The Devil You Know (42 page)

Well, sod you all, Daisy thought. She smiled warmly at the female bartender. She was starting to feel very anti-men.

Tll have a Kir royale,’ Daisy said, when the girl stopped serving the businessmen in their R.olexes who were standing next to her. ‘Certainly, ma’am.’ What was it with Americans and their

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‘ma’am’-ing all the time? It made her feel like the Queen. ‘I’ll just need to see some ID.’

Daisy blinked at her. ID? Oh, of course, Americans didn’t let you drink until you were twenty-one. Ridiculous Puritanism. Tm twenty-three,’ Daisy said helpfully.

Tm sure you are, ma’am, but I’ll need to see some ID.’ ‘Like what?’

‘Driver’s licence, passport.’

Daisy started to flush. People were looking at her now. This was not what she had intended when she had planned her rebellious solo evening on the town. The barwoman’s eyes were unyielding. Stroppy cow, Daisy thought.

‘Look,’ she said reasonably, Tm not American, so I don’t have my

driver’s licence with me, and my passport is back in the hotel …’ Tm sorry,’ the barwoman said, turning away.

Daisy flushed crimson. She couldn’t believe it. She was dressed like this and she was about to get thrown out of the bar! Everybody was looking at her. She wanted to tell herself it was just one of those things, but there was a hot flush of total embarrassment. She should get up from the bar stool and walk out, but she was rooted to the spot.

‘Katy,’ said a low voice nŁxt to her.

The barwoman spun round immediately. ‘Yes, Mr Soren?’ ‘This young lady is twenty-three. I can vouch for her.’

Daisy looked at the speaker. He was young, about thirty-five, and tanned, with a muscular torso hidden under a wellcut charcoal grey suit. He had dark-blonde hair, and looked almost Nordic; tall, with

something of the Viking about him.

‘Of course, Mr Soren.’

He was very attractive, but Daisy didn’t want some rich guy’s pity. She was utterly humiliated. ‘I don’t know this man,’ she said sharply, and slid off her bar stool.

The girl was waiting, looking at Soren to see what she should do.

‘And I don’t know you, at least not yet,’ Soren said easily, ‘but I

can vouch for you, because you must be Daisy Markham.’

Daisy stared at him, rooted to the spot.

‘Kir royale,’ the girl said, ‘coming right up, and it’s on the house. Sorry for any trouble, ma’am.’ She turned nervously towards Soren. ‘Mr Soren, sir, I do hope I haven’t caused any offence …’

Who the hell is this man? Daisy wondered. Did he own the restaurant, or something?

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His name was Magnus Soren. She had pegged him fight; he was from Sweden originally, he told her, but he had been working in New York for ten years and was a naturalised citizen.

‘My company works in media. We have broad interests in publishing, films, TV, some magazines. I make it my business to keep up on new trends. You made quite a stir last month. I see reports on things like that. Your photograph was with your bio, and it was … quite striking,’ he said dryly.

‘I can’t believe you would remember one photo,’ Daisy said. ‘Well … thank you.’

‘You’re drinking with me,’ he said. ‘Quite thanks enough.’ ‘You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here alone,’ Daisy said. ‘Because it’s none of my business.’

Daisy lifted her glass to him. ‘You’re very smooth. You know that?’

He laughed out loud. ‘And you’re very funny.’

‘I was going to go to the theatre,’ Daisy told him, ‘after supper, which I wouldn’t have stayed for if they wouldn’t let me have the Kir royale.’

‘And I have just finished a long and boring meeting and wason

my way home. What were you going to see?’ ‘ ‘Les Mis.’ ‘But that’s so mainstream. You’re not a Les Mis type of girl. More like Chicago. Maybe I can persuade you to change your plans and go there with me?’

‘I heard tickets were impossible to get,’ Daisy said.

‘Nothing’s impossible except the Red Sox winning the World Series.’ Soren picked up his cell phone. ‘Excuse me a second.’ He speed-dialled somebody and had a brief conversation, then turned

back to her. ‘It’s done, we have a box.’

Daisy said, ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Good.’ He grinned. ‘That’s the general idea.’ ‘What’s the name of your company?’ she said. ‘Soren Enterprises,’ he said.

They stepped out of the theatre at nine. Daisy had enjoyed herself thoroughly, but she was now exhausted, and felt herself slipping in and out of sleep where she stood.

Soren had somehow magicked up a box for them; they had skipped supper, but they had been plied by waiters with trays of little

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thin-cut smoked salmon sandwiches on brown bread, chilled champagne in a silver bucket, miniature pizzas, and caviar and blinis.

She had kept her eyes fixed on the show, and Magnus hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation. Daisy felt a bit nerve-racked, now she was here; she was on a real, proper date with somebody who had as much juice as Rudy Giuliani, apparently. But she had started to fade by intermission.

‘You look like you’re all in,’ Soren remarked. ‘Shall I have my driver take you home?’

‘I can manage the second half,’ Daisy said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be hitting on me now? My defences are low.’ She swayed gently as she spoke.

‘Ah. No.’ He winked at her. ‘That’s no fun. I only want women saying yes to me when they’re in their right minds.’

She was still expecting him to pounce on her when he showed her inside his limousine; a long, sleek black monster that was waiting for them when the crowd poured out of the theatre. But instead, he ordered his chauffeur to take her to the Victrix.

‘You’ll sleep, you’ll feel much better.’ He handed Daisy a thick card, with small gold-embossed letters, which she slipped into her purse. ‘Normally I wouldn’t expect a girl to do the phoning, but if you’re up for brunch tomoi:row, you let me know. I know a wonderful restaurant.’

‘Thanks,’ Daisy said sleepily.

The limo pulled up outside the hotel, and Soren helped Daisy out,

with the aid of a white-gloved doorman. He kissed her hand. ‘See you tomorrow at brunch,’ he said.

‘Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr Soren?’ Daisy asked. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, getting back into the limo.

Daisy staggered into the elevator, let herself into her room, and only just managed to peel off her clothes before she flopped on to her goose-down coverlet and instantly fell asleep.

The next morning, she woke early, when the light began to stream into her windows. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was, and then it all came back to her. The drink… Magnus Soren.

Daisy smiled slowly. Goodness, wasn’t that romantic? Magnus Soren, huh? She remembered him as being very goodlooking and very well-connected. But you couldn’t be sure when jet lag was making you see double.

She was chilly. Oh yes, she hadn’t even got under the covers last

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night. She was sprawled naked over her bed. Hell, ‘,hat meant she hadn’t even taken off her make-up. Or brushed her teeth. Ugh. Daisy ran to the bathroom to check on the damage. Thankfully it wasn’t too bad; hastily she ran a bath and dug out her tube of lembrandt, scrubbing herself clean of that dead-parrot feeling.

Once she was washed, blow-dried, and made up, Daisy unpacked. She had a pretty white floral dress from Miu Miu, and she teamed it with a crocodile-strap Patek Philippe and a pair of white-leather Dior slides. It looked fresh and attractive; Daisy twisted her hair into a French pleat and put on nude Shu Umera lipstick and Shiseido blusher together with white eyeliner to make her look awake. That was sexy, she thought, kind of a Sixties vibe.

Good enough for Magnus Soren? Certainly. Daisy went to her abandoned velvet purse and dug out the card.

Magnus A. Soren, it said. President and Chief Executive Officer, Soren Enterprises.

It was only 7 a.m., but in England it was already noon. Daisy lifted her phone and dialled Ted Elliott’s number.

‘just for a break, Ted. No, the book’s not behind. Tall me something, have you heard of a firm called Soren?’ She liste:ed. ‘OK, thanks. Just curious. Talk to you when I get home.’ “

Interesting. Magnus Soren was apparently self-made. He had started with a small film-editing business in Stockholm, taken over a commercials house, and expanded his empire from there. He was regarded as a young Turk; only thirty-seven.

She’d wanted to ask if he was married, but held back. After all, she wasn’t about to jump into bed on the rebound. Edward was the one for her, not Magnus Soren. He was altogether too slick, Daisy thought righteously.

Still, it wouldn’t do any harm for her to have a boyfriend … a rich, powerful boyfriend. Somebody to provide a cover while she thought about what she could do to break up Wina and the man she really loved.

Daisy tapped the business card against her thumb, then made up her mind. She’d call. It was brunch, and she was hungry.

‘Soren Enterprises,’ said a woman’s cool, professional voice. ‘Can I speak to Magnus Soren, please?’

‘Who’s speaking, please? I’ll see if I can transfer you,’ the woman said, a touch sceptically.

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‘This is Daisy Markham.’

‘Miss Markham,’ she said immediately, ‘of course, madam, hold

OFf.’

Daisy was flattered. Magnus must have left word that if she called she was to be put right through.

‘Daisy,’ Magnus said. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Wonderfully.’

‘Glad to hear it. We’ll meet at eleven, then. The Beaux Arts, that OK?’

‘It’s just fine,’ Daisy said.

‘Perfect, see you then,’ Magnus said, hanging up.

Daisy’s neatly manicured fist curled against her palm. Was this crazy? She knew, in her heart, that she was still in love with Edward Powers.

She looked at her svelte, curvy, gorgeously groomed reflection, and flashed back to that dreadful night when she, fat Daisy, unpopular Daisy, had waddled out of that bus to the derision of the public schoolboys clustered around it, rating her out of ten. Her palms went clammy, just thinking about it. And who had asked her to dance? Who had saved her? Edward.

Surely that was her destiny. The man who had found her attractive when she was a fat, ugly duckling.

Daisy sometimes felt like a fraud. She’d been so used to rejection, it was in her blood. Writing had saved her, but not from these sneaking feelings of inadequacy. No wonder she came back to

Edward, he’d been there for her when nobody else was.

And surely he’d loved her at Oxford.

But now he was married to somebody else.

She had to at least try to stop obsessing over him. Magnus Soren was dynamic and gorgeous. Maybe she could make a go of it with him. She tried not to think, ‘But I doubt it.’

The Beaux Arts restaurant was a little jewel of a place on the Upper East Side, with a sunken courtyard garden and wrought-iron tables. Magnus was waiting for her when she got there.

‘You’re just as beautiful in daylight,’ he said, standing up and kissing Daisy on the cheek. ‘Remarkable.’

Daisy smiled at him. She had been thinking the same thing. He really was ridiculously attractive. His eyes were a light-green flecked with hazel, and the blondness of his hair was countered by the broad shoulders, the strong chest, and the set, square jaw. He didn’t wear

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any jewellery, like many American guys; no tie-pins or diamond

pinky rings. And no wedding band.

‘So what do you recommend?’

‘Everything.’ He waved the menu. ‘They do great health food, if that’s what you’re into. Fruit salads, egg-white omelettes with herbs and capers.’

‘I suppose I should,’ Daisy said.

‘You should eat whatever you normally eat, because whatever you’ve been doing to that body, it’s working.’

Daisy blushed. ‘I thought you weren’t going to hit on me?’

‘Of course I’m going to hit on you.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘It’s

morning, you’ve had a chance to recoup. It’s now open season.’ ‘Well.’ She laughed. ‘I’m glad you warned me.’

I’ll have the bacon fried to a crisp, grilled tomatoes on toast, fresh

orange juice, cinnamon coffee,’ Soren rattled off to the waiter. Daisy’s mouth watered. ‘Same.’

‘My kind of girl.’ The waiter brought them a pitcher of freshly squeezed juice, and Soren poured glasses for them both and raised one to her. ‘My kind of girl. Now tell me all the things I don’t know from reading your sales figures. You have brothers and sisterg?’,

‘No. I’m an only child. In fact, I was adopted,’ Daisy said.

She instantly wondered why she’d said it. That was private, something she never brought up. .”

‘How interesting.’ He studied her face. ‘Of course, nobody could hide that from you. Those incredible eyes. Do you have any contact with your birth parents?’

‘No, why should I?’ Daisy said. ‘They never had any contact with me.’

‘Of course,’ he said, politely, moving on.

‘No, it’s OK.’ Daisy could see he had stopped himself talking. ‘I’m not going to be offended, what were you going to say?’

‘My father was adopted. He was always angry about it.’

‘I never give it a thought, really,’ Daisy said.

‘Eventually he found out that my grandparents had smuggled him out of the Jewish ghetto. They had both been killed in the Holocaust. . It gave him a kind of peace when he found out they’d originally loved him.’

Daisy was taken aback. ‘That’s … that’s an amazing story.’

Soren shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to lay the heavy stuffon you until at least dinner tonight,’ he said.

‘So we’re having dinner?’ Daisy enquired.

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‘Of course. You don’t have anything better to do, and if you do, you’ll cancel it.’

She shook her head.

‘You’re a very arrogant man,’ she pronounced.

‘Possibly.’ Magnus Soren smiled at her. ‘But I believe in giving destiny a helping hand.’

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