Best of Virgins Bundle

by Cathy Williams

  ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’ She shrugged dismissively, avoiding that knowing gaze.

  ‘I never blame anyone for trying, Abby,’ he retorted. ‘But, to answer your earlier question, considering you know exactly where my apartment is, I thought it only fair that I should know where you live, too!’

  ‘Fair’ had nothing to do with it. Where this particular man was concerned she was a lot more comfortable with him not knowing where she lived!

  ‘It’s not far from here, actually,’ she said evasively. ‘In fact, I walked over this evening.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a pleasant spring evening. A walk sounds an excellent idea.’

  Not with this man it didn’t. And why was he being so persistent? He obviously thought her a lightweight in the world of television, and had made no effort to disguise the fact that he wasn’t particularly enamoured of her as a woman, either—those remarks about her not being his type had stung! So why was he deliberately seeking out her company now?

  His face, unfortunately, revealed none of his inner thoughts or emotions.

  ‘There’s really no need for you to accompany me,’ she assured him lightly. ‘This is one of the safer areas of London.’

  ‘One of the more expensive ones, you mean,’ Max drawled. ‘I guess having your own show pays a lot more than being a weather girl?’

  ‘I guess it does!’ she snapped, blue eyes glittering angrily. He was so insulting!

  In fact, she had been quite surprised at just how much more her change in status paid. Moving to a new apartment two months ago was only one of the changes it had made in her life. She had a sporty Jaguar in the underground car park of the apartment building, and the wardrobe allowance for her new show was almost more than she had earned in a year at her previous job.

  Still, it was really none of his business.

  ‘Do you ever say anything nice?’

  ‘Sometimes—when I forget myself,’ he said unrepentantly. ‘Do you have somewhere else you have to go?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Then let’s go for that walk, shall we?’ he announced briskly, giving her no further time to protest as he took a firm hold of her arm, quickly made their excuses to Dorothy, and pulled her along at his side as he made his way with assurance towards the door.

  It had still been light outside when Abby had arrived a short time ago, but it was completely dark now. The high heels of her shoes echoed in the silence of this residential area of the city. In fact, it was almost as if they were the only two people around, with only the distant roar of the Friday evening traffic to confirm that they weren’t.

  Which wasn’t nearly enough, as far as Abby was concerned. Max maintained his light but unshakeable hold on her arm as they walked along together, making her skin tingle with awareness. Maybe she was a ‘normal red-blooded woman’ after all!

  Because awareness seemed to be coursing through her whole body. She was beginning to feel warm all over, her breathing shallow as she shot him a glance from beneath lowered dark lashes.

  Dorothy was right. He really was gorgeous as hell. That overlong dark hair was crying out to have fingers running through it caressingly, and those sculptured lips, the bottom one fuller than the top, invited kisses. And as for the obvious power of the body beneath that formal evening suit—! Abby knew exactly how wide and muscled those shoulders were, clearly remembering the silky short hair on that powerful chest, the flatness of his tapered stomach, the force of his—

  ‘You’re very quiet—Careful!’ Max steadied her as she stumbled slightly. ‘Those strappy black sandals look great with your wonderful long legs,’ he drawled, ‘but they aren’t very practical for walking anywhere!’

  Max thought she had ‘wonderful long legs’! It was amazing how the compliment gave her an inner glow.

  Especially as until this moment she hadn’t even thought he had noticed she had legs. The last—first—time they had met, she had been wearing denims. As for his remark about her being quiet—the more aware she became of him the more tongue-tied she felt. But she couldn’t tell him that!

  Instead she managed a casual shrug. ‘You didn’t give me the impression that you wanted to talk.’

  ‘No?’ He stood facing her now, his expression unreadable in the dim glow given off by the streetlights overhead. ‘What did I give you the impression that I wanted to do instead?’ His voice was huskily soft.

  Abby swallowed hard, totally aware of how close he was standing, mere inches away from her—so close that the warmth of his breath stirred the feathery tendrils of hair on her forehead. She had no idea what Max wanted to do, while at the same time knowing exactly what she wanted him to do!

  She wanted to have his lips against hers, to feel the lean strength of his arms about her as he moulded her body against his, to know the caress of his hands down her spine and against her sensitised breasts. And she wanted the same freedom to touch him intimately.

  ‘Abby…?’ he prompted softly at her continued silence. Breaking—thank goodness!—the emotional spell she had rapidly been falling under.

  She gave herself a mental shake. This was Max Harding, for goodness’ sake. A man who on first acquaintance she had decided was rude, arrogant and mocking—not to mention dangerous. She didn’t even like him!

  She still thought he was all of those things, but further acquaintance on her part had shown her he was also irresistibly attractive, sensually magnetic—and most definitely gorgeous. So much so that if he had kissed her a few moments ago, as she had so wanted him to, she knew she would have just melted into his arms, that the word ‘no’ would no longer have been part of her vocabulary.

  But even acknowledging that to herself was enough to bring her to her senses with the suddenness of a bucket of water being thrown over her. This was Max Harding: cold, aloof and totally unobtaintable!

  She straightened, determinedly pulling her gaze away from the sensual kissability of those lips. ‘Just walk me home and get this over with,’ she instructed coolly, inwardly pleased at the normality of her tone—she had expected to sound like Minnie Mouse!

  Max continued to look at her for several long seconds and then gave a curt nod of his head—whether of agreement to her statement or dismissal of it, Abby wasn’t sure. ‘Fine,’ he rasped, no longer touching her as he strode forcefully ahead.

  Leaving Abby to click-clack along behind him, in shoes that definitely weren’t designed for it, in order to keep up with him. But she wasn’t about to voice any complaint at the pace he had set. She just wanted to disappear into the privacy of her apartment now. Besides, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction!

  Five minutes and probably a ruined pair of expensive shoes later, they reached the building that housed her apartment. ‘Thank you for escorting me home,’ she said with firm dismissal, and stood as if guarding the entrance to the building, having no intention of letting him get anywhere near her actual apartment.

  ‘Very politely said!’ Max’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘Your mother and Dorothy obviously attended a good school.’

  Abby gave him an impatient look, at the same time aware that there was something at the back of her mind that Max had said earlier, and it had been bothering her. ‘What did you mean when you said I had relatives in high places?’ She had thought it a strange remark at the time, but she had been slightly side-tracked after it and forgotten to pursue the subject.

  Max tilted his head slightly as he looked down at her quizzically. ‘You aren’t trying to tell me that you don’t know?’ He sounded sceptical.

  Her frown deepened. ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘About Paul Dillman’s connection to Ajax Television—and consequently Dorothy’s?’ he drawled.

  The obvious response to that was, What connection? But as she really didn’t want to let this man know that she didn’t have any idea what he was talking about, it was a question she had no intention of asking.

  At least, not of Max.

  CHAPTER FOUR

&nbs
p; ‘PAUL recently became a major shareholder in Ajax Television,’ Dorothy told her as she moved about her conservatory, watering her plants, glancing over only when Abby’s silence lengthened. ‘I thought I’d mentioned it to you?’ the older woman prompted softly.

  No, of course Dorothy hadn’t mentioned it to her! If she had Abby might have questioned her sudden rise to fame a little more deeply. But she had genuinely thought it had happened as Pat Connelly had claimed—that Abby had done so well during her months of co-hosting the breakfast show that she was now being offered a show of her own.

  Despite being awake most of the night thinking about this, she had waited until ten before calling to see Dorothy, aware that the party the evening before probably wouldn’t have ended until late, and giving the other woman time to have a lie-in.

  Abby hadn’t been as lucky—unable to sleep at all after making her hurried goodbyes to Max and retreating to her apartment. Instead, she had paced up and down most of the night, wondering if what Max had claimed could possibly be true.

  It obviously was!

  Dorothy gave her a searching look. ‘Abby? What difference does it make?’

  ‘It makes a lot of difference,’ Abby said sharply, feeling as if her whole world—well, her professional one, at least—was crashing down around her ears. First last night’s disaster, and now this!

  Dorothy put down her watering can, giving Abby her total attention now. ‘I don’t see why. Pat Connelly was the one to approach Ajax with the idea for the show. As I understood it, she had seen you on early-morning television and thought you had something more to give. Paul did become a shareholder a few months ago, Abby, but he’s had very little to do with programme selection,’ she added, when Abby still looked doubtful.

  ‘Even if that’s true—’

  ‘It is,’ the other woman assured her, with her customary briskness. ‘Obviously when Paul was told of the idea of giving you your own chat show he was absolutely thrilled for you. But that’s as far as his involvement went.’ Dorothy’s gaze sharpened suspiciously. ‘Who has implied otherwise?’

  Abby avoided meeting the older woman’s gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, deciding that perhaps it had been a mistake to question Dorothy about this—even if it had seemed the quickest way of getting an answer. ‘I guess I’ll just have to work twice as hard in an effort to prove those accusations of nepotism wrong, won’t I?’ she added with forced lightness.

  ‘Who is “everyone”?’ Dorothy looked most displeased. ‘It isn’t that awful Gary Holmes, is it?’ she added disgustedly.

  Abby’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t realise that you thought he was awful, too.’

  Dorothy wrinkled her nose with distaste. ‘I know he’s wonderfully good-looking, darling, and that most women find him irresistible, but I’m well past the age where looks alone impress me. He made a pass at me once—which I thought totally out of line and Paul found highly amusing!’ she added.

  Abby gave a rueful smile at the image this evoked. ‘No, for once this has nothing to do with Gary Holmes.’

  ‘Who then? Not Max?’ the older woman protested indignantly. ‘Surely not…?’ She seemed to be speaking to herself now rather than Abby. ‘Despite what you said about him earlier in the evening, I noticed that the two of you seemed to be getting on well together last night. I was absolutely thrilled when you left together a short time later.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Abby muttered with a dismissive shake of her head, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘Is that really the time?’ She feigned haste, although it was actually still only ten-thirty, and since it was a Saturday she had very little else to do but catch up on her laundry. But Max Harding, and yesterday evening were the last things she wanted to discuss right now—with Dorothy or anyone else.

  ‘But we haven’t even had coffee yet,’ Dorothy protested. ‘I was going to ring and have Dora make some.’

  ‘I’ll have to take a raincheck.’ Abby smiled reassuringly—even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. ‘I have to be somewhere else at eleven o’clock.’ At home. With the door firmly locked. And the answering machine switched on to take any telephone calls.

  Because at the moment she felt as if she needed a little time and space away from the rest of the world in order to lick her wounds in private.

  Despite what Dorothy claimed to the contrary, she wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced of Paul’s non-involvement in choosing her to present Ajax Television’s new Friday evening chat show.

  ‘Just ignore it, Monty,’ she advised her pet firmly as the doorbell rang for a second time in thirty seconds. ‘Mum would have telephoned before coming, and I don’t want to see anyone else.’ She just wanted to continue sprawling on the sofa, Monty curled up on her chest, loudly purring his approval of this inactivity. ‘You know, Monty, all I ever wanted—’ She broke off as the doorbell rang a third time.

  And kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Whoever her visitor was, he was keeping a finger continuously on the doorbell now.

  Driving Abby insane!

  ‘That’s it!’ She finally snapped after a good thirty seconds or so of the incessant nerve-jangling noise. She placed Monty gently on the cushioned sofa—attempting to do it any other way would probably have resulted in claw-flexing disapproval!—before standing up and pressing the intercom impatiently.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped aggressively into the speaker, scowling. ‘What is your problem?’ She sounded as irritable as she felt, and was not in any sort of mood for visitors. Especially such a persistent one!

  ‘Open the door, Abby,’ a familiar voice drawled derisively.

  Abby snatched her finger off the intercom as if it had burnt her. Max! What on earth was he doing here? Why—?

  The doorbell began to ring again.

  She pressed the intercom again. ‘Will you stop doing that?’

  ‘As soon as you open the door and let me in—yes,’ he replied evenly.

  She didn’t want to open the door. Didn’t want to see Max. Didn’t want to speak to him. But the alternative, she realised as the bell began to ring again, was to be driven noisily insane by the sound of her own doorbell.

  She pressed the door-release button, moving to shove open her apartment door too, before stomping back into the sitting room to throw herself back down onto the sofa—receiving a hiss and a scratch from Monty as she inadvertently sat down on him.

  She picked up one of the cushions and hugged it to her defensively as she heard Max outside in the hallway, followed by the soft click of her apartment door closing as he let himself inside and came to stand in the lounge doorway. The still ruffled Monty refused to acknowledge her visitor by so much as a twitch of an eyebrow.

  ‘Very nice,’ Max murmured appreciatively as he moved forward into the room.

  Abby was well aware that he couldn’t be referring to her—the last time she had checked in the mirror she had looked less than her best. Her hair was in wild disorder from the light breeze blowing outside, and she’d made no effort to renew her lipgloss since her return from Dorothy’s. He had to be commenting on her apartment.

  It was very nice—the rooms spacious and grand, with a fantastic view over the Thames. But she was sure Max hadn’t come here to discuss the comforts of her apartment. She didn’t know what he had come here to discuss, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t that!

  ‘Max, what do you want?’ she demanded rudely, keeping her gaze cool as she took in his appearance in those ragged denims and a black T-shirt.

  God, he really was gorgeous, she acknowledged to herself. Her heart was beating erratically just at the sight of him.

  ‘Coffee,’ he replied briskly. ‘Black. One sugar.’ He dropped down into one of the comfortable armchairs.

  Abby blinked dazedly. How did ‘What do you want?’ equate with ‘Coffee. Black. One sugar’? And Monty was no help as a watch-cat either; he had beaten a hasty retreat into her bedroom at the first sound of Max’s voice!

  She frow
ned. ‘I wasn’t offering you anything to drink,’ she told him impatiently.

  ‘No?’ He raised dark brows, his grey gaze moving slowly over her face before moving down to her slender curves in denims and a blue T-shirt. ‘What were you offering me, then?’

  Abby felt a betraying tingling down her spine as his husky, seductive tone washed over her, and knew that heat had coloured her cheeks.

  Damn it, this man only had to look at her in a certain way, only had to talk to her in a certain way, and all she could think of was the nakedness of his body at that first meeting, her fingers aching to touch the silky dark hair on his chest.

  She stood up restlessly, returning the cushion to the sofa. ‘I was asking why you’re here,’ she explained succinctly.

  Max looked up at her, gaze narrowed. ‘You’re looking tired today—didn’t you sleep well?’

  Abby glared at him. ‘No, I didn’t sleep well!’ How could she, after what he had told her about Paul’s connection to Ajax Television?

  He shrugged. ‘The reviews were good in this morning’s newspapers.’

  Surprisingly, they had been—not all as sensationally headlined as Jenny Jones’s rag, but very positive nonetheless. One more reputable newspaper had even commented that if the rest of The Abby Freeman Show proved to be as entertaining then she was a very welcome addition to the genre.

  High praise indeed, but in Abby’s mind none of that altered the fact that it hadn’t been the show she had planned—or what she now knew of Paul’s involvement with Ajax Television. If the formidable English press ever got hold of the fact that she had a personal connection to Dorothy Dillman then they would have a field-day!

  ‘Or does your lack of sleep have anything to do with the fact that Dorothy telephoned me a short time ago and told me I have a big mouth?’ Max added softly.

  Abby’s gaze swung instinctively to look at the mentioned feature. It was such a decisive-looking mouth—a mouth that in spite of herself she longed to kiss! Although at the moment it was set in a determined line as he waited for her answer.