to find that her voice slurred the words as though she were drunk. She dragged in a deep, deliberate breath. ‘And he’s taller than you, which has to be a bonus.’
Not many men were.
And gorgeous wasn’t exactly the right word to describe Hawke Kennedy. Oh, he pleased her eyes—‘Too much,’ she muttered—but his boldly chiselled features were more forceful and intimidating than handsome.
Something about him set alarm bells jangling through her in primal, instinctive response. He looked like a man who’d make a very bad enemy.
Well, not precisely alarm bells—more a rush of adrenalin that kindled a volatile, reckless fire deep in the pit of her stomach.
His strong impact had a lot to do with his height and his powerful, athletic presence, but it was more basic than that. She’d met other men as tall without even a tingle of awareness. Melissa shivered, foolishly letting herself recall the romantic waltz they’d shared.
In spite of her antagonism, for the first time in her life she’d felt sexy and light, like someone made dizzy by champagne. Her mind had spun, and she’d been glad he hadn’t kept talking, because it was all she could do to keep her feet moving and her face composed.
And when she’d looked up into his tough, compelling face she’d realised his eyes were a dark, disturbing green lit by gleaming starbursts of gold around the pupils.
That had been a year ago, yet she still remembered every sharp, astonished perception, each addictive shaft of sensation.
Which was humiliating, because when the dance was over Hawke had smiled at her, thanked her without trying to hide the note of irony in his voice, and delivered her to her group, staying to chat for a few minutes.
Then the next dance had been announced, and he’d left them. Five minutes later she’d seen him with a luscious American divorcée. He’d been smiling again, but this was an entirely different smile. Cool yet dazzling, dangerously intent, its predatory glint had made Melissa realise just how detached he’d been with her.
A fierce, bleak envy had consumed her and she’d had to look away. So of course she’d tried very hard to forget him, yet the effect he’d had on her hadn’t faded; sometimes she even dreamed about him.
How stupid was that!
Startled, Melissa realised she was still standing in front of the window. Although darkness had finally enveloped the mountains, starshine burnished the waters of the lake, and from behind the peaks a soft glow proclaimed an imminent moon.
A perfect night for lovers, she thought, a strange desolation aching inside her.
Hawke Kennedy was as far out of her reach as any man could be. She was a virgin, for heaven’s sake! If he kissed her she’d probably faint. And his type was definitely not innocent; Jacoba Sinclair, a glorious redhead, oozed sensuous confidence, as had the other women he’d been linked to, including the actress, now a minor star. Lucy? Yes, Lucy St James—and she’d better get back to work!
Guiltily Melissa scurried into the noisy, clattering kitchen, letting the scents and sounds and intense activity banish the memories.
When she finally made it to her bed she stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours before giving in and turning on the light to catch up on her required reading. But the words in her book danced in front of her eyes, refusing to make sense, so she swapped it for a novel. Even that failed her; in the end she switched off the light and lay there until sleep overtook her hours later.
And woke to someone hammering on her door. ‘Hey, Mel, you want breakfast?’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ she called after a horrified glance at her alarm clock.
She was still scrambling to make up time when the manager asked her to drop in to see him. Startled, she presented herself at his office.
‘Come in,’ he said, looking up with a slight frown that intensified when he saw her. ‘Sit down, Mel.’
What sin of commission or omission was she guilty of? She arranged her long legs and tried to look serene.
After shuffling some papers on his desk, the manager said neutrally, ‘I believe you know Hawke Kennedy.’
‘I’ve met him before. I wouldn’t say I knew him.’ Fantasising about a man didn’t count. Hoping fervently that her skin wasn’t as hot as it felt, she asked, ‘Does it matter?’
The manager relaxed into a smile tinged by perplexity. ‘If it doesn’t matter to you, then it’s fine by me. And you can certainly have dinner with him; Lynne’s over her cold so you won’t be needed to fill in for her again.’
Dinner with Hawke Kennedy? Melissa reined in her astonished response. In a colourless voice she said, ‘Oh, right. I’ll get back to work, then.’
He nodded, but when she went to stand up he said, ‘By the way, I’ve just finished reading your submission on the glowworm caves. You’re right—they’re an asset we’ve more or less ignored. I still don’t know what anyone sees in going underground in dank, dark caves—’
‘A sense of adventure,’ she broke in eagerly. ‘And the glowworms are exquisite. It wouldn’t just be the caves—if you turned it into an expedition by taking guests out on the lake and giving them cocktails, then showing them the caves and having dinner afterwards on the boat, it would be great. Especially if there’s a moon.’
He laughed. ‘OK, draw up a plan. Keep costs as low as you can; we want the guests to feel that no expense is spared, but the accountants at Head Office will go over it with a fine-tooth comb.’
She noticed a certain withdrawal in his tone in the last sentence as though he’d thought better of what he said. Of course; he now had her slotted in with the super-rich world of Hawke Kennedy.
Her telephone was ringing when she opened the door of the cupboard she’d been given for an office; she made a dive for it, then had to juggle the receiver until she’d grasped it firmly enough to say abruptly, ‘Melissa.’
‘Hawke.’
Of course she recognised the coolly confident tone. Her stomach clenched and she said inanely, ‘Hello.’
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
Why? A simple courtesy on his part? That galled her stubborn pride. She didn’t want courtesy from him; she wanted fire and passion and flash and thunder.
Oh, why not aim for the moon? She had a better chance of getting that. And she had to tamp down her first instinct to refuse; he was a guest. Keeping her voice as level as she could, she replied, ‘I’ve already been told that I’m having dinner with you.’
And then flushed, because she’d sounded petulant and—horrors—deprived, as though she wanted this to be a real date! Of course it wasn’t; he was merely being polite to the sister of one of his friends. And she had to accept for the same reason.
‘Sorry if that offended you.’ But he didn’t sound sorry; he sounded amused. ‘I checked with the manager first to make sure it wouldn’t upset his staff roster.’
Very considerate of him! In a wooden voice
