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Mistletoe Mistress
HELEN BROOKS


Christmas with the boss!When Hawk Mallen took over the company Joanne worked for, it seemed he'd taken over her life, as well - expecting his new assistant to be at his command day and night! And when he offered Joanne a dream promotion, she realized she'd be at his side almost twenty-four hours a day… .Working so closely with Hawk, Joanne found it hard to ignore how irresistibly sexy he was. She was determined not to have an affair with her boss, but what if Hawk wasn't just looking for a mistletoe mistress - but a wife?







“I work for you, that’s all...” (#ube57f494-0c27-5543-a716-753967070e8a)About the Author (#u8fbdd0cd-8532-542d-8a61-0be4750d6569)Title Page (#u61bdfb96-85db-591d-8aae-587159293106)CHAPTER ONE (#u9452ff7b-6423-5cb6-bc93-9620b1ca5008)CHAPTER TWO (#ue9c7349b-290c-5b66-a933-6ff5ea64c860)CHAPTER THREE (#uc985c061-bff1-58d8-b941-cde103e9096f)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 work for you, that’s all...”

“Perhaps I don’t want that to be all,” Hawk said silkily. Joanne’s eyes were locked with his. “What about you, Joanne?” His voice was warm and deep. “What do you want?”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t interested, that he was the very last man she would get involved with, but somehow all she could do was stare at him.

“You are...tantalizing, do you know that?”

“I’ve always held the belief that work and play should be quite separate,” Joanne said, avoiding his eyes.

“So have I. But there always has to be one exception to the rule....”


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.


Mistletoe Mistress

Helen Brooks










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


CHAPTER ONE

‘HEY, what’s with all the long faces? There hasn’t been a major disaster while I’ve been away, has there?’ Joanne’s bright smile dimmed and then faded altogether as her antennae picked up the waves radiating from her office staff.

‘You . . . you haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’ Joanne’s wide honey-brown eyes narrowed slightly as she repeated, ‘Heard what, Maggie?’

‘About what’s happened.’

‘Maggie.

‘About the takeover, and Mr Brigmore, and... everything.’ Maggie wriggled slightly in her typist’s chair and half turned in the seat to include the rest of the office of six, all of whom patently ignored the silent plea for help, their faces clearly stating that Maggie had started this and she could finish it.

‘The takeover? Maggie, I haven’t got a clue what you are talking about,’ Joanne said as patiently as she could. Brusqueness never helped with Maggie; she flustered very easily. ‘And where does Mr Brigmore come into all this?’

‘He doesn’t, not any more.’ Maggie’s plump plain face was very earnest, and Joanne knew she wasn’t deliberately trying to be obtuse, but something of the urge she felt to wring her junior’s neck must have shown on her face because Maggie added hastily, ‘Mr. Brigmore’s gone—early retirement or something. It all happened last Thursday, when the takeover was announced; he went the same day. I left a message on your answer machine—’

‘I haven’t been back to my flat yet; I stayed overnight with a friend...’ Joanne’s voice trailed away as the enormity of what Maggie was saying hit her. ‘Are you telling me Mr Brigmore was axed?’ she asked faintly. ‘Because if you are I can’t believe it. Who’s stepped into his shoes, then?’

‘A relation of the mogul who now owns the firm.’ Maggie’s voice was full of meaning and Joanne nodded silently to what remained unsaid. So, nepotism was alive and well at Concise Publications, was it? And all this had happened during the month she had been gaily backpacking round Europe on a reunion with old university friends?

She had heard about these savage ‘off with the old, on with the new’ mergers, where the new ruling directorate were merciless in their desire to sweep clean, but she had never actually experienced one first-hand in her eight years of working life. And Charles, of all people...

Suddenly the anger was there, hot and fierce. Charles was the fatherly figure who had given her the sort of chance, five years ago, that she had been craving since leaving university, choosing her above a host of other more qualified applicants who had been eager for the post of publishing assistant to the managing director of Concise Publications.

He had been her mentor, her champion, but most of all her friend—he and his wife, Clare, taking her under their parental wing and giving her her first real glimpse of family life. And he had been replaced? By some young upstart, no doubt, who probably didn’t know one end of a book from another.

‘Male or female?’ Her voice was quivering, but it was with sheer fury, not weakness.

‘Male.’ Maggie knew how much her superior thought of their ex-managing director, and she took a deep breath before she added, ‘His name is Mallen. Hawk Mallen.’

‘Hawk Mallen?’ Joanne’s voice was scathing, her emotion blinding her to the fact that Maggie had suddenly become very still and very quiet, her eyes no longer focused on Joanne’s angry face. ‘What sort of name is that?’

‘My sort of name, Ms...?’

The deep male voice was not loud, but the timbre was such that Joanne felt liquid ice run over her nerves. She didn’t turn for a good thirty seconds from her position just a few inches into the room, and when she did move it was with the knowledge that she had blown it—good and proper, as Charles would have said. And she cared. Oh, not because of her job, precious and important as it had been to her up to this minute in time, she told herself bitterly, but because she had wanted to fling her resignation into the lap of this faceless bureaucrat and walk away with her head held high—not be caught out like a child telling tales out of school.

‘Crawford.’ Her chin was high, her golden eyes shooting sparks as she looked up into the hard dark face of the big man standing in the doorway behind her. ‘And it’s Miss.’

‘Ah . . . yes, of course. Charles’s elusive publishing assistant. How nice to meet you.’ On face value the words were polite and courteous, but, spoken as they were, in a dark cold drawl that was both menacing and patronising, they were anything but. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come through to your office so we can discuss recent events in comfort?’

He meant without the twitching ears and avid interest of the outer office, Joanne thought tightly, but for once the professionalism she prided herself on had flown out the window. ‘Is there any point?’ she asked stiffly, knowing she was glaring but quite unable to help herself.

The suit this man had on would have paid her salary for months, she thought bitterly, and was indicative of his sovereignty somehow. He reeked of wealth and power; it flowed out of every pore and was in every gesture he made. This was a man who was used to being obeyed without question. Well—tough. There was no way she was going to be intimidated by the man responsible for sacking the only person she had any real affection for in the whole wide world. Well, there was Clare too, she qualified hastily as a little stab of disloyalty to Charles’s wife made itself known; she loved her too, but Charles was Charles...

‘Every point, Miss Crawford.’

When, in the next moment, her elbow was taken in a firm, uncompromising grip and she found herself all but flying through the outer office and into her small but comfortable little oasis, she was too surprised to make a sound. Until the door closed behind them, that was. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The explosion was in line with the vibrant chestnut-red of her hair, its glowing colour a clue to the volatile temper she had battled with all her life. ‘How dare you manhandle me—?

‘I’m trying to stop you making a bigger fool of yourself than you have done already,’ he said with a grimness that was insulting.

‘Now look—’

‘No, you look, damn it!’ It was more of a pistol shot than a bark, and as her eyes widened with shock he pushed her none too gently into the seat in front of her desk, propping himself against the dark wood and staring down at her with blazing, piercingly blue eyes. Beautiful eyes, she thought inconsequentially, before the rage took over again. ‘I’m trying to do this the nice way—’

‘Like you did with poor Charles?’ she cut in testily, the colour in her cheeks vying with her hair.

‘Give me strength...’ He shut his eyes for an infinitesimal moment, raking a hand through his jet-black, very short but expertly cropped hair before saying, in a tone that was very flat and very hard, ‘Do you want me to gag you? Because so help me you’re a moment away from it.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But he would—she knew, without knowing how she knew, that he would.

‘Try me. Just open that delectable mouth one more time before I finish saying what I want to say and try me. The pleasure, as they say, would be all mine.’

She opened her mouth to fire back an equally caustic reply, glanced at the blue silk handkerchief he had just drawn out of his breast pocket, and shut it again. The pig! The arrogant, overbearing, stinking swine—

‘And I dare bet I fit most of the names that are swirling through your head right at this moment,’ he drawled easily, temper and composure apparently perfectly restored, ‘but unfortunately that’s where they’ll have to stay—in your head. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I was trying to save you from looking ridiculous...’

She spluttered, gulped, but was forced to admit silently to herself that she didn’t dare call his bluff.

He had raised dark eyebrows at her mini paroxysm but when no verbal abuse was forthcoming smiled nastily before continuing, ‘Charles has left messages for you over half of Europe, there is a letter explaining the full details of the merger with Mallen Books sitting on your doorstep at home, which is repeated at length on your answer machine, but I presume, from your rather undignified outburst out there, you haven’t received any of them?’

She didn’t reply, and he didn’t seem to expect one as he went on, ‘I suggest you go home and read the letter, pop round and see Charles, do whatever it is that women do to cool down, and then we’ll go from there.’

‘You’re dismissing me?’ she asked with icy hauteur.

‘Don’t you ever listen?’

She had got under his skin. For all his apparent equanimity she had definitely got under his skin, she noted with some hidden satisfaction as she watched him take a deep hard pull of air before shaking his head slowly.

‘You’re a very intelligent woman, Miss Crawford; I know that much from your file and all that Charles has told me about you. I’ve seen some of your work and it’s impressive, damn impressive, so what’s happened during this jaunt round Europe to that noteworthy brain of yours? Are you really determined to throw your job—and the considerable salary that goes with it—to the wind on little more than a whim, a temper tantrum, because you weren’t in the know when all this happened? I know Charles respects both your work and you as a person, but he had to make a fast decision on our offer and you simply weren’t around to confer with. Okay?’

He thought her reaction was petulance because she hadn’t been consulted about the merger? She stared at him in amazement, unable to believe she was hearing right.

‘Okay?’ he said again, his voice cool and biting.

‘Mr Mallen, I couldn’t care less if you took over this firm and a hundred others besides every day for a month,’ she said furiously. ‘That’s not the issue here.’

‘Really?’ He smiled a smile that wasn’t a smile at all.

‘Yes, really.’ She had never wanted to wipe a smile from someone’s face so violently before. The only thing that concerns me is the way you’ve got rid of Charles. This firm was his lifeblood, his reason for living, and don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about,’ she warned testily as he opened his mouth to interrupt. ‘I know Charles—I know him better than you for a start—and to leave this firm would be like leaving his own child. He built Concise Publications up from nothing, sacrificed for it, lived his life around it, and now you sweep in and throw him out as though he’s nothing.’

‘You’ve got this all wrong—’

‘Oh, spare me.’ He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, and his displeasure was evident in the narrowing of the brilliant blue eyes and hard line of his mouth. A sensual mouth, firm and full, with a sexy bottom lip—She caught the thought as it materialised, shocked to the core at its inappropriateness, and it made her voice harsh as she went on, ‘You’ve got rid of Charles and I don’t doubt for a minute that he won’t be the last to go. Well, I’ll make it easy for you, Mr Mallen, and resign right now. I’ve no wish to continue working under the new administration, okay?’

The last word was said with exactly the same emphasis he had placed on it a few moments earlier and spoke of her utter disgust more strongly than anything she had said before.

‘I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.’ As Joanne went to rise he pushed her back down in the seat with a mite more force than was necessary. ‘And sit still, damn it,’ he growled angrily. ‘I haven’t finished yet.

‘But I have.’ This time when she rose he let her, his eyes unblinking as she smoothed down the pencil-slim skirt over her hips and tugged the matching jacket into place with shaking hands. He was a brute of a man, a cold, arrogant tyrant. She’d seen plenty of the same since coming to London from her university in Manchester eight years ago, and had never stopped thanking the guardian angel who had led her to Concise Publications and the Brigmores. She couldn’t have wished for a better boss, and Clare had become more than a friend, almost a mother...

‘How can someone who looks so fragile be so impossible? ’ he asked with a quietness that had all the softness of tempered steel. ‘I’ve met some troublesome females in my time but you take the biscuit hands down.’ He had straightened as she’d stood, and now she became fully aware for the first time of his considerable height and bulk, his broad-shouldered, lean body towering over her five feet six inches in a way that made her feel positively minute. And she was aware of something else too, something . . . undefinable, magnetic that pulsed from the hard male frame with a drawing power that was formidable, and it was this that made her swing round on her heel and make for the door without another word.

‘Is that it?’

In any other circumstance, with any other man, the look of utter surprise on his face as she turned round would have made her smile; as it was she stared at him for a moment before she said, ‘There’s no point in continuing this, is there?’

‘You really intend to throw in the towel because you consider Charles has been hard done by?’ He surveyed her cynically, his mouth hard. ‘What sort of relationship did you have with your departed boss anyway?’ he added silkily, his meaning plain.

‘I don’t even intend to acknowledge that with the favour of a reply,’ she said icily, her eyes wishing him somewhere very hot and very final as she glared at him one more time, before opening the door and sweeping into the outer office with a regality that wasn’t lost on Hawk Mallen as he watched her go.

He liked her style. He watched her cross the outer office and exit without turning her head or faltering in her purpose. Yes, whatever else, she had one hell of a way with her.

Once in the corridor outside, Joanne set her face in a practised smile and made for the lift, passing the other offices on the exalted top floor of Concise Publications without looking to left or right. There were three floors in all, and as the lift took her swiftly downwards Joanne found she had gone into automatic, her whole being concentrating on getting out of the building and into her car without the humiliation of breaking down. One of Charles’s editors—no, not Charles’s any more, she corrected herself painfully—was in Reception and raised a hand to her as she passed. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine, fine.’ She smiled and nodded but didn’t stop, her mind registering the stupidity of her reply in the circumstances.

Once in her snazzy little red car she sat for a whole minute just breathing deeply before she could persuade her shaking hands to start the engine. Her whole life, the interesting, vital life she had fought for so hard, had just been turned upside down and the shock waves had her head buzzing.

She should have phoned Clare and Charles last night—she had meant to—but her flight from France had been delayed and when Melanie had offered her a bed for the night, rather than her having to drive right across London in the rush hour to her flat, she’d accepted gratefully. And then she had had a bath, and they’d eaten, and consumed one of the bottles of wine they’d brought back between them...

‘Damn, damn, damn...’ She turned and glanced at her huge rucksack in the middle of the back seat, surrounded by bags of wine and boxes of Belgian chocolates she’d brought back as presents, and then slipped off the jacket to the suit she had borrowed from Melanie and flung it on the seat beside her as she started the engine. Well, it was too late now; she had quite literally walked into the lion’s mouth and definitely come off the worse for wear, but the main thing was to touch base with Charles and see how he was. It was so ironic that all this had happened during the first real holiday she had had in years, she thought miserably as she steered the car out of her reserved space in Concise Publication’s small car park, and on to the busy main road.

The urge to see Charles was overwhelming, and as his house in Islington was on her route home she headed for there, forcing herself to concentrate on the morning traffic rather than her jumbled thoughts that were flying in all directions. The September day was balmy and mellow, the warm sunshine pleasant but lacking the fierce heat that had characterised July and August, but Joanne was oblivious to the weather as she drove through the London streets in a turmoil that made her soft full mouth tight and stained her creamy, sun-tinted skin an angry red.

It was ten o‘clock when she drew up outside Charles and Clare’s large three-storeyed terraced house in its wide and pleasant street, and by five past she was seated in a cushioned cane chair in the garden with a box of tissues at her elbow and a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry on you...’

Clare, who was sitting on the arm of Joanne’s chair, pulled her closer to her maternal bosom as Charles tuttutted from his vantage point opposite. ‘It’s our fault, Joanne; it must have been such a shock to you,’ Clare said worriedly. ‘But apart from leaving a message for you to ring us when you got home, and the letter, of course, we didn’t know how to contact you. The postcards kept coming from somewhere different every few days. Did you have a nice time?’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Lovely.’ Joanne dismissed the month of fun and laughter in one word.

‘And you only found out about the merger when you went in this morning?’ Clare enquired anxiously.

Joanne nodded. She had only been able to blurt that much out on the doorstep before bursting into tears, from which point it had been all action.

‘And did Hawk Mallen explain it fully?’ Charles asked now. ‘I couldn’t have refused, Jo; offers like that don’t come every day. Besides which...’ He paused, glancing at Clare who nodded encouragingly. ‘I haven’t been too well recently and this seemed to present itself as a chance to get out of the rat race and have a few years enjoying ourselves before we’re too old.’

‘What do you mean, not too well?’ Joanne knew Charles; he would rather walk through coals of fire than ever admit he was less than one hundred per cent fit. It was something she and Clare, along with the couple’s three children, called his obstinate streak.

‘We haven’t told the children, for the same reason we didn’t tell you—you’d all worry yourselves to death. But that time three months ago when Charles had a week off with flu—it was a minor heart attack. Very minor,’ Clare added hastily as Joanne’s eyes shot to Charles’s sheepish face, ‘but I’ve persuaded him to take it as a warning, and when this offer from the Mallen Corporation came along it seemed like the answer to everything.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about the heart attack?’ Joanne asked faintly. ‘I could have helped.’

‘I wanted to,’ Clare said quickly, ‘but you know Charles. He loves you like one of our own, Joanne, and he didn’t want any of you worried—’

‘Or fussing,’ Charles cut in wryly. ‘Clare did all the fussing that was necessary, believe me.’

‘How long has this takeover been in the offing?’ Joanne asked numbly, feeling as though the ground was moving under her feet. Charles was ill, with heart trouble? Charles?

‘There has been the odd feeler there for a couple of months,’ Charles said quietly, ‘but the thing only crystallised the week you left for Europe. The Mallen Corporation is huge—I don’t know if Hawk explained to you, but the publishing side is just one of their interests. When the offer became concrete I jumped at it, it’s as simple as that really, and I decided to cut the umbilical cord in the process.

‘Hawk Mallen is old man Mallen’s grandson and right-hand man; apart from knowing everything there is to know about publishing, he’s a brilliant businessman and entrepreneur—something I’ve never pretended to be,’ he added drily. ‘He’s the future, I’m the past; if I had stayed I would have got in his way and that wouldn’t have been good for either of us. He’s a ruthless so-and-so, but he’s got what it takes, Jo; you can’t fault the man on business acumen.’

‘I see.’ As Charles went on, explaining the details of the transaction and the part everyone had played in it, Joanne’s heart sank deeper and deeper.

It had been Charles who had insisted on the opt-out clause, Charles who had wanted to walk away at once without any long-drawn-out and heart-rending, mentally exhausting valedictions. And she’d accused Hawk Mallen of... She inwardly squirmed as she remembered the exact charges she’d laid at his feet. Oh, what a mess, what a terrible, almost laughable mess. Thank goodness she could rely on Charles for a good reference because she sure as eggs wouldn’t get one from the eminent Mr Mallen.

If he wasn’t as mad as hell at her, he’d be laughing his head off, and of the two options she’d much prefer the former, she thought painfully as a pair of piercingly blue cold eyes set in a hard, uncompromising face swam into the screen of her mind. But fortunately she’d never know one way or the other anyway, having burnt her bridges so completely.

And now she would have to tell Clare and Charles...

They were upset, horrified, bewildered—blaming themselves, Hawk Mallen, anyone but Joanne—but by the time she left their tranquil home, after an alfresco lunch under the clear September sky, she had their solemn promise not to try to get her reinstated in any way.

She had made her bed and she would lie on it, she thought determinedly on the drive home, and maybe it was time for a change anyway. She was twenty-nine years of age, and after the years of exams and striving for her degree she had only had two jobs—one of which was Concise Publications—and had hardly seen anything of life. The trip round Europe these past weeks had opened her eyes to the fact that there was a big wide world out there, just waiting to be explored, and perhaps this was the nudge she needed to get moving?

She had been happy and safe the last few years, Charles and Clare’s open-armed drawing of her into their family going some way to heal the hurts of the past, but whilst she was cocooned in such a protected environment she would never reach out for more. And she wanted more.

The thought was a surprise, opening her eyes wide for an instant as she considered it. But it was true. Not the bonds of matrimony or a husband—she felt the panic and fear that accompanied such a possibility wash over her before she thrust them back behind the closed door in her mind—but she wanted to travel, to see new places, new cultures, work in different environments. And she could do it; she could. As Charles had said, the umbilical cord had been cut, nothing would be the same again, so now was the time.

Her spacious one-bedroom flat on the top storey of an old renovated house overlooking myriad rooftops and a wide expanse of light washed sky welcomed her as she opened the front door, the large terracotta-tiled balcony where she ate most of her meals during the spring and summer causing a momentary hiccup in her plans. Could she leave it? This, her first real home where she had been so happy, so secure?

She opened the French windows from the high-ceilinged lounge and walked out on to the flower-bedecked balcony, noting that most of the plants festooning the walls and floor were alive and thriving, for which she had to thank her neighbour on the floor below who had promised faithfully to water them each evening.

She was brought from further musing by the strident ringing of the telephone in the room she had just left and hurried back indoors, lifting the receiver and speaking breathlessly as she gave the number, fully expecting it to be Clare making sure she had reached home safely after the emotion of the day.

It wasn’t Clare.

‘Miss Crawford?’ The deep dark voice was unmistakable. ‘This is Hawk Mallen.’

‘I . . . What...? Yes, Mr Mallen?’ Oh, pull yourself together, for goodness’ sake, she thought scathingly as she heard her faltering voice with a burst of self-contempt that was humiliating. What did she sound like? But she sat down very suddenly on the little pouffe next to the phone, her legs turning to jelly.

‘Are you in full possession of all the facts relating to the takeover of Concise Publications by Mallen Books now?’ the male voice, with its almost gravelly texture, asked expressionlessly.

‘I think... I think so, and I just want to say I didn’t realise... That is, I know I spoke out of turn—’

‘Miss Crawford, I didn’t ring for an apology, if that’s what you are thinking, although it is acknowledged and accepted.’

She blinked a little, even more glad she was sitting down as her stomach turned over with a shuddering jerk. He was terrifying—in spite of the miles separating them that dark, formidable aura swept into the room along with his voice and caused her nerves to go haywire.

Once Charles had accepted she was serious about not going back he had related numerous stories about the Mallen empire, most of them featuring Hawk Mallen, and as she had listened she had known that even if today had not happened she could not have worked for this single-minded, utterly frightening, ruthless tycoon. He was the original workaholic according to Charles—cold, untouchable, his reputation built purely by his own efforts and having nothing to do with his grandfather’s name. As Charles had gone on the main element to her emotion was sheer wonder that she had dared to say all she had to this walking legend. No wonder he had looked so amazed as she had left; it was doubtful if anyone had ever spoken to him like that before, or walked out on him either.

‘Miss Crawford? Are you still there?’

She realised she was sitting in a kind of trance and jerked to life with the voice in her ear. ‘Yes, yes, I am.’ Breathe deeply, talk coherently, act your age. ‘Thank you—’

‘I would like to see you privately; I think the office staff have been entertained enough for one day,’ he said silkily, his voice so smooth and bland that for a moment the import of his words didn’t strike home. ‘And preferably before the day starts tomorrow. Would this evening be convenient?’

‘This evening?’ Her voice was a squeak of horror—she knew it and he must have heard it, and now she began to gabble in an effort to cover up. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve just got back from holiday, you see, and there are things to do. I really can’t—’

‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’ The silkiness sheathed cold steel, but in spite of his intimidation a little spurt of anger at his arrogance rose, hot and fierce.

‘I honestly don’t think there is any point, Mr Mallen.’ Her voice was firmer but she was still glad she was sitting down. ‘I can call by the office at your convenience to pick up my salary cheque and clear any outstanding matters you might need my assistance on; I’m quite prepared to help—’

‘In that case you will see me this evening,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m not asking you for a date—’ there was a moment’s pause when she felt herself flush bright scarlet ‘—merely suggesting we discuss certain business matters over dinner.’

‘But—’

‘That’s settled, then. Eight it is.’ And the phone went dead. She stared at it for a full minute—the deep voice with its faint American accent still ringing in her ears—before she slowly replaced the receiver, but even then she made no effort to stand. He was taking her out to dinner? Hawk Mallen? Taking her out to dinner? She couldn’t; she just couldn’t.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Charles’s number, her hand shaking.

‘Charles Brigmore?’ His voice was so reassuringly familiar she wanted to cry again, but checked the impulse firmly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried before today, and now she couldn’t stop.

‘Charles, you’ll never guess what’s happened...’ There was complete silence at the other end of the line as she went on, and as the silence lengthened when she had finished she said hesitantly, ‘Charles? Say something.’

‘You’ve agreed to go out to dinner with Hawk Mallen?’ Charles asked bemusedly. ‘But...why?’

‘I didn’t exactly agree to anything,’ Joanne said a trifle testily. ‘I told you. He just sort of...told me.’

‘Well, untell him,’ Charles said with a surprising lack of grammar. ‘You don’t know what you are getting into, Jo.’

‘I do.’ She paused, and moderated her tone as she continued, ‘I’ve an idea anyway; that’s why I’m ringing you to discuss it. I don’t know why he wants to see me, but after my little outburst today it can’t be for anything good. He wasn’t too pleased when I left.’

‘I can imagine.’ Charles’s voice was very dry.

‘He can’t hold me to anything, can he, with my contract? ’ Joanne asked anxiously. ‘I know it says three months’ notice, but surely in the circumstances he’d be prepared to be reasonable?’

‘I don’t think “reasonable” is a word that features in Hawk Mallen’s vocabulary,’ Charles said slowly. ‘Look, ring him back and ask him exactly what he wants to see you about. That’s only sensible, and if you’re still not happy...’

‘I shan’t be happy; of course I shan’t be happy,’ Joanne said flatly. ‘Would you be happy going out to dinner with Hawk Mallen after speaking to him the way I did? He’s probably after my blood.’

‘As long as that’s all he’s after,’ Charles said darkly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Joanne...’ Charles’s voice held the patience that characterised his relationship with her. ‘I know you don’t preen and powder like the average female but you must look in the mirror sometimes, surely? You’re a very attractive woman, and Hawk Mallen is definitely very much a man. I didn’t say this this afternoon, but he doesn’t only work hard, if you get my meaning; the play is done pretty energetically and with great effect too.’

‘No, he made it clear it wasn’t a date, Charles; he actually spelled it out. Besides which I hardly think someone like Hawk Mallen would look twice at me.’ She smiled to herself at the thought. ‘He must have his pick of women.’

‘No doubt,’ Charles said drily.

‘But I will phone him back. I can’t see any point in meeting him,’ she said resolutely.

‘Ring me if there’s any trouble.’

There was trouble, but she didn’t ring back, deciding that it was her problem, not Charles’s. Hawk Mallen wasn’t in the building, Sue on Reception told her politely, and no, she had no idea where he could be contacted. She could give her the name of the hotel where he was staying at present if she’d like to ring there? Joanne did like, but he wasn’t there either. She left messages in both places for him to contact her if he returned, and then paced the floor for the rest of the afternoon waiting for the telephone to ring.

By six o’clock she was panicking badly; by seven she had had a bath and washed her hair, and a feeling of inevitability had settled over her like a blanket. Whether he’d got her messages or not he wouldn’t ring; she should have known, she told herself resignedly. He had made up his mind he was going to talk to her tonight, and that, as far as he was concerned, was that.

What did one wear when going out to dinner with a megalomaniac? she asked herself helplessly as she surveyed her wardrobe. Especially a fabulously wealthy, dark, attractive one, who frightened her half to death and was probably gunning for her blood? Was he going to prove awkward? Take pleasure in telling her he was going to put the knife in with future employers and so on? Or was he going to hold her to every last day of her contract? She could leave anyway—it would just mean a loss of salary and other benefits—but it wouldn’t look too good with prospective employers.

The carefree days of the last month seemed like another lifetime as she glumly pulled a high-necked, long-sleeved cocktail dress in crushed black silk off its hanger. The dress was expensive but the style demure; it gave the impression of a controlled, capable woman in charge of her own destiny, which was exactly what she wanted for the night ahead.

Her hair was trimmed in a sleek bob just above the nape and she normally wore it loose, but she needed the extra sophistication having it up would give her, she decided nervously as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was all fingers and thumbs, but eventually it was secured in a neat chignon at the back of her head, a pair of tiny gold studs her only jewellery, and a touch of mascara the sum total of her make-up.

There—calm, cool and competent, she decided silently as she looked into the long full-length mirror in her bedroom, seeing only the elegant dress with its matching shoes, and quite missing the beauty of her glowing red hair and honey-brown eyes which complemented the black silk perfectly.

Hawk Mallen missed neither when Joanne opened the door to his knock at exactly eight o’clock, her colour high again as she saw him framed in the doorway, big and dark and lazily self-assured.

‘I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon.’ It probably wasn’t the best of opening lines, but her brain seemed to scramble at the sight or sound of this man.

‘And now you have.’ He smiled easily, but it didn’t reach the riveting blue eyes and she knew instantly, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had received her messages and guessed the reason for them.

‘I . . . I was just going to ask what this was all about.’ She had raised her chin slightly as she spoke without being aware of it, and the subtle gesture spoke volumes to the man watching her so closely.

‘All in good time.’ He gestured to the room beyond. ‘Do you have a wrap, a jacket...?’

‘Yes. Oh, come in.’ She stepped back so hastily she nearly pivoted on the three-inch heels which were much higher than those she normally wore, recovering herself just in time and feeling her face grow even hotter in the process. This was going to be a riot of an evening, she told herself desperately, walking carefully through the tiny square hall and into the lounge where she had placed her jacket and handbag. She couldn’t even stay upright, let alone impress him with her woman-of-the-world persona.

‘Nice flat.’ He had followed her, and as she turned the room immediately shrank in deference to his presence, his impressive height and build seeming to fill the pleasant light surroundings.

‘I like it.’ She couldn’t for the life of her manage her normal social smile as she stared at him before moving hastily away, her face still flaming, and busying herself adjusting the brilliance of the wall lights. She reached for her jacket and bag. ‘Shall we?’ She nodded to the front door but he didn’t move, surveying her with cool, narrowed eyes for a long, heart-thudding moment

‘I’m not going to eat you, you know,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not Little Red Riding Hood and I’m not the Wolf. Well...’ He paused, his eyes narrowing still more. ‘You’re not Little Red Riding Hood anyway,’ he added sardonically.

‘I didn’t say—’

‘You didn’t have to.’ He interrupted her before she could finish and again the incredible self-assurance hit a nerve.

‘Mr Mallen—’

‘Hawk, please,’ he interjected softly.

‘Mr Mallen, I’ve no idea what was so important that it couldn’t wait until normal office hours, but I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ she said stiffly. ‘I tried to contact you this afternoon—’

‘You’ve already said that.’ The dark eyebrows rose mockingly.

‘But you clearly didn’t receive my messages,’ she finished a trifle desperately. This was awful; he was awful.

‘Oh, I did, both of them, but I chose to ignore them,’ he said easily, his voice as pleasant as if he were discussing the weather.

‘You what?’ She couldn’t match his calm, her voice high.

‘Ignored them.’ He smiled maliciously, clearly thoroughly enjoying her open-mouthed discomfiture. ‘You suspected that, didn’t you?’ he added silkily. ‘But you expected me to lie to you. I never lie, Joanne. When you know me better you will appreciate that is the truth. However painful, however costly, I never lie.’

Know him better? Over her dead body!

‘Now, there is a table booked at the Maltese Inn for nine, so if you’re ready?’

The dark face was expressionless, the blue eyes unwavering, and as she gazed into the hard, implacable features she conceded defeat. Okay, she’d go on this wretched evening out, she could hardly do anything else now, but there was no way she was going to be bullied or threatened by this man, whatever his wealth or connections.

‘Yes, I’m quite ready.’ She looked at him steadily, trying to hide the fact that she felt like a petrified little rabbit in the hypnotising power of a fox, and even managed a tight smile as she said, ‘I’m just worried that this evening will be a lamentable waste of your valuable time, Mr Mallen.’

‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ he said quietly. ‘And I told you, the name’s Hawk.’

Hawk. Yes, the name suited him, she thought with a faint touch of hysteria as he took her arm and ushered her out of the flat. She had been mistaken in her analogy of a fox; he was far more like the ruthless, keen-sighted bird of prey he had been named after, and at the moment she had the awful conviction that the quarry in his sights was her!


CHAPTER TWO

THE Maltese Inn was an exclusive little nightclub she had heard about but never had the necessary connections to enter, it being the haunt of the very rich and the very famous. It was chic, select, and its clientele ranged from wealthy film stars and top models to the very élite of England’s aristocracy.

Once in Hawk’s car, which just had to be a magnificent sporty monster she had never heard of before but which was undoubtedly in the super league—nothing as well known as a Ferrari or Lamborghini for him, she thought nastily—she found herself dumb with nerves.

She glanced at him several times from under her eyelashes, her eyes and senses registering the big lean body clothed in evening dress with a jolt that didn’t lessen with the third or fourth glance, before forcing herself to make some sort of conversation. ‘This is a beautiful car.’ Never had words been so inadequate; never had she felt so inadequate. ‘What is it?’

‘A Cizeta-Moroder V16T.’ The piercing eyes flashed over her face for a moment before returning to the windscreen.

‘Oh.’ She was no nearer and it showed.

‘It’s an Italian car, designed by Marcello Gandini,’ Hawk said easily. ‘I like the power, the body style, and it’s beautiful and fast. When I drive I like to enjoy the experience, besides which I wanted a car which would take me from A to B in as short a time as possible.’

‘And this certainly would.’ She glanced round the interior of the two-seater coupé which was as dynamic inside as out.

‘I also like unusual things, not necessarily unique but things that haven’t been . . . cheapened by overuse,’ he continued softly.

There had been a thread of something in his voice she couldn’t quite place, but as she glanced at the dark profile again it gave nothing away, his features relaxed and quite expressionless.

She couldn’t believe she was sitting in the sort of car one only saw in the movies, being driven to the most fashionable nightclub in London by a dark, handsome—No, not handsome. She caught her thoughts abruptly, sneaking another glance at him. Handsome was too weak a word somehow for Hawk Mallen; it suggested pretty-boy good looks, traditional appeal, and the lean, hard face, penetrating blue eyes and cruel, sensual mouth were anything but that. She shivered suddenly, in spite of the perfectly regulated temperature within the car.

What on earth was she doing here? She must be mad. Her thoughts did nothing to calm her racing heartbeat. And the Maltese Inn, of all places. It was all Diors and diamonds there, and here was she in her little black dress and off-the-peg jacket... She felt a moment of nausea as her stomach turned right over. She was going to stand out like a sore thumb—

‘Look, could you just try and think of me as friend and not foe for an hour or two, at least until the meal is over?’ The deep, gravelly voice had amusement at its core; she could hear it curling the edges. ‘Good food is life’s second greatest pleasure...’ The piercing gaze swept over her flushed face for one brief moment but it left her in no doubt as to what he considered the first, and she felt herself blush even more fiercely. ‘And I’d prefer to enjoy the meal tonight without indigestion at the end of it.’

‘I don’t know you, Mr Mallen—Hawk,’ she corrected hastily as he made a growl of annoyance in his throat, ‘so how could I possibly regard you as foe?’

‘I’ve been involved with a good few women in my time, Joanne, on a business level and otherwise,’ he said quietly, ‘and one thing I’ve learnt along the way is that your sex doesn’t need a reason for anything it feels like doing.’

‘Well, that’s a sexist remark if ever I heard one,’ she retorted scathingly, forgetting her nervousness and apprehension as he pressed the fire button. ‘You’re one of those men who think women are empty-headed little dolls, good for one thing only?’

‘Did I say that?’ he drawled softly.

‘You didn’t have to.’ She was trying to give the impression of being as controlled and calm as he was, but it was difficult—more than difficult. She might have known he’d be a male chauvinist pig on top of everything else; this was getting worse by the minute.

‘You might have been able to read Charles’s mind but not mine, Joanne,’ he said calmly, ‘so please don’t make the mistake of thinking you can. And I wasn’t insinuating anything about Charles, before further crimes are laid at my feet. I’m quite aware of the platonic relationship between you both—“a father and daughter affection” were the words used to explain it, I think,’ he said easily, ‘by none other than his wife.’

‘You asked Clare about me?’ she screeched, her voice reverberating around the car’s plush interior and causing the man at the wheel to wince visibly. ‘How dare you?’

‘Who better to ask?’ His sidelong glance took in her scarlet face and he actually chuckled before adding, ‘Calm down, Joanne, calm down; it wasn’t like that. On the way to pick you up this evening I called by Charles’s house with some papers for him to sign, and it was Clare who mentioned you as it happens. They’re very fond of you, aren’t they?’ he said quietly. ‘You’re quite one of the family.’

She wasn’t sure if he was being nasty or not but her temper was still at boiling point and she didn’t trust herself to speak anyway. What an impossible man, she thought angrily. If ever she had needed confirmation that her decision to leave Concise Publications had been the right one, she’d just had it. Working as Charles’s publishing assistant had been nothing but pleasure, but as Hawk Mallen’s . . .

‘Did you enjoy your job, Joanne?’ It was as though he had read her mind, and she noted the past tense with a little flutter in her stomach. So, she was out on her ear, but then why this dinner tonight? she thought bitterly. So he could gloat, was that it?

‘Yes, I did.’ In spite of all her efforts to the contrary she couldn’t quite keep the thread of antagonism from showing. ‘It was interesting, exciting.’

‘And from what Charles tells me your input was considerably more than one could normally expect from a publishing assistant; would you say that was fair?’ he asked mildly.

She shrugged carefully. ‘I’ve no personal commitments so there was no need to clock-watch if that’s what you mean.’

‘Not exactly.’ The sleek, low beast of a car had just growled reluctantly to a halt at some traffic lights, and he stretched in the leather seat as he waited for amber, the movement bringing powerfully muscled thighs disconcertingly into her consciousness as she glanced his way. Her head shot to the front as though she had been bitten, the colour that had just begun to recede surging into her cheeks again.

What was it about him? she asked herself helplessly. Sexual magnetism? The aphrodisiac of wealth and power and authority? Sheer old-fashioned sex appeal? It was all those things and more, and it was devastating. He would have been dynamite on the silver screen, she thought ruefully. Pure twenty-four-carat box-office dynamite.

He didn’t speak again as the Cizeta-Moroder sprang away from the lights, but as they travelled along the well-lit London streets her nerve-endings were screaming at her awareness of him, and she had never felt so out of her depth in all her life.

When they drew up outside the refined elegant building of the Maltese Inn he uncoiled his big body from the low-slung car with easy animal grace, moving to the passenger side in a moment and opening her door for her.

‘You aren’t going to leave it here?’ She stared at him in surprise once she was on the pavement, but in the next second a massive uniformed doorman, who looked more like a prize fighter than anything else, was at their side.

‘Keys, Bob.’ Hawk dropped the keys into the man’s outstretched hand with a warm smile along with a folded banknote. ‘Look after her.’

‘As always, Mr Mallen, as always. Good evening, miss.’

‘Good evening.’ Joanne smiled into the big ugly face with a naturalness that had been missing in her dealings with Hawk, something the piercing blue eyes noted and filed.

There was another doorman ready to open the gleaming plate-glass door into the entrance lobby, and another who ushered them through that and into the area beyond, where the reception area, powder rooms and cloakrooms were, the nightclub itself being up a flight of wide, graciously curved stairs that would have done credit to any Hollywood movie.

Having divested herself of her jacket, Joanne was painfully conscious of the plainness of her dress and jewellery as she joined Hawk, the surrounding area seeming full of glittering women, with diamonds on their wrists, throat and ears, and all wearing dresses that must have cost a small fortune.

She was aware of the subdued buzz that Hawk was drawing, especially from the female contingent, as they walked towards the stairs, and it took all her will-power to keep her head high and her face cool and contained as they climbed the marble steps to the nightclub beyond.

That Hawk himself had noticed the covert glances became apparent when, on reaching the top of the stairs, he leant down and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t worry, they are the same with everyone; they’re trying to work out what us being together means.’

They aren’t the only ones, Joanne thought wryly, her nerves as tight as piano wire.

‘Too much time and too much money breeds mischief,’ Hawk went on cynically, ‘as many a damaged reputation has discovered.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced back down into the glittering array beneath them as they turned to go through the doors into the dimly lit nightclub, and there was more than one pair of beautifully painted eyes that stared brazenly back at her.

‘You don’t gossip?’

It was said mockingly but with more than a touch of scepticism, and Joanne paused just inside the room, meeting his sardonic gaze as she said, ‘No, I don’t. Why? Is that so unbelievable?’

‘Yes.’ The sensual mouth quirked apologetically. ‘I told you I don’t lie,’ he continued softly, ‘and you did ask.’

‘You seem to have a very low opinion of the female sex, Mr Mallen,’ she said tightly. ‘Or am I mistaken?’

It was a direct confrontation, and he smiled slowly, his eyes turning to liquid silver under the muted lighting and his dark skin accentuated by the whiteness of his smile. ‘I can’t answer that on the grounds that it might incriminate me,’ he said lightly.

‘I see.’ She was about to say more, a lot more, but the appearance of the head waiter, with a smile as wide as London Bridge, put paid to the flood of angry words, and as they were led to what was obviously a supenor table, right on the edge of the large dance-floor, she found herself once again overawed by her surroundings.

The champagne cocktails that appeared as though by magic at their elbows the moment they were seated were absolutely delicious; in fact she hadn’t tasted anything quite so delicious before, but she noticed that although Hawk ordered a second for her he had nothing more exciting than mineral water.

‘I’m driving.’ He answered her raised eyebrows with a smile. ‘One is enough.’

‘How resolute of you,’ she answered lightly.

‘Not really.’ The blue eyes narrowed, his gaze intent as he said, ‘My father had three times the permitted level of alcohol in his blood when he went off the road and caused the death of himself and my mother fifteen years ago. He was forty-four, she was just forty; I don’t find it hard to say no to alcohol when I’m driving.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ she asked lamely.

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘How about you? Do you come from a big family?’ he asked quietly.

‘No.’ She hadn’t expected this and it took her completely by surprise, causing her to stammer slightly as she said, ‘My...my mother is dead and I never knew my father.’

‘No siblings?’ The keen eyes had narrowed on her flushed face.

‘No, I . . . I was brought up in foster homes mostly. My mother... she didn’t relate too well to children.’ She stopped abruptly, appalled at what she had revealed. This man had drawn out of her what it had taken Charles and Clare twelve months to achieve. How could she have told him that about her childhood? she asked herself desperately. It had sounded as though she was asking for sympathy and that was the last thing, the very last thing, she wanted.

The appearance of a waiter at Hawk’s elbow in the next moment eased the situation somewhat, and after they had ordered he didn’t comment about what had been said before, engaging her in light, easy conversation that taxed neither her brain nor her tongue.

But... And there was a but, she thought silently, even as she laughed at something witty, and faintly cruel, he had just said about a well-known television presenter who had just swept into the nightclub with all the regality of royalty. Yes, there definitely was a but, although she couldn’t quite determine what it was.

Possibly the way he was watching her, his blue eyes cynical and probing even as his mouth smiled and made small talk, or perhaps it was the rather remote way he had with him, as though he was surveying everything and everyone from a distance and finding them wanting. Whatever, it was disconcerting, unnerving, and she was immensely glad of the fortifying cocktails to quieten the rampant butterflies in her stomach that had been fluttering crazily since she had first opened the door of the flat to him.

The meal was delicious, but she found each mouthful an effort, mainly because as people finished eating and began to take to the dance-floor she realised the moment Hawk would ask her to dance was imminent.

He seemed in no hurry to explain why he had asked to see her; every time she had tried to broach the matter he had changed the subject with a firmness that was daunting, and now dessert was nearly finished and, short of asking for a second helping, which would only delay the inevitable, there was no escape. And she didn’t want to dance with him; in fact the thought of him touching her, however circumspectly, was . . . disturbing. She finished the last mouthful of chocolate soufflé—it had been hovering in its dish for minutes and she really couldn’t delay any longer—and almost in the same instant he stood, bending over her and drawing her to her feet before she could protest.

‘You can’t come to the Inn and not dance; it really isn’t done,’ he said in a deep mocking whisper that told her he had been fully aware of her thoughts and had taken what he considered to be the appropriate action.

‘Perhaps I don’t care about what’s done,’ she muttered quietly as she found herself on the dance-floor, stiffening helplessly as his arms enclosed her.

‘Perhaps you don’t.’ The frighteningly perceptive eyes ran over her flushed face before he said, his voice low but alive with wicked amusement, ‘Or perhaps it’s me? It’s all right, Joanne, my ego can survive—just—if you confirm my worst fears.’

‘Which are?’ she asked tightly, her body desperately aware of the hard male frame close to hers and the undeniably delicious masculine fragrance emanating from the tanned skin.

‘That you don’t like me?’

‘Am I supposed to like you?’ she asked shakily.

‘Of course.’ The arrogance was full of self-mockery which increased her turmoil. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at himself; that didn’t fit the image. ‘Every woman I meet is automatically bowled over by my charm and pleasing countenance, not to mention my wealth,’ he added darkly.

‘You think they are just after your money?’ she asked in amazement. Even the most hardened gold-digger would rock on her heels when confronted by the maleness of Hawk Mallen.

‘I think it oils the wheels.’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of the cruel, sensual mouth and not really a smile at all.

That’s . . . that’s—’

‘Realistic.’ He cut into her shocked stammering with a lazy drawl, pulling her a little closer as he did so.

‘Awful.’ She stared up at him, her cheeks hot. ‘You can’t lump the whole female race into one package like that.’

‘Can’t I?’ He considered her for a long quiet moment before smiling again. ‘Why not?’ he asked softly.

‘Because everyone’s different; people have different values, different perspectives—Oh, you know why not,’ she finished tightly, not at all sure if he was teasing her or if he meant what he had said.

‘Your personnel file says you are twenty-nine years old, right?’ He looked down at her, his dark face unreadable.

She nodded, wondering what was coming next.

‘And you have never married.’ It was a flat statement. ‘Lived with anyone?’ he asked quietly.

‘That’s nothing to do with you.’ She struggled slightly in his hold, resenting the personal questioning, but all he did was pull her even closer, settling her against the broad expanse of his chest, his chin nuzzling the red silk of her hair.

‘Have you lived with anyone, Joanne?’ he asked again, his voice still soft but threaded through with a silky coolness that told her he was determined to have an answer.

‘No.’ It was useless to fight him but she bitterly resented the interrogation.

‘And according to Charles you don’t date much—rarely in fact,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Very rarely.’

‘Did Charles say that?’ She was deeply offended and hurt at Charles’s betrayal.

‘No.’ She would have jerked away again but the arms holding her were forged in steel. ‘But I’m very adept at reading between the lines and I know the sort of questions to ask that give me the answers I require,’ he said easily.

‘How clever of you,’ she snapped nastily.

‘Isn’t it?’ He moved her slightly from him now, keeping her within the circle of his arms as he looked down at her with hard, narrowed eyes. ‘Now I’d say, on a likelihood of ten to one, that you have—how did you put it? Oh, yes—“lumped” the whole male race together fairly successfully.’ His tone had lost any amusement, his face absolutely straight as he added, ‘Or am I wrong?’

‘Quite wrong,’ she said cuttingly, her face flaming.

‘Oh, Joanne. Joanne, Joanne...’ He shook his head sorrowfully, the mockery back. ‘And here’s me being honest and above board—’

‘Are you insinuating I’m not?’ she asked hotly.

‘Absolutely.’ And then he grinned, and all further opposition left her in a big whoosh as she absorbed the difference to his face that his first real smile made. He was devastating, gorgeous, overwhelming... She swallowed hard and prayed for the ground to stop rippling under her feet. He was a man, just a man, and an arrogant, self-satisfied pig of one at that. He’d just lost her her job, hadn’t he? She couldn’t be attracted to him; what was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake—?

‘But I forgive you.’ He had pulled her close again and, mainly because her legs suddenly seemed to have the consistency of melted jelly, she didn’t resist.

However, she managed a fairly tart, ‘How very gracious of you,’ which brought an answering chuckle from above her head, before they continued to dance in silence. It was a slow number—of course it had to be, she thought caustically; even the band was against her—and although she desperately wanted to seem immune to what his body was doing to hers she could feel herself begin to tremble in his arms.

‘What’s happened in your life to make you so afraid of physical contact?’ he murmured after several humiliating minutes when she knew her shaking had made itself obvious. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Joanne. Trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ She was inexpressibly thankful that he had misread her body’s reaction to his, although there was more than a little fear mixed up in the mortifying sexual excitement that had her in its grip. And now, as the music changed, and she saw the waiter approaching their table with the coffee they had ordered, she moved to arm’s length, saying, ‘That would be rather foolish on so short an acquaintance, don’t you think? Look, the coffee’s arrived. Shall we...?’

‘If you insist.’ His tone was dry.

‘And then you can tell me the reason for our meeting tonight and then—’

‘We can go home?’ he finished silkily, his eyes piercingly intuitive. ‘Sorry, Joanne, there’s the floor show to go yet; you’re stuck with me for a little while longer.’

She smiled, a polite social smile as though she thought he was joking, before turning and walking to their table, his hand on the small of her back seeming to burn her skin through the silk of her dress.

How was it that in just a few hours this man seemed to have established an intimacy that even her closest friends didn’t enjoy? she asked herself weakly, sinking down on to her chair with a tiny sigh of relief that she had made it without falling to the floor in a quivering heap. The questions he had asked, the things he had suggested! Her racing thoughts were brought to a stunned halt as she felt his lips on the back of her neck, his mouth warm and vibrant against the creamy softness of her skin, before he seated himself with easy composure in his chair.

‘Don’t . . . don’t do that.’

‘What?’ Her voice had been a trembling whisper and he surveyed her with brilliantly blue eyes before asking again, ‘Don’t do what?’

‘You know what.’ She glared at him, her temper rising as her senses unfroze.

‘Kiss you?’ he asked softly. ‘Is that so hard to say?’

‘It wasn’t a kiss, it was...’ She couldn’t find an appropriate word and he let her flounder for a minute before he said, his voice deep and dark and husky, ‘Whatever it was to you, Joanne, to me it was a kiss. Do you mean to say that you don’t wear your hair like that to tempt more of the same?’

‘What?’ She was absolutely lost for words.

‘The exposure of that soft, fragrant skin, normally hidden by a curtain of silk that keeps the secret place so private—you don’t know what a subtle turn-on that is to the average red-blooded male?’ he asked softly as she stared at him blankly. ‘It’s restraint combined with voluptuousness, lasciviousness with suppression—it’s ...sexy, every man’s dream of the perfect virginal demure beauty who turns into a seductress in the bedroom.’ ‘You’re mad.’ Joanne realised she had been holding her breath as the gravelly male voice had woven a sensual spell which had enclosed the two of them in their own little world. ‘I just wore my hair up because it looks better with this dress—’

‘Oh, don’t spoil it.’ He wasn’t smiling but the devilish eyes were alight with amusement.

‘Now, look.’ She took a long, deep, hard breath and forced herself to get control. This was ridiculous; somehow everything had got out of hand and she wasn’t at all sure how it had happened, but one thing she did know was that Hawk Mallen was playing with her like a cat with a mouse. She didn’t believe for one moment he was attracted to her—how could a multi-millionaire of the calibre of this one be interested in a little nobody like her? It didn’t add up—not for one minute, and she wasn’t stupid whatever he thought, and she’d tell him so right now. ‘You assured me this afternoon that we were meeting for a purpose, that this wasn’t a...’

‘Date?’ he supplied helpfully.

‘Yes.’ And if he interrupted her again he’d have a cup of coffee tipped over his head. ‘So we’ve eaten and danced and done the social chit-chat bit, and now I’d really like to know why you have brought me here tonight. ’

‘You don’t think it’s because I wanted to know you better, because I’m interested in you?’ he asked expressionlessly.

He’d read her mind again, and she had the uneasy feeling he hadn’t found it hard to do. Was she really so transparent? she asked herself silently. She didn’t think anyone else thought so; in fact, Charles had often praised what he called her ‘poker face’, which gave nothing away whatever the circumstances.

‘Mr Mallen—’ she couldn’t call him Hawk, she just couldn’t ‘—you could doubtless have your pick of most of London’s finest so the answer to that is no.’

‘London’s finest.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’

‘So?’ She forced a smile. ‘If you don’t mind?’

He stared at her for a good thirty seconds, his blue eyes shadowed and intent as they searched her face, and then he settled back in his seat, stretching slightly before he said, ‘Right, down to business. I don’t need you at Concise Publications, Joanne—’ her heart gave a big leap and then thudded loudly ‘—but from all I’ve heard and read and seen I think you would be an asset to the Mallen Corporation. I intend to bring in a new managing director for Concise Publications; I’ve already approached the man and he’s accepted my offer and he’ll bring his own publishing assistant with him; they’ve worked together for years.’

She nodded slowly. So he had never intended to take on the job permanently? She should have guessed, really; Concise Publications was just a tiny little cog in the vast machine of the Mallen empire.

‘Are you interested enough for me to continue?’ His voice was cool and flat; suddenly he was one hundred per cent remote tycoon and businessman, the wickedly mocking, charming dinner companion having evaporated like the morning mist.

Was she? She stared at him hard, and then nodded again. ‘Yes, please,’ she said quietly.

The blue eyes flickered, just once, and she would have given the world to know what was going on in that rapier-sharp, ruthless mind.

‘Six months ago the Mallen Corporation acquired a publishing house in France, part of Mallen Books; were you aware of this?’ She shook her head quickly. ‘The undertaking was unusual in that my grandfather had decided to bale the owner out, and if you knew my grandfather you would understand why I say that. He is first and foremost a businessman and age has not mellowed him one iota.’

She caught the thread of affection in his voice which he was trying to hide and looked at him intently.

‘The owner was the son of my grandfather’s best friend who died some years ago; he actually helped my grandfather financially when they were young, something my grandfather’s never forgotten. However, the son has lost thousands, if not tens of thousands, over the last decade through mismanagement and so on, and the firm is a shambles.’ The cool voice was scathing. ‘My grandfather wanted the family name to continue in honour to his friend; he also decided to keep the son at the helm... Bad mistake.’

He glanced at her now and the blue eyes were as hard as glass. ‘The kindest thing you could say about this guy is that he’s a Jonah, and that’s the information I’ve relayed to my grandfather. The truth of the matter is that he’s been on the take for years; he’s the very antithesis of his father. My grandfather is very ill—’ Her eyes widened and he nodded slowly. ‘Terminal, but I’d appreciate you keeping that to yourself. He doesn’t need this bag of worms dumping in his lap, and for some reason his normally acute judgement is faulty where this guy is concerned. He wants to believe the best of him; he’s all that’s left of his old friend.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly. He loved his grandfather very much; try as he might, the cold, clipped voice and expressionless face couldn’t hide the look in his eyes, and it touched her. She didn’t want it to, but it did.

‘I’ve done it,’ he said flatly. ‘Pierre is boss in name only now; he’s been paid off, and handsomely, and he’s quite happy with that. He’s got a string of mistresses to support apart from his family and expensive habits; the firm was just an inconvenience to him. But now I want to pull it round, for my grandfather and also his old friend, who was an honourable man. That’s where you would come in.’

‘Me?’ She couldn’t think where.

‘You’ve been in publishing since you left university, you have no personal commitments or distractions, and you don’t mind working until the job is done. Added to that, Charles tells me your contribution, certainly over the last three or four years, was the one that brought the money in. He’d lost it—the insight, the business intuition—’

‘No!’ she protested hotly.

‘That’s what he told me, Joanne,’ Hawk said steadily. ‘Now, your personnel file tells me you speak French, right?’

‘I do, but...well, I’m rusty and—’

‘That’s no problem.’ He dismissed her stumbling voice with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘You can easily brush up on that.’

‘What exactly are you offering me?’ she asked dazedly. In all her wildest dreams—or nightmares—she hadn’t expected this. ‘Who would I be publishing assistant to?’ She knew it was him but she had to ask anyway, and that would be the end of what sounded like the offer of a lifetime in an industry that was known for its dog-eat-dog ruthlessness.

‘Publishing assistant?’ He stared at her, and then shook his black head slowly, his eyes piercing her through with clear light. ‘I’m not offering you a publishing assistant’s job, Joanne. I want you to manage the firm for me, turn it around, make it work.’

‘Me?’ She knew she was repeating herself but this was just not possible; he had to be teasing her in the most cruel way imaginable.

‘It would mean giving up your flat and moving to France,’ he said quietly, ‘and of necessity the position would be on a six-month trial basis. All your expenses would be paid, of course, and you’d have the same salary Pierre did.’ He mentioned a figure that made her mouth fall open. ‘The firm is already part of Mallen Books and so you wouldn’t be completely out on a limb; you’d have a ready-made avenue of contacts and back-up—a security blanket so to speak. But...’ He leant forward in his seat, his dark face cold. ‘You would have your work cut out to turn the thing round, especially in the present climate. Still interested enough to think about it?’

Joanne looked at him in a daze. She couldn’t say a word; she just couldn’t.

‘If you are interested, we can throw a few facts and figures your way and start the ball rolling. I’d like the new manager installed within weeks and as you are as free as a bird there won’t be any messy working-ofnotice delay. If you’re not...’ the piercing eyes were holding hers as though in a vice ‘...then you will be paid twelve months’ salary as a gesture of appreciation for all you’ve done for Charles’s firm in the past, and that’s the end of it. Well?’

He relaxed back in his seat and grinned, the same devastating, knee-trembling grin as before, his blue gaze washing over her stunned countenance. ‘What’s it to be, Joanne?’


CHAPTER THREE

‘AND he wants your answer tomorrow morning, is that right?’ Charles’s voice had been sleepy when he’d answered the phone—it was past midnight after all—but once Joanne had begun to talk the telephone had fairly crackled with excitement.

‘He wants to know if I’m interested enough to go on to the next phase,’ Joanne answered quietly, ‘and if I am he’ll put me more fully in the picture.’

‘And are you?’ Charles asked evenly.

‘I suppose so, but if I don’t make a go of it and I’m left with egg on my face...’

‘And if you do make a go of it the world’s your oyster,’ Charles said steadily. ‘Think of it, Joanne; it’s a dream of a career move, and frankly it sounds like he’s only asking you to do what you’ve been doing for me for five years. We’ve worked so closely together there isn’t a thing you don’t know about managing a publishing house.’

‘But this one is so much bigger.’ That sounded rude and she added quickly, ‘Well, a bit bigger, and it’s in France and—’

‘You could do it and Hawk Mallen knows it or else he wouldn’t have offered you the job.’

‘Charles, I’m sorry I phoned you at this time of night, but I don’t feel I know enough about the Mallen Corporation and ... and Hawk Mallen to make a decision. Would you mind filling me in on what you know?’

‘On Hawk or the Mallen empire?’ Charles’s voice was very dry.

‘Both.’

By the time they finished the call, fifteen minutes later, Joanne knew the Mallen Corporation had been founded by Hawk’s American/French grandfather over fifty years ago, beginning with a textile warehouse shop that quickly grew into a string of the same and then diversified into more avenues than even Charles was sure of. The old man had had one son, Hawk’s father, who, as Hawk had already mentioned, had been killed in an automobile accident, thereupon making Hawk a millionaire several times over at the tender age of twenty.

Charles had said more, much more, but Joanne had found her attention wandering more than once as a pair of very blue, piercingly intent eyes kept swimming into her consciousness. Hawk Mallen was a mesmerising man to be with and the compelling weight of his personality stayed long after the man himself had gone. He exuded energy and power and vigour, and those moments in his arms on the dance-floor... She shut her eyes as her senses swam. If she took this job—if—she would make sure she never put herself in such a vulnerable position again.

Her thoughts continued along this same path once the call had ended and she had showered and slipped into bed.

Other women, more worldly, experienced women, might be able to handle a man like Hawk and enjoy the challenge, but he frightened her half to death. She shut her eyes tightly in the warm darkness, her toes curling into the linen covers.

Not that he had behaved as anything but the perfect gentleman on their ride home, seeing her to her door with a polite handshake and almost distant smile that would have sat well on a maiden aunt. In fact from the moment he had explained about the job one could almost have called his attitude cool, certainly formal... She refused to recognise even a shred of pique at his lack of interest. It suited her—the fact that he was concerned only with her ability to do the job he had in mind. It did. She knew only too well how the man-woman relationship, with all its complications, could prove a time bomb that ruined the lives of everyone within a mile radius.

As though it were yesterday her mother’s face was there, pretty, irritated, as she had handed her over to the social worker at the home. ‘It will only be for a little while, Joanne.’ Her mother had clearly wished she were anywhere but in the neat, orderly office with officialdom present. ‘Just until Mummy gets a nice house to live in.’

The ‘nice house’ had taken three years to achieve, three years in which she was moved from foster home to foster home, until, at the age of seven, her mother had married. Not again—she had never been married to Joanne’s father who had deserted his pregnant girlfriend once the good news was imparted—but for the first time. That marriage had lasted nine months, and by the time she was eight she was back in a foster home again, with the knowledge that her mother could barely wait to see the back of her.

When she was nine her mother had married Bob, and it had been at his insistence that she was once again placed in her mother’s care.




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