voice, shame about everything else.
‘Miss Smith?’
Scarlet nodded, and resisted the aggravating impulse to apologise for her appearance.
‘Why don’t you come in and sit down?’
‘I’m fine here.’
He looked at her impatiently. ‘I don’t bite.’
She flushed at the satirical note in his voice and realised she must look an idiot standing there as if she was ready to run. Straightening her shoulders, Scarlet overcame the strange reluctance she was experiencing to close the door.
She’d been in the room before and it wasn’t exactly cramped—her own office would have fitted in it ten times over—but she was experiencing an almost claustrophobic sensation that involved a tightening in the pit of her stomach and an overwhelming desire to turn and run.
The man was here to say thank you, not interrogate her, or even sue her, unless his mother had suffered a relapse? He didn’t give a damn what she looked like, so why the sudden panic attack? She didn’t subscribe to the populist celebrity culture and was not overawed or impressed just because someone had fame and money. She was neither shy nor lacking in confidence so her irrational nervousness on this occasion annoyed her.
‘So, we meet at last.’
Head down, she nodded.
His mother had thought he had slept with this woman?
He repressed a fastidious wince as he checked out the fashion black spot she represented.
He knew women who could look good in the proverbial sack, but this woman wasn’t one of that number. That tunic checked shirt thing almost reached her knees, but at least it covered most of the appalling, baggy track-suit joggers she had teamed it with. There was nothing intrinsically dreadful about the sensible flat leather shoes that completed the ensemble, but they didn’t do anything to disguise the fact she was small and shapeless.
Who knew what lurked under the androgynous outfit? He, for one, felt no compelling urge to find out. Though he would have liked to bin the outrageously unattractive glasses she wore, which concealed most of her features, simply on the grounds that they were criminally ugly.
Scarlet stood there miserably while his veiled gaze moved over her. He was suitably enigmatic, but not enigmatic enough to prevent Scarlet getting the impression she hadn’t lived up to the billing his mother had given her.
She gave a mental shrug…ah, well, she could live with that!
Standing next to him, even if she had been looking her best, she would have felt plain and unkempt. Six feet four inches, give or take an inch, of spectacular male perfection. He more than lived up to his billing. Unbelievably he was even better looking in the flesh than in print!
She responded on two levels to this discovery. On the one hand she was disappointed at being robbed of the opportunity to confide derisively to her friends, It’s all airbrushing, you know, he’s not nearly as attractive as he looks in the magazines!
On the other level she responded as any woman would being faced with the most sinfully sexy man she had ever seen—or even imagined seeing!
‘Miss Scarlet Smith?’ Smith was a common name; maybe this was the wrong one? She had the awkward slightly bemused manner of someone who had walked into the wrong office. ‘You do know who I am?’
Didn’t everyone? Her lowered gaze lifted. Maybe that was his problem; she hadn’t asked for his autograph yet.
‘I’m Scarlet. The vice-chancellor said you wanted to see me, Mr O’Hagan.’
A small derisive smile formed on her wide and expressive mouth; after their conversation she wasn’t surprised to discover he was the type who thrived on public recognition and got irritated when he didn’t receive it.
Well, promise to David or not, Mr. O’Hagan was about to learn she was not one of that creepy boot-licking number!
Her lips parted to ask if he wouldn’t mind keeping it brief when his dark eyes locked onto her own.
Scarlet breathed in sharply and promptly forgot what she was going to say. He really did have the most stunning eyes she’d ever seen, deep chocolate-brown, but not like the sweet milk chocolate she adored, but the dark variety that was too bitter for her palate. For a bemused moment she just stared into those dark, mesmerising topaz-flecked depths before pulling clear and closing her mouth with an audible click.
She gave a smile heavy on serene self-possession to correct any impression he might have got that she was a silly, drooling female. The last thing she wanted was to be heaped together with those adoring hordes.
Dating the rich and photogenic Roman O’Hagan had kick-started the career of many a would-be celebrity, and the women who weren’t notorious before they shared the spotlight he lived in definitely were at the end of it!
However, considering her own involuntary fit of the fluttery females, Scarlet was now willing to consider that there might have been a few takers whose motives hadn’t been purely mercenary.
Maybe it was the dark, smouldering thing, she mused, because, despite his mixed ancestry, Roman O’Hagan’s features, colouring and innate elegance were very much that of the Latin male, as was the devastating raw masculinity he projected.
The clothes helped, of course, she decided scornfully as she put a mental price tag on the pale grey impeccably tailored grey suit he wore teamed with a black silky polo shirt open at the neck. Italian men were notoriously vain and she doubted this one could pass a reflective surface without checking himself out. The catty postscript made her feel better about being unable to find a flaw in his tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped athletic frame.
Power, money and a good suit—maybe she wasn’t so different from everyone else easily impressed by the trappings of privilege…?
The suit or the man inside it? It’s not his position on the social register that’s got you hot!
Turning a deaf ear to the debate going on in her head, Scarlet turned her thoughts to her more immediate problem. After a moment’s further deliberation she decided against shaking hands; if he didn’t accept her hand she was going to look pretty silly and nothing about him suggested he would welcome the gesture.
She decided it would be best all round if she hurried proceedings along.
‘How is Mrs O’Hagan?’ Scarlet found it a relief to be able to sound genuinely sincere about something. ‘Is she feeling better? She’s not had a relapse or anything?’
‘She is very much better, thank you, and I’m not contemplating any immediate legal action.’
‘That’s just as well because I’ve got no assets for you to strip.’ You only had to look at the man to see his business tactics were every bit as unscrupulous as his rivals suggested.
A flicker of renewed interest appeared in Roman’s deep-set eyes. Now that, he decided, sounded much more like the girl he had spoken to on the phone.
‘You take an interest in business? I got my MBA from Harvard; where did
