Mary Lyons - The Playboy's Baby

‘Uh-huh! Look—there he is. Standing by the door, on the other side of the room,’ Candy muttered out of the side of her mouth. ‘And if you have managed to forget such a gorgeous man—I reckon you must need your head examined!’ she added with a muffled laugh. ‘Not only tall, dark, handsome and incredibly rich—but also, I hear on the grapevine, currently unattached. What more could any girl ask for in her Christmas stocking?’

‘It’s still only April—so you’ve got a long time to wait,’ Sam found herself muttering inanely as she turned to look across the room.

‘Who cares?’ Candy giggled. ‘I’d be happy to have him delivered gift-wrapped any time of the year!’

But Samantha wasn’t listening. Every ounce of her being was concentrated on focusing on the tall, dark man standing in the doorway, clearly relaxed and at ease as his gaze travelled slowly around the chattering groups of people in the small room. And then, as their eyes met, he stood very still for a moment before giving a slight nod of wry acknowledgement as he began walking slowly through the crowd towards her.

Her first, overriding thought was that someone had obviously made a bad mistake. It couldn’t possibly be the man to whom she’d lost her heart all those years ago.

For one thing, Warner was a fairly common surname. And besides, the Matthew Warner whom she’d known had been a young lecturer at Oxford University—normally clothed in scruffy jeans and a well-worn, slightly threadbare jacket, like most of his academic contemporaries. Absolutely light years away from this immaculately dressed, distinguished-looking man who was now strolling so coolly and confidently towards her.

And yet... well, maybe there was something disturbingly familiar about the tall, elegant stranger...?

As he drew nearer, Samantha was almost physically aware of the colour draining from her face. Her senses, clearly far more alert than her dazed mind, instinctively responding as she felt her stomach give a sudden, sickening lurch of fear and recognition, her pulse beginning to race out of control as he came to a halt in front of her nervous, trembling figure.

‘Hello, Sam. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’

Samantha was rigid with shock, and it was some moments before she was able to comprehend the evidence of her own eyes and ears. And then she knew, with absolute certainty, that there was no possibility of a mistake.

While she might have been momentarily fooled by the expensive, hand-tailored dark suit, pristine white silk shirt and discreet silk tie, there was no disguising that oh, so familiar, deep, husky tone of voice.

Oh, my God! It really was Matt Warner, his green eyes beneath their heavy lids glinting with wry amusement as he gazed down at her stunned expression—the very last man in the world she had ever expected, or wanted, to see.

Well. . .certainly not here, in New York. And most definitely not now—just as she was about to give the most important speech of her life.

It simply wasn’t fair! Samantha told herself bitterly, standing silently by as Candy quickly grabbed the opportunity to introduce herself. If she’d ever hoped to meet up again with the man who’d so cruelly broken her heart—and, being only human, of course she had—she could never have devised such a disastrous scenario.

Her favourite fantasy had tended to revolve around the idea of Matt—by now reduced to begging a living outside the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden—humbly grateful for the coin idly thrown his way as she, dressed up to the nines, swept past him on the arm of a handsome, mega-rich captain of industry. It had most definitely not involved her standing here, wearing a boringly conventional, navy blue business suit, and totally paralysed with nerves. For heaven’s sake—was there no justice in this world?

‘And how long are you staying in town?’

Rapidly struggling to pull herself together, Samantha realised that she’d hardly heard a word he’d been saying.

‘I. . .er. . .I’m just here for a few d-days,’ she stuttered helplessly, her mind still in a chaotic daze.

His lips twitching with amusement at her evident confusion, Matt asked where she was staying—nodding approval at her choice of the Mark Hotel, on East Seventy-seventh Street.

‘They’ll certainly make sure that you are well looked after. So, what do you think of New York?’

‘It’s an amazing place... so alive and exciting,’ she murmured distractedly, before giving a helpless shrug of her slim shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything just at the moment. I mean... it’s really great to see you after all these years. But unfortunately I’m just about to give a speech. In front of all these really important people. And... and I’ve never felt quite so nervous in all my life!’ she gabbled wildly, the coffee cup and saucer clattering like a pair of castanets in her nervous, shaking hands.

In what seemed the twinkling of an eye, Matthew Warner quickly took control of the situation. Smoothly dismissing Candy with a charming smile, he calmly steered Samantha towards a small bar at the end of the room, where he proceeded to order her a glass of neat brandy.

‘Are you crazy?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘The next thing you know, I’ll be had up for being drunk in charge of a podium!’

‘Rubbish! Drink it up,” he retorted.

‘It’s all very well for you,’ she protested, ashamed to find herself weakly doing as she was told. ‘You haven’t got to stand up in a few moments’ time and make an absolute fool of yourself before some of the cleverest financial minds in New York. I just know that it’s going to be an absolute disaster!’ she added helplessly, feeling almost faint with nervous tension.

‘Nonsense!’ he told her firmly. ‘Not only were you my best and brightest pupil all those years ago. But, if your current CV is anything to go by, it looks as though you’ve been moving swiftly up the corporate ladder, and achieving considerable success in your field.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Samantha gave an embarrassed shrug of her shoulders, ashamed to have been caught off-guard and exposing herself to ridicule—by Matt, of all people.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the fact that her stomach seemed to be churning around like a cement mixer out of control, which was making her feel so peculiar. The close proximity of this man, whom she hadn’t seen for such a long time, didn’t seem to be doing a damn thing for her normally calm, stable equilibrium, either. Maybe another quick glance at her speech—which she’d spent hours writing last night—would help to steady her nerves?

‘I don’t want to hear any more of this “poor little me” nonsense,’ Matt was saying, a warm smile taking the sting out of his words as she extracted the typewritten pages from her handbag. ‘And, believe me, that’s definitely a bad mistake.’

‘What?’ She glanced up at him in confusion.

‘Are those the notes for the speech you’re intending to give this afternoon?’

‘Yes. I just thought that... Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she exclaimed as he swiftly removed the papers from her hands.

‘I take it that you do know what you’re going to be talking about?’ he drawled, leafing quickly through the closely typed pages.

‘Of course I do!’ she snapped angrily, the strong, heady fumes of the brandy beginning to flow swiftly through her veins.

‘Well, in that case, you’ll have no need of these,’ he said, ignoring her gasp of horror as he swiftly tore the white pages in half. ‘With everything you have to say clearly in your mind,’ Matt added firmly, ‘there’s absolutely no point in allowing yourself to be distracted by continually being forced to consult your notes.’