What His Money Can’t Hide (3 page)

‘I’m sorry.’ Uncomfortably twisting her hands together, she nonetheless made herself meet his intense silvery gaze unflinchingly. ‘My answer is still no. I enjoyed our little chat earlier about what’s needed in the community, and I’m very encouraged by your interest, but—well … let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’ The need to protect herself from another over-confident and arrogant wealthy man like her ex-boss was definitely at the forefront of her mind as she spoke.

With a sigh, Drake stretched his sculpted lips into a slow, knowing smile ‘Maybe we will and maybe we
won’t …
leave it at that, I mean.’

He didn’t sound at all offended. In fact, as he picked up his briefcase, he gave her another enigmatic glance.

‘This is hardly the busiest or most populated town in the country. No doubt we’ll bump into each other from time to time. In fact I’m certain we will. Have a good day, won’t you? Oh—and why don’t you give your brother my number? I’d very much like to have a chat with him about his views on the town.’

He slid the business card that he’d taken from his jacket pocket across the counter, not waiting to see if she picked it up to examine it.

Opening the heavy glass door, he stepped outside onto the damp and grey pavement, and as Layla watched him go several seconds passed before she realised she was holding her breath …

J
EROME
… The name should have rung a bell as soon as he heard it. Slowing his stride, Drake turned his head to take another look at the faded, worn exterior of the building he’d just vacated. As soon as Layla had given him her surname he ought to have remembered that it was the name of the newsagents that had been in business there before the café. The place had been called Jerome’s, for goodness’ sake. Had the friendly newsagent who had often discussed the football results with him while he was waiting for his dad to make up his mind about what he wanted been her father? he wondered.

Drake calculated that she must be at least ten years younger than he was. That put her age at about twenty-six. He wondered whether, if he mentioned to Layla that he’d had genuine regard for her father, it might help persuade her to meet him for a drink—better still, dinner. At any rate, unless she had a boyfriend he wasn’t going to give up on the idea any time soon. Not when his first sight of her had been akin to falling into a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. He’d felt stunned, dazed and disorientated all at once, and it was hard to recall the last time his heart had galloped so hard and so fast.
It struck him that she was the first woman who had ever declined to give him her phone number.
It made him all the more determined to get her to change her mind
.

Shaking his head in a bid to snap out of his reverie about the beautiful waitress, he determinedly walked on further down the street, stopping every now and then to make notes on his observations about the buildings and the retail outlets that occupied them. When he’d travelled about halfway down the road Drake’s finely honed instincts alerted him to the fact that he was being followed. Turning, he saw two men that were clearly from the press. It was pointless trying to fathom how they’d known he would be there. Somehow or other they always found out.

One of them was toting a state-of-the-art camera and the other a recording device. He just thanked his lucky stars the pair hadn’t invaded the café to try and interview him or he wouldn’t have had much conversation with the lovely Layla at all. Because they hadn’t, he was predisposed to be a lot less irritated with them than was usually the case when the press unexpectedly cornered him.

‘We’re from the local newspaper, Mr Ashton. Can we have a picture and maybe a quick interview with you for our readers? As you can imagine, everyone is very excited about your intended rehabilitation of the area and what the social and economic effects might be.’ The journalist with the recording equipment planted himself directly in front of Drake with an animated smile.

‘Okay. But the interview had better be quick because I’ve got work to do.’

‘Of course, Mr Ashton, but if we could just have a couple of pictures first that would be great.’

He tolerated the photos being taken, and then an interview, with an uncharacteristically amenable attitude—even when a small knot of curious bystanders gathered to see what was going on. The questions had been surprisingly intelligent and insightful, despite the apparent youth of the reporter, but when he had asked, ‘Can you tell us a bit about your personal experience of growing up here?’ it had been one question too far.

Drake had called an abrupt halt to the exchange, and phoned his chauffeur Jimmy and instructed him to meet him at the top of the high street. His heart was still racing uncomfortably as he turned his back on the journalist, photographer and bystanders and walked briskly away.

He was seriously relieved to see the sleek Aston Martin coming down the road towards him. Now he could focus on his work without impediment. There were a few other areas in the locality he wanted to survey before attending a meeting at the town hall to make a brief report, but after that he would be returning to his offices in London to oversee a couple of prestigious projects that were nearing completion. Projects that, although adding substantially to his bank balance and growing reputation, had been far trickier and more time-consuming than he’d anticipated, consequently causing him more troubled nights of broken sleep than he cared to recall …

‘So, what was your impression of Drake Ashton when you met him?’

Her brother had invited Layla downstairs to have
some fish and chips with him that evening. After inheriting the family home in their dad’s will, they’d agreed to split the accommodation between them rather than sell it, and had had the two floors converted into self-contained separate flats. Layla had the upper floor and Marc the lower. When she’d moved to London—even though she’d suggested that he rent out her flat while she was gone—Marc had insisted he wouldn’t even think of it because it was her home. It would remain unoccupied until she returned, he’d declared, whether that was in one year or ten, and in the meantime she could come home for the odd weekend to see him.

When her career had come to its unexpectedly ignominious and humiliating end because of her crooked boss she’d been very grateful that she had a place to return to where she felt safe again. Being swindled out of her savings had left her feeling vulnerable and unsure of herself, and she hadn’t minded admitting to her brother that she needed to retreat from city life for a while to rebuild her confidence. Marc had responded by lovingly welcoming her home without judgement and giving her a job in his café.

Now, as Layla busied herself sorting out condiments and cutlery, Marc unwrapped the fish and chips he’d bought and expertly arranged the food on the plates he’d left warming in the oven. He was looking especially tired tonight, Layla noticed. There were dark rings under his eyes, and with his brown hair clearly not combed and his lean jaw unshaven he was looking a little the worse for wear.
Had he been worrying about money again?
Her heart bumped guiltily beneath her ribs at the mere idea. She knew that the council tax on
the business premises had just gone up again, and the café’s takings were already substantially below what they would normally expect this month. The recession had hit all the local businesses hard.

‘What was my impression?’ she hedged, thinking hard about what to say and what
not
to say about her encounter with the charismatic architect. The experience had been on her mind a little
too
much that day, and she wished it hadn’t. ‘He looks like a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. By that I mean you can tell why he’s been so successful. He was very businesslike and focused. I get the impression that very little gets past him.’

‘Let’s sit down at the table and eat, shall we?’ Marc forked a couple of mouthfuls of food into his mouth and swallowed it down before lifting his head to look directly at his sister. ‘They say he’s an investor as well as an architect. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘I’d really like to talk to him about the café.’

‘You mean ask his advice on how to help make it more financially viable?’

‘Not just that. I want to ask whether he’d be interested in investing in it.’ Exhaling a harsh breath, he wiped his napkin irritably across his mouth, then scrunched it into a ball.

Alarmed, Layla laid down her fork beside her plate and stared at him. ‘Are we in trouble?’

‘We’re operating at a serious loss. How could we not be? Trying to attract more customers when everyone around here is so fearful of spending money on anything but the bare necessities is like trying to get blood
out of a stone! I’ve had two loans so far from the bank to help keep it going, and I’m in debt to the tune of several thousand pounds. I’ve invested all the money Dad left me to start it up and get it going, and now it looks like I might even lose the premises that he worked so hard to own. The café needs a serious injection of something, Layla, or else we’re just going to have to throw in the towel.’

Layla would do anything to help her brother feel more optimistic about the café—his
pride and joy
as he’d called it when he’d first decided to set it up. It made her heart feel bruised to see him looking so tired and worried all the time. But his intention to ask Drake Ashton to invest in it scared the life out of her. The man might be admired in his field, and have a glamorous professional profile, but they had no idea what his character or his values were.

Silently she berated herself again for trusting her own life savings to a money-making scheme that—with hindsight—had had so many holes in it. It was a wonder her boss hadn’t handed out life rafts to the gullible fools who had risked their hard-earned cash in it! If she’d held onto her money she could have given it to Marc to pay off his bank loan, and straight away ease his fear and worry about the café’s future.

Brushing back her hair with her fingers, she emitted a gentle, resigned sigh. ‘He gave me his business card to give to you,’ she told him. ‘He said he’d like to talk to you.’

‘Drake Ashton wants to talk to
me
?’ Straight away Marc’s dark eyes gleamed with hope.

Layla nibbled anxiously at her lip. ‘He’s an astute
businessman, Marc, and from what you say the café is losing money hand over fist. I don’t get the impression that he’d be in a hurry to invest his money in a concern that doesn’t have the potential to make a healthy profit.’

‘Thanks for your support.’

At his stricken expression she reached forward and squeezed his hand. ‘You know my support and belief in you are unquestionable, and I think the café is wonderful … I just wish more people did too. I don’t want you to build your hopes up that Drake Ashton might be the answer to your prayers, that’s all. We might have to think of other options other than investment … that’s all I’m saying.’

‘You’re right.’ Pulling his hand away from hers, Marc lightly shook his head and smiled. ‘Trouble is I let my heart rule my head too much. I realise that’s not the best approach to running a business. Wanting a thing to work so much that it makes your ribs ache just thinking about it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s suddenly going to take flight and make your fortune. But it’s worth talking to Ashton anyway … he might give me a few tips at least. Give me his card in the morning and I’ll ring him. In the meantime let’s eat, shall we? Our supper’s going cold.’

Layla smiled, but inside she secretly prayed that when they spoke Drake Ashton wouldn’t thoughtlessly crush her brother’s dream into the dirt by telling him he should forget about the café and think about doing something else instead …

Turning his head, Drake squinted at the sunlight streaming in through the huge plate-glass windows. The hexagon-shaped
chrome and glass building that housed his offices had become quite a landmark amid the sea of sandblasted Victorian buildings where it was situated, and he was justifiably proud of the design. If he’d wanted to shout out his arrival he couldn’t have made a bolder or louder statement. His workplace was a professional portfolio all by itself.

When the thought sneaked up on him from time to time that what he’d achieved was nothing less than a miracle, considering his background, he impatiently brushed it away, not caring to dwell on the past for even a second longer than he had to. It had become his motto to concentrate on the now. After all, the present made far more sense to him than the past could ever do.

‘Mr Ashton? There’s a man called Marc Jerome on the phone. He says you gave your business card to his sister so that he could call you.’

Drake’s secretary Monica appeared in the doorway to his office. She was a pencil-slim blonde whose efficiency and dedication to her job belied her delicate appearance. The woman could be a veritable tiger when it came to sifting out and diverting unwanted callers—whether on the phone or if they turned up unannounced. But the knowledge that it was Layla Jerome’s brother who was ringing made Drake immediately anxious to take the call. The beautiful woman had been almost constantly on his mind ever since he’d seen her, and if nothing else he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to try and get her phone number again.

‘Put him through, Monica. I’ll take it.’

At the end of the call Drake pushed to his feet and moved restlessly across to the tall plate-glass panels
directly behind his desk. Staring out at the parked cars on the street below, he could barely suppress the gratifying sense of satisfaction that throbbed through him. He had listened to Marc Jerome’s views on the needs of his local community, and when the younger man had asked for some business tips he had agreed to meet up with him so that they could discuss it more fully.

When that topic was safely out of the way Drake hadn’t been slow to seize the opportunity to ask directly if his sister was currently dating anyone. He had all but held his breath as he’d waited for the answer.

‘No, she’s not,’ Marc had replied carefully, definitely sounding protective. ‘As far as I know, she’s quite happy being free and single right now.’

Drake had allowed himself the briefest smile. ‘I’d really like to ask her about that myself, if you don’t mind?’ he’d returned immediately. There was a fine line between being bold enough to state your aim clearly and being pushy, but when it came to something he wanted as badly as this, he definitely wasn’t a man to let the grass grow under his feet—and neither was he overly concerned if he offended anyone. ‘It’s probably best if I talk to her outside of work. Maybe even on the day that you and I have our meeting?’

‘You’d better ring her first and check and see if that’s okay,’ had been the distinctly wary-sounding reply.

‘Of course.’

And now Layla’s mobile phone number was writ large across his notepad
.

He made a vow to ring her after lunch, just in case the café was busy, and, breathing out a relieved sigh,
stopped gazing out the window and returned to his desk, bringing his focus determinedly back to his work …

‘Layla?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is Drake Ashton. I got your number from your brother Marc.’

In the midst of a leisurely stroll in the park, through the sea of burnished gold leaves that scattered the concrete path, Layla changed direction and strode across the grass to sit down on a nearby bench and take the call, her phone positioned firmly against her ear. Marc had despatched her to eat her packed lunch and get some fresh air after a surprising flurry of lunchtime trade, but any sense of feeling free to enjoy a precious hour in the autumnal sunshine had immediately vanished at the sound of the famed architect’s magnetically velvet smoky voice.