Mistletoe Mistress

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.

'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 tinder 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 superior 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 souffle-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.