by Lucy Gordon;Sarah Morgan;Robyn Donald;Lucy Monroe;Lee Wilkinson;Kate Walker
Her mother’s last years must have been hideous, and for that she could thank Keir.
Lowering her lashes, Hope watched the bubbles slide down the side of her tall glass and said in a brittle voice, ‘Dull old business. Tell me about yourself. Are you married?’
A sardonic smile lifted the corners of Keir’s mouth. ‘No wife, no fiancée, no girlfriend.’
Opening her eyes very wide, she asked sweetly, ‘What happened? There always used to be a very glamorous lover in your life.’ She remembered the world-famous model, followed by a gloriously tempestuous Spanish opera singer—before her time, but carefully documented in the press.
She had to be careful; he was too experienced not to recognise fake flirtation. Probably she should just relax and let her treacherous body betray her all over again. It knew what it wanted, whereas she was discovering that her mind wanted something else entirely—to be able to trust him. Deciding to seduce Keir had not been easy; going about it was proving uncomfortably difficult.
His brows lifted. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said blandly. ‘What about you? Any husband?’
‘Not one.’
‘Lover?’
She slid a sideways glance at him. ‘You’ve already asked me that,’ she told him softly. ‘The answer’s no.’
‘Why were you so antagonistic in the shop?’
Thank heavens she’d thought up an answer to that. ‘Shock, I think. You were the last person I expected to see.’ Daringly she added, ‘And a certain resentment; you didn’t try to get in touch with me after I’d left New Zealand. I rather hoped you would.’
‘I thought it best not to,’ he said. ‘You were very young.’
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Hope gave him a quick glance, then absently ran her finger around the top of her glass, concentrating on the whispering shimmer of sound. ‘In other words,’ she said dryly, ‘I had a lot of growing up to do. You’re right—I did.’
‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’ But he didn’t elaborate. Instead he said, ‘I thought I’d see you at your mother’s funeral.’
Something in his voice alerted her; she looked up to see his gaze on that slowly sliding finger. His mouth had hardened and the lick of colour along the high cheekbones startled her.
Hope stifled her first impulse to yank her hand away. Letting her finger continue its innocent glide around the rim, she said, ‘I didn’t know she’d died until a month after it happened.’ She had to clear her throat before she could finish. ‘I was working on a prawn boat out of Darwin.’
Keir said something under his breath and reached for the hand that had fallen away from her glass; as his fingers tightened around hers, heat and strength flowed through her in a surge of support that was as comforting as it was treacherous.
She said woodenly, ‘Before I left she made me promise to write as often as I could, and to let her know where I was and what I was doing. Apparently it was a heart attack. I don’t know whether she knew, but it was a—a shock to me.’
Quietly, uncompromisingly, Keir asked, ‘Why did you leave New Zealand in such a hurry, Hope?’ When Hope’s hand twisted fiercely against his, his long fingers relaxed, freeing her.
Well, why not tell him, see what he said? The lime and soda slid down, wetting her parched throat before she was able to say, ‘I resented my father’s heavy-handed suggestion that I offer myself as a sacrificial virgin to save his position as CEO.’
Now would Keir admit his part in that infamous conversation?
His eyes turned into slivers of jagged ice. ‘Did he suggest that?’ he asked in a voice that sliced through her, dark with a focused, intense fury.
‘Didn’t he suggest it to you?’
She waited with locked breath.
Coolly disdainful, he avoided a direct answer. ‘Why didn’t you tell him to go to hell? You were eighteen, for heaven’s sake, legally an adult—he had no control over you.’
Clever tactics—a brilliant evasion. Hope said curtly, ‘My mother suffered whenever I defied him.’ Humiliated, she turned her head to look blindly around the bar.
A charged silence, emphasised by laughter and the subdued swish of cars on the street, crackled between them until it was broken by Keir’s brutal, succinct oath. Every tiny hair on Hope’s skin pulled upright.
‘It wasn’t too bad, really,’ she said. ‘Most of the time he just ignored me.’
‘Your mother never said anything about it,’ he said, something in his voice hinting at self-disgust.
‘Who’d have believed her? My father was a brilliant actor, and by the time you came on the scene she was so worn down by his oppression that I think she’d forgotten what a normal life was. You walked into a real scorpions’ nest when you came to our house. I had to get out, or he’d have made my mother’s life an even worse hell.’ She managed to summon a smile, tossed it at Keir’s implacable, clever, deceitful face. ‘I should thank you.’
‘For ruining your life?’
‘You didn’t ruin my life,’ she said, hiding her cynicism in a half-laugh. ‘Leaving home was the best thing I could have done. I found out what freedom was like, and believe me, that would never have happened while I lived with my parents.’
A fugitive emotion glittered in the chilling depths of his eyes, but it was immediately leashed, overwhelmed by his smile. ‘In that case, you owe me at least a dinner,’ he said lazily, his voice smoothing over her jumpy nerves with the potency of a narcotic.
A douche of common sense almost doused the primal fire he’d lit with his sexual power. What the hell did she think she was doing? Courting disaster, that was what!
The bar was filling rapidly with people who’d spent the day doing the many things Noosa offered its visitors. Tanned, glowing, most of them wearing wealth and position with confidence, they were settling in to enjoy the evening. One of the men at the next table caught her eye and sent her a slow smile.
He was handsome, and that smile probably caused most women to shiver deliciously.
It did nothing to Hope.
She gave him a quick nod, then turned her attention back to the harsh features of the man who somehow kept her heart in purdah. Keir had seen the little byplay, of course, and was already directing a cold keep-off signal at the unfortunate man.
Fierce determination flowed through Hope, stiffening her bones. Before the end of the week she’d know what it was like to be Keir Carmichael’s lover, and because no man could possibly meet four years’ expectations, honed as they were by frustration and betrayal, she’d at last free herself from his potent male sorcery.
And if he thought a dinner date was going to end in sex—well, why not? They’d already gone through the courtship phase. But her pulses surged violently through her veins and sweat made the palms of her hands clammy.
‘A friend of yours?’ Keir asked, his voice cool and crisp.
‘No,’ she said calmly, ‘but I’m sure he’s a nice man.’ A sly note of amusement slipped into her tone. ‘Actually, I owe you much more than a dinner.’ Was that too suggestive? Keeping her lashes lowered, she hurried on, ‘However, I’m going to be busy tonight.’
Keir’s black brows lifted. ‘An unbreakable appointment?’
She shuddered. ‘I have to model a necklace.’ She was almost going to add, But tomorrow night I’m free. Fortunately discretion leashed the words before they escaped.
‘Then how about tomorrow night?’ Keir asked a little too smoothly.
Back in the shop it had seemed so simple, like a prescription: Keir Carmichael. To be taken as needed for fever in the blood and generalised loss of interest in other men.
Except that if she made love with Keir it would change her life, and Hope didn’t know that she was ready for that.
She breathed deeply until the spinning panic was under control. Wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise—to change her life, free her from the hangover of her childish infatuation and set her on a new path to the future?
Firm
ly, without giving herself time to dither, she said, ‘I’d like that. What time and where?’
‘Seven, and wear casual clothes.’
‘In Noosa everyone goes casual. Do you mean casual casual or chicly expensive casual?’ And if he said chic, she’d whip into a certain boutique and spend money she couldn’t afford on the outfit that had been tormenting her deliciously from the window.
His smile was sardonic. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Denim shorts and a T-shirt, or floaty white linen designer resort wear?’ she asked with a sweet smile, reaching for her glass.
His brows lifted. ‘Shorts,’ he said smoothly.
As she sipped more lime and soda, a slow curl of apprehension mixed with wildfire anticipation when she saw him watch her mouth.
Yes, she thought, trying to be exultant. Yes, he was definitely interested…
She set the glass down on the table and got to her feet. ‘Lovely,’ she said, her breath catching as he rose and looked down at her with a smile that shafted down her spine and literally curled her toes. ‘What time?’
‘Make it eight o’clock.’
‘Who’s the dude in the London tailoring?’ the bodyguard asked, staring across the hotel reception room.
One appalled glance revealed that Hope’s guardian angel had let her down again; producing Keir at the prestigious Chef of the Year award was viciously unfair. Especially as she couldn’t sneak out. Apart from the difficulty of avoiding notice with the seductive swaying glide caused by four-inch heels, she had responsibilities.
‘Keir Carmichael,’ she muttered, resisting the urge to clap her hand over the necklace that hung conspicuously around her throat. Even if she hid it, there was still the blatant dress. And the sexy shoes…
Pulses drumming to a surge of adrenalin, she switched her gaze to the members of the string quartet, playing Mozart with the resigned expressions of men who understood they were merely the background music. Why on earth hadn’t she expected Keir? This was the sort of occasion he probably got asked to all the time.
The bodyguard nodded in a satisfied way. ‘The number one merchant banker. I heard he was in town. Officially he’s on holiday, but someone said he’s meeting a group of Chinese policy makers.’
Clearly the rumour mill was in full production. Despising herself, Hope said, ‘I wonder why.’
The bodyguard’s massive shoulders lifted. ‘Setting up some sort of deal. Whatever it is, there’ll be money in it. You should flaunt that necklace at him—he might be in the mood to buy.’
‘I’m not flaunting anything,’ Hope said tightly.
Grinning, the bodyguard said, ‘Coulda fooled me,’ but was professional enough not to let his eyes wander over her exposed shoulders, or down to the stocking-clad thigh revealed by the slit skirt.
Hot with anger and embarrassment for allowing herself to be bulldozed into this ridiculous situation, Hope realised with ignoble relief that Keir wasn’t with the woman who’d bought the goanna pin. He didn’t appear to be with anyone.
Ignoring the women who eyed him with avid fascination, he stopped just inside the door and looked around with a cool self-confidence that set her teeth on edge.
‘Knows how to make himself felt, doesn’t he?’ the bodyguard said admiringly. ‘Amazing what money can do for you.’
Keir’s presence had little to do with his income. Of course, Hope thought, struggling to be objective, tall men had the same unfair advantage as beautiful women. And he knew how to dress. In a room full of expensively gowned women and superbly tailored men, his evening clothes were a marvel of spare restraint. That they showed off with tantalising fidelity his broad shoulders and lean, lithely muscled body, narrow hips and long legs helped—but didn’t entirely explain—his commanding, forceful dominance.
A woman approached him, a woman who smiled and displayed her interest in a thousand unspoken, easily read signals. Rank jealousy jagged through Hope. Don’t even try flirting with him, she silently advised the woman. He might look like the dark lord of Hades’ very sexy brother, but he’s much, much tougher.
Besides, he’s going to be busy with me.
Using will-power to prise her teeth apart, Hope said curtly, ‘Don’t you think the raw material might have some small effect on the way he looks?’
‘You reckon?’ The bodyguard eyed Keir with interest. ‘Nah, he’s in good shape underneath the clothes, but he’s no oil painting; it has to be the money. Women really chase rich dudes.’
‘Are you saying all women go after men purely for their money?’ Hope asked with spurious pleasantness, taking her anger and hollow panic out on the man. Feeling mean didn’t stop her from adding snidely, ‘Can’t you get a girlfriend?’
He shot her a resentful look. ‘I don’t have any trouble,’ he said shortly, ‘but then, I’m better-looking than Carmichael.’
Keir’s hard, compellingly masculine face with its bold symmetry, the sharp contrast between dark hair and skin and crystalline eyes, made descriptions such as ‘handsome’ or ‘good-looking’ irrelevant. It was his unconscious air of competence and authority—allied to his prowling, potent sexuality—that attracted women.
But Hope was already regretting her unusual spite. She agreed peaceably, ‘Yes, you are.’
As though Keir felt her scrutiny, he looked up; their eyes clashed, duelled across the room. Hope’s breath was stopped in her lungs by a discharge of energy so electric she wondered why people weren’t ducking.
Keir nodded to her with a slight smile that simmered through her blood, tightening her skin in an atavistic instinct as old as danger. She answered the mocking challenge with a blank face and a non-committal tilt of her head. Her precarious dress—worth, so her boss had informed her, over five thousand dollars—chose that moment to surrender to gravity and slide off her shoulder.
Anchoring it with a fast clutch, she eased the glinting, shimmering silk into place and began to breathe again, as shallowly as she could without fainting. If she could have clapped her heels together and disappeared, she’d have been home instantly. Until Keir arrived she’d been enjoying herself—mostly—but now the noisy party, suffered in the close, unaffectionate company of a bodyguard, became intolerable.
Not too far away Markus Bravo—her boss and instigator of this charade—was taking a keen interest in the welfare of his stock while chatting up the glitterati. It had been his idea to dress her in amber silk and load her with the hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds that Keir had eyed with such distaste in the salon.
‘There are going to be television crews from all over Australia,’ he’d informed her with a manic gleam. ‘These food awards are big time!’
Horrified, she’d objected, ‘Foodies spend all their money on food and wine and the latest woks; they don’t buy diamonds. And strolling around a party wearing a vulgar necklace isn’t part of my job description, so hire a model!’
‘Harry Forsayth will be there,’ Markus said cunningly.
‘Who?’
Disappointed, Markus told her, ‘Only the most famous film star Australia’s ever produced! He’s going to present the prizes because his father used to have a seafood restaurant in Noosa. That was before he drank himself to death, of course.’
‘The film star…? Oh, you mean his father!’ After a quick shake to clear her head, Hope tried again. ‘Why on earth should Harry Forsayth want to buy this ghastly necklace? You need a millionaire at least.’
Or a billionaire…
Markus glowered. ‘Most millionaires look after their money too carefully. Film stars spend—especially when they still can’t believe their luck. And Harry is the sort to spend up big—even when he was just a good-looking kid, only interested in surfing and girls, he had to have the best board and the prettiest girl. He’ll want those diamonds as soon as he sees them. Come on, Hope, be a sport! Of course you’ll get paid well for it.’
Flicking the necklace with a disparaging finger, she muttered, ‘Model’s rates?’
>
Sensing surrender, he grinned. ‘You’re not a model.’ But he named a sum that would bring the laptop computer she wanted almost within her reach. And a laptop with internet access would make it so much easier to produce the travel articles she was slowly building a name with.
When Hope still shook her head he added hastily, ‘And commission if it sells, of course. A percentage deal.’
Tempted by sordid money, Hope frowned. ‘Why don’t you just cut your losses and get the stones reset into smaller pieces? Then you might be able to sell them without parading me around like a horse in the sale ring.’
‘You sound just like Narelle,’ Markus snapped. In a highpitched imitation of his wife’s voice he went on, “‘Markus, admit for once that you made a mistake. You should never have bought the necklace. When anyone in Noosa wants to spend a hundred thousand dollars they automatically go to the old family jeweller in Sydney or London or New York. They won’t spend it here.’” He snorted and resumed his own voice. ‘She was right, damn her.’
‘Except for pearls,’ Hope said fairly. For some reason pearls sold in spite of their price. Perhaps it was the seaside ambience.
With an extravagant gesture Markus dismissed pearls. ‘Harry Forsayth will have Lisette Parish with him. He’s been romancing her for at least a month. And she has an eye for large stones. When she left that other guy she was living with she took a couple of million dollars’ worth of jewels with her. And there will be—’ he held up his hand when Hope opened her mouth ‘—there will be others at this do, too. Very rich others. When they see you, a beautiful woman, dressed by—oh, a top designer—’
Mistaking Hope’s small yelp of alarm for excitement, he added hastily, ‘Well-insured, of course! Anything—everything,’ he amended with aplomb, ‘looks brilliant on you. You’ve got an inbuilt style that will carry even this neckpiece off.’
She eyed him consideringly. ‘I might do it if you tell me why you’re so determined to sell it as it is.’
He wriggled, but finally confessed, ‘Oh, all right. I’ve got a bet on with Narelle. If my sales top hers this quarter we go to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix.’
