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“You’ve had me under surveillance? ”
Rachel continued, “Anyone would think you’re vetting me as a potential mistress.” She’d been so busy keeping tabs on Matthew that it had never occurred to her to look over her shoulder!
“Lover.” The soft word caressed her senses like a fur glove. “You could only be my mistress if I was already married. Since I’m not, that would make you my prospective lover rather than my kept woman.”
As Rachel scrabbled for a sufficiently devastating answer, Matthew added, “But why set your sights so low? I could be checking out your suitability as a potential wife….”
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
‘EXCUSE me—Mr Riordan…?’
Matthew Riordan’s dark head jerked up at the interruption and he directed an impatient frown at the middle-aged woman hovering in the doorway of his borrowed office.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you…’ she said, undeterred by the scowl on his narrow, long-boned face. She advanced towards his desk, a large manila envelope held out between her fingertips. ‘I know you asked me to deal with your father’s personal correspondence until he’s well enough to do it himself, but—well…I think this is probably something that you would prefer to handle yourself…’
Matt’s abstraction was banished as he rocked back in his leather chair, his thick eyebrows rising at the sight of his father’s unflappable secretary looking so ill at ease.
Was that a blush on those leathery cheeks? he wondered incredulously, his dark brown eyes sharpening behind the lenses of his round gold and tortoiseshell spectacles.
For over three decades—since before Matt was born—she had serenely guarded his father’s Auckland office, more than a match for Kevin Riordan’s rough-and-tumble personality and the raffish nature of many of his employees and customers in the early years of his company. The former rubbish-man turned scrap-dealer and recycling mogul, now owner of New Zealand’s largest waste-disposal conglomerate, had rewarded her mental toughness and unflagging loyalty with his boisterous respect, smugly boasting to all and sundry that nothing could fluster his redoubtable Mary.
His confidence had proved justified two days earlier, when Mary had investigated a thud from his office and discovered her employer in the throes of a heart attack. Instantly conquering her shock, she had phoned for an ambulance and proceeded to calmly administer CPR until the medical team arrived. Then she had busied herself telephoning his wife and son, faxing his second-in-command, who was in Tokyo on business, and discreetly fending off speculation and rumours as she postponed appointments and rearranged meetings.
Now, she gingerly placed the neatly slit foolscap envelope on the desk in front of Matt and scuttled backwards.
‘What is it—a letter-bomb?’ he commented drily, and Mary regained enough of her steely poise to give him a stern look, admonishing him for his flippancy.
Matt laid down his pen and pulled off his glasses, tossing them onto the blotter. His eyes felt gritty with fatigue as he picked up the envelope, noting the plainly typed address with the words ‘Strictly Personal’ thickly underlined several times. He tipped it up by one corner and three glossy photographs slid face-down across the desk.
He flipped one over and his eyebrows scooted up in puzzled surprise.
The glossy black and white photograph had been taken at a party two weeks ago—a profile shot of Matt leaning over the hand of a tall, voluptuous woman whose long, strapless glittering white gown looked as if it had been applied to her pneumatic curves with a spray gun.
He and the woman were both holding champagne glasses and smiling brilliantly, but the flattering picture didn’t tell the full story.
The photograph didn’t show the long, painted nails digging painfully into his skin, punishing him for the parody of a kiss he had just planted on the back of her hand. Nor did it reveal that Matt had been dangerously drunk, sullen and obstreperous.
He hadn’t been aware that there was anyone taking photographs that night, although in the circumstances that was hardly surprising, but he doubted that Merrilyn Freeman, their over-anxious hostess, would have jeopardised the exclusivity of her private dinner party by inviting a professional photographer along. The harsh contrasts and grainy texture suggested the print had been blown up from a much smaller negative.
It was also perfectly innocuous—nothing to give Mary Marcus reason to treat the envelope as if it was an unexploded bomb.
In
