Читать книгу Mistletoe Mistress - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

THE Maltese Inn was an exclusive little nightclub she had heard about but never had the necessary connections to enter, it being the haunt of the very rich and the very famous. It was chic, select, and its clientele ranged from wealthy film stars and top models to the very élite of England’s aristocracy.

Once in Hawk’s car, which just had to be a magnificent sporty monster she had never heard of before but which was undoubtedly in the super league—nothing as well known as a Ferrari or Lamborghini for him, she thought nastily—she found herself dumb with nerves.

She glanced at him several times from under her eyelashes, her eyes and senses registering the big lean body clothed in evening dress with a jolt that didn’t lessen with the third or fourth glance, before forcing herself to make some sort of conversation. ‘This is a beautiful car.’ Never had words been so inadequate; never had she felt so inadequate. ‘What is it?’

‘A Cizeta-Moroder V16T.’ The piercing eyes flashed over her face for a moment before returning to the windscreen.

‘Oh.’ She was no nearer and it showed.

‘It’s an Italian car, designed by Marcello Gandini,’ Hawk said easily. ‘I like the power, the body style, and it’s beautiful and fast. When I drive I like to enjoy the experience, besides which I wanted a car which would take me from A to B in as short a time as possible.’

‘And this certainly would.’ She glanced round the interior of the two-seater coupé which was as dynamic inside as out.

‘I also like unusual things, not necessarily unique but things that haven’t been . . . cheapened by overuse,’ he continued softly.

There had been a thread of something in his voice she couldn’t quite place, but as she glanced at the dark profile again it gave nothing away, his features relaxed and quite expressionless.

She couldn’t believe she was sitting in the sort of car one only saw in the movies, being driven to the most fashionable nightclub in London by a dark, handsome—No, not handsome. She caught her thoughts abruptly, sneaking another glance at him. Handsome was too weak a word somehow for Hawk Mallen; it suggested pretty-boy good looks, traditional appeal, and the lean, hard face, penetrating blue eyes and cruel, sensual mouth were anything but that. She shivered suddenly, in spite of the perfectly regulated temperature within the car.

What on earth was she doing here? She must be mad. Her thoughts did nothing to calm her racing heartbeat. And the Maltese Inn, of all places. It was all Diors and diamonds there, and here was she in her little black dress and off-the-peg jacket... She felt a moment of nausea as her stomach turned right over. She was going to stand out like a sore thumb—

‘Look, could you just try and think of me as friend and not foe for an hour or two, at least until the meal is over?’ The deep, gravelly voice had amusement at its core; she could hear it curling the edges. ‘Good food is life’s second greatest pleasure...’ The piercing gaze swept over her flushed face for one brief moment but it left her in no doubt as to what he considered the first, and she felt herself blush even more fiercely. ‘And I’d prefer to enjoy the meal tonight without indigestion at the end of it.’

‘I don’t know you, Mr Mallen—Hawk,’ she corrected hastily as he made a growl of annoyance in his throat, ‘so how could I possibly regard you as foe?’

‘I’ve been involved with a good few women in my time, Joanne, on a business level and otherwise,’ he said quietly, ‘and one thing I’ve learnt along the way is that your sex doesn’t need a reason for anything it feels like doing.’

‘Well, that’s a sexist remark if ever I heard one,’ she retorted scathingly, forgetting her nervousness and apprehension as he pressed the fire button. ‘You’re one of those men who think women are empty-headed little dolls, good for one thing only?’

‘Did I say that?’ he drawled softly.

‘You didn’t have to.’ She was trying to give the impression of being as controlled and calm as he was, but it was difficult—more than difficult. She might have known he’d be a male chauvinist pig on top of everything else; this was getting worse by the minute.

‘You might have been able to read Charles’s mind but not mine, Joanne,’ he said calmly, ‘so please don’t make the mistake of thinking you can. And I wasn’t insinuating anything about Charles, before further crimes are laid at my feet. I’m quite aware of the platonic relationship between you both—“a father and daughter affection” were the words used to explain it, I think,’ he said easily, ‘by none other than his wife.’

‘You asked Clare about me?’ she screeched, her voice reverberating around the car’s plush interior and causing the man at the wheel to wince visibly. ‘How dare you?’

‘Who better to ask?’ His sidelong glance took in her scarlet face and he actually chuckled before adding, ‘Calm down, Joanne, calm down; it wasn’t like that. On the way to pick you up this evening I called by Charles’s house with some papers for him to sign, and it was Clare who mentioned you as it happens. They’re very fond of you, aren’t they?’ he said quietly. ‘You’re quite one of the family.’

She wasn’t sure if he was being nasty or not but her temper was still at boiling point and she didn’t trust herself to speak anyway. What an impossible man, she thought angrily. If ever she had needed confirmation that her decision to leave Concise Publications had been the right one, she’d just had it. Working as Charles’s publishing assistant had been nothing but pleasure, but as Hawk Mallen’s . . .

‘Did you enjoy your job, Joanne?’ It was as though he had read her mind, and she noted the past tense with a little flutter in her stomach. So, she was out on her ear, but then why this dinner tonight? she thought bitterly. So he could gloat, was that it?

‘Yes, I did.’ In spite of all her efforts to the contrary she couldn’t quite keep the thread of antagonism from showing. ‘It was interesting, exciting.’

‘And from what Charles tells me your input was considerably more than one could normally expect from a publishing assistant; would you say that was fair?’ he asked mildly.

She shrugged carefully. ‘I’ve no personal commitments so there was no need to clock-watch if that’s what you mean.’

‘Not exactly.’ The sleek, low beast of a car had just growled reluctantly to a halt at some traffic lights, and he stretched in the leather seat as he waited for amber, the movement bringing powerfully muscled thighs disconcertingly into her consciousness as she glanced his way. Her head shot to the front as though she had been bitten, the colour that had just begun to recede surging into her cheeks again.

What was it about him? she asked herself helplessly. Sexual magnetism? The aphrodisiac of wealth and power and authority? Sheer old-fashioned sex appeal? It was all those things and more, and it was devastating. He would have been dynamite on the silver screen, she thought ruefully. Pure twenty-four-carat box-office dynamite.

He didn’t speak again as the Cizeta-Moroder sprang away from the lights, but as they travelled along the well-lit London streets her nerve-endings were screaming at her awareness of him, and she had never felt so out of her depth in all her life.

When they drew up outside the refined elegant building of the Maltese Inn he uncoiled his big body from the low-slung car with easy animal grace, moving to the passenger side in a moment and opening her door for her.

‘You aren’t going to leave it here?’ She stared at him in surprise once she was on the pavement, but in the next second a massive uniformed doorman, who looked more like a prize fighter than anything else, was at their side.

‘Keys, Bob.’ Hawk dropped the keys into the man’s outstretched hand with a warm smile along with a folded banknote. ‘Look after her.’

‘As always, Mr Mallen, as always. Good evening, miss.’

‘Good evening.’ Joanne smiled into the big ugly face with a naturalness that had been missing in her dealings with Hawk, something the piercing blue eyes noted and filed.

There was another doorman ready to open the gleaming plate-glass door into the entrance lobby, and another who ushered them through that and into the area beyond, where the reception area, powder rooms and cloakrooms were, the nightclub itself being up a flight of wide, graciously curved stairs that would have done credit to any Hollywood movie.

Having divested herself of her jacket, Joanne was painfully conscious of the plainness of her dress and jewellery as she joined Hawk, the surrounding area seeming full of glittering women, with diamonds on their wrists, throat and ears, and all wearing dresses that must have cost a small fortune.

She was aware of the subdued buzz that Hawk was drawing, especially from the female contingent, as they walked towards the stairs, and it took all her will-power to keep her head high and her face cool and contained as they climbed the marble steps to the nightclub beyond.

That Hawk himself had noticed the covert glances became apparent when, on reaching the top of the stairs, he leant down and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t worry, they are the same with everyone; they’re trying to work out what us being together means.’

They aren’t the only ones, Joanne thought wryly, her nerves as tight as piano wire.

‘Too much time and too much money breeds mischief,’ Hawk went on cynically, ‘as many a damaged reputation has discovered.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced back down into the glittering array beneath them as they turned to go through the doors into the dimly lit nightclub, and there was more than one pair of beautifully painted eyes that stared brazenly back at her.

‘You don’t gossip?’

It was said mockingly but with more than a touch of scepticism, and Joanne paused just inside the room, meeting his sardonic gaze as she said, ‘No, I don’t. Why? Is that so unbelievable?’

‘Yes.’ The sensual mouth quirked apologetically. ‘I told you I don’t lie,’ he continued softly, ‘and you did ask.’

‘You seem to have a very low opinion of the female sex, Mr Mallen,’ she said tightly. ‘Or am I mistaken?’

It was a direct confrontation, and he smiled slowly, his eyes turning to liquid silver under the muted lighting and his dark skin accentuated by the whiteness of his smile. ‘I can’t answer that on the grounds that it might incriminate me,’ he said lightly.

‘I see.’ She was about to say more, a lot more, but the appearance of the head waiter, with a smile as wide as London Bridge, put paid to the flood of angry words, and as they were led to what was obviously a supenor table, right on the edge of the large dance-floor, she found herself once again overawed by her surroundings.

The champagne cocktails that appeared as though by magic at their elbows the moment they were seated were absolutely delicious; in fact she hadn’t tasted anything quite so delicious before, but she noticed that although Hawk ordered a second for her he had nothing more exciting than mineral water.

‘I’m driving.’ He answered her raised eyebrows with a smile. ‘One is enough.’

‘How resolute of you,’ she answered lightly.

‘Not really.’ The blue eyes narrowed, his gaze intent as he said, ‘My father had three times the permitted level of alcohol in his blood when he went off the road and caused the death of himself and my mother fifteen years ago. He was forty-four, she was just forty; I don’t find it hard to say no to alcohol when I’m driving.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ she asked lamely.

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘How about you? Do you come from a big family?’ he asked quietly.

‘No.’ She hadn’t expected this and it took her completely by surprise, causing her to stammer slightly as she said, ‘My...my mother is dead and I never knew my father.’

‘No siblings?’ The keen eyes had narrowed on her flushed face.

‘No, I . . . I was brought up in foster homes mostly. My mother... she didn’t relate too well to children.’ She stopped abruptly, appalled at what she had revealed. This man had drawn out of her what it had taken Charles and Clare twelve months to achieve. How could she have told him that about her childhood? she asked herself desperately. It had sounded as though she was asking for sympathy and that was the last thing, the very last thing, she wanted.

The appearance of a waiter at Hawk’s elbow in the next moment eased the situation somewhat, and after they had ordered he didn’t comment about what had been said before, engaging her in light, easy conversation that taxed neither her brain nor her tongue.

But... And there was a but, she thought silently, even as she laughed at something witty, and faintly cruel, he had just said about a well-known television presenter who had just swept into the nightclub with all the regality of royalty. Yes, there definitely was a but, although she couldn’t quite determine what it was.

Possibly the way he was watching her, his blue eyes cynical and probing even as his mouth smiled and made small talk, or perhaps it was the rather remote way he had with him, as though he was surveying everything and everyone from a distance and finding them wanting. Whatever, it was disconcerting, unnerving, and she was immensely glad of the fortifying cocktails to quieten the rampant butterflies in her stomach that had been fluttering crazily since she had first opened the door of the flat to him.

The meal was delicious, but she found each mouthful an effort, mainly because as people finished eating and began to take to the dance-floor she realised the moment Hawk would ask her to dance was imminent.

He seemed in no hurry to explain why he had asked to see her; every time she had tried to broach the matter he had changed the subject with a firmness that was daunting, and now dessert was nearly finished and, short of asking for a second helping, which would only delay the inevitable, there was no escape. And she didn’t want to dance with him; in fact the thought of him touching her, however circumspectly, was . . . disturbing. She finished the last mouthful of chocolate soufflé—it had been hovering in its dish for minutes and she really couldn’t delay any longer—and almost in the same instant he stood, bending over her and drawing her to her feet before she could protest.

‘You can’t come to the Inn and not dance; it really isn’t done,’ he said in a deep mocking whisper that told her he had been fully aware of her thoughts and had taken what he considered to be the appropriate action.

‘Perhaps I don’t care about what’s done,’ she muttered quietly as she found herself on the dance-floor, stiffening helplessly as his arms enclosed her.

‘Perhaps you don’t.’ The frighteningly perceptive eyes ran over her flushed face before he said, his voice low but alive with wicked amusement, ‘Or perhaps it’s me? It’s all right, Joanne, my ego can survive—just—if you confirm my worst fears.’

‘Which are?’ she asked tightly, her body desperately aware of the hard male frame close to hers and the undeniably delicious masculine fragrance emanating from the tanned skin.

‘That you don’t like me?’

‘Am I supposed to like you?’ she asked shakily.

‘Of course.’ The arrogance was full of self-mockery which increased her turmoil. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at himself; that didn’t fit the image. ‘Every woman I meet is automatically bowled over by my charm and pleasing countenance, not to mention my wealth,’ he added darkly.

‘You think they are just after your money?’ she asked in amazement. Even the most hardened gold-digger would rock on her heels when confronted by the maleness of Hawk Mallen.

‘I think it oils the wheels.’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of the cruel, sensual mouth and not really a smile at all.

That’s . . . that’s—’

‘Realistic.’ He cut into her shocked stammering with a lazy drawl, pulling her a little closer as he did so.

‘Awful.’ She stared up at him, her cheeks hot. ‘You can’t lump the whole female race into one package like that.’

‘Can’t I?’ He considered her for a long quiet moment before smiling again. ‘Why not?’ he asked softly.

‘Because everyone’s different; people have different values, different perspectives—Oh, you know why not,’ she finished tightly, not at all sure if he was teasing her or if he meant what he had said.

‘Your personnel file says you are twenty-nine years old, right?’ He looked down at her, his dark face unreadable.

She nodded, wondering what was coming next.

‘And you have never married.’ It was a flat statement. ‘Lived with anyone?’ he asked quietly.

‘That’s nothing to do with you.’ She struggled slightly in his hold, resenting the personal questioning, but all he did was pull her even closer, settling her against the broad expanse of his chest, his chin nuzzling the red silk of her hair.

‘Have you lived with anyone, Joanne?’ he asked again, his voice still soft but threaded through with a silky coolness that told her he was determined to have an answer.

‘No.’ It was useless to fight him but she bitterly resented the interrogation.

‘And according to Charles you don’t date much—rarely in fact,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Very rarely.’

‘Did Charles say that?’ She was deeply offended and hurt at Charles’s betrayal.

‘No.’ She would have jerked away again but the arms holding her were forged in steel. ‘But I’m very adept at reading between the lines and I know the sort of questions to ask that give me the answers I require,’ he said easily.

‘How clever of you,’ she snapped nastily.

‘Isn’t it?’ He moved her slightly from him now, keeping her within the circle of his arms as he looked down at her with hard, narrowed eyes. ‘Now I’d say, on a likelihood of ten to one, that you have—how did you put it? Oh, yes—“lumped” the whole male race together fairly successfully.’ His tone had lost any amusement, his face absolutely straight as he added, ‘Or am I wrong?’

‘Quite wrong,’ she said cuttingly, her face flaming.

‘Oh, Joanne. Joanne, Joanne...’ He shook his head sorrowfully, the mockery back. ‘And here’s me being honest and above board—’

‘Are you insinuating I’m not?’ she asked hotly.

‘Absolutely.’ And then he grinned, and all further opposition left her in a big whoosh as she absorbed the difference to his face that his first real smile made. He was devastating, gorgeous, overwhelming... She swallowed hard and prayed for the ground to stop rippling under her feet. He was a man, just a man, and an arrogant, self-satisfied pig of one at that. He’d just lost her her job, hadn’t he? She couldn’t be attracted to him; what was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake—?

‘But I forgive you.’ He had pulled her close again and, mainly because her legs suddenly seemed to have the consistency of melted jelly, she didn’t resist.

However, she managed a fairly tart, ‘How very gracious of you,’ which brought an answering chuckle from above her head, before they continued to dance in silence. It was a slow number—of course it had to be, she thought caustically; even the band was against her—and although she desperately wanted to seem immune to what his body was doing to hers she could feel herself begin to tremble in his arms.

‘What’s happened in your life to make you so afraid of physical contact?’ he murmured after several humiliating minutes when she knew her shaking had made itself obvious. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Joanne. Trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ She was inexpressibly thankful that he had misread her body’s reaction to his, although there was more than a little fear mixed up in the mortifying sexual excitement that had her in its grip. And now, as the music changed, and she saw the waiter approaching their table with the coffee they had ordered, she moved to arm’s length, saying, ‘That would be rather foolish on so short an acquaintance, don’t you think? Look, the coffee’s arrived. Shall we...?’

‘If you insist.’ His tone was dry.

‘And then you can tell me the reason for our meeting tonight and then—’

‘We can go home?’ he finished silkily, his eyes piercingly intuitive. ‘Sorry, Joanne, there’s the floor show to go yet; you’re stuck with me for a little while longer.’

She smiled, a polite social smile as though she thought he was joking, before turning and walking to their table, his hand on the small of her back seeming to burn her skin through the silk of her dress.

How was it that in just a few hours this man seemed to have established an intimacy that even her closest friends didn’t enjoy? she asked herself weakly, sinking down on to her chair with a tiny sigh of relief that she had made it without falling to the floor in a quivering heap. The questions he had asked, the things he had suggested! Her racing thoughts were brought to a stunned halt as she felt his lips on the back of her neck, his mouth warm and vibrant against the creamy softness of her skin, before he seated himself with easy composure in his chair.

‘Don’t . . . don’t do that.’

‘What?’ Her voice had been a trembling whisper and he surveyed her with brilliantly blue eyes before asking again, ‘Don’t do what?’

‘You know what.’ She glared at him, her temper rising as her senses unfroze.

‘Kiss you?’ he asked softly. ‘Is that so hard to say?’

‘It wasn’t a kiss, it was...’ She couldn’t find an appropriate word and he let her flounder for a minute before he said, his voice deep and dark and husky, ‘Whatever it was to you, Joanne, to me it was a kiss. Do you mean to say that you don’t wear your hair like that to tempt more of the same?’

‘What?’ She was absolutely lost for words.

‘The exposure of that soft, fragrant skin, normally hidden by a curtain of silk that keeps the secret place so private—you don’t know what a subtle turn-on that is to the average red-blooded male?’ he asked softly as she stared at him blankly. ‘It’s restraint combined with voluptuousness, lasciviousness with suppression—it’s ...sexy, every man’s dream of the perfect virginal demure beauty who turns into a seductress in the bedroom.’ ‘You’re mad.’ Joanne realised she had been holding her breath as the gravelly male voice had woven a sensual spell which had enclosed the two of them in their own little world. ‘I just wore my hair up because it looks better with this dress—’

‘Oh, don’t spoil it.’ He wasn’t smiling but the devilish eyes were alight with amusement.

‘Now, look.’ She took a long, deep, hard breath and forced herself to get control. This was ridiculous; somehow everything had got out of hand and she wasn’t at all sure how it had happened, but one thing she did know was that Hawk Mallen was playing with her like a cat with a mouse. She didn’t believe for one moment he was attracted to her—how could a multi-millionaire of the calibre of this one be interested in a little nobody like her? It didn’t add up—not for one minute, and she wasn’t stupid whatever he thought, and she’d tell him so right now. ‘You assured me this afternoon that we were meeting for a purpose, that this wasn’t a...’

‘Date?’ he supplied helpfully.

‘Yes.’ And if he interrupted her again he’d have a cup of coffee tipped over his head. ‘So we’ve eaten and danced and done the social chit-chat bit, and now I’d really like to know why you have brought me here tonight. ’

‘You don’t think it’s because I wanted to know you better, because I’m interested in you?’ he asked expressionlessly.

He’d read her mind again, and she had the uneasy feeling he hadn’t found it hard to do. Was she really so transparent? she asked herself silently. She didn’t think anyone else thought so; in fact, Charles had often praised what he called her ‘poker face’, which gave nothing away whatever the circumstances.

‘Mr Mallen—’ she couldn’t call him Hawk, she just couldn’t ‘—you could doubtless have your pick of most of London’s finest so the answer to that is no.’

‘London’s finest.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’

‘So?’ She forced a smile. ‘If you don’t mind?’

He stared at her for a good thirty seconds, his blue eyes shadowed and intent as they searched her face, and then he settled back in his seat, stretching slightly before he said, ‘Right, down to business. I don’t need you at Concise Publications, Joanne—’ her heart gave a big leap and then thudded loudly ‘—but from all I’ve heard and read and seen I think you would be an asset to the Mallen Corporation. I intend to bring in a new managing director for Concise Publications; I’ve already approached the man and he’s accepted my offer and he’ll bring his own publishing assistant with him; they’ve worked together for years.’

She nodded slowly. So he had never intended to take on the job permanently? She should have guessed, really; Concise Publications was just a tiny little cog in the vast machine of the Mallen empire.

‘Are you interested enough for me to continue?’ His voice was cool and flat; suddenly he was one hundred per cent remote tycoon and businessman, the wickedly mocking, charming dinner companion having evaporated like the morning mist.

Was she? She stared at him hard, and then nodded again. ‘Yes, please,’ she said quietly.

The blue eyes flickered, just once, and she would have given the world to know what was going on in that rapier-sharp, ruthless mind.

‘Six months ago the Mallen Corporation acquired a publishing house in France, part of Mallen Books; were you aware of this?’ She shook her head quickly. ‘The undertaking was unusual in that my grandfather had decided to bale the owner out, and if you knew my grandfather you would understand why I say that. He is first and foremost a businessman and age has not mellowed him one iota.’

She caught the thread of affection in his voice which he was trying to hide and looked at him intently.

‘The owner was the son of my grandfather’s best friend who died some years ago; he actually helped my grandfather financially when they were young, something my grandfather’s never forgotten. However, the son has lost thousands, if not tens of thousands, over the last decade through mismanagement and so on, and the firm is a shambles.’ The cool voice was scathing. ‘My grandfather wanted the family name to continue in honour to his friend; he also decided to keep the son at the helm... Bad mistake.’

He glanced at her now and the blue eyes were as hard as glass. ‘The kindest thing you could say about this guy is that he’s a Jonah, and that’s the information I’ve relayed to my grandfather. The truth of the matter is that he’s been on the take for years; he’s the very antithesis of his father. My grandfather is very ill—’ Her eyes widened and he nodded slowly. ‘Terminal, but I’d appreciate you keeping that to yourself. He doesn’t need this bag of worms dumping in his lap, and for some reason his normally acute judgement is faulty where this guy is concerned. He wants to believe the best of him; he’s all that’s left of his old friend.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly. He loved his grandfather very much; try as he might, the cold, clipped voice and expressionless face couldn’t hide the look in his eyes, and it touched her. She didn’t want it to, but it did.

‘I’ve done it,’ he said flatly. ‘Pierre is boss in name only now; he’s been paid off, and handsomely, and he’s quite happy with that. He’s got a string of mistresses to support apart from his family and expensive habits; the firm was just an inconvenience to him. But now I want to pull it round, for my grandfather and also his old friend, who was an honourable man. That’s where you would come in.’

‘Me?’ She couldn’t think where.

‘You’ve been in publishing since you left university, you have no personal commitments or distractions, and you don’t mind working until the job is done. Added to that, Charles tells me your contribution, certainly over the last three or four years, was the one that brought the money in. He’d lost it—the insight, the business intuition—’

‘No!’ she protested hotly.

‘That’s what he told me, Joanne,’ Hawk said steadily. ‘Now, your personnel file tells me you speak French, right?’

‘I do, but...well, I’m rusty and—’

‘That’s no problem.’ He dismissed her stumbling voice with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘You can easily brush up on that.’

‘What exactly are you offering me?’ she asked dazedly. In all her wildest dreams—or nightmares—she hadn’t expected this. ‘Who would I be publishing assistant to?’ She knew it was him but she had to ask anyway, and that would be the end of what sounded like the offer of a lifetime in an industry that was known for its dog-eat-dog ruthlessness.

‘Publishing assistant?’ He stared at her, and then shook his black head slowly, his eyes piercing her through with clear light. ‘I’m not offering you a publishing assistant’s job, Joanne. I want you to manage the firm for me, turn it around, make it work.’

‘Me?’ She knew she was repeating herself but this was just not possible; he had to be teasing her in the most cruel way imaginable.

‘It would mean giving up your flat and moving to France,’ he said quietly, ‘and of necessity the position would be on a six-month trial basis. All your expenses would be paid, of course, and you’d have the same salary Pierre did.’ He mentioned a figure that made her mouth fall open. ‘The firm is already part of Mallen Books and so you wouldn’t be completely out on a limb; you’d have a ready-made avenue of contacts and back-up—a security blanket so to speak. But...’ He leant forward in his seat, his dark face cold. ‘You would have your work cut out to turn the thing round, especially in the present climate. Still interested enough to think about it?’

Joanne looked at him in a daze. She couldn’t say a word; she just couldn’t.

‘If you are interested, we can throw a few facts and figures your way and start the ball rolling. I’d like the new manager installed within weeks and as you are as free as a bird there won’t be any messy working-ofnotice delay. If you’re not...’ the piercing eyes were holding hers as though in a vice ‘...then you will be paid twelve months’ salary as a gesture of appreciation for all you’ve done for Charles’s firm in the past, and that’s the end of it. Well?’

He relaxed back in his seat and grinned, the same devastating, knee-trembling grin as before, his blue gaze washing over her stunned countenance. ‘What’s it to be, Joanne?’