Page 1 of Arrogant Heir

CHAPTER1

Jamie

I cast a final sweeping glance around the surfaces of my flat, taking in the messy piles of moving boxes sealed with packing tape. Home sweet home. I usually love this place. It’s my haven and holds so many happy memories. But not today. Today, I must get out of London and as far away from Simon as I can.

My breath snags in my chest as his familiar face looms in my mind. Tears fill my eyes before I can hold them back and get a grip on my emotions. After what seemed like non-stop crying for days, I promised myself there’d be no more tears.

‘Breathe, Jamie. Breathe. It’s all okay,’I whisper.

I shake my head as if to clear it of the ominous, dark thoughts.

Looking around one last time, my over-stuffed bag slung over my shoulder, a deep melancholy grips me and the tears flood into my eyes again despite my resolve.

What happened to my perfect life? Simon blew it all to smithereens with one sentence, that’s what. I still can’t get my head around how he could do it. I was flicking throughBeautiful Brides, picturing our upcoming wedding day, when he called to tell me it was off. Just like that.

He didn’t even have the balls to tell me in person.

For what seems like the millionth time, I question how I didn’t see it coming. I thought we were happy. Well,Iwas happy, anyway… I thought he was too. It makes me doubt everything we shared and who I am. How could I have got it so wrong? I was supposed to be his wife next month.

Sighing, I bend down to retrieve my suitcase from where it lies on the floor in the small hallway. Turning the lights off, I close the door with a loud click, then double lock it and check it again for good measure. I won’t be back for three months. At least, not if the Rochester job runs to plan.

Thank goodness I didn’t give up my beloved flat near Clapham Common and move in with Simon before the wedding like he wanted. I would now be heartbrokenandhomeless.

As I haul my case down the stairs, an image of Damian Rochester, the notorious heir to Rochesters & Co, one of the most prestigious chains of department stores and hotels, flashes through my mind. I thank my lucky stars I’ll be working with the original founder—old Mr Rochester—not with his first-born grandson. I doubt I could survive three months in close proximity with an arrogant playboy in my current fragile state.

A ghostwriter’s job is to get into the author’s head. I shudder at the thought of getting into Damian Rochester’s head. He was all over the papers a few years back and it didn’t make pretty reading for any self-respecting female. How stunning women line up to go out with someone like him, I’ll never know. Well, actually, that’s a lie. Idoknow. He’s a Greek-God-like specimen of a man whose sculpted body and exquisite face are enough to make anyone weep.Andhe’s a billionaire. Let’s not forget that…

Not that I blame anyone for being shallow. Simon makes huge money as an investment banker in the city, so who am I to judge? He’s not from a billionaire family, but he’s a multi-millionaire, and has got the attitude to go with it.

I like to make my own money, but that’s no reason to marry someone broke, is it? My mother made that mistake, and I swore I’d never depend financially on a man like she did.

I load up my adorable red Mini and peer upwards at the cream-coloured bay windows of my flat, adorned with knots of curling lilac wisteria. For a second, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. I love being at home in my cosy flat. What if I hate being at Greystone Manor out in the sticks? I hadn’t thought of that!

I shake my head.No. No. This is good, I remind myself. The Rochester assignment is the opportunity of a lifetime and if it goes well, it will set me up as an in-demand ghostwriter for the rich and famous, who can name her price and work only with high-net-worth clients. A few tiresome ones slipped through my rigorous vetting process recently, so I decided to work with an agency for a while and see if the quality improves. I only registered with them a few weeks ago, but the day after Simon hit me with his lame cold-feet wedding news, they called to offer me a lucrative gig. They’d had a guy lined up, but apparently, he pulled out at the last minute because of ill-health.

I need the money and the pull to get away from London seduced me instantly, so it was a straightforward decision. I accepted the job on the spot without giving it any serious thought. Simon will come looking for me as soon as he realises what a dick he’s been. This will show him—I’ll be gone. Living at Greystone Manor, no less. Will serve him right… He probably thinks I’m going to weep and wilt and wait around in my flat for him to call.

I know I’m obsessing, but I’m sure anyone who’s been dumped like this knows how much it hurts. Generally, I’m a positive person, so I’m hoping I’ll shake myself out of this miserable state as soon as I get stuck into the new book. Writing is therapeutic and getting into someone’s head takes stellar focus and concentration, so the solution to my problems is to immerse myself in the Rochester story. They’ve certainly got one hell of a rags-to-riches tale to tell.

Pulling out into the heavy mid-morning traffic, I weave through South-West London and join the A3 to Hampshire.

Hampshire—it has a comforting ring to it. Admittedly, it’s not that far from London, but I’ve only been there once years ago on a school trip to Winchester Cathedral. As I enter Surrey, I spin the volume dial on the radio and, for the first time in days, my spirits rally and I sing along.

‘Fuck him. Fuck him. And fuck him again.’ Da da da da. Okay, so they’re not quite the lyrics, but my own serve me better right now.

The morning dawned dry and bright, but big raindrops plop on my windscreen and pool on the glass, obscuring my vision. I switch on the wipers. The sky looks ominous and grey with rolling clouds up ahead. Just as well, it’s not a long drive. The sat nav tells me I should be there in less than an hour, and I put my foot down and increase my speed slightly as the wipers swish from side-to-side in a strangely comforting hypnotic rhythm, erasing the increasingly heavy flow of drops pounding the windscreen. I drive on, obsessing about Simon again, until a watery sun bursts through the clouds even though it’s still raining. There’s a glorious rainbow ahead, which reminds me that light always follows dark.

I’ll get through this. I’m not going to stay as miserable as this forever. Am I?

The rain continues pounding on my windscreen as I follow the directions and just as I think I must have missed the slip road, a sign for Winchester looms before me, and I shoot off the main road. I’m relieved to see more signs and know I’m headed the right way to Greystone.

The last thing I need is to be late and screw up my first meeting with Arthur Rochester. I see a sign for Greystone Village and then take another swift turn down a winding country lane and come to an abrupt stop in front of a barrier. A security guard in a hut at the entrance to a private road lined with swaying, rain-sodden oak trees approaches. The road certainly looks like serious money.

The anorak-clad guard asks me the purpose of my visit and I wait a minute, strumming my fingers on the steering wheel while he makes a call, presumably to check I’m legit. He waves me through as the barrier lifts. I drive on, battling through the rain, which is still lashing down. I spot an engraved sign and then I see Greystone Manor before me in the distance. It's an imposing gothic-style grey stone manor house, partially covered in ivy, which rises up like something out of a period drama and is set in acres of lush green parkland. It looks magnificent against the backdrop of black sky and torrential rain, but not quite the sunny spring-break I’d envisaged.

The irony of the Rochester family name makes me smile, despite my gloomy mood, and not for the first time since I accepted the assignment, one of my most beloved nineteenth-century novels floats into my mind:Jane Eyre. It’s right up there withPride and Prejudice, and the house looks like a combination of the two. Gothic like Thornfield Hall, the fictional Mr Rochester’s house, but majestic like Pemberley, the home of Mr Darcy in Jane Austen’s masterpiece.

Although I need a new contract, I realise my motivation goes much deeper than the financial and career rewards. I want to experience what it’s like to live in a stately home. There’s something about the history of it that intrigues me, and period homes have fascinated me for as long as I can recall.