It was loathing at first sight. Well, it was loathing for Molly di Perretti. George Hunter seemed to look on it more as a game. George, she found, enjoyed games.
Molly was the brightest young consultant at Culp and Christopher, London's coolest Public Relations agency. George Hunter was the client from hell that she had never wanted to work with.
Unfortunately, George Hunter knew that. He knew it because he heard her say it.
It was his own fault. Molly had not known he was there. Clients never came down onto the work floor at Culp and Christopher. That was one of the reasons it was a fun place to work. You could let off steam without having to worry about who was listening. Molly let off steam a lot.
So, that day, she was not being discreet. She was kicking her heels against the black and silver bar stool, which she insisted gave her inspiration, and yelling into her hands-free phone.
"I won't do it. I hate millionaires. There's nothing you can do with them."
On the other end of the phone Jay Christopher, owner of the agency, disagreed.
"Okay," said Molly, ultra fair-minded. "There's nothing I can do with them. I'm too young, too creative, and much, much too hip."
Jay protested.
Molly overrode him. "Millionaires don't want to be hip. They want to be warm and fuzzy. The only reason they employ a PR agent in the first place is so people forget how they made their millions."
At the desk opposite her, blond Sam Smith winced. Sam was nominally Molly's boss. But at C&C; hierarchy was strictly theoretical. Sam was just better at keeping her temper.
Now she mouthed, "Friend of Jay's."
Molly cast her eyes to the ceiling and said to the phone, "Oh, great. Mate of yours is he, Jay? What else is wrong with him? No, don't tell me. He despoils the countryside? Employs child slaves in Asia? Smokes?"
"None of the above," drawled a voice like a saxophone in a smoky New Orleans cellar.
Molly whipped round so fast she fell off her bar stool.
He caught her and sat her upright again, as if she was about four years old. No mean feat, that. Molly was five foot ten and no stick insect. Indeed, his eyes lingered appreciatively on her shadowed cleavage, as he restored her to the vertical.
The rest of the office held its collective breath. Molly di Perretti was acknowledged to be a genius in her field. She was also known to have poured a full cup of coffee down the silk shirt of a client who came on to her. And she was glaring.
But the newcomer stayed calm. "George Hunter," he said, holding out a hand. "Orun Software."
Molly took his hand on autopilot. She looked stunned.
Understandably. Not only was the man a client where no client should be, but he was gorgeous. Broad shoulders, slim hips, a mouth that looked as if it knew all there was to know about kissing and was willing to share the knowledge, if you asked nicely.
Not, they all knew, that that would cut any ice with Molly.
"Jay said I could wander round," said George, all Southern Gentleman charm.
Molly's futuristic head of Day-Glo orange hair seemed to fizz with indignation. "You mean Jay told you to soften me up," she said curtly. She spun round and shouted at the telephone, "The answer's still no, Jay, you Machiavelli. Millionaires are the clients from hell. And another thing "
George Hunter leaned round her and cut the call. No hesitating. He took one look at the state-of-the-art machine and pushed a couple of buttons.
Abby and Sam exchanged startled glances. But he was ignoring everyone in the office except Molly.
"I think we need to talk about this," he said in that alluring drawl. "Come and have a coffee. Tell me just for the sake of argument if I asked you, how you would set about turning this boring old millionaire hip?"
Boring? Old?
Molly gulped. She recognized mockery and she was not used to it. To her fury and everyone else's astonishment, she blushed to her eyebrows.
George Hunter smiled. All old-fashioned charm, he took her arm. And walked her out of the office.
And Molly Molly went with him like a sleepwalker.
George Hunter was a stranger in town. But he did not ask Molly where to go. He led her unerringly past the chain coffee shops to the little lace-curtained caf้ run by two Polish sisters who made the best coffee in Kensington, the heart of fashionably exclusive West London.
He summoned a waitress, by sheer animal magnetism as far as Molly could see.
"How do you take your coffee?"
"B-black."
She shook her head at cream pastries and he gave the order. Then sat back and considered her thoughtfully.
"So you don't like millionaires."
Molly pulled herself together. It was difficult with warm brown eyes wandering over her in leisurely appreciation, but she managed it.
"What's to like?"
His eyes glinted wickedly. "Is that a challenge?"
She hadn't meant it as a challenge. But Molly had one rule: You never, ever run away. Her chin lifted.
"Take it any way you want."
He nodded. "You know, you interest me."
"Oh gosh. You really know how to flatter a girl."
She widened her eyes at him. They were sea green and eloquent, with heartbreakingly long lashes. Smitten copywriters had been known to compose odes to them.
George Hunter did not look as if he was about to break out in poetry. He looked amused, entertained, and very slightly wary.
"That's no use. What I need to know is how to get you interested in me," he said coolly.
Molly sat up straight. "We are talking professionally, of course."
His lids dropped. "Take it any way you want," he quoted back at her.
Fortunately the waitress brought their coffee then, so she was off the hook for an answer.
When the woman had gone, he said, "I'm a bit disappointed, I admit."
Molly stiffened. "Oh?"
"Well, you haven't asked why I want a PR consultant."
"You want everyone to love you. That's why anyone wants a PR consultant."
"You're as smart as a whip, aren't you?" Just briefly there was a hint of annoyance in the slow-as-molasses voice. "Why should I want people to love me?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you want to run for president one day."
He said flatly, "I want to sell a car."
She was so startled she stopped playing it cool. "A car? But I thought you started up a software company."
"I diversified."
"But a car!"
"I trained as an engineer. And I like solving problems." Yes, definitely annoyed.
"What problems?"
"Now you're sounding much more professional," he said, so approvingly that Molly wanted to hit him. "It's revolutionary. Lighter, fewer moving parts, runs on sugarcane residue. Renewable energy source."
She sipped her coffee, frowning. This was not what she expected from a millionaire friend of supercool Jay Christopher.
"If it's that good, it won't need PR," she pointed out. "Everyone's desperate for a green car."
"Yeah, but nobody knows me here. And I'll have to start up in Europe. Back home we don't get real excited about saving oil."
"I see."
He leaned forward. "I don't want you to make me look warm and fuzzy. Or even hip. Just a reasonable man with a good idea."
Put like that, it was difficult to turn him down. Which was no doubt what he intended. Molly eyed him broodingly.
"It's not my usual field, but "
"We're going to make a great team."
She looked into eyes that were much, much too warm, and felt a warning flutter up her spine.
"No teamwork," she said with determination. "You brief. I implement. That's the way it works."
"But I like to work closely with my consultants."
"Tough. I don't."
He raised an eyebrow. It made him look like the God of the Underworld. Relaxed and amused but still, definitely, a Dark Lord.
Molly said as much to herself as to him, "Don't do that."
He looked even more amused. "Do what?"
"Purr at me."
He laughed aloud. "You're very jumpy."
She said between her teeth. "I am not jumpy. I just don't do tall, dark, and handsome."
He considered that. "Seems a pity," he murmured at last.
She gasped. Then, reluctantly, laughed. "No false modesty about you, is there?"
"No false anything. What you see is what you get."
His eyes locked on hers. She felt hot all of a sudden.
"I hope not," she muttered.
He considered that for a moment. The Lord of the Underworld considering a human's destiny. Then he gave a small nod.
"I think I might just have to do something about that."
"Well?" said Sam.
Molly had been back from coffee with her millionaire for a full hour, in which time she had said nothing. Now she came out of her reverie with a jerk.
"What?"
"Him with the drop-dead gorgeous smile and the devil's eyebrows. Are you going to take him on, or not?"
"No chance. Absolutely not. No way."
Sam waited.
"He thinks I'm jumpy," Molly burst out. "And he likes teamwork."
"Bad," agreed Sam, shaking her head.
"And that car of his! Fueled by sugarcane! Pure science fiction."
"I know," said Sam." Jay says he's brilliant but no one will take his car seriously."
"Wow, what a surprise," muttered Molly.
"Don't worry. He rang Jay after you talked. Said he thought the idea might be too advanced for us."
Molly stiffened at that. "He means too advanced for me."
"He didn't say that "
"Just because I wouldn't flirt with him." Sam began to look alarmed. "How dare he? Too advanced for me? Nothing's too advanced for me." Molly's eyes snapped. "Where's that brief? Give it here."
It was on Sam's desk where Jay Christopher had left it in Molly's absence. Sam picked it up but she did not hand it over.
"It needs a really light touch," she said warningly.
"I'm the lightest there is," said Molly with an evil smile. "Hand it over.
* * *
Jay Christopher rang his friend to tell him.
"Congratulations. I'm not even going to ask you how you swung it. But you've got yourself a good deal. Molly di Perretti is the best."
"Hmm," said George. "The lady seems a bit narrow-minded to me. Told me she doesn't like millionaires."
Jay was entertained. "Molly's an original. You'll just have to change her mind."
"I'm planning to," said George coolly.
From the moment Molly agreed to take on the assignment, George Hunter turned into the original Nightmare Client. It was no consolation that Molly had known he would. Or that the rest of the office hid in broom cupboards to catch a glimpse of him when he came in for a client consultation.
She found out what he meant about teamwork. She proposed a strategy. He only agreed to the stuff he thought might be fun, regardless of her advice. And then he went and changed his mind after she had set up the media interviews.
In the end, she banged her notebook down on the desk and stood over him, hands on her hips.
"You're blasting my reputation to bits."
He used those wonderful brown eyes to look wounded. "You never let me get anywhere near your reputation."
"My professional reputation. I've set up two TV interviews for you this week. You've blown them both off."
He shrugged. "I'm still on East Coast time. I can't get up at five to do some breakfast show. I'd just sleep through it."
She sighed in exasperation. "You mean you need a minder."
"You offering?" he said hopefully.
Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "I," she said with emphasis, "am in line for an industry award. I'm not letting you torpedo it because you can't get out of bed in the morning."
"Sounds promising," he said encouragingly.
She ignored him. "I'll set up one more round. We can break the back of the local stations if we go on the road for a few days."
"We?" For a moment he looked surprised, then hid it smoothly. "That sounds real nice."
"No it doesn't. It sounds like hard work."
"You're going to get yourself another one of those awards if you look after me like that, ch่re." His voice had an edge to it.
Molly sent him a long, level look. She was beginning to learn how to deal with George Hunter.
"Not a chance. Any idiot can sell rich people."
George raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me? What are you saying here?"
"I'm saying," said Molly with relish, "that millionaires don't count."
George was not used to apologizing for being a millionaire. He was not about to start now. Especially not to a woman who dyed her hair orange and painted her nails black. And had a body that was beginning to figure in his dreams. Though he was not thinking about that at the moment.
He asked, "How old are you?"
Molly blinked. She had the most amazing blue-green eyes. Sometimes when he startled her they looked misty and vulnerable. Not at all like the razor-tongued hip chick she claimed to be.
"Twenty-three. Why?"
"Twenty-three. That's young to be so set in your ways."
She stiffened and her eyes stopped looking misty. "Set in my ways?" she echoed, stunned.
"This prejudice against millionaires," he drawled. "What have we ever done to you?"
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Employed me," she said literally. "And been a damned nuisance about it."
George was thoughtful. "And that's all? Or has some tycoon dumped you in the past and the rest of us are getting his punishment."
Her body twitched. For a moment he thought she might break into a little war dance.
But she did not. She gritted her teeth so hard that he could see the muscle working in her jaw.
"Nobody dumps me," she said grandly.
He looked skeptical.
"Look," said Molly. "Millionaires come in two types, right? Those who got lucky. Boring. Those who worked for it. Obsessed. Not a lot I can do with either, professionally."
George absorbed this. There was more truth to it than he liked. He began to see that this was a battle he might not win.
"And personally?" he murmured in that hot-Southern-night drawl that he knew made her shiver, no matter how much she didn't want it to.
She shivered. And stopped herself. And glared.
"None of your business," she said curtly.
George gave her the slow, intense, up and under look that had brought more experienced women than Molly di Perretti out in a cold sweat.
"And if I make it my business?" he purred.
She met his eyes. No cold sweat. Not much of anything at all. He had the feeling he had opened the door into a vast ice room.
"Then I quit."
He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "You're serious."
"Believe it," said Molly suddenly sounding a lot older than twenty-three.
He was silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "Okay. You win. But you've got to give the car a chance. Hate me all you like but don't hate the car. In fact, you'd better come and be introduced."
Which was how he got her out to his mansion on the banks of the Thames River, on one of the most perfect days in spring. It was not the success he hoped. She looked at the bridal shower of cherry trees in blossom without enthusiasm.
"Not a country girl?"
"I was born in Milan, raised in Glasgow. The nearest I got to country was Bologna, when I " She broke off.
"When you " he prompted.
But she shook her head. "Where's this car?"
He gave up and took her to the workshop.
To his surprise she didn't hover in the doorway, keeping her smart charcoal trouser suit out of the way of oil and grease. She mooched around the shelves, picking bits of metal up and examining them.
"It's like a set for Mad Max!"
George was oddly hurt. "I'm an inventor. What did you expect?"
"Not that." She looked at him curiously. "I thought the car was a rich man's whim." She sounded stiff. "I apologize."
He laughed. "Oh, I'm the original Professor Brainstorm."
And she smiled at him. She smiled.
Suddenly. Blindingly. No reservations. No shadows. He saw the curious child she had been and the competent woman she had become. He saw fun and vulnerability and intelligence and solitariness. And passion.
He wanted it. All. He wanted it so much it took his breath away.
She said, laughing, "Okay, you've made your point. I forgive you for being a millionaire. Satisfied?"
"Not in a million years," George said to himself silently.
Their harmony did not last. Once a Nightmare Client, always a Nightmare Client. It took less than one hour on the road to show Molly that.
"Your itinerary," George told her. They were driving up the motorway in his fire-engine-red sports car. He had canceled the train tickets she booked. "I've made a few changes."
"Oh?" said Molly coldly.
"Yes. I don't like staying in city centers. The traffic keeps me awake."
She looked at his broad shoulders and the strong, relaxed hands on the wheel. "I can see you're a bundle of nerves."
His eyebrows twitched together, annoyed. "No, I can handle it, if I have to. But why be uncomfortable? I've booked us into country house hotels instead."
Molly sighed. "Then the owls will keep you awake."
He sent her a quick sideways glance. "Ah, but I'm used to the crickets on the bayou," he drawled, soulful. "So much more romantic, don't you think?"
She looked rigidly ahead. "You're the client," she said woodenly. "Do what you want."
"What do you think is romantic, Molly di Perretti? Tell me your dream."
"Sleeping in my own bed," said Molly, goaded. And at once thought, I shouldn't have said that.
The atmosphere in the car could not have been more sultry if they had been out on the porch in one of his Louisiana hot summer nights. She felt her skin prickle with awareness and thought in despair, What is happening to me?
At last he drawled, "That could be arranged, ch่re," and she could hear the smile in his voice.
The man was sex on wheels. Just sitting next to him in a confined space made the sexual tension as thick as butter. Yet he had not said one thing she could object to. Heck, he had not even asked her if she had a boyfriend. Every client who had even flirted with her asked if she had a boyfriend.
He said idly, "Live alone?"
Molly knew he was just making conversation but it did not matter. She had hit some sort of point of no return on her self-control program. She swung round in the car seat and glared at him.
"Now, listen. I don't date clients," she announced flatly. "And anyway, quite apart from the millionaire issue, I hate cars, I hate computers. I have a full and satisfying social life and my living arrangements are none of your business."
George's smile widened. "Thought so."
You couldn't hit a man while he was driving, thought Molly wistfully. She sank back in her seat and wished that her galloping pulse was entirely due to justified annoyance. No man should be able to see through her that clearly.
And then she thought, No man ever has before.
Her pulses braked to normal in simple shock.
Still idle, he asked, "What were you doing in Bologna?"
"Six months' university," said Molly, too shaken to lie as she normally did.
No man has ever sat beside me and made me tingle with longing just by laughing at me, either.
"Short course."
"No it wasn't. I ran away with a rock band." Well he might as well know. Maybe that will stop him digging.
But he did not ask about the band. "Why Bologna?"
"My grandparents live there. In Italy you go to university where you live."
"And you didn't like it?"
"Sure. It was cool. A real student city. Lots of clubs, brilliant bars, great music, great bookshops."
"And still you ran away?"
Without her realizing it, her hands had clenched tight in her neat charcoal lap. She relaxed her fingers carefully.
"I fell in love."
"You know," said George, after a pause, "I have a theory."
Molly struggled back from the horrors of memory and tried to pull herself together. You were supposed to talk to the man at the wheel on a long drive, after all, weren't you?
So she tried to sound interested, even enthusiastic. "Oh? What sort of theory?"
"That you don't have a problem with millionaires. You have a problem with love."
"Oh," said Molly, in quite a different voice.
"You think it's only for the young and silly."
She was speechless.
"Just a hypothesis," drawled her tormentor. "Needs a field trial."
She stared straight ahead at the tarmac gleaming in the spring sun. Cars were strung out along the great curve ahead of them, like a many-looped necklace of misshapen pearls.
Concentrate on the cars. Don't let him get to you.
"Don't even think about it," she said through frozen lips.
"I was right. You are jumpy." He sounded intrigued again.
"No I'm not. I'm just not discussing my love life with you."
"That's all right," said George, with odious kindness. "I prefer to do my own research anyway."
Molly dropped her bright orange head and banged it rhythmically against the dashboard.
George made concerned noises. "Not feeling so good? Do you want to pull over?"
She stopped banging. "Why me?" she asked the gods.
"Well, now "
"Don't," she snapped.
"What?"
Her lips unfroze. Fury does that. "Don't answer. Don't say a thing. Not for the rest of this journey. You are the most irritating man I have ever met and I wish I were anywhere else in the world. But I am a professional and I will stick with this assignment for the next three days. As long as you do not speak one more word."
George laughed. "You've got it."
He was as good as his word. He kept silent all the way to Leeds.
And once there, in the television studio, she began to see exactly what kind of Nightmare Client she had on her hands.
It was the same everywhere after that. Every television program, every radio station. Always the same. She wrote carefully pitched dialogue. He ignored it. For the phone-ins she prepared typical question-and-answer briefings. She even revised it nightly, based on the day's calls. As far as she could tell he did not even read it.
George Hunter did his own thing.
Oh, he was good all right. Even under unflattering studio lights he still looked like the god of the underworld. And that lazy, dangerous charm reached straight out across the camera and sank in its fangs. Even Molly, seething, could see that.
But eventually, even the people he was fascinating began to listen to what he said. And he was not diplomatic to the callers. He was knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and funny. And very, very rude.
Sitting in the box with the director of a local West Country television station on the penultimate day of the trip, Molly dropped her head in her hands.
"Please don't let him have said that," she moaned.
"Controversy. Good for the ratings," said a production assistant, grinning. "Especially with a tasty article like that."
"He's supposed to be getting someone to put his damn car into production. Not starting World War Three."
The production assistant listened to her headphones for a moment. "Well, the phones are ringing off the hook. You've got yourself a celebrity in the making there."
Molly flinched as if she had burned herself. Just as well that George was not there to see that recoil, she thought. He would have scented a mystery. And developed one of his theories. And road tested it.
She said, "I've got more than a celebrity. I've got a major pain in the ass."
She meant it. The question was, what was she going to do about it.
Molly could barely contain herself as they came out into the warm spring afternoon.
Don't speak in anger. Think about the sun on the daffodils. Keep calm, she told herself.
"I thought that went real well," said the Nightmare Client cheerfully, striding out. He looked as if he had just conquered the planet.
Beside him, Molly set her teeth and counted to 10.
He can't be all bad. Think about his qualities. Count them.
There were many. Hooded brown eyes that danced at awkward moments. Shoulders that women dream of. Oh, and he was best friends with the boss. Remember that, Molly.
Now those brown eyes glanced at her sideways. "You obviously don't agree."
She counted to 10 again. It was no good.
"No, it didn't go well." Her voice was so controlled it twanged. "It was a disaster."
He grinned. She could have danced with fury.
Any other man would have been angry. He was paying good money for her services after all. Clients expected their public relations consultants to be well, good at public relations. That included buttering up the client, as well as everyone else in sight. Not the bit of PR that Molly was best at, even under ideal circumstances.
And these were far from ideal. She had been on the road with Gorgeous George Hunter, inventor, millionaire, and as she had learned to her cost maverick for three days. She had never exercised so much self-control in her life.
"You're a perfectionist," he said soothingly. Soothingly!
She was supposed to be the one who was doing the soothing here. And encouraging. And running the whole damned publicity tour.
Instead of which George Hunter, for all his sweet Southern manners, had hijacked control somehow. And seemed to be having the time of his life.
She held on to her temper. It was a superhuman effort but she did it. I'm a professional. Even if George Hunter isn't.
He sighed. "What was wrong this time? I enjoyed myself."
Molly stopped dead. The wind was whipping falling cherry blossoms through the 18th-century street. The sky had darkened. Fat drops of rain splashed onto the honey-colored flagstones in front of her. Soon it would be raining hard.
She did not care. She was close to her breaking point and she knew it.
She fixed her tormentor with a level look. "I know you did."
He cocked an eyebrow. It made him look stunningly sexy.
"So? Can't PR be fun?"
She breathed carefully. "You told the first caller that she needed to get her husband to explain the combustion engine to her," she said in her most neutral voice. "And called the second one a greedy fool."
He was unrepentant. "I've met the guy. He is a greedy fool."
Molly counted some more. "Maybe." She still sounded calm. Amazing! "But it is not good PR to insult the public."
He gave her his warm, wonderful smile. It was guaranteed to turn any female under 90 into a cuddly toy. A hungry cuddly toy with "Please Love Me" embroidered on its shirt.
Molly had done her time as a cuddly toy, though not, admittedly, George Hunter's. It was a long time ago. She wanted to hit him so hard, her knuckles holding on to her trendy briefcase were white with the effort of keeping it by her side.
"That's why I need you with me," said the Nightmare Client soulfully. "To give me these little nudges in the right direction."
Anyone trying to nudge George Hunter off his chosen course, thought Molly, would get batted into outer space.
She said bitterly, "Need me? You ignore my briefing. Laugh at my ideas. And overturn all my arrangements. How can you possibly say you need me?"
"Of course I need you," said George Hunter calmly. "Why else would I hire you? Culp and Christopher is the most expensive PR agency in London."
Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "Also the trendiest. Also the best."
Their eyes clashed.
His lips twitched. "Quite. I always buy the best."
There was vivid proof of that across the heritage town's discreetly hedged car park. Even among the aristocratic Land Rovers and Mercedes, it stood out. George's Ferrari.
It was the only one in the place, of course. It was so red it made her eyes hurt.
He followed her narrowed eyes. "Only class acts need apply," he said as if he was agreeing with her. He sounded amused.
Molly raised her elegant eyebrows. They were plucked within an inch of their life and they were very good for crushing people. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Simple truth," he assured her, uncrushed. "When I made my first million I made myself a promise: You only buy the best from now on, George."
He paused expectantly.
Molly lost it. She could not help it. He had been goading her for three days without a break.
"You have not," she said between her teeth, "bought me."
He looked startled. Only for a moment, but it was something.
But he turned the tables on her at once. She should be getting used to it by now. Why was it always a surprise?
"Of course not." His brown eyes gleamed. "Just your er expertise."
Somehow, he managed to make it sound slightly grubby. Molly was certain that it was deliberate. But there was not one damn thing she could do about it.
The client was always right. At least that's what her boss told her. Her boss, George Hunter's best friend. The sole reason she could not walk away from all this unprovoked aggravation right now.
Well, no, not the sole reason. There was her self-respect to be considered, too. Also, her professional reputation. And the sheer difficulty of getting decent PR for a car whose playboy inventor did not take anything seriously, least of all his own campaign.
No, she wouldn't walk away.
Molly drew herself up to her full height. "Shall we go?" she said coldly.
"Fine."
George looked almost disappointed. He enjoyed the fights, she knew. Another reason not to walk away.
They crossed to the car in silence. That was partly because she had to move at a near-run to keep up. George Hunter had long legs and made no concessions to women in four-inch heels.
Molly set her teeth, and did not complain. Pride, of course. But pride was the only thing that had kept her going.
The Nightmare Client opened the passenger door and stood back to let her get into his car. She gave him her best professional smile the one that that came with Don't-Mess-with-Me warning lights and got in.
Here we go for the next nightmare drive to the next city, she thought. George she called him George in her head; aloud she worked hard at not calling him anything will drive at a squillion miles an hour and spend the whole journey talking about saving fossil fuels. And he says women are inconsistent!
Stay professional, Molly. Stay professional. Tomorrow you'll be back in London. No more broad shoulders, seductive brown eyes, or pigheaded determination to put a torpedo under your campaign.
No more sleepless nights either. Tonight she would say goodbye to George Hunter forever. And breathe again.
George eased himself into the Ferrari beside her. He did not turn on the engine for a moment, though.
Molly breathed hard. Her fingernails were scoring deep grooves into the leather of her expensive briefcase with the effort of maintaining a dignified silence.
"You know you're cute when you huff through your nose like that," he said reflectively. "Any dragon in your ancestry?"
Molly gave up. Sometimes professional was just not an option. She put back her head and screamed.
The Nightmare Client grinned. "I like a woman who can let herself go."
It was deliberate provocation and Molly knew it. She struggled not to whip back a retort in kind.
Eventually she said in her crispest voice, "I'll make a note of that for the press pack tomorrow, shall I?"
He did not like that, she saw with satisfaction. He did not lose concentration. Over the enforced intimacy of the past three days she had learned that George Hunter never lost concentration. But one eyebrow rose.
"Why tell the press?"
"Because that's what I do." She was heavily patient. She enjoyed being heavily patient. "About 90 percent of PR is briefing the press, one way or another."
"Briefing them on the car," corrected George uneasily. "Not me."
She gave him a wolfish smile. "Oh, but you're much more interesting."
That would get him nervous, she thought. That would wipe the superior half smile off that handsome face. That would win her a much-needed point in this devilish game of his.
She was wrong.
There was a pause. Then George said thoughtfully, "You don't think so."
And sat back pleasurably waiting for her to blush.
Molly ground her teeth. What could she do? If she said no, she didn't think he was interesting, she had made his point for him. If she said yes, she did find him more interesting than his blasted car, she opened the door to heaven knows what.
Molly might refuse to acknowledge it just at the moment, but she knew there was a simmering attraction between her and George Hunter. In the past three days he had said nothing that the most modest woman could object to. But she reacted to half the things he said as if they were invitations to bed.
So no, she was not going to say aloud that she found him interesting. Which meant another easy win for George Hunter. Again.
But she wasn't going to blush either.
"Drive," she advised. "We've got places to go. People to see."
He sighed. Then set the Ferrari in motion.
"I guess you'll tell me the truth one day, ch่re."
She shuddered at the thought. Truth, in Molly's experience, was an unexploded bomb. Especially where sex was concerned.
Forget that. You haven't thought about it for years.
But they were driving through the gentle Somerset countryside now. Exactly the place where she had found out just what fire truth and sex ignited when they mixed. It had sent her whole life up in flames.
Most of the time she managed to put it out of her mind. But it had changed her forever. And she certainly did not want clever, game-playing George Hunter digging into what happened here five years ago.
So she said, "All right. I think you're a phenomenon. Really." She showed her teeth in a smile that was 100 percent hostility. "Nerds of the world, unite!"
"A nerd?" George asked. He didn't sound offended. He sounded intrigued.
Well, he would, wouldn't he? He had probably never been told he was boring before, thought Molly. Not by an employee. Especially not by a woman.
Especially not a woman he was driving along with, through lanes frilled with spring leaves and hawthorn blossom, in too many thousands of dollars' worth of expensive bright red sports car.
Time for George Hunter to learn a lesson or two. Molly said politely, "Sorry. Should I have made that supernerd?"
The handsome mouth tightened. Just a fraction. But she saw it and felt a small triumph. He had been needling her for three days. This was her first hit in retaliation.
"Depends on what exactly goes into being a nerd. Sometimes these English expressions lose me."
"Then let me explain," said Molly with relish. "A nerd has no time for people. He is in love with his computer."
"I see." It was a slow drawl and just a touch frosty.
Not pleased at all, thought Molly. She mentally hugged herself.
"And a supernerd?" The drawl stretched like a hammock in the sun.
"With a supernerd, the computer is in love with him," she said, triumphant.
He winced theatrically. "Yes, you told me you didn't like computers. You weren't joking, were you?"
"Too right."
"And you did say you were only 23?" he mused.
Molly was unmoved. "I've done my time as a nerd. I grew out of it."
"You are so hidebound," said George, seriously put out for once. "People need computers. I run a global company and make millions because they need them."
"I use them. I just have a life, as well."
The bright new leaves met over their heads. They were driving through a tunnel of golden green. Lacy shadows mottled the road ahead. George slowed to concentrate.
Maybe that was why he sounded unusually irritable. "I have a life. I'm a citizen of the world."
"No, you aren't." Molly was on a roll.
"I assure you I am." There was steel in the smooth voice now. "I can make myself comfortable anywhere in the world."
"You mean you make yourself comfortable anywhere there is an international hotel. All you need is a laptop and blinds you can close against the light."
They came out of the lacy shadows onto a wide plain. The car speeded up.
"Don't forget the surge suppressor," agreed George mildly. But a muscle was leaping in his cheek and his hands on the steering wheel were rigid. "Don't you think your image of a software manufacturer is out of date? I'm not even going to talk about clich้s."
Molly stretched pleasurably. "The thing about clich้s is they're so true that everyone says them all the time."
She had needled him. There was no doubt about it. She put her hands behind her head and whistled.
She let herself get carried away for a lovely moment. "Nerds," she said ruminatively, "are an interesting species. Hunched from crouching over computer monitors for 18 hours a day. Indoor pallor. The successful ones and you're very successful, aren't you? have wild obsessive eyes."
There was a pause.
She thought, quite suddenly, I've gone too far.
He did not say anything. But he swirled the red monster in the driveway of a farm gate and stopped. He turned to her.
"Wild obsessive eyes, huh?"
They were not wild at all. They were steeply lidded, brown, and warm. Too warm.
In the past three days, Molly had seen them laughing. She had seen them melting. She had even promised herself that they would not melt her.
She had never seen them as they looked now. Intent. So dark they were almost black. Not a glimmer of humor. No hint of seduction. Just close.
Very, very close. Too close.
She began, "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I mean, you're the client. I er look, do you want me " She was going to say "to apologize" but she didn't get the chance.
George Hunter leaned across, took her chin in firm fingers and turned her head toward him.
"I'm glad you brought that up," he murmured.
And kissed her.
Oh, help. I should have seen this coming.
George's kiss was warm and firm, just as Molly would have expected. Had she thought about it. Which she hadn't. Of course, she hadn't.
But there was something unexpected about it, as well. And that was her own reaction.
Molly di Perretti, queen of the dance floor, late-night party animal, and babe of choice in the dreams of the male half of London's coolest PR agency, had never gasped like a Jane Austen heroine in her life. She did not come over all quivery and breathless because a man laid hands on her. She did not faint when a man kissed her. Molly di Perretti, she told herself sharply, kissed him right back.
She kissed him back.
She had to, right? Her self-respect demanded it. Maybe even depended on it.
So she slid her hand round the back of his neck, where the hair sprang warm as a fox against her fingers, and drew him into her. Let her mouth soften voluptuously. Let her eyes drift shut. Concentrated...
And the world exploded.
For a moment she couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but ride the unexpected tidal wave that threatened to drown them both.
There were too many clothes between them. She scrabbled at his shirt, at her own. She felt dizzy. She knew this was crazy and utterly uncool and she didn't care. Her blood thrummed in her ears, his breath filled her mouth and she was desperate not to fall off that surging, frightening wave.
And then he let her go.
Molly shot back in her seat, disbelieving. Her eyes flew open. If fainting was out, so was a sensuality high.
"Nope," said George Hunter pleasantly.
Molly blinked. "What?"
"No, I am not interested in Sultry Susan from Sex City."
"What?"
He turned on the engine and put the car into gear again, quite as if nothing had happened.
"If you want to kiss me, fine. Gets my vote every time. But you have to kiss me. Not go into star performance mode, and the hell with the guy on the receiving end."
Molly swallowed. She was conscious of a faint ringing in her ears. And her bra was too tight. Bet that never happened to a Jane Austen heroine either.
"Is that what I did?" she said, dazed.
This is not real. I can't be sitting in a massive sports car, driving down an English country lane, talking about my kissing technique.
"Yup. That's what you did."
She took a couple of deep breaths. The kiss had left her oddly shaky. She was not going to let George Hunter see that, of course.
"Well, no one else has complained."
His mouth quirked. "I'm not surprised. As performances go, it's a blast."
"But not good enough for you?" she challenged him.
He did not take his eyes off the road. "I don't want a performance. I want the real thing."
Molly snorted. "Oh puh-lease!"
He did look at her then. His brown eyes were warm again, and amused. Maybe too warm, too amused.
Molly stirred uneasily. She didn't want a man looking at her like that. As if he had made an entertaining discovery that nobody else knew about.
"Not a romantic?" he asked.
"We're in the 21st century, in case you hadn't noticed. What's romance got to do with anything? Sex is sex and let's thank God for it. I don't need it dressed up."
It was his turn to blink. "Dressed up?"
She waved a hand. She was pleased to see how steady it was. "Red roses. Champagne. Walking hand in hand and darling, they're playing our tune. All that baloney."
"You're a hard woman." He sounded as if he was about to burst out laughing.
Molly did not feel like laughing at all. In fact Molly felt as if she had been hit by a meteor and was still reeling. And Molly was going to cling like a limpet to the strategy that had ensured her survival for the past five years.
"You'd better believe it," she said grimly.
And George Hunter gave her a long slow smile that said he believed and knew a challenge when he saw one.
The final interview of the day went past Molly in a fog. She assumed George did not actually come to blows with anyone. She had her own troubles to worry about.
How could he have kissed her like that? Or if he wanted her that much, how had he let her go? Because he did not touch her again the whole afternoon.
Above all, why on earth had she not marched away from him at the first town they came to? Molly di Perretti knew her own mind and was good at speaking it. She never took any crap from clients.
So why?
The conundrum engaged her all the way until they turned into a drive guarded by a gothic gatehouse and huge wrought-iron gates. Molly was almost sure she knew those gates. She had hoped never to see them again.
She sat bolt upright as the red Ferrari swept up to the country house hotel. Her heart sank all the way up the drive.
Not here. Please not here. Please let this not be the hotel I think it is.
But of course it was. It was that sort of week.
Wonder if they'll remember me, too. Or will five years have replaced me by juicier scandals?
Blast George Hunter. Why couldn't the man have left the hotel bookings as they were? Why couldn't he have been a nice ordinary client with no theories and no sex appeal? Well, just ordinary human wattage sex appeal, anyway.
Luckily, the reception staff did not remember her. Or if they did, they were too well trained to say so. But Molly looked round the oak-paneled entrance hall. Smelled the lavender polish and hothouse flowers. And remembered so vividly that she could hardly breathe.
George looked up from signing them in. "Are you all right?"
Molly jumped. Back in the present, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was taken aback. Under the flaming orange hair, her face was ashy and she had a hand to her breast. Well, she felt as if her heart was in a pair of nutcrackers. She must have cradled it against the pain, instinctively.
She thrust her hand down by her side. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
That ashy face needed explaining. "Lilies. The smell always makes me feel queasy," she said rapidly. Even truthfully. There had been lilies in the bar that night.
But George continued to look at her, frowning. "Don't lie to me. It's more than that."
"Another of your theories?" She managed a smile, though she could feel every molecule stretching. "I'm okay, really. Just a bit tired. I'll be better after a rest."
"You're 23 and you've been in a car or a studio all day. You can't possibly be tired."
Molly rallied. "Don't underestimate your own contribution. I've never had a client that kept the adrenaline pumping the way you do."
The moment she said it she thought, Wrong!
George smiled. That was all he did. Just smile. And at once she was back in the car. Hotly, she remembered the kiss, her own crazy hunger, the way he let her go as if it meant nothing at all.
"I can't believe I said that," she said in anguish.
His smile widened.
They had the whole of the dark, flagstone lobby between them but she could feel his hands on her as if they were still writhing in the front seat. She even looked down quickly to check her buttons.
George was unrepentant. "No point in not enjoying yourself."
"Oh?" she said awfully. "Like I've been doing on this trip, you mean?"
His eyes gleamed. "Luxury hotel. Finest car in the world and a millionaire genius to drive it for you. What's not to enjoy?"
She said intensely, "Do you know that while you're in the studio, I sit outside bracing myself? Being your PR consultant is a high-anxiety activity."
He laughed, "That's better."
Molly was nearly speechless with rage. "Better?"
"It's brought the color back into your cheeks, anyway."
He was right. She had forgotten the hurt for a moment.
He leaned over and touched the back of his hand to her face. "I never want to see you look like that again," he said gravely. "Not while I'm here to stop it."
In her room, Molly sat down shakily. The polished floors sloped alarmingly and there were low beams. She would have to remember that if she padded around in the dark. The four-poster bed had a canopy and curtains in a Tudor rose ivory chintz.
It was beautiful. A room for lovers. She hated it.
A log fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. It sent sparks of light off a cut glass decanter of sherry that stood on a gleaming oak chest. Molly did not have to unstop it to know it contained sherry. She had done that last time, laughing with Francesco over the old-fashioned drink.
She had been happy then. So convinced she was loved. It was the last time.
Molly swallowed, hugging her arms round herself. Why, oh why, couldn't George Hunter have stuck with the hotel she had booked? It had five stars, a gym, and a swimming pool. And no memories.
It didn't matter whether the hotel staff remembered her or not. She remembered.
And George Hunter was waiting for her downstairs with his theories and his nasty sense of humor. And his "I want the real thing." Would she be able to keep up a cool facade under the scrutiny of those acute brown eyes?
"This," said Molly aloud, "is going to be a great evening. Not."
But she had plenty of experience in keeping up a cool facade in the face of disaster. Hell, she had learned it in this very hotel. She could handle the discreetly luxurious dining room, the elaborate French menu, and the small family of cut glass goblets on the starched white tablecloth. She could even handle George Hunter's probing. She was a cool babe and she knew how to keep life under control.
She was doing fine until they retired to a cozy drawing room and the waiter brought coffee. There were two bone china jugs on it.
"Soya milk for Ms. di Perretti," said the waiter, indicating the second one.
Molly felt as if he had launched a bomb. She held her breath, waiting for it to land.
George's eyes narrowed. "Soya milk?"
Her lips felt anesthetized. "I'm lactose intolerant."
"I didn't know that." He sounded annoyed.
And the bomb landed.
"It's on our computer," said the waiter, pleased with his customer care.
George said nothing for a moment. Finished serving, the waiter left.
Molly stared into the fire, fighting for calm. She knew George was watching her. She braced herself to resist interrogation.
"So you've been here before?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to mention it?"
She swallowed something jagged in her throat. "No."
His next question startled her; it sounded almost savage. "Who were you with?"
"The Flowers of Darkness."
"What?"
She smiled. Well, she had a go at smiling. "Flowers of Darkness. They were a rock band. Not a very good rock band."
He looked stunned. "You were a rock chick?" he sounded incredulous.
Molly thought of how she had been five years ago. She had thought she was so sophisticated. But in reality she had been eager, innocent, and much, much too trusting.
"Technically only."
"Tell me."
She flinched.
George leaned forward, his eyes brilliant in the firelight. "Tell me everything. I want to know."
Molly was not going to tell him everything. Of course she wasn't. She could hardly bear to remember the full horrible story herself.
But she would have to tell him something. After three days she knew George Hunter well enough to realize that, at least. She would have to tell him something or he would dig, and needle, and theorize, and speculate until she ended up telling him every last detail, just to get him off her case.
She smoothed her tailored gray trousers. Last time she sat here in front of the fire she had been wearing chains and black leather that was too tight for her ample frame. And her heart was on her biker's sleeve.
"The Flowers were on a European tour. I was basically a roadie. I ran the traveling office from a laptop." Her smile was fleeting. "I told you I'd done my time as a computer nerd. Well, that was it."
George stayed watchful. "Was it rewarding?"
She shrugged. "Paid peanuts. But it was exciting. I was good at it. And I loved being part of all that happening stuff."
And I didn't know they were laughing at me.
George said coolly, "Which one were you sleeping with?"
Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. It hurt so much, she nearly folded over, rocking to soothe the wound.
"Why did I have to be sleeping with any of them?" she countered when she got her breath back.
"Weren't you?"
"You don't have to believe everything you read about bands."
"So it still hurts," he mused, unheeding. "What happened? He dumped you, I suppose?"
Molly gave a bark of unamused laughter. "No, as a matter of fact. I quit."
"Ah."
"I told you that, too. Nobody dumps me. I jump first."
She looked at the coffee. She could not remember ever feeling less like having coffee in her life.
"I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed."
He ignored that. "How old were you?"
That was easy. "Eighteen."
George said slowly. "Five years ago. That's a long time to hurt like that."
It cut like a whip.
She said lightly, "A valuable lesson. All part of the growing up process."
"Sure. But you're supposed to stop hurting eventually, ch่re."
She had been braced for interrogation, mockery, even contempt. Kindness nearly undid her.
She blinked several times, very fast. "I "
"Still hurt. I can see." His voice was very calm. "What did he do to you, ma petite?"
No one had ever called five-foot-ten Molly "petite." She smiled weakly before she pulled herself together.
But when she spoke, her voice was hard. "No one did anything to me. I did it all to myself."
He stood up, suddenly angry. "Don't play games." She had never heard his accent so strong.
She looked up at him. "What?"
"Tell me nothing, if that is what you want. But don't tell me lies and evasions."
Molly was utterly taken aback. Also shaken out of self-pity into simple affront. "I beg your pardon?"
He made a disgusted noise. "You want to hide from the past? Fine. That's your choice. But don't ask me to help you do it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Molly. She sounded like a disapproving dowager. Thank you again, Jane Austen. She stood up, too. "I'll say good-night."
George took a step forward. His eyes were very steady. "Don't go."
If he moved his hand just a couple of inches he would be touching her. If he touched her, she would tell him everything.
If she told him everything, she would die.
"I must. I mean I really am wiped. And I want to go over my notes for tomorrow. " Her voice nearly died on her. " I I'll see you," she said desperately.
She fled.
Molly ran up the stairs as if the devil were after her. She was outside the heavy paneled door before she realized she had left her key behind. Damn!
She really didn't want to have to face George Hunter again. Maybe she could get a replacement key from the reception desk.
"Looking for this?" said a voice behind her.
Cancel the reception desk. Face George, after all. Oh, great!
She turned, pinning a smile on so hard her jaw ached. "Thank you. I just realized. Stupid of me."
"You were upset."
He came up the last few stairs and looked down at her. "You're crying."
Molly realized that her eyes were brimming. She brushed the tears away impatiently.
"I'll get over it."
He unlocked the heavy door for her. It swung open.
"Your own turret," said George approvingly. He waved her inside. "Sit by the fire. I'll get you a drink."
"Not the sherry," said Molly sharply. She went past the four-poster bed as if it were not there and sank down into the great wing chair by the fire. Someone had thrown more logs on it, she saw. Just as well. The spring night held a chill.
He brought her water in a great Jacobean goblet. "Or do you want tea? I know the British think that cures everything. I can call room service."
Molly shook her head. "Tea won't cure me," she said with a ghost of a smile.
"I know what would." The drawl was very pronounced.
She gave a little laugh. It broke in the middle.
"Not sex. Tried that. Didn't work."
George switched out all the lights except the table lamp beside her. Then he sank down onto the aged hearth rug on the other side of the fire.
"I was thinking of talking," he said mildly. "Though if you prefer sex, I guess I could be persuaded."
Molly jumped. Her eyes flew to his.
"Talk," he said gently.
And to her astonishment, she did.
"I burned my bridges when I left university and ran away with Francesco. I knew my grandparents would never take me back."
"You were in love?"
"Oh, yes."
"But ?"
Her smile was wry. "But the band got too successful. I didn't go with the image."
"Ah."
"Took me a long time to realize it. I ran their schedule, controlled the take-down after every gig, all from my pet computer. Francesco said he couldn't do without me. I believed him."
"Sounds reasonable," said George. He drew up one knee and looped an arm round it.
It was incredibly sexy. The God of the Underworld reclining, thought Molly, with an unexpected jerk of awareness.
She said, "And then I got back one night and the band was in the bar. Talking about me. They were sorry for Francesco."
"Sorry for him?"
She swallowed. "Back then I was heavy. Thirty pounds overweight at least. Too much junk food, too much time sitting at the computer. Francesco said it didn't matter. But it mattered."
George said nothing.
On an impulse, she stretched out and switched off the table lamp. It was easier when she could not read his expression. In the firelight his eyes were small flames in the shadows.
"Diego Jonas was the lead. Tall, dark, voice like a pile driver. A chick magnet. Well, he was telling Francesco to go and do his duty. A night on the cold mountain, he called it." She put a hand up to shield her eyes.
George drew in a sharp breath.
"I nearly ran. But then I thought why should I? They could laugh at me all they liked, they still needed me."
"Good for you."
Molly nodded. "And besides, Francesco loved me the way I was. Or so I thought. So I confronted them." She shuddered at the memory. "One overweight teenager against four young stallions. They were kings of the world. They wiped the floor with me. They thought they were being cool. Francesco told me he just felt sorry for me that he could never really love someone like me." Molly sighed heavily, fighting back tears. "Being laughed at when you thought you were loved I couldn't take it. That was when I ran."
"Oh, Molly." His voice was full of compassion.
"After five years I should be over it." Her voice broke. She was furious with herself.
George was silent for a moment. "Why aren't you?"
"Thought I was," she said honestly. "But that final confrontation was here. In the bar downstairs."
He drew a sharp breath. "Hell."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters. You have ghosts to put to rest." He held out his hand. "Will you please just come to bed?"
Molly stared at the tall figure in the firelight. She could not make out his expression. But she knew what it would be. Pity! She could not bear it.
"Don't be sorry for me," she said fiercely.
"I'm not," said George, not backing down.
"Yes you are. Why else would you offer to take me to bed?" She was lashing herself into a fury because she went weak at the knees at the very thought. "I hate the whole Southern Gentleman bit. I don't need chivalry."
"That's just fine by me." His voice was alive with laughter. Laughter! "I'll stop being a gentleman then."
He pulled her out of the wing chair into his arms.
Molly staggered and was clamped hard against him. He moved his hips, explicitly, certainly not the gentleman anymore, and she found that it was not just chivalry, after all. He wanted her. Badly.
She gasped. As if that was what he had been waiting for, his mouth found hers.
Startled, she thought, No. Not like this. Not when he doesn't love me.
But he filled her up his mouth, his scent, the towering body, the eyes that glittered down at her.... Her head fell back and he followed ruthlessly.
She held on to him. She had to. Her legs were turning to water under this assault of the senses. But her brain was still working. Just.
Her brain said, Don't go soft on me! You don't need love. You can do this! You've done it before often enough! You just close your eyes and think what he does to your nerve endings. A little bit of muscle control and it will be fine.
Then George got rid of her jacket and slid his hands under her shirt. And Molly forgot about control of anything.
But there was still that bit of her that called sadly from the distance, If only he loved you!
He brushed his lips against her ear. He was breathless. Oh, he was laughing, too. But he was still breathless, thought Molly. She hugged it to herself: a small triumph for later when she was cold and alone.
"One thing I should warn you," he murmured.
She was placing little butterfly kisses along his jaw. "Y-yes?"
"I like my women naked."
She found his lips. "I can do that."
She stepped out of the rest of her clothes without breaking the kiss.
George took her hands and held her away from him. Her breasts were golden in the firelight, the nipples proud. He groaned.
But he said resolutely, "No, you're not concentrating. It's more than taking your clothes off. You see me. I see you. Completely. That's the deal."
Molly's eyes widened. "The real thing," she said slowly.
That was what he had said in the car. She moistened her lips.
George shut his eyes as if he were in pain. "Don't do that. Not unless you're going to make love to me."
She had made love so many times before. But the real thing. It was a risk. She had never taken a risk like it.
She said, "It will change everything, won't it?"
George gave a shaken laugh. "I certainly hope so."
She put her hands on his chest, searching his shadowed face. She felt tremulous. She had never been tremulous before.
She swallowed. "This is stupid. I want you. But I think I'm a bit afraid."
"Good," said George, suddenly fierce. "That makes two of us."
George did not make love like a Southern Gentleman, she found. He made love like a man inspired.
He lavished care on her, a slow voluptuous care that had her writhing for release until she was all sensation. And when she went hurtling over the edge, he held her hard, shaking with her.
She collapsed among the pillows, gasping.
"Wow." She tried to make a joke but it was shaky. Her body felt tingling and new from her eyebrows down. Especially down.
He smoothed the damp orange hair back from her face. "What color is your hair really?"
"Turquoise," said Molly flippantly.
His eyes gleamed. "I'll make you tell me." A wickedly clever hand found exactly that place that would make her tell him anything he wanted.
But Molly had jumped off the precipice once and she had her self-respect to consider. Okay, muscle control was out. But she still had her imagination. And perhaps love.
She raised herself on one elbow, pushing him back among the pillows. He went, laughing. But his eyes were hungry.
"Well?
"I'm an equal opportunity lover," said Molly, bending to kiss him.
Her sinfully slow journey down his body had him groaning aloud. But when she went to straddle him, he stilled her, his hands too strong for her to resist.
"No, not yet." He was panting. But, unlike her, he was still in control. "You must let me protect you."
A gentleman making a last-ditch stand for chivalry. He had come prepared. And he let her put the condom on.
Then he let go of that implacable control at last. And they rode a tidal wave, together.
She slept in his arms that night, sated.
The next morning, of course, was a minefield.
Last night she had abandoned herself to sleep, secure in the arms of a man who had flown her to the stars. This morning she woke up with a dancing-eyed stranger. One, moreover, who was as darkly handsome as the Lord of the Underworld. And seemed in great spirits.
"My lover," said Molly to herself in the bathroom mirror.
It did not sound convincing somehow.
She was subdued at breakfast. Monosyllabic in the car. Virtually silent at the interviews.
All she could think of was how exposed she felt. Oh, he liked his women naked all right. Why on earth had she not thought before she jumped into bed with him?
When they were on the road back to London at last, George glanced at her thoughtfully.
"Tell me. In this country, if a man comes courting, what is he supposed to do?"
Molly was shaken out of her uneasy reverie. "Courting?"
"Wooing, if you like."
She summoned up a smile from somewhere. "Oh, you're in Southern Gentleman mode again."
"Just a man," said George dryly. "A man needing guidance. I mean, you're not easy."
"No?" said Molly, dry in her turn. "I thought that's exactly what I was."
He shook his head. "Nope. Never met a woman with so many dislikes. No computers. No cars, though mine here is a classic. No red roses, no love songs, no lilies." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "How about chocolate-covered ants?"
Molly bit back a real smile. "No chocolate," she said gravely.
He sighed elaborately. "See what I mean? Not easy."
All desire to smile died. "If you say so."
He took his hand off the wheel and took hers firmly.
"Don't worry ch่re. We'll get there."
He was not talking about London. They both knew it.
And Molly, grappling with a love as shockingly new as it was unwanted, did not believe him.
Why Molly di Perretti?
George pondered the question. Of course, it had started off as a joke. She was so fierce, so determined that millionaires were a waste of space. He had laughed but it piqued him. He wanted to prove her wrong.
Somehow, in proving it, he had got in a lot deeper than he ever intended. A whole lot deeper. Deep enough to drown unless she could be persuaded to rescue him.
That was not going to be easy. He knew it.
George had always liked women. Especially straightforward women. No twists and turns in their minds, no chips on their shoulders.
He would have laughed if anyone had told him that he would fall hopelessly for a prickly beanpole with luminous hair out of a dye package, a mind like a corkscrew, and a bad attitude.
And yet... And yet...
Without her clothes she was not such a beanpole, after all. And without her clothes, tumbled among the Jacobean splendors of a four-poster bed, he had shaken her out of her bad attitude, as well. And in that moment he had lost his heart.
George stopped dead in the middle of his luxury London pied เ terre and ran a finger round his suddenly tightened collar. Not just his heart, he thought ruefully.
So what was he going to do now? She had made him drive her back to the office, not her flat. Oh, he could find out her address from Jay easily enough. But it seemed like cheating. If she didn't give it to him, it wouldn't be the same. And she had resisted his every attempt to see her since.
Not that he had made that many. He had had his holiday. Now there was Orun Electronics to run. He had offices all over the world, a research center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and a factory in California. Eight thousand people depended on him keeping on trucking.
But every chance he got, he hopped back to London and tried again. She was cordial, delighted to talk to him, excited about the results of the campaign, passed on nibbles from car manufacturers interested in his design. She never let him take the conversation anywhere personal. And she would never meet him, only talked to him on the phone.
"You're a difficult woman," he had said to her on the phone today, exasperated.
"It's made me an award winner," she retorted, her voice lilting.
At last he made up his mind. He wanted Molly. But to get her for good, he needed help.
He called Jay Christopher. But Jay couldn't meet him for a drink; he had another engagement.
"Molly di Perretti won a Cameo. That's a PR Oscar. I'm taking everyone out to celebrate."
George had made his fortune by recognizing opportunities and grabbing them with both hands. "Great. I'll come, too."
"It's an in-house bash," Jay had said warningly. "No celebrities, just us PR folk."
George snorted. "I am a celeb, thanks to Molly."
Jay laughed. "I guess you are, at that. Molly did a great job on you, didn't she?"
"The greatest," said George with feeling. "Jay, I've got to see her."
Jay was no fool. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to ask her out?"
"Done that." George was rueful. "Got the T-shirt. And the scars under it."
Jay was silent for a minute. Then he said abruptly, "Hell, why not? It's my party. I can bring a friend if I want."
When George put the phone down his smile faded.
This was one of the most important things he had done in his life. He was going to have to get it right.
She had said she wanted him. Now he needed to turn "want" into "love." Could he do it?
The door to the stylish ladies' room at Culp and Christopher banged back.
Molly carried on drawing a careful outline around her lips. They were a lot more vulnerable than they had been a month ago.
"Jay's bringing Gorgeous George to the party tonight," announced Abby.
Caught unawares, Molly drove the red line up toward her nose.
"You do fancy him," crowed Abby.
"No I don't."
But suddenly all Molly could see was firelight on naked skin. George, his eyes hungry, her hair on his pillow. Shadows...
Abby grinned. They were very good friends. She patted Molly on the arm.
"Enjoy," she said.
Molly came out of her reverie with a jerk. She looked at her watch. If she was going to have to face George, then there were things she had to do.
The Pacific Grill was definitely the place in London's West End to be seen at the moment. It had pyramid-high ceilings, vivid murals, and the meanest margaritas in the city. And the coolest clientele.
And the coolest of all was Molly di Perretti.
She had taken the afternoon to change her hair from tangerine to turquoise. To that she had added turquoise nails with silver lightning zigzags and Nefertiti eye makeup.
George's heart sank the moment he saw her. If she had a spontaneous reaction over the course of the evening, he thought, the Egyptian face paint would hide it completely. He wondered if that was why she had done it.
He commandeered two salt-encrusted glasses and strolled over to her. "Hi, gorgeous. Lost your sarcophagus?"
The girls with her looked taken aback. But Molly was unmoved.
"I'm a prime babe. I always paint up when I go on the town," she told him coolly. "If you were sophisticated you'd know that people expect it."
Sam and Abby exchanged startled glances.
George raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Isn't the sphinx look dated?"
Female solidarity swung into action. Abby said hurriedly, "It's coming back."
"Yes, it is. At Molly's the swinging-from-the-rafters end of the business, anyway." That was Sam. "It's all the rage with pop divas and rock philosophers."
George's eyes danced. "Pop divas and rock philosophers, eh?"
He gave Molly that slow smile that turned her bones to water and her brain to mush.
"No wonder you didn't want me," he said softly.
Blond, kind Sam blinked. "Excuse me?"
"As a client," George said smoothly. "As a client."
But one look at Molly's face, even under the Egyptian queen makeup, told them that was not what he meant at all.
Sam took hold of Abby's wrist and pulled her out of the way. George walked Molly backward until she hit the waves painted on the wall.
"Wow," she said, her back against a polished brass rail that ran round the faux deck of the bar. "Very smooth." She sounded breathless and not entirely pleased.
"Thank you," said George. He handed her the margarita.
She took it, but she said, "It wasn't a compliment."
He smiled at her, the hooded eyes alive with laugher. And something else. What was it?
"Yes it was."
Her chin came up. "Wrong."
He sighed. "Why do you dislike me so much?" For once, he had lost the drawl.
"I don't."
"Yes, you do. You take a chunk out of the fleshy bit of my leg every chance you get. The others don't."
"The others," said Molly, goaded, "don't know that you have legs. They just see a hundred million dollars wrapped up in a dinner jacket, driving a Ferrari."
"And what do you see?"
She hesitated.
"We were lovers." George reminded her. "You must have seen something."
She avoided his eyes. "High octane energy," said Molly coolly. "Minimal slush content."
But her mouth gave her away. That voluptuous, vulnerable mouth. George's body hardened in unequivocal response.
He gave a ragged laugh. "You know, I don't know what you do to your other men, but this is playing hell with my blood pressure."
She glowered. "I don't do anything to other men."
"I'm glad to hear it," said George coolly. "Though it needs looking into."
"Why?"
"You're too young to give up sex."
Molly saw him through a red mist of rage. "I have not given up sex," she yelled.
Even in the Pacific Bar heads turned.
George smiled. "Good." He took her margarita glass away. "Let's go discuss this."
He took her to the new pied เ terre. That was what he had bought it for, after all. Molly raged at him all the way in the taxi. But she did not try to walk away. That had to be a good sign, thought George.
Now if he could only find a way to make her see how he loved her, and how she loved him, he could ask her to marry him and the fun could begin.
Maybe in 20 years he'd convince her, he thought, watching her prowl through the pristine rooms. She picked up a little prancing horse sculpture.
"More Ferrari memorabilia?" She did not try to disguise her contempt.
George braced himself. Here comes the big one, he thought.
He said quietly, "The horse was the emblem of a First World War pilot who Ferrari admired. He was his hero. Good manufacturers put our heart and soul into what we do."
Molly stared.
He took her hands. "I love that car because it's a brilliant piece of design."
She rallied but it was an effort. "And about three people in the world can afford them."
"So? Does that mean they shouldn't exist? That's very puritanical of you." His voice fell to a caressing murmur. "You don't have the mouth for a puritan, either."
He watched her eyes darken. Excitement took hold of his gut. Here goes, then.
He put a hand in his pocket and brought out a small ring box.
"You don't like bouquets. You can't eat chocolate. It limits a man. I couldn't think of anything else."
Molly looked stunned. She took it in those crazy lightning-painted fingernails as if she had never seen a ring box before. She did not say anything.
George despaired then. He said, "Marry me," though he knew it was hopeless.
She looked up at him.
And then And then
She reached up, wove her fingers into the turquoise hair and took it off.
George stared.
She shook out her hair. It was a soft tabby brown. Free, it flowed like silk, wafting the scent of lavender through the still air.
She met his eyes, half defiant, half shy. "It's my natural color. I had it dyed back this afternoon. When I knew you were coming tonight."
He could not believe it. "For me?"
She swallowed, painfully unsure but bravely trying to tease him. "You said you like your women naked. This is as naked as I get."
He was shaken to the heart. Beyond strategy. Beyond anything but the truth.
"Do you love me?"
Molly flinched. He almost said that it didn't matter. That wanting was enough. But he knew it wasn't.
He held his breath.
She put up a hand to her scented hair, looking vulnerable. "Yes. I think so."
He took the box and opened it. The ring was a ruby, red as flame, all fire and mystery. No boring, traditional diamonds for his hip chick.
She stared at it for a long moment in silence. George took it out of the box and took her hand. "You have to be sure."
But he was already smiling. That hair said it all. He slid the ring on her finger. "Marry me, Molly di Perretti, prime babe and hip chick. This millionaire may not count. But he needs you."
She looked down at the ring for a moment, then up into his eyes. She was torn between tears and laughter.
"Not just a millionaire," she teased softly, lovingly. "My hero."
The End