Because, far from being sexually promiscuous, she had never had a lover in her life. One or two boyfriends, that was all, and they had been politely given the heave-ho when they had tried to get too fresh or too serious.
But she wouldn’t tell him that, of course; her hangups were her own business. Not that they were exactly that, she assured herself as she smoothed moisturiser into her fine, pale skin. She preferred to think of her celibate state as a well-rationalised decision, arrived at after sensibly weighing the pros and cons.
She had first-hand evidence of how loving could destroy a person. And, quite apart from not wanting to take the risk of that happening to her, she valued her freedom and independence. She had worked hard to attain it and didn’t intend to lose it.
Zoe buttoned herself into her blouse and shrugged into her lightweight suit jacket. So far, so good. Not one strand of blonde hair escaping the pins that held it in its neat knot, her small features serene, only the sparkle in her big green eyes betraying her pleasant anticipation of the coming meeting.
An anticipation that was solely down to the comforting knowledge that before lunch was over James Cade would have revised his embarrassing opinion of her, she assured herself as she opted to walk to the restaurant he had named. The spring in her step had nothing to do with the man himself, his undoubtedly awesome good looks, his sheer mind-blowing presence.
Forcing herself to slow down her pace because if she kept bouncing along in the warm June sun she would arrive looking hot and sweaty, she found her thoughts unaccountably turning to the woman Cade was to marry.
And she knew, with a feminine intuition that rather surprised her, that Stephanie Wright would have to be a very strong lady indeed to be able to handle the almost frightening maleness of Cade. He would walk all over a weak woman, dominate her utterly—and probably end up despising her.
She had never met his chairman’s daughter and wasn’t likely to, but she could paint pictures in her head of someone very glossy, smoothly sophisticated and tough. She would have to be, to have attracted a man like Cade. And, being tough, the likes of Luke Taylor would label her ‘bitch’ because men disliked strong women more often than not; they made them feel insecure so they called them names to make them feel better themselves.
James Cade was the type who would respect a strong woman, consider her his equal. So he wouldn’t be contemplating marriage to cement his career, she decided cosily; he was probably deeply in love with his Stephanie.
And quite why that neatly worked out snippet should take all her breath away, suddenly drain the bounce out of her step, was something she had no time to work out, because she had arrived. And stood still for a single second while she straightened her suit jacket, hauled back her shoulders, arranged what she hoped was a serene expression on her face and walked on in.
He was already waiting, and as the waiter ushered her to the secluded table for two he rose courteously to his feet and she felt herself go decidedly pink. And knew why. All those dreadful—but understandable, given the circumstances—misconceptions of his!
Which she now had the perfect opportunity to put right, she reassured herself. Zoe the part-time hooker would soon be a thing of the past!
‘Thank you for giving me your time,’ he said tonelessly, his eyes half hidden beneath heavy lids and an even heavier fringe of thick black lashes.
She didn’t think he was actually seeing her at all and Zoe bit back the outrageous impulse to drawl right back, ‘I don’t give and I don’t come cheap. Fifty quid an hour’s the going rate,’ and wondered if ladies of that sort charged by the hour or by the——And felt herself go scarlet and wondered just what it was about this man that made her lose all her sanity and say and think the silliest things…
He was towering above her and, all around her, the atmosphere seemed to crackle. He looked mean and moody and, yes, it had to be faced, terrifyingly desirable.
Zoe sat quickly, her breath all gone again, and watched as he seated himself and beckoned a waiter. And that initial show of courtesy wasn’t in evidence as he ordered for both of them—bottled mineral water and a plain green salad as it turned out—when for all he knew she might have craved a large gin and a thick rare steak!
Not that she did, of course, it was the principle that counted. But she hadn’t come here for the food, she reminded herself, and, looking at things from his viewpoint, he wouldn’t consider the type of female he believed her to be deserved much in the way of polite behaviour.
So now was the time, before they got into business discussions, to put him straight. She opened her mouth to do just that but he cut across her, his dispassionate tone more chilling than it had any right to be.
‘Before I approach your superiors I think it’s only fair to tell you that I intend to have you taken off the Wright and Grantham account.’
‘You can’t mean that!’ Her head felt as if it were about to spin off her shoulders and the fork she’d been holding fell from her fingers and she didn’t even notice. Her career prospects with Halraike Hopkins would bite the dust and she would be suspect from here on in. Influential clients didn’t make such requests without good reason.
‘I don’t say things I don’t mean.’
To give him his due, he remained silent while the watchful waiter removed the fallen fork and replaced it with another and then he explained, with the softness of a cobra striking.
‘But I prefer to look a person in the eye instead of pushing the knife in between the shoulder-blades. Hence this meeting.’
‘Oh, but you can’t!’ Zoe insisted frantically, sliding down in her seat a little because one glance from those coldly, quellingly authoritative grey eyes would have stopped a manic axe-murderer in his tracks.
But he merely contradicted, ‘I can. And I will.’ He began eating his salad with no sign of enjoyment, as if it was every responsible person’s duty to fuel the body so that it could function properly, no more than that.
Zoe couldn’t even look at hers and stared at him, knowing she just had to look stupid but unable to do anything about it as he expounded, ‘Your morals, or lack of them, are your business, of course. I don’t presume to judge—’
‘You don’t! You, you—’ she spluttered, the blistering words that would put him right on that score crowding on the edge of her tongue.
But he silenced her with another killingly quelling look and cut in quietly, ‘Normally, no. But what I witnessed late on Friday night, coupled with the fact that you admit you have no idea who the father of your children is—plus the way you appear to live—adds up to the unpleasant truth that your integrity has to be in question. No, hear me out—’ He sliced through her hiss of outrage, his voice like ice-edged steel. ‘Wright and Grantham’s accounts contain certain sensitive information.’ He laid down his cutlery and leaned back in his chair, long fingers absently curved around his glass of iced water. ‘Our research funding, for example. Which new and possibly revolutionary drugs are being given priority by our research department. All useful information to rival companies. Added to which, you have a useful pusher to hand. The reporter—I thought I recognised him and subsequent checking proved me right—the guy who was so anxious to get everyone in bed. All in the same bed? Or hasn’t the depravity gone that far yet?’ One dark, well-defined brow rose in a query that was entirely without humour. ‘Be that as it may, the information in the wrong hands—his hands and, by implication, yours—could do Wright and Grantham a whole
