The companies, for whom they had run fraud prevention training programmes and provided security patrols, pre-employment vetting and confidential investigations in litigation support, had been involved in a series of mergers orchestrated by the majority shareholder—Ayr Holdings—and, having attained a controlling interest on several new boards, Matthew Riordan had been seeking to centralise their security arrangements.
At the meetings, although it had been made clear from the outset that Rachel was attending as co-owner of Weston Security Services, Matthew Riordan had virtually ignored her, addressing all his queries and remarks to Frank. When Rachel had taken it upon herself to answer or make an informed comment, he had given her minimal responses in a tone of clipped courtesy that had barely concealed his impatience with her interruption. Frank had claimed she was being over-sensitive, but Rachel had come away from their ultimately unsuccessful series of meetings steaming with frustration at being treated more like a glorified secretary than an equal partner.
‘No, just unbelievably crass,’ she replied, striving for just the right note of crushing boredom. She could feel his lips move against her skin as he smiled, the blood thumping through her artery his proof that she wasn’t as calm as she looked. She tried to slip her hand free, but to her surprise she discovered his grasp was unexpectedly strong. A brief, almost invisible power struggle ensued, and Rachel finally resorted to the feminine trick of curling her angry fingers over the edge of his palm and digging her fake nails into the sinewy back of his hand. He didn’t even flinch.
‘What else did you expect?’ he taunted. ‘A woman like you wearing a dress like that…you’re obviously not aiming to appeal to a man’s intellect…’
Even though she knew full well she was being deliberately provoked Rachel couldn’t help snapping at the bait. ‘A woman like me?’
She had narrowed his hostility to a specific focus, and now she was paying the price. His smile was insolent in the extreme. ‘Big, bold and brassy.’
The thin gold rim around her hazel irises glowed incandescently bright as she spluttered, ‘Brassy—?’
‘It means flashy, strident, showy…’ he elaborated, his eyes sliding from her breasts, heaving in outrage, to the tightness of her dress across her round hips and the slit in the side of the clinging skirt which revealed her leg to mid-thigh. ‘I knew the first time you walked into my office what you really were—window-dressing…a showgirl trying to do a man’s job…’
Rachel dug her fingernails deeper into his flesh and he gave an exaggerated wince.
‘Uh, Rachel…’ Merrilyn’s voice fluttered anxiously to her ears and Rachel suddenly remembered the role she was supposed to be playing. She should be pacifying him, not prodding him into even worse behaviour.
She batted her eyelashes and adopted a girlishly meek tone. ‘May I please have my hand back now, Mr Riordan?’
‘It depends what you’re planning to do with it,’ he challenged, and she couldn’t stop her eyes flickering to his temptingly exposed cheek. Unexpectedly he laughed, a purring sound that ruffled the nerves along her spine, and kissed her fingers again, releasing her hand with a slow, stroking motion that made it clear that it was purely his own choice.
‘A toast,’ he said, lifting his champagne glass and leaning forward to brush it against hers. ‘To the unfair sex, who resort to seduction when all else fails.’
‘If it was a man you would call it clever use of available resources,’ Rachel responded tartly. ‘And if you imagine this is a seduction you have some very odd opinions. You don’t like women very much, do you, Mr Riordan?’
His eyes glittered darkly. ‘I like certain women very much.’
‘Let me guess…small, fluffy-headed, delicately built females who constantly defer to your superior intellect and would never dream of challenging your masculine superiority?’
His face tautened. ‘What a sharp-tongued bitch you are!’
Her mouth curved smugly. She had obviously guessed right. She had probably just described Cheryl-Ann Harding to a T. She tossed back her champagne, forgetting that she had simply been holding it as a prop. ‘Not your type, Mr Riordan?’
He looked her over, blatantly undressing her with his hot black eyes. ‘I don’t know—bedding you could have its…compensations,’ he drawled insolently. ‘As long as you kept your mouth shut. Except to scream at the appropriate moment, of course.’
‘You mean the moment of my supreme disappointment?’ she said sweetly, and had the pleasure of seeing his ears turn red. She could almost envisage the steam issuing forth. ‘It must get very noisy in your bedroom, Mr Riordan.’
Merrilyn uttered a choked groan, overridden by Matthew Riordan’s sneer. ‘There’s only one way for you to find out, isn’t there?’
‘Why, is this a proposal, sir?’ Rachel simpered.
‘Miss Blair, the last thing you’d ever get from me would be a marriage proposal,’ he snarled.
‘Good. Because being married to a chauvinist like you would make me feel suicidal!’
His face went stony-blank, his voice as vaporous as dry ice, and just as freezing as it bled from his pale lips. ‘You wouldn’t get the chance. I’d have murdered you beforehand. In fact, I’d be hard put to control my homicidal impulses until after the wedding!’
With that he yanked up the champagne bottle from under the plant and stalked off.
‘Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…’ Merrilyn was chanting the horrified mantra under her breath, her face as white as milk under the professional coating of make-up.
‘He insulted me first!’ said Rachel shakily, knowing that it was no excuse. She had been thoroughly unprofessional. How many times had she heard David say that to successfully subdue a volatile opponent you had to remain emotionally detached from the situation?
‘You don’t understand…his first wife, Leigh, did commit suicide,’ said Merrilyn. ‘They’d only been married a few years…’
‘Oh, no…’ Rachel breathed. She closed her eyes, her own spiteful words ringing in her ears, lacerating her conscience.
‘You’ve seen the kind of mood he was in, now he’s going to be even worse,’ Merrilyn fretted. ‘I told you this was going to end up a disaster.’
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ said Rachel, with far more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll go and find him again—you just concentrate on looking after your other guests.’
‘But we’re sitting down to dinner soon! How can I concentrate on anything else? It’ll be like having an unexploded bomb at the table!’
‘Change the seating. I’m in a suitably obscure corner—put Matthew Riordan next to me.’
‘After what just happened—are you kidding? That would really light his fuse!’
‘There won’t be any fireworks,’ vowed Rachel grimly. ‘If he won’t co-operate I’ll think of something else, but I won’t let him create a disruption.’
To Rachel’s
