Mistletoe Mistress

Her spacious one-bedroom flat on the top storey of an old renovated house overlooking myriad rooftops and a wide expanse of light washed sky welcomed her as she opened the front door, the large terracotta-tiled balcony where she ate most of her meals during the spring and summer causing a momentary hiccup in her plans. Could she leave it? This, her first real home where she had been so happy, so secure?

She opened the French windows from the high-ceilinged lounge and walked out on to the flower-bedecked balcony, noting that most of the plants festooning the walls and floor were alive and thriving, for which she had to thank her neighbour on the floor below who had promised faithfully to water them each evening.

She was brought from further musing by the strident ringing of the telephone in the room she had just left and hurried back indoors, lifting the receiver and speaking breathlessly as she gave the number, fully expecting it to be Clare making sure she had reached home safely after the emotion of the day.

It wasn’t Clare.

‘Miss Crawford?’ The deep dark voice was unmistakable. ‘This is Hawk Mallen.’

‘I . . . What...? Yes, Mr Mallen?’ Oh, pull yourself together, for goodness’ sake, she thought scathingly as she heard her faltering voice with a burst of self-contempt that was humiliating. What did she sound like? But she sat down very suddenly on the little pouffe next to the phone, her legs turning to jelly.

‘Are you in full possession of all the facts relating to the takeover of Concise Publications by Mallen Books now?’ the male voice, with its almost gravelly texture, asked expressionlessly.

‘I think... I think so, and I just want to say I didn’t realise... That is, I know I spoke out of turn—’

‘Miss Crawford, I didn’t ring for an apology, if that’s what you are thinking, although it is acknowledged and accepted.’

She blinked a little, even more glad she was sitting down as her stomach turned over with a shuddering jerk. He was terrifying—in spite of the miles separating them that dark, formidable aura swept into the room along with his voice and caused her nerves to go haywire.

Once Charles had accepted she was serious about not going back he had related numerous stories about the Mallen empire, most of them featuring Hawk Mallen, and as she had listened she had known that even if today had not happened she could not have worked for this single-minded, utterly frightening, ruthless tycoon. He was the original workaholic according to Charles—cold, untouchable, his reputation built purely by his own efforts and having nothing to do with his grandfather’s name. As Charles had gone on the main element to her emotion was sheer wonder that she had dared to say all she had to this walking legend. No wonder he had looked so amazed as she had left; it was doubtful if anyone had ever spoken to him like that before, or walked out on him either.

‘Miss Crawford? Are you still there?’

She realised she was sitting in a kind of trance and jerked to life with the voice in her ear. ‘Yes, yes, I am.’ Breathe deeply, talk coherently, act your age. ‘Thank you—’

‘I would like to see you privately; I think the office staff have been entertained enough for one day,’ he said silkily, his voice so smooth and bland that for a moment the import of his words didn’t strike home. ‘And preferably before the day starts tomorrow. Would this evening be convenient?’

‘This evening?’ Her voice was a squeak of horror—she knew it and he must have heard it, and now she began to gabble in an effort to cover up. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve just got back from holiday, you see, and there are things to do. I really can’t—’

‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’ The silkiness sheathed cold steel, but in spite of his intimidation a little spurt of anger at his arrogance rose, hot and fierce.

‘I honestly don’t think there is any point, Mr Mallen.’ Her voice was firmer but she was still glad she was sitting down. ‘I can call by the office at your convenience to pick up my salary cheque and clear any outstanding matters you might need my assistance on; I’m quite prepared to help—’

‘In that case you will see me this evening,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m not asking you for a date—’ there was a moment’s pause when she felt herself flush bright scarlet ‘—merely suggesting we discuss certain business matters over dinner.’

‘But—’

‘That’s settled, then. Eight it is.’ And the phone went dead. She stared at it for a full minute—the deep voice with its faint American accent still ringing in her ears—before she slowly replaced the receiver, but even then she made no effort to stand. He was taking her out to dinner? Hawk Mallen? Taking her out to dinner? She couldn’t; she just couldn’t.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Charles’s number, her hand shaking.

‘Charles Brigmore?’ His voice was so reassuringly familiar she wanted to cry again, but checked the impulse firmly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried before today, and now she couldn’t stop.

‘Charles, you’ll never guess what’s happened...’ There was complete silence at the other end of the line as she went on, and as the silence lengthened when she had finished she said hesitantly, ‘Charles? Say something.’

‘You’ve agreed to go out to dinner with Hawk Mallen?’ Charles asked bemusedly. ‘But...why?’

‘I didn’t exactly agree to anything,’ Joanne said a trifle testily. ‘I told you. He just sort of...told me.’

‘Well, untell him,’ Charles said with a surprising lack of grammar. ‘You don’t know what you are getting into, Jo.’

‘I do.’ She paused, and moderated her tone as she continued, ‘I’ve an idea anyway; that’s why I’m ringing you to discuss it. I don’t know why he wants to see me, but after my little outburst today it can’t be for anything good. He wasn’t too pleased when I left.’

‘I can imagine.’ Charles’s voice was very dry.

‘He can’t hold me to anything, can he, with my contract? ’ Joanne asked anxiously. ‘I know it says three months’ notice, but surely in the circumstances he’d be prepared to be reasonable?’

‘I don’t think “reasonable” is a word that features in Hawk Mallen’s vocabulary,’ Charles said slowly. ‘Look, ring him back and ask him exactly what he wants to see you about. That’s only sensible, and if you’re still not happy...’

‘I shan’t be happy; of course I shan’t be happy,’ Joanne said flatly. ‘Would you be happy going out to dinner with Hawk Mallen after speaking to him the way I did? He’s probably after my blood.’

‘As long as that’s all he’s after,’ Charles said darkly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Joanne...’ Charles’s voice held the patience that characterised his relationship with her. ‘I know you don’t preen and powder like the average female but you must look in the mirror sometimes, surely? You’re a very attractive woman, and Hawk Mallen is definitely very much a man. I didn’t say this this afternoon, but he doesn’t only work hard, if you get my meaning; the play is done pretty energetically and with great effect too.’

‘No, he made it clear it wasn’t a date, Charles; he actually spelled it out. Besides which I hardly think someone like Hawk Mallen would look twice at me.’ She smiled to herself at the thought. ‘He must have his pick of women.’

‘No doubt,’ Charles said drily.

‘But I will phone him back. I can’t see any point in meeting him,’ she said resolutely.

‘Ring me if there’s any trouble.’

There was trouble, but she didn’t ring back, deciding that it was her problem, not Charles’s. Hawk Mallen wasn’t in the building, Sue on Reception told her politely, and no, she had no idea where he could be contacted. She could give her the name of the hotel where he was staying at present if she’d like to ring there? Joanne did like, but he wasn’t there either. She left messages in both places for him to contact her if he returned, and then paced the floor for the rest of the afternoon waiting for the telephone to ring.

By six o’clock she was panicking badly; by seven she had had a bath and washed her hair, and a feeling of inevitability had settled over her like a blanket. Whether he’d got her messages or not he wouldn’t ring; she should have known, she told herself resignedly. He had made up his mind he was going to talk to her tonight, and that, as far as he was concerned, was that.

What did one wear when going out to dinner with a megalomaniac? she asked herself helplessly as she surveyed her wardrobe. Especially a fabulously wealthy, dark, attractive one, who frightened her half to death and was probably gunning for her blood? Was he going to prove awkward? Take pleasure in telling her he was going to put the knife in with future employers and so on? Or was he going to hold her to every last day of her contract? She could leave anyway—it would just mean a loss of salary and other benefits—but it wouldn’t look too good with prospective employers.

The carefree days of the last month seemed like another lifetime as she glumly pulled a high-necked, long-sleeved cocktail dress in crushed black silk off its hanger. The dress was expensive but the style demure; it gave the impression of a controlled, capable woman in charge of her own destiny, which was exactly what she wanted for the night ahead.

Her hair was trimmed in a sleek bob just above the nape and she normally wore it loose, but she needed the extra sophistication having it up would give her, she decided nervously as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was all fingers and thumbs, but eventually it was secured in a neat chignon at the back of her head, a pair of tiny gold studs her only jewellery, and a touch of mascara the sum total of her make-up.

There—calm, cool and competent, she decided silently as she looked into the long full-length mirror in her bedroom, seeing only the elegant dress with its matching shoes, and quite missing the beauty of her glowing red hair and honey-brown eyes which complemented the black silk perfectly.

Hawk Mallen missed neither when Joanne opened the door to his knock at exactly eight o’clock, her colour high again as she saw him framed in the doorway, big and dark and lazily self-assured.

‘I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon.’ It probably wasn’t the best of opening lines, but her brain seemed to scramble at the sight or sound of this man.

‘And now you have.’ He smiled easily, but it didn’t reach the riveting blue eyes and she knew instantly, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had received her messages and guessed the reason for them.

‘I . . . I was just going to ask what this was all about.’ She had raised her chin slightly as she spoke without being aware of it, and the subtle gesture spoke volumes to the man watching her so closely.

‘All in good time.’ He gestured to the room beyond. ‘Do you have a wrap, a jacket...?’

‘Yes. Oh, come in.’ She stepped back so hastily she nearly pivoted on the three-inch heels which were much higher than those she normally wore, recovering herself just in time and feeling her face grow even hotter in the process. This was going to be a riot of an evening, she told herself desperately, walking carefully through the tiny square hall and into the lounge where she had placed her jacket and handbag. She couldn’t even stay upright, let alone impress him with her woman-of-the-world persona.

‘Nice flat.’ He had followed her, and as she turned the room immediately shrank in deference to his presence, his impressive height and build seeming to fill the pleasant light surroundings.

‘I like it.’ She couldn’t for the life of her manage her normal social smile as she stared at him before moving hastily away, her face still flaming, and busying herself adjusting the brilliance of the wall lights. She reached for her jacket and bag. ‘Shall we?’ She nodded to the front door but he didn’t move, surveying her with cool, narrowed eyes for a long, heart-thudding moment

‘I’m not going to eat you, you know,’ he said softly. ‘You’re not Little Red Riding Hood and I’m not the Wolf. Well...’ He paused, his eyes narrowing still more. ‘You’re not Little Red Riding Hood anyway,’ he added sardonically.

‘I didn’t say—’

‘You didn’t have to.’ He interrupted her before she could finish and again the incredible self-assurance hit a nerve.

‘Mr Mallen—’

‘Hawk, please,’ he interjected softly.

‘Mr Mallen, I’ve no idea what was so important that it couldn’t wait until normal office hours, but I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ she said stiffly. ‘I tried to contact you this afternoon—’

‘You’ve already said that.’ The dark eyebrows rose mockingly.

‘But you clearly didn’t receive my messages,’ she finished a trifle desperately. This was awful; he was awful.

‘Oh, I did, both of them, but I chose to ignore them,’ he said easily, his voice as pleasant as if he were discussing the weather.

‘You what?’ She couldn’t match his calm, her voice high.

‘Ignored them.’ He smiled maliciously, clearly thoroughly enjoying her open-mouthed discomfiture. ‘You suspected that, didn’t you?’ he added silkily. ‘But you expected me to lie to you. I never lie, Joanne. When you know me better you will appreciate that is the truth. However painful, however costly, I never lie.’

Know him better? Over her dead body!

‘Now, there is a table booked at the Maltese Inn for nine, so if you’re ready?’

The dark face was expressionless, the blue eyes unwavering, and as she gazed into the hard, implacable features she conceded defeat. Okay, she’d go on this wretched evening out, she could hardly do anything else now, but there was no way she was going to be bullied or threatened by this man, whatever his wealth or connections.

‘Yes, I’m quite ready.’ She looked at him steadily, trying to hide the fact that she felt like a petrified little rabbit in the hypnotising power of a fox, and even managed a tight smile as she said, ‘I’m just worried that this evening will be a lamentable waste of your valuable time, Mr Mallen.’

‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ he said quietly. ‘And I told you, the name’s Hawk.’

Hawk. Yes, the name suited him, she thought with a faint touch of hysteria as he took her arm and ushered her out of the flat. She had been mistaken in her analogy of a fox; he was far more like the ruthless, keen-sighted bird of prey he had been named after, and at the moment she had the awful conviction that the quarry in his sights was her!

CHAPTER TWO

THE Maltese Inn was an exclusive little nightclub she had heard about but never had the necessary connections to enter, it being the haunt of the very rich and the very famous. It was chic, select, and its clientele ranged from wealthy film stars and top models to the very élite of England’s aristocracy.

Once in Hawk’s car, which just had to be a magnificent sporty monster she had never heard of before but which was undoubtedly in the super league—nothing as well known as a Ferrari or Lamborghini for him, she thought nastily—she found herself dumb with nerves.

She glanced at him several times from under her eyelashes, her eyes and senses registering the big lean body clothed in evening dress with a jolt that didn’t lessen with the third or fourth glance, before forcing herself to make some sort of conversation. ‘This is a beautiful car.’ Never had words been so inadequate; never had she felt so inadequate. ‘What is it?’

‘A Cizeta-Moroder V16T.’ The piercing eyes flashed over her face for a moment before returning to the windscreen.

‘Oh.’ She was no nearer and it showed.

‘It’s an Italian car, designed by Marcello Gandini,’ Hawk said easily. ‘I like the power, the body style, and it’s beautiful and fast. When I drive I like to enjoy the experience, besides which I wanted a car which would take me from A to B in as short a time as possible.’

‘And this certainly would.’ She glanced round the interior of the two-seater coupé which was as dynamic inside as out.

‘I also like unusual things, not necessarily unique but things that haven’t been . . . cheapened by overuse,’ he continued softly.

There had been a thread of something in his voice she couldn’t quite place, but as she glanced at the dark profile again it gave nothing away, his features relaxed and quite expressionless.

She couldn’t believe she was sitting in the sort of car one only saw in the movies, being driven to the most fashionable nightclub in London by a dark, handsome—No, not handsome. She caught her thoughts abruptly, sneaking another glance at him. Handsome was too weak a word somehow for Hawk Mallen; it suggested pretty-boy good looks, traditional appeal, and the lean, hard face, penetrating blue eyes and cruel, sensual mouth were anything but that. She shivered suddenly, in spite of the perfectly regulated temperature within the car.

What on earth was she doing here? She must be mad. Her thoughts did nothing to calm her racing heartbeat. And the Maltese Inn, of all places. It was all Diors and diamonds there, and here was she in her little black dress and off-the-peg jacket... She felt a moment of nausea as her stomach turned right over. She was going to stand out like a sore thumb—

‘Look, could you just try and think of me as friend and not foe for an hour or two, at least until the meal is over?’ The deep, gravelly voice had amusement at its core; she could hear it curling the edges. ‘Good food is life’s second greatest pleasure...’ The piercing gaze swept over her flushed face for one brief moment but it left her in no doubt as to what he considered the first, and she felt herself blush even more fiercely. ‘And I’d prefer to enjoy the meal tonight without indigestion at the end of it.’

‘I don’t know you, Mr Mallen—Hawk,’ she corrected hastily as he made a growl of annoyance in his throat, ‘so how could I possibly regard you as foe?’

‘I’ve been involved with a good few women in my time, Joanne, on a business level and otherwise,’ he said quietly, ‘and one thing I’ve learnt along the way is that your sex doesn’t need a reason for anything it feels like doing.’

‘Well, that’s a sexist remark if ever I heard one,’ she retorted scathingly, forgetting her nervousness and apprehension as he pressed the fire button. ‘You’re one of those men who think women are empty-headed little dolls, good for one thing only?’

‘Did I say that?’ he drawled softly.

‘You didn’t have to.’ She was trying to give the impression of being as controlled and calm as he was, but it was difficult—more than difficult. She might have known he’d be a male chauvinist pig on top of everything else; this was getting worse by the minute.

‘You might have been able to read Charles’s mind but not mine, Joanne,’ he said calmly, ‘so please don’t make the mistake of thinking you can. And I wasn’t insinuating anything about Charles, before further crimes are laid at my feet. I’m quite aware of the platonic relationship between you both—“a father and daughter affection” were the words used to explain it, I think,’ he said easily, ‘by none other than his wife.’

‘You asked Clare about me?’ she screeched, her voice reverberating around the car’s plush interior and causing the man at the wheel to wince visibly. ‘How dare you?’

‘Who better to ask?’ His sidelong glance took in her scarlet face and he actually chuckled before adding, ‘Calm down, Joanne, calm down; it wasn’t like that. On the way to pick you up this evening I called by Charles’s house with some papers for him to sign, and it was Clare who mentioned you as it happens. They’re very fond of you, aren’t they?’ he said quietly. ‘You’re quite one of the family.’

She wasn’t sure if he was being nasty or not but her temper was still at boiling point and she didn’t trust herself to speak anyway. What an impossible man, she thought angrily. If ever she had needed confirmation that her decision to leave Concise Publications had been the right one, she’d just had it. Working as Charles’s publishing assistant had been nothing but pleasure, but as Hawk Mallen’s . . .

‘Did you enjoy your job, Joanne?’ It was as though he had read her mind, and she noted the past tense with a little flutter in her stomach. So, she was out on her ear, but then why this dinner tonight? she thought bitterly. So he could gloat, was that it?

‘Yes, I did.’ In spite of all her efforts to the contrary she couldn’t quite keep the thread of antagonism from showing. ‘It was interesting, exciting.’

‘And from what Charles tells me your input was considerably more than one could normally expect from a publishing assistant; would you say that was fair?’ he asked mildly.

She shrugged carefully. ‘I’ve no personal commitments so there was no need to clock-watch if that’s what you mean.’

‘Not exactly.’ The sleek, low beast of a car had just growled reluctantly to a halt at some traffic lights, and he stretched in the leather seat as he waited for amber, the movement bringing powerfully muscled thighs disconcertingly into her consciousness as she glanced his way. Her head shot to the front as though she had been bitten, the colour that had just begun to recede surging into her cheeks again.

What was it about him? she asked herself helplessly. Sexual magnetism? The aphrodisiac of wealth and power and authority? Sheer old-fashioned sex appeal? It was all those things and more, and it was devastating. He would have been dynamite on the silver screen, she thought ruefully. Pure twenty-four-carat box-office dynamite.

He didn’t speak again as the Cizeta-Moroder sprang away from the lights, but as they travelled along the well-lit London streets her nerve-endings were screaming at her awareness of him, and she had never felt so out of her depth in all her life.

When they drew up outside the refined elegant building of the Maltese Inn he uncoiled his big body from the low-slung car with easy animal grace, moving to the passenger side in a moment and opening her door for her.

‘You aren’t going to leave it here?’ She stared at him in surprise once she was on the pavement, but in the next second a massive uniformed doorman, who looked more like a prize fighter than anything else, was at their side.

‘Keys, Bob.’ Hawk dropped the keys into the man’s outstretched hand with a warm smile along with a folded banknote. ‘Look after her.’

‘As always, Mr Mallen, as always. Good evening, miss.’

‘Good evening.’ Joanne smiled into the big ugly face with a naturalness that had been missing in her dealings with Hawk, something the piercing blue eyes noted and filed.

There was another doorman ready to open the gleaming plate-glass door into the entrance lobby, and another who ushered them through that and into the area beyond, where the reception area, powder rooms and cloakrooms were, the nightclub itself being up a flight of wide, graciously curved stairs that would have done credit to any Hollywood movie.

Having divested herself of her jacket, Joanne was painfully conscious of the plainness of her dress and jewellery as she joined Hawk, the surrounding area seeming full of glittering women, with diamonds on their wrists, throat and ears, and all wearing dresses that must have cost a small fortune.

She was aware of the subdued buzz that Hawk was drawing, especially from the female contingent, as they walked towards the stairs, and it took all her will-power to keep her head high and her face cool and contained as they climbed the marble steps to the nightclub beyond.

That Hawk himself had noticed the covert glances became apparent when, on reaching the top of the stairs, he leant down and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t worry, they are the same with everyone; they’re trying to work out what us being together means.’

They aren’t the only ones, Joanne thought wryly, her nerves as tight as piano wire.

‘Too much time and too much money breeds mischief,’ Hawk went on cynically, ‘as many a damaged reputation has discovered.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced back down into the glittering array beneath them as they turned to go through the doors into the dimly lit nightclub, and there was more than one pair of beautifully painted eyes that stared brazenly back at her.