One Night With The Billionaire. Sarah M. Anderson

Allie said more forcibly. ‘We’ll manage. Maybe I can do the announcing myself.’

      But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. Apart from the fact that a girl in pink sparkles didn’t have the same gravitas as her grandfather, she could hardly announce her own acts.

      What they needed was a guy. A guy in a suit.

      Or … Or … She was clutching at straws here, but a guy in a cashmere coat?

      The banker had picked up Henry’s hat from the mud. He was standing on the sidelines looking almost as shocked as she was.

      He had presence, she thought. He was tall, dark and forceful, he had a lovely deep voice and, in his way, he was almost as imposing as her grandfather. Maybe even more so.

      She looked at the hat in his hands—and then she looked fully at him. Not seeing a banker, but … something else. ‘You’re Grandpa’s size,’ she whispered.

      ‘What?’

      ‘With his jacket and hat … you’re perfect.’ This was a lifeline—a slim one, admittedly, but she was clutching it hard. Maybe they could run the circus without a ringmaster but it’d be a sad imitation of what it should be—and Henry would know it and worry all the way to hospital and beyond.

      ‘He can do it.’ She turned back to Henry, stooping over the stretcher, taking his hands. ‘Of course he can. I’ll write out the introductions as we go. The thing’s a piece of cake.’

      ‘The banker?’ Henry whispered.

      ‘He’s already in a suit. All he needs is the trimmings. He’s Mathew Bond, a close relative of James, who does so much scary stuff that ringmaster pales in comparison. He made you collapse two minutes before show time and he’s happy to make amends. Aren’t you, Mathew? Have you ever seen a circus?’

      ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

      ‘Have you seen a circus?’

      ‘Yes, but …’

      ‘Then you know the drill. Dramatics R Us. Ladies and Gentlemen, announcing the arrival all the way from deepest, darkest, Venezuela, the Amazing Mischka …’ Can you do that? Of course you can. Grandpa’s coat, hat and cane … a spot of make-up to stop you disappearing under the lights … Surely that’s not so scary for a Bond.’ She smiled but her insides were jelly. He had to agree. ‘Mr Bond, we have a tent full of excited kids. Even a banker wouldn’t want them to be turfed out without a show.’

      ‘I’m no circus master,’ he snapped.

      ‘You hurt my grandfather,’ she snapped back. ‘You owe us.’

      ‘I’m sorry, but I owe you nothing and this is none of my business.’

      ‘It is. You said you’re foreclosing on the circus.’ She was forcing her shocked mind to think this through. ‘I have no idea of the rights and wrongs of it, but if you are then it’s your circus. Your circus, Mr Bond, with an audience waiting and no ringmaster.’

      ‘I don’t get involved with operational affairs.’

      ‘You just did,’ she snapped. ‘The minute you scared Grandpa. Are you going to do this or am I going to march into the big top right now and announce Bond’s Bank have foreclosed and the head of Bond’s Bank is kicking everyone out right now?’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

      ‘I’m not being ridiculous,’ she said, standing right in front of him and glaring with every ounce of glare she could muster. ‘I’m telling you exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t help. You caused this; you fix it.’

      ‘I have no idea …’

      ‘You don’t have to have an idea,’ she said. She’d heard the hesitation in his voice and she knew she had him. No bank would want the sort of publicity she’d just threatened. ‘You wear Grandpa’s hat and jacket and say what I tell you to say and there’s no skill involved at all.’

      ‘Hey,’ Henry said weakly from his stretcher and Allie caught herself and conceded a smile. To her grandpa, not to the banker.

      ‘Okay, of course there’s skill in being a ringmaster,’ she admitted. ‘This guy won’t be a patch on you, Grandpa, but he’s all we have. We’ll feed him his lines and keep the circus running. We’ll do it, I promise. Off you go to hospital,’ she said and she bent and kissed him. ‘Mathew Bond and I are off to run the circus.’

      ‘If you agree to my requirements,’ Mathew said in a goaded voice. ‘We’re foreclosing; you’ll accede quietly without a fuss.’

      ‘Fine,’ Allie said, just as goaded. ‘Anything you like, as long as this afternoon’s show goes on.’

      How had that happened?

      He couldn’t think of any circumstances—any circumstances—that’d turn him into a ringmaster.

      He was about to be a ringmaster.

      But in truth the sight of the old man crumpling onto the dirt had shocked him to the core. For a couple of appalling moments he’d thought he was dead.

      He shouldn’t be here. Calling in debts at such a ground roots level wasn’t something he’d done in the past and he wasn’t likely to do again.

      What had his grandfather been thinking to lend money to these people? Bond’s Bank was an illustrious private bank, arranging finance for huge corporations here and abroad. If things got messy, yes, Matt stepped in, but he was accustomed to dealing with corporate high-flyers. Almost always the financial mess had been caused by administrative mismanagement. Occasionally fraud took a hand, but the men and women he dealt with almost always had their private assets protected.

      He was therefore not accustomed to old men collapsing into the mud as their world shattered.

      Nevertheless, his news had definitely caused the old man to collapse. He watched the ambulance depart with a still protesting Henry and his white-faced wife, and he turned to find he was facing a ball of pink and silver fury.

      Seemingly Allie’s shock was coalescing into anger.

      ‘He’ll be okay,’ Allie said through gritted teeth, and he thought her words were as much to reassure herself as they were to reassure him. ‘He’s had angina before, but he’s had a rotten cold and it’ll be the two combined. But you … I don’t care what bank you come from or what the rights and wrongs are of this absurd story you’re telling me, but you tell him two minutes before a performance that you’re about to foreclose? Of all the stupid, cruel timing … This has to be a farce. I know Grandpa’s finances inside out. We’re fine. But meanwhile I have two hundred kids and mums and dads sitting in the big top. I’d like to kick you, but instead I need to get you into costume. Let’s go.’

      ‘This is indeed a farce.’

      ‘One you’re involved in up to your neck,’ she snapped. ‘Grandpa’s obsessive about his role—he’s written it all down ever since he introduced the camels instead of the ponies last year. You’ll have a script and gold-embossed clipboard. We have two minutes to get you dressed and made up and into the ring. We have two hundred kids and parents waiting. Let’s get them satisfied and I’ll do my kicking later.’

      ‘It’ll be me who does the kicking,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m not used to being pushed around, especially by those who owe my bank money.’

      ‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘All out war. But war starts after the show. For now we have a circus to run.’

      Which explained why, five minutes later, Mathew Bond, corporate banker, was standing in the middle of the big tent of Sparkles Circus, wearing tails, top hat and gold brocade waistcoat, and intoning in his best—worst?—ringmaster voice …

       ‘ Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the one,