EMMA DARCY’s life journey has taken as many twists and turns as the characters in her stories, whose international popularity has resulted in over sixty million book sales. Born in Australia and currently living in a beachside property on the central coast of New South Wales, she travels extensively to research settings and increase her experience of places and people.

Initially a French/English teacher, she changed careers to computer programming before marriage and motherhood settled her into a community life. A voracious reader, the step to writing her own books seemed a natural progression and the challenge of creating exciting stories was soon highly addictive.

Over the past twenty-five years she has written ninety-five books for Mills & Boon, appearing regularly on the Waldenbooks bestseller lists in the USA and in the Nielsen BookScan Top 100 chart in the UK.

Australia

In Bed with the Playboy

Hidden Mistress, Public Wife

The Secret Mistress

Claiming His Mistress

Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Hidden Mistress, Public Wife

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Secret Mistress

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Claimimg His Mistress

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Endpages

Copyright

Hidden Mistress, Public Wife

Emma Darcy

CHAPTER ONE

‘THE Valentino king of rose-giving is on the loose again,’ Heather Gale remarked, swinging around from her computer chair to grin at Ivy. ‘He’s just ordered the sticky date and ginger fudge with the three dozen red roses to go to his current woman. That’s his goodbye signature. Take it from me. She’s just been crossed out of his little black book.’

Ivy Thornton rolled her eyes over her sales manager’s salacious interest in Jordan Powell’s playboy activities. Ivy had met him once, very briefly at her mother’s last gallery exhibition of her paintings. That had been two years ago, soon after her father had died and she’d been coming to grips with running the rose farm without his guidance.

Much to her mother’s disgust, she’d worn jeans to the showing, completely disinterested in competing with the socialites who attended such events. For some perverse reason Jordan Powell had asked to be introduced to her, which had displeased her mother, having to own up to a daughter who had made no effort to look stunningly presentable.

There’d been curious interest in his eyes, probably because she didn’t fit in with the fashionable crowd. The encounter was very minimal. The gorgeous model hugging his arm quickly drew him away, jealous of his attention being directed even momentarily to any other woman.

Understandably.

Keeping him to herself would have been a top-priority aim.

The man was not only a billionaire but oozed sex appeal—twinkling, bedroom blue eyes, perfect male physique in the tall-dark-and-handsome mould, charming voice and manner with a strikingly sensual mouth that had worn a teasing quirk of amusement as he’d spoken to Ivy. No doubt, with his wealth and looks, the world and everyone in it existed for his amusement.

‘How long did this love interest last?’ she asked, knowing Heather enjoyed keeping tabs on his affairs. Jordan Powell was the rose farm’s biggest spender on the private-client list.

Heather turned eagerly back to the computer to check the records. ‘Let’s see…a month ago he ordered jelly beans with the roses so that meant he wanted her to lighten up and just have fun. She probably didn’t get the message, hence the parting of the ways. A month before that it was the rum and raisin fudge, which indicates the heavy-sex stage.’

‘You can’t really know that, Heather,’ Ivy dryly protested.

‘Stands to reason. He always starts off with the double chocolate fudge when he first sends roses to a new woman. Clearly into seduction at that point.’

‘I don’t think he needs to seduce anyone,’ Ivy muttered, thinking most women would willingly fall at his feet, given one ounce of encouragement.

Heather was not to be moved from her deductions. ‘Probably not, but I think some play hard to get for a little while,’ she explained. ‘Which is when he sends the roses with the macadamia fudge, meaning she’s driving him nuts so please come to the party. This last one didn’t get the macadamia gift.’

‘Therefore an easy conquest,’ Ivy concluded.

‘Straight into it I’d say,’ Heather agreed. ‘And that was…almost three months ago. He didn’t stick with her very long.’

‘Has he ever stuck with any woman very long?’

‘According to my records, six months has been the top limit so far, and that was only once. The usual is two to four months.’

She twirled the chair back to face Ivy, who was seated at her office desk, trying to get her mind into work mode but hopelessly distracted by the conversation which touched on sore points from her mother’s most recent telephone call. Another gallery exhibition. Another shot of advice to sell the rose farm and get a life in Sydney amongst interesting people. Insistence on a shopping trip so she could feel proud of her daughter’s appearance.

The problem was she and her mother occupied different worlds, had done so for as long as Ivy could remember. Her parents had never divorced but had lived separate lives, with Ivy being brought up by her father on the farm, while her mother indulged her need for cultural activities in the city. Horticulture was of no interest to her and she was constantly urging Ivy to leave it behind and experience the full art of living, which seemed to be endless parties with endless empty chatter.

Ivy loved the farm. It was what she knew, what she was comfortable with. And she had loved her father, loved him sharing the farm with her, teaching her everything about it. It was a good life, giving a sense of satisfaction and achievement. The only thing missing from it was a man she could love, and more importantly, one who loved her back. She had thought, believed…but no, Ben hadn’t supported her when she’d needed support.

‘Hey, maybe you’ll get to meet our rose Valentino again at your mother’s exhibition! And he’ll be free this time!’ Heather said with a waggish play of her eyebrows.

‘I very much doubt a man like him would turn up on his own,’ Ivy shot back at her, instantly pouring cold water over ridiculous speculation.

It didn’t dampen Heather’s cheerful outlook on possibilities. ‘You never know. I bet you could turn his head if you hung out your hair and dolled yourself up. How often do your see that glorious shade of red-gold hair? If you didn’t wear it in a plait, the sheer mass of it would catch his eye.’

‘So what if it did?’ Ivy loaded her voice with scepticism. ‘Do you think for one moment Jordan Powell would be interested in a country farm girl? Or for that matter, I’d be interested in being the next woman on his Valentino list?’

Undeterred, Heather cocked her head on one side consideringly, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief in the making. Her brown hair was cut in an asymmetrical bob and she tucked the longer side of it behind her ear as she invariably did before getting down to business. She was brilliant at her job, a warm friendly person by nature, and although she was two years older than Ivy—almost at the thirty mark, which was when she planned to have a baby—they’d become close friends since Heather had married Barry Gale, who was in charge of the greenhouses.

She had wanted to work at the rose farm, too, and with her computer skills was a great asset to the business. Ivy thanked her lucky stars that Heather seemed to have dropped out of the heavens when someone to help manage the office work was most needed. It had been a very stressful time after her father had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Even knowing his illness was terminal she had not been prepared for his death. The grief, the sudden huge hole in her life…without Heather, she might not have been able to keep everything flowing to maintain the company’s reliable reputation.

‘Seems to me Jordan Powell could well be up for a new experience and it could be good for you, too, Ivy,’ she drawled now, having fun with being provocative.

Ivy laughed. ‘Up is undoubtedly the operative word for him. Even if I did catch his eye, I don’t think I’d like the downer that inevitably follows the up. I know his track record, remember?’

‘Exactly! Forewarned, forearmed. He won’t break your heart since you’re well aware he’ll move on. You haven’t had a vacation for three years, nor had a relationship with a man for over two. Here you are, wasting your prime in work, and if you vegetate too long, you’ll forget how to kick up your heels. I bet Jordan Powell could give you a marvellous time—great fun, great sex, an absolutely lovely trip to wallow in for a while. Definitely worth having, if only to give you a different perspective on life.’

‘Pie in the sky, Heather. I can’t see Jordan Powell making a beeline for me, even if he does turn up alone at the gallery.’ She shrugged. ‘As for the rest, I have been thinking of taking a trip somewhere now that everything on the farm is running smoothly. I was looking through the travel section of the Sunday newspaper yesterday and…’

‘That’s it!’ Heather cried triumphantly, leaping to her feet. ‘Have you still got yesterday’s newspapers?’

‘In the paper bin.’

‘I saw just the thing for you. Wait! I’ll find it.’

A few minutes later she was slapping the Life magazine from the Sunday Sun-Herald down on Ivy’s desk. It was already opened at a fashion page emblazoned with the words—The it factor.

‘I was talking about a taking a vacation, not clothes,’ Ivy reminded her.

Heather tapped her finger on a picture featuring a model wearing a black sequinned jacket with a wide leather belt cinching in her waist, a pink sequinned mini-skirt, and high-heeled black platform shoes with pink and yellow and green bits attached to straps that ended up around her ankles. ‘If you wore this to your mother’s exhibition, you’d knock everyone’s eyes out.’

‘Oh, sure! That pink skirt with my carrot hair? You’re nuts, Heather.’

‘No, I’m not. The retailer will have other colours. You could buy green instead of pink. That would go with your eyes and still match in with the shoes. It would be brilliant on you, Ivy. You’re tall enough and slim enough to carry it off.’ She pointed again. ‘And look at these long jet earrings. They’d be fabulous swinging in front of your hair which you’ll have to wear down like the model. Yours will look a lot more striking against the jacket. The black handbag with the studs is a must, as well.’

‘Probably costs a fortune,’ Ivy muttered, tempted by the image of herself in such a wow outfit, but unable to see herself wearing it anywhere else in the future. Such clothes simply weren’t worn around here. The farm was a hundred kilometres south of Sydney, situated in a valley which had once been a pastoral estate but had become a settlement for hobby farms. Very casual dress was the norm at any social occasion.

‘You can afford it,’ Heather insisted. ‘The farm raked in heaps with the St Valentine’s Day sales. Even if it’s only a one-off occasion for this gear, why not? Didn’t you say your mother wanted you to appear more fashionable at her exhibition this time?’

Ivy grimaced at the reminder. ‘So I’d fit in, not stand out.’

Heather grinned. ‘Well, I say, sock it to her. And sock it to Jordan Powell if he turns up, too.’

Ivy laughed. On both counts it was terribly tempting.

Sacha Thornton’s jaw would probably drop at seeing her daughter look like a trendy siren. It might even silence the barrage of critical advice that Ivy was usually subjected to every time she was with her mother.

As for Jordan Powell—well, there was certainly no guarantee that he’d be there, but…it would be fun to see if she could attract the sexiest man in Australia. It would do her female ego good, if nothing else.

‘Okay! Get on your computer and find out from the listed retailers where I can buy all this stuff,’ she tossed at Heather, feeling a bubbly sense of throwing her cap over a windmill. And why not? Just for once! She could afford it.

‘Yes!’ Heather punched the air with her fist, grabbed the magazine and danced back to her chair, singing an old Abba tune—‘Take a chance on me…’

Ivy couldn’t help smiling. If she was going to be mad enough to wear that outfit, she needed to acquire it as fast as possible so she had enough time to practise walking in those crazy shoes. The exhibition opening was this Friday evening, cocktails at six in the gallery. She only had four and a half days to get ready for it.

CHAPTER TWO

JORDAN Powell sat at the breakfast table, perusing the property sales reported in the morning newspaper as he waited for Margaret to serve him the perfect crispy bacon with the perfect eggs hollandaise that not even the best restaurants had ever equalled. Not to his taste, anyway. Margaret Partridge was a jewel—a meticulous housekeeper and a great cook. He enjoyed her blunt honesty, too. It was a rarity in his life and he wasn’t about to lose it. All in all, Margaret was far more worth keeping than Corinne Alder.

The delicious scent of freshly cooked bacon had him looking up and smiling at Margaret as she entered the sunroom where he always ate breakfast and lunch when he was home. There was no smile back. The expression on her face disdained any pleasantries between them this morning. Jordan quickly folded his newspaper and set it aside, aware that Margaret’s feathers were seriously ruffled.

She dumped the plate of bacon and eggs in front of him, planted her hands on her hips and brusquely warned, ‘If you invite that Corinne Alder back to this house, Jordan, I’m out of here. I will not be talked down to by a good-for-nothing chit like that, thinking she’s got it over me just because she was born with enough good looks for you to want her in your bed.’

Jordan raised an open palm for peace. ‘The deed is done, Margaret. I finished with Corinne this morning. And I apologise profusely for her behaviour towards you. I can only say in my defence she was as sweet as pie to me and…’

‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?’ Margaret cut in with a sniff of disgust at his obvious gullibility. ‘I don’t mind you having a string of affairs. At least that’s more honest than marrying and cheating. You can parade as many women as you like through this house, but I won’t be treated with disrespect.’

‘I shall make that very clear to anyone I invite in future,’ Jordan solemnly promised. ‘I’m sorry my judgement of character was somewhat blurred in this instance.’

Margaret sniffed again. ‘You could try practising looking beyond the surface.’

‘I shall attempt to plumb the depths next time.’

‘Out of bed as well as in it,’ she whipped back at him.

He heaved a sigh. ‘Now is that nice, Margaret? Am I ever anything but nice to you? Haven’t I just shown how much I care about your feelings by breaking it off with Corinne?’

‘Good riddance!’ she declared with satisfaction. ‘And it’s on account of the fact that you’re always nice to me that I didn’t burn your breakfast.’ A smile was finally bestowed on him. ‘Enjoy it!’

On her way out of the sunroom a triumphant mutter floated back to him. ‘She had a big bum anyhow.’

Clearly a flaw to true physical beauty in Margaret’s mind. It left Jordan’s mouth twitching with amusement. Margaret was virtually bumless, a short, skinny woman in her fifties, totally disinterested in enhancing her femininity. She never wore make-up, was hardly ever out of the white shirtmaker dresses which she considered a suitable uniform for her position, along with flat white lace-up shoes. Her unashamedly grey hair was invariably screwed up into a neat bun on top of her head. However, she did exude quite extraordinary energy and there was a lot of sharp intelligence in her bright, brown eyes, along with the sharp wit that occasionally flew off her tongue.

Jordan had liked her immediately.

When he had interviewed her for the job she had told him she was divorced, didn’t intend ever to marry again, and if she had to keep a house and cook for a man, she’d rather be paid for it. Her two children were doing fine for themselves and she liked the idea of doing fine for herself, being employed by a billionaire in a house full of luxuries. If he would give her a month’s trial, she would prove he’d be lucky to find anyone better.

Jordan considered himself very lucky to have found Margaret. He especially appreciated how fortunate he was as he tucked into his superbly cooked breakfast. There were always beautiful women vying for his attention and he enjoyed having a taste of them, but none of them stayed as constantly delectable as Margaret’s meals.

Corinne could be easily replaced. As for looking for more than a bed partner…no, he wasn’t going down that road again, having almost been drawn into proposing marriage by the extremely artful Biancha who had presented herself as the perfect wife for him, so perfectly obliging to his every need and desire it had struck a slightly uneasy chord in him, though not enough to pull him back from the brink until the deception unravelled.

She’d known all along that her father’s supposed wealth was a house of cards about to fall…totally dishonest about her family situation…and when the collapse could no longer be held off, it had become sickeningly obvious that she had targeted him to be her rescue package. No way would she have put herself out so much for the man…without the billions to keep her life sweet.

Margaret might have spotted Biancha’s true colours if she’d been working for him then. Not much got past his shrewd housekeeper. In fact, having such a jewel running his house, he saw no reason whatsoever to take a wife, especially when he was never short of bed partners.

Too few marriages worked for long, especially in his social set, and there was nothing more sour than the financial fallout that came with divorce. He’d witnessed enough of those problems with his sister’s marriages. Three times now Olivia had blindly hooked up with fortune-hunters, not even learning from experience, which annoyed the hell out of him. As the old saying went, once bitten should have made her twice shy. A million times shy in his book!

At least his parents had had the sense to keep their marriage together, although that had been a different generation. His father had been very discreet about his string of mistresses, allowing his mother to maintain her pride in being the wife of one of the most prominent property tycoons in Australia and enjoy the pleasure of the brilliant lifestyle he provided. Besides, she had had her ‘walkers’ whenever his father hadn’t been available to accompany her to the opera or the theatre—gay men who loved the arts as much as she did, and who were delighted to have the privilege of escorting her, thereby getting free tickets.

His parents had kept the bond going for thirty years, and there’d still been some affection between them at the end, his mother genuinely grieving over his father’s death. It was a lot of shared years, regardless of the ups and downs. Jordan doubted there was a woman alive who could interest him enough to want to share more than even a few months with her. They invariably turned out to be too damned full of themselves.

I want…I need…look at me…talk to me. If I’m not the centre of your universe, I’m going to sulk or throw a tantrum.

He’d just finished breakfast when his mobile rang. He took it out of his shirt pocket, hoping it wasn’t Corinne calling to appeal for some reconsideration. That would be extremely tedious. She’d been nastily dismissive of Margaret’s feelings, and he wasn’t about to accept any excuse for her rudeness to a highly valued employee.

It was a relief to find it was his mother wanting contact with him.

‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can be free this Friday evening to escort me to an art gallery,’ she replied with her usual queenly aplomb. It was amazing how many people bowed to her will when she employed that tone. Of course, the wealth backing it had a big influence. Nonie Powell was known to be enormously charitable, and she was not above using that as a power tool.

Jordan, however, did not have to be a courtier. ‘What’s wrong with Murray?’ he demanded, wondering if the ‘walker’ she most relied upon had somehow lost her favour.

‘The poor boy slipped on wet tiles and broke his ankle.’

The poor boy was a very dapper sixty year old.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s on at what gallery?’

‘It’s dear Henry’s gallery at Paddington. He’s showing Sacha Thornton’s latest work. You bought two of her paintings at her last exhibition so you should be interested in seeing what she’s done more recently.’

He remembered. Lots of vivid colour. A field of poppies in Italy and a vase of marigolds. The paintings had brightened up the walls at the sales office for one of his retirement villages. He also remembered the vivid red-gold hair of Sacha Thornton’s daughter. She’d worn jeans. Margaret would have approved of her bum. Very neat. But it was the hair that had drawn him into asking for an introduction.

Wrong time, wrong place, with Melanie Tindell hanging on his arm, but Jordan felt a strong spark of interest in meeting the artist’s daughter again. Wonderful pale skin—amazingly without freckles—and eyes so green he wouldn’t mind plumbing their depths. She could have looked spectacular with a bit of effort. He’d wondered why she hadn’t bothered. Most women would have played up such natural assets.

The name came back to him…Ivy.

Poison Ivy?

There’d definitely been some tension between her and her mother.

All very curious.

‘The doors open at six o’clock,’ his own mother informed him. ‘Henry will serve us decent champagne and there’ll be the usual hors d’oeuvres. If you’ll be at home at five-thirty I’ll direct my chauffeur to pick you up along the way.’

His current domain at Balmoral was only a slight diversion on his mother’s route from Palm Beach. ‘Fine!’ he replied, deciding he could improvise with alternative transport should Ivy prove interesting enough to pursue.

‘Thank you, Jordan.’

‘My pleasure.’

He smiled as he closed his mobile and tucked it back in his pocket.

He didn’t mind pleasing his mother, especially when there was the possibility of pleasure for himself.

CHAPTER THREE

IVY was late. The Friday-evening peak-hour traffic had been horrific, and finding a parking place had been equally frustrating. She had to walk three blocks virtually on her toes in the trendy shoes, silently cursing the designers who dictated foot fashion. They deserved a seat in hell. No, not a seat. They should have to walk forever in their own torturous creations.

As she turned the last corner to the street where the gallery was situated, she saw a chauffeur popping back into a Rolls-Royce which was double-parked outside her destination. Easy for some, she thought, her mind instantly zinging to Jordan Powell. Everything would be easy for a billionaire, especially women. Certainly in his case. A fact she was unlikely to forget.

In Heather’s lingo, she was a red-hot tamale tonight.

If Jordan Powell was here by himself…if he bit…what should she do?

Have a taste of him or run?

Wait and see, she told himself. There was no point in crossing bridges until she came to them.

She switched her thoughts to her mother. It was a big night for her. At least this outfit should not take any of the shine off it. It was sequin city all the way.

Henry Boyce, the gallery owner, was obsequiously chatting up one of his super-wealthy clients when Ivy walked in, but his eagle eye was open for newcomers. When he caught sight of her, his jaw dropped. The gorgeously gowned woman with the perfectly styled blond hair who had lost his attention turned to see who was the distraction, a miffed look on her arrogant face. The man who stood on the other side of her shifted enough to view the intrusive object.

It was Jordan Powell.

And his face broke into a delighted grin.

Ivy’s heart instantly leapt into a jig that would have rivalled the fastest dance performers in Ireland.

‘Good heavens! Ivy?’ Henry uttered incredulously, his usual aplomb momentarily deserting him.

‘Who?’ the woman demanded.

She was considerably older than Jordan, Ivy realised, though beautifully preserved and very full of her own importance.

‘Forgive me, Nonie,’ Henry rattled out. ‘I wasn’t expecting…it’s Sacha’s daughter, Ivy Thornton. Come on in, Ivy. Your mother will be so pleased to see you.’

Not looking like a farm girl this time.

He didn’t say it but he was thinking it.

He’d wanted to turn her away from the last exhibition until she’d identified herself.

Ivy recovered enough from the thumping impact of Jordan Powell’s presence to smile. ‘I’ll go through and find her.’

‘A pleasure to see you here again, Ivy,’ the rose Valentino said, stunning her anew that he actually remembered meeting her before. ‘I don’t think you met my mother last time,’ he continued, stepping around the woman and holding out a beckoning hand to invite Ivy into the little group. ‘Let me introduce you. Nonie Powell.’

His mother. Who looked her up and down as though measuring whether she was worth knowing. She had blue eyes, too, but they had a touch of frost in them, probably caused by the sheer number of women who streamed through her playboy son’s life, none of whom stayed long enough to merit her attention.

Ivy’s smile tilted ironically as she stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Powell.’

‘Are you an artist, too, my dear?’ she asked, deigning to acknowledge Ivy with a brief limp touch.

‘No. I don’t have my mother’s talent.’

‘Oh? What do you do?’

Ivy couldn’t stop a grin from breaking out. She might look like a high-fashion model tonight, but…‘I work on a farm.’

Which, of course, meant she was of no account whatsoever, so she gave a nod of dismissal before she received one. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve arrived a little late and my mother might be feeling anxious about it.’

‘A farm?’ Nonie Powell repeated incredulously.

‘Let me help you find her,’ Jordan said, moving swiftly and smoothly to hook his arm around Ivy’s, pouring charm into a wicked smile. ‘I’m very good at cutting a swathe through crowds.’

Ivy gaped at him in amazement while her heart started another wild jig. Did he pick up women as fast as that?

‘Take care of my mother, will you, Henry?’ he tossed at the gallery owner and they were off, Ivy’s feet blindly moving in step with his as she tried to regather her wits.

‘Kind of you,’ she muttered, her senses bombarded by the spicy cologne he was wearing, the hard muscular arm claiming her company, the confident purr of his sexy voice, the mischievous dance in his bedroom-blue eyes.

‘Pure self-interest. We didn’t get to talk much last time, and I’m bursting with curiosity about you.’

‘Why?’ she demanded, frowning over how directly he was coming on to her, even after she’d said straight-out she was a farm girl. Did that make her a novelty?

‘The transformation for a start,’ he answered teasingly.

She shrugged. ‘My mother was not pleased with my appearance at that showing so I’m trying not to be a blot on her limelight again.’

‘You could never be a blot with your shade of hair,’ he declared. ‘It’s a beacon of glorious colour.’

He rolled the words out so glibly, Ivy couldn’t really feel complimented. The playboy was playing and some deep-down sense of self-worth resented his game. She should be feeling happily flattered that Jordan Powell was attracted to her, delighted that her dress-up effort had paid off. Yet, despite the charismatic sexiness of the man, she was inwardly bridling against the ease with which he thought he could claim her company. Everything was too easy for him and she didn’t like the idea of him finding her easy, too.

She halted in the midst of the gallery crowd, unhooked her arm and turned to face him, her eyes focussed on burning a hole through his to the facile mind behind them. ‘Are you chatting me up?’

He looked surprised at the direct confrontation. Then amused. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I speak the absolute truth about your fabulous hair but I am…’

‘I’m more than red hair,’ she cut in, refusing to respond to the heart-kicking grin. ‘And since I’ve had it all my life, it’s quite meaningless to me.’

Which should have dampened his ardour but didn’t.

He laughed, and the lovely deep chuckle caressed all of Ivy’s female hormones into vibrant life. Her thighs tensed, her stomach fluttered, her breasts tingled, and while her eyes still warred with the seductive twinkle in his, she was acutely aware of wanting to experience this man, regardless of knowing how short-term it would be. Nevertheless, resentment at his superficiality still simmered.

‘Would you like me to rave on about your hair or how handsome you are?’ she asked with lofty contempt. ‘Is that the measure of you as a man?’

His mouth did its sensual little quirk. ‘I stand corrected on how to chat you up. May I begin again?’

‘Begin what?’

‘Acquainting myself with the person you are.’

That was good. Really good. It hit the spot of prickling discontent. Nevertheless, Ivy couldn’t bring herself to surrender to his charm without a further stand.

‘Don’t be deceived by this trendy get-up. It’s for my mother. And Henry, who’s a snob of the first order, not welcoming the common herd into his gallery. I’m simply not your type.’

He raised a wickedly arched eyebrow. ‘Care to expound on what my type is?’

Careful, Ivy.

It was best for business not to reveal how she knew what she knew about him.

She cocked her head to the side consideringly and said, ‘From what I observed last time we met, I’d say you specialise in beautiful trophy women.’

His brow creased thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps they’re the ones who throw themselves at me. Wealth is a drawcard so it’s difficult to know if anyone actually likes you. It’s more about what you can give them. I tend to sift through what’s offered and…’

‘May I point out it was you who grabbed me. I didn’t throw myself at you.’

He smiled. ‘Wonderfully refreshing, Ivy. Please allow me to learn more about you.’

It was impossible to muster up any more defences against that smile. Ivy sighed and gave in to the desire to have him at her side, at least for a little while. ‘Well, my mother will be impressed if I have you in tow,’ she muttered and curled her arm around his again. ‘Lead on. Can you see her anywhere?’

He glanced around from his greater height, not that Ivy was short in these high-heeled platform shoes, but the top of her head was only level with his nose.

‘To our right,’ he directed. ‘She’s talking to a couple who appear interested in one of her paintings.’

‘Then we mustn’t interrupt, just hover nearby until she finishes with them and is free to notice me.’

‘I think she’ll notice you whether she’s free or not,’ Jordan said dryly.

Ivy didn’t see anyone else in sequins. ‘I hope I’m not too over the top in this outfit,’ she said worriedly. ‘The aim was to pleasantly surprise her with an up-to-date city version of me.’

‘She didn’t like the country version?’

Ivy rolled her eyes at him. ‘When someone makes an art form of glamour, anything less offends their sensibilities, so no, she didn’t care for my lack of care.’

‘No problem tonight. You look as though you stepped right off the page of a fashion magazine.’

‘I did.’

‘Pardon?’

Ivy couldn’t help laughing, her eyes twinkling at him as she explained. ‘Saw a photo of these clothes, bought them, and hey presto! Even you’re impressed!’

‘You wear them well,’ he said, amused by her amusement at her magic trick.

‘Thank you. Then you don’t think I’m over the top?’

‘Not at all.’

She hugged his arm. ‘Good! I’ve got you to protect me if my mother attacks.’

‘I’m glad to be of use.’

He was a charmer. No doubt about that. Ivy was suddenly bubbling over with high spirits, despite knowing his track record with women. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy his company at the gallery, she decided. Much more fun than being on her own.

Her mother was dressed in a long flowing gown that fell from a beaded yoke in deepening shades of pink. Unlike Ivy, she wore pink beautifully, but then she wasn’t like Ivy at all except for the curly hair. No one would pick them as mother and daughter. Sacha Thornton had grey eyes. Her hair was dark brown—almost black—and cascaded over her shoulders in a wild mane of ringlets, defying the fact she was nearing fifty. Though she didn’t look it. Artful make-up gave her face the colour and vivacity of a much younger woman.

Bangles and rings flashed as her hands talked up the painting she was intent on selling to the couple. The expressive gesticulation halted in midair as Ivy—linked with Jordan Powell—moved into her line of vision. A startled look froze the animation of her face.

Ivy barely clamped down on the hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt from her throat. She wished Heather was here to see the outcome of her pushing—first Henry, then Jordan Powell and now her mother totally agog. Heather would be dancing around and clapping her hands in wild triumph. And Ivy had to admit that even her tortured feet did not take the gleeful gloss off this moment.

It was ridiculous, of course.

All to do with image.

An image that didn’t reflect who she was at all.

Nevertheless, she would happily wear it tonight for the sheer fun it was bringing her.

Her mother swiftly recovered, flashing an ingratiating smile at the prospective buyers. ‘You must excuse me now.’ She nodded towards Ivy. ‘My daughter has just arrived.’

No hesitation whatsoever in acknowledging their relationship, nor in directing attention to her. The couple looked, their eyes widening at what they obviously saw as a power pair waiting in the wings. Jordan Powell was a splendid ornament on Ivy’s arm.

‘But please speak to Henry about the painting,’ her mother went on. ‘He’s handling all the sales.’

She pressed their hands in a quick parting gesture and swept over to plant extravagant kisses on her daughter’s cheeks in between extravagant cries of approval.

‘Darling! How lovely you look! I’m so thrilled that you’re here for me! And with Jordan!’

She stepped back to eye him coquettishly. ‘I do hope this means you’ve come to buy more of my work.’

‘Ivy and I came to greet you first, Sacha,’ he answered, oozing his charm again. ‘We haven’t had a chance to see what’s on show yet.’

‘Well, if there’s anything that takes your eye…’

They chatted for a few minutes, Ivy wryly reflecting that Jordan Powell was more important to her mother than she was. The man with the money. And the connections. She understood that this was what tonight was about for Sacha Thornton, not catching up with a daughter who didn’t share the same interests anyway. At least she had succeeded in not being a drag on proceedings. The next telephone call from her mother should be quite pleasant.

‘Ivy, dear, make sure Jordan sees everything,’ her mother pleaded prettily when he was about to draw away.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she answered obligingly. ‘Good luck with the show, Sacha.’

‘Sacha?’ Jordan queried, eyeing her curiously as he steered her into the adjoining room which wasn’t so crowded with people. ‘You don’t call her Mum?’

‘No.’ Ivy shrugged. ‘Her choice. And I don’t mind. Sacha never felt like a real mother to me. I was brought up by my father. That was her choice, too.’

‘But you came for her tonight.’

‘She always made the effort to come to events that were important to me.’

‘Like what?’

‘School concerts, graduation. Whenever I wanted both parents there for me.’

‘Will you be staying the weekend with her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d rather go home.’

‘Which is where?’

‘About a hundred kilometres from here.’

She wasn’t about to identify her location to him. The farm’s website gave it away and he might have read it when he decided to use their service for his rose gifts.

‘That’s quite a drive late at night.’

‘It won’t be late. People drift out of here after a couple of hours.’ She gave him an ironic grimace. ‘You whisked me off before I could get a brochure detailing the paintings from Henry. Did he give you one?’

‘Yes.’ He took it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

Ivy withdrew her arm from his and checked the numbers of the nearby paintings against the list in the brochure, determined on deflecting his physical effect on her. ‘Right!’ she said briskly, pointing to number fifteen. ‘This is Courtyard in Sunshine. Do you like it?’

He folded his arms and considered it, obligingly falling in with her direction. ‘Very pleasant but a bit too chocolate-boxy for me.’

Privately Ivy agreed, but the painting already had a red sticker on it indicating a sale, so somebody had liked it. ‘Okay. Let’s move on. Find something that does appeal to you.’

‘Oh, I’ve already found that,’ he drawled in a seductive tone, compelling Ivy to shoot a glance at him.

The bedroom-blue eyes had her targeted. It was like being hit by an explosion of sexual promise that fired up a host of primitive desires. She had lusted mildly over some movie stars, but in real life…this was a totally new and highly unsettling experience. She didn’t even like this man…did she?

‘You’re wasting your time flirting with me,’ she bluntly told him.

‘There’s nothing else I’d rather do,’ he declared, grinning as though her rebuff delighted him.

Ivy huffed at his persistence. ‘Well, if you must tag along in my wake, you’ll have to look properly at every painting or I’ll lose patience with you.’

‘If I buy one or two of them, will you have dinner with me?’

Had Ivy not been wearing such dangerous shoes, she would have stamped her foot. As it was, she glared at him in high dudgeon. ‘That is the most incredibly offensive thing anyone has ever said to me!’

He actually looked taken aback by her attack. The dent in his confidence gave Ivy a wild rush of satisfaction. Jordan Powell wasn’t going to find her easy.

He frowned. ‘I thought it would please you to have your mother pleased tonight.’

‘My mother has enough talent to draw buyers to her work or Henry wouldn’t have it hanging in his gallery,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘She doesn’t need me to sell myself to have a successful exhibition.’ Her chin lifted in proud defiance of his obvious belief that anyone could be bought. ‘I wouldn’t do it anyway.’

He grimaced an apology. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘Oh, yes you did,’ she cut in. ‘I bet you think that all you have to do is offer your little goodies and any woman will fall in your lap.’

The grimace took on an ironic twist. ‘I wouldn’t call them little goodies.’

He might not have meant to put a sexual twist on those words, but Ivy felt her cheeks flame as an image of his naked body bloomed in her mind. ‘I don’t care how big they are,’ she insisted vehemently. ‘Why don’t you go on back to your mother? I don’t fit into your scene and never will.’

And having cut his feet out from under him, Ivy fully expected him to go. It would be the most sensible solution to the warring urge inside her to take what he was offering. Just to see, to know, to feel…

Which would inevitably end badly with her being discarded as he discarded all the rest.

CHAPTER FOUR

JORDAN was faced with a decision he wasn’t used to facing. No woman had ever told him to leave her alone. No woman had ever thrown so many negatives at him, either. Maybe Ivy Thornton wouldn’t fit into his scene and he should walk away, stop wasting his time with her.

But he didn’t want to walk away.

He liked her thorns.

They made her more intriguing, more challenging than the women in ‘his scene’. And the fire-power coming from her incited visions of passion, lifting her desirability to virtually a must-have level. Just the sight of her had excited him. His fingertips itched to graze over every hidden part of her pale, almost translucent skin, not to mention stroking through the red-gold hair guarding her most intimate places.

Missing out on that…no.

He had to win her over.

‘Never say never, Ivy. Things can change,’ he said mildly, hoping to undermine her hard stance.

‘I can’t see that happening.’ The fascinating green eyes flashed scepticism, but the tone of her voice was not so fierce.

‘It was crass of me to link buying your mother’s paintings to my invitation to dinner and I apologise for the offence given,’ he went on, projecting absolute sincerity. ‘Please take it as a measure of how much I wanted you to accept, how much I wanted to spend more time with you.’

She frowned. After a few moments of cogitation, she gave him a narrow look that telegraphed he was on shaky ground, but her words granted him a second chance. ‘Well, if you still want to accompany me around the gallery, I’ll go that far with you.’

Triumph zinged through his mind. He only just managed to keep his smile appealingly rueful. ‘I shall monitor my conversation with rigid regard to your sensibilities.’

It drew a laugh. ‘I don’t think you can hide your true colours, Jordan. Getting your own way must be habitual. You have all the tools to do it. Wealth, looks and charm to boot.’

He affected a helpless expression. ‘None of which appear to carry any weight with you.’

She laughed again, shaking her head at him. ‘I can’t deny you’re entertaining.’

He grinned. ‘So are you, Ivy. I’ve just found a masochistic streak in myself. You can put me down as much as you like and I’ll pop up for more.’

The green eyes sparkled. ‘I might test that.’

He suddenly saw her in a black leather corselet, high-heeled boots laced up to her thighs, a whip in her hand. With her white skin and red hair, it made a fantastic vision. ‘Are you a dominatrix?’ he asked, seized by an irrepressible curiosity. He wasn’t into that kind of kinky sex, but with Ivy he might give it a try.

‘A what?’ She looked aghast.

‘I thought you could have been suggesting it with your “test” remark. Sorry. Had to ask. I do like to get my bearings with people, and you’ve completely knocked me off them.’

Her cheeks flamed again, the heat glow making her green eyes even greener. Her colouring was so entrancing, Jordan felt a considerable flow of heat himself though it was concentrated below the belt, not above it.

‘I’m certainly not a dominatrix,’ she stated emphatically.

‘Good! Because I’m not really a masochist.’ And he much preferred the idea of controlling the sexual games he played with Ivy, not the other way around.

She planted her hands on her hips. ‘And just how did this conversation get to the bedroom? Do you have sex on your mind all the time?’

‘Most men have sex on their minds most of the time,’ he informed her with an ironic grimace.

‘Do you think you can lift yours off it while we look at paintings?’

‘Difficult with you dressed as you are, but I’ll do my best.’

‘Try hard.’

‘I shall.’ He whipped the brochure out of her hand, checked the number of the next painting and directed her attention to it. ‘This one is called Waterlilies. Much more to my liking. Reminds me of Monet’s great works. Have you ever been to Monet’s garden at Giverny, Ivy?’

‘No.’

‘It’s marvellous. Inspirational. After seeing what he created there, I was determined to bring something like it to every one of the retirement villages I’ve had constructed. There’s nothing like a wonderful garden in bloom to make people feel good. Best environment you can have.’

The leap from sex to gardens was diverting but for Ivy the damage was done. She couldn’t lift her own mind from thoughts of how he might be in the bedroom. He had wonderful hands, long and elegant, and she couldn’t help imagining that their touch would be sensitive. Ben’s had never really been gentle enough. With him she had often wished…though their relationship had been very companionable and she might have married him if he’d been more understanding during her father’s last months.

No chance of marriage with Jordan Powell.

Only bed and roses.

But the bed part might be an experience worth having.

Maybe she would never meet a man who would be happy to share their lives. Ben had been the only possibility and she was already twenty-seven. For the past two years there had been no one of any real interest on her horizon. Jordan Powell was interesting, though not, of course, in any lasting sense. But for a while…

It was tempting and becoming more tempting by the minute.

He bought Waterlilies.

Henry put the red dot on the frame of the painting, congratulated Jordan on a fine buy, smiled at Ivy as though to say she had done well by her mother, and moved off, probably hoping she would do more on the sales front with a billionaire in tow.

‘This was not a bribe, Ivy,’ Jordan assured her. ‘If you weren’t at my side, I would still have acquired it.’

‘What will you do with it?’ she demanded, wanting proof that his liking for it was genuine.

‘Hang it in one of the nursing homes. It gives a sense of serenity. I’m sure the residents will enjoy it.’

Her curiosity was piqued. ‘You seem to care about the people who buy into your properties.’

‘I like them. They’ve reached an age where impressing a person like me is irrelevant. They say it how it is for them and I respect that.’ There was a glint of cynicism in his eyes as he added, ‘Honesty is a fairly rare commodity in my world.’

Yes, it probably was, Ivy thought, and wondered if the high turnover of women in his life was related to some form of deception on their part. Although that was putting them in the wrong and she shouldn’t assume he was not. Undoubtedly Jordan Powell had his shortcomings when it came to relationships. She suspected he had a wandering eye, for a start. The last time she’d been in this gallery he’d sought an introduction to her when he was with another woman.

Sliding him a searching look, she asked, ‘Are you honest yourself, Jordan?’

‘I try to be,’ he answered. The wicked twinkle reappeared. ‘On the whole, I think I deliver whatever I promise.’

He was definitely thinking sinful pleasures.

Ivy’s stomach fluttered in sinful excitement.

He cocked a challenging eyebrow. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I always deliver what I promise,’ she said. The reputation of her business depended upon it.

‘Ah! A woman of integrity.’ He rolled the words out as though tasting them and his smile said he liked them.

Ivy was beginning to like him. She had managed to keep her father at home where he’d wanted to be during the last months of his life, but if he had gone into a nursing home, one of Jordan Powell’s would definitely have been the best choice. Sacha had done a painting of roses to hang in his bedroom, but her father would have liked Waterlilies, too.

A sudden welling up of sadness brought tears to her eyes. ‘Let’s move on. There might be something else that appeals to you,’ she said huskily, turning aside to draw Jordan with her as she blinked rapidly and took a deep breath to restore her composure.

Gentle fingers stroked the hand resting on his arm. ‘What is it, Ivy?’ he asked caringly.

She shook her head, not wanting to explain.

‘Something upset you,’ he persisted. ‘Was it my comment on integrity? Did you think I was being flippant? I assure you…’

‘No.’ She summoned up a wry little smile. ‘Nothing to do with you, Jordan. I was thinking of my father.’

‘What about him?’ There was concern in the eyes that searched hers.

Ivy was touched by it. Her heart swelled with the sense of caring coming from him. Maybe he simply wanted to dispose of the distraction from him, get it out of the way so he could pull her back to what he wanted, but it tripped her into spilling the truth.

‘Sacha’s last show…when we first met here…It was soon after my father had died. Your mention of nursing homes reminded me of how hard it was for him at the end.’

‘What did he die of, Ivy?’

‘Cancer. Melanoma. He had red hair and fair skin like me and he was always having to get sun cancers removed. It made him fanatical about protecting my skin.’

Jordan nodded. ‘So that’s why you have no freckles.’

The comment made her laugh again. ‘I’m a slave to block-out cream, hats and long sleeves. And you look like a slave to the sun—’ with his gleaming olive skin, ‘—which should make you realise I definitely don’t fit into your scene.’

He grinned. ‘I have no objection to hats, long sleeves and particularly not to block-out cream. In fact, I think it would give me a lot of pleasure to spread it all over your beautiful skin. It would be criminal to have it marred in any way.’

Desire leapt between them—his to touch, hers to be touched. It simmered in his eyes and shot a bolt of heat through her bloodstream. Her pulse started to gallop. Ivy wrenched her gaze from his in sheer panic, riven with an acute awareness of feeling terribly vulnerable to what this man could do to her, for her, with her.

It would probably be a big mistake to let it happen.

She might end up wanting more of him than was sensible or practical, given his track record and her circumstances.

‘What about a painting for yourself?’ she rattled out, waving at the next section of the exhibition.

‘Actually, I’m happy with the selection I have in my house,’ he said, apparently content to follow her lead. For the moment.

Ivy was extremely conscious of him waiting, patient in his pursuit of a more intimate togetherness. It didn’t need to be spoken. His intent was already under her skin, boring away at needs she had been dismissing for years. He’d brought the woman in her alive, kicking and screaming to be used, enjoyed, pleasured.

‘I guess you have a collection of European masters,’ she said lightly, thinking he could well afford it. She remembered Van Gogh’s Irises had been bought by an Australian billionaire.

‘No. I’m a proud Australian. I like my country and our culture. We have some great artists who’ve captured its uniqueness—Drysdale, Sydney Nolan, Pro Hart. I think I’ve bought the best of them.’

Sacha Thornton was not in that echelon of fame, although her work was popular and sold well. Ivy was impressed by the names he’d rolled out, impressed with his patriotism, as well. She’d never liked the snobbery of believing something bought overseas had a cachet that made it better than anything Australian.

‘You’re very lucky to have them to enjoy,’ she remarked as they strolled on.

‘It would be my pleasure to show them to you.’

She shot a teasing grin at him. ‘I’d have to say that’s one up on etchings.’

He grinned back. ‘It’s not a bribe.’

Her eyes merrily mocked him. ‘Just holding out a persuasive titbit.’

‘The choice is yours.’

‘I might think about it,’ she tossed at him airily, turning back to her mother’s art.

He leaned close to her ear and murmured, ‘You could think about it over dinner.’

The waft of his warm breath was like a tingling caress.

Temptation roared through her.

Fortunately two waiters descended on them, one offering a tray of hors d’oeuvres, the other presenting two glasses of fizzing champagne. ‘Veuve Clicquot,’ the drinks waiter informed them. ‘Especially for you, Mr Powell. Compliments of…’

‘Henry, of course. Thank him for me.’ Jordan picked up the two glasses and held one out to Ivy who was busy choosing a crab tartlet and a pikelet loaded with smoked salmon and shallots.

‘Hang on to it while I eat first,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Then you need a proper meal,’ he argued. ‘If you like seafood, I know a place that does superb lobster.’

‘Mmmh…’ Superb lobster, superb works of art, superb Casanova?

The temptations were piling up, making Ivy think she really should throw her cap over the windmill for one mad night with this man.

She finished eating and took the glass of champagne he was holding for her. ‘It’s Friday night,’ she reminded him. ‘Wouldn’t all the restaurants that serve superb meals be fully booked? How are you going to deliver on what you’re promising?’

‘There’s not a maître d’ in Sydney who wouldn’t find a table for me,’ he answered with supreme arrogance.

It niggled Ivy into a biting remark. ‘And not a woman who would refuse you?’

The blue eyes warred with the daggers of distancing pride in hers. ‘Please don’t, Ivy,’ he said with seductive softness. ‘I haven’t met anyone like you before.’

Her heart turned over. She’d never met anyone like him, either. ‘The spice of novelty,’ she muttered, mocking both of them—the strong desire to taste a different experience.

‘Why not pursue it, at least for this evening?’ he pressed persuasively.

She sipped the champagne, felt the fizz go to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ve sold me on the lobster. I will have dinner with you. If you can deliver what you promise,’ she added in deliberate challenge, making the seafood the attraction.

It didn’t dent his grin of confidence. ‘Consider it done,’ he said, whipping out his mobile telephone from a coat pocket.

A treacherous tingle of anticipation invaded Ivy’s entire body. She didn’t wait to hear him make arrangements, moving on to look at the few paintings they hadn’t already seen, pretending it was irrelevant to her whether or not he secured a table for the promised dinner. Undoubtedly he would. Jordan Powell could probably buy his way into anything, any time at all.

But he couldn’t buy her.

She would only go as far as she wanted to go with him.

One evening…maybe one night…

One step at a time, she told herself. He might turn her off him over dinner. The temptation could fizzle out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged her tastebuds with lobster. That, at least, was one pleasure she could allow herself without any concern over what was right or wrong.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY rode away from the gallery in Nonie Powell’s chauffeured Rolls-Royce—borrowed briefly for the trip to the restaurant. Jordan’s mother had rolled her eyes over the request, chided him for deserting her and given a long-suffering sigh as her gaze flicked over Ivy before waving them off, obviously resigned to her playboy son’s weakness for a new attraction.

Ivy didn’t care what his mother thought. Her own mother had been quite happy for her to leave with the billionaire, probably seeing him as the ultimate city man who might very well seduce her from country life. Ivy didn’t care what Sacha thought, either. As far as she was concerned, this was simply an experience she wanted to dabble with while it was desirable.

When it stopped being desirable, she would take a taxi to her car and drive home. In the meantime, she was enjoying the experience of riding in a Rolls-Royce. She’d never done it before and it was most unlikely she would ever do it again. It felt luxurious. It smelled luxurious. She focussed her mind on memorising everything about it to tell Heather because it helped distract her from an acute awareness of the man sitting beside her.

He totally wrecked that mental exercise by reaching across, plucking her hand from her lap and stroking it with his long, elegant and highly sensual fingers. Her pulse bolted into overdrive. She found herself staring at their linked hands, fascinated by the juxtaposition of his olive skin and the extreme fairness of hers. She visualised them in bed together…naked…intertwined…black hair, red hair. The image was wickedly entrancing.

Ben’s skin had been fair, though not as fair as hers. Jordan Powell was very different, in every sense. Was it the sheer contrast that made him so appealing? Why did being with him excite her so much? Was it the idea of living dangerously, which was not her usual style at all?

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

No way was she about to reveal those thoughts! ‘Where are we going?’ she countered, giving him a bright look of anticipation.

‘Wherever you want to go,’ he purred back at her, the sexy blue eyes inviting her to indulge any desire she had on her mind.

‘I meant the restaurant,’ she stated pointedly. ‘My car is parked near the gallery. If I decide to walk out on you, which I might want to do, I’d prefer not to have a long journey back to it.’

He laughed, squeezing her hand as though asserting his possession of her even as he replied, ‘Your escape route won’t be a hardship. The restaurant is at Rose Bay. In fact, we’re almost there.’

‘Good! What’s it called?’

‘Pier. It specialises in seafood—spanner crab, lobster, tuna. I can recommend the trout carpaccio as a starter.’

‘Then I hope you don’t say anything offensive before we dine.’

‘I’ll watch my tongue,’ he assured her, smiling as though he found her absolutely delicious.

Ivy immediately started wondering about how sexy his tongue was, in kissing as well as other intimate things. She had to wrench her gaze away from his mouth before he started guessing what she was thinking.

The idea of new experiences could be terribly beguiling.

It was another new experience to be welcomed so effusively into a classy restaurant, led to a table with a lovely view of Sydney Harbour, and given immediate smiling service. Obviously Jordan Powell was known to be a very generous tipper. Who could blame the average working person for bending over backwards to please him? Besides, he really was charming. To everyone! The maître d’, the wine waiter, the food waiter, to her especially. Being in his company was an undeniable pleasure.

And the seafood was superb.

Especially the lobster, done simply in a lemon butter sauce.

Ivy sighed in satisfaction.

‘Up to your expectations?’ Jordan asked, his eyes twinkling pleasure in her pleasure.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Thank you.’

He gave her a slow, very sensual smile. ‘I think the best is yet to come.’

Her stomach muscles contracted. Her mind jammed over what to do next—have a one-night fling with him or scoot for home. ‘I couldn’t fit in sweets, Jordan,’ she said. ‘Though coffee would be good.’

A glass of champagne at the gallery and a glass of chardonnay over dinner should not be affecting her judgement, yet she couldn’t seem to manage any clear thinking with his eyes tempting her to stay with him and find out if he would deliver ‘the best’. Maybe the coffee would sober her up enough to make the break, which, of course, was the most sensible thing to do. This whole thing with Jordan Powell was fantasy stuff. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—develop into a real relationship.

He ordered the coffee and handed his credit card to the waiter, indicating they would be leaving soon.

‘I’ll need to call a taxi to get back to my car,’ Ivy quickly said. ‘I can’t walk that far in these killer shoes.’

‘A taxi in twenty minutes,’ Jordan instructed the waiter, apparently unperturbed about going along with her plan.

Twenty minutes later they left the restaurant.

A taxi was waiting for them.

It was only a short drive to where she had parked her car, but every minute of the trip shredded Ivy’s nerves. Jordan had taken possession of her hand again and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to snatch it free. Her heart was pounding. Her whole body felt on edge, fighting against the restrictions her mind was trying to impose on it. The pulse in her temples seemed to be thumping, Go with it. Go with it. Go with it.

The taxi stopped right beside her car.

Jordan released her hand, paid the driver, and was out, reaching back to help her alight on the kerb side of the street. Ivy finally teetered upright in the vertically challengingly high high heels and was fumbling in her handbag for her car keys when the taxi took off, leaving Jordan with her. Alone together. In the shadows of the night.

She scooped in a quick breath, desperate to relieve the tightness in her chest. ‘You should have kept it,’ she said with an agitated wave at the departing taxi.

‘A gentleman always sees a lady safely on her way,’ he replied with mock gravity.

With roses, her mind snapped.

‘I have to change my shoes,’ she muttered, dropping her gaze from his, fighting the physical tug of the man. ‘I can’t drive in these.’

She pressed the Unlock button on her key fob and forced her legs to move, needing to open the trunk and get out her flat-heeled sandals.

‘Let me help you take them off,’ he said.

Those seductively sensual hands on her legs, her ankles, her feet…Ivy’s mind reeled at how vulnerable she might be to his touch. ‘I can manage,’ she rattled out, reaching down to lift the lid of the trunk.

He intercepted the move, taking her hand, turning her towards him. She darted an anguished look of protest at him, caught burning purpose in his eyes, and suddenly her defences caved in, totally undermined by a chaotic craving to know what it would be like at least to be kissed by him.

‘Ivy,’ he murmured, stepping closer, sliding an arm around her waist. He lifted her hand to his shoulder, left it there and stroked her cheek, featherlight fingertips grazing slowly down to trace the line of her lips, his thumb hooking gently under her chin, tilting it up.

She was aware of weird little tremors running down her thighs, aware of her stomach fluttering with excitement, aware of her breasts yearning for contact with the hard wall of his chest, aware of the wanton desire to experience this man running completely out of control. He lowered his head. She stared at his mouth coming closer and closer to hers. She did nothing to stop him. It was as though all her common-sense mechanisms were paralysed.

His lips brushed hers, stirring a host of electric tingles. His tongue swept over them, soothing the acute sensitivity and teasing her mouth open. He began with a soft exploratory kiss, a tasting, not demanding a response but inevitably drawing it with tantalising little manoeuvres. Ivy couldn’t resist tasting him right back, revelling in the sensual escalation that sent heat whooshing through her body.

The urge to feel him was equally irresistible. Her hand slid up around his neck, her fingers thrusting into his hair, loving its lush thickness. Perhaps it signalled her complete acquiescence to what was happening. Ivy was no longer thinking. Her mind was consumed with registering sensation, pleasure, excitement, the rampant desire to have her curiosity about Jordan Powell satisfied blotting out any other consideration.

His thumb glided along her jawline, caressed the lobe of her ear—an exquisite touch, moving slowly, sensually, under her hair to the nape of her neck. The arm around her waist scooped her into full body contact with him as his kissing became more demanding, less of an invitation, more an incitement to passion.

Ivy barely knew what she was doing. She loved being held so close to him, feeling the hard, male strength of his physique—the perfect complement to her highly aroused femininity. Excitement was flooding through her. Her mouth hungered for more and more passion from him, exulting in the deeply intimate aggression of his kisses. Never had she been so caught up in the moment. Never had she been driven to respond so wildly, so uninhibitedly.

She felt his hand clutch her bottom, pressing her more tightly into contact with his sexuality. Her stomach contracted at the hard furrowing of his arousal. It should have been a warning to break away from him. Her body didn’t want to. Her body wantonly rubbed itself against the blatant evidence of his excitement, exhilarated by it, madly bent on fanning this desire for her. It was wonderful to feel wanted again. She had been too long alone, and the woman inside her was craving connection—connection with this man, regardless of time and place and circumstances.

He swung her back against the trunk of the car, lifting her onto it, his mouth still ravishing hers as his hand burrowed under her mini-skirt, moved her silk panties aside, found the soft moist furrows of her sex and stroked her to a fever pitch of need, her whole being screaming for it to be fulfilled. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed for her.

It all happened so fast, the jolt when he plunged into her, the savage joy of it, the relief, the release of all nerve-tearing tension as her inner muscles convulsed and creamed around the marvellously deep penetration. And he repeated it, storming her with waves of ecstatic pleasure, pumping hard to the rhythm of his own need until he, too, reached the sweet chaos of climax.

She lay limply spreadeagled on the trunk of the car with him bent over her, the heat of his harsh breathing pulsing against her throat. If traffic had passed by them on the street, she hadn’t heard or seen it. The night seemed to have wrapped them in a private cocoon, intensifying the feelings that still held her in thrall.

His arms burrowed underneath her, gathering her up. Amazingly her legs were wound around his hips and he supported them in place as he lifted her from the car and carried her to the passenger side, only relinquishing their intimate connection when he opened the door and lowered her to the seat. He kissed her while he fastened the safety belt, fetched the handbag she had dropped somewhere and laid it on her lap, kissed her again before closing the door and rounding the car to the driver’s side.

She watched him in a daze—this virtual stranger with whom she’d shared such an erotically intimate experience. Languor was seeping into her bones. Somehow any action was beyond her. She barely grasped the fact that he had seized control of the situation, putting her in the car, retrieving her handbag and the car keys which he was now inserting in the ignition, having usurped her driver’s seat. Her mind was stuck in one groove, endlessly repeating…

I can’t believe I did that.

CHAPTER SIX

JORDAN drove on automatic pilot, his mind still grappling with a loss of control which was totally uncharacteristic, especially in his relationships with women. He’d just acted like a randy teenage boy who couldn’t wait to get his rocks off—a rampant bull, incapable of stopping. No sophistication. No finesse.

And worse! No thought of protection!

Shock billowed again.

He never took the risk of getting a woman pregnant. The possibility hadn’t even entered his head. He’d wanted Ivy Thornton from the moment he’d seen her tonight, wanted her more and more with every minute they spent together, wanted her so much it was impossible to tolerate her driving away from him, but he’d meant to persuade, to seduce, to promise pleasure, not to…

‘I can’t believe I did that,’ he muttered, shock tumbling into words he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

He was still out of control.

‘I can’t, either.’

The shaky reply startled him into darting a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at him. Her head was bent, the rippling fall of her glorious hair hiding most of her face. Her hands lay limply in her lap, palms upward, and she seemed to be staring down at them as though they didn’t belong to her—hands that had gripped him in a fever of passion, inciting the wild act of intimacy they had both engaged in.

She was in shock, too.

Instinctively he reached across, took one of her hands, squeezed it. ‘I’ll make it better,’ he said.

Do it right, he thought, which was why he’d put her in the car and was driving her to Balmoral—take her to bed with him and do all the things he’d imagined doing with her instead of succumbing to a mad rush of lust. It was too late to be worrying about protection now, not too late to enjoy all he wanted to enjoy with Ivy Thornton. Though he should check if she was using some form of contraception, know if there was a possibility of unwelcome consequences.

He frowned. It seemed crass to ask at this point. Besides, the damage was done if it was done. Using condoms for the rest of the night would be ridiculous. He might as well have the pleasure of totally unrestricted sex with her. It would be good. Great. Fantastic. He could bring up the issue later. She could take a morning-after pill if it was needed. Right now he wanted her riding with him, still caught up in what had happened between them.

It had been such an incredible rush—the excitement of her response, the mounting sense of urgency to seize the moment, take it as far as he could, her uninhibited complicity driving him to the edge, past it into plunging chaos. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so exultantly primitive. Sex with Ivy had to be explored further. Much further.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, her voice still slightly tremulous.

They were crossing the harbour bridge to the northern side of the city. He threw a reassuring smile at her, but her gaze was now fixed on the road ahead of them.

‘I have a house at Balmoral. I’m taking you home with me,’ he answered, hoping she was not about to protest the move.

She didn’t.

She sat in motionless silence as he drove on over the bridge and took the turn to Military Road. Maybe she was having trouble putting thoughts together. Whatever…there were no stop signs coming from her and Jordan felt the buzz of anticipation shooting through his body again. He knew the desire was mutual. No doubt about it. It was only a matter of rekindling it, stoking the fire, making it a slow build-up of heat so the intensity didn’t burn them out too fast.

He wanted the whole experience of Ivy Thornton.

A wham-bam on the trunk of a car was almost an insult to the fascinating woman she was.

He’d make it better for her.

A lot better.

Ivy’s mind still felt as though it had been hit by a brick. Thoughts came slowly, as though emerging from a sea of molasses. She’d had sex with Jordan Powell. On the trunk of her car! He was driving her to his house at Balmoral. These were definite facts. She found it impossible to decide how she should be reacting to them.

Sex had never been like that for her…so compellingly reckless, so explosive, so erotically euphoric. Whether it was the man he was, the unusual set of circumstances, the long lack of any physical excitement in her life…Ivy couldn’t quite put it together. He was a tempting devil and she had been tempted into going along with him, at the gallery, to the restaurant, and now to his home.

Why not?

Luck had blessed her in what could have been disastrous carelessness. She was in a safe week—no chance of falling pregnant. And it was too late to worry about sexual-health issues. Hopefully Jordan Powell was too fastidious a man to run those risks. Though he had done so tonight. Probably part of his shock at his behaviour.

Anyhow, she was problem-free and she hoped he was, too, because it was done now. She’d gone past the point of no return and finishing the night with him had a lot of appeal. How good a lover was he in bed? Could he give her an even more amazing experience? She’d never been inside a billionaire’s house. It would be interesting to see how Jordan Powell lived, the paintings he had talked about, whether his bedroom had playboy stamped on all its furnishings.

Her car would be parked outside. She could leave whenever she chose to. This was an experience that was unlikely to ever come her way again and she wanted it. Yes, she did. Of course, it had to be limited. One night would satisfy her curiosity. She could allow herself that much. Any further involvement with Jordan would definitely not be sensible. Tomorrow she could leave with a smile on her face…knowing all she wanted to know.

Decision made.

Her mind moved on to working out how she should handle this new situation. It was hard to be cool and objective in these circumstances, having just shared such incredible intimacy with the man. Her nervous system was still buzzing. It seemed best simply to follow his lead. Unless his lead struck wrong chords, which wasn’t likely with his well-practised charm. He’d done this with umpteen women. Though on the trunk of a car might have been a first, given his comment of disbelief. It was certainly a first for her.

All her inner muscles contracted with the memory of such intense pleasure. If Jordan could give it to her again…was she wicked to be wanting it? So what if she was! Did it matter just for once? Heather would undoubtedly say go for it. It wasn’t as if she’d be hurting anyone. She was free to do as she liked.

Her gaze dropped to the hand still firmly linked to hers—a hand that knew how to touch, how to arouse overwhelming sensations, a tempting hand, a winning hand. But she was winning, too, wasn’t she, being the object of its expert attention? She might never get to feel like this with any other man.

His fingers caressed her palm, making her skin tingle. ‘Are you okay with this, Ivy?’ he asked caringly, his deep rich voice washing over her thoughts.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, wincing at sounding like a prim schoolgirl. The plain truth was she was not a player, not like him, and she didn’t have any experience of acting like one. ‘You can show me your paintings,’ she quickly added, flashing him a smile to show she could be sophisticated about spending the night with him.

He laughed and squeezed her hand again. ‘Your plea-sure will be my pleasure.’

Which surely meant she should have a marvellous time with him. Just relax and let it happen, Ivy told herself.

He drove into a large paved courtyard fronting a very large white house with a double garage on the left and another double garage below an extended wing on the right. ‘You have four cars?’ Ivy asked as he parked hers adjacent to the very elegant portico framing the double front doors.

‘Three,’ he answered. ‘The fourth space is taken up by Margaret’s.’

‘Who is Margaret?’

‘My housekeeper. She lives in the apartment above the garage on the right, and Ray, my handyman and chauffeur, lives in the apartment above the garage on the left.’

Naturally he would need people to maintain such a luxurious property, as well as cater to his needs. ‘How long have you had this place?’ she asked, wondering if he really considered it his home or whether it was simply one of a string of residences.

‘About five years. I like it here.’ He flashed her a smile before alighting from the driver’s side. ‘I hope you’ll like it, too.’

It didn’t matter if she liked it or not, Ivy told herself, watching him round the bonnet to the passenger side, his mouth still curved in pleasure at having achieved his aim with her. She had her own aim, which was simply to satisfy her curiosity. And then leave. It would be really stupid to be seduced into staying more than one night with him, by what he had in his house or anything else. But when he opened her door and she stood up beside him she found her body still shaken to the core by his physical impact on her. It took gritty determination to keep her wits.

‘My car keys,’ she said, holding out her hand.

He gave them to her as he closed the door. She locked the car with the remote-control button and put the keys in her handbag. ‘Lead on,’ she invited, trying to adopt a nonchalant air, desperately hoping her jelly-like legs would firm up enough to allow her to walk with dignity in the perilous high-fashion shoes.

They didn’t. She took one wobbly try and sat down on the steps leading up to the portico. ‘I’m taking off these killer shoes right now,’ she declared, bending over to unbuckle the straps.

‘Let me help.’

In an instant he was crouching down in front of her, his strong fingers brushing her fumbling ones aside. He propped her foot on his bent knee for easier access and Ivy leaned back and let him do the job—much easier than doing it herself. And she let herself enjoy the way he caressed her ankles and massaged her toes when he’d freed them from all constriction.

‘Better?’ he asked, the blue eyes twinkling satisfaction in his handiwork.

‘Yes. Thank you. Sorry about discarding the model image, but barefoot is more me,’ she said flippantly, not wanting him to know she was craving a lot more of his touch.

‘I’m happy for you to be comfortable with me,’ he purred, kicking her heart into pounding at the thought of how comfortable they might get together.

She picked up her shoes, placed her feet firmly on the wide stone step and stood up. Which brought her virtually face to face with him because he stood on a lower step. Their eyes met. Raw desire in his. Ivy had no idea what he saw in hers, probably the naked truth of what she was feeling because she’d had no time to disguise it.

Instinctively she scooped in a quick breath. Then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t help kissing him back. Her arms flung themselves around his neck, shoes and bag dangling from her hands. His arms crushed her into a fiercely possessive embrace. Excitement surged. She felt his erection furrowing her stomach, felt the moist rush of her own wild anticipation to experience him again. Her lower body automatically squirmed against his.

One hard muscular thigh pushed past hers, stepping up. He started arching her back, stopped, wrenched his mouth from hers. ‘Must be out of my mind!’ he muttered, shaking his head as though to clear it. His eyes blazed fierce determination. ‘Come on, Ivy. We’re going to do this in bed. In comfort!’

She’d completely lost it! Twice in one night! Passion-crazed!

Without his arm around her in support, she doubted her legs would have carried her to the front door. He swept her into the house with him. She didn’t have the presence of mind to notice any decor details of the foyer. She saw nothing but the staircase in front of them. When they reached it her foot didn’t lift high enough at the first step and she stumbled. He caught her before she fell, hoisted her up against his heaving chest and charged up the flight of stairs so fast he had to be taking them two at a time. It was like being rocked in a speeding train.

Ivy didn’t notice anything else.

They landed on a bed.

‘And we’re not going to do this in the dark!’ Jordan said, still in that tone of fierce determination. He reached across her and switched on a bedside light, but all she saw was his face hovering above hers, the strong masculine lines of it, the incredibly sensual mouth, the vivid blue eyes burning with wicked purpose, the black hair she had mussed with her fingers, the spiky look giving him a devilish aura.

I’m a fallen woman, she thought dizzily, but couldn’t bring herself to care, only too acutely aware that her body was willing her to fall all the way with Jordan Powell tonight.

‘Let’s get rid of these clothes,’ he said, taking her shoes and handbag and tossing them on the floor, then straddling her thighs as he worked on removing her sequinned jacket, cami, bra, half-lifting her up from the pillow, laying her back down.

It was easy to be passive, let him do it, silently revelling in the glide of his hands on her naked skin. She didn’t want to talk, only to feel. The bed linens were not linen. They were satin. Black satin. As befitted a playboy, she thought, but enjoyed the decadent sensuality of it for this time out of time.

He moved aside to strip off her skirt and panties—quick, deft actions—then paused to softly rake his fingers through her pubic hair, staring down at it as though fascinated, making Ivy wonder if the women he was usually with all had Brazilian waxes. She’d never had it done, only a bikini wax, and that only for indoor swimming. The sun was her enemy.

If her natural state turned him off…

‘Amazing,’ he murmured, and bent over to brush his mouth over the tight red-gold curls.

Definitely not a turn-off.

And the hot kisses he planted there were a nerve-jumping turn-on for Ivy. His tongue slid into the crevice between her thighs and teased her clitoris with mind-blowing delicacy—a tantalising tasting that generated an exquisite level of pleasure. It was all she could do to hold still. She wanted to focus on it, remember it forever. She forgot to breathe. Her whole being was concentrated on what he was doing to her. When he lifted his head, the trapped air in her lungs gushed out in a long, tremulous sigh.

‘Don’t move!’ he commanded, placing a staying hand on her stomach. ‘I want to feast my eyes on you while I undress.’

Feast…

He’d made her desperately hungry for him.

‘You look incredible!’ he said, his eyes glittering with awed excitement as they roved over her. ‘Your skin…the pale creamy sheen of it…like the sheen of perfect pearls. And the red-gold blaze of your hair…what a brilliant contrast! The black pillow underneath it makes it even more vivid. You’re a living work of art, Ivy. More fantastic than anything I’ve seen in a gallery.’

His admiration completely wiped out any build-up of angst about being viewed naked. Not that she had been fretting over it. They’d gone too far too fast for it to be a factor. And her attention was now totally fixed on him, watching the emergence of his naked physique as he stripped off his clothes.

He truly was a magnificent male—his body in perfect proportion to his height, muscular enough to be beautifully masculine without looking like a gym junkie obsessed with weight-lifting. The darker tone of his olive skin gleamed with good health. The sprinkle of black hair across his chest arrowed down in a narrow line, provocatively pointing to the impressive evidence of his sexual arousal.

He certainly didn’t disappoint on the physical front. Ivy’s inner muscles quivered at the sight of him. Her hands itched to touch, her breasts yearned to feel his weight on her, her arms and legs buzzed in anticipation of curling around him, holding all that male power, feeling it. She had never known such compelling, urgent lust for a man.

But when he came to her, he caught her reaching hands and held them above her head. He lay beside her with one strong thigh slung across both of hers, locking them down. ‘I want to taste all of you, Ivy,’ he said, his hotly simmering gaze dropping to her breasts.

Her breath caught in her throat as he dipped his head and circled one aureole with his tongue, causing her nipple to harden further into a taut bullet. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the wild flow of sensations as he licked and sucked. He was so good at it, soft and slow, flicking, lashing, drawing her flesh into his mouth at just the right strength. It was so blissful, her back instinctively arched, inviting him to do more, take more.

She slithered her hands out of his grasp, wanting, needing to touch him, to stroke his hair, to glide her fingers over his back, to press him closer, imprint all of him on her memory. She felt his flesh flinch under her caresses and smiled, knowing he found it erotic, glad she excited him as much as he excited her.

‘Can’t wait,’ he muttered, jerking up to change position, swiftly inserting his leg between hers.

At last, she thought exultantly, moving just as swiftly to accommodate him, to give him achingly ready access for the intimacy she craved. A wave of ecstatic satisfaction swept through her as he thrust inward, filling the yearning core of her need. She fiercely embraced him, her legs goading him into a hectic rhythm, harder, faster, deeper, revelling in the explosive action, feeling it drive her closer and closer to the exquisite splintering chaos of intense pleasure he had given her earlier tonight.

He took her there again.

With even more shattering intensity.

Ivy heard herself cry out at the incredible peak of tension before it broke, flooding her with a tsunami of sweet sensation. Some loud unintelligible sound broke from his throat, too, and he collapsed on top of her, breathing hard. She hugged him tightly, wallowing in the possessiveness of the moment, loving him for the gift of this marvellous experience.

He rolled onto his side, carrying her with him, hugging her just as tightly. Her head was tucked under his chin. He kissed her hair, rubbing his mouth over it as though he had to taste that, too. Ivy felt drained of all energy, yet beautifully replete. A perfect feast, she thought contentedly. It had been right to give in to temptation. She would never forget this as long as she lived.

He started stroking her back, lovely, long, skin-tingling caresses. She sighed with pleasure. He knew exactly how to touch a woman. She wished she could always have a lover like him. It was a pity a relationship with him wouldn’t last, but Ivy was not about to fool herself on that score. She was a temporary episode in the life of Jordan Powell, and it was best for her to cut it short and not get too attached to him.

One night.

That was what she had decided.

It was a very sensible decision—one she would definitely keep.

‘This time we are going to do it nice and slow, Ivy,’ he said in a tone of determined purpose.

She smiled, wondering if it annoyed him that he hadn’t managed to completely control the pace. She stirred herself enough to say, ‘I liked it fine the way it was, but carry on as you like.’

If he wanted to do more, she was not about to object.

The night was still young.

She was happy to pack as much into it as he was capable of giving her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IVY’S BODY-CLOCK WOKE her at six. It was her usual rising time at the farm. Still feeling tired from the night’s unusual activities, she could have easily gone back to sleep, but looking at the man lying beside her—the absolutely yummy and extremely seductive man—she decided this was the time to leave, before he woke up and used his very persuasive powers on her to stay with him for the weekend.

Which would be terribly tempting.

However, she was half in love with him already. What woman wouldn’t be after the night they had just spent together? Any longer with him would be getting in too deep and being dumped when he’d had his fill of her could hurt a lot. Better for her to do the dumping right now.

Her curiosity about him had certainly been satisfied. She hadn’t seen much of the house he lived in but that was relatively unimportant. Her gaze roved quickly around the bedroom as she eased herself off the bed. Everything was black and white, like the en suite bathroom she had visited during the night.

There were two paintings on the walls she hadn’t noticed before—both of them from Sydney Nolan’s Ned Kelly series. It seemed a strange choice to have the legendary Australian bushranger on display in his bedroom. Ivy had imagined there’d be something more erotic—nude scenes or whatever—but the black frames and the famous black armour Ned Kelly had worn did suit the decor.

The thick white carpet muffled any sound her footsteps might have made on her way to the bathroom. Very quietly she closed the door and had a quick wash. A black silk wrap-around robe hung from a hook near the shower. She borrowed it to wear down to the car—easier than redressing in the sequinned stuff, which she could put in the trunk where her normal clothes for driving were stowed. A quick change into them and she would be on her way.

Jordan was still sound asleep as she swept up her high-fashion gear and underclothes from the floor. Having crept out of the bedroom and closed the door on the scene of her surrender to temptation, she found herself on an inside balcony overlooking the foyer. It was easy to spot the staircase. She was bolting down it when a woman emerged from a room to the left of the foyer—smallish, grey-haired, wearing a white uniform.

They both halted in surprise at seeing each other.

The woman looked Ivy up and down, the expression on her face clearly saying, Here’s a new one.

It had to be the housekeeper, Ivy thought, trying to fight a hot tide of embarrassment.

‘Good morning,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Margaret Partridge, Jordan’s cook and housekeeper. You can call me Margaret. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

‘Hello,’ Ivy blurted out, grateful for the matter-of-fact tone of the other woman’s greeting though her heart was still thumping madly over being discovered in the act of doing a runner. ‘I’m Ivy…Ivy Thornton. I…uh…need to get some day clothes out of my car.’

‘I’ll unlock the front door for you,’ Margaret said obligingly, moving to do so. ‘I was just on my way to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of coffee? Jordan rarely rises before nine on a Saturday morning so there’s no need to hurry over anything.’

‘Thank you, but I won’t wait. I have to get home,’ Ivy explained in a rush, quickly resuming her descent to the foyer.

Margaret’s eyebrows lifted quizzically. It was probably something else new to have one of Jordan Powell’s women leave his bed before he did. Ivy was super-conscious of the housekeeper’s firsthand knowledge of her employer’s affairs. The flush she hadn’t been able to stop was burning fiercely on her cheeks as she walked briskly to the opened front door.

‘I’m happy to cook you breakfast before you set off,’ Margaret offered, obviously curious about her.

‘That’s very kind.’ Ivy managed a polite smile. ‘But it’s only an hour’s drive. I’ll eat at home.’

‘You should have coffee before you go. It will perk you up for the drive. I’ll make it while you dress and have it ready for you in the kitchen.’

The uncritical manner of the housekeeper did ease some of Ivy’s embarrassment. Nevertheless, while there might be no danger of Jordan waking up any time soon, the situation was too uncomfortable for her to delay her departure any longer than she had to.

‘You probably don’t know where the kitchen is,’ Margaret ran on. ‘Last door on your right at the back of the foyer leads into the breakfast room. You walk through it to the kitchen. And there’s a powder room under the staircase where you can change if you don’t want to go back upstairs.’

‘Right! Thank you,’ Ivy said firmly, not committing herself to anything though she welcomed the information about the powder room. The handyman/chauffeur might be roaming around outside the house.

‘There’s no need to hurry,’ Margaret repeated, apparently sensing Ivy’s urge to bolt and wanting to reassure her that time wasn’t a problem.

Which might be true, but Ivy still didn’t want to risk having a clean escape foiled.

The housekeeper left the front door open for her. Ivy made a quick trip to her car, unlocked the trunk, dumped the clothes she was carrying, grabbed the blue jeans, white top and flat navy sandals, and was back inside the house with the door closed within a few minutes. The powder room was smaller than Jordan’s en suite bathroom but just as classy in grey and white and silver. Having dressed in her casual clothes and plaited the messy cloud of her hair, she looked for a hook to hang the black robe on. There wasn’t one. After dithering for several moments, she folded it up neatly and placed it on the vanity bench.

The seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit her as she stepped out of the powder room. Again she dithered, aware it would be very rude to the helpful housekeeper to simply walk out without acknowledging her efforts to please. It was also very ill-mannered not to thank Jordan for the pleasure he had given her last night. Being dumped without a word was really quite nasty.

Deciding to risk staying a couple of more minutes, she followed Margaret’s directions to the breakfast room, which had such a fantastic view it momentarily stopped her. Beyond a wall of glass, a tiled patio surrounded a glorious blue swimming pool. Past that was the harbour, sparkling in the early-morning sunshine and already busy with water traffic.

Her gaze quickly swivelled around to take in the whole room. White tiles on the floor were largely covered by a beautiful thick rug in shades of blue and aqua. On this stood a glass-topped table surrounded by white leather chairs. Two Pro Hart paintings dominated the back wall—bushland scenes with vivid blue skies. This was how a billionaire enjoyed breakfast, she thought, pushing herself on to the kitchen.

It, also, was predominantly white and with the same view as the breakfast room. A quick glance around from the doorway revealed an extremely professional set-up with top-of-the-range appliances which would have seduced a master chef—a dream working area for any cook.

The housekeeper was pouring freshly brewed coffee into a mug. She smiled a welcome at Ivy and waved her to the stools on one side of an island bench. ‘Milk? Cream? Sugar?’ she inquired.

‘Please excuse me. I can’t stay. I must get home,’ Ivy said firmly. ‘I’ve left Jordan’s robe in the powder room. I hope you won’t mind returning it for me.’

‘Is there some emergency?’ Margaret cut in with a frown of concern.

‘I just have to go,’ Ivy replied, not wanting to be drawn into conversation. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d tell Jordan from me…thank you for the lovely night.’

Margaret nodded slowly. ‘All right. I’ll pass that on.’

Ivy flashed a smile of relief. ‘Thanks again for everything. Bye now.’

A quick wave of her hand and she was on her way out of Jordan Powell’s life, satisfied she had left with some grace.

Jordan was conscious of a sweet sense of well-being as he drifted up from sleep. Memory clicked in. Ivy. He opened his eyes, his mouth already curving into a smile. It was a jolt to find her gone from his bed, a further jolt to see her clothes were no longer on the floor. He darted a glance at the clock—8:27 a.m.

Maybe she was an early riser. People who worked on farms usually were. Margaret was always up early, too. Possibly she was giving Ivy breakfast. Feeling an urgent need to check, Jordan hurtled off the bed and strode to the bathroom.

His black robe was not on its peg.

It brought the smile back to his face.

Ivy would look very fetching in it with her glorious hair.

Feeling more confident of her presence in his home, Jordan had a quick shower, shaved, grabbed another black robe from his dressing room and went downstairs with a bounce of happy anticipation in his step. He actually grinned as he wondered what Margaret thought of Ivy—very different to his usual run of dates, and both women were quite direct in saying what was on their minds, nothing evasive or deceptive about either of them.

No one in the breakfast room.

Jordan frowned as he strode through it, not hearing any conversation coming from the kitchen and the door to it was open. He found Margaret sitting at the island bench—alone—sipping a mug of coffee.

‘Where’s Ivy?’ he snapped.

Margaret viewed him with sharp interest as she delivered her answer. ‘Gone. And you needn’t speak to me in that tone of voice, Jordan. I did try to keep her here. Offered her breakfast. Pressed her to have a cup of coffee, but she wouldn’t have it. Nothing was going to make her stay. She was determined to leave.’

‘Did she tell you why?’ he shot at her, his mind too fraught with disappointment to monitor his voice tone.

‘No. But she did ask me to thank you for the lovely night. I must say she had beautiful manners, unlike some of the other women you’ve dated.’

Jordan burned with frustration. Never had a woman left him before he wanted her to, and for it to be Ivy…no, he could not, would not respect her decision to reject what they could have together. She had been with him all the way last night, and lovely fell far short of what had happened between them.

A hard, cynical thought flashed into his mind. Was this some deliberate move to test how keen he was to have her in his life? A clever power game? Being the only one who didn’t throw herself at him had worked to hold his interest last night. Running off might be the goad for him to give chase.

A billionaire would be a great catch for a farm girl.

Except the billionaire had no intention of being caught.

But he did want more of Ivy Thornton. A lot more. And he could not believe she didn’t want more of him. So he would give chase, ensuring their connection would only end when he wanted it to end.

‘Did she tell you where she was going?’

‘Home.’

He grimaced with impatience at the short reply. ‘Can you be more specific, Margaret? I know Ivy works on a farm, but I don’t know its location.’

‘An hour’s drive from here, she said.’

He threw up his hands. ‘Too vague!’

‘Sorry. I can’t help on that point. If you want my opinion, I think she was deeply embarrassed at being found in your home and couldn’t get out fast enough. Very different to others I might mention who were positively smug about being here with you. And since she didn’t give you any contact details, it doesn’t look like she wants you to pursue her.’

He frowned. Maybe this wasn’t a calculated move. Margaret was very good at reading character. Possibly Ivy was shocked at herself. He’d taken advantage of her shock last night, sweeping her along with him. But she’d been fine in his bed. Fantastic in his bed! However, if she wasn’t used to having sex with a man on a first date…was she ashamed of herself for crossing some moral standard?

Which might mean…oh, hell! If she was a good girl, not on any contraceptive pill…he’d totally ignored that issue last night, deciding to deal with it later. If taking that risk had hit her this morning…if there was a very real possibility she had fallen pregnant…she might have been overwhelmed by a sense of panic.

‘I have to find her, Margaret.’ He started tramping around the kitchen, raking his hair in agitation. ‘I have to!’ It wasn’t just the pregnancy question, he couldn’t tolerate the idea of never seeing Ivy again, never having her again.

‘Not that it’s any of my business,’ Margaret said with an air of making it hers this once. ‘But it’s my observation that you’re not into having serious relationships with women, Jordan, and Ivy Thornton didn’t strike me as a sophisticated playgirl. It might be a kindness to respect her decision and let her go. Simply write her off as the one that got away.’

‘No! No!’ The emphatic negatives exploded off his tongue. He glared at Margaret, who looked stunned by the explosiveness of his reaction. ‘I can’t!’ he added decisively, not wanting to explain why. ‘I have to find her,’ he repeated in teeth-gritting determination.

‘And then what?’ Margaret asked, critical brown eyes putting him on the spot, holding judgement on his motives.

Ruthless purpose swept straight past the uncertainties in his mind. ‘Then she can tell me to my face that she doesn’t want anything more to do with me.’

Ivy wouldn’t be able to do it, not with any honesty.

‘Fair enough,’ Margaret conceded. ‘What would you like for breakfast this morning?’

She slid off her stool, ready to get down to business.

Jordan was infuriated by her matter-of-fact dismissal of his intense frustration with the situation. And breakfast was the last thing he wanted to consider right now. He shook a finger at her and fiercely declared, ‘Ivy Thornton is not going to be the one who got away!’

Margaret stopped and stared at him as though he’d suddenly metamorphosed into a stranger. ‘Sorry if I spoke out of turn,’ she said with uncharacteristic meekness. ‘It was just…I liked her, Jordan. And I wouldn’t like it if you hunted her down and hurt her.’

‘I have no intention of hurting her.’

Margaret pressed her lips together, buttoning up against offending him with any further comment, but her eyes definitely challenged him to keep that stated intention. He would be the lesser man in her estimation if he didn’t.

Ivy had clearly made a more strongly positive impression on her than any of the other women he’d brought here.

‘I like her, too, Margaret,’ he said more quietly. ‘Very much.’

She nodded, still tight-lipped.

He sighed.

Battle lines were drawn.

He now had to win over Ivy—and make her happy to be with him—in order to win over Margaret or he’d be getting burnt breakfasts. Possibly even worse! She might walk out on him, too!

A burst of adrenaline raised his fighting instincts.

Jordan was not a man to back down from a challenge.

One way or another, he’d have what he wanted!

CHAPTER EIGHT

IVY kept telling herself she’d been absolutely right to get out of Jordan Powell’s life, but her body was still fired up by the memory of him, and it was quite impossible to get him out of her head. Being home on the farm didn’t really help. She couldn’t stop imagining how it might have been if she’d spent the weekend with him in his beautiful Balmoral home.

It was a hot morning and shaping up to be an even hotter day. A quick dip in his gorgeous swimming pool would have been lovely, not to mention…

The ringing of the telephone was a welcome distraction. She dived on the receiver, hoping the caller would ground her in real life again. No such luck! It was her mother, who instantly recalled everything about last night.

‘Ivy, I’ve just had Jordan Powell on the line.’

Her heart kicked into overdrive. ‘What did he want?’ she asked, her voice uncharacteristically shrill. With fear or excitement?

‘Well, I thought it was rather odd. You did go out with him last night and you looked as though you were enjoying his company, but since you obviously didn’t give him your address…was that an oversight, dear, or don’t you want to see him again?’

A bomb of anxiety exploded in her mind. ‘Did you tell him where I lived?’

‘No. He was very charming. Always is. But I thought I’d better check with you first.’

Relief poured through Ivy. She didn’t have to face Jordan again, didn’t have to battle against her attraction to him. Her decision to leave had definitely been right and it was much easier to hold on to it from a distance. This call proved how shaky her resolution could be, given his immediate presence.

‘I’m glad you did,’ she said in a calmer tone. ‘He’s not for me. Good for a night out, but I’d rather leave it there.’

‘Are you sure, dear?’

‘I’m sure. Thank you for protecting my privacy. I really appreciate it. And congratulations on the show. Lots of sales last night.’

‘Yes. Very gratifying. And it was lovely to see you looking so stunning, Ivy. Living right up to your full potential. I felt so proud of you.’

It was a nice feeling to have pleased her mother. Ivy relaxed enough to smile as she remarked, ‘Well, I didn’t want to let you down again and it felt really good when Henry’s jaw dropped at seeing me. He’s such a snob!’

‘But he’s very adept at wooing the right crowd at his gallery, dear, bringing in people with the money to buy. It’s a pity I have to disappoint a good client like Jordan Powell…’ She sighed. ‘Are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t like to see him again, Ivy?’

‘Yes, I am. I don’t fit into his kind of life and he wouldn’t fit into mine. End of story,’ she said emphatically, ignoring the flutters in her stomach and forcefully remembering the way Jordan’s housekeeper had checked her over—the latest candidate for her employer’s bed.

‘Well, in that case, my lips are sealed. Such a shame!’ Sacha muttered and disconnected.

By Monday morning Ivy was more settled into the idea that her night with Jordan was a one-off experience which she could look back on with pleasure and no regrets. Heather, of course, wanted to know everything, the moment she swept into the office.

‘Did he zero in on you?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Ivy answered, and even managed to smile at her friend’s whoop of triumphant excitement.

‘Tell me all!’ Heather demanded.

Ivy confessed that she had succumbed to the temptation of enjoying Jordan’s company at the gallery and described the follow-up dinner date in great detail, much to Heather’s salacious enjoyment.

‘And then? Did you go and look at his paintings?’

‘Some of them,’ Ivy teased. No way was she going to confide what actually led to the trip to Balmoral! Some things were too intensely private.

‘If you came straight home after that, I’ll kill you!’ Heather ranted. ‘I want to know if he’s a fantastic lover.’

Ivy laughed, needing to keep the whole episode light and unimportant. ‘He is. I’d have to say he’s very, very good at sex. I’m glad I stayed the night.’

‘Only the one night?’

‘That was enough, Heather. You know he’s a playboy. I left while he was still asleep and ran into his housekeeper on my way out. If you’d seen the way she looked at me…’

‘Another notch on his bedpost?’ Heather interpreted with a sympathetic grimace.

‘It didn’t feel good. I was glad I skipped out when I did.’

‘Fair enough!’ Heather grinned. ‘Marvellous that he was great in bed, though. I think you needed to be taken down from the shelf and dusted off. Hopefully it will get you more interested in looking for some real action in your life.’

‘I shall hope for it,’ Ivy replied, grateful that Heather had already relegated the experience with Jordan Powell to the realm of fantasy. Where it belonged. ‘Now let’s get down to work.’

Occasionally, throughout the day, Heather questioned her further, but it was mainly curiosity about the Balmoral house, what Ivy had seen of it, nothing really personal. Orders for roses came in. The courier was loaded up and sent to the designated addresses. By late afternoon, Ivy was satisfied that her brief encounter with Jordan Powell had been dealt with and would quickly slip into the past. A memory. Nothing more.

Until he struck again!

‘Uh-oh!’ Heather muttered and swung her computer chair around to face Ivy, rolling her eyes for dramatic effect. ‘You’re not going to like this!’

‘What?’

‘Jordan Powell is ordering roses and double chocolate fudge to go to your mother.’

‘My mother!’

‘With a message attached. For you, Ivy.’

For one gut-twisting moment, she thought he knew the rose farm was hers.

‘It says…“Please tell Ivy…”’

No, he was still trying to get to her through her mother!

The relief was so intense she didn’t hear what the message was.

‘Say that again, Heather?’

‘“Please tell Ivy I need to talk to her. I’ll be at the Bacio Coffee Shop under the clock in the Queen Victoria building between noon and two o’clock on Saturday and Sunday. I’ll wait until she comes.”’

He wanted a face-to-face meeting, counting on his charm to win her over to what he wanted. She wasn’t going to risk it. No way! She might fall victim to it again.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Heather asked.

‘Put the order through. It’s business as usual. I’ll speak to my mother about it.’

‘Okay.’

But it wasn’t okay. The same order came through on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday, constantly reminding Ivy of the man.

‘Maybe you should go and talk to him,’ Heather said as she was leaving on Friday.

‘No!’ Ivy answered firmly.

But her weekend was totally wrecked, thinking about him waiting for her, wondering if he had something to say she would actually want to hear. Which was ridiculous, given his track record with women.

He didn’t give up.

The order was repeated on Monday and every day of the next week. Her mother complained she was drowning in roses and putting on weight with all the double chocolate fudge.

‘You don’t have to eat it,’ Ivy cried in sheer frustration with Jordan’s determined campaign. ‘Give it away. Give the roses away.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t go and talk to him,’ her mother argued. ‘It’s not as if he’s asking you to come into his parlour, Ivy. It’s a public place. You can walk away any time you like.’

‘I don’t want to see him. Full stop.’

However, her refusal to meet Jordan did not stop him.

Her mother was inundated with roses and fudge for the third week running. Even Heather, with all her Rose Valentino knowledge, started doubting Ivy’s decision.

‘You must have made a big impact on him, Ivy. To be this persistent…and waiting two hours at a coffee shop for you to turn up…’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t think a dilettante would do that.’ Her eyes gathered a look of fantastic possibilities as she added, ‘What if it’s a serious attraction? Maybe you should give it a chance. You did say he was a great lover.’

‘How could it work between us? I’m here. He’s there,’ Ivy pointed out with considerable vehemence, needing to hang on to common sense.

‘Distance wouldn’t be a problem for a billionaire. He probably owns a helicopter.’

‘I bet it’s no more than an ego thing and I’m not giving in to it,’ Ivy declared with fierce determination.

Heather said no more, keeping her thoughts to herself, but Ivy could see the glint of pro-Jordan speculation in her eyes as the orders continued through the fourth week. Which was downright persecution!

Heather no longer supported her stance.

Her mother was ranting and raving.

On the fourth Saturday morning after Ivy had walked out of Jordan Powell’s life, she decided she had to meet him and give him a piece of her mind—an angry, outraged, totally damning piece which would rock him back on his billionaire-playboy socks and make him leave her alone!

She braided her hair back into one thick plait, minimising its impact. Blue jeans, a royal-blue T-shirt and navy sandals helped give her a fairly nondescript appearance. Without any make-up she was satisfied that Jordan would not find her particularly attractive today. It had to be impressed upon him that he was wasting his time with her.

She drove to Sydney and used the parking station under the Queen Victoria Building, which was expensive but handy for a quick getaway. The big clock inside the shopping mall was showing ten minutes past midday as she kept herself inconspicuous amongst the crowd of shoppers passing by the tables belonging to the Bacio Coffee Shop. They were set out in open view, most of them occupied by people wanting a lunch break.

Her heart kicked into a gallop when she spotted Jordan at one of them, a pen in hand, apparently working on a crossword in the newspaper spread out on his table. He wasn’t looking out for her, but he was there all right, all set up to wait patiently for her arrival. The relentless pressure for this meeting sent a bolt of panic through Ivy, quickening her pace as she walked straight past where he was sitting, too agitated by the sight of him to be in control of this encounter. Her righteous anger had just been swallowed up by a scary sense of vulnerability.

She stopped at a safe distance and turned to watch him surreptitiously. The back view of him was not so nerve-joltingly handsome, but it was impossible to set aside the fact she had gone to bed with this man, knew his body intimately, had run her fingers through his thick black hair, nestled her face contentedly into the curve of his neck and shoulder—sharp memories raising a terribly acute sexual awareness, both of him and herself. The moment she looked into his bedroom-blue eyes she would see them there, too, and how was she going to ignore or dismiss that once she sat down with him?

Ivy dithered, the need to stop Jordan from inserting himself into her life losing all its furious momentum in the power of his presence. She saw other women glancing at him from nearby tables, probably wishing they could catch his attention. Even though he seemed oblivious of their interest, he still had the charismatic magnetism to draw theirs. It kept tugging at her, too. Coming here had been a mistake—a big mistake.

He would stop sending the roses eventually.

She didn’t have to say or do anything.

Except tear her gaze away from him and go back home.

So go, she told herself, but before she could bring herself to act, Jordan’s head jerked up as though reacting to something. He rose swiftly to his feet, turned, shooting a questioning gaze around his vicinity. Ivy froze, couldn’t move a muscle, the certainty of no escape now seizing her mind, making another encounter with him inevitable.

He saw her. The smile that instantly spread across his face turned her insides to mush. It wasn’t a smile of triumph, more one of sparkling pleasure, inviting her to share it—share all the things that had pleasured them both. He lifted a hand in an open gesture of welcome, encouraging her to join him at his table.

Her heart started pumping again. Hard. She wondered if he would chase her if she turned and ran. But there was no dignity in that. Besides, she wasn’t sure her wobbly legs were capable of racing anywhere. Somehow she had to firm up her mind—as well as the rest of her body—and directly address the situation with Jordan Powell.

She concentrated on forcing her feet forward and putting a glowering expression of reproach on her face, smiting his treacherous smile as she made her way to his table. He held out a chair for her. She sat down. He quickly folded the newspaper and slipped it under his chair as he resumed his seat, the blue eyes more serious now, appealing for her patience.

‘It’s good to see you, Ivy,’ he rolled out in his deep, sexy voice.

‘I only came to stop you from pestering my mother,’ she declared, keeping her face tight with disapproval.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, speaking with quiet urgency. ‘I had to talk to you. The night we spent together…I didn’t use any protection and I didn’t ask if you were on the pill. I’ve been worried that you might have fallen pregnant.’

‘Oh!’ Her chest loosened up as her lungs expelled a gush of air in a sigh of relief. This was reasonable. It wasn’t a mad pursuit of her. In fact, it was really nice of him to care about serious consequences from their mutual recklessness. ‘It’s okay,’ she assured him. ‘That was a safe time for me. You don’t have to worry any more.’

‘A safe time?’ he queried, frowning as though he didn’t quite understand.

‘In my monthly cycle,’ she explained.

‘You don’t normally use any contraceptive device?’

He sounded incredulous, as though any woman in her right mind shouldn’t be protecting herself against accidents. Undoubtedly the women he mixed with did.

She leaned forward to make her position very plain, flushing with the violence of her feelings on his fly-by-night attitude. ‘I told you I wasn’t your type. I told you I wouldn’t fit into your scene. I don’t do sex on a casual basis and I haven’t been in a relationship for over two years so I have no reason to be always ready.’

‘Ah!’ A smile of satisfaction tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then I’m glad you found me as irresistible as I found you. Which is the second thing I want to talk to you about.’

Ivy rolled her eyes and sagged back in her chair, feeling under attack again. ‘Haven’t I made my point, Jordan?’ she cried in exasperation.

‘No. Because it’s based on assumptions about me which I don’t think are fair,’ he argued.

They weren’t assumptions. His orders to the rose farm provided hard evidence of how he conducted his sexual affairs. However, she couldn’t lay that out to him without revealing how she had such inside knowledge and she didn’t want to give him any more information about herself. ‘You’re a notorious playboy,’ she said accusingly, folding her arms in defensive belligerence.

He grimaced. ‘Because of what I am, who I am, a lot of women throw themselves at me, Ivy. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t find some of them attractive. Unlike you, they’re intent on making themselves attractive to me, but the effort wears thin after a while. Their real selves emerge.’ He shook his head as he ruefully added, ‘And it’s never what I want.’

‘What do you want?’ she asked, privately conceding what he said could be true. A handsome billionaire would be a target for most women.

The blue eyes burned into hers. ‘Honesty,’ he said, which he’d previously told her was the rarest commodity in his world.

Maybe it was. The more Ivy thought about it, the more she could see this could be a real downside in being obscenely wealthy…people cosying up to him for what they could get out of being close to big money. She didn’t need what he had. Being happy in her own world, she didn’t covet his kind of life at all. The only thing missing for her was…a loving husband, family, a shared future.

She couldn’t see Jordan Powell in that picture.

Though she certainly wouldn’t mind sharing her bed with him.

No denying that.

Her entire body was humming with tempting memories and sympathy for his situation with other women was sneaking into her heart, undermining her resistance to the strong attraction of the man.

‘Well, I want honesty, too, Jordan,’ she said, struggling to maintain a defensive line. ‘Why don’t you admit I was nothing more than an amusing challenge to you on the night of my mother’s exhibition? Someone different to play with. And you simply didn’t like it when I finished the game before you did.’

‘Not a game, Ivy.’ He shook his head over her choice of words. His mouth quirked ironically. ‘A game doesn’t spin out of control as that night did.’

The trunk of the car…the front steps of his house…her vaginal muscles contracted sharply at the pointed recollection of control being totally lost.

‘That has never happened to me before,’ he added quietly. ‘Which does make you different, Ivy. Not in an amusing sense. In a very unique sense. And you’ve just told me it was extraordinary for you, too. So I don’t think we should walk away from it. I think it’s something we should explore a lot further. Together. With honesty. No game-playing.’

There was no trace of glib charm in his voice, no seductive twinkle in the blue eyes boring into hers. He looked completely serious, sincere, emitting a force-ful energy that silently attacked and demolished any argument against what he was proposing.

Ivy suddenly found herself thinking of her parents. They’d led separate lives for as long as she could remember, but they’d never divorced and had always shared a bedroom when they’d spent weekends together. They’d each pursued their own interests, respecting the needs that drove them to take different paths while still maintaining an affectionate bond.

It wasn’t what she wanted for herself.

But what if there was nothing better?

Never would be anything better.

She stared at Jordan Powell and knew she wanted more of him. Whatever that meant…wherever it led…she did want to explore how much they could have together.

CHAPTER NINE

JORDAN concentrated fiercely on willing Ivy to agree. The idea that she had been playing a power game with him had been whittled away by the sheer length of time it had taken her to respond to his message. Her attitude today—everything about her—indicated that inspiring a chase had not been the intent behind absenting herself from his life. She was fighting the attraction between them with all her willpower.

Or was all this a clever act, designed to draw him more firmly into her female net?

She had turned up.

And was forcing him to argue for a chance with her.

Throw out the challenge…hook the man like he’d never been hooked before!

Her fascinating green eyes had savaged him, mocked him, transmitted hard unyielding judgement, but now they were strangely blank, focussed inward, giving no sign of what she was thinking.

He couldn’t deny his many affairs—most of them very short-lived. Ivy had plenty of reason to believe she would be no more than a brief addition to the long list. It could actually turn out that way. He wasn’t about to promise it wouldn’t. How could he know, at this stage, how long the attraction would last, whether familiarity would eventually breed contempt, as it so often had with other women?

All he knew was his gut was in knots, waiting for her reply. And that hadn’t happened before. None of it had…sensing her presence before he even saw her, the mule-kick to his heart when his instincts had proved correct, the intense flare of desire which owed nothing to her outward appearance which was obviously meant to express lack of interest in him.

He was hooked.

But that didn’t mean he was caught.

The instant zing between them told him she wasn’t immune to what they had shared. He had to tap into that again, make her want what he wanted. Regardless of what was going on in her mind, Jordan was determined on drawing her into his net. Even more so now that she was here with him.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee while you think about it?’ he asked, intent on forcing her into active communication.

The blank shield on her eyes snapped open to reveal deep wells of vulnerability—a host of fears swirling through wishful possibilities. ‘Yes,’ she said huskily, sucking in a quick breath to firm up her voice. ‘Cappucino, please.’

He signalled a waitress, ordered two coffees and a plate of toasted sandwiches to tempt Ivy into eating. There was nothing like sharing food to put people more at ease with their company, and it seemed—from the wildly swimming look in her eyes—that Ivy was wound up in an emotional dilemma about becoming more involved with him.

Unless she was a brilliant actress.

He was reminded of what Margaret had said…I wouldn’t like it if you hunted her down and hurt her.

He had hunted her, with good reason, Jordan told himself. Nevertheless, being hurt by him could be high on the list of fears in Ivy’s mind. A playboy…

To him it was a pragmatic lifestyle, given his circumstances. He was quite happy going along for a ride, hated the idea of being taken for one. He was beginning to think this was a different situation with Ivy, more a journey of discovery than the usual ride.

Her lashes had swept down, hiding her thoughts again. He leaned forward, pressing for her attention. ‘Ivy, you’re not a trophy woman to me.’

The green eyes flashed wildly amused sparks at him as she burst into a peal of laughter. ‘Anyone seeing us together today would think you had rocks in your head to consider me one, Jordan.’

He relaxed into a laugh himself. ‘Which proves my point. I want your company, regardless of trappings.’

‘Mmmh…’ She cocked her head consideringly. ‘I’d have to say I enjoyed your company, too. Though I’m not sure how well that would wear over time. I don’t think we have much in common.’

Oh, yes they did! Fantastic sex together. Unforgettably fantastic!

Maybe she read that thought in his eyes. A tide of heat whooshed up her neck and burned her cheeks. She wriggled in her chair, probably discomforted by an attack of hormones charged-up with the same memories he had. He had to shift a bit himself to accommodate his own charged up anatomy. If they weren’t in a public place…but the sex hadn’t kept her with him last time. He had to make more inroads into her psyche.

He tried a disarming smile. ‘I like it that you don’t see me as a trophy.’

That was a good, testing line.

She shot it down in flames, instantly firing derision at it. ‘Too tarnished by a lot of careless wear.’

‘I care about you,’ he shot back at her, throwing all cynical caution aside. ‘We have something special going between us. Too special to dismiss. I’ve never waited for a woman as I’ve waited for you. And don’t tell me you don’t feel it, too, because you do, Ivy. This is us and it’s not like anything in the past. Face it. Give it a chance. It might be the best thing either of us could ever have.’

A chance…

Yes.

Ivy’s whole body yearned to feel again the pleasure he could give her and the intensity he was transmitting made his arguments too persuasive for her to fight any further. It had been special. Unique for her as well as him. Of course there was no guarantee it would last but what guarantee could be attached to any relationship these days?

‘How do you see it working?’ she blurted out.

He leaned forward eagerly. ‘We could start with weekends. This weekend.’

Her heart instantly kicked into a gallop. She hadn’t come ready for this. ‘I didn’t bring anything with me. And I’m still not on the pill.’

‘You don’t need anything. I don’t want to share you with anyone. Not today or tomorrow. And I’ll take care of protection while you’re arranging your own.’

Panic seized her. This decision felt too rushed. ‘You forgot last time.’

‘I promise you, I won’t forget again.’

No, he wouldn’t, not after being worried about getting her pregnant. Having a child with her was not on his agenda. It might never be. She had to think of this as a trial period and not get too…too…stuck on him. He’d been a playboy for so long, it was best if she didn’t let herself believe their affair might turn out any different to his previous relationships. All she was committing herself to was giving it a chance.

She eyed him with fierce intensity. ‘Don’t send me any roses. Ever!’

‘Sending them to your mother did bring us back together. It got the right result, Ivy,’ he reminded her seriously.

‘I don’t mean them!’ she said in emphatic dismissal. ‘I mean the roses you send as a matter of rote to all the women who have held your interest for a while.’

He frowned, puzzled by her knowledge of intimate details of his past affairs.

Ivy gritted her teeth and revealed the truth. ‘You order them from me, Jordan. It’s my rose farm you deal with over the Internet. From this moment on, I’m writing you off as a client. When it’s over with me and you find someone else, find yourself another rose source. Okay?’

He looked totally gobsmacked.

Ivy didn’t care. Involving herself with Jordan meant there was no way of continuing to hide her business and she simply couldn’t bear the idea of him resuming his Rose Valentino modus operandi with other women in the future. Not through her farm anyway.

The waitress arrived at their table with their coffees and the plate of toasted sandwiches. Ivy was too churned up to eat anything but she was grateful for the coffee. It was hot and sweet and strong and her shredded nerves needed soothing. She sipped it, covertly watching Jordan gradually recover from his shock and wondering how he would react to her revelation.

It was actually a good test of his feelings towards her. He wanted honesty. She’d just laid it out to him. He didn’t reach for a sandwich or his coffee. He sat completely still, eyes lowered, a pensive expression on his face, probably reflecting on how much business he’d done with her farm over the years.

‘I see,’ he finally murmured, an ironic tilt to his perfectly sculptured mouth. Twin blue laser beams targeted Ivy’s eyes. ‘I now understand how sceptical you must have been over my intentions and how reluctant you still are to get involved with me. But you’re here thinking about it, and I’m here fighting for a chance with you because we connected so strongly we’d always wonder what might have been if we didn’t pursue it. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it, Ivy? The honest truth.’

‘For me, yes,’ she answered, her own mouth quirking with irony as she added, ‘Where you’re concerned, it requires a leap of faith I’m not sure I can make.’

He nodded. ‘Make it. Take the risk. It’s worth a try.’ He flashed her a dazzling smile. ‘Remember how good it was. Think how good it can be again.’

She hoped it would be, because the decision was already made. The buzz of anticipation was in her blood and she was no longer physically capable of backing away from this man.

He made a flip-flop gesture, unsure of where she was at. ‘You can always end it if I let you down.’

She smiled, her eyes mocking the off-hand offer. ‘I don’t think you’re too good at accepting an end you don’t want, Jordan. My mother can testify to that.’

‘But I hadn’t let you down, Ivy,’ he reminded her. ‘You just assumed I would. Let’s be fair now.’

She laughed, giddy with the sense of taking an even more dangerous step with this man. ‘Okay. I promise I’ll be fair.’

One black eyebrow arched in appeal. ‘No harking back to my past?’

‘I’ll take you as I find you until you do let me down.’

‘Done!’ His hand smacked down on the table in triumphant satisfaction as he rose from his chair, emitting an electric energy that sent Ivy’s pulse zooming into overdrive. ‘Take me to wherever you’ve parked your car,’ he commanded, his eyes blazing with the desire to move her with him to a far less public place.

The car…images of wild sex bloomed in Ivy’s mind, flustering her into a hot flush. She waved at the plate of sandwiches in a rush of agitation. ‘What about this?’

‘Not what I’m hungry for. Are you?’

‘No.’ Impossible to eat anything with lustful thoughts running riot and there was no point in delaying what she’d decided to do. ‘You haven’t paid,’ she said, trying to sound in some control of herself as she pushed up from her chair.

He took out his wallet, removed a fifty-dollar note, anchored it on the table under the sugar bowl, then reached for her hand. She gave it to him, consciously feeling every sensation of his touch: the power of the fingers entwining hers, the tingling pleasure from the rub of his flesh, the seductive caress of his thumb. Why he, of all men, could evoke this acute sexual excitement in her, she didn’t know, but strangely enough it was a relief to simply surrender to it.

‘The elevator,’ she directed. ‘Level two of the basement car park.’

They walked together, moving like an arrow of purpose that could not be diverted. The crowd of shoppers milled around them, no one blocking their path even minimally. Ivy was barely aware of other people. The connection to the man beside her virtually obliterated everything else.

Worries wormed their way through her mind. Had she given in too easily? Was she a fool for giving in at all? Were there other things she could have said, should have said before letting him lead her back into his life? Was there any real possibility of a relationship with Jordan developing into something solid?

Yet…did any of that matter when he could make her feel like this?

They reached the elevator just as its doors opened. A family—mother, father, child in a pram—stepped out, an ordinary family, what Ivy had hoped to have herself. Nothing with Jordan was going to be ordinary. Was she totally mad to involve herself with him?

They moved into the elevator. No one followed them. Jordan pressed the button for L2. The doors closed. They were alone together in the small compartment. Jordan erupted into action, scooping her into his embrace, kissing her with a hunger that found an instant, overwhelming response. Weeks—a whole month of repression burst under a wild surge of need to taste him again, feel him again, have him stoke the excitement that made everything else irrelevant.

Their mouths meshed in feverish passion. Their hands seized, travelled, pressed, dragged, dug in, feeding the fierce desire to take possession. They were so immersed in each other, they didn’t notice the elevator coming to a halt, its doors sliding open.

‘Sorry to interrupt you guys, but…’

The voice brought them back to earth with a heart-thumping shock.

‘Right,’ Jordan muttered, and swept Ivy past the amused onlooker into the cavernous car park.

Her legs were wobbly. She tried to catch a breath, get her wits in order, orientate herself enough to find her car. ‘Where’s yours?’ she asked.

‘My what?’

He looked as distracted as she felt. ‘Your car.’

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t bring one. Had Ray drop me off.’

‘Who’s Ray?’

He stopped, sucked in a deep breath, obviously regathering himself as he turned to face her, lightly grasping her upper arms, the blue eyes boring into hers, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘Are you okay, Ivy? You’re not about to do another runner on me?’

‘No.’ Tearing herself away from him now was unthinkable. She wanted him too much. When or if he let her down…somehow she would deal with the fallout. Until then…she summoned up a shaky smile. ‘Though let’s not lose our heads again. At least, not here.’

His smile poured out relief and reassurance. ‘I can wait a bit longer. And to answer your question, Ray is my handyman and he’ll drive in to pick me up at two o’clock if not instructed otherwise. We can be home before he leaves if we go in your car.’

‘Okay.’ She opened her shoulder-bag to get out the keys. ‘It’s probably better if you drive. You’re more familiar with the route to Balmoral.’ Besides which, it was doubtful she could concentrate on the road.

He released her arms to take the keys, dryly commenting, ‘It will make it easier to keep my hands off you.’

She laughed, giddily light-hearted with the tense burden of decision lifted. A quick glance around located her car and she hooked her arm around his to haul him in the right direction. ‘This way. And we both need to exercise some care, Jordan.’

‘Don’t worry. I will take care of you, Ivy. In every sense there is.’

That was a big promise. Ivy wasn’t sure she believed it. But she was willing to take this journey with him. It was probably an Alice in Wonderland kind of adventure and one day she would wake up from it. She hoped she would be able to treasure the good, shake off the bad and remember it as a risk that had been worth taking.

CHAPTER TEN

AT the first red traffic light Jordan whipped out his mobile phone, making a quick call to his handyman who promptly answered.

‘No need to come, Ray. I’m heading home now in Ivy’s car. Would you please tell Margaret it will be dinner for two tonight. Maybe a late lunch, as well.’

‘Will do. And…uh…congratulations, boss.’

‘Thanks, Ray,’ Jordan said dryly, aware that his campaign to make contact with Ivy was well known to his household staff, with conflicting degrees of support. Ray had been rooting for him to win while Margaret reserved judgement on the outcome.

He closed the phone and slid it back into his shirt pocket, throwing a glance at Ivy to check all was well with her before turning his attention back to the bank-up of traffic waiting for the light to change. ‘Why are you frowning?’ he asked, wanting to wipe the tense expression from her face.

She heaved a sigh and shot him an anxious look. ‘Your housekeeper…I guess she’s seen a lot of women come and go in your life, Jordan. It’s just kind of embarrassing. I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks, but…’

‘Don’t worry.’ He grinned as he reached across and gave her hand a quick reassuring squeeze. ‘Margaret likes you. In fact, I have a strong suspicion I’ll be damned to perdition if I don’t treat you right.’

‘How could she like me?’ Ivy queried in amazement. ‘I only spoke to her for a few minutes. And that was when…well, it was obvious I’d spent the night with you.’

‘Oh, I got the blame for that…having my wicked way with a nice girl.’

‘How does she know I’m a nice girl?’

‘According to Margaret, you have beautiful manners. Believe me, as long as you treat her with respect, you’ll get the same respect back. Respect and honesty are Margaret’s prime standards. Cross those lines and you’re in her black books. An honest bit of sex between a man and a woman does not worry her one bit. Okay?’

Ivy relaxed, a happy relief in her smile. ‘Okay. She sounds like quite a character.’

‘She is. Hiring her was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.’

And Jordan had the strong feeling that pursuing Ivy had been one of his best decisions, too.

The car behind them honked—a warning that the light had turned green and the traffic was moving again. Satisfied that he’d removed any fretting from Ivy’s mind, Jordan drove on, revelling in the anticipation of having her to himself for the rest of the weekend, which gave him plenty of time to sort out any other concerns she might have about being involved with him.

It was highly vexing to find his sister’s silver Porsche parked in the driveway of his Balmoral home. Apart from the fact that he didn’t want any visitors taking his attention away from Ivy, Olivia was a self-centred snob whose manner could be very off-putting to anyone who wasn’t used to her. Besides, she wouldn’t be here unless she wanted him to fix something for her, which meant she’d want his undivided attention.

‘Damn!’ he muttered as he brought Ivy’s car to a halt behind the Porsche.

‘You have a visitor?’ Ivy enquired, a wary look on her face.

‘My sister, who only drops in on me when she has some problem to unload, so I won’t be able to get rid of her until I hear her out.’

‘If it’s a private problem, Jordan, she won’t want a stranger listening in.’

‘No, she won’t.’ He grimaced an apologetic appeal. ‘Would you mind very much chatting to Margaret while I deal with it? I’ll ask her to make you some lunch. Or you could browse through the newspaper. I’m sorry. This is an awkward start, not what I…’

‘It’s okay,’ she quickly assured him. ‘Family should come first, especially if there’s a problem.’

He heaved a sigh of frustration. ‘Olivia makes trouble for herself. My father spoiled her terribly…his little princess. Don’t be upset if she’s dismissive of you. It won’t be personal. She’ll just be so full of herself, no one else counts.’

The green eyes filled with wry self-mockery. ‘Well, I don’t count for anything in her life.’

‘You do in mine,’ he said emphatically, feeling the question mark over his involvement with her and hating it. He turned in his seat to reach out and cup her cheek, his eyes boring into hers with forceful intensity. ‘You do in mine, Ivy. Give me time and I’ll prove that to you.’

He kissed her, wanting their desire for each other to obliterate everything else, leave no room for doubts. Excitement surged through him at her fierce response. She didn’t want to doubt him. She wanted to lose herself in the same passion he felt. It was hell having to restrain himself to a kiss when he was so hungry for her. He mentally cursed his sister for being an obstacle to the rampant urge to sweep Ivy straight up to his bedroom. A month of waiting and still he had to wait.

‘Later,’ he promised, breathing the word against her lips as he forced himself to break the kiss. ‘You have to meet my sister now, Ivy.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered huskily.

He had to fight down his reluctance to separate himself from her, move away. It took an act of will to curb the rebellious needs of his body and alight from the car, taking the steps demanded by Olivia’s unwelcome presence in his home. Ivy swayed a little as he helped her from the passenger seat. He tucked her arm around his for the walk inside, governed by the strong instinct to support and protect his woman.

His…

Strange…he couldn’t remember feeling actually possessive of a woman before. Probably it was the long waiting that had made him uncertain of having Ivy again. And that was yet to happen. Olivia had better behave herself, he thought grimly. If she gave Ivy any cause to skip out on him…

‘There you are!’

The words were flung at him the moment he and Ivy entered the foyer—Olivia emerging from the lounge, a highball glass in hand, obviously in a state of intoxication, her usual perfect grooming having taken a slide today: eye make-up smudged, her shoulder-length hair dishevelled, silk blouse crumpled, linen trousers badly creased.

She had the same blue eyes and black hair he did. Tall and voluptuously curved, she could and usually did make a striking impact on people, but she was not about to make a good impression on Ivy at this meeting. He closed the front door behind him, eyeing his sister with stern displeasure. Getting drunk didn’t fix anything, and driving a car while over the alcohol limit was downright irresponsible, let alone illegal. Not acknowledging Ivy’s presence and addressing him as though he’d put her out by his absence was more than he could tolerate.

‘Why are you here, Olivia?’ he threw back at her.

She ignored the question, eyeing Ivy up and down with a supercilious look on her face. ‘Who is this? Taking up with Cinderellas now, are you, Jordan? Been through the whole socialite pack?’

‘Keep a civil tongue or go,’ he said cuttingly. ‘I don’t have any patience for your rudeness today.’

‘Sorry. I just haven’t seen her before,’ she rolled out with a shrug. ‘Will I recognise the name?’

‘Ivy. Ivy Thornton. Unfortunately, I have no pleasure at all in introducing you, Olivia.’

‘Tough!’ She sneered. ‘I’m family and you can’t get rid of family. The good old tie of blood is always there. Whereas Ivy…no doubt she will turn into Poison Ivy in due course. They invariably do, don’t they?’

She was right, but due course hadn’t been run yet, and he wasn’t about to let Olivia spark off another bout of resistance from Ivy when he’d just brought her to the starting line. ‘You’ve been warned!’ he threw at his sister, stepping back to open front door. ‘I’ll call Ray to drive you home.’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Why take offence when you carry on about being honest and calling a spade a spade?’ She flicked another look down her nose at Ivy. ‘I have to concede you have the good sense not to marry any of them. I, on the other hand…’ The jeering spite suddenly crumpled into tears and the eyes she turned back to Jordan were wretched pools of despair. ‘…was fool enough to hitch myself to a sleazy, cheating scumbag who plans on blackmailing me for all I’m worth.’

‘Blackmail?’ This was serious business. Jordan frowned over it as he quietly closed the door again. ‘What does your husband have to blackmail you with, Olivia?’

Her third husband, who fell in the toy-boy range—twenty-three years old to her thirty-four—sweet, loveable Ashton whose gym-toned body promised sex on legs and had obviously delivered it beyond the marriage bed, which had always been predictable. But what had Olivia done to put herself in a blackmailing situation?

She shook her head, choking out words between sobs and shuddering intakes of breath. ‘You’ve got to help me, Jordan. You’ve got to. Daddy would have fixed it.’

Jordan gritted his teeth. His father had always freed his darling daughter from the consequences of her follies, which, of course, meant Olivia had never learnt any hard lessons from experience. His own upbringing had been designed to teach him the strong hand required to run a business empire, to anticipate the consequences of any decision and make careful provision for them before acting.

Although well aware of why Olivia was the way she was, he was sorely tempted to let her stew in her own juices this time, make her count the cost for once, but blackmail was a dirty criminal act, and he couldn’t allow anyone to stick his sister with it. Nevertheless, some lessons had to be hammered home right now.

‘Okay, you want something from me, Olivia. I want something from you,’ he said in a hard relentless tone, totally unsympathetic to her blubbering tears in the face of the insults she had flung at Ivy—a woman she didn’t know and didn’t care about knowing—putting his win at risk.

‘What?’ Olivia asked sulkily.

‘Firstly you will apologise to Ivy for your ignorant remarks about her. Take a deep breath now and do it with some grace, please, or you can take your trouble to the cemetery and tell it to Dad’s tombstone.’

Her jaw dropped in shock. She goggled at him and then at Ivy who hadn’t said a word, despite the nastiness that had been directed at her. God only knew what she was thinking! Probably that any connection with him was fast losing its desire-power!

‘Sorry,’ Olivia finally mumbled at Ivy in a woebegone fashion. ‘I’m just so upset. I wanted you to go so I could have Jordan to myself. I…I shouldn’t have said those things.’ She dashed the tears from her eyes with her hand, lifted her chin and looked belligerently at Jordan. ‘Is that enough?’

‘No, but it will do for the present. The next time you meet Ivy, you’d better take the trouble to make her acquaintance in a decent fashion. You could learn good manners from her for a start.’

‘All right! All right!’ She snapped, throwing up her free hand, then dropping it into a plea for him to stop browbeating her. ‘I’m sorry. Okay?’

‘None of this is okay, Olivia. Go back into the lounge and wait for me. Don’t drink another drop of alcohol. If you have a serious problem we need to talk about it seriously. Soberly. Without any more theatrics. I’ll take Ivy to Margaret, who I’m sure will make her feel more comfortable, and I’ll bring you some strong black coffee.’

She flounced off into the lounge, slamming the door behind her in protest at being treated to some discipline instead of oodles of indulgence. Jordan reined in the angry resentment stirred by the whole scene with Olivia and turned quickly to draw Ivy into his embrace, searching her eyes for reactions to it, anxious to erase any damage done.

‘I apologise for my sister’s behaviour. It’s beyond my control, Ivy. She just lashes out indiscriminately when she’s upset. Not that that’s any excuse…’

To his intense relief she gave him an ironic little smile. ‘I thought you did a fairly impressive job of taking control.’

He heaved a rueful sigh. ‘My parents spoiled Olivia rotten. All she had to do was throw a tantrum and she was given anything she wanted. It used to drive me around the bend. Still does. But she could be in real trouble with this blackmail business. I’ll have to deal with it.’

‘Of course you do,’ she said sympathetically, reaching up to smooth the frown from his brow. ‘What your sister said to me doesn’t matter, Jordan. I know I’m not a Cinderella and I’ve never been poisonous to anyone. It seems to me it’s your family wealth that’s the poison.’

True, but…he needed to find out how profitable Ivy’s rose farm was, whether it was on shaky ground, check that she wasn’t a Cinderella in hiding as Biancha had been, because he knew only too well that it was the Cinderellas of both sexes who brought poison to his family’s wealth.

‘It does attract con-artists and fortune-hunters and Olivia invariably falls for them,’ he replied with an unguarded touch of bitterness.

‘That must be really nasty for her when she finds out she’s been fooled.’

Being fooled was always nasty. Only once had he fallen into that trap, and not even the promise of fantastic sex forever would blinker his eyes to it again.

‘It’s about time she exercised some judgement,’ he said grimly. ‘At least testing the waters before blindly wading in.’

‘Like you do?’

Her eyes reflected a mental reviewing of his many brief affairs in a different light. Not so much the playboy but the billionaire with a cynical part of his brain alert to anything false.

‘Ivy, we can continue this conversation later. We should move on now. I don’t trust Olivia not to hit the bottle again.’

‘Yes. Better get the coffee coming.’

He was grateful for her quick understanding. No selfishness, no sulky pouts at being put aside for a while, just a fair assessment of the situation and a reasonable reaction to it. He liked her all the more for it. He hoped she spoke the truth about not being a Cinderella.

They found Margaret in the kitchen. As usual, she had anticipated what would be needed and already had the coffee brewing. Margaret was no fool. She was always aware of everything in this household. Regardless of her former reservations about his pursuit of Ivy, she welcomed her with a smile and instantly offered to take care of her needs, too. The Saturday newspaper was spread out on the island bench, the travel section uppermost, and Ivy slid straight onto a stool, obviously prepared to wait for him and acquaint herself with his housekeeper.

Feeling sure that this issue was settled, Jordan switched his mind to dealing with Olivia and her problem. She was pacing around the lounge in nervous agitation—thankfully without a glass in her hand—when he took in the coffee, advising her to sit down, sip it and compose herself.

He waited until she did so, quelling his own impatience to get on with it, knowing that calm, cool deliberation had to be brought to damage control. He seated himself on the armchair adjacent to the sofa where Olivia had flung herself and thought about how to counter a blackmail threat until his sister could not contain herself any longer.

Having taken one sip of coffee, she threw a look of angst at him and blurted out, ‘He’s got a video of me having sex with him and he’s going to post it on the Internet if I don’t pay up.’

‘Did you agree to the video or did he film it without your permission?’

Her gaze dropped. She plucked at her trousers. ‘I…uh…thought it was fun at the time. Something…intimate…to watch together.’

Jordan shook his head. How many girls and women fell into that trap, letting their boyfriends take naked shots of them, only to find the photographs were not kept private—were posted on the Internet or flashed around on mobile phones? It was rotten behaviour by the guys, but with today’s technology at everyone’s fingertips, the women should wise up to the risk of being put out there.

‘It’s happening all the time, Olivia,’ he said, exasperated by her foolishness. ‘Why not tell him to publish and be damned? There’s nothing shameful about having sex with your husband.’

‘But anyone can look at it,’ she cried, appalled at his solution. ‘It’s humiliating, Jordan. I can’t bear the idea of lots of people having a peepshow of me.’

‘You’ve got a great body. You don’t mind showing it off. You won’t be the first heiress who’s had to weather baring all on the Internet,’ he said dismissively. And just maybe she’d be wiser next time around.

She grimaced and muttered, ‘It’s not just that.’

‘Then stop pussyfooting around and give me the real dirt, Olivia.’

She erupted from the sofa, throwing up her hands, flouncing around to avoid looking at him. ‘I was out of my mind. Ashton had a friend there, another gorgeous hunk. We were snorting cocaine, high as kites. Anyhow, it got to be a threesome. That’s what he’s got on the video.’

‘All of it? The cocaine, as well?’

‘Yes,’ she hissed at him, eyes blazing hatred at having to confess her own sins.

‘Are you in the habit of doing coke, Olivia?’

She stamped her foot at his inquisition. ‘Everybody does at parties. You know they do,’ she shouted at him.

He stared back at her in silent, burning reproof. Many did, but he didn’t and she knew it. Apart from alcohol in moderation he never touched recreational drugs and he didn’t want to see his sister take the downward spiral that so commonly ended in depression and disaster.

‘I didn’t do it much until Ashton started getting regular supplies,’ she said, trying to mitigate her usage.

Possibly it was true. It would obviously serve Ashton’s purpose to get Olivia hooked. ‘Okay,’ he said calmly. ‘I have the picture now. Sit down while I think about how to get you out of this mess.’

Relieved that she had finally loaded it off onto his shoulders, she dropped onto the sofa and resumed sipping coffee while darting anxious little glances at him.

Jordan mentally plotted the moves that had to be made. Call his lawyer to enquire about all the legal angles. Call his security guy. Olivia would have to be wired and rehearsed into how to get Ashton’s blackmail threat on tape. Once he could be threatened with criminal prosecution, Jordan was fairly sure a reasonable settlement could be reached. Pretty-boy Ashton wouldn’t enjoy a spell in jail. Olivia had to get stone-cold sober and stay sober until the situation was resolved, and then agree to a month in a rehabilitation centre.

He took out his mobile phone and called his mother. Fortunately she was home and, having been apprised of the problem, agreed to look after Olivia and ensure she was sober for a management meeting tomorrow morning. That gave him the rest of today and tonight with Ivy before he had to act for his sister who certainly deserved to stew overnight for being so damned stupid and careless.

He then called Ray to get the Bentley out to drive Olivia to his mother’s Palm Beach residence. He would drive the Porsche there himself in the morning. Having dumped her problem in her brother’s hands and now sure he would fix it for her, Olivia meekly followed his orders.

Jordan silently determined she would follow a few more in the very near future, like getting her head together enough to make sensible decisions and not take mind-blurring drugs.

It was all so bloody nasty, he thought, as he saw Olivia off in the Bentley. At least taking care of it could wait until tomorrow. Ashton was not about to go anywhere, not until he had milked the golden goose for all he could get.

And Ivy was waiting for him.

Ivy, who’d told him repeatedly she wouldn’t fit into his social world: the parties, the gossip, the competitive status thing with its bitchiness and back-biting, the high-flying celebrities who did dabble in cocaine or ecstacy or marijuana for their sensory hits. Part of his mind stood back from it all, like a spectator rather than a participant. But if he took Ivy into it…

No, she didn’t fit.

He didn’t want her to fit.

It was the difference in her that he found so beguiling.

Somehow he had to keep her out of it, yet keep her in his life.

And his bed.

Determined on making that happen, Jordan headed back into the house, the adrenaline surge of desire kicking in as he went to collect the woman he wanted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IVY found Margaret surprisingly easy to be with. Aware that the housekeeper had to be curious about the decisions she’d come to in regard to a relationship with Jordan, she’d told her straight out that she owned the rose farm he used for gifts to his girlfriends and hadn’t thought the attraction was worth pursuing, given her inside knowledge of his track record with roses.

‘Good Heavens! And he kept sending them to your mother!’ had been her stunned reaction.

‘Yes, it was great for business, but I had to stop it.’

Margaret had burst into laughter, vastly amused by the piquancy of the situation, her eyes twinkling merrily as she’d commented, ‘So you’re giving him a chance.’

‘I do like him.’ Not to mention wanting him so intensely it was almost frightening, which the housekeeper probably realised anyway. Ivy couldn’t imagine any woman not wanting to experience Jordan Powell in bed. It was his world, not his bed that was the problem.

‘Yes, he’s very likeable,’ Margaret had replied with a fondly indulgent smile. ‘I wouldn’t work for him if he wasn’t.’

This recommendation of Jordan’s character from an employee’s point of view, added to the masterly way he had handled the scene with his sister, had assured Ivy she wasn’t making too big a mistake in getting more involved with him, even if it proved to be a brief affair in the end. Besides, maybe his previous affairs had been littered with fortune-hunters and she wasn’t one. That might make some difference.

Margaret had produced a platter of nibbles, suggesting it might tide Ivy over until Jordan had finished with his sister and they could then have lunch together. The brie cheese and dates, little balls of fresh melon wrapped in prosciutto ham, marinated sun-dried tomatoes and olives were all very tempting and without any electric sexual tension knotting her stomach, Ivy suddenly found an appetite.

While picking at the platter, she’d asked Margaret what kind of tours she was interested in since the newspaper was open at the travel section. It turned out that the housekeeper had ‘done’ most of Europe, saving up all year for an annual trip overseas. The Americas were next on her list, specifically California and Mexico.

‘I’ve never travelled anywhere,’ Ivy had confessed. ‘Friends of mine were raving about a cruise down the Rhine, and I thought I might try that next year.’

‘Why not this year?’

Her heart instantly leapt at Jordan’s voice and started banging around her chest as he strode into the kitchen, his face animated with interest. Whatever had transpired with his sister was obviously not lingering in his mind. The blue eyes twinkled with happy speculation as he pursued his point.

‘I think they start running those cruises in May. It’s only March now. In two months’ time, we could be sailing down the Rhine together, Ivy. I’d love to share that part of Europe with you.’ He stopped at the island bench, picked a melon ball off the platter, popped it into his mouth, raised his eyebrows at her stunned reaction to his enthusiastic suggestion as he ate the fruit, then asked, ‘Can you get away from the farm to do it with me?’

He helped himself to some cheese, slicing up a date to accompany it while Ivy tried to catch her breath. Her mind spun around his extraordinary offer. She could imagine a billionaire on a super-luxury cruise ship like the Queen Elizabeth II, or a magnificent chartered yacht, but…‘Is it your kind of thing? I mean…travelling with ordinary tourists?’

‘I’ll enjoy whatever you enjoy, Ivy.’

Would he really? There was not a hint of doubt in his voice and Ivy could well believe he had schooled himself to be master of any situation. He would probably charm all the other passengers on the ship, make his presence a highlight of their cruise. As for herself, it would be great to have Jordan as her travelling companion, and so much time together would certainly sort out their differences, test how compatible they could be. Make-or-break time for their relationship, she thought.

However, there was one problem he was overlooking. The pipe dream of a marvellous trip together deflated as the reality of her world kicked in. Jordan was undoubtedly accustomed to travelling wherever he wanted whenever he wanted, but…

‘We can’t do it,’ she said with a rueful shake of her head. ‘Not this May. You have to book about a year ahead to get on these cruises.’

Determined purpose flashed in his eyes. ‘There are always cancellations. Leave it with me and I’ll see if I can find us a berth on one.’

He was intent on going and taking her with him. So intent, Ivy suspected he would buy a cancellation. It made her feel uncomfortable about it. Why did it matter so much to him? Was he so used to getting his own way nothing was going to stop him? How ruthless was he in wielding his wealth to get what he wanted?

So many questions…and he kept munching away on the hors d’oeuvres as though everything was already settled, his eyes teasing her with the confidence of solving any problem she might still raise. She had succumbed to the power of the man without knowing nearly enough about him, yet the lure of knowing more of him was too strong for her to back off now.

‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘I can arrange time off from the farm, but if you do manage to get us on a cruise, Jordan, I insist on paying for my own plane ticket there and back and my share of the tour package.’

No way would she let him think he was buying her. Besides, she needed to be independent of him, in case she ended up disliking how it was between them and wanted to walk away.

He grinned, triumphant delight dancing in his eyes. ‘Whatever you say, Ivy. I just want us to have this time away together.’

She did, too. It provided a relatively quick proving ground. Not like two years with Ben before finding out he would let her down when she most needed him to be there for her.

‘Had enough to eat?’ Jordan asked, and her stomach instantly clenched.

No more food.

He wanted sex with her.

‘What have you done with your sister?’ she asked, sure that he would have already ensured no further interruptions, but curious about the outcome of that meeting.

He grinned and held out his hand to help her off the kitchen stool. ‘Sent her home to Mother. Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the house. Do you want Margaret to prepare lunch or shall we have an early dinner?’

She took his hand, acutely aware of it enfolding hers as she slid off the stool, wanting to feel him touching her all over, remembering how it had been and eager to experience it again. ‘I’ve had enough to eat for now,’ she said, flicking a quick grateful glance at the housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Margaret.’

‘An early dinner then,’ Jordan swiftly instructed.

‘Give me a call when you want it,’ Margaret drily replied.

Of course she knew what they were about to do, Ivy thought. It was probably a very common scenario with Jordan and she couldn’t help wishing it wasn’t so. Needing to block out his past and concentrate entirely on the present, her mind snatched at the distraction of his sister and her problems.

‘Have you passed the blackmail business over to your mother, too?’ she asked as they walked back into the foyer.

‘No. I’ll deal with it tomorrow when Olivia is sober.’ He shot her an apologetic grimace. ‘Which means cutting our weekend together short. I’ll have to go to Palm Beach in the morning for a family meeting.’

‘I hope you can sort something out,’ she said sympathetically, thinking it would be horrible to be blackmailed by one’s own husband, a man whom Olivia had obviously trusted, however unwisely.

‘Don’t be concerned about it, Ivy. It will be sorted, one way or another,’ he said dismissively. ‘In fact, it should be a good lesson for my sister. I intend to make it one, that’s for sure,’ he added in a tone of determination that would brook no nonsense.

He led her straight to the staircase, no detouring to ‘show her the house.’ That would come later, after…

Her pulse drummed a faster beat as they mounted the stairs.

‘Olivia won’t speak to you like that again, either,’ he tagged on.

She sighed, relieving the tightness in her chest before slanting an ironic little smile at him. ‘I guess all your social set will think the same things about me, Jordan.’

He squeezed her hand hard. ‘What they think isn’t important. Only what we have together matters.’

The intensity in his voice sent a quiver of excitement down her spine. She wanted what they could have together, wanted it as much as he did. They reached his bedroom and nothing else mattered. They were both insanely lustful, kissing as though there was no tomorrow, removing clothes in urgent haste, falling on the bed in a tangle of legs and arms, reaching for each other, gripping, clinging, caressing with fierce possessiveness, passion pumping through their bodies, fuelling the need to take, to give.

Jordan muttered a curse as he remembered protection, tearing himself away long enough to grab it from a drawer in a bedside table and sheath himself. A weird stab of sadness went through Ivy’s heart. No baby with Jordan. That would never happen. It wasn’t what this relationship was about. But she had accepted that, hadn’t she? And she accepted him now with an intense shaft of pleasure as he came back to her and thrust deeply, driving to the edge of her pulsing womb.

Wild excitement coursed through her with each repeated plunge, the rhythm of it rolling through her in euphoric waves, cresting in marvellous peaks, finally carrying her to an explosion of utter ecstasy and a flood of sweetly lulling peace. Yes, she thought blissfully. It was worth any hurt later to have this with Jordan now.

She lay with her head resting over the strong beat of his heart, smiling as she listened to its pace gradually lessen to a quiet, steady thump. Peace for him, too, after the long waiting, she thought, and was glad she had surrendered to his patient pursuit. His hands started gliding over the curves of her back and her skin tingled with pleasure. He picked up her plait, removed the rubber band that kept it fastened, and slowly unwound the skeins of her hair, fluffing it out with his fingers when it was freed of its constriction.

‘With your hair and skin, you could have posed for Botticelli’s Birth of Venus,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a wonderful painting, displayed in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. We could go on to Italy after the cruise and…’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ivy stirred enough to protest. ‘We’ll be away for a month as it is.’ She lifted her head to give him a teasing look. ‘And you haven’t even shown me all the paintings in this house yet.’

He laughed, raking her hair out on either side of her face. ‘You outshine them all, but when I summon up the energy and the inclination I’ll give you a tour.’

‘Mmmh…I’m not in any hurry.’

‘Good, because I don’t want to hurry anything this time.’

He kept every kiss and caress deliciously sensual. They moved around each other in a long, languorous dance of gliding, nestling, touching, feeling—a glorious sexual wallowing that simmered with excitement without blazing into imperative need.

He spoke seductively of the fantastic sights they would see and the pleasures they would share in Europe: the amazing array of statues in Prague, the magnificent Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna—‘I’ll dance you around the gold ballroom’—the vineyards climbing the hills in the Wachau Valley—‘We’ll go wine-tasting’—the amazing amount of castles along the Rhine, the totally eye-popping quantity of gold decorating the cathedral at the Melk monastery.

‘You’ve seen it all before,’ Ivy commented ruefully at one point.

‘Not since I was in my teens. My parents took Olivia and me on a world tour as part of our education.’

Not with another woman then, Ivy thought with a rush of relief. It was ridiculous wanting something exclusive to herself, knowing how very experienced he was, yet she instantly felt happier in her anticipation of their travels together.

‘Besides, I’ll enjoy it so much more being with you,’ he said, smiling into her eyes, making her heart melt with longing for that to be true.

‘Talking of paintings, why did you choose to hang Sydney Nolan’s Ned Kelly images in this bedroom?’ she asked, wanting to understand more of the man. ‘Do you feel some affinity with our famous bushranger or do they simply complement the decor with him wearing his black armour?’

He sidestepped the question, asking, ‘Do you like them?’

‘They’re great, but I thought you’d be more into nudes in here.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t need that kind of stimulation.’

She laughed, well aware that he had no problem with impotence. ‘You still haven’t told me why Ned Kelly?’

His eyes were hooded as his fingertips feathered her lips. ‘He reminds me always to be armoured. Especially in the bedroom. Only you have ever made me forget that, Ivy.’

He kissed her, as though wanting to draw that power from her soul, be the man who never lost control again. The simmering excitement instantly escalated, compelling them into another climactic union. It wasn’t until long afterwards that Ivy thought about what he’d said about always being armoured.

A billionaire’s son, a billionaire in his own right—a target for people who wanted a piece of him for their own ends, in the bedroom and out of it. She imagined very few people would ever fool him in business, but there was a natural vulnerability with intimacy, a wish to trust. Jordan had seen his sister be a victim of it three times because of her wealth.

Was it any wonder that he’d chosen a playboy lifestyle?

Essentially a lonely life, Ivy thought, always armoured.

And she was lonely, too.

She enjoyed his company on the tour of his house, enjoyed his company over the delicious dinner Margaret served them, enjoyed the seductively sensual skinny-dipping in the solar-heated pool later in the evening and revelled in the lovemaking that followed. She didn’t feel lonely with him and she hoped he didn’t feel lonely with her.

Before Jordan had to leave for his family meeting the next morning, they had a happy, relaxed breakfast together and made plans for him to spend the next week-end on the rose farm with her. Ivy drove home feeling brilliantly alive, hoping they could make a lovely self-contained world together that nothing could spoil.

She knew it was a rather silly hope.

Other things would inevitably intrude.

But she was determined to enjoy what she could with Jordan while she could.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ON Monday, Heather was cock-a-hoop over Ivy’s capitulation to a relationship with Jordan Powell, insisting that his persistence proved he was really, really attracted, and the fact that Ivy had enjoyed her time with him showed it to be the right step to take. And when he came to the farm next weekend, could she please, please, please meet him.

Sacha called late in the afternoon to report that no roses had come and what did that mean? Had Ivy met Jordan? Had he persuaded her into seeing more of him? Given an affirmative reply, Sacha was delighted, bubbling over with a list of advantages to be had in associating with such a man, uppermost of which was experiencing a far broader and more civilised way of life than Ivy had been leading on the farm.

Ivy didn’t mention the cruise to either woman, thinking it was probably too far in the future to count on, even if Jordan did manage to get them places on it. Who knew what would happen between now and then? She was confident that Heather and Barry could take over running the farm and managing the business on short notice and would be happy to do it for her, if and when required. She simply couldn’t shake the fatalistic feeling that this harmony with Jordan was too good to last.

Each night during the week he called her to chat for half an hour or so, just normal conversations about what they’d done throughout the day. Without going into nitty-gritty details, he told her the blackmail threat to his sister had been dealt with, a reasonable divorce settlement agreed upon and Olivia was off to a health spa for some recovery time. And hopefully she would grow some armour against being taken for a ride again.

There was definitely a downside to being incredibly wealthy, Ivy thought. On the other hand, when Jordan arrived at the farm on Friday evening and presented her with confirmation that a stateroom had been secured for them on a cruise in May, she couldn’t ignore the suspicion that he’d used the power of wealth to obtain it.

‘Did we luck into a cancellation or did you bribe someone to give up their trip, Jordan?’ she asked, searching his eyes for the truth, wanting an honest answer.

He shrugged. ‘I made an offer. Someone took it. What other people choose to do doesn’t concern us, Ivy. What matters is we’re going.’

It didn’t feel right. ‘You’ve spoiled their plans. They would have been looking forward to the cruise. Don’t you have any conscience about that?’

He frowned. ‘I didn’t force their choice. I guess they thought they’d have a lot more spending money for an-other trip.’

‘How much more?’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s irrelevant. It’s done.’

‘But I should pay half of what you paid,’ she argued, unable to shake a sense of guilty responsibility.

‘No!’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘I made the decision. I pay the price.’

‘We didn’t have to go,’ she protested, still uncomfortable with how it had been arranged.

‘I want to.’ He scooped her into his embrace, one hand lifting to stroke away her frown as his eyes bored into hers. ‘You want to. Let it be, Ivy.’

Looking at him, feeling him, wanting him, the temptation to let the issue slide pounded through Ivy’s mind. Let it be. Only a last little niggle made her mutter, ‘I wouldn’t have minded waiting.’

‘This is our time, Ivy,’ he murmured seductively, his lips grazing over hers as he added, ‘Let’s make the most of it.’

Our time…

Her heart sank a little at those words, carrying as they did the implication that he expected their time to be limited. By the end of the cruise their relationship would have lasted four months—long enough for Jordan?

But didn’t she have the same expectation?

Her body craved what he could give her.

Make the most of it…yes.

She couldn’t fault Jordan over anything else that weekend. He showed a keen interest in the operation of the rose farm—how it all worked, the standard orders from florists, hotels, big business houses, the more random number of private clients like himself, though he was never to be again, the greenhouses, the packaging room, the refrigerated store of fudges which were supplied by a local woman who’d made an at-home business out of cooking them, the computer system for sales. She enjoyed explaining it all to him.

Graham and Heather came to lunch on Saturday, and Jordan impressed both of them with his appreciation of their contribution to the success of the farm. He didn’t present himself as a playboy at all, talking of his own experience with employees, saying how much he valued those he trusted to get the job done. Graham was quickly at ease with him and Heather barely stopped short of drooling—Jordan was so gorgeous!

When the cruise was mentioned, both of them were enthusiastic about a break from the farm for Ivy and assured her they would look after everything.

Ivy let herself relax and enjoy every minute with Jordan. He made it easy, being the perfect lover in every sense.

Again he telephoned her every night during the week, keeping their connection strong. He arrived by helicopter on Saturday morning and flew her to Port Macquarie, a beach resort on the north coast of New South Wales where he was building a new retirement village and nursing home. He shared his vision for it with her, impressing her once again with his caring for the elderly. They ate in the best restaurants the town had to offer and slept in a luxurious apartment that overlooked Flynn’s Beach.

He never seemed bored by the weekends he spent on the farm with her, and on his alternate weekends he invariably took Ivy somewhere special—to the Blue Mountains and the amazing Jenolan Caves, to Port Douglas and the Great Barrier Reef, to the Red Centre and Uluru, to the Hunter Valley vineyards. Cost, of course, was no object to Jordan and Ivy decided not to quibble about it. He was taking her on a fantastic ride—the ride of a lifetime—and even if it only lasted six months, which was his uppermost limit for an affair, she was certainly living brilliantly for a while.

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