Billionaire, Boss...Bridegroom?

CHAPTER THREE

EVEN THE IDEA was crazy.

Asking Bella was completely out of the question. She was practically a stranger; and she worked for him. Two huge reasons why Hugh knew that he should put this whole thing out of his mind.

Hugh paced up and down his living room. The problem was, now the idea was in his head, it had taken root. And he knew why. He could tell himself that asking Bella to play the role of his unsuitable new girlfriend was simply because she was vivacious enough to make it convincing. It was true enough. But he knew that the real reason was a little more complicated than that. Spending the weekend together in Oxford would give them a chance to get to know each other better. See where things took them.

Crazy. Stupid. Insane.

He knew better than to mix work and pleasure. Last time he’d done it, the whole thing had gone so badly wrong that he’d nearly lost Insurgo—letting down his business partner and the people who depended on them for their jobs. Only the fact that Roland, his other best friend, had bought into the business as a sleeping partner had saved him from having to shut the business down. He’d worked stupid hours and he’d managed to stabilise everything, but he would never take that kind of risk again.

Strictly speaking, he knew this wasn’t quite that kind of risk. Bella wasn’t Jessie. She was part of the team, not one of his artists. She’d signed a contract with him rather than making a verbal agreement she could back out of because it would be her word against his. Getting to know Bella wasn’t going to put Insurgo at risk.

But it still made him antsy. Since Jessie, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t trust anyone with the battered remains of his heart. He’d keep an emotional distance. So why couldn’t he get Bella Faraday out of his head? Why did he keep remembering that frisson of awareness when she’d kissed his cheek in the taxi? Why did her smile make him feel as if the room lit up?

And, more importantly, what was he going to do about it?

* * *

By Thursday morning, Bella felt as if she’d been working at Insurgo for ever. The rest of the team turned out to be total sweethearts, and they all shared a love of music, cinema and art. Everyone pitched in with ideas and suggestions, and nobody minded if theirs was passed over for a better one. And she absolutely loved working there.

The previous afternoon, they’d had a discussion in the office about which song fitted them, so that evening she’d made little name-cards for everyone’s desk with a quick caricature of them and the title of ‘their’ song in place of their name.

It seemed mean to leave Hugh out just because he was upstairs rather than in the open-plan office with everyone else, so she made a card for him as well. ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ fitted him to a T, she thought.

That morning, as the rest of the team filtered in to the office and saw the name-cards on their desks, there was much hilarity.

Then Hugh walked into the office—clearly not in a good mood, again—and Bella rather wished she hadn’t done a name-card for him after all.

‘Ms Faraday—a word?’ It was more of a command than a question, and his expression was completely impassive.

‘Yes, Mr Moncrieff,’ she said, and followed him meekly up to his office.

Even though he didn’t say a word to her on the way up, she had a pretty good idea what this was about. He hadn’t been amused at all by his name-card.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said as soon as he closed the door. ‘We were messing about yesterday—’ Then she stopped as she realised how incriminating her words were. ‘Over lunch, that is,’ she said swiftly, hoping that she’d saved the situation. She didn’t want to get her new colleagues into trouble. ‘We were talking about the song title that could be used instead of your name to describe you, and I drew the cards last night at home. It was just a bit of fun and I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘You picked an appropriate one for me,’ he said.

Though every single day seemed to be Monday, where his mood was concerned. He really wasn’t a morning person. She winced. ‘Sorry. Are you very cross with me?’

‘No—and, just for the record, I don’t mind a bit of messing about in the office. It helps creativity, and I know everyone on the team puts the hours in. As long as the job gets done on time and within budget, I don’t actually care how it’s done.’

‘Then why did you want to see me?’ Bella asked, now completely mystified. If he wasn’t about to haul her over the coals for unprofessional behaviour, then what?

‘Your hair.’

She frowned. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘You were blonde, yesterday. Platinum blonde.’

‘Ye-es.’ She still didn’t follow.

‘And today your hair’s red.’

A tiny bit brighter red than she’d intended, because she’d been so busy making the name-cards the previous evening that she’d left the dye in for a few minutes longer than she should’ve done, but she liked it. ‘Yes.’ Where was he going with this? ‘Is there a problem with my hair colour?’ she asked carefully.

‘No, not at all.’

She really didn’t understand. ‘Then why did you call me into your office?’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

Apart from the fact that you weren’t supposed to answer a question with a question, what did that have to do with anything? She frowned. ‘You’re not supposed to ask me things like that. My relationship status has nothing to do with my job.’

‘I know. I’m not asking you as your employer.’

She caught her breath. Did that mean he was asking her out?

No, of course not. That was totally ridiculous. Just because she had a secret crush on him, it didn’t mean that her feelings were in any way returned. And in any case her boss was the last man she’d ever date. It would cause way too many problems, and she really couldn’t afford to give up her new job. There was no guarantee that the receivers dealing with her former client would give her any of the money owing to her, because she’d be way down the pecking order in the list of creditors. And, with Kirk having cleaned out their joint bank account so she no longer had any savings to her name, she was stuck. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, trying hard to sound polite rather than aggressive.

‘Because I need you to do something for me, and I need to know whether I’m going to have to have a conversation with an overprotective boyfriend first.’

She was still none the wiser. ‘Now you’ve really got me worried.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Bella, don’t be difficult.’

That was rich, coming from him, she thought. Hugh Moncrieff was the walking definition of difficult. He was also the walking definition of sexy, but she had to keep a lid on that thought.

‘Can you just answer the question?’ he asked. ‘Are you single or not?’

‘I’m absolutely single,’ she said crisply, ‘and I intend to stay that way.’ Just so it’d be totally clear that she wasn’t trying to flirt with him—or anything else.

‘Good.’ He gave her a sweet, sweet smile. One that made a lot of warning bells ring in her head. ‘Bella, remember when I helped you out last Friday night?’

The warning bells got louder. ‘Ye-es.’

‘Good.’ He paused. ‘I need a favour.’

So much for him saying that they’d forget what had happened. Clearly there were strings attached, after all. How disappointing. ‘What sort of favour?’ she asked carefully.

‘I need you to be my date for a family event.’

That was the last thing she’d expected. Had she misheard? ‘To be what?’ she asked.

‘My date for a family event,’ he repeated.

That was what she thought he’d said. The words ‘date’ and ‘Hugh Moncrieff’ were a dangerous combination. ‘Why?’

‘A more pertinent question, in the circumstances, is “when?”,’ he said dryly.

OK. She’d play it his way. ‘When?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Next weekend.’

What? ‘As in tomorrow or as in next Friday?’

‘As in a week on Saturday,’ he clarified.

Talk about lack of notice. Did he think that she didn’t have a social life? ‘Where?’

‘Oxfordshire.’

‘Right.’ She stared at him. ‘So let me get this straight. You want me to go to a family do with you in Oxfordshire and pretend to be your girlfriend.’

‘Yes.’

She folded her arms. ‘Now I think “why” might be pertinent. And I think I deserve a proper answer.’

‘If you want to know the truth, it’s because you,’ he said, ‘will annoy my family.’

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘That’s not very nice—to me or to them.’ And it made her feel as if he was using her. Just like Kirk had. Even though Hugh was being upfront about it rather than pretending he loved her, the way Kirk had, it still stung.

‘Given that you told me you were flaky and unreliable in your personal life, I think that’s a fair assessment.’

He had a point. Just. ‘It’s still not very nice,’ she said.

‘I didn’t expect you to go all Mary Poppins on me,’ he drawled.

She resisted the urge to slap him or to say something rude. Just. ‘That’s because you don’t know me very well. What do you want to achieve?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You said you want to annoy your family. What do you really want to happen?’

When he still looked blank, she sighed. ‘Look, you’re at point A and you clearly want to be at point B. What do you need to do to get from A to B, and is having a fake girlfriend really the most effective way to do it?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit sensible.’

‘Coming from me, you mean?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It doesn’t come from me, actually. It’s the way my sister looks at things.’

‘Your sister Grace? As in the woman who downed three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach...?’ he said, with mischievous emphasis.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘Don’t you dare be rude about my sister,’ she warned. ‘I already told you: that was really unlike her. It was due to special circumstances—and don’t bother asking what they were, because I’m not going to tell you. It’s none of your business.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, disarming her. ‘Actually, I like the way you stand up for your sister. And you have a point.’

‘So why you do want to annoy your family?’ she asked.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is even more confidential than anything commercial I talk to you about.’

‘That’s obvious,’ she said, rolling her eyes at him. ‘You’re my boss, so anything you say to me in this room stays in this room unless you say otherwise.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Since you ask, the reason is because I’m sick and tired of them nagging me to settle down. So if I turn up to my brother’s engagement party with someone who looks completely unsuitable, maybe they’ll shut up and get off my case.’

She digested this slowly. He was saying she was unsuitable because of her hair? ‘So basically you’re asking me to play the kooky wild child. You want me to turn up with a mad hair colour, wearing ridiculous shoes and a skirt that’s more like a belt?’

‘What you wear is entirely up to you,’ he said. Then he looked thoughtful. ‘But, as you mentioned it first, yes, I think you probably have the chutzpah to carry off that kind of outfit.’

She still couldn’t quite work out if he was insulting her or praising her. Instead, she asked the other thing that was puzzling her. Well, apart from the fact that he was single. Even though he tended to be grumpy in the mornings in the office, she knew he had a good heart. He’d rescued her and Grace when they’d needed help, even though at the time they’d been complete strangers—and at the time it hadn’t felt as if there were any strings. Plus he had beautiful eyes and an even more beautiful mouth. The kind that made you want to find out what it felt like to be kissed by it.

She shook herself. That was something she shouldn’t be thinking about. ‘So why does your family want you to settle down?’

When he didn’t answer, she pointed out, ‘If you ask me to design something for you, then I need a brief to know what your target market is and what you want the design to achieve. I need to understand why before I can design something to suit. This is the same sort of thing. If I don’t understand why you want me to play someone unsuitable, I’m not going to be able to deliver the goods, am I?’

‘So you’ll do it?’

‘I didn’t say that. I still reserve the right to say no.’ If saying no was actually an option. Would her job depend on this? ‘But if you tell me why and I agree with your reasoning, then I might consider it.’ She spread her hands. ‘Anything you tell me is confidential. But I would also like to point out that I do have a social life, actually, and I did have plans for the weekend.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He raked a hand through his hair, suddenly looking vulnerable. Which was almost enough to make her agree to help him, regardless of his motives.

Weird.

Hugh Moncrieff was old enough and tough enough to look after himself. You didn’t get to be the successful owner of an independent record label if you were a pushover. He didn’t need looking after by anyone. But that expression in his eyes had touched a chord with her. It reminded her of the look in Grace’s eyes when she’d confessed that she didn’t fit in with Howard’s family and didn’t think she ever could. That she’d felt trapped and miserable.

Was that how Hugh felt about his own family?

And why did she suddenly want to rescue him, when she was usually the one who had to be rescued?

‘Of course you have a social life,’ he said. ‘And I don’t expect you to say “how high” every time I ask you to jump.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad that’s clear.’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘And I know I’m out of order, asking you to play a part.’

‘It does make me feel a bit used,’ she admitted.

‘I don’t mean it quite like that. I need help to deal with a tricky situation.’

‘Just like I did—and you helped me, so it makes sense that I should return the favour.’ Put like that, she thought, his request was much more reasonable.

‘If it’s possible for you to change your plans for the weekend and you do agree to help me by being my date, just be yourself. That’ll do nicely.’

‘Because I’m unsuitable?’ she asked. Just when she’d started to feel OK about it, he’d made her feel bad again. Stupid. ‘That’s a bit insulting.’

‘That isn’t actually what I meant. You’re confident,’ he said. ‘You’re direct. You don’t play games.’

‘But you’re asking me to play a game. Well, play a part,’ she corrected herself. ‘Which is pretty much the same thing.’

‘I guess. I don’t mean to insult you, Bella. I apologise.’

‘Apology accepted.’ She paused. ‘So why do you need a date?’

He sighed. ‘I’m the youngest of four boys. The other three are all stockbrokers in the firm started by my great-grandfather. My family would very much like me to toe the line and follow suit.’

She winced. ‘Ouch. That’s what I called you on Friday. I said you looked like a stockbroker.’

‘I’m not one, and I never want to be one,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that it’s a bad career—just that it’s not right for me. My brothers love what they do, and that’s fine. I’d support them to the hilt, but I don’t want to join them.’ He gave her another of those wry smiles. ‘That’s why the label has its name.’

‘Got you. Insurgo’s Latin for “to rebel”.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And, no, I didn’t go to the sort of school that taught Latin. I looked it up on the internet. The only Latin I know is “lorem ipsum”—the stuff used as filler text in a design rough, and that’s not really proper Latin.’

He smiled back. ‘Actually, “lorem ipsum” is a mash-up of Cicero’s De finibus bonorum et malorum.’

‘Trust you to know that.’ The words came out before she could stop them.

He laughed. ‘I’m afraid I did go to the kind of school that taught Latin.’ He dragged his hand through his hair. ‘I love what I do, Bella. I like hearing artists play me raw songs—and then a different arrangement flowers in my head, and I can see exactly what they need to do to make it a hit without losing their original voice. I’ve never wanted to do anything else but produce music that I love—music that makes the world a better place. But my family worries about me, because the music business isn’t exactly stable. Insurgo’s doing well—well enough for some much bigger labels to have offered to buy me out, though I’ve always refused because I’m not going to sell out my artists like that—but I’m still at the mercy of the markets. We’ve managed to weather a few storms, but all it takes is one wrong decision that loses the business a lot of money, or for a couple of my biggest customers to go bankrupt and not pay me, and we could go under.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she said feelingly.

‘I knew you’d get that bit. You’ve been there,’ he said.

So either Tarquin had told him that she’d once had her own business, or he’d read her résumé. Or maybe both. ‘Small businesses fail all the time,’ she said, ‘and I kept mine going for two years. If my best client hadn’t gone bankrupt, owing me the equivalent of three months’ salary, I’d still be a freelance designer now. But when one door closes another opens—and now I have a job I like here.’

‘I take it back about being Mary Poppins,’ he said. ‘You’re Pollyanna.’

‘I’m just me,’ she told him firmly, ‘not a stereotype. But, yes, I believe in looking for the good in life.’ She whistled the chorus from ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ and smiled.

‘It’s a good philosophy,’ he said.

‘You’re right—you’re perfectly capable of being a stockbroker, but it’d make you miserable. You’re doing what you love,’ she said. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with that. Why doesn’t your family see that?’

He sighed. ‘They have this little box ready for me. I’m supposed to fit in with a sensible job, a sensible wife, and two point four children or whatever it’s meant to be nowadays. A pied-à-terre in London for me during the week, and an ancient pile in the countryside for the family, where the kids can grow up until we send them to boarding school.’

Was he describing what his own childhood had been like? ‘I guess I’m lucky,’ she said. ‘All my parents and my sister want is for me to be happy and fulfilled.’

‘Are you?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’ But she noticed that he didn’t meet her eye. So did that mean he wasn’t? And what, she wondered, was missing from his life?

Not that there was any point in asking. She was pretty sure he’d stonewall her. Getting the information so far had been like pulling teeth.

‘OK. So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend, to show your family that you have no intention of meeting any of the criteria to fit that little box they’ve made for you. You already have a job they don’t approve of, so what you need is an outrageous girlfriend to horrify them even more. That will be the icing on the cake, if you’ll excuse me mixing my metaphors,’ she said, hoping that she’d summed up the situation without missing anything.

‘That’s pretty much it.’ He paused. ‘So will you do it?’

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