gave a sharp little laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Mr MacLean, but it’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’ The black scowl darkened his face again. ‘Why is it out of the question?’
‘What do you mean, why? It—it just is.’
‘That’s not a reason, that’s a statement.’
‘I should think it’s obvious,’ she said. ‘Deception like that——’
‘I’d be the one doing the lying, not you. All you’d have to do is smile and say hello, drink some champagne and eat some of that damned stuff they call food at these overblown bashes. What’s so difficult about that?’
Hannah stared at him. How could he ask her such a question? And why should she want to make a fool of some woman she’d never even met? He made it sound as if he’d been an innocent in all this, but that didn’t mean anything.
‘What’s the problem, Miss Lewis? Don’t you believe me? I tell you, the woman’s trouble with a short fuse.’
And she was interested in Grant MacLean. That Hannah could believe. He was a good-looking man, she had to give him that. If you weren’t working for him, enduring his demands and his drive for perfection, he was probably a rather interesting male—if you liked the type.
‘Well?’ His voice was sharp. ‘What do you say?’
She looked up. She had already said it, but it was clear that he had no intention of listening to any answer but the one he wanted. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, arms folded across his chest, mouth set in a taut, narrow line. It was a sight she’d seen before, during meetings with important clients and their sometimes intractable opponents. The authoritative tone, the determined posture, even the cool, never-wavering set of those glacial grey eyes, all worked together to achieve his goal.
But Hannah wasn’t about to be intimidated. She had absolutely no intention of being part of his little game. If he was really having a problem with Magda Karolyi, it was up to him to get out of it on his own.
‘The party’s at the Mark Hopkins. Have you ever been there?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’
‘It’s a handsome place, Hannah. You’ll like it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will. I mean, I’m sure I would, if—’
‘I’ll send you home by taxi, when the evening ends.’
‘Mr MacLean, there’s really no point in——’
‘If it’s the idea of pretending we’re intimate that bothers you——’
‘It isn’t that.’ Their eyes met, and colour flooded her cheeks. ‘Well, it is, but that’s only part of——’
‘Magda needn’t think we’re lovers, I suppose. It will be enough that I’m with another woman.’
But she wasn’t a woman. Hadn’t he just said so? She was his assistant.
‘I really don’t see the problem here. Unless—have you another engagement tonight?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t think...I mean, this isn’t—it’s not part of my job, after all.’
‘Would it make you feel better if it were? Then think of it that way—as part of your job description. When you signed on for this position, I made it clear that this wasn’t a job for someone with a nine-to-five mentality. You said you understood. In fact, you gave me your assurance that you would give me your very best at all times. Do you remember?’
Hannah flushed. ‘Of course. But I never meant—I never thought you meant——’
‘Haven’t you ever attended a social event as part of your job, Miss Lewis?’
‘Yes, once or twice. But those times were different. They were receptions given by the firm for——’
‘This is the same thing.’
‘It isn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean aren’t hosting this. And you’ve no right to—’
‘A matter of semantics,’ he said, shrugging away her comment as if he were brushing off a fly. ‘The evening is simply part of your workload. Have I mentioned that you’ll be on overtime?’
‘That’s very generous of you, sir. But—’
His brows drew together. ‘Look, Miss Lewis, I can’t spend the next hour debating this. Can you work late tonight or can’t you?’
Hannah stared at him. ‘Work late tonight? Well, yes, if you——’
‘Good girl.’ He reached past her and opened the door to the outer office. ‘Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.’ His hand brushed lightly across her hair, then touched her cheek and, for reasons that made no sense whatsoever, a feeling of lightness engulfed her. ‘And do something with yourself, please,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Let your hair loose, put on some lipstick—we’re going to a party, not a conference. All right?’
No, Hannah thought, it was not all right at all, but how could she tell him that, when she was already standing on the other side of the closed door?
Fifteen minutes later, he came striding out of his office. ‘Ready?’ he asked crisply.
Hannah turned. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving the single word as much irritation, annoyance and downright anger as she could manage. But MacLean didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he marched towards her, clasped her by the shoulders, and drew her under the uncompromising glare of an overhead fluorescent lamp.
‘The lipstick’s fine. A little pale, but it complements your colouring.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you have another blouse on hand?’
Her chin lifted. ‘No,’ she said tightly, ‘I do not.’
‘Well, this will have to do.’ He reached out and closed his fingers around the top button. Hannah caught his wrist, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘You look like a schoolgirl, Miss Lewis. Surely you don’t go out on dates wearing blouses closed to the collar, do you?’
‘This is not a date,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I really resent...’
Two buttons slipped out of their holes; she felt the swift, impersonal brush of his fingertips against her skin, and that strange, out-of-body feeling went through her again.
‘That’s better.’ His gaze moved over her slowly. ‘A little informal, perhaps, but not unacceptable.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I thought I told you to wear your hair loose.’
Her hand went to her hair, drawn back, as usual, neatly on her neck and held in a tortoiseshell clip.
‘I always wear it this way,’ she said defensively.
‘Yes.
