and it’s after office hours, even Hungarian ones.’
‘I know,’ she said as cheerfully as she could, comparing him mentally to his photograph. He looked much more dangerous in the flesh, as if he’d flick their darts back and deliberately pierce a few of her vital arteries. Darn it, she’d have to soften him up and lull his suspicions by being moronic! And bluff like mad. ‘You’re the home-grown whiz-kid!’ she said with girly admiration.
‘I reckon I am,’ he agreed, his cynical gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘Vigadó Gab6r. And you?’
‘Mimi,’ she supplied and flashed a witless smile, deeply disappointed that she dare not risk saying, Call me Mimi!
‘Mimi,’ he repeated and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Mariann didn’t blame him. It had seemed a harmless and appropriate choice when she’d been confronted by Vigadó’s lecherous office manager. Being ‘Mimi’ had made her feel coy and less inclined to ruin everything by crushing him with well-directed scorn when he’d suggested bringing a bottle of wine around to wherever she was staying.
Now, with this worldly-wise, laser-sharp tycoon dwelling on the likelihood of the name—instead of being mesmerised like the office manager by the way her vital statistics moved—she sensed she’d made a mistake.
So she grimaced and shrugged. ‘Daft name, ain’t it?’ she chirruped.
‘Yes. Very.’ To her dismay, Mariann’s body betrayed her, tightening with apprehension at his increasingly cynical glance. ‘You’re extremely tense. Women usually relax in my arms. Are you afraid of me?’ he asked with apparent innocence. But his voice had a steely edge to it.
‘You’ve got such…extraordinary eyes!’ she admitted huskily. ‘All glinty, like butcher’s knives. Give me the shivers, they do!’
‘My eyes are telling you what I’m thinking,’ he said tightly. ‘You see, I don’t take kindly to intruders, Mimi.’
‘Intruder?’ She bristled. ‘I’m legit!’
‘Legit what?’ he drawled.
Her head jerked confidently in the direction of the ladders. ‘Decorator, of course! Have paint tin and sandpaper, will travel!’
‘Really. Then why the nerves?’
Annoyed with herself, she tried to ease her tension and widened her eyes in simulated awe. ‘Dunno. But I’ve never been this close to a millionaire before!’
‘Billionaire,’ he corrected, reaching out unexpectedly to smooth her hair back off her face.
‘Ooh! Don’t! Tickles!’ she gurgled in panic, arching away. He’d find the join!
His mouth thinned. He was quite unaffected by her girly appeal, she realised in dismay. ‘How did you know who I was when I first walked into the office, Mimi?’ he asked with a sudden, devastating softness.
For a fraction of a second, she didn’t know what to say, then managed to pull herself together. ‘I’m not daft!’ she replied scornfully. ‘Who else would have a key?’
‘The janitor.’
‘In a vicuna coat? What do you pay janitors in Hungary?’ She laughed. ‘And would he be so bossy?’ she asked wickedly. Vigadó gave her a shrewd look. Divert him! her brain screamed. All she could manage was a simpering look of the utmost stupidity.
‘Mimi, I do believe you’re up to no good,’ he said softly. The glint in his eyes looked lethal.
She did a mock ‘who, little me?’ expression because she was temporarily lost for words, her throat dry with fear. It could be her paranoia that sensed a sinister meaning behind that remark. Or…Her heart somersaulted. There was a chance, a remote chance, that he’d glimpsed her at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October.
Except…No! That had been the month she’d had long hair the colour of coal-tar—and had flown home early with flu. How could he recognise her? As a mere assistant to her last editor, she’d been one of the insignificant crowd, far from Vigadó’s glittering entourage. And she’d been power-suited, immaculately made-up and wearing her frigid ‘no-dice, hands-off expression to keep three lusting authors at bay—and cursing her editor for entrusting them to her care.
Today, she was a blonde waif in cut-off, ragged shorts and a vest T-shirt and no make-up. He was being naturally suspicious, nothing more—and it wasn’t surprising.
Cautiously, pretending to be fussing with her hair, she checked that no conker-coloured strands were escaping from Marilyn and then tried a resentful look on him. She had to fight this to the last ditch. It was all or nothing, sink or swim!
‘I think you’ve got a nerve! I’m doin’ everyone a favour, being here!’ she declared stoutly.
‘By waving your legs around enticingly? By launching yourself prettily into my arms?’ he purred. It was like the caressing purr of a contented tiger, who was about to pounce…devour flesh and crunch bones!
‘I told you. Me and my mates is decoratin’ the place,’ said Mariann, her perkiness not too successful because of the shake in her voice.
‘I haven’t seen them, but I’ll agree that you decorate it very prettily,’ he husked, his smoky accent deeper, more distracting than ever.
‘Ta. Mind you, if I’ve still got me looks, it’s no thanks to you,’ she reminded him, putting him firmly in the wrong. ‘It’s a miracle I’m in one piece at all, what with you comin’ in without warning.’
‘Why is an English girl working as a decorator in Budapest?’ he asked reasonably, but sardonically.
She simpered and launched into her story. ‘I’m helpin’ a couple of fellers I know. András and János. They’re fittin’ this job in as a favour. My mum’s Hungarian. I got family over here,’ she added truthfully. ‘Not a crime, is it? I got to eat, you know.’ A mischievous impulse, born of desperation, made her launch into wild, inventive improvisation to establish her credentials before making a quick exit. ‘I hope you know you’ve ruined me snake ‘n’ adder!’
His eyebrow rose quizzically, as well it might, she thought ruefully. And then she caught an excitement running through her veins and realised that playing risky games with the master of deception was rather enjoyable!
‘Snake and…adder?’ he drawled, his eyes narrowing.
‘Cockney rhyming slang. Adder—ladder!’ she explained sweetly, reasoning that it was rather unlikely that a Hungarian would be any kind of an expert.
‘I’m fascinated by your barrow-boy wit!’ he marvelled sarcastically. ‘This is almost like My Fair Lady.’
‘It is?’ A little puzzled, Mariann let her eyelashes do a bit of overtime and prayed that that was admiration gleaming in his eyes.
‘The simple Cockney girl in that particular musical turned into a raving beauty with a shrewd mind and a cut-glass accent,’ he murmured and she smiled uncertainly.
‘Oh, yeah. Audrey Hepburn. ‘Scuse me,’
