Carole Mortimer - Red Rose For Love

Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grasp, and she was propelled firmly out of the crowd towards a waiting car. ‘Thanks, Der—You!’ she gasped as she looked straight into the deep green eyes of Bartholomew Jordan. She tried to pull out of his grasp. ‘Would you please let me go,’ she ordered coldly.

‘Gladly,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to leave you to the mercy of that mob,’ he nodded behind her.

Eve followed his line of vision. If anything the crowd had increased in number. ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

‘Then get inside,’ he commanded curtly.

The chauffeur had appeared at the back of the car and was even now opening the door for them. Eve got in, moving over as far as she could as Bartholomew Jordan climbed in beside her, the door firmly closed before the chauffeur got in behind the wheel. The window between the driver and the back of the car was firmly closed, leaving the two of them in complete privacy.

Eve was aware of the smell of expensive cologne, a tangy elusive smell that in no way detracted from this man’s own animal smell. She could also detect the aroma of cigars or cheroots, this smell as pleasant as the cologne.

‘Just how did you intend getting home this evening?’ he asked in that pleasant well-modulated voice that spoke of an expensive education.

She shrugged dismissively. ‘I was going to ask Derek to call me a taxi.’

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘After the performance you gave this evening you’re lucky to get away in one piece.’

‘I’m sorry I displeased you——’

‘You didn’t,’ he cut in on her sarcasm. ‘The opposite.’

Her head went back, her long dark hair gleaming down her back. ‘I hardly expected to make such an impression.’

His green-eyed gaze ran appraisingly over her clearly defined curves in the shimmering body-hugging material of her cat-suit. ‘In that outfit you don’t even need to sing to make an impression.’

Eve flushed at the familiarity in his voice. ‘Mr Jordan——’

‘Bart,’ he put in softly.

She blinked up at him, her eyes very blue. ‘Bart?’

He nodded, his hair very blond. ‘All my friends call me Bart.’ He took a cheroot out of the case in his breast-pocket. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked politely.

‘Not at all. And I’m not a friend, Mr Jordan,’ she told him coldly. ‘And I have no intention of ever becoming one.’ The smell of his cheroot filled the car as he returned his gold lighter to his pocket, using the expensive item as if it meant nothing to him.

‘Never?’ he quirked an eyebrow.

‘Most of my friends are of years’ standing,’ she said coolly. ‘Now could you please drop me off here? I can easily get a taxi now.’

‘Let me drive you to your home.’

‘I don’t live in London.’

‘Then I’ll drive you to wherever it is you want to go,’ he offered smoothly.

Eve controlled her anger with effort. This man liked his own way, that much was obvious, but men like him left her cold. Over-confident, arrogant, and high-handed—Bartholomew Jordan fitted that description as if it had been made for him.

‘I want to go here, Mr Jordan,’ she sat forward, ‘if you could ask your driver to stop.’

‘Why?’ came his stark query.

Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘Maybe because I like to choose my own company.’

His eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. ‘You don’t like me. Why?’

‘Like I said, I like to choose my own company.’

‘And given that choice?’

‘I certainly wouldn’t choose you!’ she said rudely.

‘Derek James?’

She looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

His expression was haughty. ‘He informed me you were spending the night at his apartment.’

And so she was, but in a separate bedroom! Not that this man would believe that, he wouldn’t understand such a sterile relationship. He was everything she most despised, over-confident, and over-wealthy, believing that wealth could buy him anything he wanted. And right now he probably thought it could buy him a place in her bed!

She gave him a derisive look. ‘I am. I always stay with Derek when I’m in town.’ She didn’t explain to him that she also stayed with Derek’s wife, Judy.

Bartholomew Jordan’s mouth twisted. ‘What a nice arrangement!’

She shrugged. ‘We like it.’

He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘No chance of your dropping him?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Are you propositioning me?’ she asked slowly, disbelievingly.

He smiled a humourless smile. ‘I’m sure it isn’t the first time.’

Eve licked her dry lips, anger boiling up within her. ‘What are you offering?’ Her voice was controlled, too controlled if he did but know it.

He frowned. ‘What do you want?’

‘What does the woman in your life now get?’

He stiffened, searching her emotionless features with narrowed eyes. ‘What makes you think there is a woman?’

‘Nothing about you makes me think there isn’t,’ she scorned. ‘So, what’s the asking price?’

‘An apartment, financial security, jewels?’ he said tautly.

‘All of them?’

‘If you like,’ he nodded abruptly.

She seemed to consider. ‘And your time?’

He frowned his puzzlement. ‘My time?’

Eve nodded. ‘How often could I expect you to visit me?’

His frown deepened, his eyes glacial. ‘As often as I could,’ he said slowly.

‘Which would be?’ she persisted.

‘Once or twice a week.’

‘Oh, that wouldn’t suit me at all,’ Eve dismissed, bending forward to press the button that lowered the dividing window. ‘Could you stop here?’ she requested the driver.

‘Mr Jordan?’ he said uncertainly.

‘Drive on, Adam,’ Bartholomew Jordan instructed, closing the window again. ‘That wasn’t very clever, Eve.’ His voice had hardened to anger.

She turned. ‘I wasn’t trying to be clever,’ she told him coldly. ‘I’ve been working for weeks to get this concert together, this last week has been hell, tonight was exhausting, and now I have to sit here and take insults from you! You can take your proposition, Mr Jordan, and——’

‘I think what you’re going to say next isn’t ladylike,’ he cut in firmly.

‘Maybe it wasn’t,’ she rasped, ‘but it was a damn sight more honest than what you’ve been saying to me. Why don’t you just tell me you want to go to bed with me and be done with it!’

He drew in an angry breath. ‘All right,’ he nodded, ‘I do want to go to bed with you. Now. Tonight.’ He stubbed out the half-smoked cheroot.

‘Go to hell!’ she spat the words at him.

‘What is it about the arrangement you don’t like? Ah yes,’ he drawled, ‘the amount of time I would spend with you. Was it too much or too little?’

‘Too much!’ she snapped. ‘Even sitting in this car with you now is too much. Men like you sicken me, Mr Jordan. You——’ She didn’t get any further; his mouth was savage on hers.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of fighting him, but lay placid in his arms as he kissed her with complete thoroughness. He left her cold, as she had known he would; his seduction was practised, his kisses designed to extract a response even from the most reluctant of females. Although she doubted he ever met ones that were reluctant.

But she was, her eyes spitting venom at him when he at last raised his head. A dark flush coloured his cheeks, his eyes narrowed angrily, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her arms.

‘What did that prove, Mr Jordan?’ she scorned, shaking off his hands and straightening her tousled hair.

He sat back, that deep flush the only sign that he was at all put out by her lack of response. ‘It proved,’ he said slowly, ‘that your stage act is just that—an act.’