Mistletoe Mistress

‘You don’t gossip?’

It was said mockingly but with more than a touch of scepticism, and Joanne paused just inside the room, meeting his sardonic gaze as she said, ‘No, I don’t. Why? Is that so unbelievable?’

‘Yes.’ The sensual mouth quirked apologetically. ‘I told you I don’t lie,’ he continued softly, ‘and you did ask.’

‘You seem to have a very low opinion of the female sex, Mr Mallen,’ she said tightly. ‘Or am I mistaken?’

It was a direct confrontation, and he smiled slowly, his eyes turning to liquid silver under the muted lighting and his dark skin accentuated by the whiteness of his smile. ‘I can’t answer that on the grounds that it might incriminate me,’ he said lightly.

‘I see.’ She was about to say more, a lot more, but the appearance of the head waiter, with a smile as wide as London Bridge, put paid to the flood of angry words, and as they were led to what was obviously a supenor table, right on the edge of the large dance-floor, she found herself once again overawed by her surroundings.

The champagne cocktails that appeared as though by magic at their elbows the moment they were seated were absolutely delicious; in fact she hadn’t tasted anything quite so delicious before, but she noticed that although Hawk ordered a second for her he had nothing more exciting than mineral water.

‘I’m driving.’ He answered her raised eyebrows with a smile. ‘One is enough.’

‘How resolute of you,’ she answered lightly.

‘Not really.’ The blue eyes narrowed, his gaze intent as he said, ‘My father had three times the permitted level of alcohol in his blood when he went off the road and caused the death of himself and my mother fifteen years ago. He was forty-four, she was just forty; I don’t find it hard to say no to alcohol when I’m driving.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ she asked lamely.

‘No.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘How about you? Do you come from a big family?’ he asked quietly.

‘No.’ She hadn’t expected this and it took her completely by surprise, causing her to stammer slightly as she said, ‘My...my mother is dead and I never knew my father.’

‘No siblings?’ The keen eyes had narrowed on her flushed face.

‘No, I . . . I was brought up in foster homes mostly. My mother... she didn’t relate too well to children.’ She stopped abruptly, appalled at what she had revealed. This man had drawn out of her what it had taken Charles and Clare twelve months to achieve. How could she have told him that about her childhood? she asked herself desperately. It had sounded as though she was asking for sympathy and that was the last thing, the very last thing, she wanted.

The appearance of a waiter at Hawk’s elbow in the next moment eased the situation somewhat, and after they had ordered he didn’t comment about what had been said before, engaging her in light, easy conversation that taxed neither her brain nor her tongue.

But... And there was a but, she thought silently, even as she laughed at something witty, and faintly cruel, he had just said about a well-known television presenter who had just swept into the nightclub with all the regality of royalty. Yes, there definitely was a but, although she couldn’t quite determine what it was.

Possibly the way he was watching her, his blue eyes cynical and probing even as his mouth smiled and made small talk, or perhaps it was the rather remote way he had with him, as though he was surveying everything and everyone from a distance and finding them wanting. Whatever, it was disconcerting, unnerving, and she was immensely glad of the fortifying cocktails to quieten the rampant butterflies in her stomach that had been fluttering crazily since she had first opened the door of the flat to him.

The meal was delicious, but she found each mouthful an effort, mainly because as people finished eating and began to take to the dance-floor she realised the moment Hawk would ask her to dance was imminent.

He seemed in no hurry to explain why he had asked to see her; every time she had tried to broach the matter he had changed the subject with a firmness that was daunting, and now dessert was nearly finished and, short of asking for a second helping, which would only delay the inevitable, there was no escape. And she didn’t want to dance with him; in fact the thought of him touching her, however circumspectly, was . . . disturbing. She finished the last mouthful of chocolate soufflé—it had been hovering in its dish for minutes and she really couldn’t delay any longer—and almost in the same instant he stood, bending over her and drawing her to her feet before she could protest.

‘You can’t come to the Inn and not dance; it really isn’t done,’ he said in a deep mocking whisper that told her he had been fully aware of her thoughts and had taken what he considered to be the appropriate action.

‘Perhaps I don’t care about what’s done,’ she muttered quietly as she found herself on the dance-floor, stiffening helplessly as his arms enclosed her.

‘Perhaps you don’t.’ The frighteningly perceptive eyes ran over her flushed face before he said, his voice low but alive with wicked amusement, ‘Or perhaps it’s me? It’s all right, Joanne, my ego can survive—just—if you confirm my worst fears.’

‘Which are?’ she asked tightly, her body desperately aware of the hard male frame close to hers and the undeniably delicious masculine fragrance emanating from the tanned skin.

‘That you don’t like me?’

‘Am I supposed to like you?’ she asked shakily.

‘Of course.’ The arrogance was full of self-mockery which increased her turmoil. He wasn’t supposed to laugh at himself; that didn’t fit the image. ‘Every woman I meet is automatically bowled over by my charm and pleasing countenance, not to mention my wealth,’ he added darkly.

‘You think they are just after your money?’ she asked in amazement. Even the most hardened gold-digger would rock on her heels when confronted by the maleness of Hawk Mallen.

‘I think it oils the wheels.’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of the cruel, sensual mouth and not really a smile at all.

That’s . . . that’s—’

‘Realistic.’ He cut into her shocked stammering with a lazy drawl, pulling her a little closer as he did so.

‘Awful.’ She stared up at him, her cheeks hot. ‘You can’t lump the whole female race into one package like that.’

‘Can’t I?’ He considered her for a long quiet moment before smiling again. ‘Why not?’ he asked softly.

‘Because everyone’s different; people have different values, different perspectives—Oh, you know why not,’ she finished tightly, not at all sure if he was teasing her or if he meant what he had said.

‘Your personnel file says you are twenty-nine years old, right?’ He looked down at her, his dark face unreadable.

She nodded, wondering what was coming next.

‘And you have never married.’ It was a flat statement. ‘Lived with anyone?’ he asked quietly.

‘That’s nothing to do with you.’ She struggled slightly in his hold, resenting the personal questioning, but all he did was pull her even closer, settling her against the broad expanse of his chest, his chin nuzzling the red silk of her hair.

‘Have you lived with anyone, Joanne?’ he asked again, his voice still soft but threaded through with a silky coolness that told her he was determined to have an answer.

‘No.’ It was useless to fight him but she bitterly resented the interrogation.

‘And according to Charles you don’t date much—rarely in fact,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Very rarely.’

‘Did Charles say that?’ She was deeply offended and hurt at Charles’s betrayal.

‘No.’ She would have jerked away again but the arms holding her were forged in steel. ‘But I’m very adept at reading between the lines and I know the sort of questions to ask that give me the answers I require,’ he said easily.

‘How clever of you,’ she snapped nastily.

‘Isn’t it?’ He moved her slightly from him now, keeping her within the circle of his arms as he looked down at her with hard, narrowed eyes. ‘Now I’d say, on a likelihood of ten to one, that you have—how did you put it? Oh, yes—“lumped” the whole male race together fairly successfully.’ His tone had lost any amusement, his face absolutely straight as he added, ‘Or am I wrong?’

‘Quite wrong,’ she said cuttingly, her face flaming.

‘Oh, Joanne. Joanne, Joanne...’ He shook his head sorrowfully, the mockery back. ‘And here’s me being honest and above board—’

‘Are you insinuating I’m not?’ she asked hotly.

‘Absolutely.’ And then he grinned, and all further opposition left her in a big whoosh as she absorbed the difference to his face that his first real smile made. He was devastating, gorgeous, overwhelming... She swallowed hard and prayed for the ground to stop rippling under her feet. He was a man, just a man, and an arrogant, self-satisfied pig of one at that. He’d just lost her her job, hadn’t he? She couldn’t be attracted to him; what was the matter with her, for goodness’ sake—?

‘But I forgive you.’ He had pulled her close again and, mainly because her legs suddenly seemed to have the consistency of melted jelly, she didn’t resist.

However, she managed a fairly tart, ‘How very gracious of you,’ which brought an answering chuckle from above her head, before they continued to dance in silence. It was a slow number—of course it had to be, she thought caustically; even the band was against her—and although she desperately wanted to seem immune to what his body was doing to hers she could feel herself begin to tremble in his arms.

‘What’s happened in your life to make you so afraid of physical contact?’ he murmured after several humiliating minutes when she knew her shaking had made itself obvious. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Joanne. Trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ She was inexpressibly thankful that he had misread her body’s reaction to his, although there was more than a little fear mixed up in the mortifying sexual excitement that had her in its grip. And now, as the music changed, and she saw the waiter approaching their table with the coffee they had ordered, she moved to arm’s length, saying, ‘That would be rather foolish on so short an acquaintance, don’t you think? Look, the coffee’s arrived. Shall we...?’

‘If you insist.’ His tone was dry.

‘And then you can tell me the reason for our meeting tonight and then—’

‘We can go home?’ he finished silkily, his eyes piercingly intuitive. ‘Sorry, Joanne, there’s the floor show to go yet; you’re stuck with me for a little while longer.’

She smiled, a polite social smile as though she thought he was joking, before turning and walking to their table, his hand on the small of her back seeming to burn her skin through the silk of her dress.

How was it that in just a few hours this man seemed to have established an intimacy that even her closest friends didn’t enjoy? she asked herself weakly, sinking down on to her chair with a tiny sigh of relief that she had made it without falling to the floor in a quivering heap. The questions he had asked, the things he had suggested! Her racing thoughts were brought to a stunned halt as she felt his lips on the back of her neck, his mouth warm and vibrant against the creamy softness of her skin, before he seated himself with easy composure in his chair.

‘Don’t . . . don’t do that.’

‘What?’ Her voice had been a trembling whisper and he surveyed her with brilliantly blue eyes before asking again, ‘Don’t do what?’

‘You know what.’ She glared at him, her temper rising as her senses unfroze.

‘Kiss you?’ he asked softly. ‘Is that so hard to say?’

‘It wasn’t a kiss, it was...’ She couldn’t find an appropriate word and he let her flounder for a minute before he said, his voice deep and dark and husky, ‘Whatever it was to you, Joanne, to me it was a kiss. Do you mean to say that you don’t wear your hair like that to tempt more of the same?’

‘What?’ She was absolutely lost for words.

‘The exposure of that soft, fragrant skin, normally hidden by a curtain of silk that keeps the secret place so private—you don’t know what a subtle turn-on that is to the average red-blooded male?’ he asked softly as she stared at him blankly. ‘It’s restraint combined with voluptuousness, lasciviousness with suppression—it’s ...sexy, every man’s dream of the perfect virginal demure beauty who turns into a seductress in the bedroom.’ ‘You’re mad.’ Joanne realised she had been holding her breath as the gravelly male voice had woven a sensual spell which had enclosed the two of them in their own little world. ‘I just wore my hair up because it looks better with this dress—’

‘Oh, don’t spoil it.’ He wasn’t smiling but the devilish eyes were alight with amusement.

‘Now, look.’ She took a long, deep, hard breath and forced herself to get control. This was ridiculous; somehow everything had got out of hand and she wasn’t at all sure how it had happened, but one thing she did know was that Hawk Mallen was playing with her like a cat with a mouse. She didn’t believe for one moment he was attracted to her—how could a multi-millionaire of the calibre of this one be interested in a little nobody like her? It didn’t add up—not for one minute, and she wasn’t stupid whatever he thought, and she’d tell him so right now. ‘You assured me this afternoon that we were meeting for a purpose, that this wasn’t a...’

‘Date?’ he supplied helpfully.

‘Yes.’ And if he interrupted her again he’d have a cup of coffee tipped over his head. ‘So we’ve eaten and danced and done the social chit-chat bit, and now I’d really like to know why you have brought me here tonight. ’

‘You don’t think it’s because I wanted to know you better, because I’m interested in you?’ he asked expressionlessly.

He’d read her mind again, and she had the uneasy feeling he hadn’t found it hard to do. Was she really so transparent? she asked herself silently. She didn’t think anyone else thought so; in fact, Charles had often praised what he called her ‘poker face’, which gave nothing away whatever the circumstances.

‘Mr Mallen—’ she couldn’t call him Hawk, she just couldn’t ‘—you could doubtless have your pick of most of London’s finest so the answer to that is no.’

‘London’s finest.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’

‘So?’ She forced a smile. ‘If you don’t mind?’

He stared at her for a good thirty seconds, his blue eyes shadowed and intent as they searched her face, and then he settled back in his seat, stretching slightly before he said, ‘Right, down to business. I don’t need you at Concise Publications, Joanne—’ her heart gave a big leap and then thudded loudly ‘—but from all I’ve heard and read and seen I think you would be an asset to the Mallen Corporation. I intend to bring in a new managing director for Concise Publications; I’ve already approached the man and he’s accepted my offer and he’ll bring his own publishing assistant with him; they’ve worked together for years.’

She nodded slowly. So he had never intended to take on the job permanently? She should have guessed, really; Concise Publications was just a tiny little cog in the vast machine of the Mallen empire.

‘Are you interested enough for me to continue?’ His voice was cool and flat; suddenly he was one hundred per cent remote tycoon and businessman, the wickedly mocking, charming dinner companion having evaporated like the morning mist.

Was she? She stared at him hard, and then nodded again. ‘Yes, please,’ she said quietly.

The blue eyes flickered, just once, and she would have given the world to know what was going on in that rapier-sharp, ruthless mind.

‘Six months ago the Mallen Corporation acquired a publishing house in France, part of Mallen Books; were you aware of this?’ She shook her head quickly. ‘The undertaking was unusual in that my grandfather had decided to bale the owner out, and if you knew my grandfather you would understand why I say that. He is first and foremost a businessman and age has not mellowed him one iota.’

She caught the thread of affection in his voice which he was trying to hide and looked at him intently.

‘The owner was the son of my grandfather’s best friend who died some years ago; he actually helped my grandfather financially when they were young, something my grandfather’s never forgotten. However, the son has lost thousands, if not tens of thousands, over the last decade through mismanagement and so on, and the firm is a shambles.’ The cool voice was scathing. ‘My grandfather wanted the family name to continue in honour to his friend; he also decided to keep the son at the helm... Bad mistake.’

He glanced at her now and the blue eyes were as hard as glass. ‘The kindest thing you could say about this guy is that he’s a Jonah, and that’s the information I’ve relayed to my grandfather. The truth of the matter is that he’s been on the take for years; he’s the very antithesis of his father. My grandfather is very ill—’ Her eyes widened and he nodded slowly. ‘Terminal, but I’d appreciate you keeping that to yourself. He doesn’t need this bag of worms dumping in his lap, and for some reason his normally acute judgement is faulty where this guy is concerned. He wants to believe the best of him; he’s all that’s left of his old friend.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly. He loved his grandfather very much; try as he might, the cold, clipped voice and expressionless face couldn’t hide the look in his eyes, and it touched her. She didn’t want it to, but it did.

‘I’ve done it,’ he said flatly. ‘Pierre is boss in name only now; he’s been paid off, and handsomely, and he’s quite happy with that. He’s got a string of mistresses to support apart from his family and expensive habits; the firm was just an inconvenience to him. But now I want to pull it round, for my grandfather and also his old friend, who was an honourable man. That’s where you would come in.’

‘Me?’ She couldn’t think where.

‘You’ve been in publishing since you left university, you have no personal commitments or distractions, and you don’t mind working until the job is done. Added to that, Charles tells me your contribution, certainly over the last three or four years, was the one that brought the money in. He’d lost it—the insight, the business intuition—’

‘No!’ she protested hotly.

‘That’s what he told me, Joanne,’ Hawk said steadily. ‘Now, your personnel file tells me you speak French, right?’

‘I do, but...well, I’m rusty and—’

‘That’s no problem.’ He dismissed her stumbling voice with an irritable wave of his hand. ‘You can easily brush up on that.’

‘What exactly are you offering me?’ she asked dazedly. In all her wildest dreams—or nightmares—she hadn’t expected this. ‘Who would I be publishing assistant to?’ She knew it was him but she had to ask anyway, and that would be the end of what sounded like the offer of a lifetime in an industry that was known for its dog-eat-dog ruthlessness.

‘Publishing assistant?’ He stared at her, and then shook his black head slowly, his eyes piercing her through with clear light. ‘I’m not offering you a publishing assistant’s job, Joanne. I want you to manage the firm for me, turn it around, make it work.’

‘Me?’ She knew she was repeating herself but this was just not possible; he had to be teasing her in the most cruel way imaginable.

‘It would mean giving up your flat and moving to France,’ he said quietly, ‘and of necessity the position would be on a six-month trial basis. All your expenses would be paid, of course, and you’d have the same salary Pierre did.’ He mentioned a figure that made her mouth fall open. ‘The firm is already part of Mallen Books and so you wouldn’t be completely out on a limb; you’d have a ready-made avenue of contacts and back-up—a security blanket so to speak. But...’ He leant forward in his seat, his dark face cold. ‘You would have your work cut out to turn the thing round, especially in the present climate. Still interested enough to think about it?’

Joanne looked at him in a daze. She couldn’t say a word; she just couldn’t.

‘If you are interested, we can throw a few facts and figures your way and start the ball rolling. I’d like the new manager installed within weeks and as you are as free as a bird there won’t be any messy working-ofnotice delay. If you’re not...’ the piercing eyes were holding hers as though in a vice ‘...then you will be paid twelve months’ salary as a gesture of appreciation for all you’ve done for Charles’s firm in the past, and that’s the end of it. Well?’

He relaxed back in his seat and grinned, the same devastating, knee-trembling grin as before, his blue gaze washing over her stunned countenance. ‘What’s it to be, Joanne?’

CHAPTER THREE

‘AND he wants your answer tomorrow morning, is that right?’ Charles’s voice had been sleepy when he’d answered the phone—it was past midnight after all—but once Joanne had begun to talk the telephone had fairly crackled with excitement.

‘He wants to know if I’m interested enough to go on to the next phase,’ Joanne answered quietly, ‘and if I am he’ll put me more fully in the picture.’

‘And are you?’ Charles asked evenly.

‘I suppose so, but if I don’t make a go of it and I’m left with egg on my face...’

‘And if you do make a go of it the world’s your oyster,’ Charles said steadily. ‘Think of it, Joanne; it’s a dream of a career move, and frankly it sounds like he’s only asking you to do what you’ve been doing for me for five years. We’ve worked so closely together there isn’t a thing you don’t know about managing a publishing house.’

‘But this one is so much bigger.’ That sounded rude and she added quickly, ‘Well, a bit bigger, and it’s in France and—’

‘You could do it and Hawk Mallen knows it or else he wouldn’t have offered you the job.’

‘Charles, I’m sorry I phoned you at this time of night, but I don’t feel I know enough about the Mallen Corporation and ... and Hawk Mallen to make a decision. Would you mind filling me in on what you know?’

‘On Hawk or the Mallen empire?’ Charles’s voice was very dry.

‘Both.’

By the time they finished the call, fifteen minutes later, Joanne knew the Mallen Corporation had been founded by Hawk’s American/French grandfather over fifty years ago, beginning with a textile warehouse shop that quickly grew into a string of the same and then diversified into more avenues than even Charles was sure of. The old man had had one son, Hawk’s father, who, as Hawk had already mentioned, had been killed in an automobile accident, thereupon making Hawk a millionaire several times over at the tender age of twenty.

Charles had said more, much more, but Joanne had found her attention wandering more than once as a pair of very blue, piercingly intent eyes kept swimming into her consciousness. Hawk Mallen was a mesmerising man to be with and the compelling weight of his personality stayed long after the man himself had gone. He exuded energy and power and vigour, and those moments in his arms on the dance-floor... She shut her eyes as her senses swam. If she took this job—if—she would make sure she never put herself in such a vulnerable position again.

Her thoughts continued along this same path once the call had ended and she had showered and slipped into bed.

Other women, more worldly, experienced women, might be able to handle a man like Hawk and enjoy the challenge, but he frightened her half to death. She shut her eyes tightly in the warm darkness, her toes curling into the linen covers.

Not that he had behaved as anything but the perfect gentleman on their ride home, seeing her to her door with a polite handshake and almost distant smile that would have sat well on a maiden aunt. In fact from the moment he had explained about the job one could almost have called his attitude cool, certainly formal... She refused to recognise even a shred of pique at his lack of interest. It suited her—the fact that he was concerned only with her ability to do the job he had in mind. It did. She knew only too well how the man-woman relationship, with all its complications, could prove a time bomb that ruined the lives of everyone within a mile radius.