Page 2 of Arrogant Heir

I blame the romance classics. And brooding Mr Darcy, of course, played by Colin Firth in his bulging britches, emerging from the lake in his sodden white shirt clinging to his delicious torso. That cinematic moment is burned into my brain and only intensified my fascination and launched a whole new generation of Darcy acolytes.Don’t judge us.

I follow a visitors’ sign and pull up to the side of the circular drive, near the ivy-covered manor house. A liveried member of staff appears as if out of nowhere, like a magical genie at my car door, and I open the window. The man greets me with a warm smile, even though fat raindrops bounce off his creased forehead while he stoops to talk to me. ‘Welcome to Greystone Manor, Ms Jackson. Follow me. I’ll show you where to park.'

I tuck my car into the spot he indicates beneath a large, covered parking area which looks like converted stables, and I jump out of the car and stretch my legs. Luxury vintage sports cars languish nearby, and I can’t help but be impressed by the sheer grandeur all around me.

I blink and bring myself back to reality. The man rushes to take my bags and so begins my first visit to Greystone Manor.

CHAPTER2

Damian

The day’s getting away from me and I’ve still got a ton more stuff to get through. I’ve been holed up in my Greystone office for hours, trying to clear my desk before the dreaded ghostwriter arrives. The very thought of a book about our family shoots ripples of horror through my gut.

I resisted the idea of commissioning a book about how the family built the business empire, but Grandfather insisted. He says it will be great publicity and, as I’m CEO of Rochester Media, leading the project has landed squarely on my shoulders. The last thing I want to do is share my innermost thoughts with a prying stranger, but Grandfather leaves me with no choice.

He seems easy-going enough, but I know the same steel core still runs through him as when he pulled himself up from a working-class background as the son of the owner of a small country store to one of the wealthiest and most respected business legends in the world.

Let’s just say I’ve learnt to pick my fights with him carefully. I sense this isn’t one I can win, so I agreed to go along with his wishes to please him, but now I’m regretting it before we’ve even begun.

Heavy rain lashes down and strums against the tall, recessed windows and I press the button on my phone when it buzzes. It’s my assistant. ‘Yes?’ I growl.

‘Just to let you know, the ghostwriter arrived a while ago and is with your grandfather in the library. He’s requested you join them.’

I scowl at my watch, cursing under my breath. There aren’t enough hours in the day lately, what with all the new acquisitions going on at Rochester Media. We’re expanding fast and some days I barely let myself sleep more than a few hours. Besides, I’m not much of a one for sleeping in.

‘Very well,’ I say. ‘Tell my grandfather I’ll be along shortly.’ I end the call with an abrupt thank you. It’s not my poor assistant’s fault I’ve got too much on my plate. I know I shouldn’t take it out on her, but she endures my ill-temper. I must ask a member of the team to order her a VIP hamper from the store for her birthday. I can’t afford to lose her. My life would be even more chaotic than it already is if she wasn’t around. The irony is she’d order the perfect gift for herself, but it seems incredibly poor taste—even for me—to instruct my assistant to arrange her own birthday gift.

I rise from my leather chair and stretch my legs, feeling cramped after poring over reports since first light. It’s a joke, really. I’ve still got a reputation as a carefree playboy when the reality is, since Grandfather made me CEO of Rochester Media, I work nearly every hour of the day. The wild parties are long behind me, but it doesn’t stop the media from taking every chance they get to make me look like the bad boy. I gave a press conference recently and instead of writing about the incredible expansion of my baby—our media company—the headlines in the UK press were all about my party lifestyle and the accompanying photo was of me and my assistant up close when she handed me some documents. Like I say, my assistant puts up with a lot.

Even if I had the free time to indulge, I’ve outgrown the playboy lifestyle. It was just a destructive phase after my father died, and the girl I thought I was going to spend my life with, ditched me. I used alcohol and women to distract me from the pain, and although I still enjoy a drink and the occasional night out with my brothers, I’m usually sober these days. But tell that to the papers—I should know because I own a media company…

Sighing, I move away from the rain sodden window, realising that I feel just as gloomy as the awful weather. The mere thought of a ghostwriter makes me nervous, given my turbulent relationship with the press.

Shaking my head, I give myself a talking to. This is just another part of the job, which mostly I adore. I must reframe the book as an opportunity to develop the family brand and improve my reputation. If I don’t, the next three months will be hell, trying to fit working with the ghostwriter around my already demanding schedule.

Damian, you need a better attitude.My father’s voice rings in my head and sadness claws at me. If he were still here, he would oversee the family book, and I can’t help thinking he’d do a much better job of it than me. I still don’t feel ready to bear the weight that being the eldest son and heir brings with it.

My father was so calm and level-headed. I let my emotions get the better of me, which is why I must keep a firm control of them. He used to encourage me to talk to him, even though he knew I struggled to talk about my feelings, or perhaps because of it. And as much as I disliked the process, the relief was palpable once I opened up to him. I miss those conversations. I miss him. It’s been five years, and the pain is still raw, like a festering wound that won’t heal.

Would he be proud of the man I’ve become? I hope so. I’ve done my best to live up to his high standards and expectations, but sometimes I fall short. He wouldn’t approve of my personal life, that’s for sure. My relationships with women—if you can call them that—are brief and surgical. The minute things get emotional, I withdraw. It’s easier that way. I’m not falling in love again. It’s too painful. And I tell myself I don’t need to when I’ve got my business and family. They are more than enough to fill the void.

That’s why I asked for a male ghostwriter. There’s nothing worse than talking about feelings. I expect a man will be more interested in the actual rise of the company, and not be so intrusive about my personal life. At least that’s my hope. In my experience, women ask too many probing personal questions, and I just don’t want to get into all that in the book. I shudder at the thought of millions of people reading about me.

No. A male ghostwriter was a good shout. Three months with a nosy writer buzzing about Greystone watching me and asking questions, is enough to push me over the edge as it is.

I grab my jacket. The rain has brought a chill into the air, and I head out the door, letting it swing shut behind me with a bang. The sooner I get this meeting over with, the sooner I can get back to my reports, which is what I do best.

CHAPTER3

Jamie

I feel like I’m on the set ofDownton Abbeywhen a uniformed woman greets me and says she will show me to my rooms. I follow her around the back of the house and it’s all I can do to stop my mouth dropping open as she points to a beautiful, thatched cottage nestled in a dip next to a pond a few minutes on foot from the manor.

The rain has stopped, and the spring sun casts a hazy yellow glow over the cottage. It looks like a scene from a picture postcard.

‘This is where I’m staying?’ I don’t know exactly what I imagined, but it wasn’t a luxury cottage in the grounds all to myself.

‘Yes, Ms Jackson. I trust it’s to your liking. It’s a beautiful cottage and I hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’ll have someone bring your luggage over shortly. Mr Rochester thought it would be an excellent location for you to work without being disturbed by the noise at the big house.’

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