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The Price Of A Wife
HELEN BROOKS


FROM HERE TO PATERNITYHe wanted a family… at any price! Luke Hawkton was a wildly successful businessman who had it all. His one remaining ambition was to find a wife and start a family… Josie's dreams of marriage and babies had been shattered by tragedy. She had to live with the knowledge that she'd never experience the joy of holding her own child.Her career was now her life, and she couldn't allow herself to get close to Luke. If he married her, he'd forget his dreams of fatherhood. Surely that was too heavy a price for any man to pay?FROM HERE TO PATERNITY - men who find their way to fatherhood by fair means, by foul, or even by default!







“Do you like children, Josie?” (#u6736cfc1-53c7-5fba-9396-722016028e5e)About the Author (#uc37380bb-7841-5239-a956-e6e1118150b5)Also by (#u97937e90-f79e-5a17-8024-f7ed8b610a7b)Title Page (#u442e112a-cdac-5eb7-b8ce-a2e83af1b792)CHAPTER ONE (#uf2680922-0344-5d8e-b325-f49abc147347)CHAPTER TWO (#ucb632241-9476-5b96-be09-de3793137f04)CHAPTER THREE (#uce07b37b-7ceb-59b6-bd51-76a1a548e666)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)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“Do you like children, Josie?”

Luke had no idea what this conversation was doing to her, and she drew on every scrap of strength she had won over the last few years. “I suppose so. I don’t really come into contact with any,” she said.

“The original career woman?”

Josie felt he disapproved of her, and it hurt. “You don’t get to the top by playing happy families,” she said levelly.

“No, I guess you don’t. But you sure as hell miss a lot if you don’t.” Luke stared at her, hard.

He thought she was an ambitious career woman, hell-bent on getting to the very top? Well, it was an impression she had deliberately fostered....


FROM HERE TO PATERNITY—romances that feature fantastic men who eventually make fabulous fathers. Some seek paternity, some have it thrust upon them. All will make it—whether they like it or not!

HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium but her hobbies include reading and walking her two energetic and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin.


Look out for Husband By Contract and

Second Marriage by Helen Brooks, coming soon.

Two romances linked by a deeply emotional theme...

Husbands & Wives

Sometimes the perfect marriage is worth waiting for!

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The Price Of A Wife

Helen Brooks










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

‘JOSIE? There’s a man over there who’s been staring at you for a good ten minutes. Do you know him?’

‘Where?’ As Josie turned, her wide, green-flecked eyes following Penny’s glance across the crowded, noisy room, her face wasn’t even faintly interested. She was used to men staring at her; it came with the territory. As one of the highest paid and most successful promotions executives in London, she knew she presented something of an anomaly to the average male—and one that wasn’t always welcome in the male-dominated environment in which she worked.

Fine-boned and tiny, at five feet one, and with a mass of gleaming Titian-coloured hair, creamy skin and large expressive eyes in a golden honey shade liberally flecked with green, she wasn’t exactly what they’d expected to see if her reputation had gone before her... and it invariably had.

Over the last ten years, since she had first entered the promotions rat race as a nervous but ambitious eighteen-year-old fresh from college, she had established herself as an astute and level-headed businesswoman with a flair for knowing exactly what appealed to the public. Her job was her life; she gave it one hundred per cent commitment and the rewards had been enormous.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Penny muttered impatiently to herself as the crowd surged and moved, the buzz of conversation fierce and loud. ‘Now. Look over there, next to the group from Chantals. He’s still looking this way and you can’t miss him.’

‘Which...?’ Josie’s voice trailed away as she met the full force of a pair of very intent, narrowed eyes set in a hard, tanned face that was all male and quite expressionless. The man was big, very big, darkly imposing and terribly out of place in this crowd of affected, pretentious sycophants who had arrived by invitation for the grand opening of Josie’s latest work project: a flamboyant, madly expensive art gallery in a city already full of art galleries. That much at least registered before she turned sharply away, her stomach lurching.

‘Well? Do you know him?’ Penny asked curiously, her mild brown eyes alight with interest. ‘I know I don’t. If I’d met a hunk like him before I wouldn’t have forgotten.’

‘No, no, I don’t know him.’ Josie’s voice was cool and noncommittal, and not at all as she was feeling inside. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s glance had affected her like this. She felt ridiculously disturbed and flustered—threatened, almost? She shook the thought away abruptly, furious with herself for allowing it to enter her mind in the first place.

Nerves. This was all just nerves, she told herself firmly. The same ‘first night’ agitation she suffered with all her projects until she knew she had got it right. There was no need to let her imagination run riot, useful though that particular attribute was in her line of work.

She drew herself up to her full five feet one and smiled at her assistant, who was a good six inches taller than herself. ‘We need to circulate, Penny, admire a few pretty feathers and give the old sweet talk. I’ll see you by the main door when the champagne and strawberries are served at seven, OK? We’ll have done our duty by then and things will be winding down.’

‘Fine.’ Penny nodded obediently, her good-natured face setting in a practised smile as she plunged into the mêlée.

‘Josie?’ The owner of the art gallery, a successful and wealthy entrepreneur, who had his finger in more pies than Jack Homer, touched her softly on the arm as she turned. ‘Brilliant success, girl—well done.’ He nodded cynically at the richly dressed, somewhat theatrical assembly. ‘Not exactly my type, if I’m being honest, but you sure pulled in all those who needed to be seen here for the gallery to have credibility.’

‘That is what you paid me to do, Mr White.’ She smiled carefully, her voice and face pleasant but reserved.

The small balding man in front of her had made it plain on more than one occasion that he wanted more than just her business expertise, but she was used to dealing with the Mr Whites of this world, and there was a surplus of them in the city. She was polite, courteous and very adept at deflecting even the most obvious come-on, but underneath the graciousness there was hard-won composure and a firm control that settled even the most ardent suitor when it became necessary. Like now.

‘Quite so, my dear, quite so.’ He patted her arm again, his round face already shiny with perspiration. ‘How about a little drink to celebrate all your hard work when this lot have gone? I’ve got a suite for the weekend in—’

‘I don’t think so.’ She moved an inch or so away, her expression still smiling but her meaning clear. ‘I’ve got a good deal of preparation to do tonight for a meeting tomorrow morning.’

‘You work too hard.’ His tongue flicked reptilean-like over his lower lip, and she just managed to repress a shudder. ‘You ought to have the weekends free to enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t work every weekend, Mr White,’ she said coolly, ‘just when it’s necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it looks as if Mr Puzo is at a loose end and needs company...’ She turned and walked purposefully over to an influential artdealer, engaging him in conversation until Mr White had drifted away.

At exactly seven o’clock she started to make her way to the door, but stopped abruptly when a sudden break in the crowd showed her who Penny was talking to. That man again. She stared at him, her eyes taking in every little detail of his appearance while she could view him unobserved as he concentrated on Penny.

She had felt his eyes on her more than once as she had circulated the room, had been vitally aware of his dark presence as he had stood somewhat aloof from the rest of the throng by one of the deep, recessed windows. But she had been careful not to let her glance meet his. Why, she didn’t quite know.

Who was he? Her smooth brow wrinkled with curiosity. The guest list had been both exclusive and fashionable, and she had made it her business to be aware of the history of each personage represented there. However, most of the names had had ‘and partner’ written next to them, so she had no means of knowing either who he was with or anything about him other than what she could see. And she had to admit what she could see was... disturbing.

There was a formidable authority about him, a hard, masculine aura that sat on the big body almost challengingly. His hair was black, jet-black, and cut very short, as though he had no time to waste on any sort of excessive grooming, and he was expensively dressed. There was a smooth designer cut to the dark grey suit he was wearing that stood out like a sore thumb against the gaudy wild clothes the art world indulged in.

He looked... She bit her lip, suddenly annoyed with herself as the simile flashed into her mind. But he did. He looked like a dangerous black panther amid a host of vain, preening cockatoos, and the ‘and partner’ label sat badly on such a man. She couldn’t imagine him ever being an appendage to anybody, but who, who was he with? And who was he? And what was the colour of his eyes? His eyes?

She flushed as hotly as if she had voiced the question out loud. Why on earth did she care about the colour of his eyes anyway? She had made up her mind years ago about the road down which she would travel, had to travel, and her plans didn’t include any sort of romantic involvement—light or otherwise. She was being ridiculous, crazy. Perhaps Mr White was right; perhaps she had been working too hard lately. She’d certainly never had this trouble with her imagination before.

‘Josie, darling... Wonderful little reception, you clever girl, you...’

She turned very slowly as she forced a social smile to her face, recognising the voice of one of the female executives from a rival firm. She didn’t dislike Charlotte Montgomery—in fact they shared the same sense of humour, which had smoothed more than one difficult situation in the past—but she knew the other woman had been working hard to secure this particular project, and magnanimity was not one of Charlotte’s virtues.

‘You have obviously got the right touch with Mr White; you’ll have to let me in on your secret some time...’ The words were lazy and without real malice, although their meaning was clear.

Josie knew Charlotte meant nothing personal—she just had to have a little twist of the knife to state her annoyance at losing out to the other woman—but this time Josie didn’t like the innuendo. She had had enough sly digs along the same lines from male colleagues in the past, when her work had been superior to theirs, and she had expected more from Charlotte. Both of them were in highly paid jobs, doing good work and surviving on their own initiative and flair despite high odds, and she had thought—naïvely, perhaps, she acknowledged now—that Charlotte would respect that and leave the sexist talk to the men.

Well, she was blowed if she was going to defend herself. In fact...

‘Well, you know how it is, Charlotte.’ She gave the other woman a brilliant smile as she spoke. ‘The old casting couch still has its uses.’

Charlotte acknowledged the game, set and match with a slight curve of her thin red mouth, but then her light blue eyes widened considerably at something just over Josie’s left shoulder.

‘Miss Owens?’ The male voice was very deep, with a slight husky edge that was undeniably attractive. ‘Your assistant tells me you are due to leave soon.’

She turned to face him slowly, knowing who it was even before her gaze moved up and up to meet the hard-boned face. Silver-grey. His eyes were silver-grey, she thought irrelevantly, like ice-cold honed steel.

‘I...’ He must have heard that last remark, she thought helplessly. How could she explain it had been a play on words, that Charlotte had known it was the very opposite to how it had sounded? ‘I...’ And then she took a firm grip on herself, years of training coming to her aid. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ she said formally as she held out her hand politely. ‘I’m Josie Owens.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled coolly but it didn’t reach the mesmerising eyes. ‘Luke Hawkton. How do you do?’

His grip was firm and hard and strong, very much like the man himself, she surmised as she found her small hand engulfed in his, only to be released almost immediately.

Hawkton? Luke Hawkton? She had heard that name somewhere before, but for the moment the connection escaped her. It had clearly been just the name she had heard; if she had seen a picture of this man she would have remembered. It was an arresting face, not handsome or even good-looking in the normal run of things, but the cruel sensual mouth and hard, determined jawline spoke of dominant strength, as did the high cheekbones and cold, black-lashed eyes, and there was something about the whole that was far more magnetic than any stock attractiveness.

His dark aura was a subtle emanation of restrained power and authority, but there was something else, a sensual undertone, that brought tiny little flickers shivering down her spine. He was all male, utterly sure of himself, and she had no doubt that he could be as ruthless as the lithe, hard-planed panther she had mentally compared him to earlier. A man to be avoided at all costs, in fact.

‘Miss Owens?’ She suddenly became aware that she had been staring at him almost vacantly for a good fifteen seconds, and that the faintly slanted silver-grey eyes held a thread of amusement in their cool depths. ‘I asked if I could have a word with you,’ he prodded smoothly.

‘Of course.’ Charlotte hadn’t moved from the spot, and now Josie turned to include the tall blonde as she spoke. ‘This is Charlotte Montgomery, a colleague of mine,’ she said with a wave of her hand, but the silver eyes barely brushed Charlotte’s face. He gave her a polite nod and then took Josie’s arm in his hand and guided her away to a far corner of the room before she realised what was happening, leaving Charlotte gazing after them thoughtfully, her blue eyes narrowed.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hawkton?’ Josie forced all apprehension out of her voice but it was difficult not to feel intimidated by the big masculine figure in front of her. Being so tiny, she had never felt drawn to large, obviously virile men, preferring a slim, more aesthetic type of male to complement her slender fragility rather than a macho man, but she had certainly never felt threatened by a man’s bulk before.

But it wasn’t just that. It was something indefinable about him—insotent, challenging... And something in her own make-up, probably connected with the red hair, she thought with a silent spurt of amusement, was instantly antagonised as well as defensive.

‘I came here today to see you.’ The words hit her with a little shock that she had the sense to hide from the intent gaze.

‘Really?’ She managed a cool and, she hoped, very professional smile. ‘With what purpose, Mr Hawkton?’

The hard mouth twisted in a small smile and she thought she detected approval in his narrowed eyes as he crossed his arms and leant lazily against the cream linen-covered wall behind him. ‘You’re very petite,’ he said softly as his gaze wandered over the whole of her, from the top of her mass of curly red hair, tied high on her head in a restrained knot from which the odd tendril curled tightly, down to her small feet shod in expensive Italian leather court shoes that were nevertheless wonderfully comfortable and practical for a busy day like this one had been. ‘Is that why you keep all that marvellous hair balanced on your head like that?’

‘Not at all.’ Keep calm; don’t rise to his bait, she told herself flatly as she kept the smile in place by sheer willpower. Like most small people, she didn’t particularly like her lack of inches being pointed out—and certainly not by a big brute like this man! ‘I wear my hair like this because it is practical, Mr Hawkton, that’s all,’ she said quietly, with a touch of ice in her voice now that the sharp ears detected immediately.

‘I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.’ He straightened with a smooth twist of his body. ‘You’re sensitive about your height?’

‘No, I am not.’ She eyed him fiercely, her temper rising in line with the colour of her cheeks. What was it with this guy anyway? She had only known him for about sixty seconds and he was asking her the sort of personal questions even her closest friends wouldn’t presume to ask.

‘Good, because it’s captivating,’ he said surprisingly, and there was a look in the silver eyes that told her he meant exactly what he said. ‘Quite captivating. Especially when taken in conjunction with the red hair and beautiful eyes. What colour are they exactly?’ he asked as he leant down and looked straight into her open gaze.

She snapped her head back as though she had been bitten, narrowingly missing knocking a tray of glasses full of champagne out of one of the waiter’s hands. ‘Look, Mr Hawkton, I’ve got things to see to,’ she said tightly, the honey-gold eyes that he had admired flashing green sparks. ‘I happen to be working here, and—’

‘I know.’ He didn’t seem in the least put out by her abruptness. ‘That’s why I came today.’ He smiled lazily.

‘I—’ She stared at him for a moment as her thought process suffered a slight hiccup. Hawkton... Hawkton? She knew she ought to know the name.

‘But I mustn’t keep you,’ he said smoothly as he watched and, she was sure, enjoyed her confusion. ‘Perhaps we could have a word later, before you leave?’

She nodded tightly. ‘Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’

His nod and amused, glittering eyes were an insult in themselves, and she knew her cheeks were burning as she turned from him. The creamy skin that came along with the dark red hair showed even the slightest tinge of colour, and there was more than a tinge today, she thought despairingly. She should have asked him who he was instead of reacting to the conversation like a scalded cat. At least that would have given her a clue to his identity.

She had a brief word with the catering staff to make sure that the champagne would flow until the last guest left when the doors closed at nine, checked that Evans, the security man, was fully aware of all the arrangements, and then signalled Penny to join her as she stepped into the office behind the main gallery. They had only planned to be at the opening for a brief hour or two, but a last-minute panic had stretched out the hours.

‘You go now, Penny.’ Josie smiled at her assistant as she joined her in the quiet office. ‘You’ve put in more than your fair share. And have a lie-in on Monday morning. I won’t expect to see you until lunchtime. You’ve worked late every night this week.’

‘Oh, thanks, Josie.’ Penny smiled her appreciation as she reflected, and not for the first time, that she was very fortunate in having a boss as nice as Josie Owens. ‘Are you sure you won’t need me for the meeting tomorrow morning?’

‘No.’ Josie shook her head as she slipped off the desk on which she had been sitting and walked to the door. ‘It’s just a background fill-in on some new contract Mike and Andy are desperate to secure. I haven’t even glanced at the bumph they threw at us all this morning.’

Mike and Andy were the co-directors and owners of the promotions firm, compulsive workaholics who were positively neurotic about snatching new deals from under the noses of their many competitors in the promotions field. Both men worked seventy- and eighty-hour weeks and expected their six executives, of which Josie was one, to do the same when necessary.

In spite of their extremely high salaries the other five executives, all men, considered themselves ill-used, but Josie didn’t. Her work, her small circle of close friends, her beautiful flat in Chelsea and her cat, Mog, were her life. Fate had made it clear, thirteen years ago, that she couldn’t expect more.

She and Penny left the office together and already the crowd had thinned. Josie signalled to one of the three art gallery staff that they were leaving and received a nod and a mouthed ‘Thank you’ from the middle-aged woman who would be in charge of the daily running of the place, and then she glanced round for Luke Hawkton. She would have to see him before she left, it would be too rude not to, but he didn’t appear to be in the gallery.

And then she saw him, deep in conversation with Mr White, and, almost as though the power of her glance had drawn him, he looked up and straight over to where she was standing, and she knew, she just knew, they had been discussing her. But before she could react, think, even, he had moved swiftly across the space separating them and to her side, his dark face cool and blank.

‘Do I take it you are available for that talk now?’ he asked quietly with a polite nod at Penny, who nodded back, then made her goodbyes and left.

‘Certainly, Mr Hawkton.’ She had to raise her eyes some considerable way to meet the silver-grey gaze, and again the sheer breadth and height of the man sent something hot flickering down her spine, especially when her senses registered a whiff of the most delicious aftershave.

‘Have you finished here?’ he asked smoothly, his face quite expressionless.

‘Finished...?’ She looked sideways at him. ‘I—yes, I’ve done all I can do—’

‘Good,’ he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes. ‘Then we can talk in comfort, perhaps? There is an excellent little Italian restaurant just a stone’s throw away, so perhaps you would allow me to take you to dinner?’

‘Dinner?’ If he had said he wanted to take her to the moon she couldn’t have been more surprised. ‘B-but—’ Oh, hell, she thought furiously, what was it about this man that made her stutter and stammer like a gawky schoolgirl? She had to pull herself together, and quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkton.’ She forced a cool smile and tried for the busy-career-woman brush-off that had always been so successful in the past. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy tonight—’

‘Rubbish.’ It was said so matter-of-factly that for a moment the import of the word didn’t register. ‘Your able assistant—Penny, isn’t it?—told me she had had orders to keep this evening free in case of any disasters here that needed sorting out. Now, I don’t think you are the type of boss to tell the minions something like that and not do the same yourself. There are no disasters; you were about to leave... Need I go on?’

Disasters? If ever a disaster had been facing her this six feet plus of cold steel fitted the bill. ‘I really don’t think Penny had any right—’

‘You are going to be difficult.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I don’t like difficult women, Miss Owens; I don’t like them at all,’ he drawled slowly, his cool eyes assessing her so thoroughly that she could feel the heat from her skin like a brazier burning from the inside.

‘Don’t you, indeed?’ Suddenly all the gloss and carefully nurtured aplomb of the last thirteen years took a nosedive. Who on earth did this man think he was anyway? She had never met anyone like him in her life before; he took the word ‘arrogance’ into another dimension! ‘Well, perhaps what you like and don’t like are not my problem, Mr Hawkton.’ She smiled icily. ‘And I was being quite genuine when I said I was busy. I have an important meeting tomorrow that I have to prepare for.’

‘And you won’t eat tonight?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I—’ She bit back the hot words that were hovering on her tongue as she noticed one or two interested glances in their direction. Oh, this was ridiculous, crazy. She couldn’t remember being put in a position like this since she was in her teens. ‘Yes, I’ll eat,’ she said, with a calm that was purely surface level. ‘Probably a sandwich, or something, while I work.’

‘I see.’ The silver eyes narrowed still more, and as he crossed his arms, his big chest formidable, she forced her eyes not to waver before his. ‘What a daunting female you are,’ he drawled thoughtfully. ‘Do you frighten away the male population in general, or is it me in particular you have an aversion to?’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve frightened you, Mr Hawkton?’ She managed a mocking smile.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t,’ he assured her with wry amusement. ‘In fact just the opposite, my fiery-haired little sprite. You see, I am a stubborn man, perhaps even inflexible and tenacious at times—’ he smiled grimly ‘—and I have a reputation for always getting what I want. That might be a little exaggerated...’ the narrowed eyes glinted ominously ‘...but only a little. And I have never been frightened by anyone, male or female, in my entire life.’

She could believe it. Oh, she could certainly believe it, she thought silently. Quite why he had caught her on the raw from the very first moment she had seen him she wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing at least. Everything about him—his demeanour, the big, hard, aggressive male body, the aura of command and contemptuous authority—grated on her like a nail scratching down a metal surface and brought out the worst in her. It was unreasonable and certainly unfriendly but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like this Luke Hawkton at all, and she knew he knew it.

‘Well, perhaps if you would like to tell me what you wanted to talk about?’ she asked with studied politeness now, as the silence became so charged it crackled. ‘I really do have to get home...’

‘And I wouldn’t dream of delaying you, Miss Owens.’ He was annoyed. He was trying to hide it behind this mask of cool cynicism, but he was annoyed, she thought, with a moment of satisfaction she was immediately ashamed of. She imagined he didn’t have too many women refusing an invitation to dine with him; it was probably a new experience for him and one he clearly didn’t relish. ‘Another time will do.’

‘It will?’ Suddenly, and quite irrationally, she wanted to know what he had been going to say. He wasn’t the sort of man who would stage a casual pick-up; she was sure of that—besides which, he had already intimated that he had come to the opening of the gallery knowing she would be here. But how had he known? ‘Who are you with?’ she asked, with an abruptness she realised bordered on rudeness. ‘Here—now?’

‘Here—now?’ He repeated her words with an insolent smile that had no warmth in its mocking depths. ‘I am alone, as it happens. Does that matter?’

‘But’ She gazed up at him, her creamy skin and dark red hair a wonderful foil for the wide honey-gold eyes with their emerald flecks. ‘I sent out the invitations and—and your name wasn’t there,’ she continued bravely as the silver eyes iced over still more.

‘True...’ He clearly had no intention of embroidering on the one word of agreement, and she didn’t know quite how to continue without turning it into an accusation. He must have had a special invitation, or been with someone who had, to get past the security set-up, she thought flatly. He must have...mustn’t he?

‘Would you like to see my credentials, Miss Owens?’ With a little shock of anger she realised he was laughing at her, albeit silently; the gleam in the silver-grey eyes and the slight twist to the hard, firm mouth spoke of definite amusement.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ She tried for a coolness that didn’t quite come off when matched with the fire in her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’re bona fide—’

‘How? How are you sure?’ His tone was harder now, sharp. ‘How do you know I’m not a terrorist, or some other undesirable who has tricked his way into this place? There’s a hell of a lot of money on these walls today, after all—several paintings have been borrowed from private collections and are worth a great deal. How do you know I haven’t been planning some sort of heist for weeks?’

‘I—’ Oh, help—he hadn’t, had he? she thought, momentarily panic-stricken, before both the recollection of the security arrangements she had made and her natural common sense reasserted themselves. ‘By several things,’ she answered calmly as their glances locked and held. ‘One, you are wearing one of the little metal tags we had made which are specially coded and numbered against the invitations.’ She indicated a small narrow clip-badge on the lapel of his jacket. ‘Two, there is only one way in through the front door today; the other door at the back of the gallery is bolted and alarmed and I checked it some time ago. And there are several other security precautions which it wouldn’t be advisable for me to reveal that also make it impossible for anyone to gatecrash,’ she added primly.

‘Also, I have heard one or two people speak to you by name, so you are clearly known to them.’ She hadn’t meant to add that bit; it had just sort of slipped out. Now he would think she had been watching him, listening, and that was the last thing she wanted this mass of inflated ego to think, she thought irritably.

‘I’m impressed.’ The dark head nodded reflectively. ‘Yes, I have to say I am quite impressed, Miss Owens. You are all they said and more.’

‘All who said?’ she asked quickly as her stomach tensed.

‘Ah, now, that’s another story, and you’ve already indicated your time is precious,’ he said lazily. ‘I mustn’t keep you.’

The supercilious swine was certainly getting his own back, she thought tightly, but it didn’t look as if his-interest in her was on a personal level, as she’d thought at first. She waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t materialise and put it down to the fact that she still didn’t know why he had approached her.

‘Goodbye, Miss Owens. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’

He was leaving? And then, before she could do anything about it, he had reached forward and taken her small hand in his, raising her fingers to his lips in a brief salute that nevertheless reacted on her taut nerves like liquid fire as his flesh made contact with hers.

She was aware that she had snatched her hand away with more vigour than tact at the same time as he straightened, his face expressionless as he looked down into her hot eyes.

‘Daunting...’ The murmur was faint, but quivered with a dark amusement that made her want to kick him, hard, although she found herself frozen in front of him as the silver gaze held hers, merely staring up at him with large, expressive eyes. Then he bowed slightly before turning abruptly and leaving the gallery without a backward glance.


CHAPTER TWO

JOSIE found that she was frowning ferociously out of the window the next morning as she travelled to Hammersmith by taxi, a bulging briefcase and a wad of papers at her side on the back seat.

Luke Hawkton. Hawkton. She should have known the name but she just hadn’t connected it with Hawkton Marine—not until she had got home from the gallery the night before, that was. She still remembered the shock of the moment when she had glanced at the data Mike and Andy had thrown at her earlier in the day, and realised she had just given the brush-off to one of the most powerful men in London.

‘Luke Hawkton...’ She groaned the name out loud as she twisted in her seat. But who in their right mind would have expected the illustrious head of the Hawkton empire to be at the opening of a small art gallery that he could buy and sell a hundred times over? she asked herself wretchedly. And she had dared to think he was actually interested in her as a person, that he was making a move on her!

She shut her eyes tightly as she remembered her cavalier treatment which had bordered on rudeness. That would teach her to keep her vivid imagination under control, she told herself bitterly. Oh, wouldn’t it just! She’d had the opportunity of a lifetime, to sell both herself and the firm as the best thing since sliced bread, and she’d blown it.

The data from Mike and Andy stated that Hawkton Marine, one of the interests of the Hawkton empire first created by the present Luke Hawkton’s great-grandfather, decades ago, were contemplating a grand-slam publicity extravaganza to launch their new yacht in the South of France later that year and were interested in hearing ideas from several promotions firms—of which they were one. Or had been, she corrected herself miserably, before she had put the proverbial boot in. Mike and Andy would kill her if they ever found out what she’d done. She opened her eyes as the taxi drew up outside the tall building in which Top Promotions was housed and gathered her things together quickly.

Once she had realised the enormity of her gaffe the evening before she had stayed up most of the night working on ideas for the publicity venture, her conscience searing all thoughts of sleep.

Mog had decided she was quite mad as she had paced the flat periodically, muttering and mumbling to herself, and he had finally retired, dignity and hauteur severely dented after she had fallen over him twice within as many minutes, to the comparative safety of the large sitting-room balcony, from which Josie had been quite unable to coax him in spite of the fact that it had begun to rain in the early hours.

He was clearly disgusted with her and she couldn’t blame him, she reflected now as she walked up the wide steps to the building. She was disgusted with herself. How could she have missed such a gift of a chance to get in before their competitors? How could she? She glanced down at the briefcase in her hand, seeing in her mind’s eye the photograph of Luke Hawkton that had been included in the data.

If only she had had time to glance through the information Andy and Mike had given her before she had left for the gallery the day before. But she hadn’t. She shook her head as the lift took her swiftly upwards. All the regrets in the world, the sickening disappointment, wouldn’t help now. Top Promotions would be the last firm, the very last firm Luke Hawkton would use. Damn! Damn, damn, damn...

‘Josie...’ Top Promotions occupied one floor of the large office block and as she left the lift, her small figure clad in a smart white linen suit and pale grey silk blouse that were both businesslike and feminine, she almost collided with Andy as he came shooting out of his office like a bullet out of a gun. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. Are Mitchell and the others with you?’

‘No.’ She stared at the elder of her two bosses in surprise. She had never seen him so agitated before. ‘Should they be?’

‘The meeting.’ Andy took her arm as he hurried her along the corridor to Mike’s slightly larger office. ‘I told them eight-thirty sharp. Where the hell are they—?’

‘Andy!’ She shook his hand off her elbow at the same time as she came to an abrupt halt and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s only ten past eight now, for goodness’ sake. What on earth is the matter with you this morning? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Luke Hawkton.’ For an awful moment, a breath-stopping moment, she thought Andy was going to tell her that Luke Hawkton had rung up to complain about her, but in the next instant she found her head against Andy’s as he thrust his face so close to hers they could have been embracing. ‘He’s here.’

‘Here?’ Josie glanced wildly about the empty corridor. ‘Where—?’

But before she could ask more Andy had taken her arm again and pressed her in front of him, reaching out and opening Mike’s door as he urged her forward into the room and almost into Luke Hawkton’s arms. He had clearly been standing just behind the door, and her urgent entry, aided by Andy’s agitation, brought her to within an inch or two of the big, masculine body she remembered so vividly.

‘Good morning.’ The tone was deep and expressionless, but his eyes were wicked as they looked into her face, which she just knew was turning a deep shade of pink. ‘You’re obviously eager to start work, Miss Owens,’ he said silkily.

‘You know each other?’ Both Andy and Mike spoke in unison, their faces quite unable to hide their hope at such an unexpected bonus, and Josie found herself struck dumb as she opened her mouth like a tiny stranded goldfish in the middle of a group of sharks.

‘We’ve met briefly.’ Luke Hawkton spoke smoothly and swiftly into the infinitesimal pause. ‘I happened to be at the opening of the Duet art gallery yesterday which Miss Owens was overseeing for this firm. My aunt is a great art-collector and had received an invitation.’

‘But you said—’ Josie had found her tongue, but not words in any coherent form, and as the silver-grey gaze turned back to her she found herself fighting the urge to turn and run. ‘You said, yesterday—’

‘Yes?’ The word wasn’t encouraging but she couldn’t leave it.

‘You said you were at the opening to see me,’ she stated breathlessly. ‘You said that.’

‘And I was.’ He eyed her unblinkingly, his mouth twisted in a cold smile. ‘This latest project is very near to my heart, Miss Owens—the new yacht. My father died last year and it was he who first started the marine side of the business nearly forty years ago, always having had a great love of boats and water. This yacht was his own baby, if you like, something he had waited to see come to fruition for some time.

‘Of course, the Hawkton name is second to none in the boat-building business, but this particular yacht is special, both to my family and myself. I want it to be successful—very successful.’ His gaze now swept over the three of them and not one of them could have moved even had they wanted to.

‘I always expect the best, Miss Owens, expect and receive it, and your name cropped up with monotonous regularity in my secretary’s investigations regarding the best. Your name along with several others, I might add,’ he finished drily, with a glance at Mick and Andy which warned them not to get too confident.

‘I see.’ It was all she could manage. She was stunned.

‘And so I did my own investigations on each name and firm I had been given.’ His eyes slanted on her pink face. ‘And I discovered Top Promotions was owned—partly owned—by an old university friend.’ He nodded at Mike, who returned the nod with eager enthusiasm, obviously anxious to make the most of the connection. ‘Yesterday you were the last of three possibilities I have narrowed the field down to. The other two are excellent, incidentally...’

That’s right, turn the knife a little more, she thought furiously as she kept her face pleasant with a superhuman effort.

‘And what do you think of her work?’ Mike asked earnestly. ‘I’m sure you found Josie’s reputation was well founded, Luke?’

‘Are you?’ The silver eyes were unreadable, which in itself was a warning for the ‘old university friend’ not to presume on their past acquaintance, and Josie held her breath, waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall—although she had to admit there was more justification in her case than in that of Damocles, the poor courtier of Dionysius of Syracuse’s court, who had had to endure a whole banquet underneath a sword suspended by a single hair, merely to prove his king’s point that human life was insecure at best, irrespective of wealth or power. ,

The knock on the door in the next instant was an answer from heaven, and she could have kissed Mitchell and Tony as they filed into the room immediately afterwards, necessitating the normal social introductions during which Mike’s question was forgotten.

The other three executives were in their seats by eight-thirty, and as the meeting commenced and the ideas flowed Josie tried to relax. But it was no good. That big, dark, masculine figure on the other side of the room was stilling her normally vivacious tongue and paralysing her thought process. She knew Andy and Mike had glanced at her more than once, clearly expecting something from her, but she was quite incapable of responding to the silent order.

It was her own fault, she thought desperately. She knew all this was her own fault, but did Luke Hawkton have to be so...so satisfied about her predicament? He had her on the end of a hook, he knew it and she knew it, and every time she nerved herself to meet the silently superior narrowed gaze she knew he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven her for yesterday’s confrontation.

So what was he going to do about it? she asked herself helplessly. Tell her bosses she had messed up? Denounce her in ringing tones and watch her squirm? Well, whatever he was going to do she wished he would just get on with it, that was all. She couldn’t take much more of this nightmare of a meeting without disgracing herself still further.

And then, almost as though he was receiving her unspoken thoughts, he leant across the large desk around which they were clustered and spoke directly to her, his voice deep and soft. ‘Miss Owens? Perhaps you would like to show us your ideas now?’

No—no, she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t very well say so. She knew he was going to pick them all to pieces, exact a revenge that would be satisfying for him and painful for herself, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She was in the ultimate catch-22 scenario, and the most galling thing of all was that she had put herself there.

‘Certainly.’ She avoided his intent eyes as she lifted her briefcase onto her lap and extracted the night’s work. ‘I’ve tackled the concept from several different angles, actually, as I wasn’t sure how formal or glitzy you wanted the launch to be. Now, this was the first idea I had...’

As she talked the different possibilities through her enthusiasm for the work she loved took over, as always, her voice steady and firm now and her face animated.

‘And this is my last thought...’ She lifted her eyes for a moment as she spread the papers out in front of Luke Hawkton and her gaze met the piercing force of his. She faltered slightly before quickly recovering herself. ‘I wasn’t sure if there would be children present, or whether you wanted an evening reception strictly for adults, but this idea could encompass both if you so wished.

‘I thought a play on old and new might capture jaded imaginations better than a straightforward diamonds and fur occasion, and with that end in mind I considered going back a hundred years or more for the day. Perhaps an old-fashioned fair, complete with rides and swings and so on, and a constructed ice-rink with braziers and roasting chestnuts?

‘Everyone invited could wear clothes suited to that era, the children could have hoops and kites to play with, and the climax to the launch could come at the end of the afternoon, before the formal dinner dance planned for later, with several small boats in the harbour providing coloured smoke to form a veil through which the new yacht can sail, beautifully streamlined, utterly gracious—the present in all its glory...

‘The dinner dance later could either be a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century ball, complete with crinolines, or an up-to-date affair to allow the women to show off their Diors and so on—with, of course, champagne on the yacht first for the selected few.’ She nerved herself to glance up and look directly at Luke Hawkton as she finished speaking, but the cold, rugged face was completely expressionless, the silver-grey gaze hooded and remote.

As the seconds ticked by she was aware that everyone was waiting for some sort of reaction from the man himself, as was she, but nearly a full minute passed before he broke a silence which had become electric.

‘Excellent.’ The glittering gaze lifted from her rough sketches and calculations to fasten with steel-like firmness on her face. ‘We’ll go with that last one.’

He had risen, pushed back his chair and was halfway across the room before anyone moved, and then Mick and Andy shot out of their chairs like startled rabbits. ‘Luke, do I take it we’ve got the promotion?’ Mike asked breathlessly, his voice a tone higher than normal, and the other men rose from their seats like obedient marionettes, leaving only Josie sitting in stunned silence at the deserted table.

‘No.’ Luke turned, his silver gaze flashing over his old college friend like liquid steel. ‘Miss Owens has.’ He smiled directly at her now, the hard face mellowing for a moment. ‘I like the general theme you’ve suggested—it’s both unusual and imaginative—but I want to be kept closely involved with this—you understand me?’

She nodded dumbly, unable to believe that Top Promotions had just scooped what must be the prize of the year.

‘And I don’t want other ideas fuzzing the edges.’ The gimlet gaze returned to Mike. ‘No interference from other ambitious avenues, right? I’m aware you work as a team here on most projects, but not this one. I will provide Top Promotions, and Miss Owens, with both the finance and resources to give me exactly what I want. The launch will be at the end of October, which is two months later than I would have liked, but our team of craftsmen ran into difficulties with the original superstructure moulding and it needed modifying.’

As Mike and Andy’s heads moved in unison Josie wondered, for a split second, exactly what Luke Hawkton was thinking as he watched them all. He was powerful, hard, ruthless, wealthy; he had just given their company an enormous shot in the arm and he must be aware of the fact, and of the exalted position that put him in in her two bosses’ eyes. Did he expect obsequiousness, servility from his employees? She had dealt with enough egomaniacs in her time to know that some men looked on such things as their right.

‘Today is the second of June.’ The deep voice brought her fully alert. ‘That means you have almost five months to pull this off. Can you do it?’

He was looking directly at her again, and she nodded tightly without a shred of hesitation. Either that or die in the attempt!

‘Good. And can I also take it that you will obey any instruction I give you regarding the project without question?’

This time her hesitation was marked, and she nipped at her lower lip for a moment before finding the nerve to speak the truth. ‘No, not if it isn’t in the best interests of the launch or if I think you’re wrong,’ she said honestly. ‘In those circumstances I would want to discuss things with you and see if we could arrive at a mutually agreeable solution.’

She saw Mike and Andy, who were standing just behind Luke now, close their eyes for a split second, but in spite of their horrified faces she continued to stare into the silver-grey gaze without flinching. She had never toadied to anyone, man or woman, and she was blowed if she was going to tell Luke Hawkton a pack of lies. She wasn’t a boot-licker or a bosses’ lackey; she had a mind of her own and knew how to use it, so he might as well know now.

‘Daunting...’ The word was breathed on the air but she read his lips, and the memory of her rebuff the day before brought vivid scarlet into her cheeks. ‘I would like you at my office on Monday morning with some relevant facts and figures,’ he continued immediately, his voice cool, as though his reference to her gaffe had been incidental. ‘If you have any other projects under way you delegate them to one of these gentlemen. You can agree with that, Miss Owens?’ he added with heavy mockery.

It clearly didn’t make any difference whether she was happy with his orders or not, but she nodded anyway, her large honey-gold eyes still faintly dazed by the suddenness of it all. ‘Thank you.’ She hadn’t meant the words to sound so small or so breathless, but somehow the sheer presence of this man had drained all her normal vivacity into a small, trembling lump in the middle of her chest, although there was no reason for it, or for the hostility that flared into life every time she so much as laid eyes on him. And she was grateful for this wonderful opportunity. ‘Thank you, Mr Hawkton.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He walked back to shake her hand, and as he did so he spoke swiftly and softly in her ear, his voice inaudible to the others. ‘And you’ve managed it without having to use that couch at all. Unfortunately.’

He had turned and left before she could pull herself together sufficiently to think, and then, as the door closed behind him with Mike and Andy glued to his heels, her colleagues were congratulating her somewhat grudgingly and the remark had to be put on the back-burner of her mind.

‘So Mike was at uni with the esteemed Luke Hawkton, was he?’ Mitchell was obviously put out that his ideas hadn’t had a mention. ‘Think that’s why he’s going with Top Promotions?’

‘I think Josie’s proposal had something to do with it,’ one of the other men remarked drily. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, Mitch; it doesn’t suit you.’

But Mitchell’s comment, along with Luke’s parting shot, were in the forefront of her mind that afternoon as she sat in her comfortable, bright lounge with the full-length windows to the balcony wide open and Mog lying in purring ecstasy in a spot of blazing sunlight with a whole celebratory tin of red salmon in his stomach.

It was Luke’s ‘unfortunately’ that bothered her, more than the fact that he had referred to her stupid gibe to Charlotte. He surely hadn’t taken her seriously, had he? She bit on her lower lip anxiously as she went over and over the intonation of his voice in her mind. But so what if he had? She could handle that sort of hassle; she’d been doing it for ten years or more, since she’d first stepped out into the big bad world. But she wouldn’t like to think she’d got the job because Luke happened to know her boss.

She frowned into the thick warm air. He either genuinely liked her ideas or he didn’t. And if he didn’t... She shook her head slowly. How did you know with a man like him? He wasn’t like any other man she had ever met in the whole of her life... except one. The thought jumped in from nowhere but once in her mind it stuck.

Yes, there was something about him that reminded her of Peter Staples, something...something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and it had caused an instant and probably unfair antagonism that was as fierce as it was illogical. She thought back to her behaviour of the evening before and winced at her barely concealed hostility to the man who was now, in effect, her bread and butter.

‘Oh, Mog...’ She sighed as she spoke but Mog was too full of salmon and too comfortable to respond to the naked appeal in her voice. He cast her a long, considering glance from large, slanted green eyes before the express train in his chest resumed its rumbling journey, the sunlight turning his brindled fur into a mass of shimmering colour.

This was the chance of a lifetime, an opportunity to nail her colours well and truly to the career mast and cement her credibility into place with unshakeable firmness, and she wasn’t going to let Mitch’s spitefulness or Luke Hawkton’s innuendoes spoil things. She narrowed her eyes determinedly, pushing back the riot of tiny auburn curls that fell about her shoulders. She could do it. She knew she could pull this off; that wasn’t in question. The only thing was...

Her mouth hardened. Could she tolerate Luke Hawkton in her life for any amount of time? The thought was stupid and she knew it. Of course she could; she would have to. And he wasn’t Peter Staples; he wasn’t even remotely like him.

Peter had been wild and dark and fascinatingly handsome to the young fifteen-year-old Josie Owens, with his long jet-black hair and slanted ebony eyes that danced wickedly as they promised the moon. He had been ten years older than she and quite out of her orbit, with his flashy red sports car and his succession of tall, model-type girlfriends that he seemed to change with each passing month.

Their parents had been friends, but then everyone was friends with everyone else in the tiny Sussex village where she had grown up. And so she had loved him from afar, utterly tongue-tied if they ever happened to meet at one of the numerous social gatherings the middle-aged community loved so much and which the younger folks tended to endure, watching him with huge doe eyes and hanging on his every word.

Quite when he had started to flirt with her she wasn’t sure. She had heard rumours that his last girlfriend, a sophisticated, leggy blonde with the face of an angel and the figure of a goddess, had thrown him over—an unprecedented occurrence—and that he was upset about it, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to believe the hearsay. Who in their right mind would reject Peter Staples? He was... just perfect. And so when he’d told her to keep their dates secret she hadn’t asked him why. One didn’t question a god.

They had seen each other three times before he had made the pass at her which had ended in an undignified fight for her virginity. She could still hear the caustic, ugly words he had shouted at her in the heat of his temper when he’d realised his crude seduction attempt had failed, the foul language as he had pulled her back into the car, furious that she had refused him and was demanding to go home.

And then he had driven like a madman, the more so when he had seen her fear, and the car had seemed to fly down the narrow, high-bordered lanes with their tight curves and bends, its expensive tyres screaming and the world outside a green blur. He had been laughing when the car turned the corner and hit the farm tractor.

It had been the first thing she remembered when she had finally come out of the coma—that spiteful, malevolent laughter ringing in her ears and the crash of grinding metal against metal.

The young eighteen-year-old farmboy had been killed instantly; Peter had walked away from the crash with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And she...? She had had a fractured skull, two broken legs and a crushed pelvis that had necessitated an operation. An operation that had robbed her of the chance of ever being a mother.

‘Stop it, Josie.’ She spoke the words out loud and this time something in her voice brought Mog to his feet, and he stretched comfortably before sauntering over and rubbing against her legs. ‘Good boy...’ She spoke automatically, her hand stroking the sleek fur as she gave herself silent orders to pull herself together.

Trips down memory lane were futile and destructive; she knew that. She knew it. And it was rare for her to indulge in them these days. The ringing of the telephone at her elbow interrupted her self-admonishment.

‘Miss Owens?’ Luke Hawkton’s voice was unmistakable.

‘Yes?’ Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.

‘This is Luke Hawkton. I’m sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.’

‘You. do?’ Oh, for goodness’ sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.

‘I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.’ The firm, controlled voice wasn’t unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. ‘I don’t want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.’

‘Oh.’ She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog’s bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.

‘I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.’

‘I...’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?’

‘The name’s Luke, and, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,’ he said coolly.

‘But I could fax you—’

‘No, that would not be satisfactory.’ He cut across her protest immediately. ‘I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,’ he continued firmly. ‘Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—’

‘Hang on a moment, did you say hotel?’ She found her voice along with her wits, and at the same moment it hit her why Luke Hawkton reminded her so strongly of Peter.

They were the only two men she had ever met who were completely and totally sure of themselves and of their ability to command, to subdue, to dominate. It sat on them like a live aura and both repelled and fascinated those unfortunate enough to come within striking distance—or at least it repelled her now, she thought bitterly. Thirteen years too late.

She would always believe it had been Peter’s utter lack of remorse, his unwillingness to accept any blame for the accident or her injuries, that had caused her father’s massive heart attack. In the two months before he died her father had been eaten up by bitter pain and resentment that his only daughter had been treated so badly, and he had felt her desperate anguish and primitive blind despair as though it were his own. On the day before she’d finally come out of hospital he had collapsed in the street just outside the main doors and died moments later.

‘Just an overnight stay, Miss Owens—or may I call you Josie? As we are going to be working pretty closely over the next few months I think a less formal approach is called for, don’t you?’ The deep, faintly husky voice broke into her thoughts, commanding her concentration.

‘Yes, of course.’ She forced a pleasant tone that was in direct contrast to her feelings. ‘But with regard to the hotel I’m sure that isn’t necessary. I can easily catch a night flight. In fact, I’d prefer to do that,’ she added firmly. ‘I have things to do here—’

‘Which I am sure can wait twenty-four hours.’ There was a touch of steel in the pleasant tone now, only the merest intimation that his words were an order and not a suggestion, but it was enough to make the hand holding the phone clench tightly round the inoffensive instrument as she glared at it angrily.

‘I’m not sure exactly when I will be free to talk to you, so it makes sense to allow a little leeway into the evening.’ His voice was reasonable—too reasonable, as though he were explaining something obvious to a recalcitrant child. ‘You do understand the enormity of the job you have taken on, I trust?’

‘I think so, Mr—’ She stopped abruptly. She couldn’t call him Luke, she just couldn’t, but he would think she was being awkward if she insisted on Mr Hawkton. ‘I think so,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And of course if you’d prefer me to stay over then I will. You’re the boss.’ She had wanted the last three words to sound light, but they had merely sounded petulant.

‘That I am, Josie,’ he said quietly, his voice very dry. ‘Now, a car will be at the entrance to your block of flats at eight on Monday morning with my secretary, Emma, inside. All you need to bring is your passport, an overnight bag and, of course, the details on the project. I have informed Mike and Andy of the arrangements, incidentally.’

I just bet you have, she thought tightly, before giving herself a mental slap on the hand. What was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake? The man was going to spend a small fortune on this damn launch; he had every right to expect her one hundred per cent commitment. ‘That’s fine.’ She injected a note of enthusiasm into her reply. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, then.’

‘Goodbye, Josie.’ Was that thread of sardonic amusement always in his voice, or had he guessed the extent of her reluctance? she thought tightly. If he had, he had clearly taken great delight in commanding her obedience. Oh, stop it, stop it, she told herself desperately. She had to take hold of this unwarranted hostility to a man she knew nothing about and bring logic and reason to the situation.

Luke Hawkton was a respected, powerful multimillionaire, with business interests in more concerns than most of London put together. He had chosen her proposal, hers, not Mitchell’s or one from the other firms he had checked, and there was everything to thank him for. That was fact. These...feelings of hers were irrational, unjustified and in the circumstances downright dangerous if they began to jeopardise her professionalism.

With the benefit of hindsight she could see that Peter Staples had been a wastrel of the first order, a spoilt, vain megalomaniac with something base and vile at the bottom of him—a man who was actually unable to feel any sense of remorse or contrition. He had stood in court after the accident and lied so convincingly, and with such conviction, that if she hadn’t been in the car herself she would have believed every word he’d spoken. He’d got off scot-free, or as near as dammit, and had walked away from the whole mess without a thought for the two dead men and the ruined life—hers—that he’d left behind him.

But...She shut her eyes for a moment as she bit on the underside of her lip, her teeth nibbling agitatedly at the soft flesh. But there was still something—the enormous confidence, perhaps, the unswerving faith in their own ability and power—that linked the two men in her mind.

Peter Staples had changed the course of her life, her whole future at fifteen. His cruelty had turned her into something dry and desolate, her body into a barren place that would forever be unfruitful, empty. They had all told her she was lucky to be alive, that she had so much to be thankful for in that the only scars she had didn’t show, but they didn’t know. They didn’t understand how it felt to be in her head, to know that she was a woman on the outside only, a mutilated shell irrevocably flawed.

She had refused to go to counselling sessions after a few weeks; the motherly little woman with a photo of her grandchildren on her desk hadn’t helped much. And then had followed a period of blackness, deep, primitive blackness, from which she had eventually pulled herself inch by inch when her mother had become ill just as she had started her two-year college course. Nursing her mother and coping with her extensive studies had left her with no time to brood on her dark thoughts, and on the night her mother had died she had made a vow to herself.

No chasing rainbows, no hoping for the moon, no happy ever after. She was on her own now, and on her own she would remain. She would never ask any man to accept second best. She had raised her chin proudly and stared into the mirror through eyes drenched in tears. Her career would be her life and she would go for that one hundred per cent.

It wasn’t the life she would have chosen, but her options had been ripped out of her with the surgeon’s knife. There would be no romance in her life; she couldn’t risk getting close to someone only to shatter their hopes. No, she would make the best of what she had. She would. And cut the self-pity from that moment on.

And she had. Almost. She opened her eyes and stared round the pretty, well-furnished room. She was very, very fortunate. She was. And this chance now to go still further was welcome, marvellous.

But in spite of Luke Hawkton’s munificence, in spite of the fact that he had been nothing but generous so far, she didn’t like him. Illogical, unreasonable, absurd—yes, it was all that and more, but nevertheless something linked him in her mind with Peter Staples, and she couldn’t do anything about it.


CHAPTER THREE

‘JOSIE. How nice to see you again. I trust you had a good flight?’ The deep, dark voice trickled over her nerves like liquid fire.

‘Fine, thank you,’ she responded carefully.

As Luke took her small hand in his, his large fingers swallowing hers whole, she forced herself to betray none of the agitation that had gripped her as soon as he had stridden into the hotel’s small conference room.

On arriving in Germany, she had been met at the airport by an impressive limousine that had swept her in style to the luxurious first-class hotel where she was to be staying. There she had been greeted with a deference that had left her nonplussed, until she’d realised she had come under the umbrella of Hawkton Enterprises.

Her room was the last word in opulence, the lunch that had been provided five minutes after her arrival simply superb, and the ground-floor conference room that had been reserved for her alone had meant she could spread out all her countless pieces of paper and continue working in comfort while she waited for the great man to put in an appearance.

And now he was here. And he looked very, very big. The beautifully tailored suit and grey silk shirt and tie he was wearing sat well on the hard male body, but couldn’t disguise the muscled strength in the broad shoulders and chest. He was uncompromisingly virile, in fact menacingly so, and again that strange little shiver of sensation snaked down her spine as she felt his warm flesh against hers.

‘You have been busy.’ In spite of the fact that he had let go of her hand almost immediately, the burning memory of his hard hand gripping hers remained with her for several seconds before she could erase it and bring her mind under control sufficiently to reply.

‘Yes.’ She nodded with what she hoped was cool aplomb. ‘I’ve sketched out a few rough ideas on different angles for the fair and the ball later. There’s a Victorian look, or perhaps you’d prefer an Edwardian style? And we need to determine pretty early on whether the period you choose for the fair will run over into the ball, because if so your guests will need some considerable time to get appropriate clothes ordered for both. The ice rink will be expensive to construct, of course, and we will have to provide a vast number of boots in different sizes—’

A discreet knock at the door broke into what was fast becoming a gabble, even to her own ears, and a second later a waiter entered, carrying a tray containing coffee and cakes.

‘Thank you.’ Luke’s voice was cool and calm, and once the waiter had left, leaving the tray on the table at their side, where Luke had indicated it should go, he turned to her, a slight smile curving the hard mouth. ‘Do I make you nervous, Josie?’

‘What?’ The word escaped before she could draw it back, and she knew she was blushing a bright red as she qualified it hastily. ‘No, not in the least. Of course not.’

‘Of course not.’ He repeated her words with slow, laconic disbelief, his dark eyebrows slightly raised as he leant back in his chair to survey her through narrowed eyes. ‘There is no need to be nervous, I do assure you. You have the job. It is, as they say, in the bag.’

‘I know.’ If only it was just the job in hand that was the trouble, she thought silently. If only. ‘And there’s no problem, really,’ she said brightly, willing the hard, astute man in front of her to believe the lie.

‘Good.’ The piercing silver eyes remained trained on her face for one more moment before they dropped to the papers in front of him and he waved his hand at the tray. ‘Would you care to be mother?’

It was an old phrase, and one that she had come up against many times in the last few years, but it still had the power to hit her in the stomach like a hard fist and she was glad that that glittering gaze was no longer on her.

‘Milk or cream?’ she asked carefully as she poured the coffee.

‘Black, please.’ He didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘And I’d like a piece of that disgustingly rich fruitcake while you’re about it. Lunch seems a distant memory, and I can see we’ll be tied up here for an hour or two. Dinner at eight suit you?’

‘Dinner—?’ She stopped abruptly. She somehow hadn’t expected to have dinner with him, although, thinking about it now, maybe she should have. But she had supposed he would be busy with other high-flying tycoons—the ones he had come out here to see, presumably.

‘You do eat?’ he drawled quietly, still with his eyes on her work.

‘Yes.’ In spite of all her good intentions—and she had been repeating them to herself ever since waking very early that morning—her stomach clenched in protest at his faintly mocking tone. ‘And eight would be fine.’

‘The food here is more than adequate, but I know a little restaurant that is excellent if you don’t mind a drive?’ The devastating gaze swung to her face before she had time to school her features into an acceptable mask, and she saw his eyes narrow as they fastened on her tight mouth.

‘I don’t mind—really,’ she said hastily. ‘Whichever you’d prefer.’ She passed him the coffee and cake as she spoke and then almost dropped the plate as a tingle shot up her arm at the touch of his fingers.

If he noticed her little start of surprise he said nothing, accepting the coffee and cake with a polite word of thanks and then transferring both his gaze and his energies to the job in hand.

And Josie found, after a few seconds had slipped by, that the razor-sharp mind and intimidating intelligence of the man in front of her called forth all her powers of concentration—so much so that she was absolutely amazed when, some time later, Luke glanced at his watch and announced that two hours had slipped by.

‘I think we’ve covered the initial groundwork.’ He smiled at her as he stretched with animalistic grace, his hard muscles flexing under his clothes. ‘Certainly enough to give the thing a kick-start, anyway.’

She nodded quickly in reply, forcing a polite smile to her lips. He had been absolutely right, of course. There was no way the majority of this could have been sorted out by faxing or telephone calls or anything else. It had needed a one-to-one discussion; she had been stupid to suggest anything else. As it was she was going to have her work cut out to keep to the schedule they had drawn up; every day, every hour would count from now on.

‘Let me take those.’ When she’d finished packing all her sketches and papers into her large black briefcase and leather folder he took them from her, tucking them under his arm as though they weighed nothing at all. ‘Your room is just down the corridor from my suite. I’ll call for you at eight and we’ll drive to that restaurant, OK? I’d like a decent meal after the last day or so.’

He gestured for her to walk through the door he had just opened, and as she did so the realisation that she was being controlled by a superior force, one that represented danger, was so strong that she could taste it. And along with that disturbing knowledge came the fact that she was vitally aware of every single movement of that big, powerful male body, that she had been even when immersed in facts and figures and calculations. Even then her subconscious had registered every slight gesture, every action, however small. It was humiliating, mortifying, but her mind and body seemed determined to respond to this man in a way she couldn’t control, and she didn’t like it at all.

The first few months after the accident had been a dark nightmare as she had struggled to come to terms with the loss of her father and also the end of all her girlish dreams of marriage, a husband, babies. Babies. For a time it had seemed as if the whole world revolved around babies. Every television commercial, every programme or magazine featured wide-eyed infants, be they black, brown or white, and each one had screamed her deficiency at her, the fact that she was hopelessly, irreversibly flawed.

Babies had become a terrible and wonderful fascination for her, a whip with which she beat herself daily, an obsession she couldn’t overcome. She had spent hours in front of a mirror with a cushion in front of her stomach under her clothes, the tears streaming down her face as she had cried her desolation from the black void where her heart had been.

But then, slowly, she had begun to claw back her mental stability, forcing herself each morning, minute by minute, hour by hour, to count her blessings. She had become nurse as well as daughter to her mother, and in a strange way that tragedy, following so hard on the heels of the accident and her father’s subsequent death, had settled her emotions. She hadn’t had time to dwell on her own grief as she had sought to make her mother’s last days happy ones, and unbeknown to herself it had been therapy for them both.

When her mother had died she had been almost seventeen, but she had felt like an old, old lady as she had determined the path her life would follow. A fulfilling and interesting career, and a destiny that she and she alone would control, with no emotional or romantic commitment of any kind. Her parents’ death, coming so soon after Peter’s cruel treatment of her adolescent adoration and its devastating conclusion, had turned the word ‘love’ into something that meant agony, misery, suffering and bereavement.

She had determined to be strong, mentally and physically. She would be in control of both her emotions and her fate from now on. No more being tossed about by the waves on the sea of life; no more crying for what had been taken so brutally from her. She would make her place in a world in which children rarely featured and learn to be content with that. She would.

And now? She was aware of Luke just a step behind her as they walked to the lift. Now, for the first time in all those years, that control had been shaken. And she was having dinner with him tonight! Was she mad? Before she had time to consider her next words, she turned round so sharply that he almost walked into her.

‘Mr—Luke, I really think I would prefer to have a meal in my room tonight,’ she said hastily to the dark, hard face above her, stumbling slightly over his name, which seemed as though it had burnt her lips. ‘It will give me a chance to go over a few of those calculations, and I’m really very tired...’

She found her voice dwindling away as he stood looking down at her, his silver-grey eyes gleaming in the dull artificial light overhead and his face perfectly still. Even when he wasn’t speaking, perhaps especially when he wasn’t speaking, the cold, compelling aura of the man was fiercely strong.

‘You don’t lie very well—unlike most of your sex, I might add,’ he said thoughtfully after a few tense moments had passed. ‘You’d really find my company so hard to take?’

‘I—It’s not that. I’m just—’

‘Tired?’ He cut into her red-faced mutterings with cool composure as the lift doors glided silently open, and she knew her legs were trembling slightly as she stepped into the carpeted box. ‘Josie, you are twenty-eight years of age and as free as a bird—no demanding husband in the background, no little infants hanging on your coat-tails and interrupting your sleep, not even a live-in lover, from what I can determine. You are young, beautiful and healthy, right?’

The glittering gaze was as sharp as finely honed steel as it swept over her and the lift doors slid shut. ‘Now, in view of all this are you seriously trying to tell me that you are so exhausted you can’t make dinner tonight?’

‘How do you know all that?’ She forgot the matter of dinner as she glared at him across the small space, anger competing with the warning her brain was giving her to go steady, to keep cool. ‘All that about my personal life.’

‘Is it inaccurate?’ He was leaning against the lift wall as he spoke, muscled arms crossed over a broad chest that wouldn’t have disgraced a prize wrestler.

‘That’s not the point,’ she replied hotly, her face burning as she frowned up at him, her tiny, delicate frame taut and her honey-gold eyes flashing green sparks. ‘My private life is nothing to do with you or the job.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he said coolly.

‘Ridiculous?’

‘Yes, ridiculous.’ Now the hard face had set into pure granite, and there was a chill emanating from the sliver-grey gaze trained on her face that could have frozen molten lava. ‘Hawkton Enterprises is a large and varied organisation, as I’m sure you are aware, but as I think I explained to you Hawkton Marine is particularly important to me.’

Because of his father? Yes, she remembered as the lift deposited them at their floor, the doors gliding open to reveal a hushed, scented corridor with ankle-deep carpeting and hothouse blooms perfuming the still air.

‘The person I chose for the Night Hawk project needed to be mentally and emotionally on the ball—a quality that can’t always be determined at first glance,’ he added cynically. ‘I had no intention of employing someone with a messy or complicated private life, and if that offends you—tough.’

‘So you spied on me?’ she asked in disbelief, her voice high.

‘Spied on you?’ he asked, in a voice that resembled splintered ice. ‘I control Hawkton Enterprises, for crying out loud, not the Secret Service. You’ve been reading too many novels, young lady. I merely made enquiries as to whether you were free to put in the number of hours this job would entail or whether there were personal ties in your life that would make it difficult. If you had had a husband and children you would have seen little of them over the next five months, and although that may be fine during the initial euphoria it very quickly palls, believe me.’

‘And you’d have made the same enquiries about a man?’ she asked tightly as they came to a halt outside her door.

‘Most certainly.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘I don’t go in for sexual discrimination in any shape or form. I’ve been accused of many things in my life, but chauvinism is not one of them. Could you say the same?’

‘What?’ His question had taken her completely by surprise and it showed.

‘You don’t date—or very rarely. You have a circle of a few close friends, none of whom are male. And you have a way of looking at me with those huge golden eyes as if I was something that had just slithered out from under a stone,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out that for whatever reason the male animal is a species you find less than trustworthy.’

‘Oh, really?’ She couldn’t remember when she had been so mad. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t apply the age-old male explanation for all that.’ She had meant her tone to be scathing, but it wasn’t quite so forceful as she would have liked. His intuition had frightened her, badly. She had been right to feel he was dangerous. ‘That I must prefer women? Isn’t that what you men usually assume when your egos are dented?’

Part of her couldn’t believe that she was having this conversation with the head of Hawkton Enterprises, that she could well be throwing away both this particular project and the job she had worked so hard for at Top Promotions. If he fired her now—and he could, easily—Mike and Andy would be livid with her.

‘I have no idea what men do when their egos are dented, Josie; such an... unpleasant calamity has not befallen me to date.’ He smiled easily, his equanimity quite unaffected by her all too obvious rage. ‘But it sounds painful,’ he added drily. ‘Now, can we stop this childishness and agree on dinner at eight?’

She immediately thought about arguing some more, but somehow the instruction didn’t get through to that part of her brain which governed her responses, because she found herself nodding dazedly as he took the key she had been holding and inserted it in her door, pushing her gently into the room beyond and shutting the door after her.

She stood for some minutes in the quietness of her room before her hand reached for the light switch. Immediately the room was bathed in a soft golden glow from the carefully positioned lighting, and the thick cream carpet and curtains and pale lemon furnishings appeared both tasteful and restful to her tired eyes.

He was generous; she had to give him that. This must be one of the best rooms in the hotel, after all. She shook her head gently as she ran her hand across her face in a quick, confused gesture that spoke of her inner turmoil. He had probably wanted her easily available if he needed to consult her about anything, and his suite was just down the hall... This was all to suit him, that was all it was—

‘Stop it.’ She swallowed painfully after speaking out loud into the silence. It didn’t matter whether he was generous or not. The only thing of any importance was the Night Hawk project. Once that was completed she would have had a terrific boost to her career prospects, an undreamed-of advance up the ladder of success.

And this feeling she had had of late—that it was all futile, empty, that she wanted more, someone to call her own, something to love—well, that was just a classic case of the grass being greener—human nature in all its perversity. Because she had no choice; she had no choice at all, did she? Her options had all disappeared thirteen years ago on a beautiful summer’s evening in June amid a mass of tangled metal and burnt rubber.

‘You look quite beautiful.’ It wasn’t so much what he said as the husky deepness in that rich voice that made her heart beat a trifle more quickly as she opened the door to Luke just before eight.

She was dressed simply but expensively in a sleeveless cocktail dress of russet silk, the wafer-thin straps over her shoulders and softly fitted bodice showing the creamy perfection of her skin to its best advantage and the three-inch heels on shoes of exactly the same shade giving her petiteness a small boost. She’d left her hair loose, and it fell in tiny shimmering curls about her face and shoulders, accentuating the fine, heart-shaped face and huge golden eyes.

‘Thank you.’ She managed a light smile, but the way the black dinner jacket sat on those massive shoulders had given her a nasty moment. He oozed sex appeal—positively oozed it, she thought helplessly as her mind went blank on the conversation front. And she didn’t like the warm ache that his male sensuality called forth from the core of her; it was crazy, stupid. She wasn’t attracted to the he-man type, not remotely. Not remotely, she told her quivering nerves.

‘All ready?’ His voice was impersonal now, and she nodded quickly before stepping past him into the corridor and shutting the door firmly behind her.

Ready? No, she wasn’t ready, she thought nervously as he put a casual arm round her waist and guided her into the lift, which was waiting at their floor, his flesh burning hers through the silk of her dress.

Once in the lift, she moved carefully to one side, turning to face him as she strove for nonchalance. ‘You’ve stayed here before?’ she asked lightly.

‘Several times.’ If he noticed her manoeuvre to avoid his touch he gave no sign of it, his voice pleasant and untroubled. ‘When you travel as much as I do, if you find a good hotel you stick to it, believe me. I like good food, swift service and most of all a comfortable bed.’

This time she refused to let herself blush at what was a perfectly normal conversation after all, although there had been an inflexion in the dark, deep voice that she was sure she hadn’t imagined.

‘Yes...’ Come on, blind him with some riveting repartee, she told herself angrily, but the flagrant masculinity showed no signs of abating, and it had the unwelcome effect of stilling her normally quick tongue. It didn’t help that it was completely natural either...

He had to be one of the most attractive, sexy men she had met in a long time, she realised suddenly with a shock of surprise. Women must adore him. ‘I really think the launch is going to be the most talked about event for years,’ she began quickly. ‘I’m sure—’

‘Josie?’ he interrupted her softly, his voice lazy. ‘You aren’t working now.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’ His eyes glinted at her, daring her to argue. ‘Don’t you ever relax?’ he asked silkily.

As they reached the ground floor and the lift opened onto the luxurious reception area she smiled coolly, her back straight. ‘Of course I relax,’ she said tightly. ‘Often.’

‘When?’ he challenged quietly.

‘What?’ She stared up at him as he brought her to a halt by turning her to face him, his large hands under her elbows.

‘When do you relax?’ he asked patiently, his voice soft. ‘Really relax, I mean.’

‘I... All the time.’ Was he flirting with her? she thought nervously. She really didn’t know. But what she did know was that the coldly intimidating, ruthless tycoon had metamorphosed into the perfect dinner companion, and of the two she found the latter infinitely more alarming. ‘When I’m at home—’

‘By yourself?’ There was a dry, mordant note in the lazy voice now that immediately grated on her nerves. He turned from her, taking her arm and leading her into the small cocktail bar just off Reception.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being by yourself,’ she said hotly, stung into temper. ‘Besides which I have lots of friends, and my cat—’

‘Josie, old ladies of ninety have lots of friends and a cat,’ he drawled, with inexcusable amusement. ‘Now, our table at the restaurant isn’t booked until half-past nine, and I’d like you to try a particularly delicious cocktail here before we leave. I’m sure you’ll love it.’

‘What’s it called?’ she asked tightly, her temper still at boiling point but unable to do anything about it with the attentive barman hovering in front of them as though Luke were royalty.

‘Chaste Delight.’ He raised one sardonic eyebrow at her as he spoke. ‘Although I rather think that is a contradiction in terms... Good evening, George.’

The silver gaze turned to centre on the barman not a moment too soon as her urge to kick him became almost overwhelming. ‘How’s your wife?’

‘Getting along nicely now, Mr Hawkton, thank you,’ the barman said, with a deference that Josie found intensely irritating in the circumstances. ‘We’ve roped the grandparents in to help out a bit; they love it and it gives Frieda a break.’

‘Good idea. All hands to the plough—or in this case three ploughs.’ Luke glanced at her with a wry smile. ‘George’s wife recently gave birth to triplets; they don’t do things by halves over here. That’ll teach you to marry a big, healthy German girl, George,’ he continued smoothly as Josie forced herself to smile politely. ‘If you’d stayed in the old country you wouldn’t have had this problem.’

‘No problem, Mr Hawkton.’ The other man grinned cheerfully. ‘You want to see the mugshots?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Luke returned wryly but with a warm smile. ‘And while we do that perhaps you’d mix a Chaste Delight for the lady, and I’d better have a mineral water, George. I’m driving.’

Josie steeled herself for what was to follow but it still hurt; it always did. Three little cocoons with tiny faces exposed to the camera in the arms of their proud parents. Three. She kept the smile in place with gritted teeth. It wasn’t fair. Life just wasn’t fair.

‘They’re very sweet.’ She handed the photographs back to Luke as though they had burnt her, and George busied himself with serving their drinks before disappearing to the other end of the bar as another couple wandered in.

‘Did I detect a note of boredom there?’ Luke asked softly as she took a long, deep swallow of her frothy pink cocktail to quell the trembling in her stomach.

‘Boredom?’ She was immensely glad of the kick in the drink as she raised purposefully blank eyes to his. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Do you like children?’ he asked quietly.

He had no idea what this conversation was doing to her, and she drew on every scrap of strength she had won over the last few years and answered flatly, her voice even, ‘I suppose so. I don’t really come into contact with any.’




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