For the Love of Emma

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Copyright

  “You do understand, don’t you?”

  Carlyle spoke quietly.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Then it’s easier for me to ask you something—not for me, but for Emma. She likes you. I’ve never seen her take to someone so quickly.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Briony asked, with a heart full of dread.

  “Be her friend until—for as long as she needs one. Let us spend some time with you. Let her pretend that you’re her mother.”

  Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and has had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the backgrounds for her books!

  Lucy is married to an Italian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days and have been married over twenty-five years. Lucy and her husband live in England, with their three dogs.

  Lucy Gordon is also the author of many successful romances published by Silhouette Books.

  For the Love of Emma

  Lucy Gordon

  CHAPTER ONE

  BRIONY could hear the phone ringing before she reached the outer office. She hurried the last few steps and threw open the door. As she’d feared, the office was empty, which meant that Jenny was late again, and would be in trouble with the boss unless Briony saved her. She almost threw herself across the room to snatch up the receiver. “Brackman PLC,” she intoned in her best efficient voice. “Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Cosway, returning Mr. Brackman’s call.”

  Briony swallowed. She’d only worked here for two months but she knew that Max Cosway was one of the firm’s best clients. Carlyle Brackman was negotiating a vital contract with him, but today there’d been no one to pick up the phone. She flicked the switch that put her through to Mr. Brackman’s office, and said, “Mr. Cosway to talk to you.”

  “Fine. Get those figures in here fast,” came the brisk answer.

  “Er—figures?”

  “The figures I told you to collate so that they’d be ready when he called.” Carlyle Brackman clearly thought he was addressing Jenny, and he sounded impatient.

  Briony looked around wildly. Figures? What figures? Then her eyes fell on a document lying on Jenny’s desk and she breathed again. “Right away, Mr. Brackman.”

  She darted into the office, to find her boss already on the phone. He held out his hand for the papers without looking at her, and she retreated, breathing a sigh of relief, and a prayer that Jenny would arrive soon.

  As Carlyle Brackman’s chief secretary Jenny was supposed to be in by eight-thirty in the morning, but two weeks earlier an emotional breakup with her fiancé had left her shattered and unreliable. Briony, whose hours started at nine, had taken to coming in earlier to cover for her, if necessary. She liked Jenny, who’d smoothed her own path with their ultra-demanding boss. Besides which, she was a good listener, and Jenny had poured out her troubles freely, winning Briony’s sympathy.

  She’d taken less readily to Carlyle Brackman himself. It was possible to admire a man who’d single-handedly created a dynamic firm by the age of thirty-five. But it wasn’t possible to like a man who talked to his staff without looking at them, and seemed to expect an almost robotic efficiency. His dark eyes dominated a face that would have been handsome had it ever been lit up by a warm smile. His tall, lean frame was more suited to an athletics track than an office.

  “He works out twice a week in the gym,” Jenny had explained. “He says it keeps his mind working efficiently. Efficiency’s his god.”

  Briony had learned the truth of this. Her powerful memory and orderly mind had enabled her to stay on top of the work, and to cover for Jenny during her collapse, but it was an effort. She looked nervously at the clock. It was almost nine. Jenny had probably cried all night and then overslept, but Carlyle Brackman would have no sympathy with that. She was looking over Jenny’s desk, trying to guess where the next demand would come, when the buzzer went and a voice barked, “Come in here. I have some notes for you.”

  Taking a deep breath, she entered his office. His dark head was bent over papers on which he was scribbling. “I’ve changed the figures slightly, and I’ve conceded Clause Eight of the contract, so you’ll have to alter that, too. Get this printed out three times and send a copy to these people that I’ve listed, and you can also send them—” He rattled off a list. “When you’ve done that, come back to me and I’ll have some letters that must be urgently—who the devil are you?”

  At last he’d raised his head to look at her, frowning. “I’m Briony Fielding,” she said. “I’ve been Jenny’s assistant for the last two months.”

  “Have I seen you before?”

  “Evidently not,” she couldn’t resist saying. “But I’ve been there nonetheless.”

  He grunted. “Where’s Jenny?”

  “She’s—not at her desk at the moment. I can do the tasks you’ve outlined.”

  “But you haven’t taken any notes,” he said, looking at her bare hands.

  “I don’t need notes. I have an excellent memory.”

  He eyed her narrowly. “I hope that’s not an idle boast, Miss Fielding, because I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “You won’t have to.” She took the papers from his hand and left before she lost her temper.

  She switched on Jenny’s computer, to make it look as if she were there, but her care was wasted. Carlyle Brackman himself came into the outer office just as Jenny burst through the door. As Briony feared, she’d been crying.

  “You should have been here more than half an hour ago,” Brackman told her.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Brackman,” she gasped. “I had some problems—”

  “Leave your personal problems at home,” he snapped. “That’s what I do, and that’s what I expect my staff to do. Let this be the last time.” He returned to his office and shut the door.

  Briony said a very rude word.

  “Oh, hush!” Jenny begged. “He’ll hear you.”

  “Let him,” she said furiously. “He’s that and worse. Of course he doesn’t bring his personal problems to the office because he doesn’t have any. And you know why? Because he doesn’t have any personal life. Because he isn’t a person. He’s a machine, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to throw a spanner in his works.” Her phone rang and she grabbed it. “Yes?” she asked grimly.

  “Have you finished that work yet?” Brackman demanded. “Or do you need reminding of anything?”

  “I don’t need reminding, thank you very much. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She was in his office five minutes later, placing the new contract before him. He glanced through it, then the figures, and grunted. “Perfect. You really do have a first-rate memory.” He looked up suddenly and shot her a penetrating glance that made her suddenly short of breath. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I’m Jenny’s assistant.”

  “What I meant was, why are you her assistant, instead of her being yours? You’re not a young girl in her first job. How old are you?”

/>   “Twenty-six.”

  “Then why aren’t you further up the ladder?”

  “I started late. I had—family commitments.”

  “What kind?”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brackman, but that’s something I can’t discuss.”

  “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Looking after elderly parents?”

  “I have no living family,” she said in a tight voice.

  “So if I offered you Jenny’s job, there are no longer any ‘family commitments’ to stop you taking it?”

  “No, but something else would.”

  “What?” he asked impatiently.

  “Honor. Loyalty. Jenny’s been kind to me, and I’m not going to stab her in the back just because she’s going through a bad time.”

  “Everyone goes through a bad time—”

  “Will you let me finish? She was a first-rate secretary to you before this happened, and if you’ll be a little patient, she’ll be first rate again. It’s inexcusable for you to threaten her job because she’s unhappy—”

  “That will be all, Miss Fielding. Kindly leave and get back to your job—while you still have one.”

  She got out of his office quickly, afraid of what she might say if she let rip. It wasn’t like her to lose control, but his persistence about her family had touched a painful nerve.

  It was true that she had no living relatives, but until a few months ago Briony had had a sister, a laughing, mischievous little imp called Sally. She’d been left her sole guardian when their parents died, and she’d settled for a life of temporary work so that she could be there when Sally needed her. It wasn’t the brilliant career she’d once hoped for, but she did it without complaining. Sally’s sunny nature had made everything worthwhile.

  And then the little girl had come home saying she felt poorly. Briony had diagnosed a heavy cold and put her to bed. But the “cold” had turned out to be meningitis, and within two days Sally was dead, leaving Briony devastated and guilt-racked.

  The horror of wondering what might have happened if she’d been worried sooner was something that would never leave her. The doctors had told her she was not to blame. Meningitis was hard to spot at first. But their kindly words had failed to comfort Briony, and at first the feeling of guilt had almost broken her. Gradually, however, her strong mind had fought its way back to normality, leaving only an aching misery behind. Now she walked and talked and functioned like anyone else, but the wound would never heal.

  Until now she’d never noticed that her life had left her a bit of an oddity. She had a considerable gift for business, but at twenty-six was still doing temporary work. She was attractive, with a tall, slender figure, long, honey-colored hair and blue eyes that could glow with emotion, yet there was no man in her life. She’d had brief relationships that had foundered over her need to find baby-sitters before she could go out. And there’d been one man she’d almost fancied herself in love with until he informed her that there was no chance of marriage while she “had a brat in tow.” He’d been out of her front door before he knew what was happening to him. Nobody and nothing was going to separate her from Sally. But in the end, something had.

  She and Jenny worked steadily at their desks until lunchtime, then sent out for sandwiches and went on working. Carlyle was at his worst, piling work onto them and insisting it must be done by two o’clock, when he would be leaving.

  “For this relief, much thanks,” Briony muttered, clattering away at her keyboard and mentally consigning him to perdition.

  At last the work was done and in his hands. Jenny slipped out for some fresh air, and Briony was free to lean back in her seat, stretching her cramped limbs. As she was enjoying a long yawn the outer door opened and a child’s head appeared.

  She was a little girl with fair, curly hair. Anyone else would have been charmed, but Briony had to suppress a flinch. The child was about eight, the age at which Sally had died, and her shining, mischievous smile was just like Sally’s before her smile had died forever.

  There was no other similarity. Sally had been a robust tomboy, and it had been reflected in her blunt, cheerful features. Although this child wore jeans, T-shirt and trainers, the outfit was topped off by a pretty, delicate face. They weren’t really alike at all, but for a moment the pain was almost more than Briony could cope with.

  “Hello,” said the little girl.

  Briony pulled herself together. “Hello.”

  “I’m Emma. Can I come in?”

  She was in before the words were out, evidently sure of her welcome. Briony cast a nervous look at the door to her boss’s office.

  “I’m Briony,” she said.

  “I didn’t see you when I was here before,” Emma observed. “Are you new?”

  “Yes, I’ve only been here a couple of months.”

  “Where’s Jenny?”

  “Oh, you know Jenny. Are you her niece or—?”

  “Oh, no. She’s my friend. She taught me to embroider.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She went out for some fresh air, and to get away from—” Briony indicated the inner office door with her head and Emma giggled in perfect understanding.

  “Is he very bad today?” she whispered.

  “Like a fiend,” Briony said in a low voice. “I’m glad I shan’t be working for him long. I don’t know how Jenny stands it.” She supposed she shouldn’t discuss her boss with outsiders, but Emma seemed to know all about him. And besides, Briony wasn’t in a mood to be charitable to Carlyle Brackman.

  “I didn’t think little girls did embroidery now,” she observed. “I thought it was all pop music and computer games. My—a girl I knew once never did anything that involved sitting down, if she could help it.”

  “Sometimes I haven’t been very well,” Emma said with a wry look that was too old for her years. “So the doctor said I had to have ‘quiet pursuits.’ But I’m all right now.”

  Briony could believe that she’d been poorly. An air of fragility still hung about her. But it was belied by the glee in her eyes as she said, “I’m going to the funfair this afternoon, and I’m going on all the rides.”

  There was plainly something significant about this. Briony caught her eye and echoed, “All the rides?”

  “All of them,” Emma said firmly. “Not just the easy ones that ‘won’t tax my strength’ but the Big Dipper and the Wall of Death and the thing that goes right up into the sky and then swings you down so that your stomach gets left behind and—don’t you like that kind of ride?” She was looking anxiously at Briony who’d turned pale and closed her eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Briony said faintly. “The Dodgem Cars are about as much as I can manage.”

  “Don’t you like funfairs?”

  “I love funfairs,” Briony said. “But I never get any time to go to them. Too much work.” She indicated her desk.

  Emma looked anxious. “Am I being a pest?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure? Daddy says I mustn’t pester people because not everyone likes little girls.”

  Briony forced herself to smile. “I like them.”

  “Do you have one of your own?”

  “Not now,” Briony said after a painful silence.

  She was afraid that Emma would ask more questions, but the little girl was quiet, and Briony saw that she was being regarded gravely out of a pair of dark eyes that seemed to belong to a wise little old lady. This was no ordinary child, she realized. She understood that there were things that couldn’t be said.

  The next moment Emma was an excited little girl again. “I wish time would move faster,” she complained. “I want to go to the funfair now.”

  “It’ll still be there,” Briony promised.

  Emma looked conspiratorial. “It might run away,” she whispered dramatically.

  “Not today,” Briony whi
spered back, entering into the spirit. “It’ll wait for you to go there this afternoon. Then it’ll run away.”

  Emma laughed out loud, her little face beaming with delight.

  “Shh!” Briony begged. “Don’t make so much noise.” Her boss was already mad enough at Jenny. If he came out and found Jenny’s unruly little friend in the office it would be the last straw.

  “Why not?” Emma demanded, still in a stage whisper.

  “Because an ogre lives behind that door,” Briony said, pointing. “And you’ll wake him.”

  “Oo-oh! Is he a terrible ogre?”

  “Terrible and wicked!”

  “Is he the worst ogre that ever was in the whole world?”

  “The worst that ever was in the whole universe,” Briony said firmly.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Emma giggled gleefully. To Briony’s horror the door opened and Carlyle Brackman stood there. She groaned. Now they were all in the soup.

  But before she could move to protect Emma from her boss’s wrath the child let out a squeal of joy, cried “Daddy!” and rushed across the room to jump onto him. He gasped slightly as her arms tightened about his neck, and lifted her off the floor, holding her firmly.

  “It’s not an ogre, it’s Daddy,” Emma squealed.

  “So I’m not an ogre today,” he said, grinning. “Last night, when I wouldn’t let you stay up late, I was a ‘mean monster.’ And that, madam, was the kindest thing you called me.”

  Emma chuckled and snuggled against him, a picture of happiness. Briony stared in disbelief. Was this smiling man really Carlyle Brackman? The name and general appearance were the same, but the face was transformed. This was a human being, who could look pleased when a little girl ruffled his hair and rumpled his shirtfront. This was a man who could inspire a child’s adoration. Definitely it couldn’t be Carlyle Brackman.

  “What have you been doing out here?” he demanded. “Making a nuisance of yourself I suppose?”

  “No I haven’t,” Emma said determinedly. “I’ve been talking to Briony, and she does like little girls, and she says you’re the worst ogre that ever was in the whole universe.”