The Millionaire's Virgin (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Susan Stephens

  He looked at her—the crop top, the slim thighs, the clear skin and clearer eyes—and said from the heart, ‘That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Yeah? You think so? Well, let me tell you it isn’t. It’s like the old Marx Brothers thing. I don’t want to be a member of any club that would accept me. Any guy who is into deflowering virgins is someone I want to avoid like the plague.’

  Jay said impatiently, ‘So don’t tell him.’

  ‘Oh, great. That’s a real sign of trust.’

  He was getting annoyed. ‘So there’s no easy answer. How like life. There’s going to be a tough answer somewhere, though. Go look for it.’

  Zoe said with spurious affability, ‘Do you know you do that all the time?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Patronise me. We get into an argument and you’re soon losing it. So you patronise me. The next time you do it I’ll take that baseball bat off your wall and brain you with it. I swear I will.’

  ‘You could always try sounder arguments,’ he said lightly.

  But Zoe had gone beyond the possibility of laughter. She jumped to her feet glaring.

  ‘There you go again. Don’t you dare patronise me ever again, you—you—you spin doctor.’

  Jay blinked. ‘Is that mean to be an insult?’

  ‘Too right.’

  He turned on her, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Then let me tell you, I am very good at what I do.’

  ‘Sure. Probably the best there is,’ said Zoe viciously. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s worth doing.’

  He stopped pacing as if she had thrust a fist straight into his heart. ‘At least I’m doing something,’ he said very quietly. ‘Not whingeing that life shouldn’t be as it is.’

  Her eyes widened in shock.

  ‘Yes, you can hand it out, can’t you?’ said Jay, still in that same deadly quiet voice. ‘You’re allowed no holds barred, a pretty young thing like you. Doesn’t matter who you hurt. God, I’m so tired of noisy women who don’t give a stuff about anything except their own petty neuroses.’

  Zoe was very pale. ‘I’m sorry you think it’s petty. I suppose in comparison with publicising Lemon Sherbet Three it must lack a certain global significance.’

  Jay winced. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  She ignored him, going to the door a little blindly. ‘But, as I keep trying to tell you—it’s not a neurosis. It’s a question of ethics.’

  He snorted. ‘Ethics, schmethics. It’s a practical problem, pure and simple. All you need is a bit of courage to sort it out.’

  She turned and met his eyes.

  ‘Okay. Here’s a solution. You know all there is to know about sex and you’re not into trophies. You do it.’

  They stared at each other. Equally appalled at what she had said. Equally silent.

  Zoe was the first to break eye contact. Her smile was twisted.

  ‘See? That’s not just a practical problem. Is it?’

  And she walked out.

  Jay did not want to go to the reception. It would be full of media types, networking. Besides, he did not have time. He was off to Venice tomorrow, and he had not begun to think of what to tell the international public relations consultants who were coming from five continents to hear his great thoughts. He was desperate for some time to himself.

  But his host was thinking of commissioning a television programme about youth athletics, and Jay was chair of the committee that was lobbying hard. Maybe tonight would clinch it. So he briefed himself on the latest figures on training facilities, inner-city population and youth crime, climbed into a formal dinner jacket—and went.

  He did not manage to catch sight of Zoe Brown on his way out of the building. He supposed she had already left for the weekend. He wondered how she spent her free time. And with whom.

  His hands clenched at the thought. Damn, that was not sensible. He could not afford to think things like that, not while she still worked for him.

  He stamped into the reception looking like a conquering emperor in a seriously bad temper. And the moment he walked in the first person he saw was Carla.

  She was looking very beautiful. He would have to talk to her, Jay knew. He curbed his temper ruthlessly. It was more difficult than he would have believed possible.

  She was wearing cream silk, very plain, with the watery aquamarines he had given her in her ears and at her throat. Bless her heart, she smiled with unaffected pleasure when she caught sight of him in the doorway. The frustrated temper eased a little. When she made her way over to him he even managed a decent smile.

  ‘Hi, Carla. You’re looking very glam.’

  ‘Thank you, Jay. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Better every day,’ she told him gaily.

  He looked at her searchingly. ‘Is that true?’

  Her eyebrows flew up. ‘What’s happened to you, then?’

  Jay was confused. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t ask uncomfortable questions like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, for one thing it’s not polite. For another, you don’t want to know the answers.’

  He blinked.

  Carla smiled, putting an exquisitely manicured hand on his arm. ‘Jay, we were an item for six months. In all that time I told you a lot of comfortable platitudes. You never questioned them once. So what’s with the tell-me-the-truth game?’

  He said slowly, ‘I hurt you a lot, didn’t I?’

  Carla shook her head, smiling steadily. ‘You’re a fun date and a terrific lay. And you never make promises you can’t keep. I had my six months of fantasy. My friends envy me.’

  Jay was shaken. He said to the look in her eyes, ‘I never realised—’

  ‘I did,’ said Carla, suddenly curt. ‘My risk. My choice. And it was worth it. Don’t you dare be sorry for me.’

  The party seethed around them. He said in a rapid under- voice, ‘Can I give you dinner after this? Can we talk?’

  ‘No.’

  He was taken aback.

  She looked past his shoulder, the smile firmly in place. ‘I’ve moved on, Jay. From the sound of it, you’re doing the same thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Going back is no solution. We may not be too happy at the moment. But we’ll come through that.’

  Someone was coming over, going to join them. She took her hand off his arm. The smile she gave him was wide and friendly. And if her eyes were a bit too bright, well, no one but Jay would have noticed. Jay, after all, had looked into her eyes, up close, a thousand times.

  He felt like a heel. The worst heel in the world. This woman slept in my arms and I didn’t take care of her.

  Carla shook her head at the look in his eyes. ‘The past is great compost, Jay. Leave it to do its work.’

  She turned to the new arrival, delighted, made introductions, and then drifted away. He did not see her again.

  He had not intended to drink, so he had taken his own car. He sat in it, the top down, savouring the night air, trying to wrestle his thoughts into coherence.

  He could not. All he could think of was what he had done to Carla. And, almost worse somehow, how Zoe had looked when she’d walked away from him today.

  Is there no end to the damage I do?

  He made up his mind.

  The roads were nearly empty at this time of night. He had a brief flicker of unease about turning up on her doorstep unannounced. But he did not have a phone number for her. He had never had to call her. He would just have to take a chance that she was in—and willing to open the door to him.

  Zoe was doing the week’s ironing. She liked ironing normally. She used it to work out her problems. It was mindless and soothing. Besides, everything ended up looking wonderful and smelling better.

  But tonight, for some reason, it wasn’t working. She burned a tee shirt she needn’t have tried to iron. And then the catch on the ironing board didn’t engage properly and when she pressed on a particularly dense bit of quilt
ed jacket the board collapsed. She saved the iron and kicked the jacket clear. But she ended up sitting on the floor with a nasty burn on her arm, where she had not quite fielded the iron fast enough.

  She felt very cold and shaky. She recognised it. Shock.

  ‘Or another petty feminine neurosis,’ she said aloud bitterly.

  She had been trying to whip up indignation against Jay all evening. It was surprisingly difficult. The sneaking suspicion that he was right kept flitting across the back of her mind. Well, a bit right. Maybe.

  She leaned sideways and pulled out the plug of the iron. Then she set it carefully on its end, in the corner. Her hands were shaking. Shock, definitely. Low-grade but still shock.

  ‘Hot sweet tea,’ she said aloud. ‘Run cold water on the burn.’

  She wished her mother would come down and help her. Deborah must have heard the crash of the falling ironing board, surely?

  But she knew it was hopeless. If Deborah heard the crash she would just assume it was nothing to do with her and carry on watching her movie.

  Face it, Zoe, you get yourself up or you stay sitting on the carpet for ever.

  Zoe stood up carefully. Her arm throbbed and her legs were weak as water. But she was not hurt.

  ‘I can do this,’ she said, hanging on to the kitchen table.

  It seemed like one of Jay’s five-thousand-metre runs to get to the cold tap.

  That was when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Damn,’ said Zoe with real feeling.

  She considered not answering. It was past eleven, after all.

  But anyone who rang the doorbell at past eleven was serious. Maybe Harry had decided he couldn’t hack leading eleven-year-olds through salt flats, after all. Maybe he had dived for home and lost his key again. Clinging to the furniture, she made her way through the house and opened the front door.

  And stared, open-mouthed.

  It was Jay Christopher. Jay Christopher in a dinner jacket. His mouth was pinched as if he were in pain. But his jaw was determined.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  Zoe put a hand against the doorframe to steady herself. Her legs still felt as if they were made of lint and her head was beginning to swim. Her burned arm throbbed, too. She had not the slightest idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve decided. I’ll—’ Jay broke off suddenly. He leaned forward, his eyes growing intent. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘N-nothing.’

  ‘Yes, there is. You’re shivering.’

  She was, too. Although the summer night was almost as warm as the day.

  He said sharply, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I knocked over the ironing board, that’s all. I burnt myself. Nobody heard—’

  Zoe was in tears, mortifyingly. Neurosis, indeed! She turned away, trying to hide it from him.

  But Jay pushed into the house and put his hands on her shoulders, turning her back. His sleeve brushed the burn on her arm and she yelped. At once he held her away from him, eyes narrowing as he saw the mark.

  Shivering even harder, she said, ‘It’s not serious. I just need to run it under cold water.’

  ‘Then let’s do that,’ said Jay calmly. He kicked the door closed without even looking at it. ‘Kitchen is this way, right?’

  She leaned as heavily against him as if she were a convalescent. He got her into the kitchen, took a chair to the sink and made her sit down. Then he held her arm under the cool stream of water.

  ‘Feel faint?’

  She smiled wanly. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Keep your head down. It will pass. I’ll just check on the iron.’

  She did what he said. It seemed easier. Besides, she was grateful. It was a long time since anyone had taken care of her. It was worth putting up with a bit of bossing.

  He came back. ‘The iron’s cold. You did all the right things. Good girl.’

  He put a cool hand to her forehead. It felt almost professional. Certainly quite without feeling. So Zoe was horrified to find that she wanted to lean against him and say, Hold me.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.

  Jay was wearing his hidden laughter look. His eyes glinted down at her.

  ‘For what? Calling you a good girl? I thought you’d take a baseball bat to me if I patronised you again.’

  She gave a watery chuckle. ‘Thank you for not saying one word about neurotic women and their petty crises.’

  ‘A burn is hardly neurotic.’ He leaned over her shoulder to look at it. She felt the warmth of his body under the dark jacket, the strength…

  Her mind flipped sideways. Try, it said.

  What?

  What have you got to lose? it said.

  What do you mean?

  Lean against him and see what he does. You know you want to.

  I can’t—

  He’s right. You’re a coward.

  Jay looked down at her. ‘Hey, you’re shaking again,’ he said in concern. He slipped off his jacket and put it round her. ‘That will have to do for the moment. I’m making you some tea. Then you can tell me where I find a blanket to put round you.’

  Zoe moistened her lips. She was deeply, darkly ashamed of her secret thoughts.

  ‘So much fuss for a little burn,’ she said with constraint. ‘I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute. Though tea would be nice.’

  Tea would get him away from her, over to the other side of the kitchen to make it. And maybe she would start to think clearly again.

  Maybe she would have, if it had not been for that jacket. She rubbed her cheek against its comforting warmth. And smelled soap and the sea and some woody aromatic, not pine or sandalwood, but something like both, only more elusive. And a lot more exotic. Whatever it was, it was a clean, clear smell; sharp as a knife and utterly like Jay. Her senses swam.

  I want him.

  She jumped as if she had just impaled herself on a blackberry thorn.

  I’ve wanted him since I first saw him. Since I told him everything there was to know about me. Since he kissed me.

  ‘Do you take sugar?’ said Jay, oblivious.

  Zoe tried to speak. It was not easy. ‘No,’ she croaked on her third attempt.

  ‘Well, I’m putting some in. It’s supposed to be good for shock.’

  How come it’s taken me this long to realise? What sort of freak am I?

  And her thoughts began to spiral faster and faster, out of control.

  Jay came back with the tea. He had put it in the horrible dragon mug. ‘Here. This will make you feel better.’

  Zoe looked up at him dumbly. Her mind was still in free fall.

  He smiled down at her, his face so gentle that she almost did not recognise him. He took both her hands and clasped them round the mug. Her fingers twitched but she took the mug. In fact she clutched it like a lifeline.

  ‘Are you alone in the house?’ he asked.

  Zoe shook her head. ‘My mother’s in her room. She— er—can’t have heard.’

  He looked at the devastated ironing board. It had lost half its mechanism and brought down the clothes horse in its collapse. It was self-evident that it must have sounded like a falling tree in the confined space. Jay raised his eyebrows. But he refrained from comment.

  ‘Just as well I arrived when I did, then.’

  Even in the face of his courteous disbelief she still wanted him. Her hands were clammy with it.

  Zoe swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  She had never felt like this before. Never felt a need to touch a man so fierce it seemed a physical impossibility not to give in to it. She clutched the mug so hard that her knuckles went white. She tried to collect her thoughts.

  ‘What was it that you came for?’ she said distractedly.

  ‘Ah.’

  Something in his voice—or not in his voice, in his eyes, in the way he was looking at her, though she had her head bent and could not even see him out o
f the corner of her eye, but she knew he was looking at her—something told her that this was not easy for him. Important, yes. Very important. But not easy. In fact, hard as hell.

  She looked up, surprised. ‘Yes?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about your— er—solution. To the problem you think you have.’

  She frowned, bewildered.

  The wonderful golden skin did not flush, but his eyes slid away from hers.

  ‘You were right. I was being glib. You have got more than a practical problem.’

  ‘Oh!’ Zoe’s skin, however, flushed instantly and unmistakably.

  ‘And you were right about something else. I’m not into trophies. But I do have all the relevant qualifications.’ His voice was level.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have it on the best authority,’ said Jay in a hard voice, ‘that I am a fun date and a terrific lay.’

  It was somehow terrible. He looked as if someone had cut his heart out, thought Zoe. Whoever she was, the woman who’d told him that had devastated him. Suddenly Zoe wanted to take him in her arms and tell him it was a lie.

  But she had no right. And besides—maybe it wasn’t a lie. She huddled his embracing jacket round her and couldn’t think of one single thing to say.

  It did not matter. Jay was laying out his argument like a presentation to a client, all common sense and shining reason.

  ‘You don’t want to lie. You don’t want to be a trophy. You need a man to help you through the transition. I can do that.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Zoe. She felt as if she were in a falling elevator. No solid ground anywhere and a distinct rushing sound in her ears.

  ‘In fact I’m probably uniquely qualified to do that,’ said Jay, bitterness seeping out. ‘Mr No Commitment.’

  ‘I—see.’

  He leaned against a cupboard and looked all the way across the kitchen at her. Zoe shivered. His expression was brooding.

  ‘No claims. No promises. No history. I’m the dream ticket, aren’t I?’