‘Max. What do you want?’ she demanded rudely.

‘Coffee, thanks,’ he replied briskly. ‘Black. One sugar.’ He dropped down into one of the comfortable armchairs.

Abby frowned. ‘I wasn’t offering you anything to drink,’ she told him impatiently.

‘No?’ He raised dark brows, his grey gaze moving slowly over her face before moving down to her slender curves in denim and a blue T-shirt. ‘What were you offering me, then?’

Carole Mortimer was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and twenty-five books for Harlequin. Carole has four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie dog called Merlyn. She says, ‘I’m in a very happy relationship with Peter Senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship.’

Recent titles by the same author:

The Prince Brothers trilogy

PRINCE’S PASSION

PRINCE’S PLEASURE

PRINCE’S LOVE-CHILD

The Innocent Virgin
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

ABBY stepped into the hot scented bathwater, sat down, and let her shoulders sink beneath the luxurious bubbles, ebony hair secured loosely on top of her head, a glass of champagne in one hand, her mobile phone in the other.

She took a large sip from the former before gently dropping the latter into the water beside her, smiling at the satisfying ‘glug’ it gave before sinking to the bottom without trace. The four-inch layer of bubbles simply closed back over the temporary dent the mobile had made in their formation.

The landline was unplugged, the speaker system from her doorbell in the street downstairs switched off. Nothing and no one was going to disturb this hour of decadence.

She took another sip of the champagne and gazed from the free-standing claw-footed bath at her surroundings. Twelve scented candles were her only illumination and a dreamy smile touched her lips as she looked at her frankly opulent surroundings. The floors and walls were of peach-coloured marble, the glass-sided shower unit that stood at one end of the large room had all its fittings gold-plated; the towels on the racks were a sumptuous peach of the exact shade as the walls and floor. Monty was sitting on the laundry basket, all her bottles of perfume were neatly lined up on the glass shelf beneath the tinted mirror, the bucket of ice containing the bottle of champagne was right beside her, and—

Monty was sitting on the laundry basket!

Her gaze swivelled sharply back to look at him. No, it wasn’t the champagne she had already imbibed; Monty really was sitting on top of the laundry basket, unmoving, those green cat-like eyes unblinking.

Well, of course his eyes were cat-like—he was a cat, after all. A huge white, long-haired Persian, to be exact.

Not that Monty was aware of this himself. Somewhere in his youth someone had forgotten to mention this little fact to him, and now he chose to ignore any reference to his species.

Abby wasn’t to blame for this oversight; Monty had already been a year old when she’d chosen him over the other cats at the animal rescue centre. At least, she had thought she had chosen him; within a very few days of arriving home with him it had become more than obvious that Monty had done the choosing. Someone soft and malleable, he must have decided. Someone still young enough to be moulded into the indulgent, pandering human he needed to make his life completely comfortable. Enter Abby.

‘Well, of course that’s going to change now, Monty, old chap.’ She waved her champagne glass with bravado. ‘No more boiled chicken and salmon for you, I’m afraid,’ she warned him ruefully. ‘From now on you’ll be lucky if I can afford to buy you that tinned food you consider so much beneath your notice!’

Cats, she was sure, weren’t supposed to be able to look at you with scepticism and disdain, and yet that was exactly what Monty was doing at this moment. He had several easily readable expressions, from ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ to the smug ‘Aren’t I lucky to own an accommodating human like Abby?’. At the moment it was definitely the former.

‘It isn’t my fault,’ Abby assured him with another wave of her champagne glass—which definitely needed replenishing, she decided, and did exactly that. ‘It’s that man’s fault.’ She took a huge swallow of her champagne. ‘I mean, whoever thought he would do such a thing?’

She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry!

But of course she did, her tears accompanied by huge, heaving sobs.

How could he have done that to her? And on public television, live, in front of millions of viewers.

Oh, God…!

Every time she even thought of that she felt her humiliation all over again.

‘Weeks and weeks—several weeks, anyway,’ she amended tearfully. ‘Well, okay, seven.’ She sniffed inelegantly. ‘All that time I’ve been gently trying to persuade that man to come on my show. Yes, I know you liked him, Monty.’ Her voice rose with indignation on her bland-faced pet’s behalf. ‘So did I,’ she admitted heavily. ‘But if you only knew—if you had only heard—I had no idea, Monty.’ She shuddered. ‘Absolutely none!’ If she had she would never have got out of bed this morning!

In fact, it was worse than that. If she had guessed in any way just how deep her annihilation was going to be this evening she would have taken a one-way trip to Bolivia earlier today and spared herself all the pain.

She had always liked the sound of that name. Bolivia. It sounded so romantic, so mysterious, so different. But, knowing her luck, it was probably nothing like that at all. She had always liked the sound of the so-called Bermuda Triangle too, but no doubt that was just another myth…

She had probably had too much champagne.

‘Okay, okay, so my thoughts are wandering,’ she acknowledged, as Monty seemed to look at her with derision. ‘But if you only knew, Monty.’ She began to cry again, the tears hot on her cheeks. ‘If you had only heard what that man said to me! You would have been shocked, Monty. Shocked!’

Abby had actually passed being shocked where this evening was concerned. She had reached surreal now, able to envisage that whole humiliating experience as if in slow motion—like a reel of film going round and round in the projector.

‘Oh, God, Monty!’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t ever leave this apartment again! I’ll have to barricade the door, put bars on the windows. I daren’t ever go out in public again!’ She took another slurp of her champagne, the salt of her tears mixing with the bubbly wine. ‘Once our supplies run out, we’ll both simply starve to death!’ she added shakily.

Four months ago it had all looked so promising. As the weather girl for a breakfast television show—an interesting career move, considering she couldn’t tell a cold front from an isobar!—she had been asked to stand in for the female half of the presentation team while the other woman went on maternity leave for several months. She had made a impact, and a well-known producer had approached her with an offer to do six half-hour chat shows, to be shown live the following spring.

The next three months had been a dream come true for Abby—choosing the guests for each week, researching, negotiating the appearance of those guests—and everything had gone well until it had come to the guest she had chosen for her final show.

Max Harding.

Her intention had been to finish the series on a high note. Once the presenter of his own current affairs programme, Max Harding had returned to reporting foreign news and hadn’t appeared in a British studio in two years. Not since he had walked away from his own programme, and the lucrative contract that went with it, after one of his political guests had tried to commit suicide on the live Sunday evening show.

Max Harding’s personal elusiveness since that time, his flat refusal even to discuss the subject, would make him a prime finale, Abby had thought, for her own series of shows.

But she should have known, Abby berated herself now. Should have guessed what his intentions were when he had finally—surprisingly—agreed to be her guest.

‘He meant to hurt and humiliate me, Monty.’ Her voice hardened angrily at the memory. ‘All the time you liked him so much—that I—that we—How could he do that to me, Monty? How could he?’ Her ready tears began to fall again. ‘But I showed him, Monty. In fact, I showed everyone watching as well,’ she remembered with a pained groan. ‘Millions and millions of people sat in their homes and watched as I hit him. Yes, you did hear me correctly; I hit Max Harding—on live television!’

Abby closed her eyes as the memory overwhelmed her. She wasn’t a violent person—had never hit anyone in her life before, never wanted to hit anyone before. But she had certainly hit Max Harding this evening.

‘Actually, it was worse than that, Monty.’ She choked, not at all concerned with the fact that a lot of people might think it strange that she was having this conversation with her cat. Temporary insanity was certainly a plea she could make for her actions tonight, but at the moment it was the least of her problems. ‘It wasn’t just a gentle slap on the cheek.’ She groaned. ‘He annoyed me so much, hurt me so much, that I swung my arm back and belted him with all the force that I could. It was perfect, Monty. Right on his arrogant chin.’ She smiled through her tears with remembered pleasure. ‘You should have seen the stunned look on his face. Then his chair toppled backwards, taking him with it, and he was knocked unconscious as he hit the floor!’

And Monty should have seen her own face as her anger had left her and she’d realised exactly what she had done…

The studio had grown so hushed you could literally have heard a pin drop. The small studio audience deathly quiet, no one even seeming to breathe; the camera crew no longer looking into their cameras but staring straight at her in open-mouthed disbelief.

Her director in the control room had been the first to recover, screaming in her earpiece, ‘Abby—what the hell are you doing? Say something,’ he yelled, when she could only stand there in mute silence, staring down at the slumped form of Max Harding. ‘Abby, do something!’ Gary had instructed harshly as she still didn’t move. ‘This is live television, remember?’

She had remembered then, turning to look at the surrounding cameras, realising they were still transmitting.

In her panic there had been only one thing she could do—no other choice left open to her. With a startled cry, she’d stepped over Max Harding’s prostrate body before running out of the studio as if pursued.

No one had spoken to her as she’d run. No one had even attempted to stop her.

And why would they? She had totally blown it—had broken the cardinal rule of not losing your cool on public television, of always remaining calm and in control, no matter what the provocation. No matter what the provocation!

Her career was in ruins. She would never appear on television ever again.

Which was why she was now locked in her apartment, with the telephone disconnected, the intercom to the doorbell downstairs switched off, and her mobile lying waterlogged in the bottom of the bath.

‘Okay, that last gesture may have been a little drastic,’ Abby allowed, as Monty looked at her with disapproval. ‘Especially as I’m now effectively unemployed—unemployable!—and will never be able to afford to buy a new one. But do you know the worst of it, Monty? The absolute worst of it?’ Her voice shook with emotion now, tears once again falling hotly down her cheeks. ‘I know you liked him, but I actually thought I was in love with him!’ she burst out shakily. ‘I was in love with Max Harding!’ She whipped herself with the lash again. ‘Now I wish I had never even set eyes on him!’

Until seven weeks ago she hadn’t even met him.

Seven weeks ago she had been riding on the crest of a wave, euphoric at her success in landing her own half-hour show, full of enthusiasm as she researched and then met her guests, overjoyed at her apparent overnight success at only twenty-seven.

But seven weeks ago Max Harding had still been just a name to her—a reputation, several dozen photographs. She hadn’t met the flesh-and-blood man then.

Hadn’t fallen in love with him…

CHAPTER TWO

‘YES?’

Abby could only stare at the man standing in the open doorway of the apartment; she hadn’t seen this much naked male flesh since she’d sat on a beach in Majorca last year.

And very male flesh it was too. But the towel wrapped around the man’s slim waist and the dampness of his dark hair told her exactly why it had taken four knocks on the apartment door for him to answer—he had obviously been taking a shower when she arrived.

Alone? Or with someone? Whatever; this man’s semi-nakedness took her breath—and her voice—away.

Not that she wasn’t familiar with Max Harding’s looks. She had seen him dozens of times on the news over the last couple of years, reporting from one war-torn country or another, and had also watched hours of footage of the political forum programme he’d hosted until two years ago.

But in the first case he was usually wearing some sort of combat gear and a flak jacket, shouting his report over the whine of bullets as they whistled past his ears. And in the second instance he had always been sitting down in one of those high-back leather chairs, wearing a dark formal suit with a shirt and tie.

In both cases he had been on the small screen, minimised before being transmitted into people’s homes.

He was huge, was Abby’s first thought. It wasn’t just his height, of about six feet two inches, he also had incredibly wide and muscled shoulders, his skin was darkly tanned, the ebony hair on that powerful chest tapered down to—

‘Seen enough?’

Not nearly enough, was her second, slightly fevered thought. Oh, dear! was her wincing next one, as she slowly raised her gaze back to his face, her cheeks awash with embarrassed colour.

Really, it might be some time since she had seen a man naked—or in this case semi-naked—but she had seen one or two!

But looking at Max Harding’s face wasn’t reassuring. She had hoped the severity of his expression on television was due to the seriousness of his subject matter, but even one glance at his rock-hewn features was enough to tell her that those weren’t laughter lines beside the intense grey eyes, the arrogant slash of a nose and sculptured unsmiling mouth. This man looked as if he rarely smiled, let alone laughed!

Abby straightened her shoulders, deliberately arranging her features into ‘serious but pleasant’. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, Mr Harding, but I’m Abby Freeman—‘

She didn’t get any further than that. The door firmly slammed in her face.

He had heard of her, she thought ruefully. His reaction was a bit drastic, though! Especially as he must have received at least two letters concerning appearing on her show—one from her researchers, and one from her personally. Neither of which he had answered. But he might at least have—

Her eyes widened as the door suddenly swung open again. A hand reached out to grasp the collar of her jacket, and she was unceremoniously pulled inside the apartment, her boot-clad feet barely touching the luxurious carpet.

‘Mr Harding—’

‘How the hell did you get up here?’ He glowered down at her, somehow still managing to look imposing despite his lack of clothing and the wild disorder of his overlong dark hair.

Abby blinked, totally stunned at finding herself inside the apartment instead of outside it.

She delayed answering as she pulled her white T-shirt back into place beneath her black jacket, her ebony hair loose onto her shoulders, blue eyes wide as she fought her inner feelings of indignation.

‘I said—’

‘The man downstairs let me in,’ she cut in.

‘After you told him what?’ Max Harding bit out contemptuously, hands on narrow hips.

Bare hips, Abby noted somewhat awkwardly. The towel was starting to slip down those long, muscular, hair-covered legs.

‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Miss Freeman,’ he reminded her harshly, those grey eyes glacial now.

Abby bristled; he sounded like a schoolteacher talking to a disobedient schoolgirl!

‘Maybe you should go and put some clothes on?’ she suggested with forced pleasantness. ‘I’m sure you—’ and she! ‘—would be more comfortable if you did.’

‘I’m not uncomfortable, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her derisively, enjoying the fact that she obviously was. His mouth hardened before he spoke again. ‘Exactly what story did you spin Henry in order to get him to let you up here without first ringing me?’

That cold silver gaze was very forceful, Abby decided with discomfort. The sort of gaze that would compel you to confess to whatever it was this man wanted you to confess to, whether you were guilty or not.

She grimaced. ‘I told him I was your younger sister, that it’s your birthday today, and that I wanted to surprise you,’ she answered truthfully.

That sculptured mouth twisted wryly. ‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he drawled.

Her cheeks flushed. ‘Now, look—’

‘On your way out,’ Max Harding continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you can tell him you succeeded.’ He opened the door pointedly. ‘I’ll tell him what I think later!’ he added grimly.

Abby didn’t move towards the door. Having got this far, she had no intention of leaving just yet. ‘I hope not with any idea of reprimand in mind? I can be very persuasive when I try.’ She gave him an encouraging smile.

A smile he made no effort to return, and that steely, unamused grey gaze quickly made the smile falter and then fade.

Back to business, she decided hastily. ‘I’ve written to you several times, Mr Harding—’

‘Twice, to be exact,’ he interrupted, his terse tone telling her that he liked to be that, at least. ‘Two letters, both of which I read before duly consigning them to the bin!’

He had enjoyed telling her that, Abby realised with an annoyance she tried hard not to show—one of them being antagonistic was quite enough! Besides, she couldn’t afford to be. She had assured the sarcastic and sceptical Gary Holmes, director of The Abby Freeman Show, that she would get Max Harding to appear on her final show. A very ambitious claim, she had come to realise over the last few weeks, but she needed something—someone!—really impressive to finish the series if she were to stand any chance of being offered another contract.

Though she did wish she had approached Max Harding before making that ambitious claim to Gary…!

She gave Max Harding a bright, unruffled smile. ‘Then you will be aware that the whole of the half-hour show will be dedicated to you—’

‘No.’

‘Oh, but I’m sure I made that clear in my letter.’ Abby frowned. ‘I would hardly offer less to a man of your professional stature—’

‘Cut the bull, Miss Freeman,’ he bit out harshly. ‘In this case flattery, professional or otherwise, will get you precisely nowhere! I have no intention, now or ever, of appearing on The Abby Freeman Show.’ He made the programme title sound like something obscene.

Nevertheless, Abby persevered; this was too important to allow obvious insults to upset her. ‘But you’re such an interesting man, Mr Harding,’ she said lightly. ‘You’ve seen so much, done so much, and I’m sure the general public would be fascinated to hear about—’

‘The general public have absolutely no more interest than you do in hearing about any of the things I’ve seen and done,’ he rasped coldly. ‘All anyone wants to hear about from me is the night Rory Mayhew tried to commit suicide on my television programme.’ His eyes glittered icily. ‘It also happens to be the one thing I will never discuss in public. Is that clear enough for you, Miss Freeman?’

Crystal-clear. And he was partly right about the Rory Mayhew ‘incident’; obviously it was such a big thing that she could hardly not ask about it. But it certainly wasn’t the only thing she wanted him to talk about. They could hardly discuss an attempted suicide for the whole of a thirty-minute interview, for goodness’ sake.

‘I thought about mentioning that initially, obviously,’ she conceded. ‘But then I thought we could move on to other things. Your last two years as a foreign correspondent have made fascinating listening, and—’

‘I said no, Miss Freeman.’

‘Oh, please do call me Abby,’ she invited, with a warmth she was far from feeling. In fact, the coldness emanating from this man was enough to make her give an involuntary shiver.

‘You can call me Mr Harding,’ he bit out. ‘But first—’ he moved to close the door again, its soft click much more ominous than the loud slam of a few minutes ago ‘—I have one or two questions I would like to put to you.’

The sudden smoothness of his tone was more menacing than his previous sarcasm and coldness, making Abby very aware that she was completely alone in this penthouse apartment with a powerful-looking man. A very angry, half-naked, powerful-looking man!

She gave him another of her bright, confident smiles—although inside she was neither of those things. This meeting with Max Harding wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. ‘Fire away, Mr Harding,’ she invited lightly. ‘I’m happy to answer any questions you have concerning the programme. In fact, I look on it as a very positive—’

‘My questions have absolutely nothing to do with your programme, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her scornfully, ‘and everything to do with how you obtained my personal address in the first place.’ His voice had hardened over this last, his expression grim.

Not much of a chance of him offering her a coffee, then! Or inviting her to sit down in the comfortable lounge she could see through the open doorway behind her.

Not much chance of this turning into a successful meeting, either, if the conversation so far was anything to go by.

‘And don’t say the local telephone book,’ he warned. ‘Because I’m ex-directory.’

Her palms were starting to feel slightly damp, and she was sure there was an unbecoming sheen materialising on her top lip.

Nevertheless, she forced another carefree smile to her face. ‘The how isn’t really important—’

‘It is to me.’ He stood firmly in front of the door now—her only means of escape!—powerfully muscled arms folded in front of that bare chest.

In the same circumstances, wrapped only in a towel, Abby knew that she would feel at a distinct disadvantage talking to anyone. And yet this man gave no such impression—in fact, the opposite. He seemed to know exactly how his near-nakedness was making her feel—and he was enjoying watching her squirm.

Because squirming she undoubtably was. This man, Max Harding, she was becoming increasingly aware, exuded a sexual magnetism that had very little to do with whether or not he was wearing any clothes! There was a toughness to him, a self-containment, that at thirty-nine had been hard earned.

He made a sudden movement, quickly followed by the first sign of amusement, albeit mocking, she had seen on his harsh features. Abby instinctively took a step backwards. ‘I don’t usually eat little girls like you until after breakfast,’ he drawled, grey eyes mocking as he looked her over with slow deliberation. ‘You’re one of those “bright young things” the powers-that-be in public television have decided the masses want piped into their homes every minute of the day and night, aren’t you?’

‘I—’

‘What did you do before being given The Abby Freeman Show?’ he continued, unabated. ‘Present one of those kids programmes where you have to constantly look like a teenager—even though you’re not—and rush around risking life and limb climbing mountains and jumping out of aeroplanes? I’m sorry, what did you say?’ he prompted scornfully as Abby muttered something inaudible.

Her chin rose defensively, twin circles of colour in her cheeks. ‘I said I was the weather presenter on a breakfast show, and then the stand-in presenter,’ she repeated tautly. Withstanding Max Harding’s obvious derision certainly hadn’t been in her plans for today!

He continued to look at her, his expression blank now, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly. And then his mouth twitched and he began to laugh, a harsh, humourless sound that echoed the scorn in his eyes. ‘A weather girl?’ he finally sobered enough to say disbelievingly.

Her cheeks felt on fire now. ‘You don’t have a lot of respect for your fellow presenters, do you?’

‘On the contrary, Abby, I have immense respect for my fellow presenters—you just don’t happen to be one!’

This was important to her—very important if she was to prove to Gary Holmes she wasn’t the lightweight he insisted on treating her as. But right now, with Max Harding’s derision directly in her face, she wanted to turn on her heel and run. Unfortunately, Max Harding still stood between her and the door!

Attack, she was sure, was still the best form of defence. ‘I never had you figured for a misogynist, Mr Harding!’

He didn’t even grimace at the insult. ‘Oh, but I’m not, Abby,’ he told her, silkily soft, his grey eyes hooded as he looked her over with slow deliberation from her toes to the top of her ebony head. The arrogantly mocking gaze finally returned to her flushed face and he gave a derisive shake of his head. ‘You just aren’t my type,’ he drawled, with deliberate rudeness.

She should never have come here, Abby realised belatedly. She had thought she was being so clever, fooling Henry downstairs, and had been quietly patting herself on the back at her success all the way up here in the lift. But all she had really succeeded in doing was totally annoying this man. And even on this short an acquaintance she knew he would be dangerous when he was annoyed!

Come to that, he was dangerous when he wasn’t annoyed. She couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking of!

She hadn’t really been thinking at all, she finally realized. Had been too stung by Gary Holmes’s scornful scepticism that she would ever persuade Max Harding to appear on her show to plan this meeting today any further than actually meeting the man face to face.

‘You and my director should meet,’ she snapped irritably. ‘The two of you have so much in common!’

‘Doesn’t he like working with amateurs either?’ Max Harding taunted.

That was it.

She had had enough.

More than enough!

She had already spent weeks at the sharp end of Gary Holmes’s sarcastic tongue; she had no intention of taking it from this man too! Besides, he wasn’t going to appear on her show anyway, so she really had nothing to lose!

She drew herself up angrily. ‘I have no idea why I ever thought anyone would be interested in hearing anything you have to say.’ And she didn’t—not anymore. ‘You’re rude. You’re arrogant. You’re mocking, and thoroughly unpleasant. And I don’t like you!’ Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

Max Harding continued to look at her for several long seconds, and then he gave a decisive nod. ‘That, my dear Abby, is the most honest thing you’ve said all morning! Come on.’ He stepped past her into the lounge. ‘I’ll put some coffee on to brew while I’m dressing.’

Abby stood open-mouthed, watching him as he strolled across the sitting room and into what she assumed must be the kitchen.

She had been as rude and brutally frank as he was himself, and now he was offering to make her coffee!

She gave a slightly befuddled shake of her head before following him. She would have given up all pretence of politeness long before now if she had known this would be the result.

The sitting room, as she had already observed from the hallway, was spacious and well-furnished, decorated in warm, sunny golds and creams, with a wonderful view over London from the huge picture window. It also looked totally unlived-in—like a hotel suite, or as if the interior designer had only finished his work yesterday and everything was new and unused.

The kitchen was almost as big, with walnut cupboards and gold-coloured fittings. But apart from the coffee percolator, which had already started its aromatic drip into the pot, the work surfaces were bare—as if this room were rarely used either.

‘Take a seat,’ Max Harding invited, without turning round as he got coffee mugs from a cupboard.

Abby made herself comfortable on one of the stools at the breakfast bar—well, as comfortable as someone of five foot four could be on one of the high stools!—still not quite sure how she had managed to get herself invited in for coffee. But she wasn’t complaining. The less inclined Max Harding was to throw her out, the more chance she had of persuading him to change his mind about appearing on her programme.

‘Right.’ He turned from what he was doing. ‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes while the coffee’s filtering. Oh, and Abby?’ He paused in the kitchen doorway, his expression once again derisive. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’

She looked at him blankly for several seconds, frowning, her cheeks becoming hot as she realised what he meant. ‘I’m not a snoop, Mr Harding,’ she protested waspishly.

His mouth twisted. ‘That’s why you’ll never make an investigative reporter!’ he retorted, before leaving the room.

Abby put her elbows on the breakfast bar and leant forward to rub her throbbing temples with her thumbs, wondering if all these insults really were worth it. Even if she succeeded if getting him to appear on the show—which was doubtful!—there was no way, him being the man that he was, that she was going to be able to control the interview. And that wasn’t going to help her get that second contract she wanted. Maybe…

‘I didn’t mean it quite that literally,’ Max remarked scathingly as he came back into the room. ‘You could have helped yourself to coffee.’

In truth, she had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t really been aware that the coffee had stopped filtering into the pot. And, as she looked up at him now, her mind once again went completely blank.

‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes’ was what he had said, and, looking at him, that was pretty much what he had done. His damp hair looked as if he had just run a hand through it, he was wearing a clean, but very creased white T-shirt, and a pair of ragged denims, also clean, but worn and faded, the bottoms frayed. And that was all he was wearing from what Abby could tell. His feet were bare on the coolness of the tiled floor.

He looked sexy as hell!

This side of Max Harding hadn’t really been apparent in the tapes of his shows she had watched from the archives, but she had certainly been made aware of it when he’d opened the door earlier, wearing only a towel. And—strangely—she was even more aware of him now, because the clothes hinted at the powerful body beneath.

She straightened, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. It didn’t occur to me.’

He placed a steaming mug of black, unsweetened coffee in front of her. ‘There isn’t any milk,’ he announced off-handedly as he passed her the sugar bowl. ‘I only got back late last night, and I haven’t had time to shop yet.’

‘Black is fine,’ she assured him, though she usually took both cream and sugar in her beverages. Somehow, from the look of the unused kitchen, she doubted he had time to go to the shops very often!

‘So.’ He sat down opposite her at the breakfast bar, his gaze piercing. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’

She could always try acting dumb and ask which question he was referring to—but as he already thought she was dumb that probably wasn’t the approach to take!

She shrugged. ‘I obtained your address from a friend of a friend,’ she said dismissively, wishing she felt more self-confident and less physically aware of this man…

His gaze narrowed. ‘Which friend of what friend?’

‘Is that grammatically correct?’ She attempted to tease, deciding that probably wasn’t a good idea either as his scowl deepened. ‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to answer that?’

He didn’t return her cajoling smile. ‘I rarely joke about an invasion of my privacy,’ he grated.

She raised ebony brows. ‘Aren’t you overreacting just a little? After all, I only rang the doorbell. You were the one who invited me in!’

‘I can just as easily throw you out again!’ he rasped. ‘And I “invited” you in as you put it, for the sole purpose of ascertaining how you obtained my address.’

‘Knowing full well that I couldn’t possibly reveal my source,’ Abby came back sharply. Challengingly. It was the first rule of being that investigative reporter he had told her she would never be; a source’s identity was as sacrosanct to a reporter as the information a client gave to a lawyer.

Max sat back slightly, his expression—as usual!—unreadable. ‘Tell me, Abby,’ he said softly, ‘just what made you think you would succeed where so many others have failed?’

She blinked, not sure she quite understood the question. Surely he didn’t think that she trying to attract—?

‘Not that, Abby.’ He sighed. ‘I was actually referring to other requests for me to appear on TV programmes or give personal interviews to newspapers over the last two years. Haven’t I already assured you that you aren’t my type?’ His mouth twisted scathingly as his gaze raked over her ebony hair, deep blue eyes, creamy complexion and full, pouting lips.

Exactly what was ‘his type’? Abby felt like asking, but didn’t. As far as her research was concerned, he didn’t appear to have a type. He had been married once, in his twenties, and amicably divorced only three years later, and the assortment of women he had been involved with over the years since that marriage didn’t seem to fit into any type either, having ranged from hard-hitting businesswomen to a pampered Californian divorcee. The only thing those women seemed to have in common was independence. And possibly an aversion to marriage…?

‘Well, that’s something positive, at least,’ Abby came back dismissively. ‘Because you aren’t my type either!’

Grudging amusement slightly lightened his expression. ‘No,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I should imagine a nice, safe executive of some kind, preferably in television, would be more your cup of tea.’

This man managed to make everything he said sound insulting!

And in this case he was wrong; she had been briefly engaged to a ‘nice, safe executive of some kind’—and been totally bored by Andrew’s complete lack of imagination. Besides, Monty hadn’t liked him…

‘Really?’ she said wearily. ‘How interesting.’

Max continued to look at her for several seconds, and then gave an appreciative grin. ‘You sound like my mother when confronted by one of my father’s more boring business associates!’

His father, Abby knew, was James Harding, the owner of Harding Industries. His charming and beautiful wife Amy was a banking heiress, and Max’s mother. Obviously Max hadn’t inherited that first trait of hers!

‘Really?’ Abby repeated unhelpfully, slightly disturbed by the attraction of that grin—and desperate not to show it.

‘Really?’ he mimicked dryly. ‘Am I boring you, Abby?’

So far she hadn’t been able to relax enough in this man’s company to feel bored! But if he wanted to think that—fine; she needed every advantage she could get with this thoroughly disconcerting man. ‘Not specifically,’ she drawled, sounding uninterested.

His mouth quirked humorously. ‘How about unspecifically?’

She pretended to give the idea some thought. In fact, she very much doubted too many people found this man boring; the level of mental alertness necessary just to have a conversation with him wouldn’t allow for that. Besides, the man was playing with her, and, despite what he might think to the contrary, she really wasn’t one of those vacuous ‘young things’ he had initially accused her of being. At least, she hoped she wasn’t!

She had left school with straight As and gone on to graduate from university three years later with a degree in politics. But two years of working as a very junior underling to a politician who just wasn’t going to make it, despite putting in sixteen-hour days, had very soon quashed her own ambitions in that direction, and she had done a complete about-face, becoming interested in a career in television instead.

Being the smiling face of a lowbrow programme’s weather segment hadn’t exactly stretched her mentally, but everyone had to start somewhere. Besides, being offered her own six-week series of interviews now was worth the year she had spent getting up at four-thirty in the morning just so that she could be at the studio bright and early to give her first weather report of the day when the programme began at six-thirty.

And even Max Harding, despite his privileged background and a father who had probably been able to pull a few strings for him, had to have started somewhere—

‘Sorry?’ She shook her head as she realised Max had just spoken to her.

‘I asked whether your meteoric rise to fame has had something to do with the way you look rather than any real qualifications to do the job?’ He looked at her challengingly.

He had obviously decided to make sure there was no possible chance of her being bored by him any longer!

But if his intention was to anger her by the obvious insult, then he hadn’t succeeded in doing that either. She had heard every insult there was these last two months, from other women as well as men, and especially from Gary Holmes, and she was no longer shocked or bothered by them. Well…not much, anyway.

She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Which one do you think I slept with? The producer or the director?’

Grudging respect darkened his eyes. ‘Either. Or possibly both.’ He shrugged.

Now he wasn’t trying to be insulting—he was succeeding! ‘Pat Connelly is a grandmother several times over, I believe, and seriously not my type!’ Abby told him derisively. ‘And Gary Holmes is just an obnoxious little creep!’ she added with feeling.

A veteran director of fifteen years plus, Gary was one of the most handsome men Abby had ever met—but he had the infuriating habit of treating her like an idiot. He obviously disliked her—possibly because he also thought she was a pretty airhead—but as the dislike was wholly reciprocated Abby wasn’t particularly bothered by his attitude. Except on a professional level. And he had hardly given her time to prove—

She suddenly realised that Max had gone strangely quiet, and looked across at him curiously, but she was able to learn nothing from his closed expression. ‘What is it?’ she prompted with a frown.

He seemed to snap himself out of that scowling silence with effort. ‘Nothing,’ he said abruptly. ‘And if it’s taken you this long to think about my previous question, perhaps you would be wiser not to answer at all!’ he drawled, with some of his earlier mockery. ‘Who’s scheduled to appear on your first programme?’

She was a little stunned by this abrupt volte face, and would have liked to pursue the reason for his sudden silence, but the coldness in his gaze was enough to warn her that she would get precisely nowhere if she did.

‘Natalie West and Brad Hammond,’ she answered instead, with not a little pride.

The famous couple, both having appeared on prime-time television, but in different series, had been involved in the very noisy and very public break-up of their marriage six months ago, culminating with Natalie announcing it would give her great pleasure to see Brad run over with a steamroller, and Brad retaliating with the claim that he would gladly step in the path of the steamroller if it meant he didn’t have to set eyes on Natalie ever again!

It had taken weeks of persuasion and negotiation on Abby’s part, but she had finally got them both to agree—separately—to appear together on her opening programme. It promised to be an explosive debut for The Abby Freeman Show!

Max whistled softly through his teeth. ‘Are you going to supply the steamroller?’

He did have a sense of humour after all! He also, despite his many career-related trips out of the country, obviously kept up with the less serious side of current affairs.

Abby shook her head, her hair silky against her cheeks, blue eyes gleaming with laughter. ‘I already checked—even if Natalie felt so inclined, a steamroller wouldn’t fit through the studio door!’

Max gave an appreciative chuckle. ‘Perhaps you aren’t such a lightweight after all!’

It was far from an apology for his earlier rudeness—in fact it was still a remark tinged with condescension—but it was certainly an improvement on his initial antagonism. ‘Does that mean you’ll reconsider appearing on my programme?’ God, how it still gave her a thrill of pleasure to say ‘my programme’!

She had earned a certain amount of recognition from her appearances on breakfast television, with members of the public coming up to her in supermarkets and restaurants to say hello, but she was really hoping that having her own programme was going to take her one step further than that, and earn her the professional respect of people like Max Harding. If she ever got the chance, that was!

‘Not in the least.’ He instantly shot her down, his tone bored and noncommittal. And totally uncompromising. ‘And, as you aren’t going to tell me who this “friend of a friend” is…’ He raised dark brows.

‘I told you I can’t do that,’ she confirmed, her disappointment acute at his continued refusal.

Max shrugged. ‘Then it would appear we have nothing else to say to each other.’ He stood up, removing his own empty coffee mug and Abby’s full one and placing them on the worktop before turning to look at her pointedly.

He was obviously waiting for her to leave.

She had lied her way up here in the first place, and been taken in to this man’s inner sanctum, yet still she had failed in her objective. But other than continuing to pressure him—something guaranteed to annoy him even further—she didn’t have any choice but to comply with his less than subtle hint.

‘You won’t be too hard on Henry?’ she asked as she followed Max back through the sitting room to the door. She hadn’t realised earlier just how strongly Max felt about any invasion of his privacy, and Henry was a man of advanced years, who would have great difficulty finding another job if he was sacked from this one.

Max glanced back at her. ‘Calm down, Abby,’ he taunted. ‘Having witnessed your persuasive powers firsthand—no, I won’t be hard on Henry at all.’ He opened the door as he spoke.

Her ‘persuasive powers’? Did she have some of those? And if she did, why hadn’t Max Harding been persuaded?

He shook his head, smiling slightly. ‘Don’t beat yourself up trying to work out what they are, Abby; all that matters is that they didn’t work on me!’

Obviously not—but she would still have liked to know what they were. If she did, she might be able to use them again—to better effect!

But she could see by the derisive expression on Max’s face as he stood there waiting for her to leave that he certainly wasn’t going to enlighten her. Pity.

‘I’ll make a point of watching your first programme,’ he told Abby softly as she stepped out into the hallway.

She stared up at him suspiciously, uncertain of exactly what he had meant by that, and unable to read any of his thoughts from his blandly mocking expression.

But he had just succeeded in increasing her own first-night nerves by one hundred per cent!

CHAPTER THREE

‘WELL, well, if it isn’t little Abby Freeman!’

Abby groaned as she sank further down into her armchair, having instantly recognised Max Harding’s mocking voice.

Holed up in a corner of the Dillmans’ crowded drawing room, having already drunk three-quarters of the bottle of champagne sitting in the ice bucket on the low table beside her, she was in no mood for company. Something everyone else in the room, including her hosts Dorothy and Paul, seemed to know instinctively and act upon—and of which Max Harding had taken no notice whatsoever!

‘Go away,’ she muttered, without so much as glancing in his direction. She could see the long length of his legs from the corner of her eye, though, and observed that he didn’t move by so much as an inch.

‘I didn’t have you figured as a woman who likes to drink alone.’ He sounded amused now.

Abby raised dark lashes in order to glare at him, her gaze belligerent. ‘I don’t usually drink—alone or otherwise,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘But I’m sure that you and probably everyone else in this room are aware of the reason I’ve made tonight the exception.’ And several million other people, she thought with another inner groan at the remembered humiliation.

How could she have known? How could she have guessed? Why hadn’t someone told her?

‘Hey, Abby, it really wasn’t that bad.’ Max came down on his haunches beside her chair now, the amusement having disappeared from his voice as he looked at her with something like concern. ‘In fact, I thought you recovered very well.’

She hadn’t ‘recovered’ well at all, and she was sure that everyone watching the airing of her first show earlier this evening had known it, too.

As previously agreed, she had interviewed Brad Hammond first for ten minutes, chatting warmly about his earlier career and his success now in a popular television series. Then Brad had gone off the set and Natalie had come on for her allotted ten minutes, discussing her own success.

But all the time those interviews were taking place a buzz had been felt in the studio. Both crew and audience obviously waiting expectantly for the time the estranged pair would come on together, with the promise of emotional fireworks in the air.

Except it had turned out Brad and Natalie were no longer estranged!

Abby had announced the two of them coming on together, feeling the tension rising in the studio as she did so, and could have collapsed in a heap when, instead of showing antagonism, Brad and Natalie had smiled warmly at each other before kissing and sitting down close together, their hands entwined, as Brad announced that the two of them had been reconciled for three days.

Abby had been rendered speechless by the announcement. All her carefully prepared questions had become null and void—questions she had spent hours labouring over in an effort to ensure she wouldn’t become the cause of further antagonism between the separated couple, intending to leave it to the two of them to set their own scene with as little prompting from her as possible. Brad’s announcement had made a complete nonsense of them.

She’d done her best to rally round at this sudden change of circumstances, congratulating them on their reconciliation, asking what their plans were for the future. A baby, for goodness’ sake; after all the public insults they had hurled at each other over the last six months!

Yes, Abby had done her best to keep the show alive and buzzing, but she had been aware that it had definitely lacked the sparkle and interest she had been hoping for when she’d invited the pair on her show.

And Gary Holmes’s snort of derision when she’d finally walked off the set had been enough to send her hurtling for the champagne bottle the moment she’d reached Dorothy and Paul’s house half an hour ago.

‘Go away,’ she told Max Harding a second time, turning away to lift up the champagne bottle, having no intention of crossing swords with him this evening.

Instead of complying with her request, she felt him take the champagne bottle from her hand. Her grip tightened but was no match for Max’s superior strength. The fluted champagne glass in her other hand was the next to go, before Max took her by one of her now empty hands and pulled her effortlessly to her feet.

‘You need food,’ he told her firmly as she began to protest. ‘Otherwise the headlines on tomorrow’s tabloids will read “Abby Freeman plastered”, accompanied by a photograph of you being carried out of here!’ He didn’t wait for any more arguments as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her into the adjoining room, where a table was set with a sumptuous buffet supper.

Not that Abby had been about to argue with him; the way she’d swayed unsteadily as she got to her feet, with the room tilting dizzily, was enough to tell her that food was exactly what she needed. Even if it was the last thing she wanted!

‘There you go.’ Max placed a heavily laden plate in her unresisting hand before turning to choose some food for himself.

Abby’s vision blurred as she looked down at the food. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ She sniffed, not sure she was going to be able to hold back the tears for much longer, despite blinking them away desperately.

He glanced at her, very tall and handsome in a black evening suit and snowy white shirt, although the dark hair was even longer than it had been when they’d met three weeks ago, and the grey eyes were still as mockingly amused.

‘I figured someone ought to be,’ he drawled dismissively. ‘You presented rather a lonely figure sitting in there.’ He nodded in the direction of the drawing room.

Pity. He felt sorry for her. And only hours ago she had hoped to finish this evening on a note of triumph. Euphoria, even.

‘Keep your damned pity!’ she snapped as she slammed the untouched plate of food back down on the table, her eyes sparkling deeply blue, twin spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘You’ve heard of the phoenix rising from the ashes? Well, watch the show next week and see what a good job I make of doing exactly that!’ She turned on her heel and walked—steadily, thank goodness!—out of the room, unknowingly beautiful in her midnight-blue knee-length dress, dark hair loose about her shoulders. She made her way over to where she could see Dorothy, chatting with a well-known newspaper reporter.

Dorothy’s parties were always like this—attended by the rich and the famous—although Dorothy herself was one of the least glamorous people Abby knew. Her plain black evening gown was an old favourite with her, her face was homely rather than beautiful, and her figure tended towards comfortable plumpness now that she was approaching her sixtieth year.

But Abby had known the other woman all her life—knew that it was Dorothy’s genuine warmth and kindness that attracted people to her like a magnet. Her handsome husband of the last thirty-five years absolutely adored her.

‘You can’t leave just yet, Abby!’ Dorothy responded with genuine regret at Abby’s excuse of tiredness. ‘I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to anyone,’ she protested. ‘Jenny and I were just commenting on what an absolute triumph your programme was this evening. Natalie and Brad have made complete idiots of themselves these last few months, and I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house—well, certainly not in this one!’ she admitted unabashedly ‘—when they announced that they’re back together and trying for a baby.’

Abby’s smile was fixed on her face with sickening determination. She knew Dorothy was only trying to be kind by talking like that about her show—the older woman didn’t know how to be anything else!—but Abby really wished she didn’t have to stand here and listen to this. The whole show had been a disaster as far as she was concerned—and as far as Gary Holmes was, too, if his scornful remarks as she’d left the studio were anything to go by.

‘Yes.’ Jenny Jones took over the conversation, her manner slightly gushing. ‘The Natalie and Brad reconciliation was an absolute coup for your first programme!’

Was it? Or was the other woman just veiling her sarcasm for Dorothy’s benefit?

No, Abby realized, slightly dazedly, Jenny Jones looked genuinely disappointed that she hadn’t been the one to scoop the exclusive.

Abby brightened. Maybe it hadn’t been such a disaster, after all? Meaning that perhaps Max’s earlier comments hadn’t been out of the pity that she had thought they were either?

No—there was no need to go that far! If her show hadn’t been the complete failure she had initially thought it was, then she still knew she had only scraped through by the skin of her teeth, and someone as acutely intelligent as Max would be aware of that fact, too. And she would rather listen to Dorothy and Jenny’s misplaced praise, than Max’s mocking condescension.

‘My editor is running the story on the front page tomorrow,’ Jenny confided. ‘“Abby Shock: Brad No Longer a Free Man!”’

Abby gave a pained wince at the awful play on her surname. Although she couldn’t really have expected much else from the dreadful rag Jenny worked for. But she didn’t think Natalie would care for the headline too much, either!

‘How clever,’ Dorothy put in lightly at the lengthening silence. ‘I do so wish I could think of things like that.’

‘It comes with experience,’ Jenny consoled her slightly pityingly as she laid a sympathetic hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘I—Oh, look, there’s Max Harding.’ Her green eyes were bright with the fervour of the predator as she spotted Max entering the room. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to him for absolutely ages. If you ladies would excuse me…?’ she added distractedly, not waiting for either of them to reply before striding purposefully across the room in Max Harding’s direction.

‘Gladly!’ Dorothy muttered with feeling. ‘That woman is such a pompous bore!’ she added with disdain.

‘Dorothy…?’ Abby looked at the older woman incredulously. ‘I’ve never heard you say an unkind word about anyone before,’ she explained at Dorothy’s questioning look.

‘No? Well, put it down to my age.’ Dorothy chuckled, easily shrugging off her brief bad humour. ‘My only consolation is that I know Max will quickly send her away with a flea in her ear! There.’ She nodded with satisfaction as she glanced across the room. ‘That has to be something of a record—even for Max.’ She sounded impressed.

Abby turned just in time to see Jenny Jones beating a hasty retreat from the glacially angry Max. There were twin spots of humiliated colour in the tabloid reporter’s cheeks. Having received what Abby was sure was a similar put-down herself only three weeks ago, she couldn’t help but feel a certain fleeting sympathy for the other woman.

‘Why does he do that?’ she mused, shaking her head as she turned back to look at Dorothy. ‘And get away with it, too!’ she added wryly, absolutely positive that not a single word of Max’s rude put-down of the other woman would ever reach the pages of even the tacky tabloid Jenny worked for.

‘Because he’s absolutely brilliant at what he does, of course,’ Dorothy answered. ‘And gorgeous as hell, too,’ she added with relish.

Abby watched as Max fell into easy conversation with Dorothy’s husband Paul. The two men were of similar height and build. Paul’s blond hair was sprinkled liberally with grey, but otherwise, to Abby’s eyes, he looked every bit as fit and handsome as the younger man.

‘I would rather have Paul any day,’ she announced firmly.

‘Well, of course, having been married to the darling man for thirty-five years, so would I,’ Dorothy agreed laughingly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to the way other men look—and Max has to be the epitome of “tall, dark and handsome”. And all that brooding aloofness has to be a direct challenge to any normal red-blooded woman!’

Then Abby had to be an abnormal red-blooded woman—because she had been daunted by Max rather than attracted to him.

Well…she had been attracted to him too—but the daunting had definitely outweighed that attraction!

‘If you like that sort of thing,’ she dismissed, with an audible sniff of uninterest.

Dorothy gave her a searching look, warm blue eyes probing now. ‘You never did tell me how your meeting with him went three weeks ago…?’

Abby withstood that searching gaze for several long seconds before looking away. ‘I told you—he said no to coming on the show,’ she said with a casual shrug.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Dorothy, I really don’t want to talk about Max Harding.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he drawled mockingly from directly behind her, making Abby start guiltily. His grey eyes were openly laughing as she turned sharply to face him. ‘I find the subject of me boring, too,’ he acknowledged, with a derisive inclination of his dark head.

‘Then at least we’re agreed on something, Mr Harding!’ she came back waspishly, completely disconcerted at having him appear behind her in this way; the last time she had looked he had been deep in conversation with Paul.

‘Well, well.’ Dorothy chuckled with delight. ‘What do you have to say to that, Max?’ she teased, obviously deeply amused by the turn in conversation.

Max gave the older woman an affectionate smile. ‘That Abby obviously has exceptional taste,’ he drawled unconcernedly. ‘Here.’ He handed Abby one of the two champagne flutes he held in his hands. ‘I thought you might be in need of it after talking to Jenny Jones!’ He grimaced.

‘What a perfectly dreadful woman,’ Dorothy agreed as Abby rather dazedly took the glass of bubbly wine from Max. ‘I really will have to have a chat with Paul about the sort of people he’s inviting into our home. In fact, if the two of you will excuse me, I think I’ll just go and have a word with him now.’ She gave them a bright smile before moving to join her husband.

Leaving Abby completely alone with Max Harding. Again. And, despite the champagne she had consumed earlier, she now felt completely sober. Stone-cold sober.

‘How is it that you know the Dillmans so well?’ Max asked lightly.

‘As until quite recently I was only a lowly weather girl, you mean?’ she came back tartly.

He took a leisurely sip of his champagne, that grey gaze unwavering as it met Abby’s seething eyes. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he finally drawled.

‘You didn’t need to. But it just so happens that I’ve known the Dillmans all my life,’ she told him with satisfaction.

‘Really?’ Max murmured, his gaze speculative as he glanced across to where Dorothy was now in laughing conversation with her husband. ‘“A friend of a friend”, I believe you said…?’ That grey gaze was once again fixed piercingly on Abby.

Damn it! She was sure Max had just set a trap for her—and she had just walked straight into it. Like an innocent mouse into the lion’s den. But unfortunately she seemed to have taken Dorothy in with her, and the other woman deserved better than that.

‘That description hardly fits Dorothy,’ Abby told him. ‘She happens to be my godmother.’ Dorothy was actually the ‘friend of a friend’ who had told her Max’s home address, but Abby had no intention of betraying her godmother’s confidence by admitting that.

‘Your godmother?’ Max repeated evenly, seeming to be having trouble digesting this piece of information.

‘Yes—godmother,’ Abby confirmed, wondering what he found so strange about that. ‘She and my mother were at school together, and they have remained friends ever since,’ she added defensively, wondering just what his problem was with that. Although, whatever it was, it had at least succeeded in diverting his attention away from that ‘friend of a friend’ she had unwisely admitted three weeks ago to have been the source of his address.

She wasn’t quite prepared for what he did next. She was sure her comment hadn’t warranted derisive laughter!

But laughter was a definite improvement on his usual mocking expression. Laughter lines appeared beside his eyes and mouth, his teeth were very white and even, and he had a slight dimple in the groove of one cheek.

But none of that detracted from the fact she had no idea what she had said that was so amusing.

‘So you were telling the truth after all about your producer and director?’ he finally taunted, once his laughter had faded. ‘It was relatives in high places instead,’ he added appreciatively. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Abby, I’m not knocking it,’ he went on, at her startled and indignant expression. ‘We all have to start somewhere, and why not use the advantages—the less obvious ones—’ he gave her slender attractiveness in the midnight-blue dress an appreciative glance ‘—that you have at your disposal.’

It didn’t matter that Abby had no idea what he was talking about. His mocking tone and derisive expression were enough to tell her it was nothing pleasant. But then ‘pleasant’ hardly described this man, did it?

She gave a shake of her head, her raggedly layered hair dark and shining as it moved on her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure which of us has imbibed the most champagne this evening, Max, but I do know I have no idea what you’re talking about. So either you’re talking gibberish, or I’m just too befuddled to understand you. Either way, I think it best if we terminate this conversation right now,’ she added firmly, more than ever determined to follow through on her earlier decision to make her excuses and leave.

‘This is my first drink of the evening.’ Max held up his barely touched glass of champagne.

Implying she was the one who was ‘too befuddled’ to understand him. Well, he might just be right about that. It had been a long day—and an even longer evening.

She straightened determinedly. ‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Mr Harding—’

‘Oh, I think we’re well enough acquainted now for you to call me Max,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘As you did a few minutes ago.’

They weren’t acquainted at all—in fact, she knew less about this man than she had thought she did the first time she’d met him. ‘If you say so.’ She gave him an insincere smile, hoping they wouldn’t meet again, so she wouldn’t need to call him anything. ‘I really do have to go now, Max,’ she continued brightly. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me—? What are you doing?’ she demanded indignantly as he reached out and grasped her arm when she would have turned and walked away.

It wasn’t just that the physical contact was so unexpected—though it was!—but also that Max Harding didn’t give the impression he was the touchy-feely type of man that always made her cringe. In fact, to date he had given the clear impression that his ice might be in danger of melting if he actually touched someone, and so he chose not to do it.

‘Would you like me to give you a lift home?’ came his also completely unexpected reply.

Abby frowned up at him, searching that enigmatic face for any hidden meaning behind his offer. But years of presenting an inscrutable expression to the world in general made that impossible.

‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ Abby couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice. The last time the two of them had met he hadn’t been able to get rid of her fast enough.

And yet he had been the one to approach her this evening—not once but twice, so perhaps…

‘I haven’t changed my mind about your show, Abby,’ he assured her mockingly.

Which was exactly what she had been wondering! Were her thoughts so obvious to everyone? Or was it only this man who seemed to know what she was thinking?

That definitely wasn’t a good idea, considering some of the thoughts she had been having about him. They swung erratically between being left breathless by his animal magnetism to actually wanting to hit him!

He was grinning when she glanced back at him—as if he had definitely been aware of that thought.

‘You can’t blame me for trying.’ She shrugged dismissively, avoiding that knowing gaze.

‘I never blame anyone for trying, Abby,’ he retorted. ‘But, to answer your earlier question, considering you know exactly where my apartment is, I thought it only fair that I should know where you live, too!’

‘Fair’ had nothing to do with it. Where this particular man was concerned she was a lot more comfortable with him not knowing where she lived!

‘It’s not far from here, actually,’ she said evasively. ‘In fact, I walked over this evening.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a pleasant spring evening. A walk sounds an excellent idea.’

Not with this man it didn’t. And why was he being so persistent? He obviously thought her a lightweight in the world of television, and had made no effort to disguise the fact that he wasn’t particularly enamoured of her as a woman, either—those remarks about her not being his type had stung! So why was he deliberately seeking out her company now?

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