Читать книгу Bad Influence - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 8

‘DECENT shiner you’ve got there, old man.’

lake squinted out of his good eye, smiling wryly as the pale young man, whom he recognised as the one he had mistaken for Georgia’s rich sugar-daddy, came over to join him, leaning against the bonnet of the Range Rover. ‘You should see the other guy.’

Robin Rustrom-Smith chuckled. ‘I had a ringside seat It’s all over the papers, you know. Our Sweet Georgia is not going to be best pleased with you—doesn’t like that sort of publicity.’

Jake shrugged his wide shoulders in a dismissive gesture, holding his binoculars gingerly to his eyes to watch the string of horses galloping across the soft Lambourn turf. ‘How was I supposed to know who she was? She never told me her name.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you were so reckless. You got off lightly, you know—the last chap who tried it on with her still bears the scars.’

‘You don’t say,’ Jake drawled with laconic humour.

‘No, I’m serious. Took her horsewhip to him—lovely aim, straight across the cheek. Ten years ago, that was—no one else has dared risk it once.’

Jake lowered his binoculars, turning to stare at his genial informant in frank astonishment. ‘You mean…no one?’ he queried. ‘No one’s even…? But she’d have been…what, sixteen?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Oh, come on!’ Jake laughed. ‘You’re kidding me. A good-looking broad like that? She must have ‘em queuing in the aisles!’

Robin shook his head. ‘If there’d been any action, I’d have known about it—m’sister Margot’s one of her best friends, and you know what women are for talking about that sort of thing. Oh, I agree she’s a great girl, but when it comes to trying it on with her…To tell you the truth, even the thought of it scares me into the middle of next week—and I’ve known her since we were children.’

‘So you mean she’s still…?’

Robin nodded in cheerful confirmation. ‘Of course, it was the Old Man’s fault—her grandfather. The tight-fisted old goat was always convinced that anyone who looked twice at her was after his money, so he all but locked her up in a chastity belt and threw away the key. Siberia, we used to call her at school—couldn’t warm her up with a blowtorch.’

‘Well, well…’ Jake lifted his binoculars again. ‘Well, well, well…’ That was certainly no longer true—as he had every reason to know. Or was that the sort of game she played? He had met the kind before, promising everything and then refusing to deliver until they had got whatever it was they wanted—usually a ring on their finger and a mealticket for life.

Not that the frostbitten Miss Geldard had any need of a meal ticket—she could afford to buy not only her own lunch, but the whole damned restaurant if she chose. Nor did she need to resort to those sort of tactics to get herself a husband, if that was what she wanted—with one snap of her fingers she could have half the available men this side of the Rockies queuing up for her hand.

So what was it? Some kind of power trip? Was that what turned her on? Didn’t she have enough power as chief executive of her family firm? But then he had met a lot of men to whom power was like a drug—the more of it they had, the more they needed. Why shouldn’t some women be like that? And in her position she must have to fight her way in a man’s world every day of her working life—what better way to even the score than by hitting back below the belt, as it were…?

Damn, he never had been able to resist a challenge—especially one with such a prize at the end of it! The thought of teaching Miss Geldard the danger of playing power games with the big boys, and at the same time disproving his new acquaintance’s blowtorch theory, was tempting enough to make his mouth water. Ice would never have melted more sweetly into honey…!

A third off-roader pulled up in the field, the driver climbing out and strolling over to join them, calling a casual greeting. Jake vaguely recalled having met him before—and not liking him much. He had wondered then what had caused the faint white scar down his right cheek.

‘Nice looking filly you’ve got there,’ the newcomer remarked, studying the horses in training through his own binoculars. ‘I was after her myself.’

‘Were you?’ Jake smiled grimly, the amusing irony of the remark not lost on him.

Robin chuckled softly to himself. ‘You’d best be careful, Nige,’ he put in, with the air of one feeding fuel to a fire. ‘Looks like he’s making a habit of picking up fillies you were interested in.’

The Honourable Nigel Woodvine cast his old schoolfriend a withering look down his aristocratic nose.

‘I’ve just been telling him about our Georgie,’ Robin supplied. ‘He doesn’t seem to believe me.’

Nigel turned his cool survey on Jake, letting his lip curl into a slight sneer. ‘Is that so?’ he queried, carefully calculating a degree of disdain that would fall just short of provoking any serious danger from those hard fists—he too had been present at the Geldard Foundation May Day Ball. ‘You think you can do better than the rest of us, then?’

Jake shrugged, returning the contempt. ‘Could be.’

Nigel laughed unpleasantly. ‘I doubt it. From what I gather, you’ve barely made it to first base. Granted, that’s a little further than most people have got to with the damned frigid bitch—but you won’t get her into bed.’

Jake examined his grazed hand, flexing the fingers contemplatively, wondering how the knuckles would stand up to another close encounter with hard bone. ‘You don’t reckon?’ he mused, deceptively quiet.

Nigel lifted his binoculars, coolly watching the string of horses as they turned for home. ‘No, I don’t,’ he confirmed. ‘You putting that filly in for the Geldard Cup at Ascot in September?’

‘I expect so.’

‘I’ll tell you what—I’ll make a bet with you. My bay—the one leading the string there—against your filly says you can’t get her into bed before the race.’ He lowered his binoculars, his narrow eyes glinting. ‘What do you say?’

Robin drew in a sharp breath. ‘Hey, Nige…!’ he protested, appalled. ‘I mean, come on! You can’t make a bet like that!’

‘Can’t I?’ Again he gave that unpleasant laugh. ‘Maybe our Australian friend doesn’t think he can take up the challenge?’

Jake held his anger carefully in check; sometimes there were better ways of dealing with contemptible jerks like this over-bred Englishman than using your fists. Was he really considering accepting such a dumb bet? He’d never done anything like it in his life—even in his crass adoles- cence he wouldn’t have dreamed of it. But maybe the stiffnecked Miss Geldard had it coming to her.

He lifted his own binoculars again, studying the elegant bay at the head of the string. ‘A bit showy for my taste, but I wouldn’t mind having her,’ he drawled with mocking self-assurance. ‘You’re on.’

‘Another red rose, Georgia.’

‘Thank you, Janet. Throw it in the bin like the others, please.’

‘Oh, but…It seems such a shame!’ her secretary protested. ‘He called three times yesterday, too.’

‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who won’t take no for an answer,’ Georgia responded on a note of crisp dismissal. ‘I’m leaving for my lunch appointment now, Janet. And if Mr Morgan rings again, the answer is still the same—no, I will not have lunch with him, nor dinner with him, nor will I go to the theatre or anywhere else with him.’

‘Yes, Georgia,’ Janet conceded with a wistful little sigh. Normally briskly efficient, there was a small, romantic corner in her soul that was highly susceptible to the roughhewn charm of the big Australian who had been pursuing her hard-hearted boss with such determination for the past couple of weeks.

Georgia smiled grimly, and swung her handbag onto her shoulder. ‘I have a meeting with Bernard at two-thirty, so I’ll be back by two-fifteen. And I’ll need the production figures for the Redford Road bakery by tonight—I have to write a briefing paper for next week’s board meeting.’

Her secretary nodded, making a note. ‘Do you want the figures for the past three years?’

‘Better make it the past five. See you later, Janet.’ She swept from the office, studiously ignoring the single, per- feet red rose in its cellophane wrapper lying on Janet’s desk. She had more than enough to worry about, without Jake Morgan pestering her. The mysterious Falcon Holdings was steadily buying up more of her shares; they had almost fifteen percent now—another fifteen and they would have to announce a formal bid. She had already decided to start discreetly liquidating some of her assets, ready to fight it.

And now, just when she didn’t need it, she had been informed that one of the companies that owned a small but potentially important block of Geldard’s shares had itself been taken over. Apparently it had been a friendly takeover, providing a rescue package that would save them from the hands of the receivers—which was fortunate for them. But it left her with a worrying question mark—would the new owners support her or not?

The executive lift took her down smoothly and swiftly to the basement, where her chauffeur was waiting with her ice-blue Rolls Royce to transport her to the restaurant where she was meeting a representative from the new owners of Linepaq to discuss their continuing association with Geldard’s.

‘Morning, Miss Geldard,’ Maurice greeted her, opening the rear door.

‘Good morning, Maurice. What’s the traffic like?’

‘Not too bad, miss. Shouldn’t take us more than ten or fifteen minutes.’

‘Thank you, Maurice.’ She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist as she settled on the smooth Connolly hide rear seat and fastened her seat belt. She would be a little early; good—that suited her. She would have time to settle herself and be in control before her guest arrived.

As Maurice eased the car up the ramp and out into the May sunshine she glanced at the file on the seat beside her. She was meeting a Mr Watson, the financial director, probably a grey man, full of figures, she speculated wryly—what a waste of a sunny afternoon. Around the Tower of London the tourists were enjoying the early taste of summer, sitting on the grassy bank beneath the high white wall, licking melting ice-cream cones—and she had to have lunch with some boring accountant.

Laughing at herself, she shook her head. What was wrong with her lately? It wasn’t like her to be discontented with her lot—she knew that she was very privileged. It was just…sometimes she envied people whose lives were a little simpler. But then they probably envied her, she reminded herself crisply—gliding by in her gleaming Rolls, bound for lunch at one of London’s most exclusive eatinghouses.

Le Périgourdin was a charming little restaurant, in a quiet street close to Covent Garden. By night it was a popular dining place for theatregoers, but by day it was also a favourite spot for business lunchers like herself. As Maurice dropped her at the door she reminded herself of another advantage of the privileges she enjoyed—she didn’t have to face the impossible task of finding a parking space.

The head waiter knew her well, and came at once to greet her as she stepped through the door. The atmosphere was Provençal, with whitewashed walls, dark rustic beams and rush matting on the floor. At the back was a large whitewalled conservatory, massed with ferns and ivies, opening onto a tiny patio where in summer the most favoured diners could always expect a seat.

It was there that Henri led her, settling her at a corner table with many compliments that made her laugh. ‘Henri, you’re impossible! You’re making me blush.’

‘But you look so beautiful when you blush,’ he declared broadly.

‘Henri, I have a very dull lunch with a very dull accountant, and I have to concentrate,’ she pleaded.

‘Mai non!’ he protested. ‘It is not right that so beautiful a lady should fill her mind always with business, business, business on such a lovely day! It is a day for strolling barefoot in the park, hand in hand with your lover, n’estce pas?’

She shook her head, still laughing—and then froze as a tall, familiar figure appeared in the doorway. He was casually dressed in close-fitting denim jeans and a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled back over strong, sunbronzed forearms. The collar was unfastened at the throat and his loose blond hair was catching the sun; as he lounged towards her she felt her mouth go suddenly dry.

‘Hello there, Blondie,’ he greeted her lazily, hooking out a chair and sitting down.