Excerpt of The Wealthy Man's Waitress by Maggie Cox

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.

"Is that on today?"

Without waiting for Emma's confirmation, Piers pushed back
his chair and strode over to the window. The way he
carried himself was compelling, Emma mused silently, and
she couldn't recall ever being fascinated by the way a man
moved before. There was a strength and grace about him
that put her in mind of an athlete. He probably worked
hard to keep himself in prime physical condition. But
right then she wished she wouldn't notice such distracting
things. There was a very good reason why she was here, and
she wasn't going to be put off by Piers Redfield's
intimidating good looks, or the fact that wealth and power
were obviously second nature to the man. His whole
personality radiated those very considerable attributes,
and Emma had been amply forewarned by Lawrence that he was
a tricky customer not averse to using his extremely potent
assets to bend the will of even the most steadfast
individual. Well, he wasn't going to get the chance to
bend her will. As far as Lawrence was concerned, Emma was
a woman on a mission.

"You won't see much from there. You're too high up." Her
comment could just as soon have been meant metaphorically.
His status certainly put him on a pedestal way above her.

"So much for security. Now, what's this all about? Did
Lawrence send you? Who are you — one of his girlfriends?"

One of his girlfriends. The insult was a poisoned barb,
clearly meant to sting. Beneath the fitted cerise jacket
that she'd reluctantly donned for the occasion over a mid-
length black skirt, Emma's shoulders stiffened. "I like to
think I mean a little bit more to him than that." As soon
as the words were out she wished she could take them back.
Now Piers's lips — those perfectly moulded, sensuous-
looking lips — were quirking, as if he'd got her measure,
and that was the last thing she wanted him to have. The
man was already weighed down with enough advantages.

"He didn't tell me he was seeing anyone special." He was
leaning back against his desk, his eyes glimmering with
suddenly interested speculation.

"Why should he when you don't even return his phone
calls?" The accusation was out before she could check it
and once again Emma had cause to regret her impulsive
nature. Especially when Piers threw back his head and
laughed as though it was the best joke he'd heard in ages.

"Poor hard-done-by Lawrence. Is that the tack you're going
to employ? OK, then, let's cut to the chase. I take it
you've come to petition me for some money on his behalf?"

"No, of course not! I mean — I mean, I just wanted to talk
to you about all the sacrifices he's made lately to
finance his new career. To — to demonstrate to you that
he's finally found the thing that inspires him most. He
told me you always put him down. Won't even give him a
chance. Everybody deserves a chance, Mr Redfield. Didn't
somebody help you at the start of your famous career?"

Hard work, resilience and the ability to make tough
decisions without wavering had taken him to the top, Piers
mused passionately. Not a leg up from his father. Now, as
he considered the rather arresting brunette in front of
him, with her pouty coral lips, honey-brown eyes and the
cute little beauty spot just above her left cheek, he
could only think it typical that she'd been led to believe
that he was the storybook hard-hearted father and Lawrence
the poor, misunderstood, rejected son. If he'd been in the
mood he could have illuminated her misconceptions with a
few unpalatable facts about that poor, misunderstood,
rejected son, but Piers didn't see the point when her mind
was so obviously already made up.

Glancing down at the Rolex encircling his tanned wrist, he
briefly noted the time, then looked pointedly at the young
woman in front of him.

"You said sacrifices? What "sacrifices" has my son made
lately to finance his new career that I should know about?
And, by the way, you've got precisely three minutes before
I have to go and chair a board meeting."

"Well..." Clearing her throat, Emma wished she had a glass
of water to hand. It wasn't easy to articulate her
concerns about Lawrence when her mouth felt as dry as sun-
bleached bones. Only now it started to hit her how
stupidly presumptuous she'd been in waltzing into the
building and infiltrating this man's protected enclave as
if she had every right. He was Piers Redfield, for
goodness' sake! The role model for aspiring corporate
geniuses everywhere, according to his son. Head of one of
the premier management consultancies in the country, with
a worldwide reputation to match. And not only was his
business acumen admired by the great and the good, but he
was also awesomely attractive, a fact that Emma hadn't
really been prepared for. The man had so much class it
practically oozed from his pores, she reflected a little
resentfully, reluctantly admiring the beautiful cut of his
tasteful dark grey pinstripe suit.

"He sold his car and his motorbike to raise some capital,
and they were both his pride and joy, but it's still not
enough for him to start up in Cornwall. He'll also need to
pay rent on a place as well as buy food. It's going to
take a while before the business takes off, but you mark
my words, Mr Redfield, it will! Have you any idea how
talented your son is?"

"I know exactly what kind of talents my son is endowed
with, Miss...?"

"Robards." 'Miss Robards. But somehow I don't think
they're the same ones that you're so keen to endorse. And,
for what it's worth, setting up a pottery in an already
overcrowded market in the middle of St Ives is not my idea
of a viable venture. If you want my opinion, and I'm sure
you don't..." The piercing blue eyes frosted over as they
swept over her flushed features, causing Emma to bite
apprehensively down on her lip. "...it's just another
excuse for Lawrence to swan around abdicating all
responsibility for his own welfare at my expense. I've
given him money more times than I care to mention to
finance any number of madcap schemes, and he squandered
his mother's legacy in less than a year. I'm afraid as far
as I'm concerned he's more than had his quota of help from
me. Shame you had a wasted journey, Miss Robards." And
with that Piers walked around his desk and picked up the
phone.

Emma could hardly believe he was dismissing her so easily,
so coldly, and without consideration. It was his son she'd
come to talk about, not some stranger who wasn't anything
to do with him! She'd never had a man cry in her arms
before, but last night Lawrence had. He'd broken down and
poured out all his heartbreak — his lonely, un-loved
childhood, the death of his poor unhappy mother, driven to
numerous affairs during her marriage to Piers because of
his addiction to work and making money, and his father's
coldness to him whenever he asked for his help. No wonder
he hadn't got into university, he'd told her with wounded
eyes. No wonder he'd drifted ever since. He was a lost
soul and Emma was only too glad to help him in whatever
way she could. She might have started out as just the girl
who occupied the flat downstairs, but they'd quickly
become friends and she'd often fed him when he'd run out
of money for food and his cupboards were bare. The least
his cold, imperious father could do was hear her out on
his behalf!

"Mr Redfield." Piers glanced up in surprise as Emma
crossed the room to the edge of his desk and laid her hand
across his where it rested on the receiver. Her skin was
exquisitely soft, like the dewy petals of a rose, and he
had to curb his surprise at the effect it had on him. A
sensual little charge of electricity ran up his arm at her
touch and created a nicely warm heat haze in his groin.
Time seemed to stand still as all Piers's senses were
drowned in the sheer eroticism of the moment. Then, giving
himself a mental shake, he moved his gaze to her face and
was gratified to see her blush, amused when she quickly
withdrew her hand as if he might have something
contagious. Was she for real? That becoming colour
flooding her cheeks certainly couldn't be faked. He might
not admire Lawrence for much, but he could certainly
admire his taste in this particular woman. She was too
young, of course — twenty-three or -four at most — but she
had gumption: that much was clear, or else she wouldn't
have risked arriving un-announced in his office to plead
her case for his good-for-nothing son. And the way that
cerise jacket fitted across that sexy little black stretch
top of hers... Well, those delicious curves could keep a
man distracted better than the latest Ferrari out of the
showroom. Piers withdrew his hand to his trouser pocket,
his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in deeply to
contain his sudden lust.