Georgia looked pointedly at the wall clock. “It’s time you were on your way.”

Jason closed the space between them. “Have you seen the state of the sea? I can’t put out in that. It’s a full-blooded storm.”

He wasn’t leaving! Her heart beat faster.

“What a bore for you,” she said, and swung away, aware of the flirtatious flick of her skirt as the soft fabric settled seductively back against her thighs.

“Don’t play games with me, Georgia! They can land you in more trouble than you can handle.” He swung her around to face him, their bodies almost touching.

“Or is that what you want?” he asked thickly.

The tips of his fingers began moving gently over her silky skin and Georgia felt herself catch fire. She sucked in her breath, caught the dark glitter of his eyes and knew he was going to kiss her.

Anything can happen behind closed doors!

Do you dare find out…?

Welcome again to DO NOT DISTURB!

Meet Jason and Georgia, a couple thrown together by circumstances into a whirlwind of unexpected attraction. Forced into each other’s company whether they like it or not, they’re soon in the grip of passion—and definitely don’t want to be disturbed!

Popular Presents® author Diana Hamilton explores this delicious fantasy in a tantalizing romance you simply won’t want to put down.

So what happens when Georgia becomes Jason’s mistress for one night of all-consuming passion? Turn the pages and find out!

Mistress for a Night
Diana Hamilton

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 TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

JASON HARCOURT’S right hand hovered over the telephone for a second, then dropped down to his side. He pushed both hands into the side pockets of his dark, well-worn cords and hunched his wide shoulders.

The room was crowding in on him. The over-ornate French antiques, the baroque-framed paintings, the fussy carpets suffocating him. He paced to the long, elaborately draped French windows, dark brows drawn down over flint-grey eyes as he stared moodily out over Lytham Court’s winter-bleak gardens.

How he hated this place!

Seven years since he’d set foot over the doorstep—except for the hour he’d spent here after Harold’s second wife Vivienne’s funeral—and he was only here now because he had no real option. Lytham held bad memories, more than a few.

Following Vivienne’s death, four years ago, he had made peace, of a sort, with Harold, the man who had legally adopted him almost thirty years ago on his marriage to Jason’s widowed mother. For a three-year-old child, whose real father had been killed in a climbing accident before he was born, it had been easy enough to accept the substitute.

Only after his mother had died of leukaemia, when he was seventeen, had he begun to see his adoptive father with new eyes.

But that was in the past, and the tentative peace had progressed relatively smoothly because he had stipulated that their occasional meetings took place at the older man’s London club. Neutral ground. He was glad, now, that he’d gone with the flow, somewhat sceptically giving Harold the benefit of the doubt when he had insisted he’d changed. He owed his adoptive father that much.

But the scepticism had hardened to downright disbelief when at their last meeting, two months ago, Harold had told him, ‘Georgia’s been back in England for six months now; we’ve been meeting fairly regularly.’

Jason had watched the way the mere mention of her name had made Harold’s tired, faded eyes brighten in the older man’s face, a face that had shrunk in on its own bones. Harold had gone downhill, slowly but very surely, since Vivienne had died, and his obvious physical frailty had been the only thing that had stopped Jason from getting up from the lunch table and walking out of the muted dark brown atmosphere of the club and into the relative sanity of London’s teeming streets.

‘So you keep in touch with Georgia.’ He practically spat the words out, the old bitterness surfacing as it always did whenever he was unguarded enough to think about her.

‘Since Vivvie died, yes. She, God rest and bless her, was the stumbling block there. Wouldn’t have her daughter’s name mentioned.’ Harold pushed his barely touched meal aside. Jason speared a forkful of game pie with smooth savagery, debated whether he wanted it, decided not, and laid down his cutlery.

‘I know you said you were going to break the long silence and phone New York to tell her of Vivienne’s death,’ he said carefully. He had offered to put his personal distaste aside and break the news of the fatal car accident, to spare Harold, but the old man had insisted he was the one to do it. As it turned out no one need have bothered; she hadn’t cared enough to attend her own mother’s funeral.

‘Well, yes.’ Old eyes fell uneasily. ‘There were things that had to be said, and I said them,’ he stated enigmatically. ‘And I like to think we got close again after the air was cleared. It doesn’t do to hold on to old grudges. In any case, she’s well settled back in England now. She heads up one of the design teams at the branch of her advertising agency in Birmingham—you’ll remember she went out with the girl Sue’s family when the father opened a branch in New York?’

Jason glanced fiercely at his watch. He’d had enough of this. Of course he remembered!

‘I thought we might all get together at Lytham one weekend soon,’ Harold said. ‘Mend fences. You and little Georgia are the only family I have left.’

‘Spare me the sentimentality.’ Jason flung his napkin down. ‘It’s not impressing me.’ He stood up.

‘It was worth a try.’ The faded eyes held a sudden gleam of humour. ‘But you will come? I’ll fix a weekend with Georgia. Be like old times.’

Old times he could do without. ‘In your dreams!’ he said, and walked out.

He hadn’t seen Harold since. He’d meant to, of course he had, but work had got in the way. He regretted that now that Harold was dead, he thought, his eyes still fixed on the dreary garden scene.

It was raining now, icy needles that clattered against the window pane, and the short winter day was ending. The housekeeper, Mrs Moody, had told him that a hard frost was forecast for tonight.

It meant driving conditions would be tricky in the morning. Georgia would probably decide not to risk the icy roads. She hadn’t bothered to grab a flight and get over for her mother’s funeral, so why should she put herself out to attend Harold’s?

Unless she wasn’t totally sure of the way her stepfather had left his money and was anxious to find out, he thought cynically.

His hard mouth pulled down, he strode over to the phone and lifted the receiver.

Georgia was hunting in the back of the kitchen cupboard for the spare jar of coffee granules she knew she had somewhere when the phone in the apartment’s living room rang.

‘I’ll get it.’ Ben levered his tall, whip-thin body from the kitchen doorway, where he’d been lounging, watching her, the slow smile he gave her as sexy as his husky voice.

Returning to her search, she briefly wondered why she always blew each and every one of his suggestions of a date clean out of the water. Yet she knew why, really. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

They’d both occupied apartments on the same floor of the converted Edwardian mini-mansion in one of Birmingham’s leafier suburbs for the past eight months. Returning from New York after more than six years, she’d known no one in the city, and had been grateful for the friendship Ben had offered.

He often dropped by for a chat in the evenings; sometimes, as now, to borrow something, at other times bringing a bottle of wine to share, or a recently acquired CD he thought she might like to listen to. He asked her out to dinner on an average of once a week, and apparently did not get disheartened when she consistently turned him down.

She didn’t want sex rearing its ugly head and spoiling the easy friendship they had.

As she emerged from the cupboard, clutching the jar, the phone was still ringing. It had an irritable sound. She headed out of the kitchen. Ben probably couldn’t find it; it would be lurking under something or other.

Which was why, as of this afternoon, she was on three weeks’ leave. To finally get her apartment sorted. For eight months she’d worked her socks off, and it was time now to make a liveable home.

Ben found the phone under the pile of folded curtains she was going to hang on poles to hide the ugly chipboard doors put in by whoever had converted the building for multiple occupancy.

She heard his sexy voice turn frosty as he said to the caller, ‘Yes, she is. Wait one moment.’ He held out the receiver, his voice an accusation. ‘It’s some man. Didn’t give his name.’

As if, Georgia thought wearily, no one of the male sex, apart from himself, of course, had any right to be speaking to her. Wishing again that the man/woman thing didn’t make a habit of rearing up to threaten perfectly good and stable friendships, she ignored Ben’s scowl and gave her name to her caller.

If it was one of her team back at the agency she didn’t want to know. Her recent and highly successful presentation to the directors of a giant ice-cream manufacturing company—with not one of the men in suits finding a single fault with the storyboards or videos—had earned her the right to take part of her leave entitlement.

It wasn’t one of her team. It was Jason.

Seven years, seven crowded eventful years, years of determined change and the quiet internal struggle to forget had passed since she’d seen him or heard from him. Yet his low, gravelly voice still had the power to shut her down: heartbeats, breathing, brain function, everything inside her held in frozen suspension.

So why was he calling now?

‘Are you still there?’

The sudden change of tone, the stinging harshness, brought her back into the land of the living. Her breath came fast now, her heart racing, her voice all jagged edges as she confirmed, ‘Of course I am. What was it you wanted?’

Hardly gracious, but there was nothing gracious or civilised about the bitterness that tainted the very blood in her veins at the sound of his voice.

He told her coldly, with no softening of his tone. ‘Harold died three days ago. Suddenly, from a brain haemorrhage. The funeral’s at eleven tomorrow morning. I think you should be here at Lytham, and be prepared to stay on for at least twenty-four hours.’

Georgia’s skin went cold. Underneath her soft denim jeans and chunky sweater her body felt clammy. Harold? Dead? She had difficulty taking it in.

‘I suppose you’re having trouble deciding whether you can spare the time,’ Jason said into her extended silence. ‘Harold would have told me if you’d married, so I take it you have some other arrangement with the guy who answered your phone. Bring him with you if you can’t do without him for a night.’

‘I wouldn’t inflict you and your attitude on anyone I cared about,’ Georgia came back, horrified by how much his snide assumption that she couldn’t bear to be without a man in her bed for one single night hurt.

‘Stop being childish.’ He sounded bored. ‘I’m not asking you to be here for the pleasure of your company, but because you owe your stepfather respect—and rather more than that.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ What the hell was he implying?

‘There’s a lot to be sorted out.’ He ignored her interruption. ‘As I’m sure you already know, his entire estate goes to you. That means there are decisions you have to make, responsibilities you need to shoulder. I want to be sure you take them seriously—like what happens to the staff here, for instance.’

If the news of Harold’s sudden death had come as a shock, the information that—for some weird reason—he had willed his entire estate to her was an even greater one. It numbed her brain for several long seconds, making her oblivious to the rest of what he was saying.

And then her mind began to buzz. Legacy or no legacy, there was no question of her staying away from his funeral. But it had been dark and raining heavily since four this afternoon, and the forecast had promised a hard frost overnight. She had no intention of risking her life—or her new sports car—on icy roads by travelling up early the following morning.

‘I’ll be with you in a couple of hours,’ she said coldly, and ended the conversation.

If he thought she couldn’t wait to get her hands on her legacy, then so be it. His opinion of her had been rock-bottom for the past seven years, so it couldn’t possibly get any lower.

Whatever, it didn’t matter now. How could it? She had altered beyond recognition, inside and out. She was nothing like the gullible child of seven years ago. She had worked hard to make sure that nothing could hurt her now, certainly not Jason’s continuing contempt.

Yet suddenly rare tears glittered in her eyes, turning the amber to shimmering gold. Unexpected, unheralded tears for her younger self, long forgotten, for lost dreams, a lost child.

She blinked them away and straightened her spine. She never thought about the past.

‘Bad news?’ Ben put an arm round her shoulders.

‘My stepfather died,’ she answered tightly. ‘I’m driving down to Gloucestershire tonight, before the roads turn into a skating rink.’

‘I’m sorry.’ His arm tightened around her, pulling her close. ‘And who was the guy on the phone?’

‘Does it matter?’ she said irritably. He was acting as if he had rights in her life. Then she relented, sighing, ‘Jason, my stepbrother. I hardly know him.’

And wasn’t that the truth! The man that other, forgotten self had believed she loved with all her heart and soul had never really existed. Out of loneliness and lovelessness she’d created a fantasy lover, a perfect being, and had suffered for that juvenile folly. Yet for a few seconds the sound of his voice had affected her savagely, as if the dumpy teenager who had loved him for so long and so frenziedly had suddenly come alive again, and was fighting for recognition within her adult body.

Which was nonsense.

‘Would you like me to drive you?’ Ben asked solicitously. ‘If you’re in a state—it wouldn’t be a problem.’

She compressed her lips, not wanting to throw his kindness in his face, and said very politely, ‘No, thank you. And, truly, I’m not in a state.’

Ben thought no woman was capable of driving, that the entire female sex should be kept off the roads by law. He’d been horrified when she’d splurged on the racy sports car she’d hankered after for years, but she was in no mood to see the funny side right now. She thrust the jar of coffee at him. ‘You came for this, remember?’

‘Yes, well—mind how you go. Don’t drive like a maniac.’

‘Stop trying to mother me.’ She gritted her teeth.

‘You know, or should do by now, that I don’t want to be a mother to you.’ His arm tightened around her shoulder again, and this time he wasn’t offering comfort. ‘Why don’t you give me the chance to show you just what I do want to be? You never know, you might surprise yourself and like it!’

Georgia stiffened. Hadn’t she told him, at least a dozen times, that she had no intention of starting a sexual relationship with him, or any other man? Ever.

Sex ruined relationships. It had made Jason treat her like a mistress for one night only and then despise her. It had made her mother resent her from practically the moment of her conception, because the man she’d been engaged to had taken to his heels when he’d learned there was a baby on the way. Vivienne had always regarded her as an unwanted encumbrance, a blight on her life.

And sex had been the only thing on Harold’s mind that last fateful day at Lytham, which had ruined everything for her at the time. Yes—she had long decided she could live without sex.

She pulled briskly away from Ben. If he hadn’t got the message by now he never would. She refused to waste any more breath on the subject.

‘I have to pack. Close the door behind you.’

Georgia drove fast, but safely, with flair and confidence, perfectly attuned to the powerful engine beneath the long, sleek bonnet of the low-slung sports coupé.

It was like a part of herself, and when she was behind the wheel inner tension was released, the distinctive growl of the engine, as the black, aerodynamic, bullet-shaped car ate up the miles, speaking to her of freedom, taking her away from herself. Driving was the only release she allowed herself. And speed was addictive.

Headlights cut through the night, raking the wet black tarmac. She kept her foot down, stayed in the fast lane and only reluctantly eased off the accelerator slightly as she left the M5 at Brockworth and headed for deep country. And Lytham Court. And Jason.

Jason. Was he spitting tacks because he hadn’t been remembered in Harold’s will, full of resentment because she, the despised one, had?

And what was he expecting of her? Her mouth curled with slight, cynical amusement as she allowed herself to think about it.

A soppy sort he could push around? Someone he could lay down the law to concerning that legacy and then walk away from, arrogantly satisfied that she would do as she was told?

And physically? If he gave that aspect a glancing thought would he expect to encounter an older version of that besotted eighteen-year-old? The billowy curves—the plague of her young life—already solidified into premature middle-age spread? Mousy hair still cropped boyishly short because she didn’t know what else to do with it? Dog-like devotion swimming in her eyes, ill-fitting chainstore clothes?

Boy, was he in for a surprise!

The muted yet full-throated growl of an unfamiliar engine broke the deep silence of Lytham’s isolation. Jason gathered the sheaf of papers together and pushed them back into the wall safe, locked it and pocketed the key, then walked to the open study door.

A couple of hours, she’d said. A glance at his watch confirmed she’d made it in ten minutes under. He waited. Made a conscious effort to relax coiled shoulder muscles. Waited and wondered.

Wondered if he’d manage to discuss tomorrow’s funeral arrangements, and how she could best handle the huge fortune that would come into her possession after probate, without displaying the bitter contempt he felt for her.

Wondered if she would still have the nerve to look at him with big, limpid eyes. Wondered yet again how he could ever have been fooled by such a seemingly malleable sweet innocence.

Waited and wondered if she’d walk right in—this house was hers, or as good as, after all. Or would she ring the bell, as timid and self-effacing as ever, on the surface at least, yet self-seeking underneath, doing what suited her and hang the consequences?

She walked right in. She stood in the open doorway and stared at him.

He stared right back through narrowed grey eyes, unable to release the almost arrogance of her glittering golden gaze, unable to believe what he was actually seeing.

CHAPTER TWO

MEETING his eyes, Georgia sucked in her breath. Seven years had stamped authority on those harshly handsome features, on the wide-shouldered, lithe male body. And although she never looked back, not ever, there was nothing she could do now to stop her mind flying to the hollow echoes of the past. Just seeing him again made it happen…

She was eighteen years old and besottedly in love. Had loved him ever since she’d first set eyes on him at her mother’s marriage to his adoptive father, Harold Harcourt, three years before.

He liked her; she knew that. On his occasional visits to Lytham Court, the luxurious family home, he made a point of spending time with her, unfailingly interested in her, always kind. And what gave her hope that liking her might develop into something more was the snippet of information that Mrs Moody, the battleaxe housekeeper, had let slip: Jason never visited Lytham while she was away at the boarding school her mother had packed her off to as soon as she’d married money.

So here she was, a naive, plump eighteen-year-old, sitting up in bed long after her mother and Harold had retired for the night, screwing up her courage to go to Jason’s room and talk to him, tell him about the job offer in New York, ask him if he’d miss her—because if he said he would, she wouldn’t go.

Since she’d been back at Lytham, after finishing her A levels in the early summer, Harold had been making her feel horribly uncomfortable, asking her about her boyfriends, his hot blue eyes undressing her—especially when Vivienne, her mother, wasn’t around. And her mother didn’t want her around; she never had. If it hadn’t been for Jason’s occasional visits Georgia wouldn’t have spent any time here this summer, would have accepted the standing invitation to stay with her friend Sue, would have been making plans to go to New York with the family in November, making a firm decision to accept the exciting offer of a job in the new advertising agency Sue’s father was setting up over there.

But how could she leave Jason? How could she go if there was even the smallest hope that he could come to love her as she loved him?

Sue’s phone calls, begging her to make up her mind to go with them, were becoming more frantic. She had to reach a decision, and the only person who could help her do that was Jason.

But sitting up in bed in the thick darkness, chewing it over, wasn’t going to achieve a thing! She threw back the light counterpane and slid her legs out of bed. When he’d arrived for his eagerly awaited weekend visit he’d declined the evening meal and gone to his room.

‘I think I’m coming down with flu,’ he’d told them. ‘The symptoms started on the way here. So I’ll dose myself with aspirin and whisky and keep out of everyone’s way.’

‘You do that.’ Vivienne had taken herself to the far side of the room, flapping her hands in front of her as if to get rid of some unspeakable contamination. ‘I don’t want your nasty virus! And neither does Harold!’

Harold had merely shrugged, and Georgia could have smacked the pair of them. Couldn’t they see that Jason looked far from well? Didn’t they care?

‘I’ll make a hot drink and bring it up for you, shall I?’ Georgia had volunteered, determined to let him know that she, at least, cared about his state of health. ‘Some soup, perhaps?’

‘Thanks, poppet.’ He’d smiled for the first time, his eyes brightening momentarily as they rested on her. ‘But I really couldn’t face it. See you in the morning.’ He’d taken the whisky bottle from the drinks tray and walked out of the room, so she hadn’t been able to talk to him then. But she could now.

She wouldn’t disturb him for long, just explain about the job offer and tell him how she felt about him. She couldn’t put the width of the Atlantic between them if there was the slightest chance he could one day return her feelings.

If he couldn’t, if friendship was all he could ever offer her, then she’d make a new life for herself in America. The thought of baring her soul to him was scary, but she had to do it. Sue’s parents wouldn’t wait for her decision for ever.

She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.

He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.

She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.

But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.

Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.

He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?

The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.

If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.

So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.

Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.

He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.

And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.

After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.

She didn’t have to ask if he could ever love her. He had given her the answer.

She woke in her own bed, but couldn’t remember climbing back into it. Had Jason carried her here? She was filled with the scatty kind of happiness that made her heart soar up to the skies and dance around the sun. Jason’s lovemaking had been more beautiful than anything she could ever have imagined. He couldn’t have been so passionate if he didn’t love her.

She floated down to breakfast, her head spinning. Today they would talk. There were decisions to be made about New York, although what had happened last night made them academic. Her future was here with the man she loved.

The elegantly furnished dining room was empty. A glance at her watch told her she was too early. Mrs Moody didn’t serve breakfast before nine-thirty. Her mother and stepfather weren’t early risers.

She smiled softly, her amber eyes jewel-bright. She would take Jason’s breakfast up on a tray. Juice, toast, honey and coffee. They could talk in privacy. And when she told him she loved him he would tell her he felt the same, and kiss her, and maybe invite her to share his bed, and undress her slowly, and then…

Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might suffocate, and the heat of desire scorched her skin. She turned quickly, heading for the door and the kitchen. And Jason walked in.

She couldn’t speak, could only look at him with drowning, love-drenched eyes, one hand flying to her breast to still the wild clamouring of her heart. He looked pale, as if the night had taken the colour from his skin, making his slate-grey eyes darker by contrast, emphasising the lines of strain at the side of his beautiful male mouth.

He raked his fingers through his soft dark hair, a track Georgia longed to follow with her own fingers. But she knew she shouldn’t be thinking of things like that when he obviously wasn’t well.

‘Let me get you something,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘Coffee, juice, eggs—anything.’

But he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes so that the thick dark sweep of his lashes laid sooty crescents above his jutting, harshly masculine cheekbones.

Then he looked at her, and she saw regret in his eyes, heard it in his voice when he told her, ‘About last night. I’m more sorry than I can say for what happened. I’m fond of you; you know that, Georgia. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.’

‘You didn’t!’ she gasped. ‘How could you think that? Last night—’ Her face flamed at the wholly erotic memory, at the vision of the new and totally unexpected world he’d opened up for her. She swallowed convulsively. ‘Last night was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.’

She ached to go to him, to lean her head against the broad expanse of his chest, but there was something forbidding about his hard features that kept her feet rooted to the carpet. She felt emotional tears sting her eyes again as she protested, ‘Please don’t be sorry about what happened. I can’t bear it. It was all my fault; you know it was.’ And it was her fault; of course it was. She shouldn’t have let it happen. She’d taken advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable.

‘No.’ He turned away from her, his hands bunched into the pockets of his narrow-fitting jeans, his shoulders rigid beneath the stone-coloured sweatshirt he was wearing. ‘The blame is mine entirely. I’m eight years older. I should have had more control, dammit! Packed you back to your own room and your teddy bears!’

‘Don’t say that—I’m not a child!’ The words were torn from her heart. She was losing everything she’d dared to believe she’d gained. Losing him. It couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen! ‘Jason—I love you! Don’t you understand?’

He swung round to face her then, slowly, on the balls of his feet, his features less harsh, some softer emotion hazing his eyes so that for a tiny moment her heart lifted with hope, only to be shot down again when he countered gently, ‘Believe me, you only think you do. Last night—it was your first time.’

Dull colour flared briefly over his broad, ruggedly defined cheekbones, but his eyes didn’t waver, holding hers intently as if by his will alone he could force her to accept what he wanted her to believe.

‘That being so, it’s only natural that you should imagine—’

‘I don’t “imagine”! Give me some credit!’ The sheer vehemence of her interruption wiped the unhappy mixture of shame and compassion from his face. And his eyes narrowed watchfully as she went on, ‘I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you, and I’ve loved you ever since!’ He had to know how real it was, how true and strong her love for him. He mustn’t think she’d made love with him on a whim.

Her chin jutting out, she defied him to say she was lying. He didn’t, just sounded drained and weary as he told her gently, ‘You’re eighteen years old, Georgia. And for this day and age incredibly innocent. If you feel anything for me at all it can’t be anything other than infatuation.’ He reached out a hand as if to touch her, then withdrew it, thrust it back in his pocket. ‘Believe me, my dear, you’re still too young to really understand your own feelings. And I’m not prepared to take any more advantage of your innocence than I already have. Try to forget it ever happened. You have the whole of your life ahead of you, and if it’s worth anything at all to you, I’ll be around for you if you ever need me. You know that.’

He left the room without another word, without a backward glance, and left Lytham an hour later.

The pain of his going was unspeakable.

She spent the next few weeks in a pit of misery, moping around the house, irritating her mother, making Harold give her knowing little winks and leers.

‘Don’t nag her, Vivvie. She’s pining for some boy; it’s obvious! Did he dump you, sweetheart? He’s a fool if he did—a curvy little handful like you!’

And still she couldn’t bring herself to get away. She’d told Sue and her parents that she’d decided to take up their offer, but hadn’t bothered to obey her friend’s telephoned command to, ‘Get your butt over to our place and we can make plans about what we’re going to do when we hit the Big Apple—provided Dad gives us any time off from our dogsbody jobs at the agency!’

For the first time ever, giggly girl-talk with the bubbly Sue held no appeal whatsoever.

She was waiting for Jason. Hoping he’d rethink his rejection, telling herself that he wasn’t trying to avoid her, that he might have had another disagreement with Harold. They’d never seemed close—just as she and her mother weren’t. Or maybe he was just too busy to come. Recently accepted as a junior partner in a prestigious firm of London solicitors which specialised in fraud in high places, he could be too focused on his work to find time to visit.

But in her heart she knew the excuses she made were futile. He didn’t come because he just didn’t want to have to see her again.

On the point of capitulating to Sue’s demands, telling her mother of her future plans and packing her bags, she made a discovery that shook her out of her torpor.

She was pregnant!

She panicked. She didn’t know what to do. Vivienne would show her no sympathy or understanding whatsoever, and would almost certainly urge her to have an abortion. And as for Harold, she couldn’t bear to encounter his knowing, hot eyes.

Jason was the only one she could turn to, because hadn’t he said he’d be there for her if she needed him? And hadn’t he helped to create this new life she was carrying inside her?

She phoned his London number late at night, when she was sure he’d be at his apartment. It took every ounce of courage she possessed. After she’d told him she held her breath, feeling her pulse-rate rise.

But all he said was, ‘I take it you’re sure?’

‘I wouldn’t be phoning—’

‘OK. Calm down. I’ll be with you first thing in the morning. We’ll make plans. And Georgia—don’t worry.’

As if she could help it!

She lay awake all night, wondering if his plans would include a discreet abortion, and knew that she would never, ever be pressured into ending the life of her unborn child. He or she would be a part of Jason she would have for ever. And she’d think about the practicalities of raising a child on her own when the dust had settled.

Jason arrived at Lytham at eight the next morning, well before Harold and Vivienne were up, declining Mrs Moody’s stiffly formal offer of breakfast. The housekeeper never spoke unless it was necessary, and Georgia had never seen her smile, but the look she shot between the two of them now spoke volumes.

So Jason took her arm and walked her out of the impressive house and into the garden, which was manicured to within an inch of its life.

‘We’ll marry just as soon as it can be arranged.’ Marriage to Jason was all she had ever yearned for. Her heart skittered around like a wild thing, then settled down to a heavy, solemn beat. She sat down abruptly on an over-ornate cast-iron bench seat, sweat breaking out on her short upper lip as she forced out, ‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know I don’t have to. No one’s holding a gun to my head.’

He was standing over her, his back to the morning sun, his face in shadow so she couldn’t read his expression. Yet she knew it would be as bleak and emotionless as his voice.

‘It’s the only option,’ he told her tonelessly. ‘A termination’s out of the question, so don’t even think about it. I’m the father, and I’m responsible for both you and the baby. My child will have the best possible start in life, and a stable background with both parents as permanent fixtures. And that means marriage.’

It was what she wanted, but would it work? He didn’t love her, and if she hadn’t been pregnant he would have avoided her where possible.

She twisted her fingers together in her lap and he told her, ‘I can’t stay, I’ve got a hell of a lot on at the moment, but during this coming week I’ll arrange the date and venue for the ceremony. After the wedding you can move in with me, and when I’m less pushed for time we’ll look for somewhere more suitable. A city apartment’s not the ideal environment for a child.’

As proposals went, this one rated rather less than one out of ten. She clamped her lips together to stop them quivering, and he said, his voice gentling, ‘It will be all right; I promise. We’ll make a good marriage.’ Briefly, he reached out to ruffle her boyishly cropped hair. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll be back a week today, early evening. We’ll break the news to the parents over dinner. Don’t say anything until then. If there’s any flak flying, I’ll take it.’

A good marriage. If he was willing to make it work then so was she. But to be the wife of a successful young solicitor she needed to change her image, and she spent most of the week hunting for suitable clothes, because how could he be proud of a wife who went around wearing fault-concealing baggy trousers and tops?

It was the afternoon, a week later, before she found the perfect dress for dinner that evening. She wanted to wear something that would make a statement, to appear older and more sophisticated in front of Harold and Vivienne, and to show Jason she was more than prepared to make an effort.

Hurrying into the house through the kitchen regions, clutching the classy carriers, she encountered Mrs Moody.

‘Mrs Harcourt’s been looking for you. You’ll find her in the conservatory.’

‘Thanks.’ No need to say more. Mrs Moody didn’t encourage chit-chat. For the first time ever Georgia didn’t feel intimidated by the severe mouth, the glacial, disapproving eyes. And as she sped up to her suite of rooms to get ready for Jason, for the announcement he would make over dinner tonight, her confidence soared. Vivienne could wait; she had more important things to do than listen to her endless complaints.

When her mother had married Harold Harcourt, after meeting him when she’d worked as his temporary personal secretary, Georgia had been over-awed, intimidated, even, by the opulence of this house and Harold’s staggering wealth. Unused to anything of the kind, she’d been out of her depth, afraid of putting a foot wrong.

But her mother had taken to her new lifestyle as if she’d been born to it, instead of having had to scratch a living to support herself and her unwanted child. She lapped up the luxury of having everything done for her, more designer clothes than she could wear, and a holiday home in the Caribbean.

Well, Vivienne was welcome to it! Georgia was about to embark on a life of her own, with Jason and their baby. Very carefully, she took the black dress from one of the carriers and laid it across her bed.

Classy. Jersey silk and cut on the bias, so it clung in the right places. Short—four inches above her knees—with a scoopy bodice. When she’d tried it on it had made her look sleek, yet voluptuous, rather than just plain overweight.

And plain black courts in the softest leather imaginable, with high and slender heels to give extra height to her perpendicularly challenged frame. She’d stopped growing when she reached five-two—upwardly, anyway.

After her shower she anointed her body with perfume, musky, exotic and disgracefully expensive. To give him his due, Harold made her a generous allowance. She rarely touched it, but today she’d dipped deep into her account.

But it had been worth it, she thought as she wriggled into the scraps of scarlet nonsense that passed as underwear. Used to wearing sturdy, practical undies, she found her mirror image a blush-making revelation.

The low-cut bra lovingly shaped her breasts, displaying them to their full advantage, and the tiny briefs emphasised her sex. Would Jason want her if he saw her like this? Would he see her as a desirable woman instead of a graceless lump? Would he decide that marriage to her might be more exciting than a mere execution of his duty? Would he think she was sexy?

The unmistakable sound of someone entering the adjoining bedroom sent her already thudding heartbeats into a frenzy. No one ever came to her rooms, not even Mrs Moody, because she looked after them herself.

Jason?

Her hand fluttered to her throat. It had to be him. He’d promised to be here in time for dinner. With an hour still to go he could have decided to speak to her privately before announcing their marriage plans later on.

Her eyes widening, her veins racing with fire, she watched the porcelain knob of the bathroom door make a slow half-turn.

A few short weeks ago she would have been diving for a towel to cover her near-nakedness, and she almost gave in to the impulse now, but managed not to because there was no earthly reason to be shy with the man she loved with every atom of her being, the man who would soon be her husband, the man who had fathered the new and precious life she was carrying.

And she would have the answers to the questions she’d asked herself only a few seconds ago!

Then the world went black and very still. Harold stood in the open doorway, staring at her. And Georgia stared back, too shocked and embarrassed to move.

The way he was looking at her made her feel like throwing up. His heavy face was red, hot eyes raking over every inch of her body. She tried to make a move, to grab a towel from the rail and cover herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots through the floor.

‘Well, well, well—what an eye-opener!’

He was leering at her, Georgia thought, horrified. Oh, if only she weren’t so gauche, knew how to handle this hateful situation. ‘You have been hiding your light under a bushel!’

The thick sound of his voice galvanised her, was all it took to have her leaping over the tiles, grabbing for a towel. But Harold side-stepped, moving quickly for a heavy man, and was there before her, mocking, ‘No need to be shy with me, sweetie. No need at all.’

Beginning to panic now, she couldn’t agree with that. He might only be teasing, indulging in one of his too-near-the-bone jokes at her expense, but she wouldn’t bet on it. And the only way to stop his eyes crawling all over her body was to cover it.

She made a desperate lunge for the edge of the bathtowel she could see behind his bulky frame and he caught her before she made the connection, his laugh high and silly, his hands grabbing, all over her.

And then all hell broke loose.

At any other time the sight of her mother’s distorted features would have struck her as being hysterically funny, the twisted expression on her expertly made-up face and the raucous tone of her voice an almost surreal contrast to the perfect taste of the smoke-grey silk that hung so beautifully on her pin-thin body.

‘Just what the hell is going on in here? Hal? Answer me, Hal!’

Her flesh crawling with embarrassment, Georgia found herself thrust aside. She was shaking all over, not knowing what to do or say, grateful that the hateful mauling had stopped but horrified that her mother should have witnessed the degrading scene.

This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, she thought wildly, and then proved herself wrong, because Jason was here, too, his face dark with bitter anger, and that had to be worse than anything she could possibly have imagined. ‘Vivvie, sweetheart,’ Harold said. ‘Don’t get the wrong end of the stick!’

He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair and Georgia just knew he would have straightened his tie had he been wearing one.

‘I hate to have to tell you this, but I can’t have you getting all the wrong ideas—I only came up here to pass on that message her friend left with you. That Sue somebody-or-other who’s been phoning all afternoon. Thought I’d save you the trouble, darling. But this little minx of yours was parading about in those skimpy things.’ He drew his brows down in an anxious frown. ‘I haven’t said anything before—didn’t want to upset you—but she’s been coming on to me for weeks now. And just now—well—she just threw herself at me, as you must have seen for yourself.’

All eyes on her, condemning her, Georgia could barely hold herself upright, let alone speak.

How could Harold say such disgusting things about her? She was shaking so badly, inside and out, that her denial when it came was barely audible.

‘I didn’t. No, I didn’t!’

She knew she hadn’t sounded convincing, and her mother was shouting at her, the words she said scrambled by her own panicking brain, making no sense. But she could tell by the look of loathing in Vivienne’s eyes that she didn’t believe her.

And why should she? Why should she believe the truth when it would mean that her marriage would never be the same again? Why sacrifice wealth, luxury and ease if by blinkering herself she didn’t have to?

And the look of deep and bitter contempt on Jason’s face said it all. He didn’t believe her, either. The offer of marriage had been made out of duty. He didn’t love her, never had and never could, and now he despised her. He had only let her into his bed because she’d been eager and offering herself.

Hadn’t Sue’s mother once asked, ‘Why are men ruled by their hormones?’ shaking her head over her twenty-year-old son’s latest folly. Guy had been chasing after a woman from the nearby village, twice his age, and rumoured to be no better than she should be.

Jason had been ruled by his hormones, his judgement clouded by alcohol, and now deeply—and probably bitterly—regretted it. If he thought anything of her at all he would be defending her now, at least asking to hear her side of the story.

But he didn’t say a word, and she just knew that this farce gave him the perfect get-out. If he believed Harold, he could free himself up to believe anything—believe that after her initiation she had thrown herself at every male she came across, greedy for sex, allow himself to believe that the child she was carrying wasn’t even his!

Blinded by a sudden deluge of tears, she stumbled from the room, her arms crossed tightly across her breasts in a vain and belated attempt to hide as much of herself and her stupid red underwear as she could from Jason’s bleak, contemptuous eyes.

He made no move to stop her, or to follow her, and the last tiny flicker of hope snuffed out and died. And as she scrabbled around in her bedroom, snatching up the jeans and sweater she’d discarded earlier, her shoes and handbag, she could hear the low, harsh sound of his voice, her mother’s shrill tirade, Harold’s low, placating mutters.

They would be discussing her gross behaviour, she decided hysterically, heading for the door. Deciding how to get her contaminating presence out of their lives.

She fled down the corridor until she could no longer hear their voices, pulled her clothes on, walked into her shoes and clattered down the stairs.

As she reversed the small car she had been given the use of out of the garage, with more speed than precision, she knew exactly where she would go. To Sue.

Mercifully, she’d been too busy wandering round the shops planning her future with Jason to even think about contacting her friend to tell her what had happened and that she’d changed her mind about going with them to New York after all.

Kate and Robin Ansley, Sue’s parents, wouldn’t turn their backs on her, she knew that. Though at the moment they were both in New York. Robin had been there for weeks, setting up the American branch of his London-based advertising agency, and now Kate had flown out for a couple of weeks to make the final decision about where the family should live.

They had always welcomed her into their close and loving family, and would do everything they could to support her through this; she knew that. And Sue would fight her corner to the bitter end.

CHAPTER THREE

GEORGIA came back to the present with a jolt. She felt numb all over, the rapid playback of the past stunning her brain. And the way Jason was looking at her now, with contempt and scarcely veiled hostility, told her that Harold had never owned up to the truth of what had happened that evening all those years ago.

Maybe he’d meant to, but had never raked up enough courage. Jason could be frighteningly forbidding when he wanted to be.

But she’d made her peace with her mother’s husband a long time ago. He’d flown out to New York to break the news of her mother’s death in a car accident the day after her funeral. She hadn’t wanted to see him, not after what he’d done, but his altered appearance had shocked her so much she had listened to what he’d had to say.

His wife’s death, and the manner of it, had made him take a long, hard look at himself, and he’d hated what he’d seen. He hadn’t been able to apologise enough for the lies he’d told on that traumatic evening, the damage he’d done to her, and ultimately to his wife.

It had been hard to forgive him, but, faced with someone as obviously tormented by guilt as he was, she’d had no option but to try. On his return to England he’d written often, and occasionally she had replied, and when she’d returned to the UK he’d travelled to Birmingham once a month to give her lunch.

She’d cancelled their last date, though. She’d been so busy with her presentation. Now she wished she’d made time. He’d always seemed so lonely, pathetically pleased to have her company. He’d never known about her pregnancy, and that had made things easier because not knowing, he couldn’t mention it.

Jason was tall, over six feet, and she had to tilt her chin up to look him in the face. There was nothing there to see but naked dislike. Did he ever wonder what had happened to their baby? Did he even care? Had Vivienne told him about the miscarriage, or had neither of them bothered to mention the subject?

He’d made no attempt to contact her in all these years. He’d washed his hands of her, and the child she’d been carrying.

She never allowed herself to think about the miscarriage, the lost baby; it hurt too much. She closed her eyes briefly, to hide the pain, and felt his gaze on her like a brand, burning through her eyelids. She snapped them open again, and stared into the hard, hostile eyes, pushing the past firmly away. She didn’t know this man who had ignored her existence, the fate of their child. And didn’t want to.

The change in her stunned him. He was staring, he knew he was, but could do nothing about it.

This new version of the plump teenager he remembered was stylishly slender, yet perfectly formed, wearing an elegantly simple cream-coloured sweater, which almost certainly carried an Italian label, over narrow-fitting designer jeans. The woman she had become was light years away from the dumpy, frumpy fifteen-year-old he had first met at Harold and Vivienne’s wedding ten years ago.

The first real and deep compassion he’d felt in all of his twenty-three years of living had twisted sharply inside his guts as he’d looked at her then, wearing an awful blue satin dress that had emphasised every bulge, a fluffy confection of blue flowers set incongruously and precariously on her mouse-brown cropped head, and carrying her mother’s bouquet of white lilies in hands that visibly shook.

There’d been a look of bewilderment in her huge eyes that had made him want to take care of her, shelter her from life’s knocks. Especially when Vivienne, elegant in a darker blue silk, had raised a perfectly arched, perfectly derisive eyebrow whenever her hapless daughter made a gauche remark or clumsy movement.

Vivienne had had no time for her daughter, he had sensed that from the start, and later he had learned why.

But Georgia’s uncomfortably awkward smile—when he had eventually persuaded her to give one—had been beautiful, trusting and innocent, her eyes clinging to his as if he’d been a rock in a raging sea.

Now there was no compassion in him, not for her. She had killed any care he had had for her as surely as she had killed their child. He’d felt sick to his soul when Vivienne had told him of the abortion.

Besides, from the look of her, she needed none. And her smile—should she ever decide to thaw that haughty expression—might still be as beautiful as sunrise, but it would leave him cold.

She broke the long silence. ‘I need the remote control thingy to open the garages.’ Car keys dangled from one slim finger. She’d done something to her hair. Long now, cascading to her shoulders, it shimmered and gleamed in the overhead lights. It looked as soft as the costliest of silks.

Hooding his eyes, he strode towards her, held out a hand. ‘I’ll garage it for you and bring in your luggage.’

‘No.’ Instinctively she enclosed the keys in the palm of her hand. ‘No one touches that car but me.’

So there was an area where she was vulnerable. He shrugged. What did he care? He followed her out, and the vehicle in front of the closed garage area did raise an eyebrow. No wonder she was possessive.

Powerful, sexy, beautifully styled, its origins were as obvious as the classy sweater she wore. Either her job paid mega-bucks or she had a rich lover.

From the look of her, and what he knew of her, from what he remembered of the way she was in bed, he’d lay odds on the sugar daddy. He activated the remote control, then tossed it to her and instructed tightly, ‘Lock up after you. You’re in your old room. Supper in ten minutes; Mrs Moody held it back.’

He’d been watching the double doors slide open as he spoke, and now he turned to look at her again. Her hair shimmered under the security lights and her eyes were dark amber pools that said, Arrogant bastard! as clearly as if she’d spoken the words aloud.

He acknowledged the challenge, the confrontational gauntlet thrown down by those unwavering golden eyes with a brief dip of his head, a tight smile, then strode back into the house.

She could find her own way. Whatever else she might have forgotten—her morals, her responsibilities towards the new life she had once carried and, yes, to him—she could hardly have forgotten the way to the suite of rooms that had been hers. And she could carry her own bags.

Politeness cost nothing, but now he wasn’t even prepared to give her that. Had she been as unsure of herself, as outwardly quashed as he remembered, then he might have been able to manage a stilted pretence of polite behaviour. But this new sassy, super-confident creature with the gleam of battle in her eyes could expect nothing from him.

After the funeral, after he’d satisfied himself that she was prepared to take her new responsibilities seriously, Georgia Blake was on her own.

Her old room. Georgia flung it a look of deep distaste.

She had always hated the little-girly pinks and peaches Vivienne had chosen for its decor, the frills and flounces everywhere and the delicate white and gold furniture that looked as if it might fall to pieces if she went anywhere near it. She had felt like a lumbering elephant in a fairy grotto, but had been too unsure of herself, too cowed by her mother’s resentment of her existence, to object.

If Jason had possessed any sensitivity at all he would have asked Mrs Moody to make a bed up for her in one of the several guest rooms.

Thankfully, she would only have to make use of the room that had been the scene of her humiliation and anguish for a couple of nights at most. Thankfully again, a quick inspection revealed that all of the things she’d left behind on that terrible evening had been turfed out of the drawers and hanging cupboards. Mrs Moody would have binned them on her mother’s instructions.

She tossed her overnight bag on the frilly pink bedcover and stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her untidy mane of hair.

‘Mouse’ was a thing of the past. After the trauma of losing everything—Jason, their baby, the right to show her face at Lytham, to have anything more to do with her mother—her hair had grown because she simply hadn’t bothered to have it cut, and the puppy fat had dropped off her because she had only been able to pick at her food.

A final fleeting glance told her she’d do. Jason would have to take her as she was. Vivienne had always insisted they dress for dinner. How well she remembered having to climb out of her uniform of baggy tops that hid a multitude of sins and deck herself in the frilly frocks her mother deemed suitable for a young girl.

Or perhaps Vivienne had deliberately picked out those awful fussy dresses because she’d known they made her daughter look a fright, the contrast with her own elegant perfection all the more pointed.

She wouldn’t let it hurt her. Why should she? Vivienne was dead, the past was dead, and Jason—despite appearing as handsome and virile as ever; even more so if she were to be painfully honest—might just as well be.

Being at Lytham again brought back far too many uncomfortable memories, and if what Jason had said about her inheritance was true then she’d get rid of the place faster than it took her gorgeous, powerful new car to get from nought to sixty!

She found him in the breakfast room, and he hadn’t changed what he was wearing, either. So the old order had altered. Which, she thought, raking her eyes over the lean, powerful frame enhanced by his casual jeans and sweater, was a pity. She would have taken perverse pleasure from annoying him, underlining her confident independence.

‘Ready to eat?’ Did she have to look at him as if they were squaring up for the fight of the century? He lifted the lid of the steaming casserole Mrs Moody had brought through five minutes ago, along with a clutch of jacket potatoes, and found the enticing aroma repelled him.

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