Josie looked from one man to the other, and then at the floor to hide her angry colour. Spying the cup, she bent to pick it up, and, on straightening, caught the end of the conversation.
‘I was in town on business, and thought I would check Josie had given you her notice. She’s so excited, she can hardly remember her own name.’ Conan placed an arm around her waist and hauled her hard against him.
‘Of course the death of my brother has complicated things a bit. But the wedding is going ahead as arranged in just over two weeks time. It is unfortunate—I know how much Josie loves working here—but with my commitments in London and overseas, you can see it would be impossible for her to continue once we’re married.’
Josie glanced wildly around the room. Zoe was sitting at her desk opposite staring at Conan as though he were the only man on the planet. Mr Brownlow, usually the most reserved of men, was smiling broadly at Conan.
‘Of course, old chap; that will be fine. We will be sorry to lose her, but I understand perfectly. A woman has to follow her husband.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Josie began, about to argue, but was stopped by Conan’s fingers digging sharply into her side. She immediately tensed; his close proximity had that effect on her. Plus if he kept grabbing her to control her in this way, she thought furiously, she was going to end up black and blue.
‘And I couldn’t bear to be without her for even a day,’ Conan said huskily, turning his head to smile down meltingly into her eyes, but Josie saw the warning in their glinting depths, and remained silent.
Anyway, what could she say? she thought sombrely. She had agreed to marry Conan; she was wearing his ring. She had made her choice and now she must live with it. She just wished he weren’t so super-efficient at arranging everything.
She knew she should be thanking him, not trying to hinder him. But she felt as if she had been deposited on a rollercoaster ride against her will, and there was no stopping.
‘Er, yes.’ Mr Brownlow coughed. ‘Well, back to work. Take an early lunch, Josie; you must have a lot to do.’ And he went back to his own office.
Twenty minutes later, sitting opposite Conan in the local wine bar with a plate of spaghetti in front of her, she listened in tight-lipped anger as he outlined the details of the wedding.
‘Is Beeches church okay with you?’
‘Why can’t we simply go to the registrar?’ she demanded. ‘Anyway you have to book the church weeks in advance.’
‘All taken care of. I got a special licence and the vicar is quite happy.’
It took every bit of self-control she possessed not to tip the spaghetti over his arrogant head. He had done it again. He’d arranged everything without discussing it with her.
‘Something wrong?’ Conan asked as the silence between them lengthened.
‘No, no, of course not.’ What was the point in fighting with him? She had agreed to marry him; where and when was of little importance.
‘Good, because I have to leave soon, and I won’t be back until the day before the wedding. If you need to get in touch, here is my home phone number in London. But I’ll give you a call anyway.’
When Conan finally left her at the entrance to her office, she heaved a sigh of relief. He was a puzzling, powerful, autocratic male, and it took all her energy simply to survive in his presence. How she would survive being married to him she did not dare dwell on.
A little over two weeks later Josie scrambled into the passenger seat of Conan’s car and momentarily closed her eyes. The wedding was over, and right at this moment she didn’t care what the future would bring.
‘I think that went quite well,’ Conan remarked as he slid in behind the driving wheel and put the key in the ignition.
‘As farces go it was probably one of the best,’ Josie muttered.
Conan’s sharp dark eyes rested on her face. ‘It is only a farce if you make it so, Josie. We can behave as mature, civilised adults, or—’
‘You’re right,’ she cut in. ‘Please just start the car.’
He half turned in his seat. ‘Have I told you you look beautiful today.’ His dark eyes skimmed over her small body, elegantly clothed in a pale blue designer suit. ‘Mrs Zarcourt.’ Leaning forward, he brushed his lips lightly over her own, before starting the car.
Josie raised startled eyes to his, and let herself really look at him for the first time that day. His long body looked powerful clad in a superb grey silk suit. His jet-black hair, combed severely back from his broad forehead, only intensified the effect of his firmly chiselled profile. He was a very attractive man and she had married him.
It was dark when the car stopped outside a tall three-storeyed Georgian terrace house in the heart of Mayfair. Conan urged her into the house with a hand in the centre of her back, her suitcase in his other hand.
‘Would you like a drink or something to eat?’ he asked, dropping her suitcase on the floor and straightening to his full height, his dark eyes curiously impersonal on her small face.
‘No, thank you.’ Josie was suddenly struck by an attack of nerves. What had she done?
‘Then perhaps a quick tour of the house?’