Last-Minute Bridesmaid

Okay. Maybe she might have added a little something extra. After all, she had to stamp some Lovat flourish on her work. Otherwise, what would be the point of making something unique?

A smile crept up from her mouth to her eyes and a quick chuckle caught in her throat.

Watch out, Heath Sheridan. Ready or not, here I come. Get ready to be dazzled.

* * *

‘The trade fair figures are not what we wanted, Heath. The presentations were brilliant and every buyer I spoke to was impressed with the quality of the hardbacks, but they are dragging their heels when it comes to firm orders,’ Lucas explained, his exasperation clear even down the cellphone from a Malaysian hotel. ‘The book stores simply don’t want to hold a wide range of reference titles which only shift a few copies a year.’

Heath Sheridan scanned through the sales figures that had arrived onto his notebook computer in the past few minutes and quickly pulled together a comparison chart of how book sales were tracking in each region.

No matter how he mapped the data, the results were the same.

Sales were down in every category of reference book that had made Sheridan Press one of the few remaining commercially successful privately owned international publishing houses. The company had made its name one hundred and twenty years ago with high end, beautifully produced reference books. Biographies, dictionaries and atlases. Lovely books designed to last. And they did last. And that was the problem.

Over the past few weeks he had worked with Lucas and his talented marketing team to come up with a brilliant promotional campaign which focused on how Sheridan Press had invested in digital technology to illustrate the books which were still bound by hand so that every single reference book was a unique work of art. A superb combination of the latest technology with the finest hand-crafting techniques that four generations of the Sheridan family had created.

Shame that the booksellers did not see it that way.

That was precisely the kind of approach that his father had been looking for when he’d asked Heath to inject some new blood into the company—and save the jobs of hundreds of employees who made up Sheridan Press in the process.

Growing up, he had spent more time watching men embossing gold letters onto beautiful books than he had watching sports. These men had given their lives to the Sheridan family, just as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them.

He could not fail them. He would not fail them.

Heath exhaled long and slow before replying to his father’s Far East sales manager, who had lost just as much sleep as he had preparing for this sales trip. ‘I know that you and your team did the very best you could, Lucas—thank you for all of your hard work,’ Heath said, trying to inject a lighter tone to his voice. ‘Let’s see what Hong Kong brings! I can just see all of those new undergraduates heading off to university with some Sheridan books under their arms this fall.’

‘Absolutely.’ Lucas laughed out loud. ‘Call you when we get there. Oh—and don’t forget to take some time out to enjoy yourself at the wedding of the year. I’m glad I don’t have to come up with a best man’s speech for my own dad.’

‘Hey! I’m going to be a great best man. But, talking about enjoying yourself—why not take the team out to celebrate on Saturday? I’ll pick up the tab.’

‘Sounds good to me. Call you later in the week.’

The cellphone clicked off, leaving Heath in silence, his quick brain working through the ramifications of the call. Frustration and exasperation combined with resigned acceptance. This promotional tour of the Far East book fairs had to pay for itself in increased sales. This was precisely the market the investment in new technology was designed to attract.

He had been convinced that the techniques that had worked so brilliantly in the commercial fiction line of the Sheridan publishing empire, could be applied to the reference book section. He had taken over a tiny and neglected division straight out of university and transformed it into one of the seven top commercial publishers in the world. The profits from Sheridan Media had been keeping Sheridan Press afloat for years.

Surely it was time to reap the benefits of ten years of driving himself with a punishing workload. When was the last time that he had a holiday? And what about the series of failed relationships and missed family events?

There had to be a way to use all of that hard-won success to save the reference books. And save his relationship with his father at the same time.

His father had reached out to ask for his business advice. It was a small step—but a real step. And an important one in rebuilding their fragile family life. The media loved it and Heath had set up press releases and interviews which had rippled through the publishing world. New technology and traditional craftsmanship. Father and son. It was a golden ticket. Heath Sheridan was the equivalent of calling in the cavalry to save yet another much respected publisher from going to the wall.

He had jumped at the chance, excited by the possibilities. And excited by the opportunity to spend more time with Charles Sheridan. They had never had an easy-going relationship and this was the first time they had worked together as professionals.

Of course he hadn’t counted on being asked to be best man at his own father’s wedding. Especially considering who the bride was. That was an unexpected twist.

Asking for help or acknowledging any kind of problem had never been Charles Sheridan’s strong point. Maybe he should report back on what Lucas had told him.

Heath flipped open his phone when there was a polite cough and he looked up, blinking. The car had pulled to a halt and his driver was standing on the pavement, holding the door open for him while the rain soaked into the shoulders of his smart jacket.

Apologising profusely, Heath generously tipped the driver and stepped out of the executive car his father had sent to collect him from the airport. He stood long enough to take one quick glance up at the elegant stone building that was now the London office of Sheridan Press before the reporters realised who he was and ran out from the shelter of the arched entrance, cameras flashing.

Heath pulled his coat closer as protection against the heavy rain and smiled at the press.

Dealing with the media was all part of the job—as long as they produced column inches in the financial and trade press, then he was happy.

‘Mr Sheridan. Over here, sir. Mr Sheridan, is it true that you are taking over Sheridan Press when your father retires, Mr Sheridan?’

‘What can you tell us about rumours that the printing operation is going overseas, Mr Sheridan?’

‘How do you feel about being the best man at your father’s wedding? Is it third time lucky for Charles Sheridan?’

‘Thanks for coming out in this typically English summer weather, everyone.’ Heath smiled and waved at the cameras before turning to the female reporter who had asked the last question. ‘Alice Jardine is a lovely lady who my father has known for many years as a close friend. I wish them every happiness together. Of course I was delighted when my father asked me to be the best man at his wedding this weekend—it isn’t often that happens. As for the company? Business as usual, ladies and gentlemen. And no closures. Not while I am on the team. Thank you.’

And at that, by some unspoken signal, the main entrance doors slid open and Heath stepped inside with a quick smile and a wave.

But, just as he turned away from the press, a man’s voice echoed from over his shoulder, ‘Is it true that your late mother and Alice Jardine were good friends, Mr Sheridan? How do you feel about that?’

The doors slid shut and Heath carried on walking across the pale marble floor of the hallway, apparently deaf to the question, and it was only in the solitary space of the elevator that he slowly unclenched his fingers.

One by one. Willing each breath he took to slow down as the words of that last question repeated over and over again inside his head.

Feel?

How did he feel about the fact that the woman who had been his mother’s best friend was marrying his father?

How did he feel about the fact that Alice had been with his father while his mother lay dying in a hospice?

How did he feel?

Heath tugged hard at the double cuffs of his tailor-made shirt and fought back the temptation to hit something hard.

But that wouldn’t fit into his carefully designed image.

Heath Sheridan did not get ruffled or upset or display outrageous bursts of emotion and temper. Oh, no. He played it cool. He was a Boston Sheridan and the Boston Sheridans kept their feelings buried deep enough to be icebergs.

Well, this ice man was not going to melt and let the rest of the world feel the heat of the raging temper that was burning inside him at that moment, threatening to spill out into some ill-judged outburst.

So what if his father’s choice of bride hit one of his hot buttons?

He could deal with it. Was dealing with it. Would continue to deal with it.

Ironic that he should be asked that question outside the very house where his mother had spent the first twenty years of her life. The house had been built for his grandparents, who had been part of a group of aristocratic artist writers and intellectuals in the Arts and Crafts movement in the nineteen-thirties and the Art Deco features were original and stunning, especially in the library. Two storeys of hand-carved teak shelves were connected by a circular staircase which led onto an upper-level gallery, lit by a central domed roof.

Of course it had the wow factor for visitors to Sheridan Press, who were too much in awe to take notice of the fact that the recent catalogue of Sheridan books would fit neatly into one small part of the lower shelf.

Heath remembered playing hide-and-seek in the many stunning rooms, attics and cellars when he was a boy on rare visits to London with his parents, but now it was little more than a private meeting venue for his father and his circle of artist friends like Alice Jardine.