Читать книгу Flirting With Intent - Kelly Hunter - Страница 6

CHRISTMAS was commerce and retail excess. Christmas was family and sometimes it was farce.

Add to the day a wide-open wallet and a city bathed in neon and the memory of a Hong Kong Christmas burned brightly for ever. Ruby Maguire—born to riches and living in Hong Kong for over six years now—knew this from experience. Which meant that she should have been able to organise a perfectly splendid Christmas for the children of one of Hong Kong’s foremost investment bankers in her sleep.

A trip to Hong Kong Disney or Ocean Park. A holographic Christmas tree or three. More presents than they knew what to do with, a mad mix of Christmas lanterns and fake winter wonderlands and, if Santa was really on the ball, maybe their charming, handsome, super-important father would put in an appearance and make their day.

Except that the West children were all grown up these days, and, from the snippets of information Russell West’s executive PA had let slip, Russell’s eldest son was unlikely to be in attendance, his firstborn daughter was recovering from serious injury, his other daughter was a reclusive genius, and his fourth-born—another son—was either a crime lord, a charming wastrel or James Bond.

So much for taking them to Disneyland.

Instead, Ruby had decked the halls of Russell West’s pristine marble penthouse with as much high-class folly as she could find. White orchids; real ones. Poinsettias; silk ones. Tapered white candles just waiting to be lit and more fat goldfish for the glass-covered pond. The pond ran beneath the base of the stairs and along the atrium wall until it reached the tiny rooftop terrace where the songbirds reigned supreme. The only thing missing from the scene was a pet cricket in a bamboo cage. For Australian-born Russell West, owning a pet cricket was taking cultural assimilation one chirrup too far.

December twenty-second already, with the three younger West siblings due to arrive tomorrow. Upon arrival they would find immaculately prepared rooms, festive touches in the strangest places, and reservations for one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants, should they wish to dine out.

Ruby wasn’t a housekeeper or a cook, though her current job strayed into such territory at times. She far preferred to think of herself as Russell West’s social accountant—a position created just for her, out of pity most likely, but she’d tried to make herself useful, and the hefty bonus Russell had just presented her with gave credence to the notion that he thought her service of value.

She wrote Russell’s charity dinner speeches, briefed him on the changes in status of Hong Kong’s elite, and basically made his social engagements as stress-free and fruitful as possible.

Ruby’s latest challenge had been the buying of Christmas gifts for the children of Russell’s employees—an endeavour she had seen to with pleasure. Furthermore, Russell now had an up-to-date database citing the names, birthdates and interests of his employees’ spouses and children. She’d even done one for the wives and children of his major business contacts. Whether Russell would use the information remained to be seen.

Trust a financial wizard to pay absolutely no attention whatsoever to the little things that went such a long way towards the cultivation of solid business relationships in Hong Kong.

As for the choosing of gifts for his own children; be they genius, wounded, idle, or missing … that was Ruby’s job too and she had approximately twenty-four hours to do it in. Russell hadn’t even given her a price range, let alone a guide as to what type of gifts they might enjoy.

‘Not even a hint,’ she muttered to herself as she dumped the box of sparkling mineral water on the kitchen counter and opened the French doors leading out to the terrace. ‘It’s not right.’ She plucked a pair of thin plastic gloves from the terrace cupboard and headed for the songbird enclosure.

No tiny bamboo cages for these little oriental white-eyes but a large bamboo aviary that ran the length of the courtyard wall and incorporated branches and greenery, nesting and feeding areas, and a newspaper lined roll-out litter tray that Ruby refreshed every day. Western, very Western, and a source of no little amusement to many of Russell’s acquaintances, but the birds sang their pleasure, and both Ruby and her employer took pride in the freedom of movement the little birds enjoyed.

‘There should be a rule that says a father should damn well buy Christmas gifts for his children himself,’ she told the flitty little birds who clung to the side of the cage in greeting. ‘Why is that such a stretch?’

‘Beats me,’ said an amused male voice from the direction of the kitchen, and Ruby glanced around, eyes widening at the splendid vision that had just presented for her perusal. A raven-haired blue-eyed stranger stood just inside the terrace doors, wearing nothing but a snowy-white towel that rode low on his hips and clung lovingly to well-packed thighs. His chest was bare, his shoulders impressive. Not an everyday sight in penthouse sixty-one.

‘Who are you?’ she said as she straightened from her crouching position, the roll of bird-dropping stained newspaper still firmly in hand.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ he murmured with a grin that put Ruby in mind of mischief and at least one other thing she really shouldn’t be thinking about if this was indeed one of Russell’s sons.

‘I’m Russell West’s social organiser,’ she said, ignoring that lazy smile as best she could. ‘And you must be one of his sons. Trouble is, which one?’ She let her gaze drift once more over his very fine form. ‘One of you I wasn’t expecting until tomorrow. The other one I wasn’t expecting at all.’

‘I could be the pool boy.’

‘Yes, and I have absolutely no doubt that you’d make an excellent one, but alas there is no pool.’ Ruby continued to study him. ‘You’d think I’d be able to tell the difference between a mission-fatigued special intelligence officer and a feckless rogue by now, but you know what?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘You could be either.’

‘I’ve never had an insult wrapped so skilfully inside a compliment before,’ he murmured, that devilish gaze of his not leaving her face. ‘You must practise.’

‘And you must be Damon,’ she guessed. ‘Russell’s youngest.’

Ruby dumped the soiled newspaper into the mulching bin, peeled off her gloves and brought forth her manners and her hand. ‘I’m Ruby Maguire. I’m looking after Christmas for your father.’

‘I see.’ Damon West had a nice touch. Firm but not bone-crunching. A man fully aware of his own strength. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘So-so,’ she said and took back her hand. ‘Your sisters are due in on flights tomorrow afternoon. I’m afraid there’s no word from your brother.’

Ruby watched a shadow steal across Damon West’s well-cut face. She was an only child with a raft of step-siblings she tended to avoid. Family politics was not her forte and she had no intention of getting involved in the West family’s woes. ‘I gather you’ve made yourself at home?’ There were half a dozen bedrooms in the marble delight, each with en-suite. ‘You’ve been here before, right? You don’t need the grand tour?’

‘Right.’

‘Coffee?’ Ruby headed for the wondrous stainless-steel-and-glass kitchen and set to washing her hands in the sink there. ‘Tea? Cold drink? I’m hoping it’s too early for gin but you never know in the tropics.’

‘It’s too early for gin,’ Damon said and padded over to the other side of the counter.

‘Coffee would be good. Espresso if it’s an option.’

‘It’s an option.’

‘So … Ruby. You live here?’ he asked just a little too casually as she set up the coffee machine and took a cup from the cupboard.

‘Hardly. No one lives here, unless you count your father sleeping here on occasion and entertaining here every so often. I feed the fish and the birds, water the plants, pick up your father’s dry-cleaning, stock the fridge, organise housekeeping and gardening and prepare for house guests.’

‘Has this always been your lot in life?’

‘No. In another life I was a law graduate working my way through the corporate law system but that all fell through when my father the investment banker decided to go to the Caymans rather than to prison. It was a good call on his part. The prisons here aren’t very nice.’ Ruby opened the fridge and reached for the sugar bowl. ‘Sweetener?’

‘You’re Harry Maguire’s daughter?’

‘Guilty.’ She set the sugar down in front of him and leaned forward, elbows on the counter, wondering just what it was about this man that made her want to poke at him.

‘I’d never have taken you for someone who reads the finance pages?’

‘Sweetheart, your daddy skimming eight hundred and seventy-two million dollars in point-one-cent increments and then disappearing into the ether didn’t only make the finance pages. He’s quite the crime star.’ Damon crooked his head in what Ruby decided was reluctant admiration. ‘So, where is he now?’

‘That’s the eight-hundred-and-seventy-two-million-dollar question, Damon. And truthfully, I have no idea.’

‘You weren’t close?’

‘We were very close.’ Ruby dropped her gaze to the glossy countertop and gave him the truth. ‘I grew up in a family of two. Me and my father and a never-ending raft of nannies, butlers, cooks and tutors. I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t.’

‘Because he broke the law? Or because he left you behind?’ asked Damon West gently and Ruby looked at him, really looked at him, and she didn’t see a charming wastrel any more. She saw a man who knew his way around the dark places of a person’s psyche. One who seemed entirely comfortable dealing in shades of grey.

‘The law’s a slippery thing, Damon.’

‘So it is.’ Damon leaned across the counter as if to meet her halfway.

Hard not to let her gaze linger on his mouth but she managed. Hard not to enjoy the potent mix of lazy intensity in his eyes and wonder whether or not it would carry through into the bedroom. A betting woman would have to go with yes.

‘Do you have any plans for the day?’ she asked, for it was definitely time to change the subject.

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You. Me.’ She had his absolute attention. ‘Christmas gift shopping for your sisters.’

He drew back abruptly and Ruby smiled, wide and warm. ‘Gotcha,’ she whispered, rocking forward ever so slightly before turning back to the coffee maker to retrieve his espresso and set the machine up for a long black for herself. ‘Do you really think I can afford to proposition the adored son of the only man in Hong Kong who’ll employ me? Trust me, I’m not that reckless.’

‘I’m not that adored.’

‘Yes, you are, Damon. You’d only have to listen to the way your father talks about you to realise that. He speaks of you with a mixture of love, frustration, pride and respect, and I have to confess: the first couple are what I’d expect of most fathers, but that last one … the fact that one of the most influential money movers in the world respects you … Makes me wonder what you’ve done to earn it.’

‘Keep wondering,’ he murmured. ‘I’m all in favour of keeping a fine mind exercised. As for going Christmas shopping with you, the answer is a reluctant yes. Give me five minutes to put some clothes on.’

‘Good idea. Take your time. I’ll need about fifteen to finish up here anyway.’ Ruby pushed the tiny cup of super-strong coffee across the counter towards him and Damon West’s fingers brushed hers as he took it. This time his touch sent desire skittering along her skin, and Ruby frowned as she whipped her fingers away from his. What the hell was that?

Apart from a rhetorical question for she knew desire when she felt it, knew the bite of it and the chaos it could bring. The question now became how could she have let this happen? Between one touch of hands and the next?

To her of all people. Ruby Maguire, who’d been outplaying players her entire life.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lazy smile on a dangerous man. ‘Coffee too hot?’

‘That’s one interpretation.’ Ruby sighed. ‘Regretfully, I’m going to have to ban the touching from now on in. And the teasing. Probably the question time as well. Sorry, Damon. I can’t afford to play with you.’

‘Because you work for my father? Would he really have to know?’

‘Damon, please. I’m insulted that you even tried that line on me. Your father may not keep up with the social lives of all his business acquaintances—that’s my job—but when it comes to the romantic liaisons of his children? Men like your father?’ Ruby slanted him a quelling glance as she topped up her long black with cold water before lifting it to her lips. ‘They always know.’

Ruby Maguire was a babe, decided Damon as he took his coffee back to his bedroom. A high-maintenance glossily gift-wrapped bundle of temptation and contradiction, and what was more she knew it.

Damon couldn’t have asked for a better distraction.

Something to take his mind off a missing brother and a wounded sister and a Christmas that was shaping up to be anything but festive.

He slung his towel on the bed and rummaged through the meagre collection of clothes he kept at his father’s house. A collared cotton shirt in white and a charcoal pinstriped suit. Bespoke, not made to measure. The expensive sports watch that his sisters had given him last Christmas. Clothes to suit his father’s house and reflect his father’s status—a Christmas tradition whereby Damon would look to be the type of son his father expected to see and in return his father would ask no questions as to what Damon had been up to the rest of the year.

What kind of man had Ruby Maguire’s father been before his fall from grace? wondered Damon as he tossed the suit on the bed. Already a wealthy one, if he remembered correctly. Manhattan banking family. Influential. Chances were that Harry Maguire hadn’t stolen the money because he’d needed it.

Maybe he’d been bored.

And colour Damon perceptive but the delectable Ruby Maguire also seemed somewhat overqualified for her current gofer position.

Ruby Maguire was used to dealing with the corporate lions of the world and holding her own. Ruby had severely underestimated her usefulness if she thought that no one but his father would employ her.

Which made Damon feel infinitely better about the seduction campaign he intended to wage on her.

She’d banned touching, teasing and question time but she hadn’t banned looking and she hadn’t banned scent. Her bad.

The cologne collection in the en-suite cupboard gave him a wide and varied selection to choose from. Eeeny meeny miney mo. Catcha … That was the aim. To catch Ruby Maguire and play a while.

Gucci it was.

Run his fingers through his hair, find some shoes, put them on. Plastic in wallet, wallet in pocket.

Damon West was ready to shop.

He found her in the atrium, positioning a delicate porcelain Santa amongst the fern fronds that banked the goldfish pond. ‘There,’ she said as he approached. ‘The perfect spot for Santa to enjoy a little R and R.’

Ruby Maguire stood and turned his way, no comment on the suit. She probably hadn’t expected anything else.

She breathed in deeply though and closed her eyes and smiled. She had the freest smile he’d ever seen.

‘I love that scent on a man,’ she murmured approvingly. ‘Brings back fond memories.’

‘Old boyfriend?’

‘Grandfather,’ she corrected sweetly.

This woman was so bad for a man’s ego. Damon smiled and meant it. Nothing like a challenge.

‘Ready to go?’ she said next, and he nodded and watched in silence as she headed for her oversized satchel, her ballet-style slippers making no sound on the marble floor. Odd choice of shoes to be wearing with crisply tailored grey trousers and a vivid fuchsia sleeveless silk top with an embroidered panel down the front that screamed couture, but all became clear when she opened the coat cupboard beside the front door and swapped her soft slippers for strappy black sandals with a stiletto heel.

‘I can’t stand high heels on marble floors,’ she explained. ‘It’s the clickety-clack. Where’s the elegance? Not to mention the ability to retreat without being seen or heard. That’s a very useful skill on occasion. Not, I hasten to add, that I’ve ever had to use that ability here. Your father doesn’t womanise.’ She reset the alarm before closing the cupboard door. ‘It’s a refreshing change.’

‘Yours did?’ he asked as he ushered her out of the door and closed it behind them.

‘Oh, yes. It was just a game, you see. Everything from stealing another man’s woman to the removal of vast sums of other people’s money—it was all just a game.’

‘Where was your mother in all of this?’

‘Living happily in Texas with oil baron husband number three. He doesn’t womanise either, come to think of it. That’s two I know.’

‘Wouldn’t he give you a job if you asked for one?’

‘Probably, but I don’t work for family, Damon. Never have, never will.’ ‘Another rule?’

‘That one’s more of a survival trait. Work for family and before you know it they’re trying to control your life.’ They stepped into the elevator and Ruby pressed the button to the foyer. ‘How loaded is your daddy’s credit card when it comes to buying Christmas gifts for his children?’ she asked. ‘Because I happen to have it with me.’

‘He bought us a plane once,’ said Damon. ‘We had to share it though.’

‘Poor baby,’ she murmured with another one of those carefree smiles that put him in mind of a kid in a sweets shop. ‘Not sure I can swing another aircraft or two at such short notice, but I’ve absolutely no objection to shopping with the sheiks and the sugar daddies if that’s the norm. The Landmark it is.’

The Landmark shopping mall butted onto the Landmark Oriental Hotel, which meant valet parking and rampant indulgence. Ruby’s mode of transport, an Audi R5 in panther-black with a pearl finish, would fit right in.

‘Yours?’ he murmured.

‘Was that a question?’ asked Ruby. ‘I thought we’d banned personal questions.’

‘You just asked me one.’

‘I asked about the cost of Christmas gifts for your family. That was business.’

‘No, that’s about as personal as it gets. I, on the other hand, merely questioned whether this car was yours. It could be a company car. It could be my father’s, though I doubt it. His taste runs to saloons.’

‘It’s mine. I chose it and paid for it myself. Happy now?’

‘Yes. And I heartily approve of your choice of wheels. It almost makes up for your choice of hair accessory. What is that thing on your head anyway?’ She’d slipped it on in the car. He’d been staring at it ever since.

‘It’s a headband. It keeps my hair out of my face and what’s more, I guarantee it’ll get us taken seriously when it comes to shopping where we’re shopping. You’ll see.’

‘Ruby, it’s a frothy pink bow on a leopard-skin band.’

‘No, it’s high-end couture. This is serious frou-frou.’

‘I have another question,’ he said.

‘You’re wondering where the money comes from,’ she said. Which he was.

‘Am I really that easy to read?’

‘No, it’s just that it’s the first question everyone asks. Feds, lawyers, strangers … Everyone wants to know if I’m spending my father’s ill-gotten gains. I’m not. The money’s clean. I’m a trust-fund baby, courtesy of my late grandmother.’

‘So you don’t actually need to work for my father. I could, in effect, attempt to engage your affections with a clear conscience.’

‘No, you’d still be stricken with guilt—that is, if you do guilt. My grandmother was not one to encourage idleness. The trust is set up so that for every dollar I earn it releases two. More if I throw in a good deed or two for charity, which, as luck would have it, I do.’

‘And what would your grandmother have thought of the car?’

‘She’d have loved the car,’ said Ruby, and swung out of the car park and into the Hong Kong traffic with a confidence born of insanity. ‘There’s a massage option built into the seat if you feel the need to relax,’ she murmured as she expertly cut her way across three lanes of traffic in order to take the next right.

‘I’m fine,’ he squeaked, but by the time they reached the shopping mall he had renewed his acquaintance with prayer and discovered that Ruby Maguire was either totally fearless, bent on annihilation by way of traffic incident or stark-raving mad.

The shopping centre did nothing to soothe Damon’s already fragile peace of mind. ‘You know what you’re looking for, right?’ he asked a touch desperately as he glanced up at the waterfall of retail stores rimming the central atrium.

‘No,’ said Ruby cheerfully. ‘I have no idea. That’s why you’re here. You can start by telling me whether your sisters are girly girls when it comes to gifts or more practically inclined? Should I be thinking handbags for Poppy or season tickets to the Royal Ballet? She lives in London, right?’

‘Right. And definitely the tickets. Buying tickets online would mean we wouldn’t necessarily have to go into any of these shops. Problem solved.’

‘Or we could put the tickets in the handbag,’ murmured Ruby. ‘Or in the pocket of a black velvet evening coat. Do you have her measurements?’ Damon shook his head. Ruby sighed her impatience. ‘C’mon, Damon. Work with me here. Surely a rake of your stature can hazard a decent guess as to dress size? We’re not going to swing tailor-made at this time of year anyway. It’ll have to be ready-to-wear.’

‘In that case, Poppy’s five seven and too slender for her own good. Size ten, Australian.’

‘Thank you. I knew you could do it. What about Lena?’

‘Lena is a little taller and has spent six of the last eight months in a wheelchair. She’s even skinnier than Poppy these days. I hope it doesn’t last.’

‘So … dress size eight? Or ten?’

‘Yes,’ he said and earned himself an eye roll. ‘Ten would be better. Give her something to aspire to.’

‘And what size am I?’

Nice of Ruby to give him permission to study her delectable form. ‘Arms above your head and turn around,’ he directed smoothly.

‘Funny man.’ Ruby’s honey-coloured eyes narrowed and her hands went to her hips. Damon’s gaze followed. Her waist was tiny but she did have hips. Not to mention a fine rear and full breasts. Her chestnut curls stayed clear of her face, courtesy of the ridiculous headband, and the black leather tote completed her general air of plenty.

Plenty of curves, plenty of attitude and plenty of challenge to be going on with. Damon smiled his appreciation.

‘Somewhere between a size ten and a twelve, Ruby, though I’m guessing most of your clothes are custom fit. You’ve got that look. How am I doing so far?’

‘You’re a true expert on the female form. Lucky me. Now tell me what kind of clothes your sisters prefer to wear.’

Damon looked warily upwards once again, towards the retail floors filled with shops. They seemed like very spacious shops. Probably not that many per floor. ‘Poppy likes layers. Lena hates dresses. Neither of them are into colour.’

‘That’s just sad,’ she murmured. ‘Do they like jewellery?’

‘They have jewellery.’

‘I’m working on the general assumption that they have everything,’ said Ruby dryly. ‘In here, Damon,’ she said, gesturing to the nearest shopfront. ‘No one does neutrals better than the French.’

Bracing himself, Damon followed her inside.

It wasn’t Ruby’s headband that got them exemplary service, decided Damon a few minutes later. It was her attitude. The way she knew not to browse the racks herself but describe what she wanted and then let the assistants fetch the stuff. The way she efficiently sorted the offerings into discards and items she wanted to consider. There was seating, and Damon availed himself of it. Refreshments, which he declined.

Three saleswomen and one curvaceous general. Two presents to purchase. Five minutes, tops.

He was so wrong.

What kind of maniac put a beige trench coat over what looked like a corseted black baby-doll nightie? Or covered a perfectly serviceable strapless black mini dress with a sheer purple overgown that rippled to the floor?

The purple gauzy thing and the mini beneath it were discarded on account of Lena not being one for colour or dresses. In the end, Ruby settled on a pewter-coloured miniskirt for Lena. It had ruffles and looked softly feminine and would not emphasise his sister’s frailty. Damon approved. The ivory-coloured waist-length jacket Ruby chose to go with it had some sort of sculpted band around the hem but it went with the skirt better than expected. The beige trench coat and the baby-doll nightwear combo that she’d set aside was apparently for Poppy.

‘Do I get a say?’ he murmured and four perfectly styled women turned to regard him with varying degrees of pity. ‘You said handbags,’ he said to Ruby mildly. ‘To put the tickets in?’

‘Dammit, you’re right,’ she said, and turned to the attendants. ‘We’ll need to look at handbags too. Satchels, I think.’

‘In the black?’ asked an attendant.

‘Of course.’

Half an hour later they left the shop, goodies in hand, and with Ruby sporting the kind of glow that only came from hitting a credit card hard. ‘Now you,’ she said. ‘Would you like a new suit?’

‘Why? What’s wrong with my suit?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then I don’t want another one.’

‘How about a watch?’

‘I got this one from Poppy and Lena last Christmas. I’ve worn it once.’

‘Well, that’s hardly the watch’s fault,’ she said with a glance at his wrist. ‘It’s a very nice watch. What about gadgetry? New phone? Camera? Computer? What is it that you do?’

‘I troubleshoot computer systems.’ ‘For who?’ She looked intrigued. ‘For those who ask.’ ‘Where are you based?’

‘I don’t have a base. The job’s portable.’

‘But surely life isn’t? Or are you one of those people who just can’t seem to settle anywhere?’

‘Something wrong with variety?’

‘I guess not.’ She didn’t sound impressed. ‘All right. What about a new set of travel bags for Christmas? We’re in the neighbourhood.’

‘There’s some new computer tech I’m interested in. Why don’t you leave it with me?’

‘That’s not what I’m paid to do, and, frankly, I hate leaving jobs undone. It’s a little quirk of mine.’

‘Another one.’

‘Exactly.’ There was that disarming smile again. Feminine weaponry at its finest. ‘If I don’t have a gift for you by the end of the day I won’t sleep. If I don’t sleep I get cranky. It’s not a good look.’

‘How so? Do you abandon the fuchsia headband for a schoolmarm’s bun and a riding crop?’ It was possible. Judging by the shop they’d just raided, anything was possible. Ruby’s golden eyes narrowed. Damon offered up his own disarming smile. ‘I can see that working for you.’

‘I’m glad we went shopping together,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve saved me from fantasising about you later.’

‘Because I’m hard to buy for? Or because I’m homeless.’

‘Neither. There’s something else about you that makes you a dismal relationship choice, and once again I can credit my recently departed father for giving me a heads up.’

‘Sounds ominous.’

‘It is. It’s about deception and disguise and people who deliberately portray themselves as something they’re not. You make a charming wastrel, by the way. I’m very impressed. But that’s not what you are.’

‘So what am I?’ he asked quietly.

‘Far smarter than you’re letting on, for starters,’ she offered bluntly. ‘Beautifully evasive when it comes to talking about your work, your needs and your lifestyle choices. An old hand, I surmise, at keeping whatever passes for the real you completely hidden from view. You’re not feckless, Damon. You’re a liar.’