Carole Mortimer - Bound By Contract

She opened her mouth to protest at this verbal attack, and then closed it again. This man looked ready to carry out his threat to smack her!

Which wasn’t surprising, when he’d obviously jumped into the water fully clothed in order to save her…!

No, she mustn’t laugh—or she had no doubt he would tan her backside! This wasn’t the time to see the funny side of this. That would have to come later!

‘How gracious of you,’ she drawled. ‘But, contrary to what you may think, I can swim—very well, as it happens.’ She had just been so surprised by the identity of this man that she’d forgotten to swim.

Gideon Byrne. Oscar-winning film director. She’d watched the awards on television herself the previous year, seen him as he’d gone up on to the stage to collect his award, heard his brief acceptance speech. Tall and dark, with metallic-grey eyes, he had a presence that would have been electric on stage or film, but he’d chosen to use his talent behind rather than in front of the camera, and was as far removed from her in the world of acting as the sun was from the moon—and she had been treating him as nothing more than an irritating intrusion!

‘Then I can only assume that on this occasion you lost your sense of direction—because you were heading for the bottom of the pool, not the top!’ he scorned disgustedly, finally moving off her to sit down at the side of the pool, pushing an agitated hand through the dark wetness of his hair.

She became aware of her own dishevelled appearance, her hair a blonde tangle about her shoulders and down her back, her bikini affording her little cover. But then, she hadn’t expected to see anyone. Or for anyone to see her!

She stood up in one fluid movement, moving to the lounger where she’d left her robe when she’d come down earlier. Pulling it on, she instantly felt warmer, and better able to deal with the situation.

‘I really am sorry, Mr Byrne,’ she began apologetically. ‘I—’

‘You know who I am?’ he snapped harshly as he turned to look at her with coldly accusing eyes.

‘Of course,’ she acknowledged smoothly. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ she added lightly as he continued to glare at her.

She would have been decidedly out of touch in the acting world if she hadn’t recognised this man. After his success the previous year the newspapers had been full of photographs and articles about him. Admittedly he was usually scowling in those photographs, but—

Not so different from now, really, she realised ruefully. She’d thought at the time that he probably didn’t like having his photograph taken, that he was one of those directors who believed it was his work that was important, not his private life. But maybe it was just that he rarely smiled, after all…

‘Not that I’m aware,’ he dismissed coldly, standing up, giving her the full benefit of just how wet he actually was.

He was wearing black denims and a pale grey shirt—silk, if she weren’t mistaken—and both articles of clothing were clinging to him. And, while the wetness of that clothing revealed just how masculine he was, his shoulders wide and powerful, his stomach flat, his hips tapered, he must also be very uncomfortable. And all because he’d thought she was drowning!

‘You underestimate your fame, Mr Byrne,’ she answered lightly. ‘And I think perhaps you should get out of those wet clothes,’ she suggested, with a guilty grimace. ‘Before you catch pneumonia!’

‘Not very likely in this hot-house.’ But be began to unbutton his shirt anyway, revealing the dark hair that grew on his wide chest as he pulled the clinging material away from him and threw the dripping shirt down on to the tiled floor, before unbuttoning his denims, obviously with the intention of doing the same thing with them.

Much to her dismay! She might be twenty-two, and not a complete innocent where men were concerned, but she didn’t usually have complete strangers stripping off in front of her, either!

‘Er—I think Uncle Edgar left one of his robes in the changing room.’ She turned away awkwardly. ‘I’ll go and check for you.’ She moved hastily away, her cheeks hot with embarrassment, as Gideon Byrne continued to strip off his denims. Admittedly, he was wearing black briefs underneath, but there was no guarantee he wasn’t going to strip those off next…!

Gideon Byrne, she thought breathlessly as she hurried to the changing room, trying to remember exactly what it was she had read about him in the newspapers the previous year. Thirty-eight, dark brown hair, grey eyes, unmarried, only child of the long-dead actor John Byrne…

But none of those cold facts could have prepared her for the flesh-and-blood man. How could the newspapers possibly describe the aura of electric energy that surrounded the man, or the cynicism that coloured every word he spoke? They couldn’t. They hadn’t!

Well, at least she had found the perfect cure for jet-lag; one dose of Gideon Byrne, and all the tiredness from her journey had completely left her!

Uncle Edgar hadn’t mentioned that he had such a famous guest staying here when he’d met her at the airport earlier, or since her arrival at the house. If he had done, she might have been more prepared!

However, she was no more prepared for the sheer physical male beauty of his body when she returned with the robe—although, thankfully, he had kept the black briefs on!

She guessed he was well over six feet in height—as he seemed to tower over her five feet eight inches. His muscular body was deeply tanned; muscles rippled powerfully beneath his skin, and there was a fine sprinkling of dark hair over all of his body, becoming much thicker on the width of his chest. He was gorgeous!

‘Thanks.’

She stared at him blankly for several seconds, wondering if she had spoken those words out loud, realising she hadn’t as he held his hand out for the robe she carried.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered awkwardly, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her own towelling robe once he’d taken the one she was holding to pull on over his near-nakedness.

‘Uncle Edgar?’ He quirked dark brows at her questioningly as he tied the belt in place.

‘It’s an honorary title.’ She was relieved to talk of something normal after the impact this man had made on her senses, hoping she wasn’t making too big an idiot of herself. Although she thought she probably was! ‘My name is Madison McGuire,’ she told him lightly, holding out her hand. ‘Edgar Remington is my godfather.’

Gideon Byrne didn’t look impressed by this explanation; his mouth twisted scornfully as he touched her hand only lightly in return. Although it was enough for Madison to feel the thrill of electricity that ran up her arm. That aura didn’t just surround him, it went right through him!

‘Edgar is many things, to many people, but this is the first time I’ve heard him referred to as The Godfather!’ he drawled.

Madison gave him a look of amused reproval. ‘I doubt he would be flattered by that name!’

‘Probably not,’ Gideon Byrne accepted dryly. ‘But he’s a first-class manipulator nonetheless!’

She had known Edgar Remington all of her life. She knew him as a good friend of her parents, and also as her benevolent godfather, but she was aware there had to be another side to him, the side that headed one of the top film production companies in the world, and headed it well.

As a film director, perhaps that was the side of him that Gideon Byrne knew best…?

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Madison dismissed with a shrug; her very minor part in a film might have been in one produced by Edgar’s company, but even so she had had no contact with her uncle because of it, her almost non-existent role having been filmed on location in Scotland.