Mistletoe Mistress, page 4
'But I forgive you.' He had pulled her close again and, mainly because her legs suddenly seemed to have the consistency of melted jelly, she didn't resist.
However, she managed a fairly tart, 'How very gracious of you,' which brought an answering chuckle from above her head, before they continued to dance in silence. It was a slow number-of course it had to be, she thought caustically; even the band was against her-and although she desperately wanted to seem immune to what his body was doing to hers she could feel herself begin to tremble in his arms.
'What's happened in your life to make you so afraid of physical contact?' he murmured after several humiliating minutes when she knew her shaking had made itself obvious. 'I'm not going to hurt you, Joanne. Trust me.'
'Trust you?' She was inexpressibly thankful that he had misread her body's reaction to his, although there was more than a little fear mixed up in the mortifying sexual excitement that had her in its grip. And now, as the music changed, and she saw the waiter approaching their table with the coffee they had ordered, she moved to arm's length, saying, 'That would be rather foolish on so short an acquaintance, don't you think? Look, the coffee's arrived. Shall we…?'
'If you insist.' His tone was dry.
'And then you can tell me the reason for our meeting tonight and then-'
'We can go home?' he finished silkily, his eyes piercingly intuitive. 'Sony, Joanne, there's the floor show to go yet; you're stuck with me for a little while longer.'
She smiled, a polite social smile as though she thought he was joking, before turning and walking to their table, his hand on the small of her back seeming to burn her skin through the silk of her dress.
How was it that in just a few hours this man seemed to have established an intimacy that even her closest friends didn't enjoy? she asked herself weakly, sinking down on to her chair with a tiny sigh of relief that she had made it without falling to the floor in a quivering heap. The questions he had asked, the things he had suggested! Her racing thoughts were brought to a stunned halt as she felt his lips on the back of her neck, his mouth warm and vibrant against the creamy softness of her skin, before he seated himself with easy composure in his chair.
'Don't…don't do that.'
'What?' Her voice had been a trembling whisper and he surveyed her with brilliantly blue eyes before asking again, 'Don't do what?'
'You know what.' She glared at him, her temper rising as her senses unfroze.
'Kiss you?' he asked softly. 'Is that so hard to say?'
'It wasn't a kiss, it was…' She couldn't find an appropriate word and he let her flounder for a minute before he said, his voice deep and dark and husky, 'Whatever it was to you, Joanne, to me it was a kiss. Do you mean to say that you don't wear your hair like that to tempt more of the same?'
'What?' She was absolutely lost for words.
'The exposure of that soft, fragrant skin, normally hidden by a curtain of silk that keeps the secret place so private-you don't know what a subtle turn-on that is to the average red-blooded male?' he asked softly as she stared at him blankly. 'It's restraint combined with voluptuousness, lasciviousness with suppression-it's…sexy, every man's dream of the perfect virginal demure beauty who turns into a seductress in the bedroom.'
'You're mad.' Joanne realised she had been holding her breath as the gravelly male voice had woven a sensual spell which had enclosed the two of them in their own little world. 'I just wore my hair up because it looks better with this dress-'
'Oh, don't spoil it.' He wasn't smiling but the devilish eyes were alight with amusement.
'Now, look.' She took a long, deep, hard breath and forced herself to get control. This was ridiculous; somehow everything had got out of hand and she wasn't at all sure how it had happened, but one thing she did know was that Hawk Mallen was playing with her like a cat with a mouse. She didn't believe for one moment he was attracted to her-how could a multi-millionaire of the calibre of this one be interested in a little nobody like her? It didn't add up-not for one minute, and she wasn't stupid whatever he thought, and she'd tell him so right now. 'You assured me this afternoon that we were meeting for a purpose, that this wasn't a…'
'Date?' he supplied helpfully.
'Yes.' And if he interrupted her again he'd have a cup of coffee tipped over his head. 'So we've eaten and danced and done the social chit-chat bit, and now I'd really like to know why you have brought me here tonight.'
'You don't think it's because I wanted to know you better, because I'm interested in you?' he asked expressionlessly.
He'd read her mind again, and she had the uneasy feeling he hadn't found it hard to do. Was she really so transparent? she asked herself silently. She didn't think anyone else thought so; in fact, Charles had often praised what he called her 'poker face', which gave nothing away whatever the circumstances.
'Mr Mallen-' she couldn't call him Hawk, she just couldn't '-you could doubtless have your pick of most of London's finest so the answer to that is no.'
'London's finest.' He nodded thoughtfully. 'I see.'
'So?' She forced a smile. 'If you don't mind?'
He stared at her for a good thirty seconds, his blue eyes shadowed and intent as they searched her face, and then he settled back in his seat, stretching slightly before he said, 'Right, down to business. I don't need you at Concise Publications, Joanne-' her heart gave a big leap and then thudded loudly '-but from all I've heard and read and seen I think you would be an asset to the Mallen Corporation. I intend to bring in a new managing director for Concise Publications; I've already approached the man and he's accepted my offer and he'll bring his own publishing assistant with him; they've worked together for years.'
She nodded slowly. So he had never intended to take on the job permanently? She should have guessed, really; Concise Publications was just a tiny little cog in the vast machine of the Mallen empire.
'Are you interested enough for me to continue?' His voice was cool and flat; suddenly he was one hundred per cent remote tycoon and businessman, the wickedly mocking, charming dinner companion having evaporated like the morning mist.
Was she? She stared at him hard, and then nodded again. 'Yes, please,' she said quietly.
The blue eyes flickered, just once, and she would have given the world to know what was going on in that rapier-sharp, ruthless mind.
'Six months ago the Mallen Corporation acquired a publishing house in France, part of Mallen Books; were you aware of this?' She shook her head quickly. 'The undertaking was unusual in that my grandfather had decided to bale the owner out, and if you knew my grandfather you would understand why I say that He is first and foremost a businessman and age has not mellowed him one iota.'
She caught the thread of affection in his voice which he was trying to hide and looked at him intently.
'The owner was the son of my grandfather's best friend who died some years ago; he actually helped my grandfather financially when they were young, something my grandfather's never forgotten. However, the son has lost thousands, if not tens of thousands, over the last decade through mismanagement and so on, and the firm is a shambles.' The cool voice was scathing. 'My grandfather wanted the family name to continue in honour to his friend; he also decided to keep the son at the helm… Bad mistake.'
He glanced at her now and the blue eyes were as hard as glass. 'The kindest thing you could say about this guy is that he's a Jonah, and that's the information I've relayed to my grandfather. The truth of the matter is that he's been on the take for years; he's the very antithesis of his father. My grandfather is very ill-' Her eyes widened and he nodded slowly. 'Terminal, but I'd appreciate you keeping that to yourself. He doesn't need this bag of worms dumping in his lap, and for some reason his normally acute judgement is faulty where this guy is concerned. He wants to believe the best of him; he's all that's left of his old friend.'
'What are you going to do?' she asked quietly. He loved his grandfather very much; try as he might, the cold, clipped voice and expressionless face couldn't hide the look in his eyes, and it touched her. She didn't want it to, but it did.
'I've done it,' he said flatly. 'Pierre is boss in name only now; he's been paid off, and handsomely, and he's quite happy with that. He's got a string of mistresses to support apart from his family and expensive habits; the firm was just an inconvenience to him. But now I want to pull it round, for my grandfather and also his old friend, who was an honourable man. That's where you would come in.'
'Me?' She couldn't think where.
'You've been in publishing since you left university, you have no personal commitments or distractions, and you don't mind working until the job is done. Added to that, Charles tells me your contribution, certainly over the last three or four years, was the one that brought the money in. He'd lost it-the insight, the business intuition-'
'No!' she protested hotly.
'That's what he told me, Joanne,' Hawk said steadily. 'Now, your personnel file tells me you speak French, right?'
'I do, but…well, I'm rusty and-'
'That's no problem.' He dismissed her stumbling voice with an irritable wave of his hand. 'You can easily brush up on that.'
'What exactly are you offering me?' she asked dazedly. In all her wildest dreams-or nightmares-she hadn't expected this. 'Who would I be publishing assistant to?' She knew it was him but she had to ask anyway, and that would be the end of what sounded like the offer of a lifetime in an industry that was known for its dog-eat-dog ruthlessness.
'Publishing assistant?' He stared at her, and then shook his black head slowly, his eyes piercing her through with clear light. 'I'm not offering you a publishing assistant's job, Joanne. I want you to manage the firm for me, turn it around, make it work.'
'Me?' She knew she was repeating herself but this was just not possible; he had to be teasing her in the most cruel way imaginable.
'It would mean giving up your fiat and moving to France,' he said quietly, 'and of necessity the position would be on a six-month trial basis. All your expenses would be paid, of course, and you'd have the same salary Pierre did.' He mentioned a figure that made her mouth fall open. 'The firm is already part of Mallen Books and so you wouldn't be completely out on a limb; you'd have a ready-made avenue of contacts and back-up-a security blanket so to speak. But…' He leant forward in his seat, his dark face cold. 'You would have your work cut out to turn the thing round, especially in the present climate. Still interested enough to think about it?'
Joanne looked at him in a daze. She couldn't say a word; she just couldn't.
'If you are interested, we can throw a few facts and figures your way and start the ball rolling. I'd like the new manager installed within weeks and as you are as free as a bird there won't be any messy working-of-notice delay. If you're not…' the piercing eyes were holding hers as though in a vice '…then you will be paid twelve months' salary as a gesture of appreciation for all you've done for Charles's firm in the past, and that's the end of it Well?'
He relaxed back in his seat and grinned, the same devastating, knee-trembling grin as before, his blue gaze washing over her stunned countenance. 'What's it to be, Joanne?'
CHAPTER THREE
'And he wants your answer tomorrow morning, is that right?' Charles's voice had been sleepy when he'd answered the phone-it was past midnight after all-but once Joanne had begun to talk the telephone had fairly crackled with excitement.
'He wants to know if I'm interested enough to go on to the next phase,' Joanne answered quietly, 'and if I am he'll put me more fully in the picture.'
'And are you?' Charles asked evenly.
'I suppose so, but if I don't make a go of it and I'm left with egg on my face…'
'And if you do make a go of it the world's your oyster,' Charles said steadily. 'Think of it, Joanne; it's a dream of a career move, and frankly it sounds like he's only asking you to do what you've been doing for me for five years. We've worked so closely together there isn't a thing you don't know about managing a publishing house.'
'But this one is so much bigger.' That sounded rude and she added quickly, 'Well, a bit bigger, and it's in France and-'
'You could do it and Hawk Mallen knows it or else he wouldn't have offered you the job.'
'Charles, I'm sorry I phoned you at this time of night, but I don't feel I know enough about the Mallen Corporation and…and Hawk Mallen to make a decision. Would you mind filling me in on what you know?'
'On Hawk or the Mallen empire?' Charles's voice was very dry.
'Both.'
By the time they finished the call, fifteen minutes later, Joanne knew the Mallen Corporation had been founded by Hawk's American/French grandfather over fifty years ago, beginning with a textile warehouse shop that quickly grew into a string of the same and then diversified into more avenues than even Charles was sure of. The old man had had one son, Hawk's father, who, as Hawk had already mentioned, had been killed in an automobile accident, thereupon making Hawk a millionaire several times over at the tender age of twenty.
Charles had said more, much more, but Joanne had found her attention wandering more than once as a pair of very blue, piercingly intent eyes kept swimming into her consciousness. Hawk Mallen was a mesmerising man to be with and the compelling weight of his personality stayed long after the man himself had gone. He exuded energy and power and vigour, and those moments in his arms on the dance-floor… She shut her eyes as her senses swam. If she took this job-if-she would make sure she never put herself in such a vulnerable position again.
Her thoughts continued along this same path once the call had ended and she had showered and slipped into bed.
Other women, more worldly, experienced women, might be able to handle a man like Hawk and enjoy the challenge, but he frightened her half to death. She shut her eyes tightly in the warm darkness, her toes curling into the linen covers.
Not that he had behaved as anything but the perfect gentleman on their ride home, seeing her to her door with a polite handshake and almost distant smile that would have sat well on a maiden aunt. In fact from the moment he had explained about the job one could almost have called his attitude cool, certainly formal… She refused to recognise even a shred of pique at his lack of interest. It suited her-the fact that he was concerned only with her ability to do the job he had in mind. It did. She knew only too well how the man-woman relationship, with all its complications, could prove a time bomb that ruined the lives of everyone within a mile radius.
As though it were yesterday her mother's face was there, pretty, irritated, as she had handed her over to the social worker at the home. 'It will only be for a little while, Joanne.' Her mother had clearly wished she were anywhere but in the neat, orderly office with officialdom present. 'Just until Mummy gets a nice house to live in.'
The 'nice house' had taken three years to achieve, three years in which she was moved from foster home to foster home, until, at the age of seven, her mother had married. Not again-she had never been married to Joanne's father who had deserted his pregnant girlfriend once the good news was imparted-but for the first time. That marriage had lasted nine months, and by the time she was eight she was back in a foster home again, with the knowledge that her mother could barely wait to see the back of her.
When she was nine her mother had married Bob, and it had been at his insistence that she was once again placed in her mother's care.
She had never wanted to be alone with Bob; she hadn't been able to put it into words at the time-the strange feeling she experienced when his pale, almost opaque eyes slid over her slim, childish body-but when the marriage had been two months old, and the police had arrived on the doorstep one morning, she had known then, young as she was, that she had been right to withstand his overtures of friendship. He had been convicted of several cases of child abuse, a paedophile of the worst kind, and strangely her mother had seemed to blame her for the break-up of her second marriage, screaming at her that she should never have had her back to stay, that if Bob hadn't known about Joanne he wouldn't have asked her to marry him and she would have been spared all the resulting humiliation.
She had been dispatched to the children's home the day after the court case, and had known then that she would never live with her mother again. Her mother had visited her now and again over the next few years, usually with a different 'uncle' in tow each time, some jovial and loud some not so jolly, but had always managed to make her feel the visit was on sufferance.
The caustic memories of a thousand little rejections which added up to a gigantic whole had burnt so painfully deep within her psyche that even now they made her screw up her eyes and curl into a tight little embryonic ball under the covers.
Commitment, marriage, men-it all meant disappointment and betrayal; she had learnt the fact first-hand, watching her mother's desperate search for love. And children-the biological fruit of that sexual urge which drove men into pretending they were what they weren't, and foolish women into believing it-were the innocent casualties that suffered the most.
She had vowed many times during her tear-filled adolescence that she would never allow herself to be subjugated like her mother; she didn't want or need a man in her life-they meant trouble and pain and ultimately disappointment. Her mother had grown bitter in time- in the last conversation they had had before she died, she had told Joanne over and over again that it wasn't in a man's nature to be monogamous, that marriage and fidelity were the world's biggest lie.
Did she, Joanne, really believe that? she asked herself now, her eyes still tightly shut. She wasn't sure, not deep inside, but she was sure that she would never dare to take the risk, and also that casual relationships, of the sort her mother had eventually subscribed to, were not for her. And whenever the longing to have someone- one man, to come home to, to love-overwhelmed her- as it did more and more as each year ticked by-she drew on the memories and the agony of the past and it fled.
She had her work, her home and her friends-it was safe, controlled, she was in charge and no one could hurt her. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.
