Ivy took the glass of champagne he was holding for her. ‘It’s Friday night,’ she reminded him. ‘Wouldn’t all the restaurants that serve superb meals be fully booked?’

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

She sipped the champagne, felt the fizz go to her head, promoting the urge to be reckless. ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘I will have dinner with you.’

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

But he couldn’t buy her.

About the Author

Initially a French/English teacher, EMMA DARCY changed careers to computer programming before the happy demands of marriage and motherhood. Very much a people person, and always interested in relationships, she finds the world of romance fiction a thrilling one, and the challenge of creating her own cast of characters very addictive.

Hidden Mistress, Public Wife

Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

Understandably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Therefore an easy conquest,’ Ivy concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘In the paper bin.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ivy laughed. On both counts it was terribly tempting.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jordan had liked her immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The poor boy was a very dapper sixty year old.

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

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

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

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

The name came back to him … Ivy.

Poison Ivy?

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

All very curious.

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

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

‘Thank you, Jordan.’

‘My pleasure.’

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

Have a taste of him or run?

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

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

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

It was Jordan Powell.

And his face broke into a delighted grin.

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

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

‘Who?’ the woman demanded.

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

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

Not looking like a farm girl this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh? What do you do?’

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

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

‘A farm?’ Nonie Powell repeated incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which should have dampened his ardour but didn’t.

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

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

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

‘Begin what?’

‘Acquainting myself with the person you are.’

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

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

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

Careful, Ivy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘She didn’t like the country version?’

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

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

‘I did.’

‘Pardon?’

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

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

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

‘Not at all.’

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

‘I’m glad to be of use.’

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

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

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

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

It was ridiculous, of course.

All to do with image.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But you came for her tonight.’

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

‘Like what?’

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

‘Will you be staying the weekend with her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d rather go home.’

‘Which is where?’

‘About a hundred kilometres from here.’

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

‘That’s quite a drive late at night.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

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

But he didn’t want to walk away.

He liked her thorns.

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

Missing out on that … no.

He had to win her over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A what?’ She looked aghast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Try hard.’

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

‘No.’

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

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

No chance of marriage with Jordan Powell.

Only bed and roses.

But the bed part might be an experience worth having.

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

It was tempting and becoming more tempting by the minute.

He bought Waterlilies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was definitely thinking sinful pleasures.

Ivy’s stomach fluttered in sinful excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head, not wanting to explain.

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

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

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

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

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

‘What did he die of, Ivy?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned back. ‘It’s not a bribe.’

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

‘The choice is yours.’

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

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

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

Temptation roared through her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t buy her.

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

One evening … maybe one night.

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

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