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you know. That’s when it occurred to me that in the meantime our billionaire might like the opportunity to demonstrate his credentials as a good neighbour.’

      ‘And he agreed?’

      ‘I suppose so. I actually spoke to some woman who appears to be in charge of the day-to-day running of the company and she was really enthusiastic about helping the charity. Well, everyone has been touched, haven’t they?’

      Woman at the helm or not, she doubted that sentimentality had much to do with the decision.

      ‘The fact that the proposed conference centre will get acres of free publicity in Celebrity wouldn’t have anything to do with that, I suppose?’

      ‘Oh, Sylvie! Don’t be so cynical.’

      Why, just because she had a reputation for planning fantasy parties and weddings, did everyone think she should be sentimental? It was just business …

      ‘And even if his company does get something out of it, well, what of it? I know it was your home, Sylvie, but times have changed and the conference centre will provide jobs locally. It’s a win-win-win situation.’

      ‘I suppose so.’ Sylvie had made a point of staying well clear of her family home since it had been sold lock, stock and barrel, to pay off her grandfather’s creditors, but Laura was right. The publicity would be good for everyone.

      The Pink Ribbon Club charity founded by her mother; local designers; the tradesmen who would be employed to work on the conversion as well as local businesses.

      In fact, when it came right down to it, the entire Melchester economy apparently rested on what frock she’d choose to wear to her own fantasy wedding.

      Fantasy being the operative word. One fantasy in a lifetime was enough and she hadn’t been kidding about the register office.

      But, with Longbourne Court in the equation, Celebrity was going to have to stump up vastly more than their original offer. This was big and if they wanted to make themselves look good by clinging on to the trailing pink ribbons of her mother’s charity, they were going to have to pay for the privilege.

      Tom McFarlane drew up in front of the tall wrought iron gates of Longbourne Court.

      Two things were wrong.

      They were standing wide open.

      And, decorating each of the central finials, was a large knot of pink ribbons.

      He picked up his cellphone and hit fast dial.

      ‘Tom?’ Unsurprisingly, his CEO was surprised to hear from him. ‘Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?’

      ‘Right at this moment I’m at the gates of Longbourne Court, Pam, and I’m looking at pink ribbons. Please tell me that I’m hallucinating.’

      ‘You’re back in the UK?’ she responded, ignoring his plea. Then, ‘At Longbourne?’

      A long blast on an air horn drowned out his reply, which was probably just as well.

      ‘I’m sorry if I’ve returned in time to spoil the party,’ he said, not stinting on the sarcasm, ‘but I’ve got pink ribbons in front of me and an irate trucker with his radiator an inch from my rear. Just tell me what the hell is going on.’

      ‘Hi, Pam,’ she prompted, ignoring his question. ‘I’m sorry I’m being a grouch but I’m jet lagged. As soon as I’ve had a decent night’s sleep I’ll hand over the duty-frees, along with the big fat bonus I owe you for taking care of—’

      ‘I’m not in the mood,’ he warned.

      ‘No? Well, it’s a lovely day and maybe by the time you reach the house you’ll have remembered where you mislaid your manners,’ she replied, completely unperturbed. ‘When you do, you’ll find me in the library running your company.’

      ‘You’re here?’ he demanded. Stupid question. Pink ribbons and trucks didn’t appear without someone to organise them. Pam obviously thought so too, since her only response was the dialling tone.

      The truck driver sounded off for the second time and, resisting the temptation to swear at the man—he was only trying to do his job, whatever that was—he tossed the phone on the seat beside him and drove through the gates.

      The trees were breaking out in new leaf and the parkland surrounding Longbourne Court had the timeless look of a set for some boobs-and-breeches costume drama, an illusion rudely shattered as he crested the rise.

      The house was standing golden and square in the bright sunshine, just as it had for the best part of three centuries, but the only horsepower on show was of the twenty-first century variety. Trucks, cars, vans.

      The nearest belonged to a confectioner who, according to the signage on her faux vintage vehicle, proclaimed to the world in copperplate script that she specialized in bespoke wedding cakes. One glance confirmed that there were caterers, photographers, florists—in fact, anything you could think of—ditto.

      The kind of scene he’d so narrowly avoided six months ago, when Candy had decided that mere money wasn’t enough to compensate for his lack of breeding and had traded up to a title. Not that ‘Hon’ was that big a deal but if she hung in there she’d make it to Lady eventually.

      She could, with advantage, have taken lessons from her good friend Sylvie Smith. She hadn’t messed about, she’d gone straight for the big one; she’d made damn sure that the ‘childhood sweetheart’, the one who’d make her a countess, didn’t get away a second time.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      TOM parked his Aston in the coach house, alongside Pam’s zippy BMW coupé and a black and silver Mini that he didn’t recognise, but which presumably belonged to one of her staff. Inside the house it was all noise and chaos as the owners of the vehicles milled about, apparently in the process of setting up shop in his house.

      He didn’t pause to enquire what the devil they thought they were doing, instead hunting down the person responsible. The woman he’d left to keep his company ticking over while he put as much distance between himself and London as possible.

      He found her sitting behind an antique desk in the library, looking for all the world like the lady of the manor.

      ‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.

      She peered over the top of her spectacles. ‘Nice tan,’ she said. ‘Shame about the manners.’

      ‘Pink ribbons,’ he countered, refusing to be diverted.

      ‘Maybe coffee would help. Or would you prefer tea? Better make it camomile.’

      He placed his hands on the desk, leaned forward and, when he was within six inches of her face, he said, ‘Tell me about the ribbons, Pam.’

      ‘You are supposed to grovel, you wretch,’ she said. ‘Six months! You’ve been away six months! I had to cancel my trip to South Africa and I’ve totally missed the skiing season—’

      ‘What’s to miss about breaking something vital?’

      She almost smiled.

      ‘Come on, Pam, you’re the one who made the point that the honeymoon was booked so I might as well give myself a break.’

      ‘What I had in mind was a couple of weeks chilling out on a beach. Or raising hell if that’s what it took. As I recall, you weren’t that keen.’

      ‘I wasn’t and I didn’t. When I got to the airport I traded in my ticket for the first flight out.’

      ‘And didn’t tell a soul where you were. You did a six-month disappearing act!’

      ‘I wish. You can’t hide from email.’

      She shrugged. ‘I kept it to the minimum.’

      ‘You’re not fooling me, Pam Baxter.

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