cheer her up, not wanting their special evening to be spoiled for her.
As she accepted a flute of champagne someone put into her hand she saw her father and her heart banged against her breastbone.
It was impossible to tell from his expression whether or not he’d been successful. As always, her father kept his feelings to himself.
Silence fell, as if the sheer presence of the man had commanded it. When he spoke, talking of his happiness at the further cementing of the relationship between the two families, the words went in one ear and straight out of the other. And when Ben slid the diamond hoop on her wedding finger her face ached from smiling and the growing applause, the chorus of Ooohs and Aaahs, the glasses raised in cheerful toasts, slid past her consciousness, leaving no ripples at all.
All she was aware of was her father’s stern features, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was standing just beyond the chattering group surrounding her and Ben. One tight-jawed sideways inclination of his head had her murmuring her excuses and threading her way towards him.
Taking the champagne glass from her fingers he said, ‘You are needed in the study.’
‘Me?’ Lisa noted the impatient tightening of his thin mouth at what he would see as her idiotic questioning of his perfectly plain statement and to deflect the sarcastic comeback she knew from experience was in store for her she hurriedly asked, ‘How did it go? Ben told me there were problems.’
What could the big-shot want with her? An assurance that she had a pile of must-read, breathtakingly fascinating articles in her in-tray? The sort of stuff that would guarantee a huge upsurge in readership? As if! Anything remotely startling or contentious would be immediately scotched at editorial meetings by the partners.
Skirting her question, Gerald Pennington remarked coolly, ‘As I said, you seem to be needed. As far as I can tell, all you can do is try not to make matters worse. It shouldn’t take long and then you can enjoy the rest of your evening.’
Yeah, right, Lisa thought resignedly as she went to answer the summons. Her hand on the study door, she paused for a moment, psyching herself up to deliver the spiel of her life. If she could make the future editorial input sound really cutting edge maybe she could swing the balance in their favour. Though ‘cutting edge’ didn’t gel with anodyne accounts of boring society gatherings or fashion articles aimed solely at the seriously wealthy.
If she messed up her father would never forgive her. Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered to try to please him, why she wanted what she had never had—the warmth of his approval.
Wrinkling her neat nose, pushing her relationship with her father to the back of her mind, she straightened her spine, plastered a smile on her face and walked into the study.
And he was there, leaning against the edge of Arthur Clayton’s desk, his long, immaculately trousered legs crossed at the ankles, black eyes cold and hard, narrowed on her face.
Her stomach jumped in shock. ‘There has to be a mistake.’ Her voice sounded echoey through the buzzing in her ears. She took a step backwards, one hand outstretched as she felt for the door. Coming face to face with Diego Raffacani last night had been bad enough, stirring painful memories back to life. But here—posing as a major advertiser—
‘No mistake, I assure you. Sit down, Miss Pennington.’
He edged fully upright, feet apart, long-fingered hands resting on narrow hips, the jacket of his suit parting to reveal a matching waistcoat smoothly clinging to his powerful torso. The picture of sartorial elegance—no sign of the slightly shabby, casually dressed and ultra laid-back Spanish lover who had broken her heart.
The formality of his address helped her to pull herself together. It had been a long time. Too long to allow memories to live, festering away in the dark, rarely visited regions of her mind. If he had changed—and she only had to look into that hard, classically handsome face to know that he had—then so had she.
She watched him take Arthur’s swivel chair behind the desk, her heart thumping at the base of her throat. He still moved with the same inborn grace and she couldn’t help remembering how she had adored watching him.
Lisa took the chair opposite and sat, her hands loosely clasped together in her lap. Seeking the defence of outward composure, her voice commendably calm, she asked, ‘So you now work for Trading International?’ reining back the snide comment that it was a big step up for a humble waiter. For everyone’s sake she couldn’t afford to rub him up the wrong way, even though she still longed to wring his neck for what he had done to her!
‘Since my father’s retirement, I am Trading International.’ He placed his elbows on the arm rests of the chair he was using, steepling his fingers, the tips lightly touching his wide, sensual mouth, narrowed eyes watching the disbelief and then the obvious shock flicker across her face.
The face of an angel. The smile of a siren. And the sensitivity and morals of an alley cat!
She was more beautiful than he remembered, the delicate perfectly formed body still unbelievably sexy.
Five years ago he could have taken that body, it had been his for the asking. He narrowed his eyes, black gleaming through the enigmatic, heavy sweep of his lashes. Five years ago he had denied himself the sensual pleasure of the ultimate possession of the bewitching temptation of her. Now, one way or another, he was going to have her. Take what he wanted for as long as he wanted it, learn the secrets of her delectable body then toss her back where she belonged.
Dropping his hands, he leaned further back in the chair, idly pondering the pleasure of removing the clasp that maintained the sophisticated upsweep of her hair and seeing the silvery silky mass tumble down to the creamy skin of her naked shoulders and the gentle, inviting curve of her breasts.
His accent was slightly more pronounced than was usual, his tone smooth as cream, he imparted, ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Miss Pennington…’
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU can’t mean that!’
It was appalling, utterly crazy! As propositions went it was totally unbelievable—she must have misheard. Either that or Diego Raffacani had gone stark staring mad!
Her wildly churning emotions swept away the last fragile pretence of composure and Lisa pushed herself to her feet, then wholeheartedly wished she hadn’t. Her body was trembling so badly she was swaying on her kitten heels. Her breath shortened and her inky-blue eyes widened, darkening to black as she watched him get to his own feet and move around the desk to stand beside her.
Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent of him, the heat of his body. Her mouth ran dry and her heart began to pound as she stared up into the lean powerful face, watched the sinfully sensual line of his mouth as he asserted, ‘I meant every word,’ and dropped back into the chair she had vacated as her knees finally buckled beneath her.
‘Why?’ Her voice croaked as her mind skittered back and forth over everything he’d said. It was impossible to keep a sensible or decisive thought in her head for more than a nanosecond.
‘Because you owe me.’ His teeth glinted white. ‘Five years ago you were more than willing. But out of respect for your youth and what I then believed to be your inexperience I held back. You proved yourself unworthy of any man’s respect.’ His hard, beautiful face was rigid with contempt. ‘I loved you but you threw it back in my face—that
