‘OK. Ignore that. I just wondered what made you pick marketing as a career?’

She shrugged. ‘I was in a bit of a rut in my job. A friend who worked in HR persuaded me to let her practise on me and got me to do some tests. The results said that marketing would suit me as a career, so I found myself a job as a marketing assistant and started studying for my professional exams.’

Exams, he remembered from her CV, where she’d gained distinctions in every paper. And she’d done the whole lot in less than a year. ‘So was your friend right? Are you happy?’

‘Yes. And this job is a challenge. I’m glad I went for it.’ She paused. ‘Though I really didn’t know you were anything to do with Field’s.’

Her eyes were very clear; maybe she was telling the truth.

‘The agency put you in at the very last minute.’

‘I’d just signed up with them. I was looking to make my next career move,’ she explained. ‘They said there was the perfect job for me, except the application date had already passed. And then they said they’d see if they could do something about it.’ She spread her hands. ‘I really wasn’t expecting them to ring me and say I’d got an interview, so I didn’t bother doing any research on Field’s. When they said I had an hour and a half to get there, it was too late to do more than read the factsheet they sent me and then spend five minutes walking round the store before the interview.’

He couldn’t leave it. ‘If you’d known I was going to be doing the interview, would you have turned up?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I would’ve had to think very hard about it.’

‘But you came back for a second interview.’

‘Because I wanted the job. This sort of challenge doesn’t come up that often, and I realised it’d be pointless cutting off my nose to spite my face.’

He could appreciate that.

‘So why did you give me the job?’ she asked.

Even though he hadn’t wanted her back in his life? ‘Fair question,’ he acknowledged. ‘Because you were the best candidate. And you said it wouldn’t be a problem working with me.’

‘It won’t be.’

He wasn’t so sure. ‘This elephant in the corner thing isn’t going to work. We’re better off getting everything out of the way. We need to talk about what happened. And then we can move on and have a chance of a decent working relationship.’

Her face went white. ‘You want to talk about it here?’

She had a point. The trattoria was quiet, but not that quiet. ‘After we’ve eaten,’ he conceded. ‘Your place or mine?’

She shook her head. ‘Neutral territory. Isn’t there a park or something near here?’

‘On a March evening? We’ll freeze. Your place or mine?’ he repeated inexorably.

She sighed. ‘Yours.’

So she could walk out when it got too much for her? he thought cynically. ‘That’s settled, then.’

The lasagne was good. Probably the best she’d ever tasted. Except Alexandra was so nervous, she could barely swallow. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Why had she had to make that stupid comment about him dating twig-like women? Why hadn’t she kept the conversation strictly to business and insisted on discussing marketing ideas for the department store?

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