Cupcakes and Christmas: The Carrington’s Collection: Cupcakes at Carrington’s, Me and Mr. Carrington, Christmas at Carrington’s Read Online Free PDF Page B

his birthday and I felt sorry for him being all alone. But then it’s his own fault, I quickly remind myself.
    ‘Dad, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now.’ I snap the phone shut, vowing to be more careful next time it rings.
    ‘You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ James says softly, when he reappears.
    ‘Oh, yes I’m fine,’ I mutter, doing my best to recover.
    ‘You know if you don’t feel up to this I can always do the fawning by myself. You work twice as hard as the other sales assistants.’ The way he talks, so kindly, makes tears prick at my eyes. I study the pattern on the carpet and swallow hard before glancing back at him.
    ‘I’m fine. But thanks for your consideration.’ The shock of Dad’s voice perforating my work day slowly subsides.
    ‘If you’re sure?’
    ‘I’m sure,’ I say, managing a weak smile.
    ‘OK, so we know that Malikov likes his toys then,’ he says in a low voice, thoughtfully bringing us back on topic.
    We reach the personal shopping suite and James pushes through the creamy white padded door into the little anteroom that smells of lilies and expensive perfume.
    ‘OK, you ready for this?’ he whispers while checking his cufflinks. I nod. ‘Great – knew I could count on you,’ he says, enthusiastically, and I smile at his praise.
    Inside, and standing by the floor-to-ceiling chiffon-covered window is a sturdy-looking man yelling Russian into a hands-free mobile phone. As we walk towards him he snatches the earpiece away and tosses it towards the three enormous men wedged on a cream leather sofa, all wearing identical black suits. The one on the end performs a sudden pincer movement to successfully catch the earpiece. James dashes over to greet our customer.
    ‘Mr Malikov, welcome to Carrington’s.’
    Ignoring James’s outstretched hand, he commands, ‘Let’s shop,’ in a gravelly voice that has an American-English accent. He’s dressed casually in chinos with a navy blazer over a canary-yellow polo shirt with a ridiculous paisley cravat. He limps towards the enormous overstuffed circular sofa in the centre of the room, slumps down and rests both hands on a carved, tiger-headed cane that has a ruby the size of a plum wedged inside the tiger’s roaring mouth. Lifting his wrist, he squints at a platinum jewelled watch. ‘I have twenty minutes before I leave for the opera. Do you like opera?’ he barks. James and I exchange glances. Twenty minutes! We better get on with it if we’re to stand any chance of securing a big sale and earning some much-needed commission.
    ‘Well, sailing is my thing,’ James replies, calmly, as though he has all the time in the world. I smile inwardly, knowing how he hates water, preferring his beloved cricket to anything that might involve getting wet.
    ‘A man after my own heart.’ Malikov hauls himself up, grabs James’s hand up from his side and pumps his arm vigorously. We’re all smiling. So far so good. I feel relaxed. ‘And what,
Miss
, do you like?’ Malikov says, suddenly and suggestively. He wets his lips before slowly turning a pair of shark-like eyes towards me. I wither under his scrutiny as I rack my brains, searching for a suitable response. It’s as if time has stood still. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the heavies holding out a glass of champagne. Malikov is distracted. He turns to take the flute and gulps it down in one. The feeling of relief is overwhelming.
    ‘So how was your maiden voyage aboard
He Who Dares
?’ I ask, steering the conversation away from me and James’s faux love of the sea. Malikov’s hand is the size of a shovel and with a vice-like grip.
    ‘I see you’ve done your homework.’ Looking impressed, he nods his head slowly. ‘Kon. You must call me Kon. It’s what the people I like call me.’ His gaze lingers for a moment, sending a chill right through me. His power fills the room, practically overpowering the glorious scent from the three Jo Malone