The English Lord's Secret Son Read Free Page B

course. Murphy knew the type. A multitasker, always up to speed. Saunders seemed mesmerised by her. Certainly he had carefully mapped out her career. But that was what men spent a lot of time thinking about, wasn’t it? Sex. Whether they were getting it. Or more often missing out. When Murphy had entered the boardroom she had naturally made for the seat on the CEO’s right—she never jockeyed, jockeying was beneath her—only to be forestalled by Saunders’ upraised hand smoothly directing her to a seat on his left, as though oblivious to her chagrin. Time to hot up her nightly prayers her young rival would get her comeuppance. Flunk something. Take a fall. Get married. Go into politics. Fall under a bus. Anything.
    Murphy forced herself to stop daydreaming. It wasn’t going to happen.
    All were now seated. All faces were turned to the chairman, who had glanced at his watch to check what time they had. “What we do and say here before our prospective client arrives is extremely important,” he announced with great earnestness. “This is a man used to meeting people at the highest level. I believe he even talks to the Prince of Wales on a first-name basis.”
    Cate pretended to be lost in envy. She had her own understanding of the English upper classes, though the Prince was said to be a genuine egalitarian.
    “He’s already acquired a small empire in different parts of the world,” the CEO was saying. “He’s now looking at our mineral wealth. Overseas the news is Australia is being driven by mining and resource. Not surprising their top entrepreneurs want in. We’re going to prove extremely helpful.” He paused as another project came to mind. “He’s also interested in acquiring a property in the Whitsundays. Virgin territory as it were, far away from the usual haunts of jetsetters and the current hot spots, the Caribbean and such. You all know the late George Harrison bought up there. Had a holiday home on our far-flung shores, then a virtual outpost. George knew what he was about. I know we can help our prospective client. Perhaps you, Cate. You’re very good at dealing with people. You might even be able to persuade Lady McCready to finally sell Isla Bella. She trusts you. Aren’t many places left in the world as pristine as Isla Bella.”
    “Sure our prospective client doesn’t want to turn it into a resort?” Cate asked. “Lady McCready is totally against any such project.”
    “Goodness me, no!” Saunders vehemently shook his head as though he’d had it straight from the horse’s mouth. “This is a man who shuns glitz. He wants a private sanctuary for him, his family and close friends. He will want to visit, of course, if Lady McCready is agreeable. She must be a great age now. Only the other day someone told me she had passed away.”
    “Still very much alive, sir,” Cate said, watching the CEO hold up a staying hand as the mobile on the table rang. He listened for a moment, said a few words, then put the receiver down. “Ah, he’s arrived.”
    It was delivered with such reverence the prospective client could equally well have been Prince Charles or even President Obama. The Clintons had made the great escape to North Queensland and the Great Barrier Reef islands, pronouncing the whole area an idyllic destination. Perhaps it was Bill Clinton or some retired American senator, who just wanted to sit around all day without anyone taking cheap shots at him as political enemies tended to do.
    Lara entered the boardroom cheeks glowing, her mouth curved up in a smile. After her came an extremely handsome man in a hawkish kind of way: aquiline nose—perfect to look down on people—finely chiselled aristocratic features, thick jet-black hair with a natural wave, extraordinary eyes, the colour of blue flame; immediate impact that would linger for a long time. He stood well over six feet, very elegantly dressed. Not Zenga; Savile Row made to measure. A tailor’s dream. Snow-white shirt, striped