Dishonourable Proposal

by Jacqueline Baird

  Dishonourable Proposal

  JACQUELINE BA1RD

  When Katy Meldenton offered herself as a dinner-date at a charity auction she hadn't expected that the highest bidder would be Jake Granton — the man who had so cruelly destroyed her dreams of happiness when she was just eighteen. Jake still had the power to turn Katy's life upside-down and he intended to use it. Once he had wanted to marry her — but now Katy had no alternative but to accept Jake's new and very different kind of proposal...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lena shot a final look at her reflection in the mirror placed strategically behind the side-curtain of the stage. What she saw caused a wry smile to curve her full lips. A tall, beautiful girl with luminous green eyes, a short straight nose and a soft full-lipped mouth. Long blonde hair skilfully arranged in ringlets peeked beneath the exquisite lace of a bridal veil. She looked like a Gainsborough lady, the dress a magnificent confection in satin and lace. The finale and Claude's piece de resistance of the charity fashion show.

  A shadow darkened her lustrous eyes; once, years ago, she had dreamed of wearing just such a gown for a very special man, but not any more...

  Straightening her shoulders and plastering a smile on her face, she stepped out on to the stage, and glided down the catwalk. Keeping her head high, her glance skimmed the illustrious audience. The baronial hall appeared to be full. Fluidly she moved, pausing, turning, her smile for everyone and no one, then finally one last turn and she was retreating through the curtain and off stage to tumultuous applause.

  Lena smiled for the small group of photographers outside the hotel, and with a few lithe strides sank gratefully into the back seat of the gleaming white Rolls-Royce waiting at the kerb.

  It was a beautiful August evening; even London sparkled in the red of the setting sun, the buildings tinged with pink and gold. She straightened the close-fitting black dress over her thighs, and sighed. One more performance for the benefit of an elderly couple, then—a small smile tugged at her full lips—Lena Lawrence would be no more. Kathleen Lawrence Meldenton would resurface, hopefully as a designer and possibly as a businesswoman.

  'We have arrived, madam.'

  The polite words of the chauffeur brought her out of her reverie, and, looking out of the window, she noted they had stopped outside a large elegant apartment building overlooking the Thames. The chauffeur opened the door, but before she could say thank you the breath stuck in her throat as another voice, deep and melodious, echoed her thought, and the large figure of a man slid into the back seat beside her.

  'Hello, Katy. It has been a long time, and you're as beautiful as ever, though I'm not sure I like all this makeup,' and with a casual intimate gesture one long tanned finger tilted up her chin. 'Your mouth's hanging open. Is that an invitation to a kiss, Katy, darling?' the deep voice drawled, while glittering black eyes stared down at her with open amusement. 'Or should I call you Lena?'

  No one except her father had called her Katy in years, though she intended changing that after tonight. Her heartbeat thundered in her breast as she looked up into the darkly handsome face of the large man crowding her into the corner of the back seat of the Rolls.

  Jake Granton... What evil trick of fate had brought him to this street at this precise moment, she did not know, but shock and a fast-rising anger made her creamy complexion flush furiously.

  'Just what the hell do you think you're doing? Get out of this car immediately,' she snapped angrily.

  Then she was blushing for a totally different reason as dark eyes slid blatantly over her face, the gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, down to the soft swell of her full breasts, partially exposed by the sexy little black knitted cotton sheath dress. Jake Granton's eyes lingered appreciatively on her breasts then slid lower to her thighs and the elegant curve of her long legs.

  The dress started under her armpits and ended above her knees. It was one of Claude's, designed for the youthful end of the fashion market, and she wished like hell she had not let Claude talk her into wearing it tonight.

  She wanted to pull her skirt down, fold her arms over her chest. Her Lena Lawrence image was not for this man, and his obvious sexual appraisal made her skin prickle with totally unwanted awareness.

  'Are you deaf or something? I said get out!' she cried, desperately clinging to her anger. In her peripheral vision she saw the chauffeur, an uncertain look on his lined face, his hand hesitant on the door, unsure whether to close it.

  'Is everything all right, madam?' he enquired politely.

  'No.'

  'Yes,' the deep voice drowned her out. 'I am the lady's date for this evening, and I paid three thousand pounds for the privilege. Check the card the agency gave you. Jake Granton, the penthouse, Albermarle Towers.'

  Lena watched in stunned amazement as the chauffeur withdrew a card from his pocket, read it, then checked the card with the wallet Jake flashed at him.

  "That appears to be correct, sir,' and with a brief glance at Lena he closed the car door and, walking to the front of the car, slid into the driving seat and started the engine.

  'Now just a minute,' she spluttered ineffectually as the car moved off into the London traffic.

  'Lena, I am surprised. Your sophisticated image is slipping badly. That is hardly fair to me, a devoted member of your drooling public,' he drawled with mocking amusement.

  With a terrific effort of self-control, Lena forced herself to think clearly. There must be a mistake somewhere, but she had a sinking feeling it was she who had made it.

  'I don't know what you're playing at, Jake, but I had a date with a kindly old grey-haired gentleman and his wife; perhaps you would care to explain,' she said coolly.

  'The grey-haired gentleman was my agent at the auction, and he did say it was for someone else. If you check with your friend Claude, you will find I am right.'

  She did not need to check, as she thought back over the night in question. Two days ago she had arrived in London from France to appear as the star model in a glittering charity fashion show given by Claude, the top Paris designer, in aid of leukaemia research.

  It had been held in the stately home of a belted earl, and the tickets alone had cost the guests a fantastic amount of money. The proceedings had culminated in an auction, the prizes varying from a cruise in a luxury yacht to the tie of a member of the royal family. Lena had allowed herself to be talked into offering herself as a dinner companion for the evening, and had been amazed at the money a simple date with a top fashion model had engendered. Her fame, such as it was, she had acquired more by accident than design.

  As a nineteen-year-old living in Paris at her friend Anna's home and attending art college, she had met Claude, the father of Anna's boyfriend Alain. When Claude had suggested she model for him she had laughed. She was the right height at five-nine, but she was also full-breasted. Claude had dismissed her objections with a wave of his hand. Apparently the stick-like figures of bygone years were no longer fashionable and it was perfectly all right for a model to have a bust these days.

  The idea of earning some money of her own, instead of being completely dependent on her father until she left college, appealed to her. To Lena's amazement, by the time she had completed her college course her face had appeared on the cover of Vogue.

  When Claude had branched out from haute couture into lingerie, it was Lena's face and figure that had appeared in all the magazines and hoardings, clad in a white basque, briefs, garter belt, and stockings. That had been her one mistake in an otherwise very enjoyable career. She had never dreamed the picture would have such impact, and before she knew it she was voted the official pin-up for the French navy, and was described as the sexiest thing on two legs.

  She still
modelled high fashion and in the past year she had graced the cover of Vogue several times, but to her chagrin the celebrity status she had achieved worldwide was mostly due to that one pin-up picture, and she bitterly regretted ever allowing Claude to talk her into it. Now she was newsworthy and she did not much like it.

  She had expected the charity gala to be her last public appearance; at twenty-two, she was ready to get back to her first love—design. No one except Claude was aware of the fact, and she could not blame him for milking her last appearance for all it was worth as the charity concerned was very dear to his heart. But it did not stop her feeling angry towards him. She knew she was being unfair. But it was Claude's fault she had ended up in this car with the last man in the world she wanted to be with.

  She squirmed uncomfortably on the plush leather seat, casting a furious glance at her silent companion, and she longed to knock the smug grin off his handsome face.

  Lena had taken part in the auction because of Anna, the daughter of a French diplomat; she had been Lena's friend from her first day at boarding-school. She had nicknamed the lanky Kathleen 'Lena', and had been there for Katy when her naive dream of marriage and happily ever after had collapsed round her head at the tender age of eighteen. Later it had been Anna's suggestion she use the name Lena in her modelling career.

  It still seemed too incredible to believe that the petite dark-haired laughing girl was no more. Lena had been bridesmaid at her wedding, and godmother to her daughter. But a short twelve months previous Anna had gone in to hospital for a few simple tests for anaemia, and within four months was dead. A shadow of sorrow darkened Lena's expressive green eyes as for a moment she was lost in the past. With a start she heard her name called.

  'Lena Lawrence, darling of the masses, sophisticated lady, struck dumb. You disappoint me, Lena.'

  She turned a blistering glance on the man beside her. 'I have nothing to say to you, except get lost!'

  'Tut, tut, whatever happened to sweet little biddable Katy?'

  She took a deep breath, reminding herself she was a sophisticated successful woman, not a mutely adoring teenager. 'She grew up,' she said coldly.

  When she had been persuaded to offer herself on a dinner date for charity, never in her wildest dreams or worst nightmares had she envisaged ending up with Jake Granton... He had hurt her terribly once, and she had never forgiven him, or forgotten...Unfortunately he still had the power to hurt her; his masculine aura was like

  a force field sucking her in. She recognised that she was aware of the man with every fibre of her being, and deplored the fact.

  She remembered her relief when the bidding had finally stopped at an incredible three thousand pounds, offered by an elderly gentleman near the back of the room. She had congratulated him personally and been doubly relieved when she had heard as she'd walked away the old man mention that another person was coming. The date had been for either one or two people and Lena had much preferred the idea of dining out with a couple. The man had said it was for someone else, and she, in her hurry to leave, had obviously misheard him.

  'Well, isn't this nice? Quite like old times,' and Lena nearly jumped out of the seat as a strong brown hand curved over her knee.

  With an angry shove she removed his hand from her knee. 'Hardly,' she snapped. 'I don't remember you ever taking me out for the evening, and certainly not to dinner in a white Rolls.' Her caustic reply was a brave attempt to mask her furiously beating heart. Her knee still tingled where he had touched her, and she was disgusted with her own reaction.

  'No, I didn't; an oversight on my part,' he said reflectively. 'But if I had would it have made you accept my proposal, Lena?' He did not wait for her answer. 'I think not. You are a very sensual woman and, if half the rumours about you are true, you like variety. I was a fool to imagine you would commit yourself to one man, but not any more. So tonight we will enjoy each other, hmm? No strings attached.'

  'No.' She turned slightly in her seat to face him, no trace of the turmoil he had caused visible in her cool expression.

  Jake Granton was supposedly a friend of her father's, and also a shareholder in Meldenton China, her family's company. She had considered the possibility that she might have to face Jake Granton again once she took up employment in the family firm, but she had convinced herself the likelihood was remote. Jake's father had died a couple of years ago and Jake had inherited Granton Holdings. The dividend from his Meldenton China shares were a mere drop in the ocean to a man of his wealth.

  She considered herself mature enough to treat him with cool civility. Unfortunately, meeting him unexpectedly and as Lena Lawrence, model, she felt at a terrible disadvantage.

  'I don't know why you did this, Jake,' she continued, and with gathering confidence she added, 'but there is absolutely no point in our spending the evening together. I'll tell the chauffeur to turn around and take you home, and don't worry, I will refund your three thousand pounds.'

  . She was proud of her steady voice as she casually dismissed the evening as a mistake, but inside she was quaking in case he didn't accept her offer. The date was supposed to be from eight until two, dinner and dancing, and there was no way she wanted to spend that long in this man's company. She did not dare...

  She studied him surreptitiously beneath her thick lashes. It was two years since the last time they had met and that had ended in a furious row. She did some quick mental arithmetic: he must be thirty-four now, but from what she could see of him he had not developed an ounce of fat on his tall muscular frame.

  His straight black hair, worn slightly longer than was the present fashion, was parted at the side and swept casually back off his broad forehead. His perfectly arched brows shaded deep-set dark brown, almost black eyes, fringed with thick curling lashes, a legacy from his Italian mother. His nose was straight, but at the moment, she realised, his nostrils were flaring dangerously wide over a sensuous mouth that was tight with anger.

  'No. I was stupid enough to allow you to dismiss me twice in the past, but not this time.'

  Her eyes widened at the icy anger in his tone. His dark gaze caught and held hers, and she was powerless to break the contact.

  'You, L-e-n-a L-a-w-rence,' he drawled her professional name as if it were a dirty word, 'are going to entertain me for the next few hours. I have paid dearly for the privilege.' His full lips curved in a cynical grin. 'Tell me, is five hundred an hour the going rate nowadays?'

  Rage surged through her body at his implication, and, lifting her hand, she struck out at his handsome mocking face. But before the blow connected he caught her slender wrist in a grip of steel.

  'Now, now, Lena, temper, temper. Surely you don't want to arrive at the restaurant with your partner's face bearing your fingermarks? No doubt the efficient Claude has arranged for the Press to be on hand—think what the publicity would do to your model-girl image.'

  'You're hurting my wrist,' she bit out between clenched teeth. Determinedly she counted silently to a hundred to prevent herself screaming at him like a banshee. His hold gentled on her wrist, but if anything it was worse, as Jake's thumb gently stroked her inner wrist, sending an electric current of awareness shooting up her arm. Then to her utter amazement his dark eyes softened on her flushed and furious face.

  'I apologise, Lena; my less than flattering comments were uncalled for.'

  She shivered, although the evening was warm. She had told herself she was over Jake years ago, but as they sat in the close confines of the luxury car the subtle male scent of him teased her nostrils, which, she despairingly admitted to herself, she would recognise if she were deaf, dumb and blind as uniquely Jake.

  'I wouldn't hurt you for the world.' And for a fleeting instant she saw something she did not recognise in his eyes before he partially lowered his lashes, masking his expression. But she quickly dismissed the notion as he added hardily, 'But I will have you tonight, Lena, darling.'

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to ignore his last statement;
perhaps if she tried to keep it light, or reason with him... 'Jake, I've known you since I was fourteen. Why bother bidding at a charity auction for a date? You could have just called me.'

  'And of course you would have said yes,' he mocked, his dark eyes gleaming with devilment. 'Does that mean I could have had a freebie... ? Damn,' he chuckled, 'I should have realised; they do say a woman never forgets her first lover.'

  'Why, you arrogant, conceited pig...' All thoughts of reasoning with the man flew from her mind as she almost choked with rage. 'How-----?' How dared he remind her of the one night they had spent together?

  He cut her off before she could complete the sentence. 'Shh, Lena, we've arrived; prepare to face the Press.'

  Flushed and shaking with anger, she watched as Jake unfurled his long frame and slid out of the door the chauffeur was holding open. Behind him she saw a smattering of photographers, and it was only with the greatest effort of self-control that she was able to slide along the seat and accept the hand Jake held out to her.

  She flashed a mutinous look at his darkly handsome face and saw a grimace of disgust twist his sensuous mouth as one photographer, more pushy than most, knelt on the pavement and took what she knew could only be a rather revealing picture as she bent to get out of the car, all long legs and revealing much more cleavage than was normal.

  She pasted a smile on her face and linked her arm through Jake's, leaning slightly against him. She felt him tense, and felt a fleeting sense of triumph: he was not immune to her, after all. As for the publicity, he would hate it. His staid banker image would take a knock tonight. Serves him right, she thought gleefully.

  Photographers she could handle, and did. She smoothed one slender hand over her hip, highlighting the beautiful applique butterfly in red and gold that curved across the midriff of the skimpy dress, lifting the style from the mundane to the exotic. She owed it to Claude to show off his design to the best advantage, and the fact that it was one of her own drawings he had adopted for the motif gave her an added sense of pride. With another brilliant smile for the Press, she allowed Jake to lead her into the exclusive French restaurant in the heart of Mayfair.