Jane Sigaloff - Lost and Found

“This book is the perfect antidote to Christmas

get-togethers. Escape to a comfy chair and enjoy!”

—Company

“Sigaloff’s first novel is without doubt

an engaging romantic comedy!”

—Booklist

“Witty, juicy and romantic—a clever, controversial

comedy about finding love in all the wrong places.”

—Bestselling author Sarah Mlynowski

“Moving and cleverly written…

a great present for a girlfriend in need of some love

advice (we all have one of these).”

—handbag.com

“4½ stars… Sigaloff has an interesting

take on the relationship conundrum.”

—funkybitch.com

“Unusually daring in its approach…”

—The Big Issue

was born in London and, despite brief trips into the countryside, Jane has always been a city girl at heart. After studying history at Oxford University she entered the allegedly glamorous world of television, beginning her career as tea and coffee coordinator for Nickelodeon U.K. After she progressed to researcher and then to assistant producer, her contracts took her to MTV and finally to the BBC where she worked for over three years.

Since 2000, Jane has enjoyed a double life as a part-time P.A., which has given her more time to write and feel guilty about not going to the gym. She lives in London with her laptop and ever-expanding CD collection. Lost & Found is her second novel.

Find out more about Jane at: www.janesigaloff.com

By the same author:

Name & Address Withheld

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In a concerted attempt to be more concise than last time, immeasurable thanks and much love to my friends and family for their unwavering support, for listening (or at least making encouraging noises while thinking about other things), for their positivity and for ensuring that the life of this writer is by no means a solitary one.

In particular:

Omi—my PR granny extraordinaire. Kate—for always being there for me (and for valiant shelf patrol). Charlotte—for indispensable and immediate fast-talking advice. Louise, Alice, Gemma, Mandy, Fred and all at the Barnes Ladies Writing Circle—it wouldn’t be as much fun without you. Marten Foxon, the most flexible boss in London—for employing the only part-time part-time P.A., for being grammatically pedantic and for tales of the city. Melissa, Stuart and Clodagh—for providing insight into life as a lawyer and answering all my questions with due consideration. Peter French and Alex Tscherne at the Carlyle Hotel, New York, for unrivaled hospitality.

As always, thanks to my agent, Carole Blake, to Sam Bell for editorial prowess and keeping me focused, to Claire Sawford for PR duties and to the whole Red Dress Ink team who have worked so hard on my behalf both in the U.K. and North America.

For my parents—

all of them

and

for Paul—

my little big brother and partner in crime

since 1975.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

‘Something to drink, sir?’

‘We’ll have champagne…’

Sam hid behind her eyelids. She’d closed them for the steep climb from JFK and must have slipped straight into a power nap. But now she was very much awake. And listening. Taittinger + senior supervising partner (flirting) + altitude of 38,000 feet = certain recipe for disaster.

‘Just a still mineral water for me, please.’ Opening her eyes, Sam automatically ran a finger along her bottom lashes to remove any smudges of mascara, whilst flexing her calves and curling and uncurling her toes to prevent the onset of DVT. If she focused on her legs she was almost sure she could feel that the blood flow was a little sluggish in the bended knee area. Hypochondria in action. Sometimes knowledge was definitely not a good thing.

‘Oh, come on, let’s celebrate.’ Richard punched her arm playfully. Regrettably, despite the extra room in business class, he was still well within touching distance.

‘No, really. I might have some red with supper. You go ahead.’ She still couldn’t believe he’d flown out for the meetings. As for his behaviour last night—she was generously going to attribute it to the martinis. Yet he was sitting next to her. For the next seven hours. Twenty-first century purgatory.

‘Couldn’t you squeeze in one glass? We’re not billing them for this hour.’

Now he was trying lawyer jokes. ‘No, thanks.’ Champagne invariably gave her a headache at sea level. ‘Just the water.’ She exchanged an esoteric smile with the flight attendant as another waft of his Eau de Testosterone threatened to choke them both.

‘Great work this week. Very impressive. You know how highly I rate you.’

Typical ambiguity on the personal-professional line. But, while Sam could feel her flesh starting to crawl, her demeanour gave nothing away.

‘They were always going to take our recommendations.’

Determined to avoid prolonged eye contact, Sam rummaged in her bag for her lip balm and wished she could be teleported back to London. Business trips were one thing, but a night in New York with Richard Blakely was in a different league altogether. Especially given that the only merger she was working on didn’t involve him.

‘Maybe, but I’d forgotten how good you are round the table…’

‘I enjoy it. Especially when things go our way.’

Wallet, passport, make-up, hairbrush, mobile phone, PalmPilot, perfume, chewing gum, hand cream, dental floss—come on, come on. If her lips were to survive the brutal in-flight air-conditioning she couldn’t give up now. She was sure she could actually feel cracks forming.

‘…and you’ve always been a bit of a ball-breaker. I wouldn’t trust you with mine…’

Definitely not the impression he’d given her last night.

‘Cheers…’

Richard raised his glass and, hang on, was that a wink? Sam wasn’t sure. Watching as he tipped his head back åand took a long sip, she forced herself to think positive. Maybe a stray beam of light had caught the edge of his trophy Rolex as it peeped out from underneath his stiff made-to-measure Jermyn Street cuff. Not a glimmer of embarrassment from him. Nor any sign of a hangover. Amazing.