Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

“I’m sorry about the fuss just now.”

Drew was lounging casually on a bank, evidently waiting for her to catch up with him.

“You’ve had a soft life and now that things are getting tough, you can’t handle it!”

Christy’s lips parted; Drew’s words had been flung at her with a casualness that stung. “That’s not true!” she snapped indignantly.

He raised a dark brow in query. “Isn’t it?”

LAURA MARTIN lives in a small English village in Gloucestershire with her husband, two young children and a lively sheepdog! Laura has a great love of interior design and, together with her husband, has recently completed the renovation of their Victorian cottage. Her hobbies include gardening, the theater, music and reading, and she finds great pleasure and inspiration in walking daily in the beautiful countryside around her home. Secret Surrender is Laura Martin’s debut novel in Harlequin Presents. Look out for more from this exciting new author in the months to come.

Secret Surrender
Laura Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘CHRISTY?’ She could see him in the half-light, propped up on one elbow, watching her with a face that expressed incredulity and anger. ‘Just where the hell do you think you’re going?’

The hotel sheets didn’t cover much of the powerful naked torso. Christy, in the second it took her to turn her head, appraised the glistening body with its sheen of sweat, found herself picturing the frantic activity that had gone on between them, on this most humid of summer nights. ‘I…I thought you were asleep.’ She continued her scramble in the grey light for her clothes. Her blouse had been retrieved but that wasn’t enough—not if she wanted to escape the luxurious surroundings of this place without causing a riot.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’ His voice was steel-edged, insistent, and Christy found herself trembling deep inside.

What on earth was she doing here? How had she ever allowed this to happen? She closed her eyes for a split-second and called herself all manner of names as she pulled her blouse frantically over her tousled, shiny blonde mane.

‘Christy, come back to bed! It’s past one in the morning.’ It was a strong voice. Strong and deep and commanding. Used to being obeyed, used to having its wishes followed immediately, particularly when those wishes were directed at young, attractive females who barely had a stitch on.

But I’m not just another of his bimbos, Christy reminded herself desperately, frantically continuing her search for her clothes. I’m not! Her eyes were more used to the light now and she saw with relief a pile of clothing on the floor beside the bed. ‘This is crazy! How did I ever get myself into this situation?’ she whispered frantically. ‘I…I’ve got to go; I should never have stayed—never!’

Since the ardour of their mutual passion had been extinguished so satisfactorily, that thought had been the only thing on her mind—that and what a fool she had made of herself. ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’ Her voice trembled noticeably as she cast her eyes towards the bed and with enormous effort she took a deep breath and added in stronger tones, ‘I should never have come here. We should never have——

Drew leant forward then and she felt the strength of his fingers curled around her upper arm, felt tingling deep in the pit of her stomach as the heat of his breath warmed the sensitive place between her neck and her shoulder-blade, sending shivers of desire down her spine, just like before. ‘Christy, don’t be so hasty.’

His voice had momentarily lost its edge, as if he too had fallen under the spell that had overwhelmed them so unexpectedly earlier in the evening. Her name sounded so sweet, so sensuous on his lips, beguiling her, trying to fool her all over again. And his mouth— oh, that was a sensation! How could kisses be so erotic, so tempting? Christy wondered, as her eyes began to close and her body momentarily swayed back against the strength of Drew Michaels’ powerful chest.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ he murmured huskily, running his mouth along the curve of her neck, sweeping her hair away with his large strong hands. ‘You can’t leave now. You know you can’t.’

She was weakening all over again. Her resolve just seemed to melt away at the lightest of touches. She felt the sharp familiar ache of desire deep in the pit of her stomach and knew that time was running out; any more of this and she wouldn’t be able to hold on, wouldn’t be able to rescue what little pride and self-esteem she had left…

With a jerk Christy dragged herself free and stood up, stepping away from the bed, walking purposefully to the lamp over at the far side of the room. She clicked it on, steeling herself for the flood of light that would reveal Drew Michaels in all his glory, that would display the luxurious yet impersonal surroundings of the best suite in the hotel, and at the same time show up the extreme tackiness of the whole damnable situation that she had somehow allowed herself to slide into. She had always vowed that she would save herself for the right man…to be nearly twenty-three and still a virgin had been some kind of a record, she suspected—at least in the world she inhabited. But that was over now; she had thrown it all away in a moment of supreme stupidness.

He was angry. The sharp, tight angle of his jaw told her that, the ice in the steel-blue eyes. They had been like azure before, she thought distractedly, fresh, sparkling, like the colour of a perfect summer’s sky. When he had smiled and dragged her into his arms for the first time, they had sparked with lust and sensuality.

What had been her undoing? Finally meeting him after all the hype and the expectation? Had that contributed in some way to what had followed? But why should it have? she thought as she struggled into her sleek linen skirt. She had met many famous people before, many attractive men who were successful, who commanded respect.

A tormented sigh escaped her lips. Who was she kidding? None of them, not the powerful politicians, nor the wealthy businessmen, nor the renowned authorities on one subject or another, had possessed this aura, this magnetism. All Drew Michaels had had to do was stare long and hard with those magical deep blue eyes as he murmured her name and held out his hand in greeting and she was hooked—she along with all the others…

Christy jerked her head up and saw that his mouth was widening into the semblance of a smile now—a cynical, mocking twist of the lips that held precious little warmth, certainly no feeling. ‘You’re really intent on leaving?’ He lay back against the pillows, clasping his hands behind his head, appraising Christy with a look that chilled her through to the bone, because suddenly he looked so cold and distant. ‘And the night is still so young! This is hardly the exit I would have expected, Christy—a little undignified, don’t you think? Rather lacking in the composure that we’ve all come to expect from so celebrated a television personality. What do you think the concierge will make of your exit when you fling yourself out through the main entrance at this time of the night?’

‘If it’s your reputation you’re worried about——’ Christy began through tight lips.

‘My reputation?’ Drew let out a harsh laugh and shook his head. ‘Oh, no! Mine’s past redemption, I’m afraid, and besides, I’ve reached a stage in my life where I’m past caring what other people think of me. Oh, no, Christy, it was actually yours I had in mind.’

Drew rose from the bed. His naked body was lean and taut, powerful, thrilling with its mat of dark hair covering the sculptured chest, the strong solidness of his thighs, his abdomen…

‘Take a look in the mirror, Christy—see how beautiful you look: tousled, fulfilled…Do it!’ Drew placed commanding hands on her waist, twisted her around so that he was standing behind her, so that she had no choice but to do as he bid. ‘Go on—take a look at yourself.’

She swallowed, fighting hard against the instinct to hold her head in her hands as she viewed their reflection in the full-length mirror. It was a striking combination: two physically attuned bodies, tall, athletic figures with features that were in stark contrast. Drew rugged and darkly handsome, with hair as black as night. Christy lithe and elegant with a delicate face, a halo of golden hair.

Drew spanned his hands against her stomach, pulling the fabric of her silk blouse taut so that the outline of her full breasts was clearly visible beneath. She watched and felt the stirring of desire, saw the evidence of her own weakness as their outline became more and more prominent. ‘You see how good we look together, Christy? How easily your body registers its need? Once is never enough; let me make love to you again, let me fulfil your desires again and again…’

Her breathing was rapid now, as if oxygen was at a premium. Drew’s gaze, his voice dripped sexuality, contributing as much to the way she felt as the thrill of his hands on the smooth, flat plane of her stomach. She hated herself for this weakness. It shocked her that despite everything she could still be tempted to turn and press herself against the sculptured body, to lift her face and accept the ravaging hunger of his mouth. It had felt like pure heaven before, in that moment when desire had overtaken sense, in that length of time that had felt like eternity and no time at all, and despite everything the need to experience such a pinnacle of pleasure again and again was strong within.

‘No!’ Somehow, from somewhere, she dragged up enough resistance. It had been a fool’s paradise, she knew that, didn’t she? Hadn’t she experienced dreadful despair as soon as that most glorious sensation had been reached because she had allowed Drew to make love to her purely for physical reasons alone? ‘No!’ Christy ran a shaky hand through her hair and then jerked herself free. ‘I’m leaving, Drew and I’m leaving now!’ She turned, struggling for a moment to keep hold of what little composure she had left, then she spun back around to face him, to stare Drew in the eyes and make him believe that what she was about to say was the truth. ‘Can’t you understand that I feel dreadful, like a stranger inside? I’ve allowed this to happen. I’ve allowed a man I don’t know, don’t particularly like even, to make love to me…’ Her voice trailed miserably away—even now she could hardly believe that she had allowed herself to be seduced.

‘You make it sound as if you were an unwilling participant,’ Drew murmured with a casual quietness that seemed only to emphasise the ice beneath his words, ‘when in fact we both know that you were feverish, passionate—dare I say desperate?—to secure a union between us.’

He stunned her with his cruel bluntness for all of three slow seconds. ‘My God, I hate you!’ Christy’s violet eyes blazed with dislike. ‘I must have been mad…or drunk…or…’

‘You were neither and you know it!’ Drew growled menacingly. ‘As soon as we laid eyes on one another we both knew the outcome of this evening. We made love because it was what we both wanted and don’t you dare start pretending otherwise!’

‘Don’t you presume to tell me how to behave!’ Christy snapped, swinging back round to face him. ‘I’ll act just however I feel like acting! Don’t think you can talk to me like all the other women you entice into your bed. I lost my senses for a couple of hours, but they’re back now and in full working order.’

‘Are they?’ Drew raised a dark enquiring brow and something in his expression, some hint of what was to come perhaps, sent a shiver of trepidation down Christy’s spine. ‘This is hardly as your public usually sees you, is it? Composed and in control at all times, isn’t that the Christy King maxim? “The ice-cool goddess of the small screen"—wasn’t that how one columnist recently described you? So what happens when we meet tomorrow? When we face one another in the studio? How cool will the icy interviewer Miss King be then, I wonder?’

That had been his parting shot, and the next day in the studio he had proceeded to make life as difficult as possible for her…

‘I believe I’m particularly honoured this evening; you don’t give interviews as a rule, do you, Mr Michaels?’ Christy managed somehow to force her widest, most appealing smile, purely for the viewers’ benefit, of course, and waited with bated breath for his answer. A direct, no-nonsense first question. Why should she change her tactics? she thought.

He took his time, oblivious, it seemed, of the fact that several million viewers were waiting on his reply. Were nerves a part of this man’s make-up? Christy wondered, as she registered her own familiar thudding heart and damp palms.

‘Interviews are a rather boring and incredibly egotistical way of passing the time,’ he drawled, leaning one arm along the back of his chair. ‘To be honest— and of course I realise that that is what you of all people would want, Christy,’ he added with more than a hint of sarcasm, his mouth widening into a charming, all too attractive smile that no doubt sent millions of Michaels fans swooning over their television sets, ‘I can think of a hundred and one things I would rather be doing at this very moment.’

‘Such as?’ Christy asked swiftly, leaning forward slightly in her chair, determined not to let this unpromising start get the better of her. ‘What would you be doing now, Mr Michaels, if you weren’t sitting here talking to me?’ She raised questioning eyebrows and tried to look as if she really wanted to know, as if she cared about the answer.

Drew’s mouth twisted suggestively, his eyes narrowed, and for several calculating seconds he stayed silent. What was he going to say? Christy felt the automatic shiver race through her body as sexual tension sparked between them. She tried not to think about the night before and failed dreadfully. ‘I think perhaps I’d better leave that to the imagination,’ he murmured after a moment. ‘Suffice to say it would involve soft lights, wine and a very attractive female.’

The audience laughed at the deliberate heavy sexual innuendo he had put into his reply and Christy, much to her chagrin, blushed; she just couldn’t do a thing about it. The audience didn’t know, of course; no one knew that she of all people had allowed Drew to make love to her, that she had been seduced so very easily in exactly that way, but that knowledge didn’t stop her feeling heart-stoppingly anxious. How can he be doing this to me? she thought wildly. What shall I say now? What shall I do? I want to get out of here, she screamed silently, listening to the noise in her earpiece from the gallery above where the director and his assistants sat. How many minutes left? How many?

‘But duty calls,’ Drew continued with a dismissive shrug. ‘I decided that I would plunge into the rather disagreeable depths of promotion for the benefit of my latest project and so here I am—completely at your mercy.’

Who are you kidding? Christy thought angrily, watching the relaxed features, the twist of a smile. ‘Er…you put up a great deal of your own money for this film, I believe?’ she continued with determined briskness.

‘Almost all.’

‘You must have a lot of faith in its potential. What made you take such a risk? After all there is a recession on; this is not supposed to be the best of times for launching new ideas.’

‘On the contrary,’ he responded crisply, ‘good things rise to the top no matter what the economic climate; indifferent and average commodities sink without a trace, and as far as I am concerned that is how it should be.’

‘The script must be very good.’

His eyes were glacial, there was an expression of bored disdain written clearly on the smooth, tanned face. ‘Yes. I wrote it myself!’

Christy shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers curling tensely around the arms of her swivel chair, her bright expression fixed hopelessly, and waited, knowing that his reply was over, but waiting just the same. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell us a little about the film?’ Her voice was still light, still sounded remarkably relaxed, despite the painful tension within. Would he continue with this almost monosyllabic massacre to the very end? Would he really make it that hard?

‘This film is what people wish to make of it. Funny in parts, dramatic, thrilling, tense, sad——’

‘Sounds too good to be true!’ Christy cut in lightly. ‘Surely it’s not possible to introduce so many elements in one piece of drama?’

He raised dark eyebrows and threw her a casual look. ‘Really? And why not?’ he enquired composedly. ‘Do you know something that I don’t about the film business, Miss King?’

She floundered like a fish out of water as he waited with deliberate cool for her to answer his question. ‘Well…I…’ She hesitated and cursed herself for falling into the trap of asking a question that hadn’t been thought through, that hadn’t been planned. He had unsettled her and she had said the first thing that had come into her head. ‘Well…’ Why couldn’t she think quickly enough? ‘Er…films tend to fall into categories, don’t they? I——’

‘Films as in life—there are many elements, Miss King.’

Silence.

She wanted to throttle him. To get up out of her chair and wipe that superior, slightly amused expression from his face. I could at least get up and walk away, she thought. What’s stopping me?

‘I believe you were once quoted as saying that you despised money? Rather a weird statement from someone who’s as wealthy as you, surely?’ Pick the bones out of this one, Michaels! Christy thought, relieved that she had changed tack so quickly. ‘After all, we read at very frequent intervals various things about your extravagant lifestyle——’

‘And you believe it all?’ He gave a small shake of his head and produced a brilliant, totally relaxed smile, gazing with stunning eyes at Christy, managing to produce just the right effect: a mixture of disbelief and genuine amusement, coupled with the implication that perhaps Christy was more than just a little bit dim.

‘So exactly what do you do with your millions, Mr Michaels?’ she enquired with ill-concealed annoyance. ‘Surely you aren’t trying to tell us you live like a monk?’

‘Not at all—anyone who believes that would have to be very foolish.’

Christy gripped the leather arm-rest and tried not to allow the cutting reply to get to her. ‘So you do indulge in extravagant luxuries, then?’

‘You seem rather obsessed by other people’s wealth, Miss King. Why is that?’

‘Obsessed? No…I’m——’

‘Aren’t I right in saying,’ Drew continued, ‘that you’re the highest paid female on television?’

‘Oh, no——’

‘You’re telling me that’s not a fact?’

His perfectly timed question was delivered with the utmost precision—any other time and Christy would have almost admired it. ‘Well—er——’ Stop stuttering, you fool! she told herself angrily. Say something. He’s getting the better of you! ‘I admit to earning a substantial amount,’ she conceded finally, forcing a smile that masked, she hoped, all of her awkwardness and her animosity. ‘But I’m sure the viewers don’t want to know about me——’

‘Oh, no false modesty, Christy, please,’ Drew delivered smoothly. ‘Credit your audience with more intelligence. How do you like to spend your wealth, Miss King? Or do you give it all away?’

‘Look——’ There was no mistaking her own annoyance now. She heard the audience collectively snigger and in that moment knew that she had failed miserably. ‘If we could just get back to you, I’m sure——’

‘You’re not doing as well as I had hoped,’ Drew remarked casually, ‘and I have to confess a certain amount of disappointment. I was led to believe you were one of the best when it came to interviewing, Miss King.’

Christy gulped back her shock and struggled to come up with some sort of half-decent reply. ‘I…I find that you’re rather a difficult personality to get to grips with, Mr Michaels,’ she retorted swiftly.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. ‘That’s not what you said last night!’ he drawled casually.

Christy paled visibly beneath the bright lights as the audience chuckled again. A joke, they imagined—if only, Christy thought desperately, if only…

And so it went on…and on…and on…

* * *

She had been a fool to imagine for one moment that she could handle him, of course, that he wouldn’t reap his revenge in some sort of sadistic way. Seven million people had witnessed her verbal humiliation on live television and to this day she still hadn’t truly managed to get over it.

‘Christy?’ She jumped a mile and glanced across to the door. ‘I did knock.’ Lizzie smiled and then a frown of concern furrowed her brow. ‘You OK? You look a bit peaky. Not sickening for something, I hope.’

‘No, no!’ Christy hastily pulled herself together and picked up a comb. ‘You just startled me a little, that was all.’ She managed a watery smile. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Planning all the wonderful things you’re going to do after this evening?’

Stop thinking about him. Stop it! Christy took a deep breath and made an effort to stay with the present. Three years ago, she told herself angrily; stop going over it!

She took a huge breath and determinedly thrust away the images that insisted on haunting her. ‘Umm…sorry, what did you say, Lizzie?’

Her friend’s grey eyes widened teasingly. ‘Hey, you really are in a daydream, aren’t you? I know this is the last one in the series, but you still have tonight’s show to do, you know!’

Christy managed a vague smile. ‘Lizzie…’ she frowned slightly and then made her voice sound casual ‘…that scent you’re wearing. I noticed it when you came in before—it’s new, isn’t it?’

Lizzie raised her hand and smelled the inside of her wrist before offering the same to Christy. ‘Mmm, I like it. But it’s not perfume; I borrowed some of Paul’s incredibly expensive aftershave this morning, I was in such a hurry to get out of the house…’

That was what had started it. So distinctive, not powerful, nor overwhelming, but invasive. Drew had been wearing it that night; the smell had become a part of her as their bodies had entwined together…

‘Time I was out of here,’ Christy murmured, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘Five minutes before transmission. I’ll see you after the show, OK?’

CHAPTER TWO

‘AND that, I’m afraid, is just about it for this series. I’d like to thank my guests this evening—the Right Honourable…’

Christy’s mouth smiled effortlessly as she delivered her closing lines into the television camera, her startling violet-blue eyes skimming the autocue with practised ease. One final heart-stopping curve of her scarlet lips, a slight pause and then her husky, ‘Goodnight,’ and she was swivelling casually back in her by now famous leather chair to chat to her guests as the studio lights dimmed and the credits rolled and the audience clapped their usual enthusiastic response.

She heard the voice of Jeff, the director, in the radio earpiece she wore, telling her that they were off air and that she had just completed yet another great hour of live television, and with an inward sigh of relief she stood up, smiling, to shake hands once again with her guests who had spent the last hour discussing themselves and revealing their innermost thoughts with the viewing nation.

A quick smile and a wave to the studio audience, and then she was disappearing around the back of the elegant set and along the maze of corridors that lead to her dressing-room.

‘How did it go?’ Lizzie, lounging comfortably in one of the two armchairs with a sheaf of papers, looked up and pulled a face. ‘Was it that bad?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Christy flopped down into the other and stretched her slim golden arms far above her head. ‘I thought that final thirty minutes was never going to end. Did you see it on the set in here? That last old fool hardly let me get a word in edgeways!’

‘Better than having someone who clams up completely like earlier this month,’ Lizzie reminded her lightly. ‘You were nearly at your wits’ end then, remember?’

Christy shook her head and gave a tired smile. ‘Don’t remind me! The only trouble was tonight’s guest didn’t say a thing that was worth listening to! I told them I had doubts about him as a guest, but as usual nobody took any notice.’

She rose from the chair in one graceful movement and crossed to the brightly lit dressing-table, slipping off her elegantly styled flame-coloured dress. ‘Still, why am I complaining? It’s over, another series completed.’ She turned, pausing in her task of removing the heavy make-up that was needed for the television cameras, as glamorous and beautiful as any highly paid model with her tumbling blonde hair and perfectly formed features, and produced a smile that shone.

She had been a fool to allow the old stupid memories to intrude, especially tonight of all nights. She had been looking forward to this moment for days, weeks. ‘Well, I’m free, Lizzie! I’m free!’

‘Not exactly free,’ her friend reminded her seriously. ‘You’re straight into the work for this new series of radio interviews; you haven’t forgotten, have you?’

‘Don’t look so worried! Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ Christy replied lightly. ‘I meant I’m free from the restrictions of working three nights a week in this hell-hole.’ She threw back her head and began to brush vigorously at her hair until it shone. ‘God, how I’m sick of the routine.’ She paused, hairbrush in hand, and glanced across at Lizzie, her large violet eyes instantly assessing her friend’s thoughts. ‘Now don’t look at me like that. I know you think I’m an ungrateful devil, Lizzie—that there are a hundred thousand women out there who would give their eyeteeth to do what I do, but any job becomes boring if you do it long enough and you must admit I’ve done more shows here than I can remember.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Lizzie asked, in her usual earnest manner. ‘You’re outstanding at what you do, Christy. The ratings keep on going up, they offer you more money each time your contract is due for renewal just to make sure you stay—what more do you want for goodness’ sakes?’

Christy breathed a sigh and gazed at her reflection in thoughtful contemplation. How could she explain? A great chunk of her felt guilty for even thinking about wanting more. It wasn’t wealth—Lizzie was right, the company did keep throwing money at her just so that she would stay. Goodness knew she earned more now than she knew what to do with. Such a mind-blowing contrast from the hateful years at the children’s home, when personal possessions had been practically non-existent, and bright, glamorous futures, such as the one Christy had found, had been merely dreams.

She released a sigh, thrusting away the old images that still had the ability to depress her a little if she dwelt too long on them. ‘Life’s good, Lizzie, I know that. I’ve come a long way—further than I ever would have dreamed,’ Christy replied with unusual urgency, ‘but there are still things to do, avenues to explore…’ She paused, frowning as she tried to form her thoughts and feelings into satisfactory sentences, ones that would enable her friend to understand. ‘I want…well, I suppose personal satisfaction describes it best. An inner contentment.’ She shook her head and smiled self-consciously. ‘Listen to me! Don’t I sound serious? Oh, take no notice, Lizzie, I’ve had one of those days; I just need a change, that’s all.’ She pulled a comical grimace in the mirror at her own reflection. ‘I know you think I’m mad——’

‘Well, I didn’t say that exactly——’ Lizzie replied hastily.

Christy smiled teasingly. ‘Now don’t bother trying to hide that expression; it’s too late.’ She turned back to the mirror and added moisturiser to her smooth face with a careful sweep of her fingers. ‘Perhaps it’s just ambition burning through me, like one of those joke candles that refuses to be extinguished. Only on my particular cake,’ Christy smiled, ‘there isn’t just one, there’s a whole blazing inferno driving me on, pushing me relentlessly forward. Anyway,’ she added with determined brightness, vowing silently that she must stop indulging in this dreadful self-analysis, ‘let’s look ahead. Have you got the rest of the information on the King series?’

Lizzie delved into her large briefcase and rummaged around for a few seconds before handing over some papers. ‘That’s the confirmed list of interviewees,’ she explained. ‘Eight in total, from every walk of life imaginable. Everything’s been arranged. All you have to do is get to work on your questions and then record.’

Christy’s long slim fingers flicked through the papers, her eyes skimming over the details, most of which were known to her already. The whole idea for a series of radio interviews set in the subject’s own chosen surroundings had been her idea in the first place. ‘Mmm, looks fine. They’ve stuck with most of my suggestions too. Good.’ She lifted her head and gave a satisfied nod.

‘Er…I believe they had trouble with a couple of choices and I don’t know if you noticed but at the end there—er—they added one.’

‘Oh?’ Christy bent her head once again, her hair falling like a curtain around her face as she scanned the list, vaguely intrigued because suddenly Lizzie sounded hesitant, and that wasn’t like her at all.

‘Oh, no!’ Her tone was softly incredulous, totally disbelieving. She flung back her head in an angry movement and then reread that certain name that always, always made her blood boil. ‘Lizzie, why is this man’s name here?’ she demanded in shaky tones. ‘Is…is this some kind of joke?’ She leant forward and stabbed at the paper with a long shiny red fingernail. ‘Look, here!’

She knew it wasn’t. Lizzie would never do such a thing to her. She didn’t know about…Christy swiftly averted her thoughts…but she knew how much she detested the man, didn’t she? ‘Lizzie, there is no way in the world I am interviewing him ever again—not after last time, not after the way he treated me! How long have you known?’ She pushed back the swivel chair and paced the room, almost frantically, her thoughts whirring. ‘Well, it’s impossible! Absolutely out of the question, totally out of the question!’

It was quite a sight—Christy King in full, ferocious action. She stormed up and down the dressing-room, glaring at Lizzie, at the paper that dared to so much as print his name, and then at her reflection in the wall of mirrors.

‘You’ve signed,’ Lizzie reminded matter-of-factly, unperturbed by her friend’s hot temper. ‘There’s not a lot you can do about it——’

‘Oh, can’t I?’ Christy grabbed at her change of clothing from its hanger and swiftly pulled on the elegant grey trouser suit. ‘Well, we’ll see about that!’ She picked up her large leather holdall and stuffed the papers angrily into one of the compartments. ‘No one forces me to interview that man again—no one!’ She marched to the door of her dressing-room and wrenched it open. ‘Oh, Lizzie!’ She paused, turning back with a look that conveyed all her anguish. Part of her wanted to tell. To unburden everything on to the shoulder of a friend, especially one as close as Lizzie, was suddenly tempting in the extreme. But confidences, especially ones so personal, didn’t come naturally. Too many childhood years of locking up emotions, of having to rely on her own resources to see her through had caused that. ‘Please understand it’s not that I’m angry with you or anything…but you…you see…it’s not just because of that awful interview I did with him all those years ago…’ She hesitated, biting at her bottom lip for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No…no, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter. I’ll say goodnight, Lizzie; I’ve got to go and sort this thing out. I’ll call you in the morning.’

Usually she paused at the entrance gate of the television studios and signed the pieces of paper that were thrust through the window of her long, sleek Jaguar. It was perhaps one of the reasons she was so popular. Always, always she took time to stop and chat a little to the regulars who gathered there to see her after the show. Driving past as if she were far too important, the way many a celebrity was inclined to do, never occurred to her. This evening was totally different, though. She whizzed through the gate at breakneck speed without so much as a glance in the direction of the loyal cluster of admirers.

His name, continually buzzing around and around in her head, was driving her mad. What was going on? she wondered desperately, as she roared off through the London traffic towards her home. Drew Michaels hated being photographed, let alone interviewed, so how on earth had his name landed at the bottom of the extremely exclusive list of interviewees?

Christy glared through the windscreen, drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering-wheel as she brought her Jaguar to a halt at a red light, and tried not to think about the possibility that she might have to interview the most audacious, most arrogant man who surely had ever walked on the surface of the planet again, whether she liked it or not.

It was a thought that was too awful to contemplate.

The car in front was slow pulling away and as the lights turned green Christy pressed her hand down on the horn and blasted for all she was worth. It didn’t make her feel a great deal better, but it helped.

‘What do you mean, he offered to be interviewed? Drew Michaels hates being interviewed! He would never do a thing like that.’ Christy listened impatiently as the calming voice on the other end of the telephone line tried to explain something that would never be to her satisfaction. ‘So, because he’s a big star, because it’s too good a chance to pass by, I’m going to have to go along with all this—is that what you’re saying?’ she continued in icy tones. ‘Well, I’m not so sure I want to be involved any more.’ Christy took a calming breath that did little to make her feel any better, and continued with just the same amount of anger, her voice rising with every syllable. ‘And this whole series was my idea; doesn’t that count for anything, don’t I have the slightest say? Yes, yes, I know I’ve signed…’ She listened some more. Her spirits were sinking fast. Drew Michaels, former actor turned best-selling novelist, meant a lot. He was a catch. Three years since that fateful interview and he hadn’t done another one since. Oh, yes, she thought despondently, you may be the darling of the chat-show hosts, Christy King, but you’re in the minor league when it comes to the likes of Mr Drew Michaels. You or him and they’d drop you like a shot! She knew only too well that there were a good handful of wellestablished TV personalities just waiting to leap into her shoes at the first opportunity.

Christy put down the phone with a resounding click after hearing a few more placatory sentences, and lay back against the pillows to stare up at the ruched silk canopy over her bed. She was mad. Anger surged through her veins like molten lava. Had Drew Michaels set this whole thing up deliberately? It would suit his perverted kind of thinking perfectly.

Oh, but that was ridiculous! Why on earth would he care? She had just been another in a long line of women; she knew that much only too well. Hardly a week went by without some snippet of gossip reaching the tabloid press and, even if fifty per cent of the salacious stories about Drew and his numerous liaisons were untrue, as any intelligent person would surmise, that still left the other fifty per cent.

With a despondent sigh, Christy rose from her elegant four-poster bed and walked through to the en suite bathroom frantically trying to decide what to do.

Christy generously tipped the taxi driver and wondered why she hadn’t cancelled her dinner arrangement with Conrad. She wasn’t in any kind of mood for social chit-chat or even long companionable silences, which was what the two of them had seemed to indulge in recently.

She sighed and adjusted her long, sleek skirt. Still, here she was and she might as well make the best of it—after all, it wasn’t Conrad’s fault that Drew Michaels had somehow managed to intrude into her life again after all these years of carefully blotting him from her memory.

Making an entrance came naturally. It wasn’t contrived or planned, it just seemed to happen. Being almost six feet tall helped, of course. Possessing a cascade of waist-length golden hair helped a little too, and add to that a face and a figure that automatically made heads turn, and a flair and style that was second to none, and Christy just couldn’t help but be noticed.

She glided through the restaurant’s hustle and bustle, making her way purposefully to her favourite table at the back of the room—perfectly placed so as to see and yet not be seen. It was her table—that was how she always thought of it. And why not? she thought now. She had patronised this place for years, right back to the early days of her career.

She glanced at her watch and predicted that Conrad would by now have her usual Martini waiting for her on the table, would be scanning the wine list with his usual care.

The place was certainly busy tonight. There was a buzz of lively conversation that almost drowned out the jazz pianist in the far corner. Christy spotted a few faces she knew and smiled her acknowledgement, before heading over to the far corner of the room where her table nestled behind a Japanese-style screen.

‘Hi, Conrad. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you order——’ She was almost sitting down in her usual

seat before Christy realised that she wasn’t talking to Conrad, but to a young stylish redhead with a cleavage like a mountain pass. ‘Oh!’ Christy’s mouth formed the exclamation for a brief moment as she digested the fact that someone else was sitting at her table. She recovered in a fraction of a second and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake——’

‘It’s OK, Christy, we’re in a forgiving mood.’

It was a magnetically deep voice, a curious mixture of the accents from both sides of the Atlantic. Several years ago it had given countless numbers of film-goers reason to laugh and weep in their cinema seats, had attracted an adoring female following.

It was practically unmistakable.

With a fierce jerk of her head, and an almost painful jolt of her heart, Christy’s eyes swivelled sharply to the other side of the table, narrowing with incredulity as she focused on the compelling features of Drew Michaels. She took a sharp intake of breath, pursing her lips angrily as his generous mouth widened into a heart-stopping, but altogether infuriating, attractive smile.

‘Care to join us, Miss King?’ The stunning sapphire eyes mirrored his amusement. He raised one enquiring brow and stared at Christy through dark, spiky lashes. ‘Well, well!’ he drawled after three or four slow seconds of silence in which Christy could do nothing except stare. ‘A celebrated chat-show host lost for words? I find that very hard to believe.’

His gaze travelled the length of her, surveying the halter-style top and matching long plum skirt, with its fashionable sexy thigh-length split, as if he had all the time in the world. As if, Christy thought angrily, she were a possible acquisition that needed one last look before purchase.

‘This is my table,’ Christy ground out through clenched teeth, aware that Drew Michaels had become, if that were possible, even more devastatingly attractive since she had last laid eyes on him.

Dark thick hair, left a little long. Piercing eyes that seemed somehow to delve right into her very soul… Christy took a breath and shifted her gaze from his face. He was dressed in his usual, understated mode: dark jacket, white shirt that was undone casually at the neck, revealing just a hint of strong dark hair, just a hint that the body beneath was tanned and bronzed, full of power and potent male strength. He was so…so blatantly masculine, she thought, forcing herself to think impersonally about him. He exuded an unexplainable aura of self-confidence, of personal relaxation. Nothing seemed to faze him at all. Nothing. But then that was because he didn’t give a damn.

‘This is your table? Indeed?’ His lips twitched with sarcastic amusement. ‘And there was I with the impression that the restaurant owned everything.’ He raised an enquiring brow. ‘Or are you a shareholder? Does the Christy King empire extend to this most exclusive of eating houses now?’

‘You know what I mean!’ Christy replied with crisp acidity, struggling to appear calm, despite everything, despite the fact that she was suddenly seething like a raving-mad woman underneath her glossy exterior. ‘I booked this table two days ago.’ Assuming this aloof, almost haughty expression was practically killing her. She took another deep breath when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer and raised herself up to her full height. ‘I always sit here,’ she added tightly. There was pomposity in her tone and she regretted it immediately. For some reason only this man could do this to her, she thought angrily—bring out the worst part of her nature at a moment’s notice.

‘But not, it seems, tonight.’ Drew Michaels threw her a bored smile and leant back against his chair, picking up the menu as he did so, scanning it casually as if the subject were closed, dismissing Christy as if she were no more than a waitress come to the table with the wrong order.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Christy grated, losing a little of her hard-fought-for composure. ‘I suppose you just waltzed in here and sat down in the first place that took your eye!’

Drew raised his head and cast Christy another distinctly bored glance. ‘No. As a matter of fact we were shown here by Roland, the owner himself. He told us this was the best table in the house, didn’t he, Annette?’ Drew smiled fondly across at his companion, who, Christy noticed, was looking slightly bemused and embarrassed, ‘and wished us a pleasant evening. Of course at that stage,’ he added with deliberate, cutting sarcasm, ‘he wasn’t to know we were going to be verbally accosted by a deranged chat-show hostess.’

‘How dare you?’ Christy’s tone was as sharp as the look in her eyes. ‘I could sue you for slander, or for defamation of character, or…or whatever the proper term is.’

‘And I could call Roland to settle the argument and take great pleasure in making you look very small!’ Drew informed her with quiet menace. ‘Do yourself a favour, Miss King: retreat now, while you still have some shred of credibility left.’

‘Christy!’

She turned, breathless with annoyance, to find Conrad at her elbow, to find practically the whole restaurant listening with avid attention, their eyes swivelled as one in the direction of her, Drew, and the desirable table she was laying claim to.

A long, slow, very, very hot flush rose steadily from the base of her neck up to her face, covering every inch of visible flesh in a vivid puce. So long since she had blushed, so long since she had found herself at the wrong end of a foolish situation. The last time had been three years ago, hadn’t it? With this same, impossible man.

What on earth was she doing? She flinched inwardly and wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

Christy swivelled her head sharply back around and found herself looking at a highly amused Drew Michaels.

‘Christy, we’re sitting somewhere else,’ Conrad whispered, putting himself between her and the other interested diners. ‘Roland apologised but hoped we’d understand as it’s just for this evening. You don’t mind, do you?’ Conrad’s voice was low, embarrassed. He always hated any kind of a scene, Christy thought bitterly, always so well-mannered, so proper, so damn meek! ‘It’s over here,’ he continued hurriedly; ‘quite nice, by the window. I’ve ordered your Martini.’

‘There, Miss King, a quite nice table by the window. All sorted!’ He was mocking Conrad. Such a contrast between the two of them, she realised, such a difference…’Now, there’s no need to apologise for making such a fuss,’ Drew added smoothly. ‘It’s just gratifying to know that you’re capable of making mistakes like the rest of us mere mortals.’

‘Very funny!’ Christy snapped, putting every ounce of cold dislike she could into her gaze, while frantically scanning her brain for some last parting shot, some witty put-down that would help her out of this mess.

It was happening again. Why? Why did her brain always go like stodgy rice pudding when it mattered most—when Drew Michaels was around?

‘Christy!’ Conrad placed a light hand coaxingly on her bare back.

She didn’t move. There were three choices, she decided swiftly. Stay and argue further and look even more ridiculous, go and sit with Conrad and practically choke trying to eat a meal, knowing the whole of the place was gossiping about her, or walk out with head held high and refuse ever to eat in this place again.

Her mind instinctively ran over the last time she had had occasion to meet ‘God’s gift—first to the silver screen and now to the literary world’. The party had been one of the best: well-planned, sumptuous. Full of famous faces. His had been the most famous, of course, an unexpected arrival that had had Vicki, the host, in raptures.

A thoughtful expression spread over Christy’s face as she remembered that night. It had been an enjoyable moment, cutting him completely dead, spearing him with a look of icy aloofness in front of at least a dozen people. He had continued to smile that slow, lazy smile of his, thrown her a look of amusement that had been a little galling at the time, but underneath it all she had just known he was seething. Oh, yes, maybe it had been a small revenge for the way he had treated her, but it had been a sweet one nevertheless.

But it wasn’t enough. And here, here was another occasion. If she didn’t take her chance now, she would never get another opportunity—unless…Christy considered swiftly, running through the newly occurred possibility that maybe, just maybe, if she played her hand very carefully, she could turn everything around.

Three years on. There was just no comparison between the promising young model turned hopeful chat-show host and the sharp, respected interviewer she was today. And she was ready for him this time. Drew Michaels, she thought, aware of her own sudden quickening heart, could surely, with careful questioning, be made to look foolish at the very least.

‘Unless you would both care to join us? Foursomes aren’t generally my thing, but in the circumstances I’m willing to make an exception.’

Christy’s gaze fell to a glass of wine, placed temptingly near to her hand. To throw the contents full in his face appealed to her enormously. Childish, of course, quite out of keeping with her character, but oh, how pleasurable to take that smug look off his face, to still the mobile mouth and dancing eyes for just a moment.

But then, weren’t there far better ways to get her own back, to even the score? Damn it! Why should she allow him to dominate her life? That time, three years ago, needed laying to rest; she needed to settle the score.

She would interview him.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Conrad turn back, hesitate, look pleased about the invitation to join Drew. After all, it was an opportunity not to be missed. He would probably never have the chance of dinner with one of the world’s highest paid, most powerful and most famous men again, and she knew, much to her annoyance, that Conrad was a great fan of the man himself.

Drew pulled out a chair and gestured to it with a deliberate theatrical sweep of his arm. Playing to the crowd, that was what he was doing, making the most of her discomfort, milking the scene for all it was worth—just like last time.

That clinched it.

‘I’ll see you in a week’s time, Michaels, but for now—drop dead!’ Christy hissed, and with a haughty flick of her head and a flounce of her skirts she left Conrad standing alone and vacated the premises with a sharp click of her heels.

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTY frowned irritably and cast narrowed eyes over the vast array of appealing clothes that were housed in her magnificent walk-in wardrobe. Usually she had no problem—no problem at all. But what to wear? What to pack for these damned two days with Drew Michaels—for a weekend that promised to be living purgatory and hell all rolled into one?

He had been irritatingly reticent about the situation of his newest home; secret hide-aways were his speciality—he had a retreat in almost every continent and the exact whereabouts of each one was a wellguarded secret.

Still, Christy decided, determined to be positive, determined not to let self-doubt and fear of what lay ahead eat away at her self-confidence, at her resolution to go through with this no matter what, it was only for two days and it was summer, and she would hardly be roughing it. Drew Michaels was renowned for his good taste in all things. Wherever she would be spending this hateful weekend, it was sure to be in the height of luxury.

The week since the incident in the restaurant had passed all too quickly and as Christy waited with nervous impatience for the car that would take her to his abode she found that not one ounce of annoyance had subsided in that far too short a time. Anger burned away inside, niggling her day and night like an ant bite that simply got redder and more painful.

The sudden blast of a car horn just then made her jump a mile. Silently cursing the driver for disturbing the discreet, tasteful ambience of this most exclusive of neighbourhoods, Christy peered cautiously around one of the ruched lace blinds in her drawing-room and glared at the shiny red Ferrari with scowling irritation. Typical, she thought, that he should employ someone with about the same amount of good manners as himself!

‘Haven’t you heard of doorbells?’ Christy enquired, lowering her head to the open car-door window. ‘Residents around here don’t appreciate a blast of a car horn at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning! Oh!’ She paused and straightened up as Drew Michaels opened the driver’s door and appeared, looking disgustingly fit and healthy. ‘It’s you.’

‘In the flesh.’ He cast her a glance, surveying Christy with a critical eye, and immediately the prickles of antagonism that seemed to spring so easily to the surface whenever she set eyes on him were in action.

‘Something the matter?’ Her voice held enough ice to cause frostbite as she glanced swiftly down at her own attire and picked off a minuscule piece of fluff that was adhering to the finely cut cream trousers she had elected to wear.

Drew shrugged broad shoulders and shook his head with a smile that left Christy feeling a little too uncomfortable. ‘No, not at all. I was just thinking how good, if not altogether practical, you were looking.’ He came around and removed the portable radio equipment and the well-filled holdall from Christy’s reluctant grasp—giving anything at all to Drew Michaels went against the grain. ‘Forget anything?’ he asked pointedly, glancing down at the bulging leather. ‘After all, you are going to be away from home for all of one night!’

Christy threw him a withering look. ‘I happen to take a pride in my appearance—unlike some,’ she added pointedly, casting derisive eyes over his attire of faded denims, battered trainers and a well-worn shirt, which was wound up at the elbows to reveal solid biceps of quite amazing proportions. ‘I don’t see that there’s any need for sarcasm or ridicule, and as,’ she continued haughtily, ‘you gave no indication on how or where I am to be spending the next two days, I had to guess at the sort of thing to wear.’ She glared at him as he walked around to her side of the car, after stowing away her luggage, and opened the passenger door.

‘Me, sarcastic? Perish the thought!’ he drawled smoothly. ‘And risk the ferocity of Miss King’s displeasure?’ He shook his head, a derisive smile twitching the corner of his mouth. ‘Time is passing, Miss King; get in. Oh, and try to take that scowl off your face.’ He placed a guiding hand on Christy’s back. ‘It’s giving the neighbours something to talk about.’ He raised a hand and waved to a window two doors along and a bedroom curtain fell swiftly back into place. ‘You see,’ he added as he got back into the Ferrari, ‘this area isn’t any different from all the rest—there are nosy old bats like that one wherever you happen to live.’

‘That woman happens to be a baroness!’ Christy retorted sharply. ‘She’s hardly an old bat.’

Drew started the car and the engine roared into powerful life. ‘Well, nosy old baroness, then,’ he amended easily, stretching the seatbelt across his broad chest. ‘As I said, there’s very little difference.’

‘That’s just the sort of remark I would have expected from you,’ Christy replied, as she fastened herself in. ‘Typical! And for your information, if I want to scowl for the whole of the time I have to suffer your company, I will—OK?’

The broad, rugged frame beside her shrugged with obvious unconcern. ‘Your choice. But don’t you think it’s going to be rather a long forty-eight hours?’

Christy cast a sideways glance and glared at the strongly shaped profile. ‘It’s going to be eternity whatever I do,’ she replied with a sweet smile. ‘So what’s the point in trying to hide my deeper feelings? Scowling comes naturally when you’re anywhere in my vicinity.’ She paused momentarily, and then added, ‘Unless you haven’t worked it out already, Mr Drew Michaels, I’ll say it now loud and clear, just so we both know where we are—I don’t happen to like you.’

She was dying to see a reaction, an indication that she had annoyed him, angered him, hurt his pride, that ego which so often afflicted big stars in the worst kind of way. Christy watched and waited and saw little, except evidence of that brand of patronising amusement that was usually reserved for silly young children who didn’t know any better.

‘Oh, I think I’ve worked that one out all right.’ Drew’s mouth widened as he manoeuvred the car through the heavy London traffic. ‘And all by myself too, and, just so we both know where we stand, let me say now that I’m not too impressed by you either.’ He turned cold eyes upon her. ‘Did you see the articles in the gossip columns relating to our little contretemps in the restaurant last week, by the way?’

‘No!’ Christy replied snappily, turning to gaze out of the window. ‘I did not.’

‘Probably just as well,’ Drew replied cuttingly. ‘You did come out of it looking rather…’ he paused and pretended to struggle for the right word ‘…ridiculous? But then I know you have quite a strength of character. You do, I’m sure, get over such embarrassing set-backs.’ His mouth curled tauntingly. ‘The various snippets were rather unkind. Such a shame, I thought, the way they seemed to ridicule you. And Conrad, poor, innocent bystander that he was, got roped in rather badly too.’ He paused and then added in tones that had ‘wind up’ written all over them, ‘I mean, you only have to look at the man to see that he’s not nearly as much of a wimp as they made out.’

‘He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be!’ Christy responded with unthinking fervour. She glanced angrily across and saw Drew’s mocking expression far too late.

‘A tiger in bed?’ he quipped icily. ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Christy snapped, her eyes blazing. ‘Typical, though, of you to bring the conversation down to that level. Conrad happens to be a good friend, that’s all! And besides, I don’t judge a true man on how he happens to perform between the sheets. It doesn’t make one iota of difference to me.’

Drew raised one dark, disbelieving brow. ‘No?’

‘No!’ Her cheeks felt hot. She surreptitiously placed long, manicured fingers against her skin and hoped to goodness he hadn’t noticed her flush of embarrassment.

‘Not a subject you wish to discuss, I see.’ Drew glanced across with an infuriating smile at Christy’s uncomfortable expression. ‘So why’s that? Either Conrad’s an abject failure in bed, or the poor devil hasn’t been given the opportunity to prove himself one way or the other. Which is it, Christy? I find I’m really quite intrigued.’

‘You’re a coarse rat, aren’t you?’ she shot back angrily, turning towards him. ‘And downright disgusting! And if you imagine for one second that I would even begin to reveal parts of my personal life to you, you’re——’

‘You’ve revealed more than aspects of your personal life to me—or has that rather passionate moment in time slipped from your memory?’ he asked, with deliberate bluntness.

So, just a few minutes into the weekend and he had already decided to throw that at her! She stared sideways as the Ferrari overtook a black taxi cab and forced herself to keep cool. ‘I cut all memory of that great mistake from my mind the moment I left the hotel bedroom!’ she informed him icily. ‘As far as I’m concerned it was a totally forgettable experience!’

Drew turned and cast observant blue eyes over Christy’s flushed, angry face. ‘So why are you so uptight, then? Tell me that.’

Forty-eight hours of this? Christy thought angrily. I’m going to go mad at least a dozen times over! ‘I’m not uptight!’ she snapped haughtily. ‘And… and——’ she steeled herself ‘—and if you think that the fact that we had brief, unmeaning sex once three years ago has any bearing now on how I feel, then your ego is bigger than I estimated! Look, I’ll make it plain now, shall I, Mr Michaels?’ she added with force. ‘I’m here because I’ve signed a contract for this series and under the terms of that ludicrous piece of paper I have to undertake to interview you. I am a professional and, as much as I would prefer to be doing other things, such as spring-cleaning my house, shopping for mundane items, or even washing my hair, I will endeavour to carry out the terms of my contract to the full. However, in no area of small print does it say that I have to like the people I interview. I will of course be civil at all times——’

‘Civil?’ He laughed out loud, filling the confined interior of the car with an infectious sound that in any other circumstances would have been incredibly pleasing.

Christy turned her head away, annoyed beyond belief that he should be so genuinely amused, so unperturbed by what she had just said. She hadn’t wanted to refer to that time, but to allow him to think for just one moment that what had happened then did in any way mean anything to her…

She took a deep breath, refusing to acknowledge for even a second that Drew Michaels looked more gorgeous than ever, when his eyes crinkled with laughter and his mouth broadened to reveal strong, incredibly white teeth.

‘Well, I must say,’ he continued when his mirth had subsided a little, ‘that I’m looking forward to seeing you when you’re really angry. Will a mere man survive the wrath of Christy King, do you suppose?’

‘I will of course be civil,’ she continued determinedly, keeping her gaze fixed out of the sidewindow, ‘but you will be sorely disappointed if you hope for any sort of atmosphere, other than——’

‘OK. OK, I get the picture.’ Drew changed through the gears and turned off a busy main road. ‘You’re spending time with me under sufferance and if I expect the same sort of response as last time——’

‘You’re going to be sorely disappointed!’ Christy finished for him in crisp tones. ‘I never make the same mistake twice, Mr Michaels; you want to remember that.’

‘You don’t consider this a mistake, then—agreeing to spend two days solely in my company?’ he enquired tauntingly.

She felt a lurch of trepidation and knew instantly that it was a mistake, and a very big one at that. God, she had been an absolute fool to imagine for one moment that she could get the better of this man. ‘Wwhy should I?’ she managed carelessly. ‘As I made plain before, I’m here to do——’

‘Yes. I know.’ He turned and curved his lips into a contemptuous smile. ‘You’re here to do a job.’

‘Where exactly are we going?’

They had been travelling for some miles. The question of her destination hadn’t occurred to her before now—she had been too busy fuming over all that he had said. But earlier this morning it had been the first thing she had promised herself she would ask.

‘Wait and see.’ He reached forward and pressed the car’s CD player into action.

‘And if I don’t wish to?’ Christy replied stiffly, trying her best to be heard above the thumping, incessant beat of heavy rock, which was reverberating throughout the car’s suddenly claustrophobic interior. ‘I would like to know where we’re going now.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to wait to find out, because right at this moment I don’t care to enlighten you.’ He glanced carelessly across and threw her a glittering look. ‘Let’s just keep it as a surprise, shall we?’

As the miles passed, Christy became more and more intrigued as to where Drew Michaels was driving them both. All the reasonable, most likely possibilities were knocked off her mental list one by one, and as the Ferrari began to make its way along a dusty track she had to fight against her natural curiosity and feign complete and utter uninterest. After Drew’s last remark, she had decided that unless speech was absolutely necessary she would play dumb all the way. Besides, battling against the music would have been almost impossible anyway. And after all, what did it matter where they were going? she thought irritably. If he wanted to play silly little games then that was up to him…

The light aircraft looked too small and too fragile. Christy sat staring at it through the windscreen of the parked Ferrari and wondered if Drew Michaels was enjoying the effects of producing this, his trump card.

‘Come along, Miss King, time to get out. I have your bag and your equipment.’

She swallowed with difficulty, aware that her throat had suddenly turned as dry as a desert, and immediately began to rummage in her handbag. ‘I…I just need to fix my face.’ With shaking hands she fumbled for the soft coral lipstick she had chosen to wear with her outfit and attempted to look as if she meant what she said.

Drew heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘Your lips look perfect, your face looks perfect, in fact your whole body looks absolutely gorgeous, as you very well know. Now forget your face and hurry up! I want to get going before the weather changes. The forecast isn’t too good for later on today…’

Christy listened to the last sentence with a sinking heart, immediately visualising the prospect of flying goodness knew where in a flimsy light aircraft with thunder and lightning and wind and turbulence and all the other awful possibilities that always sprang to mind whenever the prospect of flying loomed into view.

Did he know how much she detested it? she wondered, as she doggedly began powdering her nose. Was he really planning to take her up in the sky in that thing, simply to get his own back, to make her suffer?

The small round compact mirror reflected her sudden pale complexion. Christy snapped it shut and glanced up into his face, her large violet eyes wide with sudden anxiety. What to do? Refuse point-blank without an explanation? Tell him? She shook her head involuntarily. And give him the ammunition to parade that weakness in front of her? She glanced over to the stationary aircraft. If only it hadn’t been so small. Getting into jumbo jets had taken her two years of determined self-will and discipline; only recently had she started to feel any amount of confidence about trusting herself to the skies. But in this thing?

‘Am I allowed to know where you plan to take me now?’ she asked in a voice that was surprisingly firm, surprisingly cool and controlled, despite everything.

‘Don’t look so worried, Miss King; you make it sound as if I’m kidnapping you at the very least!’ Drew slanted her a slightly puzzled look. ‘We’re just going up to Scotland. I have a particularly beautiful old farmhouse there, right on the edges of a loch.’

Scotland. Was that good? Christy wondered, desperately trying to find some crumb of comfort on which to hold. Well, at least they weren’t going to cross the Channel; there would be firm ground below them for all of the way.

She found herself gazing into his face, surveying the stunning, dark features, picturing the contemptuous curve of the lips that would surely appear if she told him how frightened she was at the prospect of flying.

You’re going to do it. The voice was small and unsure, but it was there deep inside forcing her on. You must. There is no way you are going to allow this ridiculous phobia to get the better of you. You are going to be strong and composed and you are not going to allow Drew Michaels to have any suspicions at all.

Her legs felt like jelly as she got out of the car and waited while he locked it up. Crossing the tarmac was like living a nightmare, watching as the plane became larger and larger, but still, as far as Christy was concerned, not large enough.

She was so preoccupied with keeping her fear at a controllable level and her composure intact that it wasn’t until Drew was actually strapping himself in beside her that she realised that it was he that was going to pilot the plane.

‘You fly?’ Her voice didn’t sound quite normal, but he seemed not to notice.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Christy watched nervously as he placed dark glasses on his nose, a pair of headphones over his thick dark hair, and began to check the dials in front of him.

‘How long?’

‘Oh, I got my licence just last week; I’m looking forward to having a practice.’

Christy felt the colour drain from her face. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? Practice? She stared ahead out of the window and thought about backing out, telling him she just couldn’t go through with the flight. So what if she looked a complete fool? It had happened before, hadn’t it? She had survived.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Drew glance across. ‘Are you feeling OK?’ His dark brows were drawn together slightly and Christy saw a vague expression of concern shadowing his face. ‘Look, I was only kidding before,’ he added carelessly, handing her some headphones. ‘I’ve actually been flying for ten years now. I have more flying hours under my belt than I care to remember so you’ve no need to worry.’

‘Who said I was worried?’ Christy arched surprised eyebrows and tried to play the part of someone totally in control. ‘I’m just not particularly enamored about flying all the way to Scotland, that’s all!’

‘Why not? It’s a very beautiful country.’

He flicked numerous switches, checked dials and then before she knew what was happening the engine roared into life. Christy swallowed back the lump in her throat and hastily fastened her seatbelt.

Too late, she thought, surreptitiously gripping the seat as the aircraft taxied along the runway. You can’t tell him now, you stupid girl!

She felt the prickle of fear, the sudden sickness in the pit of her stomach as the plane got up speed and closed her eyes tightly as the aircraft lurched into the cloudless blue sky. When she finally found the courage to open them again, she realised he was watching her.

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