Emma Richmond - The Boss's Bride

“You’re the only person I’ve ever employed who answers me back.”

“And is that why I’m still here?” Claris asked.

“Probably.” Returning his attention to the baby, Adam handed him a plastic shape, which promptly went into his mouth. “I don’t know whether he’s hungry or just teething.”

“Both, I expect. It’s time for his lunch, anyway.”

He shouldn’t have kissed her, he thought as he watched her unpack the baby’s lunch. It had made her wary, and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. Not that he was entirely sure what he wanted. He knew only that the delightful Miss Newman was seriously disrupting the calm waters of his normally agreeable existence. A new experience for him. As was the baby. They had both given him thoughts he didn’t normally have….

Emma Richmond was born in north Kent, England, during the war, when, she says, “farms were the norm and freeways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

Books by Emma Richmond

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS

The Boss’s Bride

Emma Richmond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

WITH an air of profound boredom, Adam Turmaine wandered over to an old print hanging above the hall table. Extending one finger, he touched it to the bottom right-hand corner. ‘What does that say?’

Claris leaned closer and informed him drily, ‘Treasury of Mechanical Music.’

‘Most appalling writing I’ve ever seen in my life. What am I doing here?’

‘Waiting to meet your aunt.’

Removing his gaze from the ancient map of Rye, he gave his companion a long look of contemplation. ‘Do I have an aunt?’

Claris’s lip twitched.

‘I’ll take that as an affirmative, although why you would think I’d be even remotely interested in meeting a distant relative, I can’t imagine.’

‘Because she’s family?’ she guessed. ‘Because there have been anonymous phone calls hinting that her financial advisor is ripping her off?’

‘What a singularly disgusting expression, and you really must stop trying to fit me with this mantle of concern for other people’s affairs,’ he drawled as he returned his attention to the map. ‘How long have you worked for me?’

‘You know how long I’ve worked for you.’

‘Then you should know by now that I’m not in the least family-minded.’ Turning, he gave her a warm smile. ‘You’d better point her out to me.’

‘Adam! You must know what your aunt looks like!’

‘Must I? Why?’

Eyes full of amusement, she merely looked at him.

‘It’s been years, Claris,’ he excused himself. ‘The last time I saw her was at my uncle’s funeral.’ Glancing into the reception room behind her, he encountered several pairs of eyes all looking at him. They smiled in disconcerting unison. He didn’t smile back. ‘Who are all these people?’

‘Local dignitaries, I think. It’s only natural they would want to meet you.’

‘Is it? Have I ever evinced an interest in meeting a complete stranger?’

‘No,’ she denied drily.

‘Then I can’t imagine why they should. We only arrived a few days ago, and already I’m expected to visit…’

‘Colonel Davenport,’ Claris put in helpfully.

‘Colonel Davenport,’ he agreed. ‘A man I do not know, have never to my knowledge met, and whom I have no desire to meet, but who seems to think it imperative I concern myself with local vandalism.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t know you,’ she murmured, tongue in cheek.

‘But you do,’ he informed her softly, ‘which makes it all the more amazing that you seem to expect me to concern myself in my aunt’s affairs. And what colossal cheek on my part it would be to assume that she’s incapable of looking after her own investments.’ Halting, he suddenly gave a small frown. ‘On the other hand…’

Claris waited.

‘My memory of her, which I would be the first to admit can sometimes be faulty—’

‘Selective,’ Claris put in.

‘—is of a fluttery woman who couldn’t string two sentences together.’

‘I expect you made her nervous.’

He looked genuinely astonished. ‘Why on earth would I make her nervous?’

Claris gave a wry smile. ‘Do you have any other relatives?’

He pulled a face. ‘What a sobering thought. I had hoped I didn’t have any.’

‘You don’t mean that…’

‘I don’t?’ Adam asked in surprise.

‘No. So now come and meet her. You can’t stand out in the hall all evening—’ Breaking off, because she knew her employer could do just that if he had a mind to, she added, ‘Please?’

Adam sighed. ‘Very well, but I do wish you would curb this enthusiasm you have for pitching me into situations I have no desire for.’

‘ I pitch you? You were the one who accepted the invitation.’

‘I didn’t understand the details—oh, God, who’s this?’

Turning quickly, Claris stared at a very large lady in puce who was emerging from the rear of the hall. The woman halted, beamed, and then held out both hands as though greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Mr Turmaine!’

Adam deftly avoided an embrace.

‘I had no idea you’d arrived!’

And someone’s head was going to roll, Claris thought in amusement, for that little oversight.

‘I’m your hostess. Mrs Staple Smythe.’

Claris could see a rude comment coming, so she kicked Adam’s ankle. Hard.

He grunted something.

‘And is this your wife?’

‘I don’t have a wife,’ he denied coldly.

‘Oh. Only we assumed…’

‘Yes?’ he queried hatefully.

‘Nothing, it’s not important,’ she denied hastily. ‘But please don’t stand out here being shy. Come and meet everyone.’ She gave Claris a look of query, and when neither of them enlightened her she gave another awkward smile and turned to go into the room.

‘Shy?’ Adam queried, sotto voce.

She gave a little choke of laughter and urged him in their hostess’s wake.

‘Your aunt Harriet is here,’ she continued, ‘and longing to meet you again. She’s such a dear friend…’

‘Is she?’ he enquired, in a tone of voice that made it quite clear that he found such a friendship totally incomprehensible.

Slightly unnerved, she halted. ‘Let me get you both a drink.’

It was left to Claris to thank her. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to be nice,’ she reproved Adam.

‘Yes, it would. She’s the sort of woman I most dislike.’ Scanning the crowded room, he finally pronounced, ‘I think my aunt’s the one in grey.’

‘Then go and talk to her.’

‘And then we can go home?’ he asked hopefully.

She merely smiled, knowing very well that he would go home when he wanted, exactly when he wanted, with no care as to whom he offended.

He took his drink from his hostess’s hand, and before she could launch into further conversation walked away.

‘He’s gone to talk to his aunt,’ Claris explained mildly.

‘Then he’s heading in the wrong direction,’ she said waspishly.

Claris gave another little choke of laughter. ‘It’s a long time since he’s seen her.’

Handing Claris her drink—a rather watery-looking white wine—she said almost petulantly, ‘I don’t know who you are.’

Claris felt momentarily sorry for her hostess, who had obviously had such high hopes of Adam Turmaine, but Adam behaved as he wanted to behave, with no thought for anyone’s feelings but his own. She wondered if she ought to warn her. ‘I’m Claris Newman,’ she explained, really rather unhelpfully, she knew, but her boss did so abhor anyone knowing his business. And that included the role his assistant played in his life.

Before Claris could even attempt to minimise the hostility her hostess was obviously feeling, she broke in hurriedly, ‘Will you excuse me? I naturally need to circulate.’

‘Of course.’ With an amused light in her eyes at her dismissal, Claris watched Mrs Staple Smythe forge a way to Adam’s side. Foolish woman. She was only going to open herself up to more snubs. Adam hated pretension. But then, Adam hated a lot of things, especially parties, which made it all the more amazing that he had actually volunteered to come to this one.

Carefully moving to a nearby corner, where she would be out of the way, she watched her employer. He was a tall, slim man, with a languid elegance. Working for him was better than watching a play. A townie at heart, Claris hadn’t been sure she was going to like living in the country, and after meeting these people tonight she was even less sure. On the other hand, if she hadn’t come with him to this small village near Rye she would have had to leave him, and she really didn’t want to work for anyone else. Which, on the face of it, seemed crazy. Spoilt by reason of his vast wealth, he was selfish, and mocking, but he set her challenges that no other employer ever had. He also set her heart beating erratically, she thought sadly, and that, quite simply, couldn’t be allowed. Wouldn’t be allowed.

With a rather self-mocking twist to her mouth, she moved her gaze to the others in the room. She thought they looked a self-important lot. Not that she would probably have much to do with them.

Various people came up, introduced themselves, asked her questions, which she evaded, and then, thankfully, she was left alone—so that they could talk about her. She wasn’t being paranoid; she could tell by the sidelong glances she kept receiving that she was being discussed. She felt amused rather than alarmed, and dismissed the matter from her mind.

Adam was now talking to a woman in blue—hopefully the aunt. A young slender woman with dark hair stood beside them, staring at Adam as though he was the answer to all her prayers. Perhaps he was. The woman in blue broke away, and headed towards Claris.

Here came the inquisition. There was always an inquisition. On the rare occasions she accompanied Adam to a function, usually to pick someone’s brains for him, interrogation had always been part of the evening. Almost paranoid about his privacy, Adam deliberately never explained their relationship, and people found it hard to understand how such a good-looking, successful man could have such a drab for his escort. Lips twitching into a smile at her analogy, she stared down into her drink. She wasn’t a drab, but then neither was she a great beauty. Her copper hair tended towards ginger rather than beech trees, her fair skin was freckled, and her wide grey eyes held amusement rather than mystery. But she was clever. Which was why Adam employed her.

‘And you are?’ a haughty voice enquired, and Claris looked up quickly. The woman in blue stood in front of her. She was a handsome woman, a little on the thin side, perhaps, but elegant. Certainly not the nervous babbler that Adam had remembered. If indeed this was his aunt.

‘Claris Newman,’ she introduced herself. ‘Are you Mrs Turmaine?’