The Wealthy Man's Waitress

To Bob and Simone.

I am indebted to you both for love, healing and the great gift of your friendship.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING NEXT MONTH

THERE was just a door between Emma Jane Robards and her current goal. Only it wasn’t just any old common or garden door. No: this one was sleek and forbidding, made out of the finest grained walnut, with a sign in perfectly formed gold lettering that seemed to haughtily announce the name of its occupant like a VIP at a banquet. Piers Redfield. Even the name seemed imbued with importance.

‘Don’t bother trying to arrange an appointment to see him,’ Lawrence had advised. ‘He employs an army of staff to keep out the riff-raff. No offence.’ He’d smiled apologetically and Emma’s stomach had churned a little queasily. What on earth was she letting herself in for, sneaking around trying to get into some corporate wizard’s protected enclave as if she was some kind of amateur spy or something? And why, oh, why had she allowed Lawrence to even persuade her to consider it?

Because he needed her help, Emma reminded herself with renewed determination, and that was why she was willing to risk being thrown out into the street by Security or—worse—being driven off in a police car. Doggedly tilting her chin to shake off her fear, she rapped her knuckles smartly against the imposing walnut, frankly stunned that she had managed to get as far as the great man’s door without being stopped. But today, for once, luck seemed to be on her side.

‘Come!’

Into the lion’s den… Her thoughts racing, Emma twisted the brass doorknob and swept into the inner sanctum so appropriately guarded by that imposing door, then came to a nervous standstill almost as soon as her feet crossed the threshold. She hadn’t expected the room to be quite so huge or awe-inspiring but, with its panoramic windows and endless sea of forest-green carpet, it was. And those beautiful paintings on the walls weren’t prints either. They had to be the real thing—even Emma’s untrained eye could see that. But more than her intimidating surroundings, or the pervading aura of wealth that hung like exclusive perfume on the air, what commanded her attention the most was the immaculately attired glowering male sitting behind a stylish desk so huge it wouldn’t have looked out of place accommodating a small dinner party. Piers Redfield himself.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Emma’s feet wanted to run, but sheer strength of will made them stay right where they were. Now she’d come this far, she wasn’t about to bolt like some frightened rabbit just because he was the head of a hugely successful corporation, a multimillionaire if Lawrence was to be believed, and she a mere waitress in her friend’s bistro. He had a lifestyle about a million miles away from her own and probably wouldn’t give her the time of day if their paths should ever cross in the normal course of events, but even so, Emma told herself, she had to seize the moment and not be scared. Though in the normal course of events their paths would never cross—probably not even in her wildest dreams. Lawrence hadn’t exaggerated. Piers Redfield looked as if he could put the fear of God into just about anyone.

‘Are you going to answer me or do I get Security to come and throw you out?’ His bellow bounced off the walls and Emma gripped the black leather briefcase she’d brought with her to help her look as if she was meant to be in the building and prayed hard that her bravado would hold out.

‘I’m Emma. I’m a friend of Lawrence.’

‘Lawrence?’ Dark blond brows came together over penetrating blue eyes the seductive hue of an azure sky over the French Riviera. Staring into them, even from this distance, Emma almost forgot the reason she’d come. Unlocking her hand from its death grip on the briefcase handle, she wondered if it was normal for a heart to beat so deafeningly loud, or for fear to grip her courage by the throat and strangle it into oblivion.

‘Your son.’

‘I know perfectly well he’s my son, but that still doesn’t explain your presence here. And, while we’re on the subject, how did you get past Reception and my assistant without being seen?’

‘They’re out front watching the Lord Mayor’s Show. And I suppose there aren’t many people here on a Saturday morning.’ When Emma had emerged from the tube station to find herself swept up in the crowd of people thronging the streets, she had prayed with all her might that the occupants of the office buildings lining the route would be distracted by the procession. She’d hardly been able to believe it when she’d found that to be the case. It was a miracle but she had been able to whip past the temporarily empty security desk downstairs as easily as a magician’s assistant. Now you see me, now you don’t.