Taken By The Maverick Millionaire

She hesitated, feeling more like a trespasser with every step, then spotted a promising door on the other side of the meeting room. To her relief, it belonged to a tiny washroom, with a small washbasin below a rust-flecked mirror, and a toilet cubicle redolent of disinfectant. To her grateful eyesit looked like heaven.

Afterwards, when she’d washed her hands and tidied some wisps straying from her silvery mane, she opened the door, prepared to exit, then froze. There was movement in the meeting room.

Instinctively she pushed the toilet door to, not quite closing it for fear of alerting the security guard, priest, or whoever, of her presence, while she summoned enough nerve to sashay forth with careless aplomb.

She strained her ears. Had she imagined the sound? Almost at once then the clack of a woman’s heels approached and came to a halt somewhere alarmingly close by.

She nearly dropped dead with fright when a rather throaty, feminine, cigarette-husky voice said, ‘Oh, Tom. Commiserations about your dad. I’m so terribly sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.’

There was a curt, masculine murmur of response.

Cate closed her eyes and prayed that Tom Russell was not the man outside the door about to discover her breaching his costly security arrangements.

‘And as if it wasn’t enough losing your father, without some of the rubbish being printed about him. Did you see that disgusting obituary in the Clarion?’

Cate stopped breathing.

‘I saw it.’

Though the tone was grim, the deep voice had a dark, liquid quality. Like liquid velvet. Dark, dark brown velvet. Black, even.

‘Where do those jackals get the nerve?’ the female voice went on. ‘All that hogwash about editorial independence. Will you sue?’

Cate’s heart jumped into her throat, then Tom Russell said, ‘Wouldn’t they love that? I hope I have more subtlety. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Miss What’s-her-name. In my way.’

A chill shivered down Cate’s spine. In his way. What was his way?

He spoke again. ‘Eventually they’ll all work for me. For us. Won’t they, Livvie?’ Cate pricked up her ears, then felt ashamed. She was acting like a voyeur. What she should do now was to walk out there, excuse herself, and make a swift, dignified exit. And she would. Just as soon as she screwed up the courage.

Her heart thundered so loudly she felt sure they must hear it, for the woman’s voice issued through with perfect clarity.

‘That’s why I need to talk to you. It’s about our deal.’

There was urgency in the woman’s tone.

‘This isn’t a good moment, Liv. As you might be able to imagine, I have things on my mind today.’ The response was polite, but Cate detected a sardonic tinge to it.

‘Well, how about this afternoon? After the lunch?’

‘Impossible. I have urgent meetings scheduled that can’t be postponed.’

‘Nothing is more urgent than this,’ the woman hissed. ‘Listen to me, Tom. Everything’s at risk. Malcolm has heard something. He’s playing every card he can to hold up the divorce. Somehow he’s got wind of the merger, so he’s asking for a much bigger slice of the company.’ She paused, then added, ‘My grandfather didn’t build an empire for it to end up being controlled by the likes of him.’ There was a hoarse vehemence to the contralto voice.

Cate’s ears rang with the possibilities. She had a sudden inkling into the woman’s identity. Surely that voice was familiar. With her heart thumping, and careful to make no sound, she moved to the door and risked putting her eye to the crack.

Her gaze lighted on a portion of long leg encased in some dark, expensive fabric, brushing a highly polished black masculine shoe. Next to the shoe rested an elegant black briefcase. Then the man moved further into her view, and her heart lurched in her chest.

It was Tom Russell all right, in the living flesh, negligently leaning his tall frame against an ornately carved piece of church furniture. Though his hands were shoved carelessly into his trouser pockets, there was a coiled tension about him. His black eyebrows were lowered over his cool grey eyes as he scoured his female companion with an alert, intelligent gaze.

Forget what Marge had said about him being attractive. He was so hot he sizzled.

Cate moved her head, trying to see the woman, but she only caught a rear-view glimpse of gleaming copper hair confined at the nape in a sophisticated black snood. It was enough though, she thought with wild excitement. The next words, as abrasive as sandpaper in Tom Russell’s stern, accusing voice, confirmed her suspicion.

‘I thought you understood how crucial secrecy is at this stage, Olivia. Bloody hell, what sort of a businesswoman are you?’

Olivia. The woman was Olivia West.

Cate’s brain buzzed into overdrive. She was onto the scoop of the century. What her editor would give to know this. Russell’s joining with the West Corporation. It would be the merger of the tabloid Titans. This was more than mere front page stuff. This meant headlines.

She had to get out of there and write it. In a sudden brilliant inspiration, she shoved her hand into her bag and connected with the minuscule cassette recorder Gran had given her. Her heart skipped an excited beat. Here was a golden opportunity. She’d be the toast of the newsroom. What reporter could resist? Although—Harry was pretty firm on the ethics of recording people without their knowledge. Her fingers hovered over the button while she waged a war with her conscience. Regretfully, the thought of Harry’s flinty gaze, and his strictures about the journalism code won.

At the same time as the powerful redhead’s response floated through to her she realised, with a sinking feeling, it was too late to announce her presence. Already, she knew too much.

She surrendered to the inevitable and put her eye to the crack again, in time to catch a glimpse of Tom Russell prowling about with his lithe, long-legged stride.

And he was worth watching. Though he seemed tense, it was clear that underneath the sombre black shirt, the pearl grey silk tie, the Armani—the suit could be nothing less—his lean, long bones, muscle and sinew were all working together in a veritable symphony of co-ordination.

Unfazed by his critical tone, Olivia West was launched into a feisty come-back. ‘It could just as easily have been someone from your side who leaked. Anyway, Malcolm doesn’t really know anything for certain, he’s just guessing with that diabolical genius he has for ferreting things out about people. He only wants to hurt me. I need your help with this.’

Tom Russell shot back, ‘I never let domestic arrangements interfere with business. Yours are hardly my concern.’

‘But this does concern you,’ Olivia West retorted. ‘Look at it this way. I won’t go on with our merger until I’m free and clear of Malcolm. And if he manages to hold up the court process for three or more months—and he can if the court believes his claim is worth investigating—our deal will collapse. You know it must.’

Every line of Tom Russell’s big, lean frame was charged with impatience. ‘Well, for pity’s sake, make a deal. Give him enough of what he asks for to make him feel he’s scored something.’

‘I’ve given him enough,’ Olivia said fiercely. ‘I’ve given him everything. He’s taken everything. He’s not getting any more of my company. But that’s not even the reason he’s doing this. It’s not about the money. It’s about you.’

Tom Russell came to a sudden halt, right in Cate’s line of vision.

She stayed glued to the sight, until Olivia West spun in to obstruct the view. Despite the media baroness’s artful makeup, her face was strained. Her glossy red lips were compressed and she held her hands, gloved in slinky black lace, clasped in front of her voluptuous chest.

Cate frowned. Was that much cleavage strictly appropriate for a church service?

Olivia turned her back, spoiling Cate’s view of her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you know Malcolm has always been insanely jealous of you. Some fool’s informed him of the times we’ve met to negotiate, and he’s had the ridiculous idea that you and I are—together. Perhaps even contemplating marriage.’

Tom Russell stood very still, then said, his voice dangerously soft, ‘Now, how could he possibly get an idea like that?’

Olivia must have felt the sudden scary escalation in the tension, because she attempted to lighten it with a husky laugh. ‘Well, it’s not so outrageous, is it? We’re both attractive people, both high achievers, our backgrounds are similar, we have things in common… Everyone knows how perfect you and Sandra were together. But you’ve been without a wife a long time, Tom. Sooner or later…’ The unmistakable purr in her voice made Cate squirm with discomfort. Was Olivia testing the water in hopes of seducing Tom Russell? Marrying him?

‘My wife is dead.’ The rebuke hung on the air, as stinging as a face slap.

Cate caught her breath in the charged little silence that followed. Tom Russell’s feelings for his wife must still be very raw. Still, she felt a wave of sympathy for Olivia. If he’d spoken like that to her she’d have cringed.

But the glamorous redhead was made of tougher stuff, because she managed a careless laugh. What a remarkable woman, Cate marvelled. To possess such self-control. How fabulous to be able to maintain her poise after such a forbidding rejection.

‘Well, there’s no need to look so stern, Thomas. I’m only reporting what Malcolm has dreamed up in his fevered brain. And because he believes it, he’s looking for ways to hurt us by holding up the divorce.’ She added, her voice as soft, distinct, and every bit as steely as Tom Russell’s, ‘And until my divorce goes through, darling, there will be no merger. And you and I will both lose a lot of money.’

‘Then you must advise him of the truth very quickly, Livvie.’ The icy chill permeated the store-room door with bluetooth penetration.

‘He’s not likely to believe what I tell him, is he? Look, the answer’s simple enough. All you need to do is to show him you have another woman.’

Tom Russell gave an incredulous laugh. ‘What other woman?’

‘Now, now, Tom.’ Sly amusement stole into the low voice. ‘Don’t try to tell me you can’t come up with a woman—like that.’

Tom Russell surveyed her grimly. ‘I think you’ve been reading your own tabloids, Olivia. Forget it.’

‘For goodness’ sake, can’t you follow in your old dad’s footsteps for a week or two and find some nubile little actress to flash around the town? It’s only for a few weeks.’

‘I’m not my old dad,’ Tom Russell said, his voice ominously soft.

There was a small, tense silence, then Olivia West snapped,

‘Think about it.’ She crossed into Cate’s view, stepping up to Tom and boldly placing her hands on his shoulders. In her chic black dress, her curvaceous figure looked formidably seductive. ‘We both have a lot to lose, don’t we, darling? How much do you want your merger?’

With implacable calm Tom Russell detached her and pushed her away. ‘Not enough to deceive some woman. For God’s sake, I’m a businessman, not some tabloid Don Juan.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Olivia exploded hoarsely, swinging away from him. ‘Hire a woman. You only need to let Malcolm see you with her a couple of times. Once I get my divorce, you’ll have your merger. And I’m not deceiving Malcolm. For your information it was he who—’ Her voice grew strident with emotion. ‘Look, in a few minutes time this church will be packed with people, and a good number of them will be actresses who work for your television network. Some of them, I’m willing to bet, have already been employed in more ways than one by your old dad. Pick one of them. Offer her money.’

Cate nearly gasped out loud at the audacity of the woman. How would Tom Russell take such a crack about his father? She strained to hear, but the abrupt click of a door closing suggested that Olivia had delivered her parting shot, and stalked off.

Cate sagged with relief. Thank heavens. Now Tom would follow, and she could creep from her hiding place and hightail it back to Mike.

There was the sound of a chair scraping, and the room fell quiet. She moved to the opening in the door to check that the coast was clear, and came up short. To her intense annoyance Tom Russell was still there at the table, frowning over some papers.

Damn the man. She fretted with impatience. People would have started to arrive by now and she’d be missing her chances. She exhaled a frustrated breath, then took a harder look at him. In his unconsciousness of being under scrutiny, the lines in the tanned skin around his eyes and mouth suddenly seemed more deeply etched, as though from tiredness or strain. She felt a stir of sympathy. Perhaps even a Tom Russell could spend sleepless nights grieving. The loss of a parent was no small thing, as she could testify.

She sighed, and, bracing for a wait, closed her eyes and leaned back against the sink.

A shrill jangling broke out at her feet and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

It was her mobile phone.

She stood paralysed for helpless seconds while the ghastly tune went on. Then adrenaline rushed to her rescue and she was overcome by a false, fatalistic calm. She plunged her nerveless hand into her bag, brought the phone up and held it to her ear.

‘All right, Mike,’ she said. Her soft voice crashed into the charged silence. ‘I won’t be long.’

She did the only thing possible. She put the phone away, and, her limbs stiff with embarrassment, jerked the door open and walked out of the ladies’ room, straight into the big, iron-hard frame of Tom Russell.

CHAPTER TWO

TOM’S first impression was of softness. Soft breasts pressed against his chest, soft, firm thighs, a delicious feminine fragrance rising from a tender white neck.

He felt the woman gasp and try to recoil, but his hands swiftly gripped her upper arms. She trembled in his grasp, her white satin flesh alive with a sensual vibrance that instantly communicated itself to him.

His gaze clashed with large sea-green eyes, sparkling up into his in alarmed calculation. Her rosy mouth was full, ripe and passionate. Some crazed part of his brain actually considered the possibility of sinking his teeth into her plump lower lip.

Common sense told him this was no mere blonde. Ridiculous words like ‘spy’and ‘industrial espionage’jostled in his brain. Her parted lips made a tiny, anxious tremor and he felt a grim, cynical triumph.

Well might she be anxious. Stirred against his will, he demanded harshly, ‘What the bloody hell are you doing in here?’

Cate’s brain blurred into sensory overload. Steel-grey eyes, glittering with suspicion, scoured her face. She had a dizzy awareness of the faint, clean scents of soap and sandalwood, of fine, expensive fabrics brushing her skin. But underneath those outer trappings of masculine sophistication her feminine sensors picked up the heady, high-voltage buzz of pure essence of man.

For whole seconds her lungs forgot to work, until she forced some action. ‘I was just—I was—’ She took a deep breath and said in a more assertive voice, though it might have skipped into a slightly higher register, ‘Would you let me go, please?’

He tightened his grip for an instant, as if to demonstrate how completely he had her in his power, then abruptly released her. While she made an emphatic point of rubbing her arms, he whipped a wafer-thin phone from inside the jacket of his superbly tailored charcoal suit.

‘Explain yourself while I call Security,’ he commanded, flicking it open. He perused the dial, no mercy in the set of his chiselled mouth and jaw. She grappled with a million excuses, but one clash with the icy blaze of his grey eyes through their black lashes told her all of them would fail.

The vision of herself being escorted from the cathedral between beefy security men, in the glare of a thousand cameras, was unthinkable. How would she explain to Harry? She’d be the laughing stock of the newsroom.

She lifted her chin, and prepared to surrender the truth.

‘I was—visiting the Ladies,’ she said with an attempt at airiness, though she could feel a slight flush colour her cheeks. Privately, it was mortifying. Of all the people in the world to have to explain to…

His eyes made a slow, thorough, entirely masculine survey of her down to her ankles, then back, lingering an insolent moment on her mouth. ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that?’

She stared at him in incredulity. ‘Well…’ A saving surge of anger brought the words flying to her tongue. ‘Why shouldn’t you believe it? People are innocent until proven guilty in this country, you know.’ She drew herself up to her full five-six. ‘And now I have to go. There are things I need to do.’ She made a brusque attempt to sweep past him, but his lean bronzed hand shot out and closed once more around her arm.

‘Not so fast.’ He moved very close to her, and again she felt that swamping effect on her senses. ‘Don’t try to play the innocent, Goldilocks. You’ve been lurking in there like a common thief, spying on a private conversation. Either explain yourself properly, or you will find yourself in court pretty bloody quick.’

There was something so insulting about being called a name in that deep, cultured voice. Allowances needed to be made, she supposed, for a man coping with the loss of his father, but did he have to be so offensive? Certainly, neither her shoes nor her suit were brand new, but they were far from common.

‘I wasn’t listening to your conversation.’ In a determined effort she twisted from his grasp and retreated a strategic step. ‘I had important things on my mind.’

He snarled a contemptuous expletive not at all appropriate for a church, and added, ‘Don’t make the mistake of assuming you’re dealing with a fool, darling.’

The air fairly crackled with masculine aggression. Who knew what he might do? For all she knew, he might have minders who rubbed people out, like the mob.

To get herself off the hook, she warmed to her innocence theme, ignoring his sceptical gaze raking her from head to toe as if she were some despicable form of alien low-life. Amazing how, in the living, breathing flesh, that stern, tightly compressed mouth could still be so sensuous and expressive.

‘I hardly heard a thing,’ she continued, earnest in her effort to allay his fears. ‘You can’t hear much at all in that room when the door’s closed.’

‘Rubbish. I heard your voice very, very distinctly.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Look, I was here first, remember? I didn’t know you were coming in for your romantic rendezvous, did I? I’m not a mind-reader. I came in to find the Ladies, and you chose to use this room, too. Maybe I should have let you know I was there, but I thought you and your—girlfriend would be less embarrassed if I just said nothing and tiptoed away.’

He took a moment to digest this, and his gaze became less hostile, though more guarded, as if he’d seen the force of her argument but didn’t want to show it. It occurred to her that underneath his big, powerful, macho-male-in-command act, he actually seemed quite worried. She wondered if the merger had a lot more riding on it than he’d been willing to show Olivia West.

His eyes flickered over her. ‘What’s your name?’

Her heart sank. Lying was tempting, especially considering her summation of Marcus Russell as a vampire whose fangs had been battened to the national throat, but she thought of the guard in the porch and discarded it. ‘It’s Cate,’ she muttered. She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Summerfield.’

‘Summerfield.’ His brow creased, as if with the effort of recollection, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

That little action reminded her of something that had been nagging at her. He hadn’t made the call to Security. No minders had been summoned. Why?

The answer came to her in a dazzling flash. Because it would be a risk. Of course!

He was afraid that if he did, she would blab his secret to the world.

For a fabulous, golden moment she tasted the heady nectar of power. How the tables were turned. Goldilocks held Tom Russell in the palm of her little hand. Just wait—wait until he found out where she worked.

He’d relaxed a little, and now he started strolling about, pausing at times to fire questions and grill her with his hard gaze, although she couldn’t help noticing now how often his eyes lighted on her legs, or drifted to her hair.

Her own blood sparked up in response. She reminded herself that he was a rich, spoiled parasite devising criminal new ways to soak up the country’s wealth, but even at his iciest, his tall, dark sexiness impacted on her with undeniable power.

‘So who are you?’ he shot at her in his deep voice. ‘Are you an actress? A friend of one of my stepsisters? What do you do? More to the point, why are you here?’

She fluttered her lashes. ‘Oh, that.’ She allowed the moment to lengthen, the better to savour it.

Though a cowardly part of her cringed in terror at the risk she was about to take, another part fairly tingled with anticipation. She could feel his wolfish grey eyes follow her every move, and somehow the knowledge incited in her a dangerous desire to tease him.

With pleasurable deliberation, she pulled the ribbon from her hair, shook out the pale mass until it frothed in a blonde cascade down her back, then smoothed it all down with her hands.

Against every fibre of his will, Tom’s concentration wavered as the line of her profile and tender white neck impinged on his vision. His brain, locked down and blinkered against temptresses since the solemn vows of his wedding, flooded with images of shapely mermaids and bare ripe breasts. The thought came to him that she should be sunning herself on some rock. Naked, and smelling of the sea.

Conscious of his riveted attention, Cate swathed her hair back into her nape, casting him a glance as she retied the ribbon. ‘You invited me.’ She made a graceful, self-correcting gesture. ‘That is to say—my employer was invited to send a representative.’

‘Your employer…’ His thick black brows edged together and he flicked a frowning look over her. Then she saw the grim comprehension dawn in his eyes. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Bloody hell. I should have realised. You’ve got paparazzi written all over you.’ Underneath the derision, she detected something very close to dismay in his voice.

In one heart-stopping stride he was across the room to where she stood. ‘Here, give me that.’ He snatched the bag from her shoulder, and her alarmed internal organs all dropped back into their niches. ‘Which rag do you write for?’ he growled, making a ruthless search of the compartments. He found her phone and coolly slid it into his jacket pocket, then his lip curled in triumph as he pounced on her cassette recorder.

‘No, I don’t work for you,’ she rejoined, watching with some pleasure as his lean, smooth fingers rewound the tape and played it back without finding a whisper of illegal conversation. ‘I’m not guilty of churning out any of that cheap Russell trash, thank you. I write for a quality paper. The Clarion.’

He gave a snort of cynical laughter. ‘Quality? The Clarion?’ He put the recorder back in her purse and took out her pass. ‘What’s your excuse for not wearing this? I’d sack you for that alone if you worked for me.’

‘It spoiled the line of my jacket.’

‘What?’ His lip curled with such incredulous contempt that she was spurred to anger herself. A man like him would never know the challenges a woman faced fitting in with the society crowd.

He thrust the bag back at her. ‘Let me impress on you, Miss Summerfield,’ he said, enunciating each syllable with punishing precision, ‘anything you did happen to hear is completely off the record. Don’t even think of trying to use it.’ He towered over her in such an intimidating stance that it took all her nerve to hold his gaze. ‘Though you did say, didn’t you,’ he added, his eyes narrowing, ‘you didn’t hear anything?’ He scoured her face. ‘How true is that?’