Roberta Leigh - Love in Store Read online

  Roberta Leigh - Love in Store

  Samantha had it all figured out.

  A year to fulfill the wishes accompanying her godfather's legacy - then she'd happily return to her own life. That was the plan.

  Farrell's, however, a big London department store, was a fascinating new world. And Samantha's ten voting shares gave her tie-breaking powers between Zachary and Larry Farrell, battling to control the old family business.

  Samantha was torn between the serious, taciturn Zachary and Larry, the witty ladies' man, but not just for business reasons. For though Larry pursued her, it was Zachary she fell in love with…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Samantha Byers turned her back on the shore and walked back toward the gray stone house set at the foot of the softly rising hill. It was a misty Irish morning and the air sparkled with it and placed gentle drops of moisture on her long, soft fair hair. There was no curl in it, yet it did not lie limp, but had the luster and shine of perfect health. There were droplets of moisture on the long, darker lashes that framed the gray eyes; eyes which were now warm with pleasure as the door of the house opened and an elderly man greeted her with a smiling "Good morning."

  "You're up early, Uncle John." It was a courtesy title, for he was no relation, merely a long-standing friend of her father's who still maintained his friendship with her mother and herself, even though her father had died several years ago.

  "I was too restless to lie in bed," he said in answer to her comment. "Anyway, in London I am always at the store by this time."

  "That's why you came to Ireland," she reminded him, "to get away from the store!"

  "That's easier said than done. A big business gives one big problems."

  "Then sell it."

  He laughed. "Just like that?"

  "Why not? You have more money than you will ever spend. I don't see the point in keeping on something that gives you worry."

  "I would have more worries if I sold out. Anyway, if you have a child and he is a problem to you, you don't disinherit him for that reason. Mind, I don't regard the store as a child," he added, and Samantha laughed and shook her head, knowing this was exactly the way he regarded it. A widower and childless, John Farrell had built Farrell's up from a small drapery shop into one of London's leading department stores. No wonder he regarded it as a living creation—despite what he said to the contrary. But it was also taking toll of his strength. She and her mother had been dismayed at how much he had aged in the three years since they had last seen him.

  "You should come here more often, Uncle John," she said, linking her arm through his and leading him into the kitchen where her mother was already making the breakfast.

  "You shouldn't have moved out to the wilds of County Cork," he grumbled. "It beats me what a young girl like you finds to do here. And you, too," he said, turning to Mrs. Byers, a spritely woman of fifty who was at that moment heaping a plate with crisp curls of bacon and two fried eggs, sunny side up.

  "Eat that, John," she said good-humoredly, "and stop complaining about us because we don't conform to your ideas of living." She set two plates of creamy porridge down for her daughter and herself. "Samantha and I are both delighted that we moved here when Henry died. It has done wonders for my painting. I'm selling more today than I ever did when we lived in England—Samantha is a far better agent for me than the Steven's Gallery—and cheaper too! They used to take forty percent commission."

  "And what do you take, Samantha?" John Farrell asked.

  "Ten percent." Samantha smiled, showing perfect white teeth behind a wide, charmingly shaped-mouth meant for kisses and laughter.

  "And you enjoy selling your mother's work?"

  "I love every minute of it. It's as exciting as an adventure story. This year I've already been to America, Brussels, and Oslo, and I'm off to Paris next Wednesday. Mother is having a big exhibition there and we have already sold half the paintings before they've been hung!"

  "All because of Samantha's wonderful ability to get the right people to look at my work," her mother intervened. "She's more than my agent, John, she's my biggest fan."

  "I thought I qualified for that description," the man said in mock dismay.

  "Art means nothing to you," Mrs. Byers said robustly. "Your favorite picture is of The Stag at Bay!"

  He chuckled and settled down to his breakfast.

  "I'll clear away," Samantha said to her mother when the last cup of coffee had been served. "You go up to the studio before you start champing at the bit."

  Mrs. Byers did as she was told, but John Farrell remained where he was, sitting back in his chair, his eyes resting with affection on the tall slim figure of his goddaughter.

  "I miss you and your mother very much," he said quietly. "That's the real reason why I objected to you both coming here."

  "I know." Samantha half turned and gave him a smile before she continued to wash the dishes. "But there's nothing to stop you coming out to see us as often as you like. I was serious when I suggested you give up the store." Hands in the soapy water she turned again to look at him. "Why don't you retire? I know your two nephews are in the business. Surely they can manage without you?"

  "They can't wait to start," he said, "particularly Zack. He's full of new-fangled ideas. He wants to cater to a wider market and double the size of the Food Department."

  "And his brother?"

  "You mean Larry? He's Zachary's cousin, not his brother. He's the exact opposite. He would be happy to keep things the way they are— providing the profits don't drop—though as a matter of principle he always opposes everything Zachary wants to do."

  "Don't they like each other then?"

  "Deep down they do. They grew up together. Larry's father was my youngest brother—he and his wife got killed in a car accident—and my sister, Zachary's mother, brought Larry up as her own son. To all intents and purposes they are like brothers—and I suppose like brothers they have their differences."

  "Eventually you will have to let them work out things on their own," Samantha commented, stacking the dishes on the draining board to dry. "And it's silly to wait until you are old and ill before you retire. Why not do it now and come and live with us?"

  John Farrell laughed. "That's all you and your mother need. To look after an old man. No, I'm too set in my ways to change my life at this stage. I was born in harness and I will die there."

  "Don't talk about dying." Samantha came across the tiled floor and gave him a fierce hug. She had known John Farrell all her life and would always associate him with the happy days of her childhood.

  "Do you really enjoy living here?" he asked quietly, "or do you stay because of your mother?"

  A shadow darkened the beautiful gray eyes. Looking into them, John Farrell was struck again by what a remarkably lovely looking girl Samantha was. Lovely. It was an apt word to describe her. Beautiful was too mundane an adjective to use, for she had a delicacy and softness that a casual onlooker might not notice. It took discerning eyes to appreciate Samantha but when one did, there was ample reward to be found. She had her father's coloring and aesthetic features but where he had been tall and rangy, his daughter was tall and slender. Her hair was fairer too, bleached by the sun which had also lightly tanned her skin. There was a still quality about her that made him wonder whether this was the reason for her contentment here; made him wonder too, how long this contentment would last if she were to fall in love. How old was she now? Twenty-two or three? Certainly it was time for her to begin a more positive way of life.

  "Why the sigh?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  "I was thinking that your life wouldn't suit me. I know you travel a lot but you are still stuck here too much.
You should be meeting young men. Even be married by now."

  "All in good time," she said with an easy smile. "Come on, lazybones, help me in the garden."

  "I'm too old to do any weeding."

  "But not too old to rake the grass!"

  Grumbling, he followed her out and a few moments later was happily employed pushing leaves into a pile.

  At the end of the week he returned to London, declaring himself fitter than when he had arrived ten days earlier. A month after that Samantha departed for Paris and thoroughly enjoyed the sophisticated atmosphere with which she was surrounded for the next fortnight. Her mother's exhibition was a success and by the time it closed not one painting was left unsold. She hadn't received any of her mother's usual, chatty letters during her absence—apart from a brief note to say all was well—and though she knew that had anything gone amiss she would have heard at once, she felt an unusual disquiet that decided her against stopping over in London on the way back and flew direct to Dublin instead.

  It was evening when she arrived home and as soon as she entered the house she knew her premonition had been justified.

  "It's John," her mother explained. "He died at the beginning of the week. I only returned yesterday from the funeral."

  Tears filled Samantha's eyes. "Why didn't you let me know?"

  "It would have been pointless for you to have flown back. I was only told myself after he had died. It was in his sleep."

  Samantha said slowly, "I'm glad he didn't suffer. He would have hated to be ill and helpless."

  Mrs. Byers nodded and looked as if there was something more to say. "The lawyer had hoped you would be there for the reading of the will, but I explained where you were and he agreed for me to stand in for you."

  "I hope Uncle John left me his chess set? He always said he would."

  "He didn't forget his promise." Her mother smiled slightly. "But he left you something much more important than that."

  Halfway up the stairs, Samantha stopped. "Really? What was that?"

  "Ten percent of the shares in his company. Ten percent of the voting stock," she explained.

  "The voting stock?" Leaving her case on the stairs Samantha came slowly back to the hall. "Tell me the rest, Mother. I can see from your face that there's more to it than that."

  "There is," her mother agreed, and led the way into her studio which took up one entire side of the house. This action told Samantha something serious was afoot. Whenever her mother had anything difficult to say she always retreated to her studio for reassurance. But where was the problem in owning ten percent of the voting stock? It was a wonderful inheritance and totally unexpected.

  "John left his two nephews forty-five percent each," Mrs. Byers explained, "which means that if they don't agree on policy your ten percent can decide the issue. In other words, you are the lynch pin."

  "Oh dear."

  "You can well say that," Mrs. Byers agreed. "Neither of them are happy about it, as you can imagine. Zachary is furious."

  "He doesn't need to be. I have no intention of interfering. I know nothing about the way a store is run. In fact, I would be quite happy to sell my shares." She stopped, as she saw the look on her mother's face. "Couldn't I do that?"

  "You could if you wished, but that's exactly what John wouldn't want you to do."

  "Not even if I sold five percent to each of his nephews?"

  "It would still leave them in a position of stalemate. It would be worse, in fact, for there'd then be no one to try and keep the balance. You couldn't sell your shares to a stranger because that would be even worse. John obviously had this in mind when he came out to see us."

  "To see me, you mean," Samantha said. "That must have been the purpose of the exercise; to decide what sort of a lynch pin I would make."

  "He obviously thought you'd be a satisfactory one or he wouldn't have given you the all- important vote." Mrs. Byers went over to her easel. "He made another stipulation in his will— that you should work in the store for a year.

  Roberta Leigh

  It wasn't a demand, just a hope that you would. He felt if you worked in the various departments you would have a greater appreciation of the problems involved in running Farrell's."

  "You mean leave Ireland?"

  "Temporarily."

  "What about you?"

  "I'll stay on here. Mrs. Halloran will be quite happy to live-in and I have no shortage of friends who will be delighted to come out and stay with me. You needn't worry about me being lonely, Sam."

  "You seem very eager to have me leave."

  "It's what John wanted," Mrs. Byers said, "and he may be right. From your point of view it isn't good for you to live here so much. Anyway, before you make up your mind what you want to do with the stock—whether to keep it or sell it—you should learn as much about Farrell's as you can."

  "I wish I had been at the funeral," Samantha said slowly, "though in a way I'm glad at my last memory of Uncle John was of him being here. He was so happy that day in the garden, burning all the leaves."

  "And he's left another bonfire behind him," Mrs. Byers replied, "with you in the center of it!"

  Samantha frowned. "Do you think things will be that difficult?"

  "They could be. But I'm sure that with your charm and diplomacy you will be able to put out the fire!"

  "Or get burnt at the stake for my efforts. Still, if the worst comes to the worst I can always give the shares to some lawyer and get him to act on my behalf. Then neither of John's nephews could complain of bias."

  "If John had wanted that he could have done it himself. He left that stock to you for a reason."

  "The hand ruling from the grave," Samantha mocked wryly. "I have a feeling Uncle John knew exactly what he was letting me in for."

  "Well, the quicker you go back to London and find out, the better. I suggest you rest up for a few days and then leave."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samantha had stayed in London several times since she and her mother had gone to live in Ireland: accepting the hospitality of her closest friend, Jacqueline. But the apartment was too small for her to remain there any length of time, and she knew she would have to find a place of her own.

  "Furnished or unfurnished?" Jackie asked when Samantha had unpacked and settled in the spare room.

  "Furnished. When my year is up in the store I shall probably go back to Ireland."

  "If you aren't married by then. Ten percent of Farrell's makes you very eligible, you know."

  "Are you suggesting I'll be married for my money?" Samantha laughed.

  "I'm suggesting you start to enjoy it and live it up a bit—that alone should bring you to the notice of all the young bachelors round about."

  "All!" Samantha flung her arms wide. "I can see them clamoring at the front door to take me out."

  "I'm still stuck on Peter." Jackie's non sequitur was spoken on a sigh. "But unfortunately he isn't the marrying kind."

  Diplomatically Samantha was silent. Peter was a well-known political journalist whom Jackie had met when she had gone to work as his secretary. From the first moment they had clicked and her friend had not had eyes for any other man. But Peter, though he professed to love her, had made it plain he did not wish for marriage, though he seemed content to take no one out except Jackie and spent every evening with her when he was not occupied with his work.

  "I'm not complaining," Jackie said into the silence. "I've loved my two years with Peter. I've had all the fun of marriage and none of the hustle. I only—" She stopped.

  "I sense an implied 'but' in your tone," Sain ;m i ha said with pretended casualness.

  "You know very well there is. I want the hustle of marriage. I want the baby and the pram and having to queue at the supermarket. But I also know I won't get it from Peter. That's why I'm leaving."

  "Good for you. I'm sure you won't have any problem finding a job that's equally as good."

  "It will take more than a change of job for me to forget Peter," Jack
ie said. "I'm leaving the country."

  Samantha was startled. "Where are you going?"

  "New Zealand. I have cousins out there and they are always inviting me to stay with them. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. If I like it, I'll stay there permanently."

  "Have you told Peter?"

  "Yes. But he doesn't believe it."

  "You mean he thinks you won't go?"

  "Oh, he knows I'll be leaving. I'm off in a fortnight, as a matter of fact. He just thinks I'll be back in a couple of months. But I won't. Even if I loathe it out there I'm not coming back to England until I've got over him." She looked around her. "Which brings me to this home sweet home. I was going to sell off the rest of the lease but if you'd like to—"

  "Done!" Samantha interrupted jubilantly. "I'm sorry you're going away, Jackie, but I'm delighted I can take over. This is exactly what I want. Of course if you do decide to come back, I'll hand it over to you again."

  "Don't tempt me," Jackie said. "I can't live all my life as Peter's girl friend."

  "I didn't know you were pining for marriage," Samantha said. "You've always professed to love your independence."

  "I still do. But I don't see marriage as incompatible with that."

  "Obviously Peter does."

  "I know. He doesn't want the responsibility. Peter Pan I call him."

  "When you've gone away he might grow up and realize how much he misses you."

  "I'm not banking on it." Jackie lifted her shoulders. "Anyway, let's not talk about me anymore. Tell me what your plans are."

  "I've told you. Tomorrow I'm going to the store. I wrote to Zachary Farrell and his cousin and told them I'll be there."

  "I bet they'd like to cut your throat!"

  "Thanks for reassuring me."

  Jackie grinned. "There's nothing like knowing your enemies. They're bound to dislike you, Sam. So would I in their position. You are stopping both of them from getting control."

  "Surely that's better than having one of them in control?"

  "One of them must have control—unless you intend sitting on the fence forever?"