True Colours Part 1

TRUE COLOURS.

by Vanessa Fox.

For Shane, my hero; and Sophie and Sam, my shining stars.

ONE.

Alexandra Ryan rested her head on the steering wheel of her silver VW Golf, drew in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. The rich aroma of coffee from the takeaway cup slotted into the dash was still strong, making her stomach cry out for more. Alex knew she should have had breakfast, but spending every evening at the hospital, the only time in the day to catch up on her emails was early in the morning, before the first of her appointments And this morning she'd had so much to get through she hadn't noticed the time, had looked up with a gasp to see the hands on the kitchen clock clicking around to eight before she'd even put the kettle on, never mind put the bread in the toaster. Her stomach growled again she knew the hours were taking their toll, but how else was she supposed to fit everything in?

Alex looked up as the sea mist spreading from the river Liffey swirled eerily in the white glow cast by the car park security lighting and tried to get her mind in gear. It felt more like midnight on the moon than a Thursday morning in Dublin's Business District. The sleek concrete and gla.s.s, designer planting and abstract sculpture did nothing to improve Alex's sense of dislocation, the feeling that she had landed on another planet; neither did the ma.s.s of dark-suited businessmen and women who streamed around her, laptop bags swinging from their shoulders, coffee cups grasped like life preservers, disappearing into the mist like a drove of zombies. It was a million miles from the ancient County Kildare cottage where she had spent her teenage years, a million miles from her beloved apartment overlooking the elegant Romanesque main square in Tarragona, just south of Barcelona. Alex shivered. She could feel her fingers swelling with the damp even inside the car; her toes beginning to ache through the leather soles of her black high heels. In the sixteen years she had been living in Spain the one thing she had never missed about home was the weather and this was supposed to be spring!

'But such a great opportunity, Alex. And the Spanish Cultural Inst.i.tute! It will show the rest of Europe what we can do Dublin will not know what has. .h.i.t it when we finish decorating this beautiful building...' Alex's best friend and business partner Marina Delgado had rolled her eyes theatrically, 'they will all want us when we do this one. Everyone!'

Back then Alex had laughed; she was quite sure Impromptu Design would be well received in her native Ireland, had started setting up appointments as soon as Senor Marquez, the Spanish Amba.s.sador to Ireland had called personally to award them the contract. But it still didn't help the nervous wobble in her stomach whenever she thought of going home for more than a holiday.

This time she wouldn't just be flying in for the weekend to see her dad, Tom Ryan, spending the entire seventy-two hours closeted in his tiny estate cottage curled up in front of a crackling fire. This time she'd be home for three months. Three whole months. She would be out and about in the city, trying to win business for the company in boardrooms where she could run into...her stomach gave another lurch, but it wasn't hunger this time.

Alex knew she had to get a grip, had to focus, no matter how tired she was. She'd worked hard to build the company with Marina, turning their lecture hall dreams into something tangible. After all the hard slog, the company was more successful than even they could have hoped for, and there was no way she could let herself or Marina down now. Sitting up, ma.s.saging her face with her hands, Alex glanced in the rear-view mirror checking that her makeup was intact, her bubbly blonde curls still tamed into the sleek ponytail that nestled in the nape of her neck, just waiting for the first opportunity to escape and bounce playfully around her face. Think positive. She needed to think positive. Europe was in the middle of a recession and they had more work than they could cope with. Wasn't that a good thing?

Alex took another look in the mirror. At least today she'd remembered both her earrings. That was a definite plus. It had been four o'clock yesterday when she'd finally got to a mirror and discovered that she was only wearing one of the beaten silver studs her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday. Thankfully, she'd been at the wholesalers looking at fabric samples, not meeting a client, so it hadn't been a total disaster, but she'd been overwhelmed with a dreadful sinking feeling that she had messed up on something so simple. There was no room to mess up today. Today, she had an exploratory meeting with a new client. A potentially huge new client.

Alex pulled her briefcase containing her laptop off the pa.s.senger seat and rooted in the front pocket for her lipstick. A birthday gift from Marina, the briefcase travelled with her everywhere, the crocodile patent leather just to die for, the brilliant red of a matador's cape, so fabulous, in fact, that she'd hardly dared take it out of her apartment to begin with, had instead snuggled it between the cushions of the sofa, stroking it like a spoilt pet whenever she left for a meeting. Now it had come to feel like an old friend, giving her strength and confidence when she needed it most.

Like now.

Alex knew she was getting perilously close to the edge if she didn't get an early night soon, she'd be a total wreck. Emotionally and physically.

Deep down she knew it wasn't her workload that was the problem it was coming home to Ireland that was keeping her awake at night. Ireland held too many memories, memories that made her jumpy whenever she walked through Dublin's cosmopolitan pedestrianised shopping area, Grafton Street. Memories that she wasn't ready to deal with.

But she was doing the right thing. If she said it to herself often enough, it had to be true. And her father looked so pleased to see her when she arrived each evening at St Vincent's hospital with his newspaper and humbugs ('anything to take away the taste of the d.a.m.ned food!') that she knew she was doing the right thing. After the accident he needed her nearby, and the business needed her here big time, so whatever her personal misgivings, she just needed to get on with it. Coming home was right. She was doing the right thing.

Taking a deep breath Alex focused on applying her lipstick. She needed to clear her mind, to get back to being the confident, relaxed owner of an international design partnership, needed to send out all the right messages to what could be a very lucrative new client. Jocelyn Blake was PA to the managing director of one of Ireland's most successful venture capital companies, a business that had, despite the recession, just moved into an extensive new office complex and wanted to make its mark , 'decoratively speaking', as Jocelyn had put it, on the building.

'Decoratively speaking' it was more than just the interiors of the offices of Venture Capital Ireland that could do with some design advice. Alex had to smother a grin as Jocelyn Blake swept into the Reception area wearing a multi-coloured velvet tent and an imperial purple scarf that clashed violently with a pair of harlot-red suede wedges. Her hair, a melting pot of greys from silver to steel, was swept up into a tumbling knot, skewered, it seemed to Alex, by the tent poles missing from the rest of her outfit.

Alex nodded her thanks to the receptionist, and turned to greet the managing director's PA, switching on her warm, everything-under-control smile.

'Alex Ryan, Impromptu Design.'

At least as broad as she was tall, and beaming an enthusiastic welcome, Jocelyn gripped Alex's hand as if it were a rung on a ladder she was about to fall off, the hairs on her chin bristling rather unnervingly as she spoke.

'Alex Ryan, right on time. But goodness me, I was expecting a chap. Jocelyn Blake, call me Joss. Delighted to meet you, delighted. I'm so excited about getting this place together.'

Alex sensed Jocelyn run an appraising eye over her polished heels and sheer stockings, taking in her black crepe business suit and crisp pin-tucked white linen shirt. The best Barcelona had to offer, the jacket nipped neatly in to her small waist, large covered b.u.t.tons giving it a distinctly European elegance, the skirt just above the knee. Alex guessed she had pa.s.sed the first test as Jocelyn continued, 'too much beige everywhere. It's SO depressing to the spirit, and we're a progressive company, we own all sorts of businesses everything from hotels to games arcades always something exciting happening here. We need exciting offices to INSPIRE the staff. And your company is exactly what we've been looking for. Exactly! Miro, Gaudi, Pica.s.so. When I was chatting to Senor Marquez's PA I knew you'd be perfect. Come through to my office, we've lots to talk about.'

This wasn't the time to point out that Pica.s.so was French. Alex smiled and followed her down a long beige corridor, stifling a gasp at the sight of Jocelyn Blake's own office. A riot of potted plants and ma.s.sive abstract canvases, the view of the river Liffey was almost obscured by heavy claret and gold brocade drapes. It looked more like a boudoir than an office, and not a very high-cla.s.s one at that. This job could turn out to be more of a challenge than she had antic.i.p.ated!

'Sit down, sit down. I've ordered some real coffee. Can't stand instant, has to be the real thing or nothing at all. But you'd know all about good coffee, coming from Spain. How are you finding the weather here?'

'It's a bit damper than Barcelona, but I grew up here, so I know what to expect. Dublin has changed a lot though...'

'That's for sure, sooo much building!' Jocelyn rolled her eyes. 'But I'm sure you know all about the boom and bust. Thankfully, we're an international company with interests all over the world, and China's doing very well at the moment.'

Alex nodded. 'That's good to hear. How can Impromptu help? I'm not sure how much Senor Marquez's PA told you, but we offer a wide range of services to bring a cohesive look to every area of a company.' The pitch line rolled off her tongue seamlessly. If Jocelyn realised Alex had said it several hundred times, she didn't show any sign; instead she beamed at Alex across the desk.

'She told me you were wonderful, that's all I needed to know. And we need a complete makeover. This building is our new corporate headquarters, and just look at it! I think we really need to have a look at how colour influences mood. Don't want any yellow here do you know they recommend you don't put yellow in a baby's room? It makes them restless. And no red; too likely to cause an argument. Except in here of course!' Jocelyn paused to laugh at herself, as Alex stifled a grin, 'but no one argues with me!'

Right on cue a buzzer sounded from somewhere under the ma.s.s of trailing fronds on her desk, followed by a distant, disembodied voice.

'Joss, where are you? What have I got at ten?' Deep, masculine, and distinctly tetchy, the perfect vowels unmistakably the product of a private education, Alex a.s.sumed that this was Jocelyn's boss and was surprised at the brusqueness of the tone. He might be having a bad day, but he obviously had an original take on good manners. Alex's private thoughts, masked by a polite smile, were reinforced as the voice continued, 'What have you done with my diary? I thought I was seeing Jackson about the New York deal but he's on the golf course, he just phoned.'

Reaching under a fern, Jocelyn depressed a b.u.t.ton on what must have been a speakerphone, her face screwed up in irritation. To Alex's complete amazement she replied as if she was speaking to a rather dim child.

'No, Jackson's tomorrow. Your diary is on your desk. Right in the middle, red leather, gold edges, open at today's date. You're here all morning. The Minister's coming in at ten to persuade you to invest in that shopping centre scheme.'

Surprisingly, her tone didn't seem to offend the owner of the voice in the least. Alex heard him groan and the distinct shuffling of papers obviously revealing the missing diary.

'Christ, is he? G.o.d you're right. Why are you always right? It's no good you being downstairs, I need you next door to my office. Call that idiot architect back in, will you, and come up now and find the file about that shopping centre. I got caught up in a call with China.' Totally absorbed in their exchange, Alex suddenly realised the hairs were standing up on the back of her neck; the timbre of the voice, despite the distortion of the phone and the plant, was mature, rich and smooth bringing to mind a fabulous bottle of wine, a Chateau Margaux, a grand cru at least; every sip leaving you wanting another. She snapped rapidly back as Jocelyn Blake replied tersely.

'I'll be along before he arrives. I'm busy now, I'm right in the middle of a meeting with the new designer.'

'What designer?'

'For the offices. Impromptu Design, they're doing the new Spanish Cultural Inst.i.tute. I told you about it. We need to do something with this soulless mausoleum of a building.'

'So you did. What's the chap's name again?'

'It's a girl, Alex Ryan, Alexandra I think.' Jocelyn beamed across at Alex like she was suddenly top of the cla.s.s.

'Alex Ryan?'

'Exactly.'

There was a long pause.

Alex felt her heart stop for a second as, poised on the edge of her chair, she found herself waiting expectantly to hear his response. But she really didn't expect his gruff reply.

'Bring her up. I'll speak to her while you find the file.'

Jocelyn raised her eyes to heaven. 'You really don't have time to be worrying about decorating. I have the file here; I'll send it up immediately and...'

'Joss, just stop blathering and send her up. Tell the Minister I'm running behind. He'll wait.'

Rolling her eyes as if he was a spoilt child who needed to be humoured, Jocelyn clicked off the speakerphone and pushed her chair abruptly away from the desk as if she were about to set sail.

Alex felt her stomach hit the floor as she watched Jocelyn roll over to her filing cabinet and heave open a drawer stuffed with files. Meet the MD now? Obviously she had antic.i.p.ated meeting with the board if Impromptu were offered the Venture Capital contract, but she had expected today to be an exploratory meeting, a chance for Venture Capital to find out about Impromptu and vice versa, not a full-on presentation!

Alex mentally gave herself a sharp kick normally she prided herself on her research, ensured she knew everything, right down to what the board liked for breakfast before she went into a meeting with a new client, but with the week she'd had, she hadn't had a second to do her homework. Between the runs to visit her dad and the demands of Senor Marquez, who seemed to be enjoying the creative process and adding more and more work to her brief, Alex hadn't had a second even to Google Venture Capital Ireland. It went completely against the grain but as she'd fallen exhausted into bed each night in her tiny rented house in Dalkey, knowing she was facing a night of fitful sleep, she'd convinced herself she could do all the research she needed after her meeting with Jocelyn.

Who had she been kidding? What made her good at her job was her attention to detail, her ability to grasp the needs of the client. She should have followed her gut instinct and told them she was too busy. When she had received Jocelyn's email at the beginning of the week, with everything already on her plate, for a moment Alex had wondered if she should take the job at all. But you just didn't say no to new business, especially now, and particularly if it came as a result of a recommendation, and, as she'd reasoned while she'd composed her reply, designing offices wasn't exactly brain surgery. A job like this could lead to more work, which would cement the position of the Irish office. And, for all she knew, they might take months to decide on the colour scheme, by which time her dad would be on the mend, she'd have found someone to run the Dublin office and she'd be back in Spain, back to the sunshine and a trouble-free life.

So here she was. Totally unprepared and about to walk into one of the most difficult meetings of her life.

TWO.

It took a moment for the laptop to power up. Another moment for the Google homepage to open.

What first?

Facebook? That seemed like a good place to start. It was unlikely she'd realised the privacy implications; she was the sort to have everything out on show.

A click of the mouse.

Bingo.

It was all there...unbelievable...so much information. Hobbies, activities, favourite books and movies, email, PHONE, ADDRESS , schools that would make the next bit easy. And so many photographs, with names and locations...good G.o.d.

She smiled from every picture, teeth brilliant white like a Colgate ad, more often than not a gla.s.s of champagne in her hand.

What next? Cross-reference the names and the faces in the photos with her friends on Facebook, look at their profile pages, get an idea of their names, professions, current locations. Time-consuming but well worth it...

Then Friends Reunited to check out her school friends, to see who was doing what, who she was still in touch with. Easy, when she'd put up all the dates and names of her schools on Facebook.

The fun had already started on Twitter. Following her friends, easily picked out from the lists of people following her, watching their conversations, seeing in real time what they were chatting about and slipping in a comment or two...about a favourite book, a restaurant, a 'mutual friend'.

Now wouldn't that be a coincidence, a 'mutual' friend?

Finding common ground was the way to build trust.

And with trust came information.

THREE.

Alex was still kicking herself as she b.u.t.toned her jacket in the lift on the way up to the fifth floor of Venture Capital Ireland. Jocelyn had been about to accompany her when the telephone rang, had instead mouthed her apologies and, her hand over the receiver, whispered that one of the girls would show her to the lift.

Intrigued by the man whose voice she had heard on the speakerphone, Alex wished she had had a chance to find out more about the company. She was sure she had read in the Sunday Times that Venture Capital Ireland had shares in everything from London City Airport to hotels in Shanghai, but she had never had a chance to finish the article, so quite who was on the board of directors, or who held the controlling interest, remained a mystery. And she hadn't even had time to quiz the girl at Reception when she had arrived, as Jocelyn Blake had obviously been waiting for her and had swept her into her office the moment she had walked into the building.

As the lift doors slid open effortlessly to a melodious chime, Alex was surprised to find the top floor of the landmark building apparently empty. She stepped into a lofty hall surrounded by closed dark oak doors. The s.p.a.ce was dominated by a circular antique table with an ornate central pedestal, the scent of beeswax polish jostling with the perfume from a riot of lilies and roses spilling out of a ma.s.sive arrangement at its centre. Like the lower floors, the colours were uniform: beige and more beige, broken only by white gloss skirting boards and dado rails. Pausing for a moment to take in her surroundings, Alex wondered who was responsible for the several large paintings dotted between the doors, all Victorian hunting scenes set in heavy gold frames. Recalling the sound of his voice, she found herself creating a mental picture of the man she was about to meet. If he had had any influence over the decor outside his office at all, the managing director must be in his early fifties, was probably greying, and no doubt was a golfer fond of country pursuits who had been brought up by nannies, which would explain his relationship with his PA.

Alex's instincts were usually good, but this time she couldn't have been more wrong.

Turning back to take a final glance in the mirrored lift doors, ensuring she looked her best, Alex headed across the hall to the only set of double doors, and knocked gently. Hearing a m.u.f.fled sound that could have been 'come in', she pushed, surprised that the door opened easily. The thick carpet of the hall was replaced inside the office with glistening marble tiles. Dazzled by the s.p.a.ce and light of what looked more like a hotel suite than a working office, Alex took in a pair of cream leather sofas to her left, a gla.s.s coffee table between them, and what appeared to be a matching gla.s.s boardroom table to her right, lit by an enormous twisted copper and crystal chandelier, floor-to-ceiling windows giving an enviable view of the city skyline. The boardroom table was sleek and modern, completely different in taste and style from the hall, and the contrast threw her for a moment. Her surprise must have been obvious.

'Not what you expected?'

Startled by a voice from beyond the sofa arrangement, a voice that appeared to emanate from behind a magnificent walnut desk partially obscured by a small forest of potted palms, Alex turned on her professional smile and made her way into the room.

She didn't get far.

A couple of steps inside the door the desk came into full view, as did the man sitting behind it. But he wasn't a greying senior executive in his fifties. Far from it. Alex felt her eyes widening in pure shock, and then cold dark horror. Her stomach did a complete back flip as she felt the colour rush to her face, burning, she was sure, like a beacon. Summoning every reserve of self-control to remain where she stood, to resist the urge to turn and run, for a second her knees wobbled alarmingly beneath her. Fighting for control, Alex tried to steady her breathing, suddenly terrified that she might hyperventilate or worse, pa.s.s out.

Behind the desk sat a man she knew, a man who had rarely left her thoughts in the past sixteen years, the man who was the very reason she had left Ireland to study in Spain, and the very reason why she had been so reluctant to come home.

Sebastian Wingfield. Sole heir to the infamous Lord Kilfenora. Sole heir to the Wingfield banking fortune, and the rambling Gothic castle ridiculously misnamed Kilfenora House, with its one-thousand-acre County Kildare estate.

Sebastian Wingfield. Her first love. The man she had innocently thought, aged seventeen, that she would spend the rest of her life with, until... and the man who was very obviously now the managing director of Venture Capital Ireland.

The past sixteen years had been kind to him. His shoulders still broad, there were a few more lines around his eyes perhaps, but his hair was still the colour of melting chocolate, cropped short, his jaw just as determined as it had been back then. And just below the dimple in his right cheek, the half-inch scar she had traced with her fingertip was still there, faded with age, but still visible. He wore his yacht club tie knotted loosely at his throat, the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt undone, his cuffs rolled back to reveal the strong wrists she remembered so well, a prelude to a pair of strong arms that had once held her as if they would never let her go. And his eyes were just as blue; the blue of a summer sky glimpsed through the thick canopy of trees as they lay laughing on their backs in the long gra.s.s of Kilfenora Woods, limbs entwined.

Sitting back, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, one hand casually supporting his chin, Sebastian Wingfield watched Alex's reaction, drinking her in, absorbing every detail from her blonde curls to her long slim legs. She had blossomed into a beautiful woman her hair was shorter, her crazy curls now smoothed into a sophisticated ponytail, her suit unmistakeably European. She was just as alluring as when he'd last seen her more so now her sallow skin tanned, caramel brown eyes clearly showing her surprise. And that dark mole just to the left of her full mouth, like a beauty spot, exactly as he remembered it, its twin, he knew, a finger's width from her navel. Good G.o.d, what was he thinking?

Masking the maelstrom of emotions churning inside him with a facade of disinterest, Sebastian felt like he was in some sort of bizarre dream. Could it really be her? After all these years, here she was, just waltzing into his office as if nothing had happened.

Sebastian knew he hadn't been listening properly when Jocelyn had told him about the fantastic interior design company she had found, had completely forgotten about the meeting. But the moment Jocelyn had said Alex's name he had felt a surge of emotion second only to the tidal wave of despair he had felt the day he had called to her father's cottage to discover that she had left. Without a word. Without even a note. Without even sending him a postcard from wherever it was she had gone to. And at that stage, even her father had had no idea what she was doing, had been just as mystified as he was at her abrupt departure.

And, as he looked at her now, a flash of resentment lit the slow burn of anger that had festered inside him over the years. He had concealed it, had got on with his life; had channelled all the negative energy into taking up a position in the family business. At his grandfather's insistence he had switched from first year architecture to a business degree. But Alex's departure had changed the course of his life, and he wasn't about to thank her for it.

It was the not knowing why that had really cut him, and it was a wound that still ached whenever he saw a blonde head bobbing ahead of him in a crowd. Sebastian had lost count of the times he'd raced after strange women on a train, in a theatre, convinced every time that he'd found her, that she would turn and smile and love him again as she had before. But every time he'd been shattered by the truth, the knife twisting deeper into his heart until at last he'd learned to live with the loss, learned to push thoughts of her to the back of his mind. Now here she was. Dear G.o.d where did he start?

Sebastian's gaze made Alex feel horribly vulnerable, exposed. It was as if it was trained on her like a spotlight, like she was the leading lady who had forgotten her lines. Thoughts tumbled through her head, a dark chasm gaping in her stomach as her eyes locked with those of the very man she had spent the last sixteen years avoiding. Perhaps she could just back out, smile casually and apologise say she'd stumbled into the wrong office? Perhaps if she focused hard enough she might be able to vanish completely and teleport herself back into her car where she could lock all the doors and crawl under the seat.

Ma.s.saging his chin, Sebastian finally spoke, breaking the silence that was building between them like a wall of ice, his voice rich with sarcasm.

'Alex Ryan. Goodness me, I didn't really think it could be you, but here you are. Alive and well after all.' Sebastian paused, glacial eyes penetrating her very core. His voice was calm, too calm. Alex thought it held a hint of a sneer. She couldn't blame him.

'Why don't you sit down Alex Ryan and tell me what you've been doing with yourself for the past sixteen years?'

As if hypnotised by his voice, Alex felt herself drawn towards his desk, could hear her heels clicking across the marble before she fully realised what she was doing why didn't she just turn around and leave? Run while she still had the chance? But the rational part of her brain wasn't working, was paralysed by shock, running on automatic. He hadn't changed one bit and everything that had attracted her to him all those years ago, his broad shoulders, his startling blue eyes, his very magnetism was reeling her in all over again. Alex found herself standing in front of his desk like a child brought before the headmaster.