SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Bad Influence

But at least while she wore them no one would doubt that the Geldard fortune was as healthy as ever. And if she was going to have to fight a hostile takeover bid, it was vital to keep up appearances.

‘Great party, Georgie! Just about everyone’s here!’

Georgia smiled, discreetly weaving her partner out of a potential collision; Robin Rustrom-Smith was an excellent dancer when he was sober, but at the moment he wasn’t. ‘Yes, it’s going very well,’ she agreed, glancing around the crowded room with satisfaction.

“Everyone” was indeed there—aristocrats rubbing shoulders with film stars and captains of industry, all willing to abandon their dignity to compete fiercely in a game of bingo to win trinkets that had cost less than they’d spend on breakfast, or to scrabble for the prize balloons. A swift glance at the slim Cartier watch on her wrist told her that it was almost midnight; she could at last begin to relax in the knowledge that the ball had raised a great deal of money for the foundation…

Suddenly she stiffened as a tall figure near the door caught her eye. It wasn’t the first time this had happened—several times over the past three months she had spotted a man of a certain height and build, with dark blond hair curling over his collar at the back, and her heart had tripped over itself until inevitably a second look confirmed that it was a complete stranger.

But this time she didn’t need a second look; there was no mistaking the arrogant set of those wide shoulders, the tilt of his head as he surveyed the room. The formal dinner jacket he was wearing was beautifully cut, but the vivid memory that flashed into her mind was of his bare chest, hard-muscled and bronzed by the sun, scattered with rough, curling, male hair…

Her heart fluttering in panic, she nudged Robin across to the far side of the dance-floor—fortunately his brain was rather too fuddled by the excellent champagne that had been flowing generously all evening for him to notice anything amiss. Hidden by the crowd of dancers, she watched warily, like a small mouse hiding in the long grass, hoping the farmyard cat wouldn’t notice she was there.

She had known that there was a risk that she would run into him if he stayed in England for any length of time. But what was he doing here tonight? His name wasn’t on the guest-list; and besides, he had only just arrived—if he had been there at dinner, she would certainly have seen him. Was it just an unlucky chance, or had he come looking for her?

Waltzing around the crowded dance-floor, she was barely aware of the music or of the glittering gathering enjoying themselves with an increasing degree of boisterousness beneath the sparkling chandeliers high above their heads, pastel-coloured balloons drifting around their feet, curling lengths of streamer decorating their hair and shoulders.

As the dance came to an end she was surrounded at once by a throng of admirers, clamouring for the chance of being next to lead her round the floor.

‘My turn, Georgie.’

‘Georgie, you promised me.’

‘Pardon the intrusion from the far-flung Colonies, boys, but I think this is my dance.’

It was that lazy, mocking drawl she had tried so hard to forget. To Georgia’s disgust, not one of the other claimants to her hand seemed willing to challenge the newcomer; groaning in protest, they conceded defeat, standing aside to let him step in. He held out one imperious hand, and she could do nothing but put hers in it and let him draw her out onto the dance-floor and into his arms.

He danced well, for a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on horseback, herding half a million sheep across the outback, she reflected with a touch of asperity. And she couldn’t deny that the elegant cut of a formal dinner jacket suited him remarkably well. But the memory of the last time he had held her in his arms was swirling in her brain, and all her usual cool poise had deserted her, leaving her feeling as gauche as a schoolgirl.

His soft laughter mocked her. ‘Well, good evening, Blondie. This is a pleasant surprise.’

She lifted her eyes to stare up at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded raggedly.

‘I bribed my way in,’ he admitted without shame. ‘I’m staying here at the hotel, and I was passing across the hall when I happened to look in—and who should I see but my little mermaid? So I collared one of those fearsome old dragons who always seem to run these things, and gave her a nice fat cheque to let me in. I was hoping I might run into you while I was in London, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be here.’ His voice took on a note of sardonic amusement. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you…with your clothes on.’

She returned him a look of cool dignity which she hoped would override the betraying hint of pink in her cheeks. ‘If you’re going to make coarse remarks like that, I shall walk off the dance-floor.’

He chuckled with laughter, the arm around her waist tightening just a fraction, as if to warn her not to try it. ‘I see you got your diamonds,’ he remarked, a hard edge in his voice. ‘Quite a set—the real thing too. You have been busy since the last time we met. Found yourself some rich fool to marry, did you? Who is it? That pasty-faced creep you were dancing with when I came in?’

‘Robin isn’t a creep!’ she protested hotly.

‘He isn’t man enough for you.’ He had drawn her closer, his warm breath stirring her hair, his hand sliding slowly down the length of her spine to mould intimately over the smooth curve of her derrière. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish, when you feel his scrawny hands on your smooth, satin skin, for a real lover?’ he taunted provocatively. ‘One whose touch would be warm and gentle on your soft, naked body—who would caress those ripe, firm, beautiful breasts with tenderness and who would make love to you all night, in every way you could possibly imagine…?’

Georgia drew in a sharp breath, shocked not so much by his words as by her own reaction to them; breathing the musky, male scent of him was conjuring a memory of that brief encounter on his yacht, a memory so vivid that she felt as if she was once again naked in his arms, her mouth bruised by his kisses, her creamy smooth skin flushed beneath that insolent dark gaze.

It took a considerable effort of will to regather the scattered threads of her composure. But she couldn’t let herself weaken—she knew only too well how swiftly he could take advantage of any lowering of her resistance. From beneath her lashes, she studied him warily. It seemed that he still didn’t know who she was. It was possible, of course—he had been here no more than a few minutes, and he might not have bothered to ask anyone her name.

Or, on the other hand, he could be playing some kind of cruel game with her. If he was the mysterious figure behind the holding company that was buying up Geldard shares, she was quite sure he would try to use their previous meeting to gain an unfair advantage—there was no mistaking the hint of ruthlessness about that hard mouth.

Either way, she had to keep her nerve, keep planning her moves. And, for the moment, it seemed that the best tactic was to play the confident, sexually assured siren he had taken her for. It was hardly a role that came naturally to her, but all she had to do was copy Margot’s style—it couldn’t be that difficult.

Slanting him a flirtatious smile, she lifted her eyes to his. ‘I…didn’t know you were planning to come to England,’ she remarked carefully. ‘You didn’t mention it.’

Only the slightest flicker of those dark eyes registered his surprise at her change of manner. ‘Well, now, as I recall we didn’t get too much time to talk about anything before you disappeared from my life,’ he responded on a note of mocking humour. ‘But since the only thing I knew about you was that you were English—at least I figured that from your accent—it seemed like the best way to find you was to come to London.’