Abby closed her eyes as the memory overwhelmed her. She wasn’t a violent person—had never hit anyone in her life before, never wanted to hit anyone before. But she had certainly hit Max Harding this evening.
‘Actually, it was worse than that, Monty.’ She choked, not at all concerned with the fact that a lot of people might think it strange that she was having this conversation with her cat. Temporary insanity was certainly a plea she could make for her actions tonight, but at the moment it was the least of her problems. ‘It wasn’t just a gentle slap on the cheek.’ She groaned. ‘He annoyed me so much, hurt me so much, that I swung my arm back and belted him with all the force that I could. It was perfect, Monty. Right on his arrogant chin.’ She smiled through her tears with remembered pleasure. ‘You should have seen the stunned look on his face. Then his chair toppled backwards, taking him with it, and he was knocked unconscious as he hit the floor!’
And Monty should have seen her own face as her anger had left her and she’d realised exactly what she had done…
The studio had grown so hushed you could literally have heard a pin drop. The small studio audience deathly quiet, no one even seeming to breathe; the camera crew no longer looking into their cameras but staring straight at her in open-mouthed disbelief.
Her director in the control room had been the first to recover, screaming in her earpiece, ‘Abby—what the hell are you doing? Say something,’ he yelled, when she could only stand there in mute silence, staring down at the slumped form of Max Harding. ‘Abby, do something!’ Gary had instructed harshly as she still didn’t move. ‘This is live television, remember?’
She had remembered then, turning to look at the surrounding cameras, realising they were still transmitting.
In her panic there had been only one thing she could do—no other choice left open to her. With a startled cry, she’d stepped over Max Harding’s prostrate body before running out of the studio as if pursued.
No one had spoken to her as she’d run. No one had even attempted to stop her.
And why would they? She had totally blown it—had broken the cardinal rule of not losing your cool on public television, of always remaining calm and in control, no matter what the provocation. No matter what the provocation!
Her career was in ruins. She would never appear on television ever again.
Which was why she was now locked in her apartment, with the telephone disconnected, the intercom to the doorbell downstairs switched off, and her mobile lying waterlogged in the bottom of the bath.
‘Okay, that last gesture may have been a little drastic,’ Abby allowed, as Monty looked at her with disapproval. ‘Especially as I’m now effectively unemployed—unemployable!—and will never be able to afford to buy a new one. But do you know the worst of it, Monty? The absolute worst of it?’ Her voice shook with emotion now, tears once again falling hotly down her cheeks. ‘I know you liked him, but I actually thought I was in love with him!’ she burst out shakily. ‘I was in love with Max Harding!’ She whipped herself with the lash again. ‘Now I wish I had never even set eyes on him!’
Until seven weeks ago she hadn’t even met him.
Seven weeks ago she had been riding on the crest of a wave, euphoric at her success in landing her own half-hour show, full of enthusiasm as she researched and then met her guests, overjoyed at her apparent overnight success at only twenty-seven.
But seven weeks ago Max Harding had still been just a name to her—a reputation, several dozen photographs. She hadn’t met the flesh-and-blood man then.
Hadn’t fallen in love with him…
CHAPTER TWO
‘YES?’
Abby could only stare at the man standing in the open doorway of the apartment; she hadn’t seen this much naked male flesh since she’d sat on a beach in Majorca last year.
And very male flesh it was too. But the towel wrapped around the man’s slim waist and the dampness of his dark hair told her exactly why it had taken four knocks on the apartment door for him to answer—he had obviously been taking a shower when she arrived.
Alone? Or with someone? Whatever; this man’s semi-nakedness took her breath—and her voice—away.
Not that she wasn’t familiar with Max Harding’s looks. She had seen him dozens of times on the news over the last couple of years, reporting from one war-torn country or another, and had also watched hours of footage of the political forum programme he’d hosted until two years ago.
But in the first case he was usually wearing some sort of combat gear and a flak jacket, shouting his report over the whine of bullets as they whistled past his ears. And in the second instance he had always been sitting down in one of those high-back leather chairs, wearing a dark formal suit with a shirt and tie.
In both cases he had been on the small screen, minimised before being transmitted into people’s homes.
He was huge, was Abby’s first thought. It wasn’t just his height, of about six feet two inches, he also had incredibly wide and muscled shoulders, his skin was darkly tanned, the ebony hair on that powerful chest tapered down to—
‘Seen enough?’
Not nearly enough, was her second, slightly fevered thought. Oh, dear! was her wincing next one, as she slowly raised her gaze back to his face, her cheeks awash with embarrassed colour.
Really, it might be some time since she had seen a man naked—or in this case semi-naked—but she had seen one or two!
But looking at Max Harding’s face wasn’t reassuring. She had hoped the severity of his expression on television was due to the seriousness of his subject matter, but even one glance at his rock-hewn features was enough to tell her that those weren’t laughter lines beside the intense grey eyes, the arrogant slash of a nose and sculptured unsmiling mouth. This man looked as if he rarely smiled, let alone laughed!
Abby straightened her shoulders, deliberately arranging her features into ‘serious but pleasant’. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, Mr Harding, but I’m Abby Freeman—‘
She didn’t get any further than that. The door firmly slammed in her face.
He had heard of her, she thought ruefully. His reaction was a bit drastic, though! Especially as he must have received at least two letters concerning appearing on her show—one from her researchers, and one from her personally. Neither of which he had answered. But he might at least have—
Her eyes widened as the door suddenly swung open again. A hand reached out to grasp the collar of her jacket, and she was unceremoniously pulled inside the apartment, her boot-clad feet barely touching the luxurious carpet.
‘Mr Harding—’
‘How the hell did you get up here?’ He glowered down at her, somehow still managing to look imposing despite his lack of clothing and the wild disorder of his overlong dark hair.
Abby blinked, totally stunned at finding herself inside the apartment instead of outside it.
She delayed answering as she pulled her white T-shirt back into place beneath her black jacket, her ebony hair loose onto her shoulders, blue eyes wide as she fought her inner feelings of indignation.
‘I said—’
‘The man downstairs let me in,’ she cut in.
‘After you told him what?’ Max Harding bit out contemptuously, hands on narrow hips.
Bare hips, Abby noted somewhat awkwardly. The towel was starting to slip down those long, muscular, hair-covered legs.
‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Miss Freeman,’ he reminded her harshly, those grey eyes glacial now.
Abby bristled; he sounded like a schoolteacher talking to a disobedient schoolgirl!
‘Maybe you should go and put some clothes on?’ she suggested with forced pleasantness. ‘I’m sure you—’ and she! ‘—would be more comfortable if you did.’
‘I’m not uncomfortable, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her derisively, enjoying the fact that she obviously was. His mouth hardened before he spoke again. ‘Exactly what story did you spin Henry in order to get him to let you up h
ere without first ringing me?’
That cold silver gaze was very forceful, Abby decided with discomfort. The sort of gaze that would compel you to confess to whatever it was this man wanted you to confess to, whether you were guilty or not.
She grimaced. ‘I told him I was your younger sister, that it’s your birthday today, and that I wanted to surprise you,’ she answered truthfully.
That sculptured mouth twisted wryly. ‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he drawled.
Her cheeks flushed. ‘Now, look—’
‘On your way out,’ Max Harding continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you can tell him you succeeded.’ He opened the door pointedly. ‘I’ll tell him what I think later!’ he added grimly.
Abby didn’t move towards the door. Having got this far, she had no intention of leaving just yet. ‘I hope not with any idea of reprimand in mind? I can be very persuasive when I try.’ She gave him an encouraging smile.
A smile he made no effort to return, and that steely, unamused grey gaze quickly made the smile falter and then fade.
Back to business, she decided hastily. ‘I’ve written to you several times, Mr Harding—’
‘Twice, to be exact,’ he interrupted, his terse tone telling her that he liked to be that, at least. ‘Two letters, both of which I read before duly consigning them to the bin!’
He had enjoyed telling her that, Abby realised with an annoyance she tried hard not to show—one of them being antagonistic was quite enough! Besides, she couldn’t afford to be. She had assured the sarcastic and sceptical Gary Holmes, director of The Abby Freeman Show, that she would get Max Harding to appear on her final show. A very ambitious claim, she had come to realise over the last few weeks, but she needed something—someone!—really impressive to finish the series if she were to stand any chance of being offered another contract.
Though she did wish she had approached Max Harding before making that ambitious claim to Gary…!
She gave Max Harding a bright, unruffled smile. ‘Then you will be aware that the whole of the half-hour show will be dedicated to you—’
‘No.’
‘Oh, but I’m sure I made that clear in my letter.’ Abby frowned. ‘I would hardly offer less to a man of your professional stature—’
‘Cut the bull, Miss Freeman,’ he bit out harshly. ‘In this case flattery, professional or otherwise, will get you precisely nowhere! I have no intention, now or ever, of appearing on The Abby Freeman Show.’ He made the programme title sound like something obscene.
Nevertheless, Abby persevered; this was too important to allow obvious insults to upset her. ‘But you’re such an interesting man, Mr Harding,’ she said lightly. ‘You’ve seen so much, done so much, and I’m sure the general public would be fascinated to hear about—’
‘The general public have absolutely no more interest than you do in hearing about any of the things I’ve seen and done,’ he rasped coldly. ‘All anyone wants to hear about from me is the night Rory Mayhew tried to commit suicide on my television programme.’ His eyes glittered icily. ‘It also happens to be the one thing I will never discuss in public. Is that clear enough for you, Miss Freeman?’
Crystal-clear. And he was partly right about the Rory Mayhew ‘incident’; obviously it was such a big thing that she could hardly not ask about it. But it certainly wasn’t the only thing she wanted him to talk about. They could hardly discuss an attempted suicide for the whole of a thirty-minute interview, for goodness’ sake.
‘I thought about mentioning that initially, obviously,’ she conceded. ‘But then I thought we could move on to other things. Your last two years as a foreign correspondent have made fascinating listening, and—’
‘I said no, Miss Freeman.’
‘Oh, please do call me Abby,’ she invited, with a warmth she was far from feeling. In fact, the coldness emanating from this man was enough to make her give an involuntary shiver.
‘You can call me Mr Harding,’ he bit out. ‘But first—’ he moved to close the door again, its soft click much more ominous than the loud slam of a few minutes ago ‘—I have one or two questions I would like to put to you.’
The sudden smoothness of his tone was more menacing than his previous sarcasm and coldness, making Abby very aware that she was completely alone in this penthouse apartment with a powerful-looking man. A very angry, half-naked, powerful-looking man!
She gave him another of her bright, confident smiles—although inside she was neither of those things. This meeting with Max Harding wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. ‘Fire away, Mr Harding,’ she invited lightly. ‘I’m happy to answer any questions you have concerning the programme. In fact, I look on it as a very positive—’
‘My questions have absolutely nothing to do with your programme, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her scornfully, ‘and everything to do with how you obtained my personal address in the first place.’ His voice had hardened over this last, his expression grim.
Not much of a chance of him offering her a coffee, then! Or inviting her to sit down in the comfortable lounge she could see through the open doorway behind her.
Not much chance of this turning into a successful meeting, either, if the conversation so far was anything to go by.
‘And don’t say the local telephone book,’ he warned. ‘Because I’m ex-directory.’
Her palms were starting to feel slightly damp, and she was sure there was an unbecoming sheen materialising on her top lip.
Nevertheless, she forced another carefree smile to her face. ‘The how isn’t really important—’
‘It is to me.’ He stood firmly in front of the door now—her only means of escape!—powerfully muscled arms folded in front of that bare chest.
In the same circumstances, wrapped only in a towel, Abby knew that she would feel at a distinct disadvantage talking to anyone. And yet this man gave no such impression—in fact, the opposite. He seemed to know exactly how his near-nakedness was making her feel—and he was enjoying watching her squirm.
Because squirming she undoubtably was. This man, Max Harding, she was becoming increasingly aware, exuded a sexual magnetism that had very little to do with whether or not he was wearing any clothes! There was a toughness to him, a self-containment, that at thirty-nine had been hard earned.
He made a sudden movement, quickly followed by the first sign of amusement, albeit mocking, she had seen on his harsh features. Abby instinctively took a step backwards. ‘I don’t usually eat little girls like you until after breakfast,’ he drawled, grey eyes mocking as he looked her over with slow deliberation. ‘You’re one of those “bright young things” the powers-that-be in public television have decided the masses want piped into their homes every minute of the day and night, aren’t you?’ ‘I—’
‘What did you do before being given The Abby Freeman Show?’ he continued, unabated. ‘Present one of those kids programmes where you have to constantly look like a teenager—even though you’re not—and rush around risking life and limb climbing mountains and jumping out of aeroplanes? I’m sorry, what did you say?’ he prompted scornfully as Abby muttered something inaudible.
Her chin rose defensively, twin circles of colour in her cheeks. ‘I said I was the weather presenter on a breakfast show, and then the stand-in presenter,’ she repeated tautly. Withstanding Max Harding’s obvious derision certainly hadn’t been in her plans for today!
He continued to look at her, his expression blank now, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly. And then his mouth twitched and he began to laugh, a harsh, humourless sound that echoed the scorn in his eyes. ‘A weather girl?’ he finally sobered enough to say disbelievingly.
Her cheeks felt on fire now. ‘You don’t have a lot of respect for your fellow presenters, do you?’
‘On the contrary, Abby, I have immense respect for my fellow presenters—you just don’t happen to be one!’
This was important to her—very important if she was to prove to Gary Holmes s
he wasn’t the lightweight he insisted on treating her as. But right now, with Max Harding’s derision directly in her face, she wanted to turn on her heel and run. Unfortunately, Max Harding still stood between her and the door!
Attack, she was sure, was still the best form of defence. ‘I never had you figured for a misogynist, Mr Harding!’
He didn’t even grimace at the insult. ‘Oh, but I’m not, Abby,’ he told her, silkily soft, his grey eyes hooded as he looked her over with slow deliberation from her toes to the top of her ebony head. The arrogantly mocking gaze finally returned to her flushed face and he gave a derisive shake of his head. ‘You just aren’t my type,’ he drawled, with deliberate rudeness.
She should never have come here, Abby realised belatedly. She had thought she was being so clever, fooling Henry downstairs, and had been quietly patting herself on the back at her success all the way up here in the lift. But all she had really succeeded in doing was totally annoying this man. And even on this short an acquaintance she knew he would be dangerous when he was annoyed!
Come to that, he was dangerous when he wasn’t annoyed. She couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking of!
She hadn’t really been thinking at all, she finally realized. Had been too stung by Gary Holmes’s scornful scepticism that she would ever persuade Max Harding to appear on her show to plan this meeting today any further than actually meeting the man face to face.
‘You and my director should meet,’ she snapped irritably. ‘The two of you have so much in common!’
‘Doesn’t he like working with amateurs either?’ Max Harding taunted.
That was it.
She had had enough.
More than enough!
She had already spent weeks at the sharp end of Gary Holmes’s sarcastic tongue; she had no intention of taking it from this man too! Besides, he wasn’t going to appear on her show anyway, so she really had nothing to lose!
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