No Need For Love
Sandra Marton
She wants a baby. He wants an heir. But what about love?Hannah has been married once before, but now she is perfectly happy on her own. Well… maybe not perfectly happy… . She has always wanted children. So when her boss, Grant MacLean, suggests that they marry in order to have a child, Hannah is tempted.Secretly she finds Grant incredibly attractive and she can have it all: a home and security, and a baby to love. This time, there will be no man owning her heart who can break it - or will there? Can Hannah really go through a wedding and a pregnancy with Grant, and then not care if he acts on his plan to divorce her?By the author of the acclaimed series, LANDON'S LEGACY: "An outstanding reading experience." - Romantic Times
Excerpt (#u2da2f888-f442-5e51-93d0-1733d9aa66fd)About the Author (#ud66b82d0-4eba-54d7-ba51-db9d20c6d379)Title Page (#u263aa629-2305-514c-a830-d7e4d8345e9a)CHAPTER ONE (#u7271c80e-838e-513f-b3d7-469d5ecc9ef9)CHAPTER TWO (#ua0f2c44a-0689-56a1-8896-00341a936466)CHAPTER THREE (#u86501380-e1a1-539f-93ed-ef15e813f2d5)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Say yes.”
It was insane. It was impossible. Was he going to kiss her again?
“Hannah? Will you at least think about it?”
Anything, she thought desperately, anything to make him stop looking at her that way, to make him let go of her.
“Yes,” she whispered, “all right, I will. I—”
A smile swept across his face. “I knew you’d see it my way,” he said triumphantly.
She stared at him in horror. “Grant, no! I only said—”
He drew her into his arms. “I promise you, Hannah, you’ll never regret this decision.”
SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sun-filled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.
No Need For Love
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IF THE bit of black satin and lace spilling from the gold foil box wasn’t the sexiest nightgown Hannah had ever seen, it was certainly a close contender. It looked as if it might make the man who saw you in it go up in flames the moment you opened its matching peignoir.
‘Well?’ Sally shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. ‘What do you think?’
Hannah poked a finger at the sheer bodice. ‘It’s—uh—it’s very nice.’
‘Nice?’ Sally made a face. ‘It’s got to be better than “nice”, Hannah. “Nice” is what your mother buys you for sleep-away camp, it’s not what the girls you work with give you as a wedding gift!’
Hannah nodded. ‘Right. That’s what I meant, that it’s the perfect present for a bridal shower.’ She pushed her oversized glasses up on the bridge of her nose. ‘Really.’
‘Yeah?’ Sally drew the gown towards her, regarded it critically, then let it slip back so it lay draped across the gold box. ‘Gosh, I hope so. I’ve never been the one to choose the gift before. I just hope Betty likes it.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
‘OK, then, I’m gonna just leave this here until it’s time to give it to her—or you can bring it with you when you come to the lunch room, OK?’
‘Me? Oh, I can’t! I’ve too much to... do,’ Hannah finished lamely as the door swung shut. Sally was gone, leaving only a drift of perfume behind.
Hannah stared at the gown, made a face, and sank down in her chair. Today seemed to be her day for dealing with the two extremes of wedded bliss, she thought. Her forehead creased as she leaned towards her computer and began scrolling through the ugly details of Gibbs vs. Gibbs. What had once been a happy marriage had been reduced to a case file of accusations and rebuttals.
Well, she thought as she began typing, at least there hadn’t been any children involved. Her fingers slowed on the keys. That was what people had said about her too, eight long years ago when the pain of her own divorce had been fresh and questions about the future had seemed insurmountable.
‘It’s a good thing you didn’t have kids,’ they’d said, and Hannah had agreed. It had been scary enough being responsible for herself, let alone for a baby.
But she’d turned out to be perfectly capable of making a life, a good one, for herself. All it lacked, if it lacked anything, was someone to share it with. Not a man. Never that. But if she’d had a child, a daughter or a son, a smiling face to come home to at the end of the day...
Hannah gave herself a little shake. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said briskly. Her fingers danced over the computer keyboard. There was no point in wasting time on what might have been. It was now that mattered—and that meant making sense of the Byzantine complications of the case her boss had dumped on to her shoulders just before he’d marched out of the door.
‘Do something with this mess,’ he’d demanded, dropping several thick files on her desk on his way out.
‘Do what?’ Hannah had asked, bewildered. She had been Grant MacLean’s assistant for five months now, but she’d only helped him with his speciality, international law.
‘Make some sense out of it, Miss Lewis,’ he’d said, his grey eyes cool. ‘You do have some sort of paralegal training, don’t you?’
And you’re the one who gets paid a fortune to practise law, Hannah had wanted to say. But she hadn’t. She liked her job too much to toss it all away. Besides, she’d learned to bite her tongue and let her boss’s sharper comments slip by.
Mean MacLean, Sally had dubbed him, and, if it was a cruel nickname, it was close to accurate.
‘What a waste,’ she’d groaned, ‘all that thick black hair, white teeth, rippling muscles, and gorgeous eyes—and a heart so tiny you’d have to perform micro-surgery to find it!’
Hannah sighed as she highlighted a section of text. That wasn’t precisely true. Grant MacLean had a heartrather a busy heart, if his monthly flower and chocolate bill meant anything. It was just that no one who worked for him ever saw it.
It was ‘do this,’ and ‘do that,’ with a ‘please’ added sometimes, a please that never seemed to soften the glacial arrogance in the tone.
Still, there were things that made the job more than palatable. The pay was excellent and, in all truth, MacLean drove himself even harder than he drove her. He was, evidently, a believer in working as hard as he played. And working for him was quite a plum, especially for someone like Hannah who’d been a secretary with a brand new paralegal certificate in her hand only five months ago. He was the firm’s shining star, a lawyer with a rapidly developing national and international reputation. Hannah had a sneaking suspicion she hadn’t been his first choice for the job, but his last paralegal had quit in a huff one day and, rather than go through the laborious process of interviewing applicants, he’d asked her to work for him.
No. Not asked, exactly. Mr Longworth had recommended her, and Grant MacLean had scowled at her from under his dark brows and said all right, he’d give her a try...
A sudden whoop of laughter echoed down the corridor, dying as a wave of music swept over it. Hannah glanced at her watch. Five o’clock, on the nose. Quitting time at the estimable law firm of Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean, and Betty’s party had started. Well, she wasn’t going to get there for quite a while, if at all. Gibbs vs. Gibbs was driving her crazy. From what she’d read so far, Jack Gibbs was a sneaky, two-timing rat, but his pathetic wife didn’t want to believe it.
Why were women so damned stupid? Why were men such bastards? Why... ?
The door banged open. ‘Time to get a move on,’ Sally called.
Hannah shook her head without looking up. ‘I’m nowhere near finished.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s after five.’
‘Exactly. Mr MacLean will be back soon. And he’ll expect me to have this brief organised.’
Sally made a face. ‘Boy, I’d love to tell him what he can do with his expectations!’
Hannah laughed. ‘Wish Betty the best for me, will you?’
‘You can do that for yourself. I’ll be back in half an hour to pick up this little number.’ Sally patted the slinky folds spilling from the gold foil box. ‘And when I do, I’m taking you with me!’
Hannah didn’t bother protesting as the door slammed shut. She was too busy peering at the screen. For a while, there was no sound in the office except for the soft click of her keyboard and the occasional scratch of her pencil against her notepad. After a long while, she sat back, shoved her glasses atop her head, and rose from her chair.
‘Time for a break,’ she murmured. She walked the width of her small office, poured herself a cup of coffee, then strolled back again. The black lace nightgown caught her eye; she stopped and caught it up lightly in her hand, shaking her head as she examined the gossamer straps and sheer bodice.
Maybe Betty would be one of the lucky ones and whatever she was dreaming today would last. Maybe her husband would be a man, not the boy Hannah had unwittingly married, who’d been so intent on his own desires that he’d slept with another woman in their bed. She could still remember the pain of coming home early from work and finding them there, a frill of black lace very like this one on the carpet.
The door swung open and banged against the wall. Sally, Hannah thought, and she swung around blindly and held out the damned nightgown.
‘Take this, will you please?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t want it cluttering up my...’
The burst of angry words caught in her throat. She gave a start as she looked into the grey eyes of her employer.
‘For me, Miss Lewis?’ Grant MacLean took the gown from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It slithered through his hands like a snake. ‘Charming,’ he said, his voice fairly purring. A little smile angled across his mouth. ‘But not quite my size.’
Colour raced into Hannah’s cheeks. ‘I—I didn’t know it was you, Mr MacLean.’
‘No. I can see that.’ MacLean’s gaze drifted impersonally over her, from her neatly clasped chestnut hair to the hazel eyes behind the oversized glasses, then down her grey worsted blazer to the hem of her matching calf-length skirt before returning to her face. He held out the gown as that tight smile inched across his lips again. ‘A gift from an admirer, perhaps?’
This time, she felt her face blaze crimson. ‘No! Of course not. How could you think... ?’ She fell silent. He was having fun at her expense, damn him! ‘It’s a gift,’ she said stiffly, snatching the gown from his hands. ‘For Betty, in the typing pool. She’s getting married Sunday, and——’
MacLean’s smile vanished. ‘Spare me the details,’ he said as he shouldered his way past her. ‘Just get your notes on the Gibbs case and come into my office—if you can spare the time, of course.’
Hannah glared at his retreating back. ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave the nightgown one last, condemning glance, then stuffed it into the box and slammed on the lid. Quickly, she stalked to the door and flung it open. A girl was coming towards her, hurrying towards the employees’ lunch room where the sounds of revelry had grown louder. ‘Here,’ Hannah said, shoving the box into the girl’s arms, ‘take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Betty’s gi——’
‘Miss Lewis!’ The voice roared out from behind her and Hannah flinched.
‘Just take it,’ she hissed, and then she shut the door, snatched up her pad and pencil, and hurried into Grant MacLean’s private office.
It was a large room but it was not furnished with the profusion of Oriental carpets and priceless antiques that filled the other partners’ quarters. A pair of black leather couches faced a low glass table to her right; to her left, a matching cabinet hid stereophonic equipment and a built-in bar. Ahead, centred against a backdrop of darkened glass, stood a rectangle of burled walnut that served as MacLean’s desk, flanked by a pair of leather chairs that complemented the one behind the desk.
It was a room almost spartan in its simplicity, yet it had an air of power and authority almost as tangible as the man it housed. He was standing at the window, his back to Hannah, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge resplendent in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but one glance at his rigid spine and stiffly held shoulders suggested that he was not admiring the scenery.
Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as she moved towards him. ‘Mr MacLean?’ She waited for a few seconds. ‘Sir? You asked me to bring you my notes on Gibbs.’
‘Are you sure you have the time to spare, Miss Lewis?’ He swung around to face her. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to attend that fashion show down the hall.’
Her chin lifted. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, thank you.’
MacLean looked at her in silence, then jerked his head towards the door.
‘Close that,’ he said sharply. ‘My skull already feels as if there’s somebody inside hammering to get out without having to listen to the noise coming from that—that female victory party!’ Hannah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned and did as he’d asked. Then she marched to his desk, her sensible heels silent against the tightly knit cream Berber carpet. MacLean motioned her to a chair as he loosened his tie and sank into the one behind the desk. ‘That stupid woman,’ he muttered. ‘She wouldn’t agree to the settlement.’
Hannah was puzzled, but only for a moment. ‘Mrs Gibbs?’
‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and folded his hands loosely on the desk top. ‘We offered one million five, but she won’t take it.’ He shook his head, the harshly handsome face twisted into lines of disbelief. “‘I love him,” she keeps saying, as if that were about to change anything. Can you imagine? Of course,’ he went on in a smug, certain voice, ‘it’s all crap.’
He looked at Hannah. It was clear he was waiting for her to say something.
‘Is it?’
‘Sure. She’s just setting him up for the kill. She figures on getting more money out of him. Hell, they were married, what? Five years? What’s that worth in dollars?’
Hannah frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right, sir. After reading through the file, I——’
‘Well, Gibbs will pay. What choice has he got? But he’ll be twice as smart next time. He won’t let himself get led into marriage so easily.’
‘Mrs Gibbs manoeuvred him into marrying her?’
That smug look came over his face again. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re single, Miss Lewis. You’ve no way of knowing that marriage is never a man’s idea.’
Hannah’s brows lifted. ‘Is that right?’ she said politely.
‘Some pretty little thing comes along, the time is right, and wham, the next thing a man knows, he’s being dragged to the altar.’
‘Really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘How remarkable. I saw Mr and Mrs Gibbs the day they came in for that meeting; she seemed rather small to have accomplished such a feat.’
MacLean’s head came up sharply. ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ Hannah bent over her notepad and scratched something on it. ‘I should have realised.’
‘The point is, the bitch wants blood!’
‘Another figure of speech, of course,’ she muttered before she could stop herself. She swallowed hard. What was wrong with her? She felt as if the devil were pulling her tongue.
MacLean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say something, Miss Lewis?’
Hannah took a breath. ‘Yes, sir. I said that you’re wrong about what Mrs Gibbs wants. She’s not after more money. She’s still in love with her husband.’
He stared at her for a moment, then shot from his chair. ‘When did you speak to her? Damn, she must have gone straight to the telephone after the meeting.’ He stalked around the desk, leaned down, and grasped the arms of Hannah’s chair. ‘What did she say, exactly? I want to know every word.’
Hannah wet her lips. ‘She—she didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what?’ MacLean’s dark brows drew together. ‘Surely you can remember.’
‘I mean, she didn’t telephone.’ Did he have to stare down at her like this? He was so close that she could see that his eyes weren’t really grey at all; they were a combination of blue and black and green, little streaking lines radiating out from the dark pupil.
‘She was here, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But she couldn’t have been. I came straight back; if she’d come by——’
‘She didn’t do that, either.’ Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I was—I was just saying what I thought, sir.’
‘What?’
‘I was—I was only offering my opinion.’
A muted scream of feminine laughter beating through the closed door punctuated her hurried words. Silence fell between them, and then MacLean let out his breath.
‘Your opinion,’ he said softly. ‘Your highly trained opinion as a paralegal, that is.’ A muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘I see.’
Oh, God, Hannah thought. She forced herself to look directly at him, as if her heart hadn’t just plummeted to her feet.
‘I thought that’s what you...’ She swallowed. ‘I was reading through the case,’ she said, ‘as you asked me to do, and——’
‘Ah.’ He smiled grimly. ‘As I asked you to do.’
‘Yes, sir. And—’
‘Let me try to understand this, Miss Lewis. Did I ask you to formulate an opinion of the case?’
‘You asked me to—to do something with it...’
‘Yes. Organise the file, perhaps. Write a pråcis.’ He smiled, almost kindly. ‘You are familiar with that word, aren’t you? You did hear it once or twice when you weren’t sleeping through your paralegal courses?’
Hannah’s cheeks blazed. ‘Mr MacLean, if you’d just let me explain...’
‘Perhaps you’re a confidante of the delightful Mrs Gibbs?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘A psychologist, then?’
Her cheeks pinkened. ‘I only meant——’
‘Or a fortune-teller.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that what you are, Miss Lewis?’
‘Mr MacLean, please——’
‘But you know the intricacies of this case.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest——’
‘Of male-female relationships in general.’ His lips drew back from his teeth and he gave her a smile that would have done a shark proud. ‘It’s wonderful, the things they teach a paralegal nowadays.’
Hannah stiffened. ‘It’s just common sense, sir. I read the file, and I was simply——’
‘Is it your sex that gives you such insight, the fact that you and the lady in question share similar genetic material?’ He leaned closer to her and she caught the scent of piney aftershave mingled with sharp male anger. ‘Or is it your vast experience in matrimonial law that makes you an expert?’
All at once she shoved back her chair, hard enough so his hands fell away from it, and leaped to her feet.
‘You’re no expert, either,’ she said sharply. ‘When I took this job, they said your field was international law. But now—but now...’
The fast, furious words ceased as rapidly as they’d begun. She looked at him in horror. What was she thinking of? She’d been acting crazy ever since she’d stepped into this office. This was Grant MacLean, this was her boss! This was the man whose signature was on her weekly pay cheque, whose orders she was supposed to obey...
‘You’re right.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’
MacLean gave her a tight smile. ‘I said, you’re right. About my expertise, or my lack of it. I only agreed to take this case because Gibbs is an old friend. I told him at the start to get a divorce lawyer, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’ He sighed. ‘Make a note, please, Miss Lewis. Remind me to telephone him first thing in the morning and tell him I’m resigning from the case. I’ll recommend someone else to him.’
An apology, and the word ‘please’, all in the same breath. Hannah bent her head over her notepad. Just wait until Sally heard about——
‘The only thing I really know about marriage is that it’s invariably a mistake that people shouldn’t make more than once.’
Hannah looked up. He was smiling politely. A peace offering, she thought, and smiled back.
‘We’re in complete agreement there.’
A little frown of surprise creased his brow. ‘Is that the voice of experience talking?’
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘And your comment about Mrs Gibbs still loving her husband—was that the voice of experience talking, too?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You mean, am I... ?’ She blew out her breath. ‘No,’ she said without hesitation, ‘it definitely was not.’
Grant MacLean steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘I see.’
Hannah shrugged her shoulders. ‘The only thing I’d argue with is how a couple ends up at the altar.’
He nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t think anyone leads anyone there, I just think they both fool themselves into thinking it’s a good idea.’
MacLean chuckled as he leaned back against the desk and folded his arms over his chest.
‘And our Mrs Gibbs——’
‘—is still fooling herself. Yes, sir. I think so.’
He nodded. ‘You think she wants to try and make a go of things, hmm? Very well, then. Make a note of that. I’ll tell Gibbs when I talk to him tomorrow.’ A moment passed, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Please, Miss Lewis, won’t you sit down?’
Hannah sat down carefully and crossed her legs at the ankle, notepad and pencil at the ready, all too aware that she had survived a near-disaster. She’d come damnably close to getting herself fired. She’d given away more of herself than she usually did, as well, but that was understandable. Grant MacLean had surprised her with his sudden honesty and self-deprecation; it had elicited an exchange of truth on her part.
Perhaps now they could get on better with each other. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so sharp-tempered. Hannah looked up, smiling—and the smile froze. MacLean was watching her with an intensity that was almost paralysing, as if—as if she were something pinned to a microscope slide.
‘Mr MacLean? Is something wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Miss Lewis. Quite the contrary. Everything is fine.’
He didn’t look as if everything were fine, Hannah thought. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then looked down quickly and opened her notebook.
‘I know you said you’re going to give up the case,’ she said. ‘But I did make some notes. Shall I type them up and——?’
‘Are you busy this evening, Miss Lewis?’
Hannah blinked. ‘Busy?’ she said, looking up again. He was still watching her that same way, dammit, as if he were a scientist and she were a new and hitherto unidentified species of bacteria.
‘Yes.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘Did you have plans, I mean?’
‘No, sir. I can work late, if you——’
‘Work?’ MacLean’s smile grew, until it was a grin, the first, she thought suddenly, that she’d ever seen on his face. ‘Well, yes, Miss Lewis, I suppose you could call it that.’ He leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked straight into her eyes. ‘You see, I’m in desperate need of your services tonight.’
‘Yes, sir. Will you be dictating, or——?’
This time, he laughed aloud. But there was no sharpness to it, only a softness that made the laughter almost a purr, and it made the hair rise on the back of Hannah’s neck.
‘Miss Lewis. Hannah, I mean. I think, considering the circumstances, I should call you by your given name, don’t you?’
Hannah took a deep breath. Something was happening here, something she didn’t understand, something—something dangerous.
MacLean leaned away from the desk, then came slowly towards her and held out his hand. She stared at it in silence, then at him, and after a moment he reached out, clasped her fingers in his, and drew her to her feet.
Then he smiled, and Hannah’s heart almost stopped beating, for the smile transformed him, turning him with blinding speed from the scourge of Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean into an incredibly sexy male.
‘After all, sweetheart,’ he said softly, ‘only a damned fool would use such formal terms with his mistress.’
CHAPTER TWO
HANNAH stared into the grey eyes a scant few inches from hers. This was a joke, she thought crazily. Her boss was telling a joke with a long delay before the punchline.
But that cocksure grin was still curved across his mouth, and all at once she knew that the only funny thing in this office was her foolishness in having told him that she was a divorced woman. Not that she hadn’t been down this road before. Many men thought women like her made easy targets—even, it seemed, a man like Grant MacLean, who had, she was quite certain, never until this moment even noticed that she was female.
Her lip curled in disgust. ‘Let go of me,’ she demanded.
One dark brow rose in a questioning curve. ‘Of course,’ he said, his hand falling away from hers.
She clasped the wrist he’d held and rubbed at the skin as if she were trying to eradicate his fingerprints. ‘Just who do you think you are?’ she said in a low, furious voice.
MacLean stared at her, perplexed, and then, suddenly, he began to smile.
‘Miss Lewis—Hannah—I think you’ve misunderstood me.’
‘No. I haven’t misunderstood you at all, Mr MacLean. But you’ve certainly misunderstood me.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I am not the least bit interested in your—your proposition.’
His smile broadened. ‘Let me explain before you——’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘I don’t think so, Hannah.’
‘Believe me, you are.’ She stared at him a second longer, then turned and marched stiffly to the door. ‘If that’s all, sir,’ she said, flinging the word like an insult over her shoulder, ‘I’ll go back to my office and finish my work on the——’
‘Hannah, dammit, wait a minute!’
‘—the Gibbs case.’ Her hand closed on the doorknob and she yanked it open. ‘I’ll print out my notes and leave them on your desk before—’
He came up behind her with an amazing swiftness for a man of his size, and the knob was wrenched from her hand as he slammed the door shut.
‘Open that door,’ she said. Her voice shook a little, not so much with fear as with righteous indignation. How dared he? How dared he? ‘Dammit, Mr MacLean——’
‘You’re being a fool, Miss Lewis.’
The humour had fled his voice. His tone was sharp, his grasp unyielding as he caught her by the shoulders and hauled her around to face him. Hannah met his cold gaze with one of her own.
‘Stop now,’ she said quietly, ‘and I’ll forget this ever happened.’
MacLean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it can be dangerous to make threats?’
‘Or do you prefer that I report you?’
‘Listen here, young woman——’
‘No, sir, you listen here. I am not interested in—in fun and games, do you understand? I’m not interested in destroying your career, either, but if you persist in...’ Her words faded to silence. He was smiling again. Smiling, damn him! ‘I assure you,’ she said through her teeth, ‘there’s nothing funny about this.’
‘Fantastic,’ he said softly. ‘Five months of “Yes, Mr MacLean, no, Mr Maclean,” five months and never another word out of you, and now here you are, threatening to bring the roof down on my head.’
‘And I will, if you don’t——’
‘I am not trying to seduce you.’
Colour stole into Hannah’s cheeks. ‘I can hardly disagree with that,’ she said. ‘Seduction is supposed to be subtle, but this approach of yours is——’
‘Thank you for the clarification, Miss Lewis. I’m sure it will prove useful in my relationships with women. Now, if you’d just pay attention to me for a minute——’
‘I’ll count to three,’ she said, folding her arms over her breasts, ‘and then——’
‘Shall I put it more bluntly?’
‘You’ve been blunt enough. If I were you——’
‘If you were me,’ he said, his tone frigid, ‘you would know that you are the last woman on earth I’d ask to be my mistress, Miss Lewis.’
‘One. Two. Th...’ Suddenly, his words penetrated. She stared at him. ‘What?’
His smile vanished; his brows drew together in a harsh frown. ‘You’re my assistant, for God’s sake. You’re not a woman.’
The breath puffed from Hannah’s lungs. ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice small and puzzled.
MacLean nodded. ‘All I’m interested in,’ he said, stroking his finger across his chin, ‘is a bit of harmless deception.’
She shook her head in confusion. ‘I—I don’t understand.’
He turned and strode across the room. When he reached the windows, he rocked back on his heels, stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, and paid rapt attention to the view.
‘I’ve a party to attend this evening.’
‘Yes, I know. The reception for the principals in the Hungarian deal. I noted it on your calendar myself.’
‘An hour of ridiculous chit-chat,’ he said coldly, ‘fuelled by pricey champagne that flows like water and enough canapås to feed an army, then a five-course meal catered by Julia Childs’ latest guru, all interspersed with a dozen turns around the dance-floor...’
Hannah couldn’t help but smile. ‘How terrible for you.’
MacLean swung towards her. His scowl had deepened so that there were two harsh curves rimming his mouth.
‘I’m sure my distress stirs your heart, Miss Lewis. But I assure you, it will be a horrible few hours. Oh, I can survive the food and the drinks, I suppose, and the dance band. But an evening of Magda Karolyi...’ A shudder went through him. ‘God, that’s more than any man should have to bear!’
‘Magda Karolyi?’ It sounded like an exotic dessert, but from the look on her boss’s face it was bound to be more than that.
‘The sister of the head of the Hungarian group. We met in Budapest last year, when I was there putting this deal together.’
‘Mr MacLean.’ Hannah cleared her throat. ‘This is all very interesting, sir. But——’
‘She’s a very attractive woman.’ A slow wave of colour beat up under the tanned skin that lay across his high cheekbones. ‘And she’s—she’s taken an interest in me.’
Hannah stared at him. ‘She’s taken an...?’
‘Dammit,’ he snarled, ‘must I spell it out? The bloody woman did everything but crawl into my bed in Budapest. Avoiding her was like walking a tightrope; I only got away with it because I kept claiming I was too busy with meetings and planning sessions to—to accommodate.’ His eyes flashed to Hannah’s, the coldness in them daring her to so much as smile, but she was far too amazed that he should reveal all this about himself to reaet with anything but rapt attention. ‘She’s the apple of her brother’s eye.’
‘The brother who’s in charge of——’
‘Yes.’ MacLean blew out his breath. ‘If she’s not happy, he’s not happy.’
‘Are you saying that—that he’ll expect you to—to...?’
‘No, of course not! He won’t “expect” me to do anything—except be nice to her. Pleasant. Gracious.’ His mouth twisted. ‘All the things one human being generally tries to be to another.’
Hannah held out her hands. ‘Well, then, I don’t see...’
‘The trouble is that Magda is sure to misinterpret everything and anything—including the fact that I’m going to show up at this damned party without a woman on my arm.’
‘Then why will you? I mean, why didn’t you ask someone to go with you?’
‘Dammit, Miss Lewis, what do you take me for? I’m not a fool!’ He turned and paced from one end of the pale Berber carpet to the other, spine ramrod-straight, shoulders taut. ‘I had a date for this evening. But—but the lady and I have decided not to see each other for a while.’ Hannah said nothing, and the colour in his face darkened. ‘Our relationship had become—complicated.’
‘Like the Magda Karolyi thing?’ she said, staring at him.
‘No! Not at all.’ His glare was formidable. ‘Why is it women who start out claiming they are not interested in permanency so often are?’
‘Ah.’ Hannah nodded. ‘I see.’
‘The point is,’ he said coldly, ‘it’s left me in an awkward position. I have no choice but to attend this evening’s function, but I’ve no wish to do it alone.’ There was a dramatic pause. ‘And that’s where you come in.’
She stared at him. You arrogant bastard, she thought...
‘You want me to go to this party with you.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And pretend that we’re—involved.’
‘Yes.’
Hannah gave a sharp little laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Mr MacLean, but it’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’ The black scowl darkened his face again. ‘Why is it out of the question?’
‘What do you mean, why? It—it just is.’
‘That’s not a reason, that’s a statement.’
‘I should think it’s obvious,’ she said. ‘Deception like that——’
‘I’d be the one doing the lying, not you. All you’d have to do is smile and say hello, drink some champagne and eat some of that damned stuff they call food at these overblown bashes. What’s so difficult about that?’
Hannah stared at him. How could he ask her such a question? And why should she want to make a fool of some woman she’d never even met? He made it sound as if he’d been an innocent in all this, but that didn’t mean anything.
‘What’s the problem, Miss Lewis? Don’t you believe me? I tell you, the woman’s trouble with a short fuse.’
And she was interested in Grant MacLean. That Hannah could believe. He was a good-looking man, she had to give him that. If you weren’t working for him, enduring his demands and his drive for perfection, he was probably a rather interesting male—if you liked the type.
‘Well?’ His voice was sharp. ‘What do you say?’
She looked up. She had already said it, but it was clear that he had no intention of listening to any answer but the one he wanted. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, arms folded across his chest, mouth set in a taut, narrow line. It was a sight she’d seen before, during meetings with important clients and their sometimes intractable opponents. The authoritative tone, the determined posture, even the cool, never-wavering set of those glacial grey eyes, all worked together to achieve his goal.
But Hannah wasn’t about to be intimidated. She had absolutely no intention of being part of his little game. If he was really having a problem with Magda Karolyi, it was up to him to get out of it on his own.
‘The party’s at the Mark Hopkins. Have you ever been there?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’
‘It’s a handsome place, Hannah. You’ll like it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will. I mean, I’m sure I would, if—’
‘I’ll send you home by taxi, when the evening ends.’
‘Mr MacLean, there’s really no point in——’
‘If it’s the idea of pretending we’re intimate that bothers you——’
‘It isn’t that.’ Their eyes met, and colour flooded her cheeks. ‘Well, it is, but that’s only part of——’
‘Magda needn’t think we’re lovers, I suppose. It will be enough that I’m with another woman.’
But she wasn’t a woman. Hadn’t he just said so? She was his assistant.
‘I really don’t see the problem here. Unless—have you another engagement tonight?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t think...I mean, this isn’t—it’s not part of my job, after all.’
‘Would it make you feel better if it were? Then think of it that way—as part of your job description. When you signed on for this position, I made it clear that this wasn’t a job for someone with a nine-to-five mentality. You said you understood. In fact, you gave me your assurance that you would give me your very best at all times. Do you remember?’
Hannah flushed. ‘Of course. But I never meant—I never thought you meant——’
‘Haven’t you ever attended a social event as part of your job, Miss Lewis?’
‘Yes, once or twice. But those times were different. They were receptions given by the firm for——’
‘This is the same thing.’
‘It isn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean aren’t hosting this. And you’ve no right to—’
‘A matter of semantics,’ he said, shrugging away her comment as if he were brushing off a fly. ‘The evening is simply part of your workload. Have I mentioned that you’ll be on overtime?’
‘That’s very generous of you, sir. But—’
His brows drew together. ‘Look, Miss Lewis, I can’t spend the next hour debating this. Can you work late tonight or can’t you?’
Hannah stared at him. ‘Work late tonight? Well, yes, if you——’
‘Good girl.’ He reached past her and opened the door to the outer office. ‘Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.’ His hand brushed lightly across her hair, then touched her cheek and, for reasons that made no sense whatsoever, a feeling of lightness engulfed her. ‘And do something with yourself, please,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Let your hair loose, put on some lipstick—we’re going to a party, not a conference. All right?’
No, Hannah thought, it was not all right at all, but how could she tell him that, when she was already standing on the other side of the closed door?
Fifteen minutes later, he came striding out of his office. ‘Ready?’ he asked crisply.
Hannah turned. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving the single word as much irritation, annoyance and downright anger as she could manage. But MacLean didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he marched towards her, clasped her by the shoulders, and drew her under the uncompromising glare of an overhead fluorescent lamp.
‘The lipstick’s fine. A little pale, but it complements your colouring.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you have another blouse on hand?’
Her chin lifted. ‘No,’ she said tightly, ‘I do not.’
‘Well, this will have to do.’ He reached out and closed his fingers around the top button. Hannah caught his wrist, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘You look like a schoolgirl, Miss Lewis. Surely you don’t go out on dates wearing blouses closed to the collar, do you?’
‘This is not a date,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I really resent...’
Two buttons slipped out of their holes; she felt the swift, impersonal brush of his fingertips against her skin, and that strange, out-of-body feeling went through her again.
‘That’s better.’ His gaze moved over her slowly. ‘A little informal, perhaps, but not unacceptable.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I thought I told you to wear your hair loose.’
Her hand went to her hair, drawn back, as usual, neatly on her neck and held in a tortoiseshell clip.
‘I always wear it this way,’ she said defensively.
‘Yes. I’ve noticed.’ The clip came loose, and her hair tumbled free. ‘But you’re going to wear it differently tonight,’ he said, as he thrust his hands into her hair and drew it over her shoulders. When he was done, he held her at arm’s length and inspected her with slow, almost insulting care. Hannah’s chin tilted.
‘Will I do?’ she asked in a frigid voice.
His gaze moved to her face, drifted across her features, and then that little angular smile tilted across his mouth.
‘Yes,’ he said, and he sounded almost as surprised as she felt when the softly spoken word sent a little rush of pleasure tingling through her blood.
Well, she thought quickly, why wouldn’t it? A compliment from Mean MacLean was as rare as a blizzard in July. Naturally she’d react to such a thing.
They taxied to the hotel in silence, he sitting against the window on the right side, frowning over scrawled notes in a pocket diary, Hannah on the left. She was grateful he wasn’t attempting any small talk; she was still angry at how she’d been bulldozed into playing a part in a charade to dupe an innocent woman. She glanced at her watch. It was just past six-thirty. If these things went as they usually did, she’d be safely back in a cab again by ten o’clock. Nine-thirty, if she was lucky.
She looked at Grant MacLean again. He’d been a trial lawyer with a reputation for never losing before he’d taken up his esoteric speciality in international law, and it was easy to see how he’d got that reputation. Once he’d determined what he wanted of her, he’d never backed down. He’d been willing to do whatever it took: he’d bullied, threatened, cajoled, dangled rewards—anything to get his own way. Her gaze moved over him, taking in the slightly jutting nose, the firm jaw, the powerful body contained within the carefully tailored navy wool suit. He was a formidable opponent; it would be frightening to go head to head with him over something that really mattered.
He was, as well, an awfully attractive man. Sally and the other girls always said so, but Hannah had never paid his looks very much attention. For one thing, she’d learned her lesson years ago about good looks: a handsome face and hard body were just superficial trappings. It was the inner man that counted.
For another—she shifted in her seat. For another, she’d never really looked at him as a man, until tonight. He’d always just been her boss, Mr MacLean, until five minutes ago, when he’d handed her into the cab.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she’d said stiffly, and he’d given her a look cold enough to freeze water.
‘Be sure and address me that way in front of Miss Karolyi,’ he’d said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘That’s bound to convince her you’re my date.’
Grant. She was to call him Grant. Grant...
‘We’re here.’
Hannah looked up. The cab had pulled to the kerb; a uniformed doorman was holding the door open and smiling politely at her. She stepped on to the pavement and gazed at the hotel. A laughing couple were strolling up the steps to the main door, she in a gauzy cocktail gown, he in a dark suit, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists, and suddenly she wondered why in heaven’s name she’d let herself be talked into this. She wasn’t dressed right, for one thing, and she could never carry it off. She didn’t want to carry it off. Grant MacLean was her employer, he controlled her nine-to-five life, and hadn’t he said he didn’t see her as a woman?
‘Are you all right?’ His voice was low, his breath warm against her ear. Hannah looked at him as his fingers closed lightly around her arm.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said in a quick rush, and he gave her that smile he’d given her a lifetime ago, when he’d first asked her to take part in this game.
‘Of course it will, sweetheart,’ he whispered, and then, before she could draw back, he cupped her face in his hand, bent to her, and put his mouth to hers. The kiss was brief, the press of his lips firm and cool, but when he drew back her heart was racing as if it wanted to escape her breast.
‘Don’t,’ she spat. ‘You have no right——’
She caught her breath as he kissed her again, his mouth closing over hers with gentle persuasion. She felt the light brush of his tongue against her lips, then its warm thrust. A tremor went through her, not of revulsion or even anger but of something far more primitive and powerful.
Grant drew back. A smile of satisfaction curved across his lips.
‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘that’s much better.’
‘You—you——’
‘Magda’s not a fool, Hannah. Telling her we’re intimate won’t serve any purpose if you don’t look the part.’
‘Intimate?’ she stuttered. ‘Are you crazy? We agreed I’d be your date; you said——’
‘But you look convincing now, with that little flush on your cheeks and that swollen softness to your mouth.’ He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘Now smile, sweetheart, and look at me as if you’ve just come from my bed.’
‘You can’t do this to me,’ she said as he hurried her along beside him—but he was already propelling her up the steps and through the door. By the time they reached the ballroom they’d been stopped by half a dozen people.
Hannah ached to turn her back and walk away from him, to leave him on his own and let him fend off all the predatory women in Hungary with his own devices. But how could she storm away from the president of the Chamber of Commerce in the middle of an introduction, or the director of the San Francisco Symphony? How could she ignore the head of the largest bank on the West Coast, or the mayor? And then there was the one person no one could ignore, a woman in a crimson gown that looked as if it had been spray-painted on, all creamy shoulders, breathtaking dåcolletage, and masses of golden curls piled high atop her head. She came bearing down on them with a little shriek of delight, and Hannah knew immediately who she was.
‘Magda Karolyi?’ she whispered.
Grant tensed beside her. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘dear God, that’s her!’
‘Grant,’ the blonde said, launching herself at him, ‘oh, darling, how vunderful to zee you again!’
He twisted his head at the last second, so that her kiss fell on his cheek and not his mouth. Then he stepped back, put his arm around Hannah’s waist, and drew her forward.
‘Magda,’ he said pleasantly, ‘it’s wonderful to see you, too.’
The blonde’s eyes, a dark chocolate that contrasted vividly with her pale hair, gave Hannah a quick, assessing glance.
‘This is Hannah Lewis, Magda. Hannah, you remember all the things I told you about Magda, don’t you?’ He looked down at her, his eyes filled with warning.
Hannah gave him a long, steady look. You put your life in my hands, Grant MacLean, she thought, and now you’re going to get what you deserve. She smiled, took a deep breath, and turned to Magda Karolyi.
‘Miss Karolyi,’ she said, ‘Mr MacLean asked me here tonight, and now I feel I owe you an apology.’
Her voice faded away, but not because of the sudden pressure of Grant’s hand on her waist. It was Magda who was responsible. Hannah stiffened as the chocolate-coloured eyes swept across her. She could feel the other woman taking inventory, dismissing the plain silk blouse, the grey blazer and skirt as beneath contempt, moving upwards to Hannah’s face, noting the simple fall of shining hair, the minimum of make-up, even the lack of jewellery.
A little smile settled on to the pouting crimson lips, and Magda Karolyi turned her back to Hannah in complete, unsubtle dismissal.
‘You naughty boy, Grant,’ she purred, ‘vy haven’t you telephoned? I’ve been in San Francisco two whole days, vaiting for your call.’
Hannah touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘That’s what I was about to explain, Miss Karolyi.’ The blonde turned towards her with a look of sharp irritation. Hannah smiled and moved more closely into the curve of Grant’s arm. ‘It’s my fault Grant hasn’t called you.’ She gave him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. He was watching her closely, his face expressionless. ‘I’m his assistant, you see, and we’ve been so terribly involved. At the office, I mean. We never seem to find the time...’ She tilted her head so that her hair swung softly back from her face. ‘Isn’t that right, Grant?’
There was a moment of silence, and then Grant cleared his throat.
‘Hannah’s my paralegal, Magda.’
‘Yes,’ the blonde said coldly, ‘I’m sure she is.’
‘She does all the groundwork for the cases I handle. I—uh—I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
Magda Karolyi gave him a sharp look. ‘Is that so?’
Hannah leaned her head against Grant’s shoulder.
‘Well, I certainly try my best,’ she said sweetly.
Magda’s mouth narrowed into a tight line. ‘I bet you do,’ she said coldly. ‘It’s been good zeeing you again,
Grant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see some other guests I must greet.’ Her eyes shifted to Hannah. ‘Miss Lewis.’
‘Miss Karolyi.’ Hannah smiled cheerfully. ‘It’s been—delightful.’
The woman’s nostrils flared. ‘Indeed,’ she said, then turned on her heel and stalked away. There was another silence, and then Grant began to laugh softly.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that takes care of Magda.’
Hannah drew away from him. ‘I hope so.’
‘Damn, but I wish I could have recorded that. I thought you were going to feed me to the sharks and instead you put a knife right into Magda’s—’ he grinned ‘—heart.’
‘Her padded heart,’ she said coldly. ‘And I certainly didn’t do it for you.’
His smile faded as he looked at her. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think you had.’
Hannah took a deep breath. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can try this little trick again. I’ll endure the rest of the evening because I said that I would, but when it ends, so does your right ever again to drag me into a scheme like this.’
A slow smile curved across Grant MacLean’s mouth. ‘Threats again, Miss Lewis?’
‘Statement, Mr MacLean. I don’t like being intimidated.’
‘And I,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t like being spoken to as if I were a schoolyard bully.’
Hannah looked at him. He was still smiling; she knew that to anyone in the crowded room it would look as if he was saying something pleasant, even intimate. But his eyes had gone dark and cool; there was a glint in their depths that sent a faint chill up her spine and she wished there were some way to back off without it looking as if she was backing down.
But there was none, and so she stood her ground and met those cold eyes.
‘Then don’t act like one,’ she said softly.
She heard the quick intake of his breath, saw the sudden way his mouth twisted—but then it was over, gone so quickly it might not have happened.
‘Grant,’ a deep male voice said happily, and within seconds they were enclosed in a group of laughing guests. There was a lot of hand-shaking and back-slapping.
‘This is Hannah Lewis,“ Grant said. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a little smile. ‘She insists that I introduce her as my legal assistant. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”
It was the sort of remark that made everyone laugh. It was also the sort of remark that intimated she was anything but his legal assistant. Still, he treated her with courtesy and propriety, enough so that she was convinced that she had got through the worst of the evening.
A little after nine, just as the tables were being cleared and the dance band was settling in, Grant made apologies for their early departure, drew back Hannah’s chair, and led her out of the hotel.
‘Aren’t we staying for the dancing?’ she said, before she could think. ‘I mean, won’t your friends think it strange that you left early?’
Grant barely glanced at her as he handed her into a taxi and climbed in after her.
‘It was a business evening, Miss Lewis, not a social one. I thought I explained that earlier.’
His voice was cold. Hannah risked a quick look at him as the cab pulled out from the kerb.
‘I only meant——’
‘Where do you live?’
She told him her address and he leaned forward and repeated it to the driver. Then he settled into the far corner of the seat, folded his arms across his chest, and clamped his lips together.
By the time they reached the three-storey town house in which her flat was located, an oppressive silence had settled between them. Hannah threw open the door and scrambled on to the pavement.
‘Goodnight,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ll see you in the——’ The door slammed shut behind her and a steely hand clamped around her arm. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. It was a stupid question. What he was doing was marching her swiftly to the house, then up the steps.
‘Your keys,’ he said sharply.
‘You don’t have to see me in,’ she said with sudden wariness.
‘Your keys, Miss Lewis.’
The frost in his voice made all the difference. It was clear he was not intent on anything but seeing her safely inside. Leaving a woman alone on the street at night, even at this hour and in this relatively quiet neighbourhood, was, apparently, not something Grant MacLean did—probably, she thought uncharitably, because he was afraid of the possible legal ramifications.
She snapped open her purse and dug out the keys. ‘Here,’ she said, just as coldly. The door swung open and she held out her hand. He ignored it.
‘What floor are you on?’
‘The third. But—’
He took her arm and ushered her to the curving staircase that led up into shadowy darkness. They climbed in silence; when they reached the top floor, Hannah was not foolish enough to try and send him on his way. He was going to see her to her door, that was obvious, and trying to stop him again would only let him emphasise which of them was in control.
So far, she seemed to be losing.
When they reached her door, she stopped and faced him.
‘My keys, please.’ He held them out, his smile as polite as hers. The keys dropped into her open palm. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Goodnight, Mr MacLean.’
‘Miss Lewis?’
She had just inserted her key in the lock when he spoke. What now? she thought irritably, and swung around to face him.
‘Mr MacLean,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s getting late. And——’
The words caught in her throat. He was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that made her wish desperately that she could flee inside and slam the door between them.
‘You’re a hell of a good legal assistant. But you’re a phoney when it comes to being a woman.’
She gasped, but it was too late. His arms went around her, he pushed her against the door, and his mouth came down hard on hers.
He had kissed her twice on this night, but not like this. No man should kiss a woman like this, Hannah thought desperately as she slammed her hands against his chest. This wasn’t a kiss, it was an exercise in control, brute masculine control, passionless and degrading. She whimpered and tried to twist her face from his, but it was impossible.
A shudder went through her, more of abhorrence at this invasion of her senses than of fear. It was as if he’d been waiting for that signal. He drew back instantly. When he spoke, his tone was frigid.
‘I just wanted to be certain there was no mistake about the language. You called me a bully earlier tonight, Hannah. Well, that’s the way a bully would behave.’
‘And what did you expect me to call you?’ Her voice shook as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘My date? My lover?’
‘Ah, Hannah, Hannah.’ He laughed. ‘If I were your lover, I’d kiss you goodnight properly.’ Before she could stop him, he plucked the glasses from her nose. ‘Like this,’ he whispered, and drew her to him.
His mouth caught hers with almost lazy insolence. Hannah tried to pull back, but he clasped her face in his hands and went on kissing her, slowly, gently, his mouth moving on hers, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones—and suddenly, with no warning at all, she felt warmth flood through her body.
The hands that had been pushing against his chest curled into the lapels of his jacket instead. A muted sound of male triumph growled from his throat and he caught her tightly to him, holding her and kissing her until the world had no meaning...
And then he put her from him. Hannah swayed unsteadily on her feet, stunned, trying to make sense out of what had happened. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat she thought he was as confused as she, but then he slipped the glasses back on her nose and she knew it hadn’t been confusion she’d seen at all but smug, patronising satisfaction.
‘Thank you for an interesting evening, Hannah.’ He started for the stairs, then turned back at the last moment. ‘Oh, by the way, it’s all right if you want to come in late tomorrow.’ He laughed softly. ‘Hell, after the hard work you’ve put in, you’re entitled to a good night’s sleep.’
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
HANNAH slipped into a black wool coat-dress, buttoned it, then strode to the mirror and looked at her reflection. Yes. It was perfect. The dress had been an extravagance, costly not because of its classic style but because of the perfection of its fabric and workmanship, bought on sale in a moment of weakness but never yet worn. She’d saved it for a special occasion—but who would have dreamed that that would be the day she left her job? .
Because that was what she would be doing today, she thought grimly as she slipped on black leather pumps. What choice did she have? There wasn’t a way in the world she could to go on working for Grant MacLean. She’d decided that within the first five minutes after he’d left last night.
What had taken a little longer was determining exactly how to quit. Her first instinct had been to just not show up in the morning, let him come to work and find himself without an assistant.
But that would have been a mistake. She was entitled to a decent reference after four years at Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean. More than that, she’d be damned if she didn’t make her reasons for quitting absolutely clear. Otherwise, MacLean would make up a bunch of lies that would salve his monumental ego and leave her looking like a fool.
Hannah stared into the mirror. ‘I am resigning,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘because you, Mr MacLean, are an overbearing, arrogant male chauvinist. And—if they weren’t among the nicer creatures—I’d say “pig,” too.’
He was the kind of man who should wear animal skins instead of Savile Row suits, and to continue in his employ would be sentencing herself to purgatory. Of course, Grant MacLean would not see himself that way. God’s gift to women, that was what he thought he was. Just look at the elaborate plot he’d hatched to evade Magda Karolyi.
Hannah grimaced as she brushed her hair back from her face. And it wasn’t terribly difficult to imagine the scene that must have taken place between him and the woman she’d replaced last night when that nameless fool had begun to expect a more permanent relationship with him.
The man wasn’t any sort of gift as far as she was concerned, Hannah thought as she clipped her hair into place at the nape of her neck. The question wasn’t how many women Grant MacLean had made fools of in the past, it was whether any of them had told him what a bastard he was.
She, however, would. She’d face him in his lair and tell him what she thought of him, because, if she didn’t, he was certain to think he’d triumphed last night when he’d forced his kisses on her. Hell, he’d probably tell himself she was ashamed to face him.
Hannah glared at the mirror. ‘You’d love to think that, Mr MacLean, wouldn’t you?’ she said.
Yes. She just bet he would. It would do a lot more for his overblown ego if he believed she’d clung to him, when in truth the stress of the evening had suddenly caught up to her and taken its toll.
‘It was vertigo, Mr MacLean,’ she said coldly to the mirror. ‘What else did you think it was?’
That he’d forced her into participating in an ugly scheme was bad enough, but then he’d made things even worse by trying to humble her, and all because she’d dared tell him what someone should have told him years ago: that he was a bully and that he couldn’t get away with such behaviour in today’s world.
Hannah glanced into the mirror one last time and permitted herself a faint smile of satisfaction. She looked cool and controlled, the very epitome of a professional.
‘You’re not a woman, Miss Lewis,’ MacLean had said yesterday, ‘you’re my assistant.’
That was exactly right, and why his words should have given her even a moment’s pause was beyond her. She was a professional, not a toy to be played with.
She drew a deep breath, picked up her handbag, and marched to the door. If her divorce had taught her anything, it was that she was a capable human being, one who could take charge of her own life. She didn’t have to stay in this job and be humiliated. She would find another job, as good or better. But first, she would make absolutely certain that Grant MacLean knew she had his number—and that his conservative, very proper colleagues, Longworth, Hart and Holtz, knew it, too.
The thought brought the first real smile of the day to her lips.
Hannah had timed things so she’d be sure to arrive long before her employer did. That was why finding a stack of file folders beside her computer and a terse note instructing her to deal with them immediately was a bit disconcerting.
‘Miss Lewis,’ it read. ‘Extract all appropriate references to the French incorporation and have them on my desk by ten.’ It was sighed, as always, with the single name, ‘MacLean.’
It was the sort of note he left her all the time, so commonplace that she almost began doing as directed. But then she stopped, folder in hand. She looked up quickly, half expecting to see him watching her from the doorway with, no doubt, a smug little smile on his face.
But he wasn’t there. How could he be? She’d marched into his office and checked the minute she’d arrived, just to make sure. Still, she made a show of slapping down the folder, picking up the note, and ripping it to bits. Smiling disdainfully, she dropped the shredded paper into the wastebasket.
‘Take care of it yourself, MacLean,’ she said coolly.
Then she turned on her computer, stabbed her glasses on to her nose, and set to work.
Twenty minutes later, the laser printer spewed out a brief but pointed letter of resignation. Hannah was very pleased with it. It was concise and to the point, outlining what had happened last evening in crisp, no-nonsense terms. She would put a copy of it on the desk of each member of the firm before she went out of the door—which she would do in record time, for she had no intention whatsoever of giving Mr Grant MacLean more than an hour’s notice.
She almost laughed when she thought of the note he’d left her. Let him extract his ‘appropriate references’ while he tried to explain her charges to Longworth, Hart and Holtz. Grant MacLean, eminent lawyer, was about to become Grant MacLean, tightrope walker. And if he lost his balance and fell, thanks to her, it was exactly what he deserved.
‘I take it you’ve gotten the information I require.’ The cool male voice made her jump. Hannah spun around, hand to her throat. MacLean was lounging in the doorway to her office, arms folded across his chest, a dark scowl on his face.
‘Mr MacLean!’ Mr MacLean? she thought, hearing herself. And said in a squeaky voice, too. Damn! That was hardly a good way to start.
‘Who did you expect?’
‘But—where did you come from?’ she said, much more calmly. ‘I checked your office...’
‘I was in the washroom.’
Of course! He had a private lavatory; all the partners did. And he’d either tossed water on his face or showered—she could see little droplets glistening in his hair. He hadn’t shaved yet—there was a rough stubble on his face, just as there’d been last night when he’d kissed her. But the stubble didn’t feel rough at all. It had felt silken against her skin, silken and——
‘Should I have left you a note to that effect?’
She blinked. He was glaring at her, his mouth set and stern. A flush rose and arced across her cheeks.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘No, of course not. I just—you startled me, that’s all.’
What was she doing? First her thoughts had drifted in a way that made no sense whatsoever, and now she was stumbling all over herself in what sounded, even to her, like an apology.
She drew herself up, her fingers clutching her notice of resignation even more tightly. All right. He’d caught her off guard. He was good at that. But that was no reason to retreat. It was important that she take the offensive here, that she be the one to——
‘I asked you a question, Hannah.’
She stared at him. Her mind was blank.
‘What question?’
His mouth twisted. ‘Have you found the information I requested?’ His gaze went to the file folders stacked on her desk. ‘I can see for myself that you haven’t.’
Her glance followed his. ‘Well, no. I haven’t. But——’
‘I’ll need that information by one o’clock. I’ve an important meeting this evening, and I’ll want time to incorporate what you find into my notes.’
‘Yes, sir. I...’
Hannah clamped her lips together. Yes, sir? Yes, sir? She took a deep breath.
‘What I mean is, yes, I understand. But——’
‘Good.’ He peered at his wristwatch, then swung on his heel and stepped back into his office. ‘Bring me what I need as soon as you have it. Until then, I don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Wait a second——’
The door slammed shut. She stood staring at it for a moment, and then she uttered a short, succinct word, marched towards it, and yanked it open.
‘Mr MacLean.’
He looked up from his desk. ‘Hannah,’ he said irritably, ‘when I said I didn’t want to be disturbed, I meant it.’
‘Mr MacLean,’ she repeated, ‘about those files——’
‘Is there a problem?’
Is there a problem? She wanted to laugh in his face. Instead, she nodded and gave him a cool smile.
‘Yes. There certainly is.’
‘I know they’re not very well organised.’ He frowned, capped his pen, and leaned forward, clasping his hands on his desk blotter. ‘My former assistant was in charge of such things, and I’m afraid she wasn’t very well organised.’
‘That’s not the point, Mr MacLean. The files aren’t——’
‘But then, I’m sure you’ve already figured that out for yourself, haven’t you?’
Hannah looked at him. ‘Figured what out for myself?’ she asked helplessly.
‘That Mrs LaMott wasn’t the most qualified of paralegals.’ He sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Hell, I’m sorry I’m such a bear this morning.’ He gave her a quick, easy smile, the sort she’d seen fewer than half a dozen times in almost as many months. ‘I guess I’m not at my best before my first cup of coffee.’
Was that a reminder that she hadn’t put up the usual pot? Hannah’s expression grew cool.
‘How unfortunate.’
MacLean nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s a bad habit-tone Mrs LaMott almost broke me of by making the worst cup of coffee this side of China. Nothing like the coffee you brew.’ He smiled again. ‘Nor was she ever as capable or efficient as you are.’
Hannah stared at him. Did he really think he could gloss over what he’d done last night by patting her on the head as if she were a child? Next he’d be offering her a bribe to forget it all, only he wouldn’t call it a bribe, naturally, he’d call it a raise or a bonus——
He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve made coffee just yet?’
‘No,’ Hannah said coldly, ‘I did not, and I’ve no intention of making any. In fact——’
‘That’s all right.’ He rose from his chair and strolled to the built-in bar across the room. ‘I drink too much of the stuff as it is,’ he said, opening the concealed miniature refrigerator and taking out a small bottle of chilled mineral water. He poured a glass, then looked at her, brows elevated. ‘Would you like some?’
‘No,’ she said coldly, but somehow the words ‘thank you’ slipped out, as well. All right, she thought, enough of this. He had managed to defeat her every thrust with a parry, but that was over now. She cleared her throat and took a step forward. ‘Mr MacLean.’
‘Grant,’ he said, quite pleasantly. ‘I should think that would be appropriate, after last night, wouldn’t you?’
So. They were about to get down to the nitty-gritty.
Hannah’s head lifted. ‘That’s precisely what I want to talk about,’ she said grimly. ‘Last night.’
‘Yes.’ He put down the glass and walked back to his desk. ‘About last night,’ he said as he sank into his chair. ‘I want to thank you for your co-operation.’
Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Hannah frowned. ‘Thank me?’
‘Of course. After all, I dragged you out of here at the very last minute, without so much as a by-your-leave.’ He smiled, and she thought crazily that perhaps she ought to be writing down the frequency of those smiles. ‘You weren’t just being polite when you assured me you had no prior engagement, were you?’
‘No,’ she said automatically.
‘Good, good. I thought about that on my way to work this morning, you know. After all, an employee as diligent and dedicated as you might well put her own needs after the needs of the firm.’
Her eyes flashed to his face. Was he being sarcastic? If he was, she couldn’t see any signs. He looked—he looked the way old Mr Longworth looked at the Christmas party each year, when he gave gold watches to the employees that were retiring. He looked serious and forthright. He looked—he looked sincere.
‘Your assistance was invaluable.’
She swallowed. ‘It was?’
He nodded. ‘Not only did you help me avoid Magda Karolyi, but you also did quite a job of spreading goodwill for the firm.’
Don’t answer, she told herself, but the words were already bursting from her lips.
‘I did?’
‘I’m ashamed to admit that it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be a good idea to try and please the female members of the delegation.’ She looked at him sharply, but his expression was completely guileless. ‘They were delighted to find that Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean employs attractive, intelligent women in responsible positions.’
She stared at him intently, trying to find even a hint of laughter or condescension in his eyes. Because if that’s what he was doing, by God, if he was playing her for a fool again...
‘At any rate, I hope it’s not too late to offer my thanks, Hannah.’ He rose and offered his hand to her. ‘I’ll see to it that there’s a note of commendation placed in your personnel file.’
She stared at the outstretched hand as if it were contaminated with poison. A letter of commendation was the adult equivalent of a nursery-school gold star! Even if he was foolish enough to think she could be bribed, he was far too intelligent to attempt to do it so cheaply.
Her gaze flickered to his face. He was still smiling, very pleasantly and politely, and all at once she understood.
The man was absolutely serious! What had happened at her door, those heated kisses, even her embarrassing response, had meant so little to him that he’d forgotten it. He’d set out to humble her, he’d succeeded, and that was the end of it. He had wiped the slate clean.
But it wasn’t. He might have forgotten, but she hadn’t. He’d kissed her. He’d taken her in his arms. He’d—he’d turned her world upside-down and left her to lie awake half the night thinking about the taste of his mouth and the feel of his body against hers...
‘Hannah?’
She looked up, horrified.
‘Are you all right, Hannah?’
‘Yes,’ she said. But she wasn’t. Her mind was racing almost as swiftly as her pulse. Where had such ridiculous thoughts come from?
‘Are you sure?’ He came around the desk quickly and put his arm lightly around her shoulders. ‘Here, sit down. You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I’m fine,’ she insisted.
‘How about some water?’ He looked at the glass on his desk, half-filled with water, and handed it to her. ‘Here. Take a sip.’
Their eyes met as his fingers brushed her lips, rough against the soft flesh, and she looked quickly at the glass.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and put it to her lips.
‘I hope you don’t mind sharing the glass,’ he said.
She looked up quickly, but his face was expressionless.
‘No,’ she said, and gave him a tiny smile. ‘Not at all.’
She sipped at the water, not because she wanted it but because it seemed safer to do that than to try and understand what in heaven’s name was going on. After she’d managed a couple of swallows, she handed the glass to him.
‘That’s better,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The colour’s coming back into your cheeks.’
‘Mr MacLean...’
‘Grant,’ he said, and smiled.
She looked at him. If she didn’t confront him in the next few seconds, it would be too late. But how could she, without making herself look more foolish than she already felt? How could she make an indignant speech about an incident so meaningless to him that he’d already forgotten it?
‘Hannah?’
Say something, she thought furiously. Dammit, Hannah, say something. Anything.
‘It’s just occurred to me...’ He frowned. ‘Are you ill because of something you had last night? The wine, perhaps?’
The wine. Of course. She seized on the thought the way a drowning man would grasp a bit of driftwood. They’d both been under a strain to begin with, he worried about Magda Karolyi, she about the act she’d been forced into. And they’d both had some wine. Too much, perhaps. He had been aggressive, and she had been abrasive. Yes. It made sense—more sense than going off half-cocked, making a scene and losing the best job she’d ever had.
‘Hannah?’
She took a deep breath.
‘I’m fine, Mr...’ His brows rose. ‘Thank you, Grant,’ she said with a polite smile. Her hand closed tightly around the letter of resignation and she crumpled it up and stuffed it into her pocket. ‘Really.’
‘Good.’ He rose to his feet and she did, too. ‘Now, then,’ he said, his tone brisk and businesslike, ‘do you think you can manage to go through those files by one o’clock?’
She nodded as they reached the door to the outer office. ‘Of course. I’ll get right to it.’
‘Perhaps you should take some aspirin.’ He opened the door and stepped aside. ‘You might be coming down with the flu. Everyone seems to be catching it.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said, her tone as pleasant and impersonal as his. ‘I don’t feel ill at all.’
‘Tired, then,’ he said.
‘Yes. Just a little...’
The words caught in her throat. The expression on his face had not changed, but his eyes had gone dark and smoky, and all at once she felt that same light-headedness she’d felt when he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Didn’t you sleep well last night, Hannah?’ She didn’t answer, and his smile tilted just a fraction of an inch, hinting at something intimate and shared. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you didn’t. And neither did I.’
His gaze swept over her face, lingered on her parted lips. Hannah held her breath. God. Oh, God...
‘Hannah?’ Sally rapped lightly against the half-open door and smiled brightly. ‘Oh. Mr MacLean. Sorry to bother you, sir. I didn’t realise you were in yet. I was going to ask Hannah if she wanted to take her coffeebreak now, but if she’s busy...’
Sally’s words faded as Grant swung towards her, his face a cold mask.
‘At this hour?’ He frowned as he looked past the two women to the wall clock in the outer office.
Sally cleared her throat. ‘Well, sir, those of us who get in early usually go to the lunch room for coffee and a Danish just about—’
‘Spare me the details, please. I don’t care what you have or where you have it, just as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. You will have the material I want on my desk by one, Hannah, won’t you?’
Somehow, Hannah nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
The door swung closed. Sally stared at it in silence, and then she gave a dramatic shudder.
‘Brrr,’ she said. ‘The temperature goes down fifty degrees when he’s around. Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with it! Well, never mind. Listen, wait until I tell you what Betty said when she saw that nightgown...’
Hannah smiled faintly as she followed the other girl into the corridor, even managing to look as if she was listening to Sally’s story and laugh when the other girl laughed. But she didn’t really hear anything she was saying. She was, indeed, still caught in that moment when Grant had looked at her with the memory of last night burning deep in his eyes.
What might have happened if Sally hadn’t come bursting in?
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