The Valentine Affair

Desperately sipping the dregs of her by now cold coffee, Alex waited for Armageddon to strike. And, sure enough, it wasn’t long in coming.

‘Now, Miss Pemberton,’ the editor growled from his position at the head of the table. ‘I don’t think we’ve heard from you this morning. Have you, by any chance, got some new articles in the pipeline?’

‘Well, er...no, not really,’ she confessed. ‘I’m still working on the St Valentine’s Day feature, of course, but...’

‘Ah, yes...I’ve had some thoughts on that subject.’ Mike drew deeply on his cigar. ‘Since the fourteenth of February falls on a Thursday this year, I’ve decided that the whole of that Saturday’s magazine will be devoted to the subject of love and romance. You know the sort of thing...’ He waved expansively in the air. ‘Why women expect men to propose to them on that day, some sexy fashion articles, how to cook a wonderful dinner for the man of your dreams, et cetera, et cetera.’

There was a general chorus of approval around the table, with the more sycophantic journalists crying, ‘Great,’ ‘Brilliant,’ ‘A real winner.’ The only dissenting voice was that of Imogen Hall-Knightly, clearly furious at the way Mike was hijacking her editorial control of the magazine supplement.

‘It sounds just the sort of rubbish you’d find in those awful women’s magazines—or in the worst of the down-market tabloids,’ she rasped. ‘And, I find it very offensive that you should wish to promote such a stereotyped view of women—reinforcing their role as mere playthings of the male species!’

There was a startled hush following her words, during which everyone held their breath, fully expecting their editor to verbally rip the deeply disliked Imogen into small, tiny pieces.

However, they were startled when Mike merely leaned back in his seat and, quite astonishingly, gave the rigidly angry woman a bland smile.

‘Well, you may be right. We certainly don’t want to be accused of being politically incorrect, or of discrimination against men—do we?’

‘Er...yes...no...I mean...’ Imogen gasped, frantically waving away the thick cloud of evil-smelling cigar smoke which the editor had just puffed in her direction.

‘Which is why,’ Mike continued imperturbably, ‘I’ve decided to include a feature, written by Alex Pemberton, which will be solely devoted to the male point of view. I rather fancy the title, “Sex and the single man.” How does that grab you?’

‘By the throat!’ Imogen ground out angrily, amidst the sound of general laughter.

‘That can be arranged,’ her editor drawled menacingly, pausing for a moment before turning to look down the table. ‘OK, Alex, what have you got so far?’

Stunned by the abrupt turn of events, Alex struggled to pull herself together. Was this the chance of a lifetime, or what? There was a small problem, of course, because her outline wasn’t nearly complete. But maybe she could skim over the gaps? It was definitely worth a try, she decided quickly, taking a deep breath and hoping for the best.

‘I love the title,’ she told Mike with a grin. ‘And everything I’ve done so far will fit in very well with what you want. As you know, before being struck down by flu I was working on a St Valentine’s Day feature...’

‘We’ve gathered that much,’ Mike snapped irritably. ‘Get on with it!’

‘OK...OK.’ Alex muttered nervously. ‘Well, I decided to write about three couples—working-class, middle-class, and upper-class, rich socialites—pointing out the differences in their romantic lifestyles. I’ve already got a plumber and his girlfriend, plus a tax inspector and his fiancée who are all quite happy to cooperate on the feature. The idea is to examine, in depth, what Imogen might well refer to as their “mating rituals”.’

Ignoring the general laughter, Imogen scowled down the table at Alex—a fact which didn’t disturb the younger girl in the slightest. She was fed up to the back teeth with Imogen’s continual sniping comments—mainly concerned with what she regarded as Alex’s rich, privileged background—and deeply resented the older woman’s inability to judge her work on its merits.

‘I’m planning to interview them all separately, as well as together,’ Alex continued blithely, before being struck by a sudden idea. ‘By the way, it’s just occurred to me that I might be able to take them all to a posh, up-market St Valentine’s Day Ball—which is usually held in one of the grand London hotels. What do you think?’ she asked Mike with a hopeful smile.

‘The organisers always hold these balls on the actual day itself, which means it would be perfect for the following Saturday’s supplement. So, I could write a second piece, mainly about what a good time they had in celebrating their romance.’

‘Yeah...that’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.’ Her editor nodded. ‘In fact, I reckon your idea for two bites at the cherry sounds very promising. I particularly like the idea of a plumber rubbing shoulders on an equal footing with some toffee-nosed Hooray Henry,’ he added with a chuckle, gathering up his papers and announcing the close of the meeting.

As the other members of staff began leaving the room, Imogen—who, as an experienced journalist, never missed a trick—quickly seized an opportunity to cut the younger girl down to size.

‘I’m quite sure that Miss Pemberton has done her homework,’ she said with a cold, malicious smile. ‘But I don’t recall her mentioning any details about the third, upper-class couple...’

Alex, who’d been happily basking in the warmth of Mike’s rare praise, felt a cold, hard lump of apprehension filling her stomach. Trust Imogen to wield the poisoned dagger!

‘No, well...I hadn’t quite sorted out the final details before being struck down by the flu,’ she told him briskly, doing her best to sound businesslike and confident. ‘It’s just a matter of tying up a few loose ends, and—’

‘We’ll have to insist on knowing exactly who you’ve lined up,’ Imogen interjected sharply, before turning to the editor. ‘For this feature to work she’s going to need a wealthy, well-known and socially prominent couple. It’s really no good dear Alex relying, as she does so often, on the last-minute help of some of her idle, rich layabout friends...is it?’

‘That woman’s an absolute bitch!’ Tessa muttered sympathetically as she rose from the table. ‘Go for it, kid. Smash her in the eyes with some really glamorous names.’

Unfortunately Alex—only too well aware that she hadn’t yet come up with any ideas for the upper-class pair of lovers—could only desperately pray for divine guidance, frantically cudgelling her brain in an effort to provide a satisfactory answer.

‘Well?’ her editor barked impatiently. ‘Hurry up! We can’t sit around here all morning, you know.’

Thinking about the episode later, Alex could only imagine that she’d been blindly trapped within the coils of some evil, malign influence. What else could have led her to commit an act of such folly? However, with her mind completely blank and just about to admit defeat, she found herself staring down at the newspaper open on the table in front of her.

Even as she raised her hand—pointing with a trembling finger to the picture of the man about whom Tessa had made such a crude joke—she could hear loud warning bells echoing in her head. But, as she ruefully acknowledged to herself later, both the sin of pride and an overwhelming, urgent need to escape from such a sticky situation proved to be irresistible.

‘It’s this man,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m going to be featuring Leo Hamilton and his fiancée, Fiona Bliss.’

‘Do me a favour!’ James Boswell laughed scornfully, gathering up his papers and walking towards the door. ‘You’ll never get him to go along with it. Not in a month of Sundays!’

‘That stupid girl has just plucked a name out of thin air!’ Imogen agreed furiously. ‘The Leo Hamiltons of this world would never agree to cooperate with us. He might just respond to an approach from The Times, for instance, but definitely not a down-market rag like the London Chronicle.’

‘Thank you for those few kind words, Imogen!’ Mike grated angrily, prevented from saying any more as James, about to leave the room, turned to underline the older woman’s words.

‘I hate to say it—but, unfortunately, Imogen’s quite right,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t normally reveal my sources. However, it seems only fair to say that it was the girl’s mother who tipped me off about the engagement. Believe me, Leo Hamilton would prefer to slit his own throat rather than court any publicity. And, as far as cooperation with this newspaper is concerned...?’ He shrugged again. ‘You’re likely to get more information out of an oyster!’

‘Hmm... Well, it looks as if I’ll have to cancel the feature. Especially since there’s not enough time to line up anyone else.’ Mike nodded slowly in agreement. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Alex,’ he added sternly. ‘Why promise something you can’t deliver?’

‘I can deliver Leo Hamilton,’ she told him firmly.

James Boswell smiled and shook his head. ‘Come on, Alex! What’s the point in flogging a dead horse? Everyone knows that both the guy and his family have always avoided any publicity like the plague. So, there’s no way he’s going to agree to participate in an article about his engagement. Right?’

‘No, you’re wrong,’ she protested, before turning to her editor. ‘I’ll admit that James has a point—Leo Hamilton wouldn’t normally be too happy about the idea. Well, not at first, anyway. But, please give me a break, Mike,’ she begged earnestly: ‘Because, in this particular case, I can virtually guarantee to bring home the bacon.’

‘This is all a complete waste of time,’ Imogen snapped. ‘I don’t know about you, Mike, but I’ve got better things to do than to listen to such nonsense.’

‘Calm down, everyone,’ the editor said firmly, before regarding the younger girl intently for a moment. ‘You seem very certain that you won’t have any problems with this article, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Now, you’re certainly not stupid, Alex,’ he continued slowly. ‘You must know that if you want my backing I’m going to need some hard facts. What makes you so certain that you can gain the cooperation of this guy? Are you one of his ex-girlfriends, for instance?’

‘Certainly not!’ she snapped curtly.

‘Well...?’

Alex hesitated for a moment, and then gave a heavy sigh. ‘OK, Mike. I normally try to keep family and business matters entirely separate. However, if you’re insisting on some “hard facts”...’ She shrugged. ‘Well, it just so happens that Leo Hamilton is my stepbrother.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘GO AWAY—you great big bully!’ Alex muttered angrily, impatiently tooting her horn at the driver of a large delivery truck who was clearly trying to force her small car out of the way as she drove through the narrow, crowded streets of the city.

Ever since the meeting in Mike Tanner’s office only two hours ago it felt as though she’d been frantically spinning like a top. Which had, at least, the virtue of keeping her mind fully occupied, and unable to think too much about the forthcoming confrontation with Leo Hamilton.

But now as she pulled on the handbrake, staring blindly out through her windscreen at the lines of cars and trucks all firmly stalled in the heavy traffic, there seemed little she could do to combat the wild, nervous fluttering in her stomach.

Relax! Keep calm...there’s no need to panic. Quite apart from anything else, there’s a good chance that Leo probably won’t even recognise you, she told herself firmly. ‘And let’s hope he doesn’t!’ she added out loud, with an attempt at grim humour, almost shuddering as she recalled the deeply unhappy young girl who had suddenly found herself dumped in a strange household in Italy all those years ago.

Most teenage girls looked a mess at one time or another—but she’d really gone to town, with that ‘heavy Gothic’ style!

It was difficult to remember now exactly what had prompted her to dye her hair jet-black. Or why she’d ever thought that smothering her face in chalky-white foundation and applying both sooty-black mascara and dark crimson lipstick with a heavy hand could be a good idea. Could it have been some sort of protest? An infantile act of rebellion against an unkind world? If so, it had, most unfortunately, proved to be a fatal mistake.

After one appalled glance at the strange-looking sixteen-year-old girl who’d suddenly arrived at her holiday home in Tuscany, Leo’s mother, Eleanor Lucas, had swiftly taken matters in hand. However, by the time she’d forcefully bullied Alex into looking more like the girl’s normal self, it had proved to be far, far too late. Because, barely moments after setting eyes on him, Alex had fallen desperately in love with her tall, dark and handsome twenty-three-year-old stepbrother. While he, for his part, had clearly only thought of her as some ghastly teenaged version of one of the Munsters.

Over the years, Alex had done her level best to forget that long, baking-hot and totally dreadful summer holiday, where one disaster had been swiftly followed by another, like a Greek tragedy. But now, with the prospect of meeting once more the man who had so blighted her young life, she could feel her skin almost crawling with embarrassment and humiliation.

Cool it! she told herself firmly as the stalled traffic began slowly moving, at last. Just about everyone makes a complete idiot of themselves at least once in their lives. So, why should you be the exception? Besides, what happened in the past doesn’t matter. It’s the here and now that’s important. And, if you don’t want to find yourself out of a job, you’ve got to get this story—come hell or high water!

Unfortunately, trying to psych herself up for the forthcoming confrontation with Leo wasn’t proving too successful. Mainly because it didn’t need a very high IQ to realise that, after the horrendous scene in Mike’s office, her job was now squarely on the line. A fact which her editor had made crystal clear.

‘I’m going out on a limb for you, Alex. So you’d better deliver the goods,’ he’d warned.

Ignoring Imogen’s furious anger at being overruled, Mike had continued grimly, ‘These articles of yours had better be damn good. If I find that you’ve been spinning a yarn—or trying to pull the wool over my eyes in any way—I can guarantee that you’ll never work for me again. Or any other newspaper, for that matter. Got the message?’

Alex had nodded nervously, the noise of Imogen’s rage and fury ringing in her ears as she’d hurried away from his office.

Well, at least she hadn’t been lying about her relationship with Leo Hamilton, Alex had comforted herself, trying to ignore her guilty conscience as she’d reached the sanctuary of her desk.

Oh, yeah? Just who do you think you’re kidding? The ghostly voice in her head had demanded with a scornful laugh. You may not have told a one hundred per cent lie. But you were definitely being economical with the truth—right? Because Leo is only a sort of stepbrother—or should it be stepbrother by marriage? And you haven’t set eyes on the rotten man, or the rest of his horrid family, for almost eight years.

‘OK...OK,’ she’d muttered under her breath, resolutely banishing her conscience to the far, dark recesses of her mind as she’d tried to concentrate on the Herculean task before her.

First and foremost Alex had realised that she needed a lot of background information—almost as important to a journalist as water in the Sahara Desert. After all, she knew absolutely nothing about Fiona Bliss, and had virtually no knowledge of what her stepbrother had been up to during the past eight years.

However, just over an hour later, she’d been feeling quite pleased with herself. The Chronicle’s library had produced a pile of news cuttings on Leo and his family, while a quick phone call to her old school friend Sophie would hopefully provide a whole host of material about his new fiancée, Fiona Bliss.

Unfortunately, Sophie—who rented the basement flat of Alex’s house, and worked on a glamorous monthly magazine mostly devoted to fashion and the lives of those prominent in society—had proved an unexpectedly hard nut to crack. It was only after promising to lend the other girl her best long gown for a deathly smart St Valentine’s Ball—and her favourite pair of high-heeled gold sandals and matching bag—that Sophie had reluctantly agreed to raid the files in her office.

‘Great!’ Alex had grinned down the phone. ‘So, how about meeting me for a late lunch in the pub around the corner from your office, and you can give me the details then. OK?’

‘No, it’s not OK,’ her friend had protested. ‘I’ll need a lot more time than just a few hours. Who do you think I am? Mata Hari?’

Alex had gritted her teeth in frustration. ‘Look...do you want to be the belle of the ball, and make that ex-boyfriend of yours as jealous as hell, or what?’ she demanded. ‘Of course, if you’re happy to wear your tatty old black dress, and don’t mind looking like something the cat dragged in...’

‘Oh, all right!’ Sophie had ground out, before slamming down her phone.

So far, so good. But with so little time in which to both complete her interviews and write the article, Alex knew that time was of the essence. Which was why, striving to keep calm and banish her rising panic, she’d swallowed her pride and begged James Boswell for his help.

Clearly aggrieved that he hadn’t known of her relationship to Leo Hamilton, the paper’s social editor still didn’t think she had much of a chance of gaining the glamorous banker’s cooperation.

‘Especially now that the guy has the modern equivalent of a shotgun wedding in front of him,’ James had added with a sour grin.

‘You don’t mean...?’

‘No, of course I don’t think his girlfriend is pregnant,’ he’d retorted curtly. ‘But your stepbrother is going to find it almost impossible to extricate himself from the clutches of Fiona’s mother, Ethel Bliss. Believe me, that’s one really tough, hard woman—who’s ruthlessly ambitious for her only child. Don’t forget, it was Ethel who tipped me off about the “engagement”. So, even if Leo wanted to extricate himself from the situation—and I’ve no reason to think that he does—I’ll lay any money that he’s going to find himself standing at the altar, firmly anchored to a heavy ball and chain!’

James had also let fall the information that her stepbrother lived in a large, glamorous penthouse apartment in Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde Park.

‘With a tough doorman, and more intruder alarms than the Bank of England, none of my contacts has been able to put a foot over the threshold. I still don’t think Leo will agree to help with your article,’ he’d added, with a bad-tempered shrug. ‘But, since you’re a member of the family, at least getting in to see the guy will be a piece of cake, right?’

‘Er...right,’ she’d murmured, hoping she’d sounded more confident than she felt, and quickly realising that her only hope was to try and catch Leo off guard, in his office at the bank.

‘Nothing ventured—nothing gained!’ Alex now told herself firmly. But, as she drove slowly past the Mansion House, keeping a sharp lookout for a space in which to park her car, she couldn’t help worrying about the forthcoming interview.

After a frantic dash home to change out of the jeans which she normally wore in the newspaper office, Alex still wasn’t at all sure whether she’d picked the right sort of ‘stuffy’ outfit. Maybe the black wool suit, with its tightly fitted jacket over sheer black stockings and high-heeled black court shoes, was a bit too funereal for a bank?

Still...what the heck? she told herself defiantly as she finally managed to find a free parking meter. Because, quite frankly, the chances of her actually managing to get as far as Leo’s office were so slim as to be practically anorexic!

In fact, even getting through the bank’s front door was likely to be almost impossible, she realised, walking slowly up the street towards the large Victorian building, and noting the figure of a burly, uniformed commissionaire filling the doorway. Desperately trying to suppress the sudden urge to turn tail and buy a one-way ticket to South America, Alex gradually noticed that a steady stream of people seemed to be approaching the bank.

Surely that wasn’t...? Oh, wow! It really was turning out to be her lucky day, she told herself with a slightly hysterical giggle, before running swiftly across the road.

‘Hi, Ben,’ she smiled breathlessly at the Chronicle’s financial editor.

‘Good heavens! What on earth are you doing in this neck of the woods, Alex? I didn’t know you were interested in City finance.’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ she assured him earnestly, firmly clutching hold of his arm. ‘In fact, I find the whole concept of world trade simply fascinating!’

‘That’s great!’ he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing slightly as he gallantly led her up the steps. ‘Today’s meeting is only a public relations exercise. But it will be interesting to hear more details of Hamilton’s partial merger with a German bank.’

‘Absolutely!’ she agreed, almost unable to believe her luck. If she could swan in with Ben, she was almost home and dry!

‘So, after we’ve heard what they’ve got to say, maybe you’d let me take you out to lunch? I’m writing a feature on some recent corporate takeovers, which I think you’ll find quite thought provoking.’

‘Oh, dear—I don’t think I can make lunch,’ Alex murmured, softening the blow with a beaming smile as they walked up the steps. ‘But I’m looking forward to reading your article. It sounds absolutely riveting!’ she added, both amazed and slightly ashamed at her sudden, unexpected ability to lie her head off.

‘Here we are,’ he announced as they approached the open door of the bank. ‘Got your press card?’

‘Of course.’ She flashed the small plastic folder at the commissionaire, who happily waved them onwards into the large building.

Hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible, Alex led Ben to the far side of the room, where rows of gilt chairs were set well back, facing a large table at the other end.

Staring up at the amount of gold leaf on the ornately decorated ceiling, she let her gaze move on to take in the enormous glass chandelier, clearly lit to banish the grey February morning beyond the windows, around which were draped thick crimson brocade curtains. In fact—with its dark crimson plush covered walls heavily encrusted with large gloomy oil paintings—it looked more like a gentlemen’s club or a grand drawing room than a modern working environment.

Well, well! It certainly looked as if these merchant bankers believed in making themselves very comfortable. Nice work if you can get it! Alex mused caustically, wondering how soon she could slip out of the room and continue her search for Leo Hamilton.

While she had been taking stock of her luxurious surroundings, the room had been gradually filling up with journalists from most of the daily newspapers and those magazines concerned with finance. Busy chatting to one another, it wasn’t until two men walked through a door at the far end of the room that the general conversation ceased and the audience began taking out their notebooks.

Seated behind a large, stout figure in a gabardine raincoat, Alex had difficulty in seeing what was going on. However, as soon as she moved her chair slightly, giving herself a better view of the table at the end of the room, she realised with a jolt that—thanks to Ben—there was no need for her to seek out Leo Hamilton.

That he hadn’t changed at all was the first coherent thought to emerge from the swirling chaos in her mind. But then, as her vision cleared, Alex realised that she was mistaken.

It was now nearly eight years since she’d last seen Leo, and, while his outward, extraordinarily handsome appearance might seem little altered, he now clearly saw no reason to hide his obvious command of the situation, or the overpowering strength of his forceful personality. He had, in fact, matured into a tough, resourceful man, and it didn’t look as if nowadays that firm, hard mouth laughed very much, if at all.

The bright light from the chandelier cast a sheen on his dark hair, highlighting a few threads of silver at the temples. His skin was very tanned, as if he spent most of his time in the open air—not the usual environment for a banker. Or that of a man who, if James Boswell was to be believed, apparently spent a great deal of his time in the bedrooms of beautiful women!