AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And Cleo, pouring from the chased silver pot, said, 'It stinks,' not meaning the coffee, of course. 'I wouldn't advise a cat to buy into that little lot, let alone our valued Trade Union clients. Can't think why they showed interest in the first place.'
Jude grinned, his whole body appearing to relax as he took the cup she gave him, stirring the brew reflectively although he took neither sugar nor cream.
'Absolutely right.' He looked pleased with her, almost as if he were about to pat her on the head, as if he had been testing her in some way, finding out if her judgement of market trends was sound.
&nb
sp; He needn't have gone to the trouble, she thought, her cool, liquid eyes betraying not the slightest hint of her inner amusement as she sipped her coffee. The idea of a literal pat on the head was funny enough in itself; Jude Mescal never descended to personal levels. He was too remote, too cool.
And she made it her business to know her chosen profession backwards and inside out. She wasn't big-headed about it, it was simply in her, bred in the bone, so the idea that he might have been testing her had to be amusing. He shouldn't need to be told that a Slade, as well as a Mescal, had banking in the blood.
Although he now seemed marginally more relaxed, the bite was back in the deep husky voice as, his coffee-cup empty and the offer of a refill waved aside, he asked, 'How is John Slade?'
The question didn't surprise her too much; there had been close business connections for decades between the Slades and the Mescals. Since her parents' deaths ten years ago her Uncle John had run the largely family-owned finance house, Slade Securities, until a couple of years ago when he had been forced to retire after a near- fatal heart-attack.
'Not too good,' she replied sadly. Her uncle had become her guardian after the deaths of her parents, the only person to offer her any comfort at all during those earlier, lonely years. 'He has to take things very quietly. We've been warned he mustn't get excited or upset.'
'And your cousin Luke?' Jude's eyes, over steepled fingers, were cool, astute.
Cleo hunched one shoulder, 'Coping in his father's stead, as far as I know.
Keeping his nose clean, I hope.'
It was fairly common knowledge that a spiteful piece in a gossip column concerning a brawl Luke had been involved in at some notorious West End nightclub had been responsible for his father's latest and most serious attack, and Cleo could sense the condemnation in Jude's eyes. Luke was brilliant in his way, but emotionally immature, and his father wasn't the only person who thought it was high time he faced up to the responsibilities he now carried. Running a successful finance house demanded more than a clever mind and financial bravado.
Thankfully, Jude let the subject drop, instructing, 'Have a word with Chef. I want tomorrow's lunch arrangements to be perfect. Nothing ostentatious, just the best. You know the drill. And have everything you can lay your hands on pertaining to First Union on my desk in half an hour. And make sure I'm not disturbed. Oh—and Cleo--' this as she was already on her way, file and notepad neatly gathered, thinking with a touch of satisfaction that he
did have the jitters about the Americans 'have lunch with me. One-thirty?'
Her heart dropped to the soles of her feet and squirmed back up again because the mention of lunch, today, gave her a very sick feeling indeed. But her answering smile was tinged with polite regret, exactly right, as she told him, 'I'm sorry, Mr Mescal. But I've a prior appointment. I would break it if I could, but it's not possible.'
If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. But she was. If she had been free to lunch with him it would have meant that she didn't have that prior date with Robert Fenton.
Robert was the last man she wanted to see, but his telephoned invitation—more of a command, really—late last night had been dark with a threat she didn't want to speculate about too deeply. Not until all the cards were down. She couldn't understand why he wanted to see her and, knowing him, she had been worrying about it all morning. They had parted far from amicably, so why was he insisting they met?
She signed the routine letters and memos Dawn had left on her desk, made a couple of brief inter-office phone calls regarding the details of First Union which were to be sent up, pronto, then took the lift to the executive dining-suite, the back of her mind ticking over the list of precise instructions for Chef, the front of it occupied with regret over the missed opportunity to have lunch with Jude.
They lunched together fairly frequently, sometimes dined at his home in Belgravia, and she always enjoyed the occasions. He used them to put his mind in neutral, allowing it to digest some problem or other, a decision that had to be quickly and correctly reached—no margin for error. She used them to get to know him better, an exercise she found increasingly fascinating. It was essential, she told herself, to know what made one's boss tick. And during those quiet interludes she had gained a rare and, she firmly believed, unique insight, catching glimpses of his droll sense of humour, the underlying deep humanity of the man. And she found that liking for the man himself had been added to respect for his remarkable brain.
Latterly—although there was nothing personal in it, she always assured herself—she had found herself wondering why, at the age of thirty-sue, he had never married, never come close to it as far as subtle probings had allowed her to gather. Because, subtle as they were, the steel shutters had always come down decisively whenever he had sensed he was in any danger at all of giving away more of himself than he intended to do.
And Cleo pushed through the swing door into the immaculate kitchens, feeling fraught because she knew full well that lunch with Robert Fenton would be no pleasure at all.
The restaurant Robert had suggested they use was pricey, exclusive and secluded, and she looked at him across the beige linen-covered table and wondered what she had ever seen in him.
At twenty-seven, three years her senior, he was superficially good-looking.
His mid-brown hair was a little overlong but superbly cut, his clothes of good quality but a little on the flamboyant side. Compared with Jude Mescal he was a shadow, lacking the other man's strength and sheer presence. Cleo wondered why such a com- parispn should have come to her mind, and unwillingly remembered how when her cousin Luke had introduced her to Robert Fenton at a party two years ago she had thought he was the cat's whiskers.
Coming to the end of her final year at the LSE she had had little time for dates. But what time she'd had had been spent with Robert, his seemingly effortless charm helping her to relax.
With her Finals behind her at last and her sights fixed on joining Mescal Slade in whatever capacity offered, she had seen more of Robert. Until, her brief infatuation dying an inevitable death on her emergence from those long years of dedicated hard slog, she had at last begun to realise that Robert Fenton was not quite what he seemed. The image he chose to project was at variance with the man inside the skin. And with her eyes wide open at last she had discovered that she rather despised him.
Nothing was said until their order had been taken and then he told her, his hazel eyes sly, 'You're looking more beautiful than ever, Cleo, my love.
Work obviously agrees with you. I must try it some time.'
Cleo didn't deign to reply; she was in no mood for facile flattery and she was no longer amused by the way Robert seemed able to afford the best things in life, even though he had no visible means of support. She was no longer the naive, emotionally backward student who rarely lifted her nose from her books for long enough to look around and find out what people were like.
