by Lucy King
All afternoon the people she’d been talking to had looked at her closely and asked if she was all right before edging off presumably in search of less ditzy company, and she really couldn’t blame them.
It was driving her nuts. She abhorred ditz. And she hated the way she was being so easily distracted now when she’d always prided herself on her single-mindedness and her ability to focus.
Why was she having such trouble with the effect Marcus had on her today when she generally managed to keep it under control? Why couldn’t she blank him out as she usually did? Why did she keep trying to get a glimpse of him whenever she heard the sound of his voice, and then sighing wistfully when she did?
What was wrong with her? What was this weird sort of ache in her chest? And more importantly right now, she thought, her attention switching abruptly from Marcus and the strange effect he was having on her equilibrium, how was she going to deflect her father, who’d clearly clocked the fact that she was on her own and was bearing down on her, no doubt intending to launch into his usual spiel about her career, her lack of a husband and the direct correlation between the two?
As the pathetic—and pointless—need for his approval surged up inside her the way it always did and briefly smothered her confusion at the way her emotions were running riot this afternoon, Celia cast around for a conversation to join, a guest to corner, anything to avoid him and his own particular brand of paternalism, but she was on her own. The nearest little group contained Marcus, who unbeknownst to her had circulated into her vicinity and from the sounds of it was entertaining for Britain, and that made it a no-no.
Or did it?
As her brain raced through the very limited options open to her Celia made a snap decision. Oh, what the hell? He might not be her greatest fan but Marcus was within grabbing distance, and nothing could be worse than having to suffer her father’s prehistoric ideas and deep disappointment when it came to his one and only daughter.
Aware that her father was fast approaching and there was no time to lose, Celia reached out and clamped her hand on Marcus’ arm. He went still, then turned, surprise flickering across his face. Ignoring the sizzle that shot through her from the contact, Celia looked up at him in what she hoped was a beseeching fashion and said softly, ‘Help me? Please?’
* * *
Well, well, well, thought Marcus, glancing down to where she was clutching his arm and then shifting his gaze to her face, which bore a sort of pleading expression he’d never have associated with her. Who’d have thought? Celia Forrester, a control freak extraordinaire, staunchly independent and so uptight she was in danger of shattering, a damsel in distress. Actually asking for help. His help. She must be desperate.
Resisting the temptation to shake his head in astonishment, he excused himself from the people he’d been talking to, intrigued despite himself by the urgency in her voice and the despair in her expression. ‘Why? What’s up?’ he asked.
‘My father.’
He flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw that Jim Forrester was indeed making a beeline for her. And it was making her jumpy. Which wasn’t entirely surprising. ‘I see,’ he murmured with a nod. ‘What help do you want?
‘I need small talk.’
‘What’s it worth?’
She stared at him for a second. ‘What do you mean, what’s it worth?’
He grinned because had she really expected him not to take full advantage of having the upper hand? ‘Exactly that.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘How about asking me nicely? Then again. And again.’
She gaped. Then snapped her mouth shut and frowned. ‘You want me to beg?’
His smile deepened at her discomfort and he had to admit that there was something rather appealing about having Celia in his debt with this brief and strictly one-off foray into chivalry, should he agree to it. ‘The idea has merit, don’t you think?’
She glared at him, her eyes flashing with indignation, but a second later the attitude had gone and she shrugged. ‘Fine,’ she said flatly as she started to turn away. ‘Forget it. You go back to doing whatever you were doing. I can handle Dad.’
And for some reason Marcus found himself inwardly cursing while now feeling like the biggest jerk on the planet. She might be a pain in the neck, but he knew how difficult she found her father and he knew how much she loathed him, which meant that she was desperate.
And maybe a little vulnerable.
‘Look, sorry,’ he muttered, frowning slightly at the flare of a weird and deeply unwelcome kind of protective streak, because Celia was the last person who needed protecting and the last person he’d ever consider vulnerable. ‘I can do small talk.’
She stopped mid-turn and looked up at him. ‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
‘What do you want in return?’
‘Nothing.’
She arched an eyebrow sceptically, switching back to the Celia he knew and could handle. ‘Seriously?’ she said.
‘Seriously.’
‘Then thank you,’ she said a bit grudgingly, which he supposed was only fair.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Celia,’ boomed her father behind her and he saw her jump. Wince. Brace herself.
But she recovered remarkably well and after taking a deep breath turned and lifted her cheek for her father’s kiss. ‘Dad, you remember Marcus Black, don’t you?’ she said, stepping back to include him in the conversation.
‘Of course,’ said Jim Forrester, flashing him a smile that was probably calculated to be charming but in a couple of years could easily stray into sleazy, and holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks,’ said Marcus, shaking it and then letting it go. ‘You?’
‘Excellent. Great speech.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So how’s business?’
‘Quiet.’
Jim’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I heard it was doing well. So what happened? Hard times?’
He smiled as he thought of the relief he’d felt when he’d signed those papers and released himself from the company that he’d devoted so much of his time and energy to. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘Marcus sold his business, Dad,’ said Celia.
‘Oh, did you? Why?’
‘The thrill of beating the markets had worn off,’ he said, remembering the strange day when he’d sat down in his office, stared at the trading screen flickering with ever-changing figures and, for the first time since he’d set up the business, just couldn’t be bothered. ‘It was time to move on.’
‘You burnt out,’ said Celia, looking at him in dawning astonishment, as if she couldn’t believe he was capable of working hard enough to reach that stage.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I decided to get out before I did.’
‘So what are your plans now?’ asked Jim.
‘I have a few things in the pipeline. Some angel investing. Some business mentoring. I’d also like to set up a kind of scooping-up scheme for able kids who slip through the system and are heading off the rails, which gives them opportunities other people might not.’
He caught the flash of surprise that flickered across Celia’s face and a stab of satisfaction shot through him. That’s right, darling, he thought dryly. Not partying till dawn with scantily clad women. At least, not only that. And perhaps not every night.
‘Philanthropic,’ said Jim with a nod of approval. ‘Admirable.’
It wasn’t particularly. It was just that he’d been given a chance when he’d badly needed it and he simply wanted to pay it forward. ‘I’ve done well,’ he said with an easy shrug, ‘and I’d like to give something back.’
‘Let me know if I can help in any way.’
Jim had a divor
ce law practice so it was doubtful, but one never knew. ‘I will, thanks.’
‘I’m up for partnership, Dad,’ said Celia, and Marcus thought her voice held a note of challenge as well as pride.
‘Are you?’ said her father, sounding as if he couldn’t be less interested.
‘I’ll know in a few months.’
‘That’s all very well and good,’ Jim said even more dismissively, ‘but shouldn’t you be thinking about settling down?’
Marcus felt Celia stiffen at his side, and guessed that this was a well-trodden and not particularly welcome conversation. ‘I enjoy my job, Dad,’ she said with a sigh.
Her father let out a derisive snort. ‘Job? Hah. What nonsense. Corporate lawyer indeed. There are enough lawyers already, and I should know. You should be married. Homemaking or whatever it is that women do. Giving me grandchildren.’
Dimly aware that this was in danger of veering away from small talk and into conversational territory into which he did not want to venture, moment of chivalry or no moment of chivalry, Marcus inwardly winced because, while he hadn’t seen Celia’s father for a good few years, now it was coming back to him that as far as unreconstructed males went one would be pushed to find one as unreconstructed as Jim.
Going on what Dan had said over the years their father had never had much time for Celia’s considerable intellect or any belief in her education, as had been proven when Dan had been sent to the excellent private school Marcus had met him at while she’d been sent to the local, failing comprehensive.
Now it was clear that Jim had no respect for the choices she’d made or the work she did either, but then over the years Marcus had got the impression that the man didn’t have much respect for women in general, least of all his wife and daughter. He certainly didn’t listen to either.
‘And one day I’d like to be doing exactly that,’ she said, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin, ‘but there’s still plenty of time.’
‘Not that much time,’ said Jim brutally. ‘You’re thirty-one and you haven’t had a boyfriend for years.’
Celia flinched but didn’t back down. ‘Ouch. Thanks for that, Dad.’
‘How are you ever going to meet anyone if all you do is work? I blame that ambition of yours.’
‘If my ambition is to blame then it’s your fault,’ she muttered cryptically, but before Marcus could ask what she meant Jim suddenly swung round and fixed him with a flinty look that he didn’t like one little bit.
‘You married?’ he asked.
Marcus instinctively tensed because for some reason he got the impression that this wasn’t merely a polite enquiry into his marital status. ‘No.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Then couldn’t you sort her out?’ said Jim, with a jerk of his head in his daughter’s direction.
Celia gasped, her jaw practically hitting the ground. ‘Dad!’
Marcus nearly swallowed his tongue. ‘What?’ he managed, barely able to believe that this man had basically just pimped out his daughter. In front of her.
‘Take her in hand and sort her out,’ Jim said again with the tact and sensitivity of a charging bull. ‘Soften her up a bit. You have a reputation for being good at that and with the business gone and your future projects not yet up and running you must have time on your hands.’
‘Stop it,’ breathed Celia, red in the face and clearly—and understandably—mortified.
Not that Marcus was focusing much on her outraged mortification at the moment. He was too busy feeling as if he’d been hit over the head with a lead pipe. He was reeling. Stunned. Although not with dismay at Jim’s suggestion. No. He was reeling because an image of taking Celia into his arms and softening her up in the best way he knew had slammed into his head, making his pulse race, his mouth go dry and his temperature rocket.
Suddenly all he could think about was hauling her into his arms and kissing her until she was melting and panting and begging him to take her to bed, and where the hell that had come from he had no idea because she didn’t need sorting out. By anyone. Least of all him. And even if he tried he’d probably get a slap to the face.
God.
Running his finger along the inside of his collar, which now felt strangely tight, Marcus tried to get a grip on his imagination and keep his focus on the conversation instead of the woman standing next to him. The woman who couldn’t stand him.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he muttered hoarsely and cleared his throat.
‘Of course it isn’t a good idea,’ said Celia hotly.
‘Why not?’ said Jim with an accusatory scowl, as if he, Marcus, was being deliberately uncooperative. ‘She might be a bit of a ball-breaker but she’s not bad-looking.’
‘Hello?’ said Celia, waving a hand in front of her father’s face. ‘I am here, you know.’
Marcus knew. Oh, he knew. And not just that she was only a foot away. It was as if Jim had unlocked a cupboard in his head and everything he’d stuffed in there was suddenly spilling out in one great chaotic mess.
To begin with, not bad-looking? Not bad-looking? That was the understatement of the century. She was gorgeous. All long wavy blond hair, eyes the colour of the Mediterranean, full pink lips and creamy skin. A tall hourglass figure that made his hands itch with the need to touch her. A soft, gorgeous, curvy exterior behind which lay a mind like a steel trap, a drive that rivalled his own and a take-no-prisoners attitude that was frighteningly awesome.
Today, in a pink strapless dress and those gold high-heeled sandals with her hair all big and tousled and her make-up dark and sultry, she looked absolutely incredible. Sexy. Smouldering. And uncharacteristically sex kittenish.
It was kind of astonishing he hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe subconsciously he had. The minute she’d walked into the church and he’d laid eyes on her, hadn’t everyone else pretty much disappeared? Hadn’t it taken every drop of his self-control to keep his jaw up, his feet from moving and his mind on the job?
With hindsight it was a miracle he’d managed to get down that aisle without dragging her off into the vestry. He’d felt her touch right through the thick barathea of his sleeve and it had singed his skin and tightened every muscle in his body. The scent of her had scrambled his brain and the proximity of her had heated his blood. As for the pressure of her breast against his elbow, well, the lust that that had aroused in him had nearly brought him to his knees.
If he hadn’t been so deeply in denial he’d have had bad, bad thoughts about her. In a church, for heaven’s sake.
He’d told himself that it was exhaustion messing with his head, which, come to think of it, was the excuse he always made when it came to the irrational and inappropriate thoughts of her that occasionally flitted through his mind.
But it wasn’t exhaustion. It was denial, pure and simple. Because how could he be so in thrall to someone who clearly didn’t feel the same way about him? How could he be so weak?
So was that what bothered him so much about her, then? The one-sided attraction and the back-seat position it put him in? Was the fact that he’d never stopped wanting her the reason why the way she constantly judged him and always found him lacking pissed him off so much?
Despite what she thought of him he fancied the pants off her, which meant that, despite his protests to the contrary earlier, Zoe had been right. On his side at least, there was chemistry, tension and, up until about a minute ago, a whole heap of denial.
And as denial was now apparently not an option he might as well admit that her rejection of him still stung despite the fact that it had happened years ago. She was the one who had got away, and that was why she got to him, why he always retaliated when she launched an attack on him.
‘So what do you think?’ said Jim, interrupting the jumble o
f thoughts tangling in his head. ‘Would you be up for the challenge?’
‘He thinks you’re insane, Dad,’ said Celia fiercely. ‘And so do I. I know I’m a disappointment to you but, for goodness’ sake, this has to stop. Now.’
Actually, with the realisation that he wanted her, what Marcus thought was that he was suddenly bone-deep tired of the animosity that she treated him with. It had been going on for years, and he was sick of not knowing what it was about or where it came from.
After spending so long in denial it was surprising just how clearly he could see now. His vision was crystal, and he wanted answers. So whether she liked it or not he was going to get them before the afternoon was through.
‘Want to go and get a drink?’ he muttered, figuring that there was no time like the present and that with any luck she’d consider him the lesser of the two evils in her vicinity right now.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
THREE
Oh, God, thought Celia, lifting her hands to her cheeks and feeling them burn as she abandoned her horror of a father and trailed in Marcus’ wake. How on earth was she going to recover from this? Would she ever get over the mortification and the humiliation? Not to mention the mileage that Marcus would get out of that disaster of a conversation. Her father might not know it but he’d given him ammunition to last him years.
How could he have suggested she needed sorting out? She’d always known he didn’t have much time for her career and that he thought she ought to be stuck in a kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, but he’d never expressed it so publicly before.
And in front of Marcus of all people.
What must he be thinking?
Well, no doubt she’d be finding out soon enough because given their history what were the chances he’d let such a scoop slide? Practically zero, she thought darkly as a fresh wave of mortification swept through her. He probably couldn’t wait to get started.
