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

by Susan Stephens

‘I get the feeling even my best efforts won’t catch me that plane.’

  She gazed around in serious alarm. ‘That doesn’t entitle you to twiddle your thumbs!’

  He looked her over sardonically, but she was entirely unprepared for what he said next.

  ‘Let’s try and clear the decks here. If you’re not trying to make some stupid statement about the kind of housing estates I develop, what are you after, Maggie Trent? My body?’

  She went scarlet, instantly and—it felt—all over, and could have killed herself. ‘In your dreams, mister,’ she said through her teeth.

  ‘Why so hot, then?’ he taunted and ran his gaze up and down her. ‘We might suit rather well. In bed.’

  Her tongue seemed to tie itself in knots as all her mental sensors seemed to attune themselves to this proposition in the form of a picture in her mind’s eye of just that—Jack McKinnon running his hands over her naked body.

  What was particularly surprising about it was the fact that she didn’t often fantasize about men. In fact she’d sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with her. The other surprise she got was the realization that this man had got under her skin from the very beginning in this very way, and succeeded in unsettling her even when she’d been telling herself she hoped never to lay eyes on him again.

  Perhaps, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, or him, she thought.

  ‘Look—’ she ignored his assessing gaze; she ignored her burning cheeks ‘—don’t push me any further with this kind of—cheap rubbish!’

  He smiled slightly as he took in the imperious tilt of her chin. ‘Ever tried a real man, Maggie, as opposed to a good-mannered, docile boy like Tim Mitchell?’

  Her lips parted.

  ‘You might find your stance on men somewhat changed if you did,’ he drawled, and went on before she could draw breath. ‘And if you’re not making a statement on housing estates, what’s left?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she suggested dangerously.

  This time he smiled quite charmingly, although it didn’t take the sting out of what he said. ‘A flighty, spoilt little rich bitch who hates not getting her own way?’ he mused. ‘A right chip off the old block,’ he added with that lethal smile disappearing to be replaced by a cold, hard glance of contempt. Then he turned away.

  ‘Hang on! What’s that supposed to mean? Do you… do you know my father?’ she demanded.

  He turned back casually. ‘Everyone knows about your father. His high-handed reputation precedes him by a country mile.’

  Maggie bit her lip, but she soldiered on. ‘I told you—well, no, Tim told you, but all the same—I don’t trade on my father.’

  ‘Your kind generally stick together in the long run,’ he observed and shrugged his wide shoulders.

  ‘What ‘‘kind’’, exactly, is that?’ she queried with awful forbearance.

  He looked at her indifferently. ‘Old money, class, breeding—whatever you like to call it.’

  ‘People who make those kinds of statements generally have none of those advantages—but wish they did,’ she shot back.

  He grinned. ‘You’re right about one thing, I have no breeding or class, but you’re wrong about the other—I have no desire to acquire them. Well, now that we’ve thoroughly dissected each other, not to mention insulted each other, should we get down to brass tacks?’

  ‘And what might they be?’

  ‘How to get out of here. Is anyone expecting to see you this afternoon or this evening? Does anyone know you’re here?’

  Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down at the table at the same time as, with an effort, she withdrew her mind from the indignity of being tarred with the same brush as her father again or, if not that, being classed as a flighty little rich bitch.

  That one really stung, she discovered. True, she could be hot-tempered, as she’d so disastrously demonstrated, but it had no connection with being spoilt or rich. How to make Jack McKinnon see it that way—she shot him a fiery little glance—was another matter. Then again, why should she even bother?

  She frowned and addressed herself to his question. ‘The office knew I was going to do a property valuation, but I wasn’t planning to go back to work this afternoon so they won’t miss me until tomorrow morning, oh, damn,’ she said hollowly.

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  ‘I’ve just remembered. I wasn’t planning to go into the office at all tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning and I was going to spend the afternoon—’ She broke off and grimaced a shade embarrassedly.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he murmured. ‘Getting your hair done, a facial, a manicure, a dress fitting, perhaps a little shopping in the afternoon?’

  Maggie’s cheeks started to burn because most of the things he’d suggested were on her agenda for tomorrow afternoon. But she ignored her hot cheeks and beamed him a scathing green glance.

  ‘Listen,’ she said tersely, ‘yes, my hours can be elastic. On the other hand sometimes they’re extremely long and I have a day off this week, two actually, because I’m working all next weekend. I do not have any more time off than anyone else in the office!’

  He shrugged.

  Prompting her to continue angrily, ‘And if I’m the only woman you know who gets her hair cut now and then, has a manicure occasionally and shops from time to time, you must mix with some strange types, Mr McKinnon.’

  He studied her hair and her nails. ‘They look fine to me,’ he said smoothly, but with an ironic little glint. ‘Be that as it may, only your doctor and your beautician are likely to miss you tomorrow I take it?’

  Maggie sat back with her expression a mixture of frustration and ire. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Anything serious with the doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So they’re hardly likely to mount a search and rescue mission.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You live alone?’

  ‘I live alone,’ she agreed. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What about this plane you’re supposed to catch?’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘It could be a day or two before I’m missed. I’m—I was—on my way to a conference in Melbourne, but I planned to call in on my mother tomorrow in Sydney on the way.’

  Maggie sat up. ‘Surely she’ll miss you?’

  ‘She didn’t know I was coming. It was to be a surprise.’

  ‘That’s asking for trouble!’ Maggie said. ‘You could have missed her.’

  ‘Apart from complicating our situation?’ He waited until she looked slightly embarrassed. Then he added, ‘Not much chance of missing her as she’s not fit enough to go out.’

  This time Maggie looked mortified. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said stiffly.

  His lips twisted. ‘As it happens I’m in agreement with your first sentiment.’

  She looked startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry now I didn’t let her know, but the reason I don’t usually is because if I don’t turn up exactly at the appointed time, she gets all anxious and unsettled.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie found she had to smile. ‘My mother’s a bit like that.’

  They said nothing for a few moments, both locked into their thoughts about their respective mothers, then he shrugged and strolled over to the pile of tarpaulins in the corner and started to pull them off.

  Maggie confidently expected an old utility vehicle or tractor to be revealed, so she sucked in an incredulous breath when a shiny black vintage car in superb condition and a Harley Davidson motor bike, both worth a small fortune, were exposed.

  ‘They didn’t—the owners didn’t say a word about these!’

  ‘No? It does explain the security, however,’ he said. ‘This shed is like a fortress.’

  Maggie frowned. ‘It doesn’t make sense. They haven’t lived here for over a year, they told me. They don’t have a caretaker. The house is a shambles but, well, who in their right minds w
ould—sort of—abandon these?’ She got up and walked over to the car and stroked the bonnet.

  ‘You would have thought they’d put them up on blocks at least,’ Jack said. He opened the car door and they both looked in.

  The interior was as beautifully restored as the rest of it with plump, gleaming leather seats and the keys were dangling in the ignition. Jack slid into the driver’s seat and switched it on. The motor purred to life.

  He let it run for a few minutes, then switched it off and got out of the car. ‘They must know they’re here,’ he said. ‘Someone has to be starting this car regularly or the battery would be flat.’

  ‘What did they say to you?’ she asked. ‘The owners.’

  ‘I didn’t speak to them, but…’ he paused ‘… same as you; they gave my PA to understand that no one had lived here for over a year. They certainly didn’t mention any vintage cars and bikes to her, but I wasn’t planning to come into the shed so…’ He stopped.

  Maggie turned on her heel and ran across to the kitchen cupboard. ‘These tins,’ she said, pulling out a can of baked beans, ‘don’t look over a year old. Nor—’ she reached for an open packet of cornflakes and peered inside ‘—would these have survived the mice I happen to know are here. But they’re fine.’

  She proffered the packet to him.

  He didn’t look inside. ‘I believe you. Are you saying someone has taken over this shed?’

  ‘It’s quite possible! The nearest neighbours are miles away on a different road. The driveway in here is virtually concealed. You could come and go and no one would be any the wiser!’

  ‘If it’s true it’s not much help to us unless they actually live here and come home every night.’

  ‘Maybe they do!’ Maggie said with a tinge of excitement.

  He walked round the car and opened the boot. ‘Well, that’s something, in case they don’t.’

  ‘What?’ She went to have a look.

  ‘A tool kit.’ He hefted a wooden box out of the boot, put it on the floor and opened it. ‘Of sorts,’ he added and lifted out an electric key saw. ‘We may just be able to cut our way out of here somehow.’

  Maggie heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘Oh, thank heavens!’

  He glanced across at her. ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘In time to catch your plane?’

  ‘No. This is more a hobby saw; it’s going to be a long, slow process.’

  ‘Why don’t you get straight to work?’ she suggested. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  The look he tossed her was full of irony.

  ‘I’ve never used one of those,’ she said, ‘but if you’d like to show me how, you could make the tea and I could do the sawing. Would you prefer that?’ she queried innocently.

  ‘No, I would not. We could be here for a year,’ he returned shortly.

  Maggie hid a smile.

  ‘But what you could do is scout around for an extension cord. The nearest power point is too far from the door—’ He stopped abruptly and looked frustrated.

  ‘There’s power!’ she assured him. ‘And water. I checked.’

  He looked relieved this time, but in no better humour. ‘OK. Start looking for a cord.’

  Maggie resisted the temptation to salute and say, Yes, sir! And she toned down her triumph when she found an extension cord on top of the kitchen cupboard.

  An hour later, his mood was even worse. There were no spare blades for the saw and the one in it was blunt.

  ‘This thing wouldn’t cut butter,’ he said, having succeeded in cutting no more than a shallow, six- inch-long groove in the door. He threw it aside in disgust.

  It was dark by now and the only light was from a single bulb suspended from the rafters. Its thin glow didn’t reach the corners of the shed, and the mice, having decided they weren’t under threat from the humans who had invaded their space, were on the move again.

  Maggie had made tea an hour ago, then coffee a few minutes previously. She now stared down into the dark depths of her cup, and shivered. ‘We’re not going to get out of here tonight, are we?’

  He came over to the table and pulled out a chair. ‘No, Miss Trent, we are not. Not unless whoever is moonlighting in this shed comes home.’

  ‘So you agree someone is doing that?’

  ‘Was there power connected to the house?’

  Maggie thought swiftly. ‘No. That’s strange, isn’t it? On here but not up there.’

  ‘Whoever they are, they may have found a way to tap into the grid illegally.’ He suddenly slammed his fist onto the table in a gesture of frustration.

  ‘I…’ she looked at him fleetingly ‘… I do apologize.’

  ‘So you bloody well should.’

  He had wood shavings in his hair and he brushed them off his shirt. There were streaks of dust on his trousers.

  ‘You don’t have to swear.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he contradicted. He looked at his hands. They were filthy and several knuckles were grazed. ‘Would you like to know what I’d be doing now if I wasn’t incarcerated here? I’ll tell you.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d just be arriving at my hotel in Sydney where I’d shout myself a sundowner and have a shower. Then I’d order a medium-rare pepper steak with Idaho potatoes, maybe some rock oysters to start with and a cheese platter to follow. I feel sure I’d wash it all down with…’ he stared at her reflectively ‘… a couple of glasses of a decent red, then maybe some Blue Mountain coffee.’

  Maggie flinched inwardly and couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  ‘How about you?’ he queried.

  She thought for a moment. ‘Toasted cheese with a salad and an early night,’ she said briefly.

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘That sounds very bachelor girl.’

  ‘I am a bachelor girl.’

  ‘A very well-heeled one by the same token,’ he murmured.

  Maggie started to feel less embarrassed and guilty. ‘Don’t start on all that again,’ she warned.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? If you were an ordinary girl rather than ultra-privileged, and if you were without strong, unreasonable prejudices, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Listen, mate, you offered the first insult!’

  ‘Ah, yes, so I did.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘I take nothing back.’

  ‘Neither do I. But you,’ she accused, ‘went on doing it.’

  He shrugged. ‘You have to admit it was a rather bizarre situation to find myself in.’

  Maggie frowned. ‘What did you mean there being two sides to that coin? The one about me hating powerful, arrogant men or words to that effect?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said reflectively, ‘girls are secretly attracted to power and arrogance in men even if they don’t like to admit it.’

  ‘I am not one of those, assuming they exist and are not a figment of your imagination,’ Maggie stated.

  He grinned. ‘Very well, ma’am. And it doesn’t make you at all nervous to be locked in here with me in our current state of discord?’

  Maggie hesitated. ‘I know it must have looked rather strange, what I did,’ she said slowly, ‘and I suppose I can’t blame you for wondering what on earth was going on. Therefore everything you said, even although I found it offensive—’

  ‘All that cheap rubbish?’ he interrupted gravely, although with an inward grin.

  ‘Yes.’ She eyed him briefly and sternly. ‘Therefore everything you said was—understandable, perhaps, so—’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Will you stop interrupting?’ she commanded. ‘This is hard enough as it is.’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ he murmured.

  She eyed him dangerously this time. ‘Put plainly, I’d much rather you disliked me and were irritated by me than any other ideas you might have had, all the same!’

  He laughed softly, then he watched her intently for a long moment. ‘Are you really that naïve, Maggie Trent?’

  ‘What’s naïve about it? Well,’ she hastened to say, ‘
perhaps I am, in a general sense. I did have a very sheltered—’ She broke off and bit her lip.

  ‘Upbringing?’ he suggested.

  ‘My father—’ She stopped again. She might have her problems with her father—she did!—but broadcasting them to strangers was another matter.

  ‘Saw to that, did he?’ Jack McKinnon eyed her reflectively. ‘I’m surprised he let you out of his sight.’

  Maggie drew a deep breath, but discovered she couldn’t let this go. ‘The fact that I actually have a job and live on my own is testimony to a battle for independence that you might find quite surprising.’

  He said nothing, but the way he stared at her led her to believe he might be reviewing all the facts he now had at his disposal, and changing his opinions somewhat. Good, she thought, and, with a toss of her head, stood up.

  She would have died if she’d known that he was actually contemplating the—pleasure?—yes, of having her as his dinner companion at his mythical dinner in Sydney, then disposing of her clothes article by article in a way that drove her wild with desire even if she didn’t like him particularly…

  ‘You know,’ she said blandly, ‘it’s just occurred to me that I could alleviate at least one of your discomforts.’

  He looked supremely quizzical. ‘You could?’ And wondered what she’d say if he told her at least one of his discomforts sprang from the way he kept thinking how she’d look without her clothes…

  She went over and rummaged in the kitchen cupboard. What she produced was half a bottle of Scotch. She gathered two glasses and a jug from below the sink. She rinsed them all out, filled the jug with water and placed everything on the table.

  ‘It may be tinned food rather than steak, oysters and cheese but at least we can have a drink—we may even find it puts us in a better mood.’

  He studied her offerings, then studied her expression. ‘Miss Trent, you are a peach.’ He reached for the bottle.

  She was right.

  After a Scotch and a meal of a heated-up Fray Bentos steak pie and baked beans, Jack McKinnon was rather more mellow.

  ‘Tell me about the Smiths,’ he said as she prepared to wash the dishes.