Читать книгу Enemy Within - AMANDA BROWNING, Amanda Browning - Страница 4

MICKEY HANLON experienced a dismayingly familiar tightening of her stomach muscles as, through the window of what they laughingly called her office, she watched a tall male figure climbing out of a now stationary jeep. Only moments before, the vehicle had raced down the fortunately deserted track which led to the bay on which her charter business was situated, leaving a slowly settling cloud of dust in its wake. With blatant disregard for the signs, he had parked in a no parking area, and Mickey knew instinctively that this was the way he went through life, obeying only the rules he wanted to, and making up the rest.

She also knew, with a faint sinking feeling, that he just had to be Ryan Douglas, the man who had chartered her float plane, and her skills, for the next few days, and for whom she had been waiting with increasing annoyance these past two hours. Justifiable annoyance, because on the telephone Ryan Douglas’s secretary had been most insistent she be there to meet him. Not that that had been hard to arrange, for, with the end of summer, the chartered sight-seeing trips were virtually over, although there would always be the out-of-season trade. But it had meant turning over one of her flights to another of her pilots, who should have had the day off.

She doubted she would have done it for anyone else, but there was a great deal of clout to be gained from piloting a world-famous photographer on one of his now legendary field trips. She’d caught an exhibition once while on a trip south to Vancouver, but all she knew of him came from overhearing the drooling conversation of two women who had also been visiting the show. He was, she had discovered, in his mid-thirties and unmarried, but that hadn’t impressed her half as much as his work. There was poetry in the photographs, a vision of a world the way it could be, even in the midst of turmoil and carnage.

To be even peripherally involved in the production of such art had helped her decide it would be good business to be adaptable. Besides, there was no point in wearing blinkers. The company desperately needed the kudos the assignment would bring. The recession was hitting her, too, creating a definite cash-flow problem. Keeping a fleet of float planes in tiptop condition took a great deal of money, and had priority, so other areas suffered. The buildings needed urgent attention, which meant they needed paying customers, but paying customers didn’t use a company which had all the signs of rampant seediness. Ryan Douglas was a way out of her difficulties, and so she had made a point of being on the ground at the specified time, only to find herself kicking her heels uselessly.

Now the root cause of her irritability was walking towards the converted boat shed as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A leather flying jacket sat comfortably on broad shoulders, while a pair of long legs, encased in thigh-hugging jeans, ate up the ground in loping strides. The ease with which he carried a canvas grip hinted at latent power, a power not solely allied to mere physical strength. Here was a man who was in complete control of himself and his life, and for no accountable reason Mickey shivered, the tiny hairs standing up all over her body.

He made her feel threatened, in a way she had thought long buried, consigned to the very recesses of her brain with all other memories of Jean-Luc. She shuddered at the name, lips thinning, and thrust the memory away, concentrating on the present walking towards her. She wished she could see his face, but that was hidden in the shadow cast by the peak of his slouch hat. Faces told you a great deal about a person—whether they laughed a lot, and if they were to be trusted. She’d learnt that much from past mistakes, and wasn’t about to forget it. Unfortunately there was no chance to see this one, for three strides later he had disappeared into the building, leaving her with a feeling of edginess that bordered on tension.

At which point she got a firm grip on herself. She had no time to be so femininely fanciful. Jean-Luc was in the past. She was no longer prey to the kind of emotions he had aroused in her. If she was tense, she had every reason to be. The company which had become her life was under threat, and, added to that, she hadn’t heard from her sister Leah for some time. She was being silly to worry. Leah was probably caught up in university life. Everyone knew the young were notoriously forgetful. She’d write, very contritely, when she remembered.

Mickey squared her shoulders. She was a businesswoman, and was here to do a job. Running a small fleet of planes out of British Columbia had not been easy in a male-dominated field, but an unsuspected gritty determination had kept her going. She had forged a niche in life where she was liked and respected, a zillion miles away from the life she had left eight years ago, when she had been a deeply unhappy twenty-year-old. No man was going to undermine her achievements, no matter who he thought he was.

‘Hey, Mac? Is Hanlon inside?’ The abrupt tones of a deep male voice, coming from only yards away, broke into her reverie, making her jump and bringing an irritated scowl to her face at her reaction.

‘Mickey? Yep, sure.’ The slightly bemused tone of Sid Meeks, her mechanic and right-hand-man, echoed across the former boat shed which served as a hangar.

Footsteps approached the office, and she turned away from the window, crossing to her desk, unconsciously bracing herself for the meeting. The door was thrust open without a preliminary knock, and an electric force seemed to explode into the room along with the man. Mickey had never experienced anything remotely like it, and perhaps that was why her words came out far more sharply than she had intended.

‘You’re late, Mr Douglas!’ she snapped, taking an instant dislike to this male who seemed to think he could arrogantly do anything he liked. She had met the sort before. Jean-Luc had been a prime example, and her experiences with him had opened her eyes with a vengeance. Such men were anathema to her, and if she had known beforehand what this man was like she would never have agreed to spend an hour with him, let alone a few days!

At the sound of her voice the focus of her attention stopped abruptly; then, to her surprise and chagrin, he laughed, a deep-throated sound which almost curled her toes even as she tensed angrily. As her cheeks turned pink he propped his shoulder against the doorpost, tipped his hat on to the back of his head, and gave out with a long, soundless whistle.

She could see all she wanted of his face then. He had impossibly long-lashed blue eyes beneath mockingly raised brows, an aquiline nose and a mouth with a sensuality that should have carried a health warning! He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she had seen enough in her short life to know the difference between this and plain good looks. This man had it all, down to the dimple in his chin. The ruggedness of his jaw stopped him from looking effeminate, which was fortunate, for beneath his hat she could see a cluster of dark curls.

All this she absorbed in seconds, plus two undeniable facts. First he seemed vaguely familiar, and secondly he found her amusing. She hadn’t been prepared for the latter, nor the way his eyes began a slow inspection of her person. They didn’t miss much on the way down, and any lapse was accounted for on the way up. He noted the well worn boots on her feet, the shapeless khaki cords cinched in at her waist with a wide leather belt. His eyes lingered on the red plaid shirt, then followed the crimson tide up over an elfin face entirely devoid of make-up, large green eyes flashing angrily, full lips pulled into a tight line, until finally they skipped over the close-cropped black hair crammed beneath a dusty bush hat.

Crossing his arms, he shook his head. ‘What the hell are you supposed to be, a female Indiana Jones?’ he queried tauntingly.

Even Mickey, who rarely went to the cinema, had heard of the character he named, and she knew the reference was meant as no compliment, spoken the way it was. He found her lacking. Amusing in a pitiful way. To her surprise, considering the view was hardly novel, from this man she found she didn’t like it, not one little bit.

‘I didn’t dress to please you, Mr Douglas!’

That enticing mouth curved. ‘Nor any man, I shouldn’t imagine. What’s the matter? Don’t you like being a woman, or are you just scared of being one?’ he mocked back immediately.

To her everlasting dismay, her reaction was disgustingly feminine. ‘How dare you? You’re the rudest man I’ve ever met!’ she exclaimed furiously.

Mickey had never received such open scorn before. She was intelligent enough to realise her style of dress was considered odd, but she didn’t care. Her clothes were asexual, and that was exactly the way she wanted it. How typical of a man to assume that because she didn’t wear clothes which advertised her as ‘available’ she had to be scared! Well, she wasn’t advertising because she had nothing for sale. She had opted out. No doubt he would see that as unnatural, whereas she had merely taken control of her life, refusing to be at the mercy of her own hormones. She was not a body, but a person, and as a person she did not need to advertise her sex.

Far from being repentant, Ryan Douglas merely made himself more comfortable, crossing his long legs at the ankles. ‘Is that so? Well, you’re sure the strangest woman I’ve ever met,’ he said conversationally.

Entirely forgetting that it was bad business to alienate a paying customer, especially one so desperately needed, she felt acid fly to her tongue. ‘And you’ve known so many, I suppose?’

Ryan Douglas grinned. ‘Only my fair share. How about you?’

Mickey’s eyes narrowed as she detected the way the conversation was turning. How like a man to see her only as a sex object! And not a very alluring one at that! Her chin lifted belligerently. ‘How about me, what?’

If her direct challenge was meant to halt him, it failed signally. ‘How many men have you known?’ he enlarged obligingly, making her wish she’d kept her mouth shut.

‘One too many,’ she retorted snappily, and experienced an odd sensation in her stomach when his lips parted in a broad smile as he laughed.

‘Ouch! The...lady...has got claws all right! You’ve got looks too. Have you always done your best to play them down, or did something happen to send you into hiding?’

His choice of words was staggering, and without warning she was plunged into the black pit of remembrance, seeing Jean-Luc’s face as he laughed at her and told her she was a fool. Sexy, but a fool. The vision disappeared as she shivered and found herself back in the present. For a moment she could only stare at Ryan Douglas in a kind of shock, thinking, How on earth could he know? The answer came quickly: he couldn’t. It had been a lucky taunt, and only her reaction was in danger of revealing what she had kept so carefully hidden.

In an instant, shock turned to an icy hauteur she hadn’t used in years. ‘Mr Douglas, I suggest you mind your own business,’ she told him coldly. ‘And while you’re about it, you might as well turn around and go back where you came from.’ Hang the consequences; there was no way—absolutely no way—she would do business with this man!

He didn’t like her tone, or her suggestion; that was certain. The relaxation left him. ‘Lady, I don’t know who you are, but if you’re supposed to be some outlandish excuse for a secretary why don’t you do your job and get Hanlon for me?’ Looking around the sparsely furnished room, his eyes narrowed sharply, before shooting back to her. ‘I was told he was in here. Where is he? Hiding?’

There was something less than casual in the tone of that one word, but Mickey was too wrathful to pick it up. It gave her intense pleasure to cross her arms and raise her own eyebrows mockingly. ‘You’re looking right at him, Mr Douglas.’ An outlandish excuse for a secretary? He had some nerve!

Ryan Douglas froze, a deep frown cutting into his forehead as he swiftly shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. Sorry, sweetheart, but that’s where you’re wrong. I’m talking about Michael Hanlon, the owner of this business, and he’s very much a man.’

Again there was an undercurrent which she only registered peripherally. Her thoughts were on what a joy it was to put his charming nose out of joint. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid it’s you who are mistaken, Mr Douglas,’ she countered with a sweet smile.

Blue eyes hardened with a suspicion of anger. ‘There’s no way on earth you can be Michael Hanlon.’

‘Not Michael, Mr Douglas, Michaela, but my friends call me Mickey. Would you care to see my passport?’ she returned smoothly, once more in control, and enjoying his discomfiture. She suspected it wasn’t very often that anyone got the better of this man.

Ryan Douglas swore, violently. ‘The hell you say! All your company details, right down to your letterheading, refer to Michael Hanlon as the owner. How do you explain that, or can I do it myself? Is that the way you usually get work, by hiding the fact that you’re a woman and cheating your way into a job?’

The unjust allegation made her blood boil. The truth was she had used the last of the correctly headed stationery some time ago, and as there hadn’t been the spare cash to order more she had latched on to the idea of using her father’s, as the difference was only one letter. It was her custom to ink in an ‘a’, but this time she must have forgotten to do so. She was left on the defensive, which she hated. ‘A printing error,’ she lied blithely, before getting on to the nitty-gritty. ‘For your information I didn’t hide the fact that I’m a woman, and I’ve certainly never lied my way into a job!’

An icy gaze gave her the once-over again. ‘From where I’m standing you’re doing your best to make yourself sexless!’

Clearly he meant the words to sting, but Mickey only felt vindicated in her choice. She had no desire to be the focus of anyone’s attention, and especially not a man’s. No, she had lived in the spotlight, experienced its notoriety, and now all she wanted to do was fade into the background with the rest of humanity. That wasn’t too much to ask, surely? Not the crime he made it out to be!

‘However,’ he went on tersely, ‘it makes no difference, honey, because it’s a well known fact that I never work with women.’

She just bet he didn’t! Women had other uses! As the scornful thoughts whipped through her brain, she suddenly recalled why he had seemed so familiar. She’d read an article at the dentist’s about a man they’d labelled a ‘connoisseur of women’. Disgusted, she hadn’t bothered to notice the man’s name, but now she realised the picture had been of Ryan Douglas. And connoisseur was just the word, because, although he didn’t photograph them, he certainly appreciated their beauty. He always had them around him, and working was far from his mind!

She didn’t know whom she despised most, the women who let themselves be used, or the man who did the using!

Her lips pursed, angered by his cutting remarks and his blatant chauvinism. If there was one thing Mickey knew implicitly, it was her ability to do her job. ‘My sex doesn’t come into it, only my competence. If you’d bothered to ask, anyone could have told you I was female. In fact, I assumed you knew. However, you needn’t worry about compromising your chauvinistic pride, because this is one woman you certainly won’t be working with!’ And with that declaration she bent down to pick up a tan flying jacket, so similar to his own, which lay by the desk.

Which was as far as she got, because, when she turned, Ryan Douglas’s large frame blocked her exit. Involuntarily she reared back a step, eyes sending out icy darts, even as her brain registered the shock-wave of heat which had seemed to flow from him, and the tangy scent of his aftershave. ‘Excuse me,’ she said pointedly, hands tightening on the leather in automatic rejection of the way her senses had rioted in response.

Dear lord, the very last thing she had ever expected or wanted was to be attracted to this man! But she knew herself now, recognising the singing rush of blood through her veins had nothing to do with loathing. The thought brought with it a sickening self-contempt. Scornfully she asked herself why she should be surprised. He was just like Jean-Luc, a user, and heaven knew her weakness there! Would she never learn?

‘And just where the hell do you think you’re going?’ he demanded tersely.

Mickey ground her teeth, grateful for a fresh surge of dislike. ‘If you’ll just get out of the way, I’m leaving, which will please both of us no end!’ she returned pithily.

One long arm reached out, his hand closing on her arm and cutting off the blood. ‘Oh, no, you don’t! I hired you, and I sure haven’t fired you.’

She tried to pull free, alarmed to feel the imprint of each finger and the warmth of his palm, but he foiled the attempt with ease, which only made her angrier. ‘A formality, surely. After all, like it or not, I am a woman, and you don’t like them if they have brains, do you, Mr Douglas?’ she scorned.

His hold relaxed slightly, and a lazy warmth entered his eyes, deepening the blue to mysterious depths. ‘Oh, I like all sorts of women. At least, women who look like women. I simply don’t work with them because they’re trouble. They always try to mix business with pleasure.’

Dear God, the man was insufferable, and if she kept thinking that way the fledgling attraction would wither and die. ‘Meaning you think you’re irresistible? Well, here’s one woman who disagrees!’

‘But then you’re not a real woman, are you, Mickey Hanlon?’ he taunted softly, and she paled, her breath catching at the unexpectedly sharp dart of pain which shot through her.

It took a real effort to hold his gaze and not reveal just how he had got to her. By ‘real woman’, no doubt he meant some mindless sex object, and that she refused to be ever again. ‘Whatever my supposed failings, I’ll be taking them with me when I go.’ Which couldn’t be soon enough as far as she was concerned.

‘And just where am I going to get another pilot at such short notice?’ Ryan Douglas ground out harshly.

Of all the arrogant...! He thought he could say what he liked and still get her co-operation. Not this time. ‘That’s your problem. You made the rules. No women, remember? So goodbye, Mr Douglas.’ When she tugged at her arm again, she found herself instantly released. However, the sense of freedom was fleeting.

‘Leave here, and I’ll sue you for breach of contract.’

The threat halted her in the doorway, and she turned swiftly. He was smiling, but the smile on his lips failed to reach his eyes, and she shivered atavistically. ‘You can’t be serious?’

He laughed drily. ‘I’ve never been more so.’

Mickey took a steadying breath. If ever there was a time for caution, this was it. ‘But you don’t want me,’ she pointed out, then mentally kicked herself as she realised how unfortunate the statement was.

It wasn’t lost on him. One sardonic eyebrow rose. ‘An apt choice of words. Unfortunately, time is short, and if you’re the owner of this...establishment, then it has to be you I deal with,’ he declared grimly, mouth hardening into an indomitable line.

While common sense was telling Mickey she should get out of there as fast as her legs could carry her, she knew his threat was far from just talk. While it was unnerving, she was brought up short with a reminder that she was reacting most unprofessionally. She had never walked out on a job yet, but, more than that, she couldn’t risk her whole livelihood so recklessly. Though it galled her to do it, she curbed her dislike. ‘What are you suggesting? That I put one of my male pilots at your disposal?’ she challenged, determined to be as professional as she knew how.

A devilish amusement quirked at his lips, but a glance at his eyes would have shown them to be as hard as diamonds. ‘The contract specifically states that M. Hanlon is to be my pilot. That being the case, I’m prepared to overlook the fact that you’re a woman. After all, you’re doing your best to pretend you aren’t one. And I’ve a feeling you’ll agree to the compromise, because you think you’re a match for any man, don’t you, Mickey—short for Michaela—Hanlon?’

There were good reasons for Mickey’s chosen lifestyle, but that wasn’t one of them. Not that she was about to explain herself to this man. ‘I’m a professional, Mr Douglas. That’s why you hired me, and that’s what you’ll get. However, I may have signed a contract with you, but it doesn’t give you the right to throw insults at me all day long,’ she protested, determined to set some ground rules here and now.

Taking off his hat, Ryan Douglas raked a hand through his hair. ‘You’ll have to learn to develop a thick skin to go with the trousers if you want to be taken seriously, Hanlon,’ he observed drily, before settling the hat back more comfortably. ‘OK, now you’d better show me round.’

She had been just about to protest the scathing use of her surname, but his command halted the flow. This was something she hadn’t taken into consideration. She had no reason to be ashamed of her fleet, although two of her float planes were temporarily out of commission, waiting for spares—which also cost money, so that they were seriously considering cannibalising one to keep the others air-worthy. And there was no denying that the adapted boat shed had seen better days. Even the sign was faded and flaking.

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ she queried stiffly, knowing that an outright refusal would only make him suspect she had something far more serious to hide than bad paintwork.

A fact not lost on him as he stared her out. ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t take a look?’

A reason other than that she disliked him intensely? ‘None at all,’ she said coldly, and led the way out with head held high.

There was not much to see, and she showed him round both inside and out on the jetty with her back ramrod-straight. It didn’t help to view her property through his eyes, noticing where several boards needed replacing here, or a coat of paint was needed there. For an instant she wished she had asked Leah for a loan after all, but knew the reasons for not doing so hadn’t changed. Just because someone had money, it didn’t mean you had the right to ask for some of it, even if they were your family.

Recalling that made her wonder once again what Leah was doing. It was unlike her not to have been in touch, and she made a mental note to write to Sophie the minute she got home tonight.

A sharp question brought her back to her major problem, and, biting back the urge to defend the depressingly seedy look of things, Mickey kept her observations brief and to the point. She knew that where it counted, namely the float planes, everything was in good order. Sid regularly serviced each machine, just as he was now doing to hers. For his part, Ryan Douglas said little, merely took everything in non-committally. Only when they had returned to the office did he turn a poker face her way.

‘Right, I’ve seen enough; let’s go.’

Having been expecting a scathing indictment of her company, Mickey was taken aback. ‘Go? Go where?’

That pitying look she was fast coming to loathe returned to his face. ‘To dinner, of course. I’ve just had one hell of a journey, and I’m tired and hungry. I’m booked into the Crest Motor Hotel, so we’ll eat there.’

His assumption that she would simply fall in with whatever plan he chose was like waving a red rag. Once she might have slavishly obeyed any order Jean-Luc had given, but those days were long gone. When you rediscovered self-worth, you didn’t abandon it again to anyone! Mickey quickly counted to ten before exploding. ‘Oh, we will, will we? Let me remind you, Mr Douglas, you hired a pilot, not a dinner companion!’

‘Just as well I did, because there’s nothing more liable to put me off my food than sitting across from a sour-faced woman.’

Mickey gasped in outrage. ‘Your charm overwhelms me!’

His gaze became speculative. ‘Do you want me to charm you, Hanlon? I thought you wanted me to treat you like a man.’

‘I want...’ She stopped her hasty retort mid-flow, aware that she was only making herself ridiculous in his eyes.

‘Yes? You want...?’ Ryan Douglas prompted, the glint of laughter in his eyes confirming her thought.

Mickey drew breath slowly, amazed at how easily her usual calm temperament had been changed to aggression by the man standing before her. And as that only appeared to amuse him, she’d be civil if it killed her. ‘Mr Douglas, it’s been a long, frustrating day for me, too. All I want to do is go home.’

If she had hoped to appeal to a better side of his nature, she quickly discovered he didn’t have one. ‘Your wants will have to wait. There are certain matters which have to be discussed. I didn’t plan on dealing with a woman, but nothing else has changed. We’ll have our...talk...over dinner.’

Mickey fumed inwardly. He could have told her that in the first place, but he’d been having too much fun goading her. Though she was ready to spit nails, she found a dignified reply. ‘Very well, Mr Douglas, if you insist.’

‘Oh, I do,’ he returned softly. ‘And I also insist you stop calling me Mr Douglas. My name is Ryan; use it.’

Not a request, but a command. Well, two could play at that game. ‘And my name is Mickey, not Hanlon!’

He had the gall to grin. ‘Hanlon suits you better. Mickey is soft and feminine, while Hanlon is as tough as old boots.’

If she had had an old boot, she would have chucked it right at his grinning face! What had she let herself in for? Even a day in Ryan Douglas’s company would be pure purgatory. But perhaps there was a way she could get a little of her own back. After all, they were on the ground now, but in the air they were in her territory. She’d find out then just what sort of stuff Ryan Douglas was made of!

She looked up to find those intense blue eyes had narrowed. ‘Stop looking like the cat who got the cream, Hanlon. You’re beginning to make me nervous.’

Mickey swallowed back a caustic laugh. The man didn’t have a nerve in the whole of his body! ‘We wouldn’t want that, would we, Mr...Ryan?’ She stressed his name as she caught the lift of his brows. ‘Not when you’re putting your life in my hands.’ She waggled her fingers under his nose, and very nearly yelped when he caught hold of them in his own large, strong hand. She couldn’t have protested even if she’d wanted to, because the jolt of electricity which had shot up her arm at the contact took her breath away. Horrified, she found herself staring at the sight of her own slim hand imprisoned in his, while her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest.

Meanwhile, Ryan was studying his captive. ‘Hmm, long, graceful fingers. Hardly the strong, practical type. Are you sure you’re in the right line of work? Somehow, they just don’t fit the image,’ he mused, and Mickey quickly snatched her hand away, grateful for the excuse.

‘Don’t worry, I haven’t lost a paying passenger...yet,’ she shot back with all the aplomb she could muster, while surreptitiously rubbing her hand down her trousers in an attempt to stop the tingling.

His lips quirked. ‘I don’t like the way you said that. Could you, by any chance, be flirting with me, Hanlon?’

She froze, the animation dying out of her face. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—flirt with him, for to do so would be flirting with danger. Mentally and physically, she backed off. ‘Hardly! Women like me don’t flirt with men like you,’ she enlarged with distaste.

‘You say that as if you’ve met men like me before. Was it one of them who sent you running?’ he queried shrewdly, but only managed to put her on an even keel again.

Secure in the knowledge that men like him and Jean-Luc were too vain to see they might not be the be-all and end-all, Mickey curved her lips with icy amusement. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how men always imagine it must be one of their kind who makes a woman the way she is?’

‘That’s because it usually is,’ Ryan observed watchfully. ‘You’re saying you’re different?’

She laughed, turning to the door once more. ‘I’m not saying anything.’ She refused to be drawn into a personal discussion with him.

Ryan followed her out into the hangar. ‘You don’t need to, Hanlon; your silence speaks for you.’

Unseen by her antagonist, Mickey briefly closed her eyes. ‘Back off, Ryan. You’re my passenger, not my confessor.’

Behind her, he laughed. ‘Do you have anything to confess?’ he challenged, then came to an abrupt halt as she swung to face him.

He had pushed her an inch too far, and her finger stabbed at his chest. ‘If you want a confession, here’s one. I’ve made mistakes in my life, but the biggest one was having anything to do with you!’

Hands hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, he looked down at her mockingly. ‘Why so touchy? Have I hit a nerve or ten?’

Mickey turned away in a movement that was distressingly nearly a flounce. ‘Not even close. I just got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ she snapped, trying to recover lost ground.

‘If you’d been in it with a man, it wouldn’t matter what side you got out of,’ he sent after her, bringing her round again, cheeks flaming.

Painful memories rose dangerously near the surface, of reckless, selfish taking. But nothing was free. Pleasure had to be paid for. Passion could be a curse, a greedy monster. ‘Sex isn’t the answer to everything!’ she spluttered angrily.

For once Ryan didn’t laugh. ‘If it isn’t the cure, it’s often the cause.’

Mickey was beginning to feel she was being put through an emotional wringer, and every time she tried to free herself she just went round again. ‘Thank you, Dr Freud, and goodnight. For someone who says he won’t work with a woman, you keep harping on the fact that I am one,’ she accused.

‘Just trying to figure out what makes you tick, Hanlon,’ Ryan answered smoothly.

‘Better men than you have tried, and failed in the attempt,’ she shot back, and regretted it immediately when his lips curved drily.

‘Froze them all off, did you? I can’t say that surprises me. So it shouldn’t surprise you to hear you might just have met your match,’ he observed softly, with an undertone which set her heart knocking.

Alarm shot through her system before she could suppress it. ‘You’re forgetting your own rules, Ryan,’ she reminded him, far too breathlessly. She felt vulnerable, and it was a bad feeling, because she knew the enemy was as much within as without.

‘Ah, but then rules are made to be broken. You intrigue me, Hanlon, and that means you might just be worth making an exception of.’