She drew herself up angrily. ‘I have no idea why I ever thought anyone would be interested in hearing anything you have to say.’ And she didn’t—not anymore. ‘You’re rude. You’re arrogant. You’re mocking, and thoroughly unpleasant. And I don’t like you!’ Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.
Max Harding continued to look at her for several long seconds, and then he gave a decisive nod. ‘That, my dear Abby, is the most honest thing you’ve said all morning! Come on.’ He stepped past her into the lounge. ‘I’ll put some coffee on to brew while I’m dressing.’
Abby stood open-mouthed, watching him as he strolled across the sitting room and into what she assumed must be the kitchen.
She had been as rude and brutally frank as he was himself, and now he was offering to make her coffee!
She gave a slightly befuddled shake of her head before following him. She would have given up all pretence of politeness long before now if she had known this would be the result.
The sitting room, as she had already observed from the hallway, was spacious and well-furnished, decorated in warm, sunny golds and creams, with a wonderful view over London from the huge picture window. It also looked totally unlived-in—like a hotel suite, or as if the interior designer had only finished his work yesterday and everything was new and unused.
The kitchen was almost as big, with walnut cupboards and gold-coloured fittings. But apart from the coffee percolator, which had already started its aromatic drip into the pot, the work surfaces were bare—as if this room were rarely used either.
‘Take a seat,’ Max Harding invited, without turning round as he got coffee mugs from a cupboard.
Abby made herself comfortable on one of the stools at the breakfast bar—well, as comfortable as someone of five foot four could be on one of the high stools!—still not quite sure how she had managed to get herself invited in for coffee. But she wasn’t complaining. The less inclined Max Harding was to throw her out, the more chance she had of persuading him to change his mind about appearing on her programme.
‘Right.’ He turned from what he was doing. ‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes while the coffee’s filtering. Oh, and Abby?’ He paused in the kitchen doorway, his expression once again derisive. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’
She looked at him blankly for several seconds, frowning, her cheeks becoming hot as she realised what he meant. ‘I’m not a snoop, Mr Harding,’ she protested waspishly.
His mouth twisted. ‘That’s why you’ll never make an investigative reporter!’ he retorted, before leaving the room.
Abby put her elbows on the breakfast bar and leant forward to rub her throbbing temples with her thumbs, wondering if all these insults really were worth it. Even if she succeeded if getting him to appear on the show—which was doubtful!—there was no way, him being the man that he was, that she was going to be able to control the interview. And that wasn’t going to help her get that second contract she wanted. Maybe…
‘I didn’t mean it quite that literally,’ Max remarked scathingly as he came back into the room. ‘You could have helped yourself to coffee.’
In truth, she had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t really been aware that the coffee had stopped filtering into the pot. And, as she looked up at him now, her mind once again went completely blank.
‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes’ was what he had said, and, looking at him, that was pretty much what he had done. His damp hair looked as if he had just run a hand through it, he was wearing a clean, but very creased white T-shirt, and a pair of ragged denims, also clean, but worn and faded, the bottoms frayed. And that was all he was wearing from what Abby could tell. His feet were bare on the coolness of the tiled floor.
He looked sexy as hell!
This side of Max Harding hadn’t really been apparent in the tapes of his shows she had watched from the archives, but she had certainly been made aware of it when he’d opened the door earlier, wearing only a towel. And—strangely—she was even more aware of him now, because the clothes hinted at the powerful body beneath.
She straightened, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. It didn’t occur to me.’
He placed a steaming mug of black, unsweetened coffee in front of her. ‘There isn’t any milk,’ he announced off-handedly as he passed her the sugar bowl. ‘I only got back late last night, and I haven’t had time to shop yet.’
‘Black is fine,’ she assured him, though she usually took both cream and sugar in her beverages. Somehow, from the look of the unused kitchen, she doubted he had time to go to the shops very often!
‘So.’ He sat down opposite her at the breakfast bar, his gaze piercing. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’
She could always try acting dumb and ask which question he was referring to—but as he already thought she was dumb that probably wasn’t the approach to take!
She shrugged. ‘I obtained your address from a friend of a friend,’ she said dismissively, wishing she felt more self-confident and less physically aware of this man…
His gaze narrowed. ‘Which friend of what friend?’
‘Is that grammatically correct?’ She attempted to tease, deciding that probably wasn’t a good idea either as his scowl deepened. ‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to answer that?’
He didn’t return her cajoling smile. ‘I rarely joke about an invasion of my privacy,’ he grated.
She raised ebony brows. ‘Aren’t you overreacting just a little? After all, I only rang the doorbell. You were the one who invited me in!’
‘I can just as easily throw you out again!’ he rasped. ‘And I “invited” you in as you put it, for the sole purpose of ascertaining how you obtained my address.’
‘Knowing full well that I couldn’t possibly reveal my source,’ Abby came back sharply. Challengingly. It was the first rule of being that investigative reporter he had told her she would never be; a source’s identity was as sacrosanct to a reporter as the information a client gave to a lawyer.
Max sat back slightly, his expression—as usual!—unreadable. ‘Tell me, Abby,’ he said softly, ‘just what made you think you would succeed where so many others have failed?’
She blinked, not sure she quite understood the question. Surely he didn’t think that she trying to attract—?
‘Not that, Abby.’ He sighed. ‘I was actually referring to other requests for me to appear on TV programmes or give personal interviews to newspapers over the last two years. Haven’t I already assured you that you aren’t my type?’ His mouth twisted scathingly as his gaze raked over her ebony hair, deep blue eyes, creamy complexion and full, pouting lips.
Exactly what was ‘his type’? Abby felt like asking, but didn’t. As far as her research was concerned, he didn’t appear to have a type. He had been married once, in his twenties, and amicably divorced only three years later, and the assortment of women he had been involved with over the years since that marriage didn’t seem to fit into any type either, having ranged from hard-hitting businesswomen to a pampered Californian divorcee. The only thing those women seemed to have in common was independence. And possibly an aversion to marriage…?
‘Well, that’s something positive, at least,’ Abby came back dismissively. ‘Because you aren’t my type either!’
Grudging amusement slightly lightened his expression. ‘No,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I should imagine a nice, safe executive of some kind, preferably in television, would be more your cup of tea.’
This man managed to make everything he said sound insulting!
And in this case he was wrong; she had been briefly engaged to a ‘nice, safe executive of some kind’—and been totally bored by Andrew’s complete lack of imagination. Besides, Monty hadn’t liked him…
‘Really?’ she said wearily. ‘How interesting.’
Max continued to look at her for several seconds, and then gave an appreciative grin. ‘You sound like my mother when confronted by one of my father’s more boring b
usiness associates!’
His father, Abby knew, was James Harding, the owner of Harding Industries. His charming and beautiful wife Amy was a banking heiress, and Max’s mother. Obviously Max hadn’t inherited that first trait of hers!
‘Really?’ Abby repeated unhelpfully, slightly disturbed by the attraction of that grin—and desperate not to show it.
‘Really?’ he mimicked dryly. ‘Am I boring you, Abby?’
So far she hadn’t been able to relax enough in this man’s company to feel bored! But if he wanted to think that—fine; she needed every advantage she could get with this thoroughly disconcerting man. ‘Not specifically,’ she drawled, sounding uninterested.
His mouth quirked humorously. ‘How about unspecifically?’
She pretended to give the idea some thought. In fact, she very much doubted too many people found this man boring; the level of mental alertness necessary just to have a conversation with him wouldn’t allow for that. Besides, the man was playing with her, and, despite what he might think to the contrary, she really wasn’t one of those vacuous ‘young things’ he had initially accused her of being. At least, she hoped she wasn’t!
She had left school with straight As and gone on to graduate from university three years later with a degree in politics. But two years of working as a very junior underling to a politician who just wasn’t going to make it, despite putting in sixteen-hour days, had very soon quashed her own ambitions in that direction, and she had done a complete about-face, becoming interested in a career in television instead.
Being the smiling face of a lowbrow programme’s weather segment hadn’t exactly stretched her mentally, but everyone had to start somewhere. Besides, being offered her own six-week series of interviews now was worth the year she had spent getting up at four-thirty in the morning just so that she could be at the studio bright and early to give her first weather report of the day when the programme began at six-thirty.
And even Max Harding, despite his privileged background and a father who had probably been able to pull a few strings for him, had to have started somewhere—
‘Sorry?’ She shook her head as she realised Max had just spoken to her.
‘I asked whether your meteoric rise to fame has had something to do with the way you look rather than any real qualifications to do the job?’ He looked at her challengingly.
He had obviously decided to make sure there was no possible chance of her being bored by him any longer!
But if his intention was to anger her by the obvious insult, then he hadn’t succeeded in doing that either. She had heard every insult there was these last two months, from other women as well as men, and especially from Gary Holmes, and she was no longer shocked or bothered by them. Well…not much, anyway.
She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Which one do you think I slept with? The producer or the director?’
Grudging respect darkened his eyes. ‘Either. Or possibly both.’ He shrugged.
Now he wasn’t trying to be insulting—he was succeeding! ‘Pat Connelly is a grandmother several times over, I believe, and seriously not my type!’ Abby told him derisively. ‘And Gary Holmes is just an obnoxious little creep!’ she added with feeling.
A veteran director of fifteen years plus, Gary was one of the most handsome men Abby had ever met—but he had the infuriating habit of treating her like an idiot. He obviously disliked her—possibly because he also thought she was a pretty airhead—but as the dislike was wholly reciprocated Abby wasn’t particularly bothered by his attitude. Except on a professional level. And he had hardly given her time to prove—
She suddenly realised that Max had gone strangely quiet, and looked across at him curiously, but she was able to learn nothing from his closed expression. ‘What is it?’ she prompted with a frown.
He seemed to snap himself out of that scowling silence with effort. ‘Nothing,’ he said abruptly. ‘And if it’s taken you this long to think about my previous question, perhaps you would be wiser not to answer at all!’ he drawled, with some of his earlier mockery. ‘Who’s scheduled to appear on your first programme?’
She was a little stunned by this abrupt volte face, and would have liked to pursue the reason for his sudden silence, but the coldness in his gaze was enough to warn her that she would get precisely nowhere if she did.
‘Natalie West and Brad Hammond,’ she answered instead, with not a little pride.
The famous couple, both having appeared on primetime television, but in different series, had been involved in the very noisy and very public break-up of their marriage six months ago, culminating with Natalie announcing it would give her great pleasure to see Brad run over with a steamroller, and Brad retaliating with the claim that he would gladly step in the path of the steamroller if it meant he didn’t have to set eyes on Natalie ever again!
It had taken weeks of persuasion and negotiation on Abby’s part, but she had finally got them both to agree—separately—to appear together on her opening programme. It promised to be an explosive debut for The Abby Freeman Show!
Max whistled softly through his teeth. ‘Are you going to supply the steamroller?’
He did have a sense of humour after all! He also, despite his many career-related trips out of the country, obviously kept up with the less serious side of current affairs.
Abby shook her head, her hair silky against her cheeks, blue eyes gleaming with laughter. ‘I already checked—even if Natalie felt so inclined, a steamroller wouldn’t fit through the studio door!’
Max gave an appreciative chuckle. ‘Perhaps you aren’t such a lightweight after all!’
It was far from an apology for his earlier rudeness—in fact it was still a remark tinged with condescension—but it was certainly an improvement on his initial antagonism. ‘Does that mean you’ll reconsider appearing on my programme?’ God, how it still gave her a thrill of pleasure to say ‘my programme’!
She had earned a certain amount of recognition from her appearances on breakfast television, with members of the public coming up to her in supermarkets and restaurants to say hello, but she was really hoping that having her own programme was going to take her one step further than that, and earn her the professional respect of people like Max Harding. If she ever got the chance, that was!
‘Not in the least.’ He instantly shot her down, his tone bored and noncommittal. And totally uncompromising. ‘And, as you aren’t going to tell me who this “friend of a friend” is…’ He raised dark brows.
‘I told you I can’t do that,’ she confirmed, her disappointment acute at his continued refusal.
Max shrugged. ‘Then it would appear we have nothing else to say to each other.’ He stood up, removing his own empty coffee mug and Abby’s full one and placing them on the worktop before turning to look at her pointedly.
He was obviously waiting for her to leave.
She had lied her way up here in the first place, and been taken in to this man’s inner sanctum, yet still she had failed in her objective. But other than continuing to pressure him—something guaranteed to annoy him even further—she didn’t have any choice but to comply with his less than subtle hint.
‘You won’t be too hard on Henry?’ she asked as she followed Max back through the sitting room to the door. She hadn’t realised earlier just how strongly Max felt about any invasion of his privacy, and Henry was a man of advanced years, who would have great difficulty finding another job if he was sacked from this one.
Max glanced back at her. ‘Calm down, Abby,’ he taunted. ‘Having witnessed your persuasive powers firsthand—no, I won’t be hard on Henry at all.’ He opened the door as he spoke.
Her ‘persuasive powers’? Did she have some of those? And if she did, why hadn’t Max Harding been persuaded?
He shook his head, smiling slightly. ‘Don’t beat yourself up trying to work out what they are, Abby; all that matters is that they didn’t work on me!’
Obviously not—but she would still have liked to k
now what they were. If she did, she might be able to use them again—to better effect!
But she could see by the derisive expression on Max’s face as he stood there waiting for her to leave that he certainly wasn’t going to enlighten her. Pity.
‘I’ll make a point of watching your first programme,’ he told Abby softly as she stepped out into the hallway.
She stared up at him suspiciously, uncertain of exactly what he had meant by that, and unable to read any of his thoughts from his blandly mocking expression.
But he had just succeeded in increasing her own first-night nerves by one hundred per cent!
CHAPTER THREE
‘WELL, well, if it isn’t little Abby Freeman!’
Abby groaned as she sank further down into her armchair, having instantly recognised Max Harding’s mocking voice.
Holed up in a corner of the Dillmans’ crowded drawing room, having already drunk three-quarters of the bottle of champagne sitting in the ice bucket on the low table beside her, she was in no mood for company. Something everyone else in the room, including her hosts Dorothy and Paul, seemed to know instinctively and act upon—and of which Max Harding had taken no notice whatsoever!
‘Go away,’ she muttered, without so much as glancing in his direction. She could see the long length of his legs from the corner of her eye, though, and observed that he didn’t move by so much as an inch.
‘I didn’t have you figured as a woman who likes to drink alone.’ He sounded amused now.
Abby raised dark lashes in order to glare at him, her gaze belligerent. ‘I don’t usually drink—alone or otherwise,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘But I’m sure that you and probably everyone else in this room are aware of the reason I’ve made tonight the exception.’ And several million other people, she thought with another inner groan at the remembered humiliation.
How could she have known? How could she have guessed? Why hadn’t someone told her?
‘Hey, Abby, it really wasn’t that bad.’ Max came down on his haunches beside her chair now, the amusement having disappeared from his voice as he looked at her with something like concern. ‘In fact, I thought you recovered very well.’
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