The Playboy's Ruthless Pursuit

CHAPTER ONE

I SHOULD BE HAPPIER, Jeremy thought as he leant back in his office chair and put his feet up on his large leather-topped desk. My life is pretty well perfect. I’m as healthy as a horse, filthy rich and blessedly single. On top of that, I’m no longer Chief Investment Consultant at the London branch of the Barker-Whittle banking empire. What a relief!

Working for his over-achieving father had not been Jeremy’s idea of a fun occupation. Unfortunately, he’d been darned good at his job. Despite the accolades and the generous bonuses he’d earned over the years, he much preferred being his own boss. Jeremy had used some of his recently acquired wealth to buy an ailing publishing firm, which he was turning into a rather surprising success. Perverse, considering it was an accidental purchase.

Jeremy’s initial aim when launching out on his own had been to go into the property development business, his first purchase last year a town house in one of Mayfair’s best streets. But the publishing company leasing the building had proved difficult to deal with, the owner stubbornly insisting on staying put till his lease ran out. So Jeremy had made an offer that he couldn’t refuse, thereby solving the problem, his intention having been to relocate his new business to cheaper premises whilst he renovated and converted the slightly run-down property into three luxury apartments.

But things hadn’t worked out that way. He’d found himself liking the people who worked at Mayfair Books, all of whom were naturally worried about losing their jobs. He also liked the rooms the way they were. Slightly shabby, yes, but full of character and charm, with lots of wood-panelled walls and antique furniture. It had been clear from talking to the employees and looking at their sales figures, however, that the business itself had desperately needed updating. Whilst Jeremy had known next to nothing about the modern publishing industry, he was an intelligent and well-connected man, with loads of business contacts, one of which headed the marketing division of a rather famous London publisher.

So here he was, almost a year later, heading Barker Books, having changed the name along with the company’s fortunes. They’d actually made a profit during the last quarter. He even got up every morning and happily went into his office these days, unlike his time at the bank when he’d conducted most of his business over the phone.

So work wasn’t the reason for this odd feeling of discontent.

Jeremy knew it wasn’t his love life, either. That was sailing along as usual, though, since buying the book business, his focus had been more on work than women.

Not that he felt sexually frustrated. He didn’t. Jeremy had no trouble finding willing ladies to accompany him to the many social occasions he was constantly invited to. A man of his status and wealth was a prized guest. His partner du jour invariably accompanied him back to his bed for the night, despite Jeremy always making it clear that dating him was never going to lead to a ring on her finger. He didn’t do love or, God forbid, marriage. Thankfully, most of them were good with that, because he didn’t do broken hearts, either.

When the reason for his discontent continued to elude Jeremy, he was forced to give the matter deeper thought, something he usually tried to avoid at all costs. He’d never seen the benefit of self-analysis, or counselling. It had never done his older brothers any good. Jeremy knew exactly why he was the way he was. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that his aversion to love and marriage stemmed from his parents’ constant divorcing and remarrying. That, plus their abandoning him to boarding school when he was just eight, where he’d been bullied endlessly.

He hated thinking about those years, so he didn’t, his mind swiftly moving on to happier times. He’d thoroughly enjoyed his years at University in London, finally using his excellent brain to its full capacity. His results had thrilled his maternal grandmother, who’d promptly made him her heir, on the condition he went on to study at Oxford. Which he had, his generous private income—Gran had passed away shortly after he enrolled—providing him with the kind of lifestyle to which he’d quickly become addicted. He’d done sufficient study to easily pass his exams but, generally speaking, fun had been the order of the day, Jeremy carousing to a level that might have become a problem if he hadn’t acquired two slightly more sensible friends.

Thinking of Sergio and Alex sent Jeremy’s gaze to the photo of the three of them that was sitting on his desk. Harriet had taken it on the day Sergio had married his one-time stepsister in July last year, Sergio having asked both Alex and himself to be his best men. The wedding had taken place on the shores of Lake Como, in the grounds of a magnificent villa. Whilst no longer worried that Bella might be a chip off her fortune-hunting mother’s block, Jeremy wasn’t convinced the marriage would last. Love never lasted, did it? Still, there was nothing he could do about that. It was a shame, though, how little he saw of his best friend these days. Of both his best friends. He had seen them at Alex’s wedding to Harriet in Australia back in February, but only briefly. Jeremy really missed the days when they’d all lived in London and got together regularly, back when they’d still all been bachelors and hadn’t become billionaires.

Hadn’t been thirty-five, either. That had been the kiss of death, their all turning thirty-five last year. That, and the super sale of their WOW wine bar franchise to an American equity company. Suddenly, everything had changed, with the Bachelor Club they’d formed back at Oxford no longer relevant. Maybe their friendship was no longer relevant, either.

With a sigh, Jeremy scraped his feet off his desk. They hit the floor with a thud, the sound echoing the hollow feeling inside his heart. Leaning forward, he picked up the photo, frowning as he studied the three faces smiling back at him.

Jeremy didn’t envy his friends and their marriages, but he hated the thought that he would hardly ever see them from now on. Their priorities would be their wives and their families, not him. He would become old news, someone whom they recalled with vague fondness when they glanced through their photo albums every decade or so.

‘Who’s that man, Dad?’ he imagined Alex’s son asking. Harriet was expecting a boy.

‘Oh, that’s Jeremy. A chap I knew once. We went to Oxford together. He was the best man at our wedding. Gosh. Haven’t seen him for years.’

Jeremy scowled as he slammed the photo face down on the desk and snatched up his phone.

‘Damn it all, I’m not going to let that happen,’ he ground out as he retrieved Alex’s number.

Realising it would be the middle of the night in Australia—not nice to call at such an hour—Jeremy sent an email volunteering himself for godfather duty when the time came. That done, he righted the photo, placed it back in its pride of place and settled down to have a look at their current sales figures. Finding the file on his laptop, he clicked it open but didn’t get far before there was a rapid tap-tap-tap on his door.

‘Come in, Madge,’ he said.

Madge entered as briskly as she did everything. In her mid-fifties, Madge was a thin, plain woman with cropped grey hair, piercing blue eyes and a schoolmarm manner. Jeremy had hired her soon after buying the business, the previous owner’s secretary having quit in a huff over the new owner’s high-handed tactics. Jeremy had been impressed with Madge’s no-nonsense attitude, plus her knowledge of the publishing industry. He liked her enormously, and the affection was mutual.

‘We have a problem,’ she said straight away.

‘Which is?’

‘Kenneth Jacobs can’t be the auctioneer at tonight’s charity auction. He has a terrible head cold. I could hardly understand him on the phone just now.’

‘I see,’ Jeremy said, not actually seeing at all. He knew who Kenneth Jacobs was; hard not to, since he was Jeremy’s only best-selling author, having come with the deal when he’d bought the business. Kenneth wrote the grizzliest of murder mysteries, which had a huge fan base but whose forty-plus books hadn’t been marketed properly. Despite knowing this, Kenneth hadn’t left the publisher who’d given him his start. A crusty old bachelor, Kenneth was lazy when it came to business matters. Once Jeremy had taken the helm, he’d republished Kenneth’s entire back list, with new covers, and put them all out as e-Books.

‘What charity auction?’ Jeremy asked, having gained the impression that he was supposed to already know.

Madge rolled her eyes. ‘Truly. Just as well you have me to organise things around here. It’s not easy working for a man who has a short-term memory loss.’

‘I’ll have you know I have a photographic memory,’ Jeremy said defensively whilst his mind scrambled to remember what it was he’d forgotten.

‘In that case I’ll photograph everything for you in the future instead of telling you,’ Madge said with her usual caustic wit.

As much as Jeremy often enjoyed Madge’s dry sense of humour, on this occasion his patience was wearing a little thin.

‘Do that, Madge. But for now I would appreciate it if you’d explain about this charity auction one more time, then tell me exactly how I’m supposed to fix the problem of Kenneth having a head cold.’ Though by now he had a pretty good idea. Jeremy wasn’t always the most intuitive of men, but he wasn’t thick, either.

Madge expelled one of her exasperated sighs. ‘I would have thought that the words charity auction were self-explanatory. But that’s beside the point. You told me after the last charity dinner you went to that I wasn’t to accept any more invitations to such dos. You said you’d rather slash your wrists than sit through another of those dinners where the food was below par and the speakers intolerably boring. You said you were happy to donate to whatever cause was going but you’d given up being a masochist when you stopped working for your father. You said that—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jeremy broke in firmly. ‘I get the picture. But that last dinner was just a meal followed by speeches, not something as interesting as an auction. Now, if you don’t mind, please fill me in on the relevant details and stop with the ancient history lesson.’

Madge looked as close to sheepish as he’d ever seen her. ‘Right. Well, it’s being held in the ballroom of the Chelsea Hotel, and it’s to raise funds for the women’s refuges in the inner-city area. There’s a sit-down dinner before the auction, which I’m assured will have quality food and which should raise a good sum of money since it costs a small fortune per head. I gather the place is going to be full of society’s finest. Kenneth was to be the auctioneer, the last prize being the privilege of the winning bidder having their name used as a character in his next book. It’s been done before, of course, by other authors. But never by Kenneth. The poor fellow is quite disappointed, as well as worried about letting Alice down. She’s the girl who’s organised everything. Anyway, I told him that you would do it in his stead.’

Jeremy pretended to look displeased. ‘Oh, you did, did you?’

For a split second, a worried frown formed on Madge’s high forehead. But then she smiled.

‘You’re just joking, right?’

Jeremy grinned.

Madge flushed with relief and pleasure. She adored Jeremy, envying his mother for having such a warm and wonderful son. He might be a devil where the ladies were concerned—or so she’d been told—but he was a good man and a great boss. Smart, sensible and surprisingly sensitive. She didn’t doubt that one day he’d fall in love and settle down.

‘You are a teaser,’ she said. ‘Now, do you want me to ring Alice and tell her you’ll do the job as auctioneer? Or do you want to ring her yourself?’

‘What do you think, Madge?’

This was another thing she liked about her boss. He often asked her opinion. And usually took it.

‘I think you should ring her yourself,’ she said. ‘It would put her mind at rest. She seemed rather stressed. I gained the impression she was new at this job.’

‘Right,’ he replied, nodding. ‘You’d better get me her number, then.’

Madge already had it in hand, of course.

‘You are a very devious woman,’ he said as she gave it to him.

‘And you are a very sweet man,’ she returned with a smug smile before turning and leaving him to it.

Jeremy found himself smiling as he keyed Alice’s number into his phone.

‘Alice Waterhouse,’ she answered immediately, her voice crisp and very businesslike, its cut-glass accent betraying an education at one of those private girls’ schools that turned out girls who invariably worked in jobs such as PR or fund-raising for charities before marrying someone suitable to their class.

Jeremy wasn’t overly keen on girls from privileged backgrounds, which was rather hypocritical of him, given his own background. There’d been a time when he hadn’t cared about such things. If a girl was pretty and keen on him, then he didn’t give their character—or their upbringing—much thought. He bedded without bias or prejudice. But nowadays, he found the girls he dated who’d been born rich were seriously boring, both in bed and out. He disliked their innate sense of entitlement, plus their need to be constantly complimented and entertained. Perhaps it was the attraction of opposites, but there was something very appealing about girls who had to work for their living, who didn’t have the fall-back position of Daddy’s money.

He imagined that the plummy-voiced Alice Waterhouse was just such a daddy’s girl.

‘Jeremy Barker-Whittle,’ he replied, well aware that whilst his own voice wasn’t overly toffee-nosed, it was deep and rich and, yes, impressive. Alex and Sergio used to tell him he could have made a fortune on the radio. People who first met him over the phone were often surprised by the reality of him in the flesh. They clearly expected someone older, and possibly more rotund, with a big chest and stomach. Like an opera singer.

People did make the wrong assumptions at times.

He wondered if he was wrong about Alice Waterhouse. Then decided he wasn’t.

‘I’m the publisher of Kenneth Jacobs’s books,’ he informed her. ‘It seems I’m to be your stand-in auctioneer tonight.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she said, not gushing but obviously relieved. ‘Madge said you might do it. I have to confess I was beginning to panic. Thank you so much.’

Against his better judgment, Jeremy found himself warming to her.