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Bad Influence
SUSANNE MCCARTHY
Breathless…That was how Jake Morgan's kisses made Georgia feel. But, as a levelheaded businesswoman, Georgia had managed to avoid relationships for twenty-seven years. She couldn't start now. Notorious… It was the only word to describe Jake!He had come to her aid when she'd needed him most, but rescuing naked blondes was an occupational hazard as far as he was concerned. He was a playboy, pure and simple. Indiscreet… Yet locked in his arms, Georgia seemed to forget all reason. Behaving badly had never seemed like such a good idea!



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u6f777d2b-1d71-5148-bd38-2cf64720a3a7)
Excerpt (#u95d244f3-976b-5102-9a42-c9db7edf4186)
About the Author (#u8341a948-b16d-55a7-93ce-da85640ed41e)
Title Page (#u565e5700-53f5-505a-b5c1-f70c98904b0a)
CHAPTER ONE (#uaf5d25e5-e3d5-5467-b16c-4cb321bcf278)
CHAPTER TWO (#u8c6b7ba0-2ee1-59ef-b2c8-d78058386442)
CHAPTER THREE (#u0a19cfa9-8b42-529e-a43e-c6a5fbe6726a)
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)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“I have no taste for casual one-night stands.”
Jake laughed without humor. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind but…Why didn’t you tell me who you are?”

“I don’t think this is quite the right moment to explain,” Georgia countered crisply. “I’m sorry about the misunderstandings with the security people—I hope your injuries aren’t serious?”

“I’ll live,” he returned, an inflection of sardonic humor in his voice as he cautiously felt his swollen eye. “Though, you could try kissing it better?”

Her blue eyes flashed him a frosty warning.

Jake chuckled with wry amusement. “You know, you should always wear diamonds,” he remarked in lazy mockery. “They go with your eyes.”
SUSANNE McCARTHY grew up in South London, England, but she always wanted to live in the country, and shortly after her marriage she moved to Shropshire with her husband. They live in a house on a hill and have lots of dogs and cats. She loves to travel—but she loves to come home. As well as her writing, she still enjoys her career as a teacher in adult education, though she only works part-time now.

Bad Influence
Susanne McCarthy


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

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_3b44a390-3fca-508e-ab5c-f4098c7ceeb4)
‘MARRY you? Don’t be ridiculous!’ Georgia Geldard’s blue eyes had more than once been likened to polar ice, and they had never been more frosty than at this moment. ‘And if you think I’m going to consent to spending one single night on this yacht, you can just think again,’ she added on a note of withering scorn.
Unfortunately her sharp words served only to provoke her captor into a display of pure Latin machismo. ‘But, querida, you have no choice.’ He swaggered with overstated arrogance. ‘I can see that you have no weapons concealed about your person…’
Georgia felt a faint blush of pink rise to her cheeks. She was acutely conscious that the brief blue silk bikini concealed very little; if only she had at least paused to slip on a shirt or something before accepting César’s seemingly innocent invitation. The trouble was, she had known César Nunez de Perez since he was a lanky adolescent whose only interest was American baseball, and she still thought of him as a mere boy, so when he had zoomed up beside her yacht on his latest toy—a jet-ski—she had quite readily agreed to lay aside the very dull report on world coffee production she had been studying and go for a ride with him. And when he had suggested that they step aboard his yacht for a cool drink she had thought nothing of it. She would never have trusted a grown man in such circumstances.
But though he was now an extremely spoiled and self-important young man of twenty-two, she had no intention of letting him intimidate her. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, César, stop playing silly games,’ she rapped impatiently. ‘Tell your captain to take us back to Mangrove Bay at once.’
César’s handsome young face took on a sulky pout. ‘But, Georgia, you know how I feel about you,’ he pleaded. ‘I adore you—I worship at your feet.’
‘I have no desire at all to be worshipped,’ she retorted. ‘Besides, don’t you think you’re a little too old for that sort of adolescent infatuation?’
‘Infatuation?’ Oh, dear—she had affronted his fragile dignity again. ‘You call it that? I offer to marry you—no less! You cannot think me a fortune-hunter—my father is an extremely wealthy man, as you well know. As my wife, you would enjoy the highest status and privilege…’
‘I’m quite happy with the status I have, thank you. And being chief executive of one of the most successful companies in Europe is privilege enough for anyone.’
‘But is no life for a woman!’ he protested heatedly. ‘It is not good that you should be all the time concerning yourself with business affairs—it is not natural. I do not know what your grandfather could have been thinking of, to leave such a responsibility to you.’
‘He was thinking very wisely, as he always did,’ she countered, with brusque disregard for his sensibilities. ‘I was trained to run the Geldard Corporation from my cradle. I enjoy it, and I’m damned good at it. And I intend to go on doing it for the next fifty years, if I live that long! And, what’s more, I have no intention of marrying anyone—least of all you. That you could stoop to kidnapping me…!’
The handsome boy lifted his magnificently developed shoulders in a dismissive shrug, though two betraying spots of colour darkened his cheeks. ‘A little trick…’
‘A little trick? Is that what you call it?’ Those blue eyes flashed with cold fire. ‘You lure me aboard your yacht by the most underhand means; you lock me in…’
‘It was…how you say? An impulse,’ he argued fervently. ‘I had not planned. But I saw you there on your boat, so beautiful, like a golden goddess shimmering in the sunlight. It brought to my head a fever…’
‘Well, you should have taken an aspirin,’ she retorted dampeningly. ‘Now, will you please take me back to Mangrove Bay?’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot do that, mi querida,’ he insisted, his voice throbbingly low. ‘I would treat you with all honour, I swear it. If you would but be sensible, I would make you at once my bride. But if you will persist in this obstinacy, you leave me no choice. Once I have you in my bed, I will make love to you until you have no more will to resist me…’
Georgia decided on a strategic retreat behind a large onyx coffee-table—the yacht was furnished with somewhat flamboyant taste. ‘Listen, César,’ she coaxed, trying to throw the cold water of reason over his theatricals, ‘you really don’t want to marry me. Apart from anything else, I’m nearly six years older than you…’
‘Your age is immaterial to me!’ he protested ardently. ‘Besides, you do not look so old.’
‘Thank you,’ she responded with dry amusement ‘But I don’t imagine your father would be very pleased. I’m sure he would prefer for you to marry some nice, sweet girl of your own age, who would adore you and give you lots and lots of beautiful babies.’
‘My father does not dictate to me,’ he protested sulkily. ‘Besides, how could I even think of marrying my stupid cousin, when it is you I adore?’
Georgia smiled in gentle understanding. ‘So he has got someone lined up for you,’ she mused. ‘You wouldn’t be very wise to defy him, you know. What would you do if he cut you off without a penny?’
‘I would not care!’
‘No?’ She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow in cool enquiry. ‘Even though it would then mean that I would be the one to hold the purse-strings? I don’t think you’d like that very much, César.’
He coloured in anger. ‘It would not be so!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘In my household I would be the master. I would teach you to obey me!’
Her eyes flashed him a look of sardonic humour. ‘Oh, really? At the same time as worshipping at my feet?’
Recognising that he was in danger of coming off worst in the argument, the young man retreated into a display of affronted dignity. ‘I will give you a little longer to consider my offer,’ he declared loftily. ‘I am sure you will come to recognise the wisdom of accepting my proposal—as night-time approaches.’ And, sweeping magnificently out of the state-room, he closed the door behind him—and locked it.
Left alone, Georgia sighed with wry impatience. What a ridiculous situation to find herself in, with that silly boy imagining himself to be in love with her—it would be laughable if it wasn’t such a damned nuisance. Oh, she was quite certain that even in his present temper César would stop short of actually assaulting her, but she really didn’t have time to hang around waiting for him to come to his senses.
However well-trained and discreet her staff, her disappearance—in broad daylight, from the deck of her own yacht in the safety of one of Bermuda’s most exclusive hide-away resorts—was not something that could be hushed up for long. There would be all sorts of speculation, which could have a very destabilising effect on Geldard’s shares—it was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.
Over on the starboard beam, she could see that they would soon be rounding Spanish Point, leaving the island-dotted haven of the Great Sound behind; the powerful yacht would be able to pick up speed as they headed out for open water—across the vast, empty miles of the legendary Bermuda Triangle towards South America. If she was going to escape, it was going to have to be right now.
Most of the windows were sealed units, except for two of the rear ones which served as emergency exits. It was typical of César, she reflected with a trace of wry amusement, that in making his dramatic gesture of locking her in he had forgotten such a critical detail. Slanting a swift glance at the locked door, she knocked up the catch of one of the windows and slipped nimbly out onto the narrow gunwale that ran along the side of the boat
The blue water churning beneath her seemed to be racing by awfully fast, and for a brief moment she felt a little giddy. But she quickly regained her balance and edged her way to the stern, crouching low to avoid being seen from the bridge. If she remembered rightly, there was an inflatable tender at the stern of the yacht, similar to her own—if she could launch that without being seen, she ought to be able to paddle ashore. It would be a risk, of course—she wasn’t sure of the currents—but they couldn’t be much more than a thousand yards from land.
To her relief, the tender was where she had expected it to be. Keeping her fingers crossed that no one would be watching aft, she dragged the small dinghy to the rail and swung it over. No one raised the alarm as it bobbed away in the wake, not much bigger than a truck tyre. Stepping carefully over the rail, she launched herself after it in a long dive that took her well clear of the danger of the yacht’s twin propellors.
She was a strong swimmer—a mile in the morning before breakfast in the pool at her Berkshire home was her regular exercise. Striking out in a powerful breast-stroke, she reached the dinghy in a few minutes. It was no easy task to scramble up into the frail craft but she managed it, and then, using the late afternoon sun to give her an estimate of due south, she began to paddle for the shore.
It was hard to guess how deep the water was here—it was so clear that she could see the myriad schools of tiny fish darting across the sandy bottom. But there was coral, too—she would have to be careful to avoid jagging the bottom of the dinghy on its razor-sharp edges. Kneeling up in the bottom of the dinghy, she could only catch an occasional glimpse of the shore as she crested a wave. It seemed to be getting no nearer, but at least there was no sign of pursuit…
A warning horn blared urgently, and a gleaming white hull sheered past almost above her; the helmsman must have taken expert last-minute avoiding action, slewing the yacht around to avoid a collision, but the churning wake chopped into the flimsy dinghy, tossing it aside like so much flotsam.
The paddle flew out of her hand and she hit the water with an impact that knocked all the breath out of her. Half-dazed, she went under, choking as she fought blindly in the swirling undercurrent, desperate to find the surface. Her lungs were hurting and there was a buzzing sound in her ears…She could feel herself growing heavier, her limbs no longer under her control. She wouldn’t let herself drown…She wouldn’t…
‘Relax, Blondie—I’ve got you.’
A strong arm had slipped around her waist, lifting her to the surface, and she gasped thankfully for air, her head tipping back against a broad, solid shoulder. Exhausted, she could only dimly register that it certainly wasn’t César, nor any of his South American crew, who had come to her rescue. The accent was unmistakably, uncompromisingly Australian.
She closed her eyes in relief, letting him tow her through the water to the side of the yacht. As if from a great distance she heard her rescuer giving orders, and then she was hauled unceremoniously up onto the deck and felt the welcome comfort of a blanket being wrapped around her. And then someone lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her along the deck and into a cabin.
She was lowered onto a deep, well-padded sofa and she let her head fall back with a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured with heartfelt gratitude.
A deep, mocking laugh answered her. ‘Don’t mention it. The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.’
She opened her eyes quickly, regarding her rescuer with some misgiving. He was big, and handsome in a disconcertingly rugged way. His hair, darkened now by the sea, would probably be almost blond, and cut rather longer than convention dictated—at present it curled in damp tendrils over his ears. His eyes were a shade somewhere between brown and hazel, deep-set beneath straight dark brows. And he was wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist.
Her heart gave a thud of alarm; had she escaped from the frying pan only to fall into a very much more dangerous fire? Of course—she tried desperately to rationalise—he had just dragged her out of the water; he would have had to take his wet clothes off…She closed her eyes again swiftly, but the image of that darkly bronzed body, hard-muscled and covered with a smattering of rough, male hair, seemed to have been burned onto her eyelids.
‘Brandy?’ he offered, a sardonic inflection in his voice.
‘Er…No, thank you…’ ‘You’d better drink it.’
Her eyes flew open in angry indignation as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to lift her to a sitting position. A strong whiff of alcohol assailed her nostrils, and as she opened her mouth to protest he deftly tipped the fiery liquid down her throat.
She gasped in shock, choking as she swallowed it. ‘How…dare you?’ she demanded, furious.
‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia on me,’ he taunted in that laconic Australian drawl. “That would rather spoil the game.’
She glared up at him, the heat of the unfamiliar brandy coursing through her veins and doing odd things to the rate of her heartbeat. This was clearly a man who was accustomed to having his every word unquestioningly obeyed; there was an arrogance in that strongly carved face that would make poor César look positively meek.
He lifted one questioning eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong, Blondie? Aren’t I playing it to the right script?’
She hesitated, struggling to get a grip on the situation. She wasn’t accustomed to being treated with such off-hand familiarity. Brought up by her grandfather with the knowledge of the substantial fortune she was to inherit, she had been taught from her cradle to keep any hint of emotion under the strictest control, and the image of chilling reserve she projected was usually enough to keep the world at arm’s length.
‘I…appreciate your rescuing me,’ she managed, her voice stiff with dignity. ‘However, I would prefer it if you didn’t call me Blondie.’
He shrugged those wide shoulders in a gesture of casual unconcern. ‘OK—so what do you want me to call you?’
She slanted him a measured glance from beneath her lashes. He didn’t know who she was. That wasn’t surprising, really—she was usually quite successful in avoiding having her picture in the papers, and even if he had seen it he was unlikely to recognise her with her hair soaking wet and slicked to her head.
Well, that suited her. She had no idea who he was either—she might easily find herself in a far more dangerous position than with César. ‘I…there’s no need for you to call me any-thing, ’ she responded as coolly as she could. ‘If you would just be so kind as to take me back to Mangrove Bay…’
He laughed that lazy, mocking laugh. ‘Don’t put on that haughty act with me,’ he advised drily. ‘You’re not the first pretty mermaid to get herself washed up alongside my boat. Though I have to admit,’ he added, slanting her a look of insolent approval, ‘you’re the best looker of the bunch so far.’
She stared up at him in shocked amazement. ‘You surely don’t believe I did that deliberately?’
‘Either that or you’re plumb crazy,’ he returned, a glint of amusement in those dark, deep-set eyes. ‘You don’t look stupid enough to take a flimsy thing like that out for a pleasure cruise, and it’d be a pretty bizarre way to commit suicide.’
‘I certainly wasn’t trying to commit suicide!’ she protested hotly.
‘Then what were you doing?’
‘I—’ She stopped herself abruptly; she couldn’t tell him the truth without revealing who she was—and worse, revealing details of the awkward episode with César. ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ she countered, injecting several degrees of frost into her voice.
‘No?’ He was laughing at her! ‘You mean any old yacht would have done? Provided it was big enough and swanky enough, of course. Well, I guess that puts me in my place.’
She glanced around, for the first time properly taking stock of her surroundings. The yacht certainly was ‘swanky’, although the style was as uncompromisingly masculine as the owner. The saloon was easily as large as her own. Rich dark mahogany lined the walls, and the huge, comfortable sofa she was lying on was one of four, upholstered in pale cow-hide, surrounding a heavy brass-edged coffee-table. Beyond, she could see a dining area that would easily seat twelve around a large oval table.
‘Who are you?’ she queried, frowning up at him.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ A disturbingly sensual smile was curving that sardonic mouth. ‘Jackson Morgan—at your service. My friends call me Jake.’
Jake Morgan—oh, damn, that was all she needed! Jake Morgan was known as one of the most predatory sharks of the southern hemisphere. His name had first hit the financial pages only about five or six years ago, but in that short time he had earned himself a reputation for gobbling up smaller fry apparently just for the sake of it.
And he was as famous in the tabloids as he was in the serious financial press, she had heard—his reputation with women was deadly. She had been inclined to doubt a good many of the stories about him, knowing how fond the newspapers could be of exaggeration—but now that she had met him she could believe every one.
‘Ah, so the name does mean something to you after all?’ he taunted, his eyes glinting with dark humour. ‘Are those dollar signs I see lighting up those great big beautiful eyes? What were you hoping for? A couple of weeks cruising in the sun and a few pretty diamonds to take home with you afterwards? Or something more? I wonder if you’d be worth it…?’
Before she had time to realise what he was going to do, he had bent his head and his mouth had brushed lightly over hers. She felt the heat, and her lips parted in shock; only once before had anyone ever presumed to kiss her like this—she had been seventeen years old, and he had got her riding crop across his cheek for his insolence.
But this was alarmingly different. As the moist tip of his tongue flickered into the sensitive corners of her lips she felt an odd little shimmer of heat run through her veins. The musky scent of his skin, mingled with the salt tang of the sea, was somehow drugging her senses, making her heart beat so fast that it was difficult to breathe.
She closed her eyes, a strange melting sensation flowing through her as he pinned her back against the warm leather upholstery, yielding helplessly as he plundered the soft sweetness of her mouth in a flagrantly sensual exploration. Maybe it was just the brandy that was making her head float like this…
He lifted his head, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her in quizzical amusement. ‘That’s quite an act, Blondie,’ he commented, a mocking edge in his voice. ‘Shiver, then sizzle—you could make a man catch something far worse than pneumonia.’
Shock turned to coruscating anger, and without thinking about it she swung her hand at his cheek. Her palm sang and he gasped in surprise, touching his fingertips to the scarlet mark she had made. And then his eyes darkened with lethal anger, and with swift ruthlessness he had grasped both her wrists, forcing them down behind her back and pinioning them with one powerful hand.
‘So you like to play rough, do you?’ he grated menacingly. ‘Well, I can play a great deal rougher than you, and I can assure you that you’ll be the one who comes off worst.’
The kiss he inflicted on her was pure punishment, his lips crushing hers apart, his plundering tongue swirling deep into her mouth, asserting his mastery. She struggled wildly but she couldn’t escape—he was far too strong for her and she was only hurting herself. When at last he lifted his head, his mocking laughter inflamed her fury.
‘Let me go!’ she raged fiercely. ‘How dare you treat me like this?’
‘Well, now, isn’t this what you were after, frolicking around my boat?’ he sneered with icy contempt. ‘Why waste time playing coy little games? Like I said, you’re not the first pretty mermaid to try that kind of trick to get herself on board, but you’re the first who’s gone to such bold extremes.’ As he spoke, and his eyes raked coolly down over her body, the blanket had fallen away, and with a sudden stab of horror she realised that her bikini had gone—leaving her completely naked. It had been just a flimsy thing, designed for lounging around in the sun rather than serious swimming, and in her floundering around in the water it must have come unfastened without her even noticing. A deep blush of humiliation suffused her cheeks, and she turned her face away from him in total defeat.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ The harshness was suddenly gone from his voice. With a gentle hand he turned her face back towards him, brushing away a tear that sparkled on her cheek. She gazed up into those fathomless dark eyes, feeling herself once again drowning…
And then abruptly he let her go, rising to his feet and tossing the blanket back over her in a gesture of scornful disdain. ‘OK, Blondie—you get the Oscar for that one. I don’t know what game you’re playing but it’s a new one on me, and until I know the rules you can deal me out’
Still dazed with shock, she wrapped the blanket around herself, curling herself up into a defensive ball on the sofa, warily watching his every move.
‘And spare me the Sarah Bernhardt impersonation,’ he rapped acidly. ‘It won’t wash. Just get your cute little backside through that door and find yourself something to put on—there’s a dressing-gown of mine in the bathroom.’ He jerked his thumb towards a panelled door in the corner of the saloon. ‘Once you’re decent, you can come back in here—and then we’ll play the game by my rules.’
Without waiting to argue, she rolled off the sofa, landing in an undignified heap on the thick-piled carpet. Picking herself up, tripping over the trailing corner of the blanket, she dived through the door he had indicated, closing and locking it behind her. And then she leaned back against it, sliding slowly to the floor, her eyes closed, her whole body shaking in reaction.
Anyone who knew her only as the cool, self-assured chief executive of the huge Geldard Corporation would have been hard-pressed to recognise her as this frightened, bedraggled creature, huddled on the floor, trembling and crying, trapped on a stranger’s yacht—a stranger who had made his intentions absolutely clear.
But then she was the only one who knew how false was the faąde she showed to the world. At twenty-seven years old, with never even the slightest hint of a romantic involvement, it was inevitable, perhaps, that certain myths had grown up around her—indeed, she had deliberately cultivated them as part of her defence. Her eyes could freeze impertinence at twenty paces—few saw the hint of vulnerability in the softness of her delicately drawn mouth.
As sole heir to her grandfather’s substantial fortune, she had always known that any man who showed an interest in her was only trying to get his hands on her money or control of the Geldard empire. And she had learned to recognise the shallow compliments on her looks for what they were. Her blonde colouring and fine skin were well enough, and she would acknowledge that she had a good figure, kept in trim by regular exercise, but the Geldard features which had given her grandfather such an imposing air were really rather too strong for feminine beauty; a firm chin and a faintly patrician nose hinted at an assertiveness that terrified most men of her acquaintance.
And that was the way she liked it. She had never cared to put Grandfather’s teaching to the test—she had her own mother’s example as a constant reminder of the consequences of falling in love. Not that she, Georgia, would ever do anything as foolish as running off with a driving instructor—the ease with which the young man had been willing to be bought off had shown him up in his true colours.
She had grown up with the story of how Grandfather had brought home the jilted bride, chastened—and pregnant. Regrettably, her mother had further disappointed him by producing a mere girl instead of the longed-for grandson to inherit the biscuits-to-brewery empire he was busy building, and her weakness of character had further revealed itself in a steadily worsening drink problem. Georgia remembered her only as a pale wraith, haunting the overheated orangery at the back of the house, her breath always smelling of sherry, terrifying her with tearful attempts to make her sit on her lap. She had died almost unnoticed when Georgia was ten.
Surprisingly, however, Grandfather had taken to his granddaughter from the time she could toddle, and she had grown up to be the apple of his eye. She had inherited his biting intelligence and determination, and he had groomed her to take over the reins of the company as if she had been a boy.
And she had accepted that the privileges she enjoyed had their price, never allowing herself to regret that her wealth set her apart from the romantic pleasures of other young women of her age. Strictly trained to despise the weakness that had destroyed her mother, she was happy with her solitary state—most of the time; it was only sometimes at night, waking from a fitful dream with an aching sense of unfulfilled need, that she would even admit to herself that she was lonely…
But Grandfather would never have approved of her sitting here feeling sorry for herself, she reminded herself crisply—and she hadn’t escaped from César’s clutches only to fall victim to the notorious Jake Morgan! Pulling herself together with an effort of will, she sat up and looked around, taking careful stock of her surroundings.
It had grown dark outside, and sliding to her feet she found the switch that turned on the lights. The soft glow of silk- shaded lamps filled the room, gleaming on the rich, dark mahogany walls. This must be the master state-room—spacious and elegant, it had the same air of being an exclusively male province as the saloon. It was dominated by a huge bed, elevated on a low, carpeted platform and covered with winered silk sheets. What had she got herself into?
Curiosity drew her to explore, opening the doors set into the wood-panelled walls. One revealed a cavernous fitted wardrobe, half-empty—just a couple of beautifully-tailored business suits and hand-made silk shirts, but mostly good quality casual clothes, several pairs of rugged denim jeans and a stack of different coloured T-shirts. Another revealed a small television set and a large hi-fi, and a column of CDs which told her nothing but that his taste in music ran from jazz to hard rock, with a little country and a few unexpected classics thrown in.
The last door opened to reveal a bathroom of hedonistic black marble, complete with a huge, deep sunken bath with gold taps that would have been at home in a Roman potentate’s palace. And gazing back at her from the mirrored wall opposite was her own reflection. She stared at it, strangely disturbed to see herself standing there in such an alien environment, her eyes glittering darkly and her mouth as soft as bruised raspberries, the blanket slipping from her naked shoulders…
‘We’ll play the game by my rules…’ It didn’t take much imagination to guess what he meant by that, she mused, stealing an apprehensive glance back at that big bed. Suddenly a vivid image rose in her mind, of her own creamy-gold skin against those wine-red sheets—overlaid with a deeplybronzed, hard-muscled body…

Quickly she shook her head, alarmed by the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat. She had wasted too much time al- ready—at any minute he might grow impatient, and come in to see why she was taking so long. Stepping over to the window, she uttered a sigh of relief; her luck was holding—from the moonlit contours of the coastline she knew that they were sailing into Mangrove Bay, the exclusive hide-away where her own yacht was moored. It was really no coincidence, of course—naturally Jake Morgan would choose to stay at the best place on the island.
Seeking and finding the window that doubled as emergency exit, she pushed it open. She had nothing on beneath the blanket, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. Anyway, it was dark—with luck, she could get back on board her own yacht without anyone seeing her. Dropping the damp blanket to the floor, she clambered out of the window.
She couldn’t avoid making a splash as she tumbled into the water, but hopefully all the attention of the crew would be on the task of manoeuvring the big boat into a suitable anchoring spot among the others dotted around the bay. Striking swiftly away from the hull, she swam underwater for a short distance as an added precaution, before surfacing and looking around to get her bearings.
It took her only a moment to identify the Geldard Star. All appeared quiet on board—her captain would have waited, consulted with the company’s lawyers before raising a fullscale alarm. The swim-steps were down and she crept up them, keeping low.
Jake Morgan’s boat was no more than two or three hundred yards away, dropping anchor and tying up to a mooring-bouy with all the usual commotion and to-ing and fro-ing of crew—enough to distract the attention of her own look-outs for a crucial moment or two. Like a ghost she slipped across the deck and into the darkened saloon, at last reaching the safety of her own elegant state-room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, sighing with relief.
There had been moments, during the past couple of hours, when she had thought she was in serious trouble. But her grandfather had taught her never to give in, to keep planning her moves—the winners were the ones who really believed they could win, he always said. And she had won; she was back on her own ground, she could get some clothes on and stroll back out on deck, and unless she gave permission no one would even dare question where she had been. It would be as if none of it had happened.
The Geldard Star was one of the biggest boats in the bay, but Jake Morgan’s boat was even bigger; from her cabin she could see straight across to it. A solitary figure stood on the fore-deck, looking out over the dark waters of the sound towards the open channel between Spanish Point and Maria Hill—as if looking for mermaids.
A small shiver of heat ran down her spine as she remembered those glittering dark eyes, sweeping down over her naked body with such mocking contempt. No, it couldn’t quite be as if those past few hours had never happened, she reflected uneasily; she wasn’t going to be able to forget those kisses.
Absently she touched her fingertips to her lips, feeling still the warm softness that had melted them so sweetly. No, she wasn’t going to be able to forget.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_0fad0276-511a-53f6-8a6e-7e75cc45055c)
THE office of the chief executive of the Geldard Corporation was on the top floor of Geldard House, one of the tallest blocks in the City, with a spectacular view over London—from the silver ribbon of the Thames almost at its feet to the distant blue-grey hills of Hertfordshire, away beyond its northern suburbs.
Georgia could vividly recall the first time she had come up here with her grandfather, when the building had still been a concrete shell. Stomping around in his yellow hardhat, doling out orders right and left to the builders, he had insisted on walking almost to the edge of the open floor—the point where she was standing now—though then there had been no glass in place and the wind had been whistling through like a hurricane.
But old George Geldard had cared for nothing, not even the forces of nature—and certainly not for the fact that the costs of the building were spiralling while the prospects of letting space in it were tumbling. ‘Hold your nerve,’ he had used to say whenever she’d queried the wisdom of it. ‘Keep planning your moves. If you believe you can win, you will win.’
He had lived just long enough to see it completed—the pinnacle of his empire and very nearly its ruin. To finance it he had been forced to float a new share issue, even though it had meant losing overall control of the company; he had planned it to be only a short-term measure, until he could afford to buy back enough shares to hold a majority once again. She had been working to achieve that ever since.
The task would have been easier if it hadn’t been for the constant, bitter rivalry between her two uncles; it was ironic that in his disappointment at her birth her grandfather had settled blocks of shares on his own nephew and his wife’s, believing the management of the company would one day have to pass into their hands—they were so busy fighting each other, they couldn’t have managed a prayer meeting in a nunnery.
It had largely been their inability to agree on a compromise candidate that had enabled her to win the boardroom battle to be elected chief executive—in spite of the Old Man’s wishes, it had been no foregone conclusion. And in the three years since then she had had to fight every inch of the way to prove to the sceptics—particularly within the more conservative institutional holdings—that she was neither too young, nor the wrong gender, to shoulder such a substantial responsibility.
She knew that there were many who were watching and waiting for her to make a mistake. But she had worked damned hard, and at last she was beginning to feel that she was respected in her own right, not just as the Old Man’s granddaughter. It amused her when she heard herself described as a chip off the old block—even-the highest accolade—as George Geldard the Second.
Of course, the price of her success had been high—a single-minded ambition that could permit nothing to distract her. But it was a price she had always been willing to pay; she had every reason to be happy with her life—she had everything that money could buy. It would just be greedy to ask for anything more…
A discreet tap at the door brought her out of her reverie, and she moved back to her desk. ‘Come in.’ ‘Georgia? Sorry to interrupt—I hope you weren’t busy?’ Bernard Harrison had been the company secretary for almost fifteen years; loyal and dependable, he was one of the few people she felt she could trust. She smiled at him warmly. ‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I was just daydreaming, I’m afraid.’
He frowned, studying her in some concern. ‘That’s not like you. But you do look tired, you know—you ought to take a holiday.’
‘I had a holiday in February,’ she reminded him with a touch of asperity.
‘Yes-but that was almost three months ago,’ he countered, with the bluntness of one who could remind her what she had looked like in a gym-slip, with her hair in bunches. ‘And, to be honest, it didn’t look as if it did you a great deal of good. I know you don’t want to tell me what happened that last afternoon—’
‘Nothing happened,’ she returned with uncharacteristic impatience. ‘Heavens, I was only gone for a couple of hours—anyone would think I’d been missing for a week! I just went for a walk, that’s all.’
‘Without telling anyone where you were going…’
‘So I was irresponsible for one afternoon! Good heavens, I was on holiday—I felt like being off the leash for a while,
just being like any other holidaymaker, strolling around without anyone knowing who I was…Anyway, what was it you wanted, Bernard?’ she added, quickly changing the subject before he could probe any more.
‘You asked me to try to find out a little about this holding company that’s been buying up our shares,’ he reminded her, laying a slim file on the desk; the label, neatly printed in his own square hand, proclaimed “Falcon Holdings”. ‘Not much success, I’m afraid—it’s owned by a company in New York, which in turn is owned by a private trust registered in the Bahamas.’
Georgia sighed, picking up the file. ‘I was afraid of that,’ she mused wryly. ‘I suppose there’s no way of finding out who controls the trust?’
Bernard shook his head. ‘I’ve tried, but it’s like banging your head against a brick wall when you come up against their rules of banking secrecy.’
‘Ah, well…Thank you, Bernard—you did your best. We’ll just have to watch things very carefully. If there is a bid, do you think we’ll be able to fight it off?’
‘I would hope so,’ he assured her soberly. ‘I think we’d be able to keep most of the private shareholders with us. It’s the institutions I’d be concerned about—if the offer was high enough, they’d have to think very seriously about their own sharedholders’ interests.’
Georgia clenched her fist. ‘I’ll fight it, Bernard,’ she declared. ‘Every inch—they’ll find I won’t be a walkover.’
‘No one would expect anything else from you—the way you’ve run this company for the past three years proves that. Incidentally,’ he added on a note of diffidence, ‘this may be no more than a coincidence—but on the other hand…?’
He put a copy of one of the more sensationalist tabloid newspapers down on the desk in front of her. She glanced up at him in amused surprise, and then her heart gave a sudden thud as she recognised the man in the front-page picture beneath the blazoned headline, LUCKY DIGGER.
Only the iron self-control instilled by her grandfather enabled her to conceal her reaction.
Australian business tycoon Jake Morgan arrived in Britain last week, and already he’s got two new women in his life—stunning dark-haired supermodel girlfriend Sheena Smith, and winning three-year-old racehorse Blondie…
Blondie…?
Even in the black and white newsprint there was an unmistakable air of arrogance in the set of those wide shoulders, a challenging glint in those deep-set eyes. He’d been here a week, the story said—but it didn’t say why he’d come or how long he was planning to stay. She picked up the Falcon Holdings file in her other hand, eyeing it speculatively.
‘Yes, you…could be right, Bernard,’ she managed, somehow keeping her voice steady. ‘Well spotted.’
Had he found out who she was? It had probably been inevitable—though unlike him she sought to avoid personal publicity as much as possible. Newspaper editors seemed to be fascinated by the fact that a female—particulary a young blonde female—was running such a substantial company, and couldn’t resist using a photograph of her whenever they ran a story about Geldard’s. But she had hoped that he might not recognise her—after all, she had been soaking wet at the time they had met.
Well, if he thought he would be able to use that incident to blackmail her in some way, he would be disappointed, she vowed resolutely. No one knew about it, and she would simply deny that it had ever happened.

The May Day Ball in aid of the Geldard Foundation was one of the most glittering events of the social calendar. The foundation had been another of her grandfather’s grand gestures, set up to support research into heart disease—unfortunately he had stubbornly refused to listen himself to the advice available, dismissing all his doctor’s pleas to give up his brandy and cigars.
The grand ballroom of one of London’s top hotels was the venue for the occasion, where two hundred and fifty of the cream of society could dine and dance in elegant style into the small hours of the morning while being parted from as much money as possible in the name of a good cause.
Georgia cast a last anxious glance over the setting as the first of the Bentleys and Rolls Royces began to disgorge their elegant occupants outside the imposing entrance. It was as near perfect as six long months of hard work by the committee—and several days by the staff of the hotel—could make it. Long white-clothed tables, awash with silver and crystal, sparkled beneath the massive chandeliers that swung from the lofty ceiling, and the wide expanse of parquet dance-floor gleamed with polish.
It had occurred to her more than once that it would probably be a great deal easier to call the whole thing off and simply write to people asking for a financial contribution, instead of going to these lengths to prise open their wallets. But she was aware that her grandfather had had a more cynical motive in mind—it did the company a great deal of good commercially to be associated with such a prestigious social event.
‘Georgie, darling! What a fabulous dress! And the Geldard diamonds too, I see. So that’s the reason why some of these “waiters” have such magnificent shoulders!’
Georgia turned, smiling in welcome for her old schoolfriend, now married into the minor echelons of the aristocracy. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she responded lightly. ‘The insurance company insisted on it I’d really rather leave the damned things in the vault and wear paste.’
‘Oh no, surely not,’ Margot protested, shocked. ‘They’re so beautiful—if they were mine, I’d wear them all the time. Even to bed! Especially if one of those gorgeous hunks had to come along to keep an eye on them!’ she added outrageously, slanting a flirtatious eye over one of the stonefaced security-guards who had been assigned to protect the priceless gems around Georgia’s throat, his bulk not too discreetly concealed beneath the white dinner jacket of a waiter.
Georgia shook her head, laughing. ‘Margot, you’re impossible! You’re supposed to be a respectable married woman these days.’
‘Me? Respectable?’ her friend gurgled. ‘Not likely. Oh, Charles is a dear, but he’s just a husband, after all. But what about you?’ she added, frowning slightly as she held Georgia at arm’s length and subjected her to a critical survey. ‘How do you keep your figure? I’ll swear you’re even slimmer than the last time I saw you, and yet you eat like a horse!’
‘Oh, I…get a lot of exercise,’ Georgia explained, waving one beautifully manicured hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘And I…had a slight bout of flu or something earlier this year.’
‘Flu, huh?’ Margot’s searching eyes were watching her face for the slightest betraying flicker. ‘Not a man, then?’
‘Of course not!’ Georgia concealed a stab of alarm at her friend’s shrewd guess. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’
‘It’s usually the only way I ever get to lose any weight,’ Margot confessed ruefully. ‘Excitement while I’m falling in love, and pining when it’s all over! Though now I’m married I suppose I shall have to forego all that sort of fun.’
‘It doesn’t sound much like fun to me,’ Georgia returned drily.
Margot chuckled. ‘Ah, you ought to try it. In fact, it’s about time you did—it would do you good. Your grandfather’s got a lot to answer for, you know—I suppose he was only trying to do what he thought was best for you, but he ended up convincing you that no man could be interested in you for any other reason than your money.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margot,’ Georgia protested, aware of a slight waver in her voice. ‘Oh, you’ll have to excuse me—I see some more guests arriving. I’d better go and do my duty.’ And she slipped away before her friend could ask any more probing questions.
As she crossed the foyer she caught a fleeting glimpse of her own reflection in the large gilded mirror on the wall. Was Margot right? Had her grandfather made her too suspicious? The image that looked back at her seemed to mock her. Poor little rich girl, it seemed to say—you’ve got everything, and yet you’ve got nothing.
Her hairdresser had swept up her hair in an elegant style, and her slim-fitting dress of silver-white satin had a pure simplicity of line, cut low across the honey-smooth curve of her breasts, hugging her slender figure right down to her ankles—all the better to show off the fabulous Geldard diamonds.
She didn’t actually like them very much; they were rather too ostentatious for her taste—a heavy collar of sparkling white gems, set in gold, with matching drops swinging from her small ears. They were reputed to be part of the Russian Crown Jewels, though Georgia was inclined to doubt the truth of that. Her grandfather had bought them for her grandmother as a silver wedding present; that lady, a plain Yorkshirewoman, had thought it a terrible waste of money, and Georgia heartily agreed with her—most of the time they were locked up in the vaults at the bank.
But at least while she wore them no one would doubt that the Geldard fortune was as healthy as ever. And if she was going to have to fight a hostile takeover bid, it was vital to keep up appearances.

‘Great party, Georgie! Just about everyone’s here!’
Georgia smiled, discreetly weaving her partner out of a potential collision; Robin Rustrom-Smith was an excellent dancer when he was sober, but at the moment he wasn’t. ‘Yes, it’s going very well,’ she agreed, glancing around the crowded room with satisfaction.
“Everyone” was indeed there—aristocrats rubbing shoulders with film stars and captains of industry, all willing to abandon their dignity to compete fiercely in a game of bingo to win trinkets that had cost less than they’d spend on breakfast, or to scrabble for the prize balloons. A swift glance at the slim Cartier watch on her wrist told her that it was almost midnight; she could at last begin to relax in the knowledge that the ball had raised a great deal of money for the foundation…
Suddenly she stiffened as a tall figure near the door caught her eye. It wasn’t the first time this had happened—several times over the past three months she had spotted a man of a certain height and build, with dark blond hair curling over his collar at the back, and her heart had tripped over itself until inevitably a second look confirmed that it was a complete stranger.
But this time she didn’t need a second look; there was no mistaking the arrogant set of those wide shoulders, the tilt of his head as he surveyed the room. The formal dinner jacket he was wearing was beautifully cut, but the vivid memory that flashed into her mind was of his bare chest, hard-muscled and bronzed by the sun, scattered with rough, curling, male hair…
Her heart fluttering in panic, she nudged Robin across to the far side of the dance-floor—fortunately his brain was rather too fuddled by the excellent champagne that had been flowing generously all evening for him to notice anything amiss. Hidden by the crowd of dancers, she watched warily, like a small mouse hiding in the long grass, hoping the farmyard cat wouldn’t notice she was there.
She had known that there was a risk that she would run into him if he stayed in England for any length of time. But what was he doing here tonight? His name wasn’t on the guest-list; and besides, he had only just arrived—if he had been there at dinner, she would certainly have seen him. Was it just an unlucky chance, or had he come looking for her?
Waltzing around the crowded dance-floor, she was barely aware of the music or of the glittering gathering enjoying themselves with an increasing degree of boisterousness beneath the sparkling chandeliers high above their heads, pastel-coloured balloons drifting around their feet, curling lengths of streamer decorating their hair and shoulders.
As the dance came to an end she was surrounded at once by a throng of admirers, clamouring for the chance of being next to lead her round the floor.
‘My turn, Georgie.’
‘Georgie, you promised me.’
‘Pardon the intrusion from the far-flung Colonies, boys, but I think this is my dance.’
It was that lazy, mocking drawl she had tried so hard to forget. To Georgia’s disgust, not one of the other claimants to her hand seemed willing to challenge the newcomer; groaning in protest, they conceded defeat, standing aside to let him step in. He held out one imperious hand, and she could do nothing but put hers in it and let him draw her out onto the dance-floor and into his arms.
He danced well, for a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on horseback, herding half a million sheep across the outback, she reflected with a touch of asperity. And she couldn’t deny that the elegant cut of a formal dinner jacket suited him remarkably well. But the memory of the last time he had held her in his arms was swirling in her brain, and all her usual cool poise had deserted her, leaving her feeling as gauche as a schoolgirl.
His soft laughter mocked her. ‘Well, good evening, Blondie. This is a pleasant surprise.’
She lifted her eyes to stare up at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded raggedly.
‘I bribed my way in,’ he admitted without shame. ‘I’m staying here at the hotel, and I was passing across the hall when I happened to look in—and who should I see but my little mermaid? So I collared one of those fearsome old dragons who always seem to run these things, and gave her a nice fat cheque to let me in. I was hoping I might run into you while I was in London, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be here.’ His voice took on a note of sardonic amusement. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you…with your clothes on.’
She returned him a look of cool dignity which she hoped would override the betraying hint of pink in her cheeks. ‘If you’re going to make coarse remarks like that, I shall walk off the dance-floor.’
He chuckled with laughter, the arm around her waist tightening just a fraction, as if to warn her not to try it. ‘I see you got your diamonds,’ he remarked, a hard edge in his voice. ‘Quite a set—the real thing too. You have been busy since the last time we met. Found yourself some rich fool to marry, did you? Who is it? That pasty-faced creep you were dancing with when I came in?’
‘Robin isn’t a creep!’ she protested hotly.
‘He isn’t man enough for you.’ He had drawn her closer, his warm breath stirring her hair, his hand sliding slowly down the length of her spine to mould intimately over the smooth curve of her derrière. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish, when you feel his scrawny hands on your smooth, satin skin, for a real lover?’ he taunted provocatively. ‘One whose touch would be warm and gentle on your soft, naked body—who would caress those ripe, firm, beautiful breasts with tenderness and who would make love to you all night, in every way you could possibly imagine…?’
Georgia drew in a sharp breath, shocked not so much by his words as by her own reaction to them; breathing the musky, male scent of him was conjuring a memory of that brief encounter on his yacht, a memory so vivid that she felt as if she was once again naked in his arms, her mouth bruised by his kisses, her creamy smooth skin flushed beneath that insolent dark gaze.
It took a considerable effort of will to regather the scattered threads of her composure. But she couldn’t let herself weaken—she knew only too well how swiftly he could take advantage of any lowering of her resistance. From beneath her lashes, she studied him warily. It seemed that he still didn’t know who she was. It was possible, of course—he had been here no more than a few minutes, and he might not have bothered to ask anyone her name.
Or, on the other hand, he could be playing some kind of cruel game with her. If he was the mysterious figure behind the holding company that was buying up Geldard shares, she was quite sure he would try to use their previous meeting to gain an unfair advantage—there was no mistaking the hint of ruthlessness about that hard mouth.
Either way, she had to keep her nerve, keep planning her moves. And, for the moment, it seemed that the best tactic was to play the confident, sexually assured siren he had taken her for. It was hardly a role that came naturally to her, but all she had to do was copy Margot’s style—it couldn’t be that difficult.
Slanting him a flirtatious smile, she lifted her eyes to his. ‘I…didn’t know you were planning to come to England,’ she remarked carefully. ‘You didn’t mention it.’
Only the slightest flicker of those dark eyes registered his surprise at her change of manner. ‘Well, now, as I recall we didn’t get too much time to talk about anything before you disappeared from my life,’ he responded on a note of mocking humour. ‘But since the only thing I knew about you was that you were English—at least I figured that from your accent—it seemed like the best way to find you was to come to London.’
Heavens, he must think she was stupid! She laughed lightly, hiding her annoyance behind a gloss of sophisticated amusement. ‘Really? You didn’t exactly rush, though—it’s been nearly three months.’
‘Ah, well…Unfortunately there were one or two business matters that forced me to go back to Australia first,’ he explained. ‘But I came as soon as I could.’
She shook her head, mimicking Margot’s best arch mannerisms. ‘No, really—what are you doing here?’ she persisted. ‘Do you have business interests in England?’
‘A few,’ he conceded, those enigmatic dark eyes giving nothing away. ‘I’m just looking around for anything that catches my eye. I’ve already picked up a nice little filly—as a matter of fact I named her Blondie, after you.’
Georgia’s jaw was aching with the effort of maintaining her smile. ‘So I saw in the paper. Am I supposed to be flattered?’
‘I like the name,’ he countered genially. ‘And I don’t know your real one.’
She laughed the implied question aside. ‘And where’s your other “filly” tonight?’ she enquired, trying for an air of worldly unconcern. ‘Not with you?’
‘You mean Sheena? No, she’s working—Paris or Rome or somewhere. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, just…mildly curious,’ she responded, not quite able to keep her voice as even as she would have liked.
‘Not jealous, by any chance, are you?’ he taunted.
‘Jealous? Of course not.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders in a gesture of unconcern. ‘I have no reason to be jealous.’
‘No, you don’t,’ he murmured, drawing her closer again. ‘She’s almost as beautiful as you, but she doesn’t kiss like you. You tasted like honey and melted in my arms like a dream…’
‘I was…half-drowned,’ she choked out, her mask abruptly slipping.
‘So you were,’ he conceded softly, mockingly. ‘But you’re not half-drowned now.’
With a small stab of alarm she realised that he had waltzed her out through the open French windows at the far end of the dance-floor into a cool marble atrium, where a green cast-iron fountain played amid a riot of tropical palms beneath a high glass-domed ceiling. Before she could protest, he had drawn her back into the shadows behind one of the Doric columns that ran around the outer rim, and his mouth had claimed hers in a kiss that she didn’t know how to resist.
His lips moved over hers, warm and sensuous, and with a soft sigh she surrendered to their sweet persuasion, granting him admission to the moist, secret depths he sought. The musky male scent of his skin was drugging her mind, stirring an instinctive response that was far beyond the reach of reason.
She was curving herself into his demanding embrace, her tender breasts crushed against the hard wall of his chest, her spine melting in the heat that was swirling in her blood. His sensuous tongue coiled around hers as his hands moulded intimately over the soft curves of her body with that warm, tender touch he had promised…
‘Why did you disappear like that?’ he breathed, the husky timbre of his voice caressing her. ‘I thought I’d never see you again. If it hadn’t been for one very damp blanket on the floor by the open window I might have thought you were a figment of my dreams. And now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to let you go—I want to make love to you…’
Abruptly his words brought her back to reality. What in hell was she doing, letting him kiss her again when she knew that he was a threat to everything she had worked for—everything her grandfather had worked for? Summoning all her strength, she forced her hands between them, struggling to push him away.
‘Damn that bloodless creep and his diamonds,’ he cursed, misunderstanding her reaction. ‘I can buy you diamonds—all the diamonds you want. Come upstairs to my suite and let me remind you what it’s like to be touched by hands that still have some warmth in them…’
‘Stop it—let me go…’ she begged, her voice rising in panic. ‘Leave me alone…’
‘It’s all right, Miss Geldard, we’ve got him!’
As Georgia blinked in bewilderment a sixteen-stone gorilla in a white dinner jacket caught Jake from behind in a massive bear-hug, dragging him off her as another swung a punch at his head. With the instincts of a street-fighter he ducked, the blow hitting the first gorilla square on the jaw as Jake barged the second in a low rugby tackle, bringing him down in a sprawling heap—and the world erupted in a mêlée of flying fists and the exploding flashbulbs of Press cameras.
‘Stop it! You’ve made a mistake!’ she cried, wishing she could vanish through the floor as the atrium filled with curious guests, coming out to stare.
Slowly the struggling mass on the floor resolved itself into three bruised and bloodied men, who drew cautiously apart and rose to their feet, eyeing each other with considerable hostility and suspicion. Jake shook his head, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab gingerly at a trickle of blood on his lip.
‘Would somebody mind telling me what in hell’s going on?’ he demanded, looking from his assailants to Georgia and back again.
She drew in a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m…sorry,’ she managed, conscious of the flaming heat in her cheeks. ‘These men are from the security firm responsible for protecting my diamonds.’
‘We thought you was trying to pinch ‘em,’ the first gorilla supplied. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Geldard—we was watching you dancing and everything looked kosher. Then the next minute you was missing, and when we got out here it looked like you was…having a bit of bother. I…suppose we jumped to the wrong conclusion,’ he added sheepishly. ‘No hard feelings, mate?’ he added to Jake. ‘We was just doing our job.’
Jake grinned, accepting the massive hand that was being held out to him. ‘No hard feelings,’ he conceded, the glint of amusement in his half-closed eye suggesting to Georgia that he had quite enjoyed the scrap.
‘You put up a damned good show,’ the other gorilla admitted with wry admiration. ‘If you’re ever looking for a job, we could use you on the firm.’
‘Thank you,’ Jake responded, shaking his hand solemnly. ‘I hope I won’t ever need to be, but if I am I’ll remember that.’
The flashbulbs exploded again, to catch the moment. ‘Miss Geldard, what are the diamonds worth?’ one of the photographers called out, delighted with this unexpected bonus on an evening when they had anticipated nothing more than deadly dull society snaps.
With a swift step, Jake interposed himself between her and the cameras. ‘I think you have enough pictures,’ he asserted grimly. ‘Miss Geldard is tired.’
There was a murmur of protest, but no one seemed inclined to argue with him. With some reluctance, the crowd and the photographers drifted slowly back to the ballroom. The security guards were the last to go, leaving them alone.
Georgia lifted her hand to her hair, trying in vain to tuck back the strands that were slipping from the elegant arrangement her hairdresser had created. Nervously she flicked a glance up at Jake, who was leaning one wide shoulder against the stone pillar beside them, easing his grazed knuckles.
‘Well, Miss Geldard,’ he remarked, adding a sardonic emphasis to her name. ‘I suppose you could say that we’ve now been formally introduced—in a manner of speaking.’
She lowered her lashes, her cheeks flushing faintly pink. ‘Yes, well…I’m very sorry for the…misunderstanding…’
He shouted with laughter. ‘Well, that’s an understatement! There was I, thinking you’d found yourself a nice wealthy sugar-daddy, and what do you know? Turns out you’re a little Croesus in your own right!’ He lifted the heavy diamond collar around her throat on one finger, regarding it with the expert eye of one who knew his gemstones. ‘Very nice too—and worth a cool half a million, at least. No wonder you need bodyguards.’
‘Quite.’ With an effort of will, she lifted her eyes to meet his, all her icy dignity restored. ‘However, although there’s no “bloodless creep” on the scene, I’m afraid I must regretfully decline your charming invitation to go upstairs to your suite. I have no taste for casual one-night stands.’
He laughed without humour. ‘That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’
‘Oh? And what did you have in mind?’
He regarded her for a moment in quizzical assessment, and then he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think this is quite the right moment to explain,’ he responded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’
She hesitated, drawing in a long, steadying breath. ‘I don’t think this is quite the right moment to explain,’ she countered crisply. ‘I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with the security people—I hope your injuries aren’t serious?’
‘I’ll live,’ he returned, an inflection of sardonic humour in his voice as he cautiously felt his swollen eye. ‘Ow! Those guys can sure pack a wallop!’
‘I’ll ask the kitchen to send you up a raw steak.’
‘You could try kissing it better…’ he taunted, leaning his hands against the wall on each side of her shoulders to trap her between his arms.
Her blue eyes flashed him a frost warning, and she ducked neatly under his arm. ‘I’ll ask the kitchen to send you up a raw steak,’ she reiterated dampeningly as she turned him an aloof shoulder and walked back to the ballroom.
He chuckled with wry amusement. ‘You know, you should always wear diamonds,’ he remarked in lazy mockery. ‘They go with your eyes.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_6913c26c-1807-523c-aac9-49da3e409b7c)
‘DECENT shiner you’ve got there, old man.’
lake squinted out of his good eye, smiling wryly as the pale young man, whom he recognised as the one he had mistaken for Georgia’s rich sugar-daddy, came over to join him, leaning against the bonnet of the Range Rover. ‘You should see the other guy.’
Robin Rustrom-Smith chuckled. ‘I had a ringside seat It’s all over the papers, you know. Our Sweet Georgia is not going to be best pleased with you—doesn’t like that sort of publicity.’
Jake shrugged his wide shoulders in a dismissive gesture, holding his binoculars gingerly to his eyes to watch the string of horses galloping across the soft Lambourn turf. ‘How was I supposed to know who she was? She never told me her name.’
‘Ah, so that’s why you were so reckless. You got off lightly, you know—the last chap who tried it on with her still bears the scars.’
‘You don’t say,’ Jake drawled with laconic humour.
‘No, I’m serious. Took her horsewhip to him—lovely aim, straight across the cheek. Ten years ago, that was—no one else has dared risk it once.’
Jake lowered his binoculars, turning to stare at his genial informant in frank astonishment. ‘You mean…no one?’ he queried. ‘No one’s even…? But she’d have been…what, sixteen?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Jake laughed. ‘You’re kidding me. A good-looking broad like that? She must have ‘em queuing in the aisles!’
Robin shook his head. ‘If there’d been any action, I’d have known about it—m’sister Margot’s one of her best friends, and you know what women are for talking about that sort of thing. Oh, I agree she’s a great girl, but when it comes to trying it on with her…To tell you the truth, even the thought of it scares me into the middle of next week—and I’ve known her since we were children.’
‘So you mean she’s still…?’
Robin nodded in cheerful confirmation. ‘Of course, it was the Old Man’s fault—her grandfather. The tight-fisted old goat was always convinced that anyone who looked twice at her was after his money, so he all but locked her up in a chastity belt and threw away the key. Siberia, we used to call her at school—couldn’t warm her up with a blowtorch.’
‘Well, well…’ Jake lifted his binoculars again. ‘Well, well, well…’ That was certainly no longer true—as he had every reason to know. Or was that the sort of game she played? He had met the kind before, promising everything and then refusing to deliver until they had got whatever it was they wanted—usually a ring on their finger and a mealticket for life.
Not that the frostbitten Miss Geldard had any need of a meal ticket—she could afford to buy not only her own lunch, but the whole damned restaurant if she chose. Nor did she need to resort to those sort of tactics to get herself a husband, if that was what she wanted—with one snap of her fingers she could have half the available men this side of the Rockies queuing up for her hand.
So what was it? Some kind of power trip? Was that what turned her on? Didn’t she have enough power as chief executive of her family firm? But then he had met a lot of men to whom power was like a drug—the more of it they had, the more they needed. Why shouldn’t some women be like that? And in her position she must have to fight her way in a man’s world every day of her working life—what better way to even the score than by hitting back below the belt, as it were…?
Damn, he never had been able to resist a challenge—especially one with such a prize at the end of it! The thought of teaching Miss Geldard the danger of playing power games with the big boys, and at the same time disproving his new acquaintance’s blowtorch theory, was tempting enough to make his mouth water. Ice would never have melted more sweetly into honey…!
A third off-roader pulled up in the field, the driver climbing out and strolling over to join them, calling a casual greeting. Jake vaguely recalled having met him before—and not liking him much. He had wondered then what had caused the faint white scar down his right cheek.
‘Nice looking filly you’ve got there,’ the newcomer remarked, studying the horses in training through his own binoculars. ‘I was after her myself.’
‘Were you?’ Jake smiled grimly, the amusing irony of the remark not lost on him.
Robin chuckled softly to himself. ‘You’d best be careful, Nige,’ he put in, with the air of one feeding fuel to a fire. ‘Looks like he’s making a habit of picking up fillies you were interested in.’
The Honourable Nigel Woodvine cast his old schoolfriend a withering look down his aristocratic nose.
‘I’ve just been telling him about our Georgie,’ Robin supplied. ‘He doesn’t seem to believe me.’
Nigel turned his cool survey on Jake, letting his lip curl into a slight sneer. ‘Is that so?’ he queried, carefully calculating a degree of disdain that would fall just short of provoking any serious danger from those hard fists—he too had been present at the Geldard Foundation May Day Ball. ‘You think you can do better than the rest of us, then?’
Jake shrugged, returning the contempt. ‘Could be.’
Nigel laughed unpleasantly. ‘I doubt it. From what I gather, you’ve barely made it to first base. Granted, that’s a little further than most people have got to with the damned frigid bitch—but you won’t get her into bed.’
Jake examined his grazed hand, flexing the fingers contemplatively, wondering how the knuckles would stand up to another close encounter with hard bone. ‘You don’t reckon?’ he mused, deceptively quiet.
Nigel lifted his binoculars, coolly watching the string of horses as they turned for home. ‘No, I don’t,’ he confirmed. ‘You putting that filly in for the Geldard Cup at Ascot in September?’
‘I expect so.’
‘I’ll tell you what—I’ll make a bet with you. My bay—the one leading the string there—against your filly says you can’t get her into bed before the race.’ He lowered his binoculars, his narrow eyes glinting. ‘What do you say?’
Robin drew in a sharp breath. ‘Hey, Nige…!’ he protested, appalled. ‘I mean, come on! You can’t make a bet like that!’
‘Can’t I?’ Again he gave that unpleasant laugh. ‘Maybe our Australian friend doesn’t think he can take up the challenge?’
Jake held his anger carefully in check; sometimes there were better ways of dealing with contemptible jerks like this over-bred Englishman than using your fists. Was he really considering accepting such a dumb bet? He’d never done anything like it in his life—even in his crass adoles- cence he wouldn’t have dreamed of it. But maybe the stiffnecked Miss Geldard had it coming to her.
He lifted his own binoculars again, studying the elegant bay at the head of the string. ‘A bit showy for my taste, but I wouldn’t mind having her,’ he drawled with mocking self-assurance. ‘You’re on.’

‘Another red rose, Georgia.’
‘Thank you, Janet. Throw it in the bin like the others, please.’
‘Oh, but…It seems such a shame!’ her secretary protested. ‘He called three times yesterday, too.’
‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who won’t take no for an answer,’ Georgia responded on a note of crisp dismissal. ‘I’m leaving for my lunch appointment now, Janet. And if Mr Morgan rings again, the answer is still the same—no, I will not have lunch with him, nor dinner with him, nor will I go to the theatre or anywhere else with him.’
‘Yes, Georgia,’ Janet conceded with a wistful little sigh. Normally briskly efficient, there was a small, romantic corner in her soul that was highly susceptible to the roughhewn charm of the big Australian who had been pursuing her hard-hearted boss with such determination for the past couple of weeks.
Georgia smiled grimly, and swung her handbag onto her shoulder. ‘I have a meeting with Bernard at two-thirty, so I’ll be back by two-fifteen. And I’ll need the production figures for the Redford Road bakery by tonight—I have to write a briefing paper for next week’s board meeting.’
Her secretary nodded, making a note. ‘Do you want the figures for the past three years?’
‘Better make it the past five. See you later, Janet.’ She swept from the office, studiously ignoring the single, per- feet red rose in its cellophane wrapper lying on Janet’s desk. She had more than enough to worry about, without Jake Morgan pestering her. The mysterious Falcon Holdings was steadily buying up more of her shares; they had almost fifteen percent now—another fifteen and they would have to announce a formal bid. She had already decided to start discreetly liquidating some of her assets, ready to fight it.
And now, just when she didn’t need it, she had been informed that one of the companies that owned a small but potentially important block of Geldard’s shares had itself been taken over. Apparently it had been a friendly takeover, providing a rescue package that would save them from the hands of the receivers—which was fortunate for them. But it left her with a worrying question mark—would the new owners support her or not?
The executive lift took her down smoothly and swiftly to the basement, where her chauffeur was waiting with her ice-blue Rolls Royce to transport her to the restaurant where she was meeting a representative from the new owners of Linepaq to discuss their continuing association with Geldard’s.
‘Morning, Miss Geldard,’ Maurice greeted her, opening the rear door.
‘Good morning, Maurice. What’s the traffic like?’
‘Not too bad, miss. Shouldn’t take us more than ten or fifteen minutes.’
‘Thank you, Maurice.’ She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist as she settled on the smooth Connolly hide rear seat and fastened her seat belt. She would be a little early; good—that suited her. She would have time to settle herself and be in control before her guest arrived.
As Maurice eased the car up the ramp and out into the May sunshine she glanced at the file on the seat beside her. She was meeting a Mr Watson, the financial director, probably a grey man, full of figures, she speculated wryly—what a waste of a sunny afternoon. Around the Tower of London the tourists were enjoying the early taste of summer, sitting on the grassy bank beneath the high white wall, licking melting ice-cream cones—and she had to have lunch with some boring accountant.
Laughing at herself, she shook her head. What was wrong with her lately? It wasn’t like her to be discontented with her lot—she knew that she was very privileged. It was just…sometimes she envied people whose lives were a little simpler. But then they probably envied her, she reminded herself crisply—gliding by in her gleaming Rolls, bound for lunch at one of London’s most exclusive eatinghouses.
Le Périgourdin was a charming little restaurant, in a quiet street close to Covent Garden. By night it was a popular dining place for theatregoers, but by day it was also a favourite spot for business lunchers like herself. As Maurice dropped her at the door she reminded herself of another advantage of the privileges she enjoyed—she didn’t have to face the impossible task of finding a parking space.
The head waiter knew her well, and came at once to greet her as she stepped through the door. The atmosphere was Provençal, with whitewashed walls, dark rustic beams and rush matting on the floor. At the back was a large whitewalled conservatory, massed with ferns and ivies, opening onto a tiny patio where in summer the most favoured diners could always expect a seat.
It was there that Henri led her, settling her at a corner table with many compliments that made her laugh. ‘Henri, you’re impossible! You’re making me blush.’
‘But you look so beautiful when you blush,’ he declared broadly.
‘Henri, I have a very dull lunch with a very dull accountant, and I have to concentrate,’ she pleaded.
‘Mai non!’ he protested. ‘It is not right that so beautiful a lady should fill her mind always with business, business, business on such a lovely day! It is a day for strolling barefoot in the park, hand in hand with your lover, n’estce pas?’
She shook her head, still laughing—and then froze as a tall, familiar figure appeared in the doorway. He was casually dressed in close-fitting denim jeans and a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled back over strong, sunbronzed forearms. The collar was unfastened at the throat and his loose blond hair was catching the sun; as he lounged towards her she felt her mouth go suddenly dry.
‘Hello there, Blondie,’ he greeted her lazily, hooking out a chair and sitting down.

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