No Need For Love

Excerpt About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

“Say yes.”

It was insane. It was impossible. Was he going to kiss her again?

“Hannah? Will you at least think about it?”

Anything, she thought desperately, anything to make him stop looking at her that way, to make him let go of her.

“Yes,” she whispered, “all right, I will. I—”

A smile swept across his face. “I knew you’d see it my way,” he said triumphantly.

She stared at him in horror. “Grant, no! I only said—”

He drew her into his arms. “I promise you, Hannah, you’ll never regret this decision.”

SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sun-filled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.

No Need For Love

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IF THE bit of black satin and lace spilling from the gold foil box wasn’t the sexiest nightgown Hannah had ever seen, it was certainly a close contender. It looked as if it might make the man who saw you in it go up in flames the moment you opened its matching peignoir.

‘Well?’ Sally shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. ‘What do you think?’

Hannah poked a finger at the sheer bodice. ‘It’s—uh—it’s very nice.’

‘Nice?’ Sally made a face. ‘It’s got to be better than “nice”, Hannah. “Nice” is what your mother buys you for sleep-away camp, it’s not what the girls you work with give you as a wedding gift!’

Hannah nodded. ‘Right. That’s what I meant, that it’s the perfect present for a bridal shower.’ She pushed her oversized glasses up on the bridge of her nose. ‘Really.’

‘Yeah?’ Sally drew the gown towards her, regarded it critically, then let it slip back so it lay draped across the gold box. ‘Gosh, I hope so. I’ve never been the one to choose the gift before. I just hope Betty likes it.’

‘I’m sure she will.’

‘OK, then, I’m gonna just leave this here until it’s time to give it to her—or you can bring it with you when you come to the lunch room, OK?’

‘Me? Oh, I can’t! I’ve too much to... do,’ Hannah finished lamely as the door swung shut. Sally was gone, leaving only a drift of perfume behind.

Hannah stared at the gown, made a face, and sank down in her chair. Today seemed to be her day for dealing with the two extremes of wedded bliss, she thought. Her forehead creased as she leaned towards her computer and began scrolling through the ugly details of Gibbs vs. Gibbs. What had once been a happy marriage had been reduced to a case file of accusations and rebuttals.

Well, she thought as she began typing, at least there hadn’t been any children involved. Her fingers slowed on the keys. That was what people had said about her too, eight long years ago when the pain of her own divorce had been fresh and questions about the future had seemed insurmountable.

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t have kids,’ they’d said, and Hannah had agreed. It had been scary enough being responsible for herself, let alone for a baby.

But she’d turned out to be perfectly capable of making a life, a good one, for herself. All it lacked, if it lacked anything, was someone to share it with. Not a man. Never that. But if she’d had a child, a daughter or a son, a smiling face to come home to at the end of the day...

Hannah gave herself a little shake. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said briskly. Her fingers danced over the computer keyboard. There was no point in wasting time on what might have been. It was now that mattered—and that meant making sense of the Byzantine complications of the case her boss had dumped on to her shoulders just before he’d marched out of the door.

‘Do something with this mess,’ he’d demanded, dropping several thick files on her desk on his way out.

‘Do what?’ Hannah had asked, bewildered. She had been Grant MacLean’s assistant for five months now, but she’d only helped him with his speciality, international law.

‘Make some sense out of it, Miss Lewis,’ he’d said, his grey eyes cool. ‘You do have some sort of paralegal training, don’t you?’

And you’re the one who gets paid a fortune to practise law, Hannah had wanted to say. But she hadn’t. She liked her job too much to toss it all away. Besides, she’d learned to bite her tongue and let her boss’s sharper comments slip by.

Mean MacLean, Sally had dubbed him, and, if it was a cruel nickname, it was close to accurate.

‘What a waste,’ she’d groaned, ‘all that thick black hair, white teeth, rippling muscles, and gorgeous eyes—and a heart so tiny you’d have to perform micro-surgery to find it!’

Hannah sighed as she highlighted a section of text. That wasn’t precisely true. Grant MacLean had a heartrather a busy heart, if his monthly flower and chocolate bill meant anything. It was just that no one who worked for him ever saw it.

It was ‘do this,’ and ‘do that,’ with a ‘please’ added sometimes, a please that never seemed to soften the glacial arrogance in the tone.

Still, there were things that made the job more than palatable. The pay was excellent and, in all truth, MacLean drove himself even harder than he drove her. He was, evidently, a believer in working as hard as he played. And working for him was quite a plum, especially for someone like Hannah who’d been a secretary with a brand new paralegal certificate in her hand only five months ago. He was the firm’s shining star, a lawyer with a rapidly developing national and international reputation. Hannah had a sneaking suspicion she hadn’t been his first choice for the job, but his last paralegal had quit in a huff one day and, rather than go through the laborious process of interviewing applicants, he’d asked her to work for him.

No. Not asked, exactly. Mr Longworth had recommended her, and Grant MacLean had scowled at her from under his dark brows and said all right, he’d give her a try...

A sudden whoop of laughter echoed down the corridor, dying as a wave of music swept over it. Hannah glanced at her watch. Five o’clock, on the nose. Quitting time at the estimable law firm of Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean, and Betty’s party had started. Well, she wasn’t going to get there for quite a while, if at all. Gibbs vs. Gibbs was driving her crazy. From what she’d read so far, Jack Gibbs was a sneaky, two-timing rat, but his pathetic wife didn’t want to believe it.

Why were women so damned stupid? Why were men such bastards? Why... ?

The door banged open. ‘Time to get a move on,’ Sally called.

Hannah shook her head without looking up. ‘I’m nowhere near finished.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s after five.’

‘Exactly. Mr MacLean will be back soon. And he’ll expect me to have this brief organised.’

Sally made a face. ‘Boy, I’d love to tell him what he can do with his expectations!’

Hannah laughed. ‘Wish Betty the best for me, will you?’

‘You can do that for yourself. I’ll be back in half an hour to pick up this little number.’ Sally patted the slinky folds spilling from the gold foil box. ‘And when I do, I’m taking you with me!’

Hannah didn’t bother protesting as the door slammed shut. She was too busy peering at the screen. For a while, there was no sound in the office except for the soft click of her keyboard and the occasional scratch of her pencil against her notepad. After a long while, she sat back, shoved her glasses atop her head, and rose from her chair.

‘Time for a break,’ she murmured. She walked the width of her small office, poured herself a cup of coffee, then strolled back again. The black lace nightgown caught her eye; she stopped and caught it up lightly in her hand, shaking her head as she examined the gossamer straps and sheer bodice.

Maybe Betty would be one of the lucky ones and whatever she was dreaming today would last. Maybe her husband would be a man, not the boy Hannah had unwittingly married, who’d been so intent on his own desires that he’d slept with another woman in their bed. She could still remember the pain of coming home early from work and finding them there, a frill of black lace very like this one on the carpet.

The door swung open and banged against the wall. Sally, Hannah thought, and she swung around blindly and held out the damned nightgown.

‘Take this, will you please?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t want it cluttering up my...’

The burst of angry words caught in her throat. She gave a start as she looked into the grey eyes of her employer.

‘For me, Miss Lewis?’ Grant MacLean took the gown from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It slithered through his hands like a snake. ‘Charming,’ he said, his voice fairly purring. A little smile angled across his mouth. ‘But not quite my size.’

Colour raced into Hannah’s cheeks. ‘I—I didn’t know it was you, Mr MacLean.’

‘No. I can see that.’ MacLean’s gaze drifted impersonally over her, from her neatly clasped chestnut hair to the hazel eyes behind the oversized glasses, then down her grey worsted blazer to the hem of her matching calf-length skirt before returning to her face. He held out the gown as that tight smile inched across his lips again. ‘A gift from an admirer, perhaps?’

This time, she felt her face blaze crimson. ‘No! Of course not. How could you think... ?’ She fell silent. He was having fun at her expense, damn him! ‘It’s a gift,’ she said stiffly, snatching the gown from his hands. ‘For Betty, in the typing pool. She’s getting married Sunday, and——’

MacLean’s smile vanished. ‘Spare me the details,’ he said as he shouldered his way past her. ‘Just get your notes on the Gibbs case and come into my office—if you can spare the time, of course.’

Hannah glared at his retreating back. ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave the nightgown one last, condemning glance, then stuffed it into the box and slammed on the lid. Quickly, she stalked to the door and flung it open. A girl was coming towards her, hurrying towards the employees’ lunch room where the sounds of revelry had grown louder. ‘Here,’ Hannah said, shoving the box into the girl’s arms, ‘take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Betty’s gi——’

‘Miss Lewis!’ The voice roared out from behind her and Hannah flinched.

‘Just take it,’ she hissed, and then she shut the door, snatched up her pad and pencil, and hurried into Grant MacLean’s private office.

It was a large room but it was not furnished with the profusion of Oriental carpets and priceless antiques that filled the other partners’ quarters. A pair of black leather couches faced a low glass table to her right; to her left, a matching cabinet hid stereophonic equipment and a built-in bar. Ahead, centred against a backdrop of darkened glass, stood a rectangle of burled walnut that served as MacLean’s desk, flanked by a pair of leather chairs that complemented the one behind the desk.

It was a room almost spartan in its simplicity, yet it had an air of power and authority almost as tangible as the man it housed. He was standing at the window, his back to Hannah, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge resplendent in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but one glance at his rigid spine and stiffly held shoulders suggested that he was not admiring the scenery.

Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as she moved towards him. ‘Mr MacLean?’ She waited for a few seconds. ‘Sir? You asked me to bring you my notes on Gibbs.’

‘Are you sure you have the time to spare, Miss Lewis?’ He swung around to face her. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to attend that fashion show down the hall.’

Her chin lifted. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, thank you.’

MacLean looked at her in silence, then jerked his head towards the door.

‘Close that,’ he said sharply. ‘My skull already feels as if there’s somebody inside hammering to get out without having to listen to the noise coming from that—that female victory party!’ Hannah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned and did as he’d asked. Then she marched to his desk, her sensible heels silent against the tightly knit cream Berber carpet. MacLean motioned her to a chair as he loosened his tie and sank into the one behind the desk. ‘That stupid woman,’ he muttered. ‘She wouldn’t agree to the settlement.’

Hannah was puzzled, but only for a moment. ‘Mrs Gibbs?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and folded his hands loosely on the desk top. ‘We offered one million five, but she won’t take it.’ He shook his head, the harshly handsome face twisted into lines of disbelief. “‘I love him,” she keeps saying, as if that were about to change anything. Can you imagine? Of course,’ he went on in a smug, certain voice, ‘it’s all crap.’

He looked at Hannah. It was clear he was waiting for her to say something.

‘Is it?’

‘Sure. She’s just setting him up for the kill. She figures on getting more money out of him. Hell, they were married, what? Five years? What’s that worth in dollars?’

Hannah frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right, sir. After reading through the file, I——’

‘Well, Gibbs will pay. What choice has he got? But he’ll be twice as smart next time. He won’t let himself get led into marriage so easily.’

‘Mrs Gibbs manoeuvred him into marrying her?’

That smug look came over his face again. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re single, Miss Lewis. You’ve no way of knowing that marriage is never a man’s idea.’

Hannah’s brows lifted. ‘Is that right?’ she said politely.

‘Some pretty little thing comes along, the time is right, and wham, the next thing a man knows, he’s being dragged to the altar.’

‘Really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘How remarkable. I saw Mr and Mrs Gibbs the day they came in for that meeting; she seemed rather small to have accomplished such a feat.’

MacLean’s head came up sharply. ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ Hannah bent over her notepad and scratched something on it. ‘I should have realised.’

‘The point is, the bitch wants blood!’

‘Another figure of speech, of course,’ she muttered before she could stop herself. She swallowed hard. What was wrong with her? She felt as if the devil were pulling her tongue.

MacLean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say something, Miss Lewis?’

Hannah took a breath. ‘Yes, sir. I said that you’re wrong about what Mrs Gibbs wants. She’s not after more money. She’s still in love with her husband.’

He stared at her for a moment, then shot from his chair. ‘When did you speak to her? Damn, she must have gone straight to the telephone after the meeting.’ He stalked around the desk, leaned down, and grasped the arms of Hannah’s chair. ‘What did she say, exactly? I want to know every word.’

Hannah wet her lips. ‘She—she didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’ MacLean’s dark brows drew together. ‘Surely you can remember.’

‘I mean, she didn’t telephone.’ Did he have to stare down at her like this? He was so close that she could see that his eyes weren’t really grey at all; they were a combination of blue and black and green, little streaking lines radiating out from the dark pupil.

‘She was here, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But she couldn’t have been. I came straight back; if she’d come by——’

‘She didn’t do that, either.’ Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I was—I was just saying what I thought, sir.’

‘What?’

‘I was—I was only offering my opinion.’

A muted scream of feminine laughter beating through the closed door punctuated her hurried words. Silence fell between them, and then MacLean let out his breath.

‘Your opinion,’ he said softly. ‘Your highly trained opinion as a paralegal, that is.’ A muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘I see.’

Oh, God, Hannah thought. She forced herself to look directly at him, as if her heart hadn’t just plummeted to her feet.

‘I thought that’s what you...’ She swallowed. ‘I was reading through the case,’ she said, ‘as you asked me to do, and——’

‘Ah.’ He smiled grimly. ‘As I asked you to do.’

‘Yes, sir. And—’

‘Let me try to understand this, Miss Lewis. Did I ask you to formulate an opinion of the case?’

‘You asked me to—to do something with it...’

‘Yes. Organise the file, perhaps. Write a précis.’ He smiled, almost kindly. ‘You are familiar with that word, aren’t you? You did hear it once or twice when you weren’t sleeping through your paralegal courses?’

Hannah’s cheeks blazed. ‘Mr MacLean, if you’d just let me explain...’

‘Perhaps you’re a confidante of the delightful Mrs Gibbs?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘A psychologist, then?’

Her cheeks pinkened. ‘I only meant——’

‘Or a fortune-teller.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that what you are, Miss Lewis?’

‘Mr MacLean, please——’

‘But you know the intricacies of this case.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest——’

‘Of male-female relationships in general.’ His lips drew back from his teeth and he gave her a smile that would have done a shark proud. ‘It’s wonderful, the things they teach a paralegal nowadays.’

Hannah stiffened. ‘It’s just common sense, sir. I read the file, and I was simply——’

‘Is it your sex that gives you such insight, the fact that you and the lady in question share similar genetic material?’ He leaned closer to her and she caught the scent of piney aftershave mingled with sharp male anger. ‘Or is it your vast experience in matrimonial law that makes you an expert?’

All at once she shoved back her chair, hard enough so his hands fell away from it, and leaped to her feet.

‘You’re no expert, either,’ she said sharply. ‘When I took this job, they said your field was international law. But now—but now...’

The fast, furious words ceased as rapidly as they’d begun. She looked at him in horror. What was she thinking of? She’d been acting crazy ever since she’d stepped into this office. This was Grant MacLean, this was her boss! This was the man whose signature was on her weekly pay cheque, whose orders she was supposed to obey...

‘You’re right.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’

MacLean gave her a tight smile. ‘I said, you’re right. About my expertise, or my lack of it. I only agreed to take this case because Gibbs is an old friend. I told him at the start to get a divorce lawyer, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’ He sighed. ‘Make a note, please, Miss Lewis. Remind me to telephone him first thing in the morning and tell him I’m resigning from the case. I’ll recommend someone else to him.’

An apology, and the word ‘please’, all in the same breath. Hannah bent her head over her notepad. Just wait until Sally heard about——

‘The only thing I really know about marriage is that it’s invariably a mistake that people shouldn’t make more than once.’

Hannah looked up. He was smiling politely. A peace offering, she thought, and smiled back.

‘We’re in complete agreement there.’

A little frown of surprise creased his brow. ‘Is that the voice of experience talking?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘And your comment about Mrs Gibbs still loving her husband—was that the voice of experience talking, too?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean, am I... ?’ She blew out her breath. ‘No,’ she said without hesitation, ‘it definitely was not.’

Grant MacLean steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘I see.’

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. ‘The only thing I’d argue with is how a couple ends up at the altar.’

He nodded. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think anyone leads anyone there, I just think they both fool themselves into thinking it’s a good idea.’

MacLean chuckled as he leaned back against the desk and folded his arms over his chest.

‘And our Mrs Gibbs——’

‘—is still fooling herself. Yes, sir. I think so.’

He nodded. ‘You think she wants to try and make a go of things, hmm? Very well, then. Make a note of that. I’ll tell Gibbs when I talk to him tomorrow.’ A moment passed, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Please, Miss Lewis, won’t you sit down?’

Hannah sat down carefully and crossed her legs at the ankle, notepad and pencil at the ready, all too aware that she had survived a near-disaster. She’d come damnably close to getting herself fired. She’d given away more of herself than she usually did, as well, but that was understandable. Grant MacLean had surprised her with his sudden honesty and self-deprecation; it had elicited an exchange of truth on her part.

Perhaps now they could get on better with each other. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so sharp-tempered. Hannah looked up, smiling—and the smile froze. MacLean was watching her with an intensity that was almost paralysing, as if—as if she were something pinned to a microscope slide.

‘Mr MacLean? Is something wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘No, Miss Lewis. Quite the contrary. Everything is fine.’

He didn’t look as if everything were fine, Hannah thought. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then looked down quickly and opened her notebook.

‘I know you said you’re going to give up the case,’ she said. ‘But I did make some notes. Shall I type them up and——?’

‘Are you busy this evening, Miss Lewis?’

Hannah blinked. ‘Busy?’ she said, looking up again. He was still watching her that same way, dammit, as if he were a scientist and she were a new and hitherto unidentified species of bacteria.

‘Yes.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘Did you have plans, I mean?’

‘No, sir. I can work late, if you——’

‘Work?’ MacLean’s smile grew, until it was a grin, the first, she thought suddenly, that she’d ever seen on his face. ‘Well, yes, Miss Lewis, I suppose you could call it that.’ He leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked straight into her eyes. ‘You see, I’m in desperate need of your services tonight.’

‘Yes, sir. Will you be dictating, or——?’

This time, he laughed aloud. But there was no sharpness to it, only a softness that made the laughter almost a purr, and it made the hair rise on the back of Hannah’s neck.

‘Miss Lewis. Hannah, I mean. I think, considering the circumstances, I should call you by your given name, don’t you?’

Hannah took a deep breath. Something was happening here, something she didn’t understand, something—something dangerous.

MacLean leaned away from the desk, then came slowly towards her and held out his hand. She stared at it in silence, then at him, and after a moment he reached out, clasped her fingers in his, and drew her to her feet.

Then he smiled, and Hannah’s heart almost stopped beating, for the smile transformed him, turning him with blinding speed from the scourge of Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean into an incredibly sexy male.

‘After all, sweetheart,’ he said softly, ‘only a damned fool would use such formal terms with his mistress.’

CHAPTER TWO

HANNAH stared into the grey eyes a scant few inches from hers. This was a joke, she thought crazily. Her boss was telling a joke with a long delay before the punchline.

But that cocksure grin was still curved across his mouth, and all at once she knew that the only funny thing in this office was her foolishness in having told him that she was a divorced woman. Not that she hadn’t been down this road before. Many men thought women like her made easy targets—even, it seemed, a man like Grant MacLean, who had, she was quite certain, never until this moment even noticed that she was female.