by Anne Mather
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Robert pushed back his chair, and got to his feet. ‘It’s just that—well, a week ago you weren’t even returning my calls. Now, you’ve come up with this idea of getting some girl to arrange a lunch for the Japanese. Do I take it she was the caterer at Melissa’s party?’
‘It was Ivanov’s party, actually,’ said Matthew, splitting hairs. ‘But yes. She did organise it. And it was pretty good, too. I think you’ll be impressed.’
Robert looked nonplussed. ‘I can’t believe this, you know. Is she a raving beauty, or what?’
‘No.’ Matthew had to be honest. ‘As I say, she’s fairly ordinary, really. She has nice eyes, and nice—–’ he shunned the word breasts and added ‘—legs. She—intrigues me.’
‘Because she turned you down, probably,’ remarked Robert drily. ‘Honestly, Matt, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘No.’ Matthew gave a rueful grin, and Robert couldn’t help responding. ‘But Melissa’s going to be mad as hell when she finds out!’
Matthew’s personal assistant paused in her boss’s doorway and gave her employer a puzzled look. ‘I say what?’
‘You just tell her that Mr Burgess isn’t here, but that his second-in-command will see her. OK?’
Mrs Mackay sighed. ‘But who is Mr Burgess, Mr Putnam?’ Her stalwart Scottish nature rebelled at the deception. ‘What if she asks me that?’
‘She won’t.’ Matthew tipped his chair back on its rear castors. ‘Just do it, Mary, there’s a good girl. Oh—and bring me the Koysaki file.’
Mrs Mackay returned a few moments later with the requested item, but her homely face still wore a look of disapproval. However, having worked for Matthew for the past eight years, she was reluctantly prepared to do as he asked. In every other way, he was a considerate employer, and she never stopped thanking her lucky stars that, at the age of forty-two, she had landed such a plum position. Oh, she knew why. It was common knowledge in the office that Matthew had grown tired of younger, more glamorous PAs, whose prime objective had been to marry the boss. Nevertheless, she considered herself extremely fortunate to enjoy his confidence, even if, in this instance, he had chosen not to be absolutely frank.
The door closed behind her, and Matthew flipped open the Koysaki file. The Japanese company, whose representatives were flying to England at the end of the week, were looking for a software company through which they could channel their own product into Europe. It was a deal that interested Matthew greatly, offering as it did the opportunities for a similar expansion of J.P. Software into Japan. And, although he usually left all the talking to Robert, this was one occasion when he wouldn’t mind sitting in on their discussions.
But, in spite of his interest in the project, Matthew found he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he closed the file again, and tapped his fingernails against the cardboard folder. What if she didn’t come? he thought tautly, remembering how offhand she had been when he’d seen her. What if she’d discovered that Victor had nothing to do with J.P. Software International? Or—conversely—that Matthew Putnam had? It would be just his bad luck if she’d chosen to check out her client. And, in spite of her indifference, he didn’t think she’d forgotten his name.
The buzzer on his desk sounded, and he started at the sound. Damn, he thought, he was as edgy as a roadrunner. Thank God Mrs Mackay couldn’t see him.
‘Yes,’ he said, finding his voice, and depressing the receiver. ‘What is it?’
‘Miss Maxwell is here, Mr—er—–’ Matthew winced as she stuttered over the omission. ‘Um—shall I send her in?’
‘If you would.’ Matthew took a deep breath and rose to his feet, no longer so convinced that this was a good idea.
Mrs Mackay opened the door. ‘Miss Maxwell, sir,’ she said, carefully avoiding a repeat of her earlier hesitation. She ushered the younger woman forward. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Why not?’
Matthew said the words without giving them a great deal of thought. His attention was all on the newcomer, his eyes narrowing over slightly windswept curls and a pale grey suit whose skirt ended a couple of inches above her knee. She looked the same, but different, a harassed efficiency giving way to nervous anticipation.
That is, until she saw him; until she recognised that she had been tricked. Then, she glanced round at the departing Mrs Mackay with a distinct air of uncertainty, her hitherto pale features deepening with attractive colour. And she was attractive, Matthew admitted reluctantly. More attractive than he had been prepared to acknowledge. Those wide green eyes possessed a timeless beauty, although at present their expression was anything but remote.
‘You,’ she said, in an accusing tone, as the door closed behind Mrs Mackay. ‘You’re not Mr Burgess!’
Matthew forwent the idea of offering her his hand, and gestured to the chair at the other side of the desk. ‘Did anyone say I was?’ he queried, arching one dark brow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Matthew Putnam.’
‘I know that.’ Her lips tightened.
‘Very well. Won’t you sit down?’ he suggested. ‘The coffee won’t be long.’
‘I don’t want any coffee,’ she retorted tensely, gripping the leather portfolio she had brought with her, with both hands. Her tongue appeared to wet lips that were a delicious shade of copper, and Matthew found his eyes following its provocative progress. ‘Just tell me why you’ve brought me here. And wasted a whole morning of my time!’
Matthew felt a twinge of anger. Just who the hell did she think she was? he wondered hotly. As far as she knew, she had been brought here to discuss a business proposition. What had he said to give her the impression that anything had changed?
‘I suggest you sit down—and cool down,’ he advised, keeping his own tone as unemotional as he could manage. ‘Or is this the usual way you conduct business? I have to tell you, I’ve not come across these confrontational tactics before.’
She took a few deep breaths, and the sides of her jacket parted and came together invitingly. She was wearing a cream blouse under her jacket, and the lacy jabot at its neck fluttered accordingly. Her shoulders were back, and the rounded curve of her breasts swelled against the soft material. Matthew felt his own unwilling response to her undoubted femininity, and subsided into his chair. To hell with being polite, he decided grimly. Self-respect was more important just at present.
But, as if his words had aroused some doubt in her mind, too, Miss Maxwell chose that moment to inch forward, and brace her hips on the edge of the chair opposite. Matthew wouldn’t have said she was sitting exactly, although she had drawn her knees tightly together. Nevertheless, she was not looking down at him, as she would have been otherwise, and her grip on the portfolio was less tense.
Her eyes flickered up, met his, and flickered away again. Eyes that had hazel flecks in them now, turning the green to grey. He watched as she cast a surreptitious glance about the room, before returning her attention to the portfolio.
‘I—do I take it there really is a business lunch to cater for?’ she asked at last, and Matthew knew a momentary sense of self-contempt. It was so easy to manipulate her, he thought disgustedly, tempted to lay bare the whole charade. But on the heels of this thought came the memory of how Melissa had treated him, and he consoled himself with the knowledge that she could have refused the invitation.
‘Naturally, there’s a lunch,’ he said now, managing to sound convincingly put out. ‘As—as my colleague said over the phone, it’s for approximately twenty-five to thirty people. Our guests are Japanese, actually. So perhaps you could include some ethnic food as well.’
‘Japanese?’ Her eyes widened as they turned to his, and Matthew had the crazy thought that he might drown in their depths. His fingers itched to touch the long silky lashes that curled back against her lids, and smooth the curve of her temple, where it disappeared into the streaky mass of hair. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about Japanese food.’
‘No?’
‘Just put the tray over there,’ Matthew ordered, making space for it on his desk, his tone betraying just a trace of the irritation he was feeling. But Mrs Mackay noticed it, and her face assumed a matching expression.
‘Can I get you anything else, Mr Putnam?’ she enquired, and Matthew could hear the increased Scottish twang in her tone, which denoted her disapproval.
‘No, thanks,’ he said, impatient for her to leave them alone, and she took the hint.
‘Well, I’ll just be outside, if you want me,’ she added, as a parting shot, and Matthew guessed that was as much for Miss Maxwell’s benefit as his own.
With the door closed, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity the coffee afforded. ‘Won’t you join me?’ he requested of her now bent head and, although she was clearly unwilling, discretion fought with valour, and won.
‘Thank you,’ she said, though he noticed she didn’t trust herself to meet his gaze again. ‘Um—milk, and no sugar.’
‘It’s cream,’ he said wryly, and she pulled a rueful face.
‘Another nail in the diet,’ she quipped, giving the first indication that she was beginning to trust him. She took the cup he handed her, but avoided touching his hand. ‘Thanks.’ She sipped, and looked around her. ‘This is a beautiful office.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ Matthew poured himself a cup of coffee, but made no attempt to drink it. Instead, he lay back in his chair and said, ‘So—who’s minding the café today?’
It was a mistake. She stiffened at once, and he knew she was remembering his invasion of her space. But what the hell; for all she knew he had been down there, checking out the place. Not for any personal reasons.
‘Is it important?’ she asked now, and once again those cool eyes were turned on him. Evidently, anger provided a defence behind which she could shelter. But he wasn’t daunted by such a puerile display.
‘Not at all,’ he countered, pushing himself forward, and resting his elbows on the desk. ‘Are you usually this touchy with would-be clients?’
A deepening trace of warm colour entered her neck, just below the jawline, and spread rapidly upwards. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said tightly, setting her cup back on the tray with a betraying clatter. ‘As a matter of fact, this whole—catering—thing is a new departure for me, and I’m not at all sure I want to continue with it.’ She gathered up the leather case that had been resting on her knees, holding it in front of her like a would-be shield, and got to her feet. ‘I—appreciate your confidence, but I don’t think I’m the person to—to—accommodate you in this matter. I don’t have the experience, and—and I certainly don’t feel it would be—appropriate for me to—to waste your time and mine in—in continuing with this discussion.’ She sidestepped the chair, and began to retreat towards the door. ‘I’m sure you’ll find—someone else—–’
Her excuses ended abruptly as Matthew left his chair and came after her. Impatience marred his lean dark features as he strode past her, successfully blocking her exit and bringing her to a standstill.
‘You appreciate, that you can’t accommodate, and it wouldn’t be appropriate,’ he mocked harshly, realising that if he wasn’t careful she was going to walk out of here without leaving him even the flimsiest of excuses for seeing her again. His lips twisted. ‘What’s the matter, Miss Maxwell? Are you afraid of me?’
‘No!’
The denial was swift enough, but hardly convincing. Her hands were white-knuckled as they gripped the portfolio. But, although he was sure she would have liked to keep a healthy distance between them, courage, or simply grim determination, kept her where she was.
‘No?’ he echoed scornfully, giving up all hope of handling this calmly. The scent of her body was drifting to his nostrils, a mixture of skin cream, and cologne, and a definite trace of nervous arousal. Whatever she said, he did disturb her, and the urge to touch her was growing out of control.
‘Will you get out of my way?’ she asked tensely, evidently still believing she could handle the situation. And he supposed she could, if she chose to cry for help, and Mrs Mackay came rushing to the rescue.
‘Will you tell me why you’ve changed your mind about organising the lunch?’ he countered, and, unable to prevent himself, he put out a hand and tucked a silky coil of hair behind her ear. Her head jerked away from his fingers, but she didn’t dash his hand away. And, acting purely on impulse, he allowed the tips of his fingers to trail away down her neck to the collarless jacket of her suit.
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ she declared now, rushing into speech, as if it was the only way she could cope with his advances. ‘You don’t want my professional services, Mr Putnam. You just want to play sexual games! Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in your offer, whatever it is. So step out of the way, and let me go.’
Matthew’s jaw hardened. Until she spoke, he had thought he might have let her go, unchallenged. He knew she was engaged. She had displayed her ring proudly. And, despite his suspicions, he had been having second thoughts about his intentions. He had actually felt a twinge of remorse for setting her up this way. She was a decent girl, after all, and if he needed a scapegoat there were plenty of other women around. Women who had nothing to lose.
But his finer feelings foundered on the sharp edge of her contempt. It was one thing for him to think about letting her off the hook, and quite another for her to believe she could force the issue. For God’s sake, didn’t she know better than to throw her indifference in his face? Didn’t she know how irresistible it was to prove her wrong?
His eyes moved over her, noticing that for all her brave outburst she was breathing rather fast. The lace jabot fairly quivered as she fought to calm herself, and he guessed that only her grip on the portfolio prevented her from making some nervous gesture.
She was biting her lips, too, a sure sign that she was agitated. The lower lip was red and sore from being drawn between her teeth, and her tongue came to soothe it, before it was attacked again.
‘Don’t you ever play games, Sam?’ he asked softly, and saw the start she gave at his casual use of her name. Perhaps she’d assumed he didn’t know it. After all, she hadn’t heard his conversation with her waitress.
‘I—can I leave?’ she demanded, instead of answering him. Her voice had risen slightly, and he guessed that she was anxious. Anxious, and a little apprehensive, he guessed shrewdly. What would she do if he said no?
‘Why don’t you just sit down and we’ll talk about it?’ he said, tracing the edge of her jacket with his thumb and forefinger. Even now, her vulnerability pricked his conscience. But, when the backs of his fingers brushed the curve of her breast, the feeling was electric. Warm skin, lightly covered by the fine fabric of her blouse, swelled against his hand, and the need to feel their fullness overpowered him.
But before his fingers could explore those tantalising peaks, she had dashed his hand away and darted for the door. Only an instinctive lunge on his part prevented her from snatching the door open, and his palm slammed into the panel, right beside her head.
She spun round against the door, her eyes showing her dismay. No, not dismay; that was too mild a term. She looked shocked; astounded; desperate to escape, and—hunted. Yes, that was the word. She looked like a cornered animal. And, in spite of his intentions, Matthew knew a moment’s regret.
‘Are you mad?’ she choked, as his other hand came to rest on the other side of her head, effectively imprisoning her against the door. ‘I—I’ll scream!’
‘Go ahead,’ he said recklessly, the feminine scent of her body enveloping him once more. The more she fought him, the more aroused she became, and he didn’t believe she would call for help and humiliate herself so completely.
But he was wron
g. He apprehended the fact just a split second before she opened her mouth. And, although it wasn’t the way he had intended to play it, there was only one way to silence her. With a muffled oath, he cut the scream off at its source, his mouth fastening over hers with bruising insistence.
She resisted, of course. The leather portfolio went flying, and she used both hands to try and force him away. Her balled fists slammed into his stomach, making him catch his breath. But it was when her knee attempted to connect with the most vulnerable part of his body that he reacted more forcefully, lowering his weight against her, and pinning her against the door.
Her jaw sagged, stunned by the crushing pressure of his heavy frame. He was robbing her of breath, he knew, but it was the only way to control her, and his hand left the door to curl about her throat. He stroked the taut skin, caressing and soothing, and when he felt her strength ebbing he slid his tongue between her teeth.
She bit it, but not hard, and beneath his insistence the tenor of the kiss changed. Her mouth softened under his, her lips opening of their own free will, to admit his searching invasion. Her hands, stilled by his brutal subjugation, now clutched the lapels of his jacket, as if needing a lifeline, and her legs parted helplessly when he wedged his thigh between.
She was so soft, so submissive; silk, and lace, and sweetness, tongue and lips yielding to the mastery of his. She was trembling; he could feel it; but fire leapt between them as he continued to possess her mouth. His body was responding; getting heavier; hardening; making him wish he could take her there, hard against the door. Or maybe on the floor; his senses reeled at the prospect. Lifting her legs, wrapping them around him, plunging deep into her hot, damp core …
He should have realised it had been too easy. Her sudden weakness; her submission. He should have suspected there was more to it than sex.
But the truth was, he was too bemused by his own arousal to give any thought to what she might be thinking, might be feeling. He was seduced by the idea of what it would be like, undressing her, making love with her, showing her how perfectly they could fit together. He felt so sure of her response that he was foolish enough to ease away from her, so that he could separate her blouse from the waistband of her skirt. He wanted to slide his hands underneath the filmy fabric. The prospect of touching her soft skin tantalised him, and the button-hard nipples were just aching for his caress.