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
