‘Magda needn’t think we’re lovers, I suppose. It will be enough that I’m with another woman.’
But she wasn’t a woman. Hadn’t he just said so? She was his assistant.
‘I really don’t see the problem here. Unless—have you another engagement tonight?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t think…I mean, this isn’t—it’s not part of my job, after all.’
‘Would it make you feel better if it were? Then think of it that way—as part of your job description. When you signed on for this position, I made it clear that this wasn’t a job for someone with a nine-to-five mentality. You said you understood. In fact, you gave me your assurance that you would give me your very best at all times. Do you remember?’
Hannah flushed. ‘Of course. But I never meant—I never thought you meant——’
‘Haven’t you ever attended a social event as part of your job, Miss Lewis?’
‘Yes, once or twice. But those times were different. They were receptions given by the firm for——’
‘This is the same thing.’
‘It isn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean aren’t hosting this. And you’ve no right to—’
‘A matter of semantics,’ he said, shrugging away her comment as if he were brushing off a fly. ‘The evening is simply part of your workload. Have I mentioned that you’ll be on overtime?’
‘That’s very generous of you, sir. But—’
His brows drew together. ‘Look, Miss Lewis, I can’t spend the next hour debating this. Can you work late tonight or can’t you?’
Hannah stared at him. ‘Work late tonight? Well, yes, if you——’
‘Good girl.’ He reached past her and opened the door to the outer office. ‘Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.’ His hand brushed lightly across her hair, then touched her cheek and, for reasons that made no sense whatsoever, a feeling of lightness engulfed her. ‘And do something with yourself, please,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Let your hair loose, put on some lipstick—we’re going to a party, not a conference. All right?’
No, Hannah thought, it was not all right at all, but how could she tell him that, when she was already standing on the other side of the closed door?
Fifteen minutes later, he came striding out of his office. ‘Ready?’ he asked crisply.
Hannah turned. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving the single word as much irritation, annoyance and downright anger as she could manage. But MacLean didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he marched towards her, clasped her by the shoulders, and drew her under the uncompromising glare of an overhead fluorescent lamp.
‘The lipstick’s fine. A little pale, but it complements your colouring.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you have another blouse on hand?’
Her chin lifted. ‘No,’ she said tightly, ‘I do not.’
‘Well, this will have to do.’ He reached out and closed his fingers around the top button. Hannah caught his wrist, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘You look like a schoolgirl, Miss Lewis. Surely you don’t go out on dates wearing blouses closed to the collar, do you?’
‘This is not a date,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I really resent…’
Two buttons slipped out of their holes; she felt the swift, impersonal brush of his fingertips against her skin, and that strange, out-of-body feeling went through her again.
‘That’s better.’ His gaze moved over her slowly. ‘A little informal, perhaps, but not unacceptable.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I thought I told you to wear your hair loose.’
Her hand went to her hair, drawn back, as usual, neatly on her neck and held in a tortoiseshell clip.
‘I always wear it this way,’ she said defensively.
‘Yes. I’ve noticed.’ The clip came loose, and her hair tumbled free. ‘But you’re going to wear it differently tonight,’ he said, as he thrust his hands into her hair and drew it over her shoulders. When he was done, he held her at arm’s length and inspected her with slow, almost insulting care. Hannah’s chin tilted.
‘Will I do?’ she asked in a frigid voice.
His gaze moved to her face, drifted across her features, and then that little angular smile tilted across his mouth.
‘Yes,’ he said, and he sounded almost as surprised as she felt when the softly spoken word sent a little rush of pleasure tingling through her blood.
Well, she thought quickly, why wouldn’t it? A compliment from Mean MacLean was as rare as a blizzard in July. Naturally she’d react to such a thing.
They taxied to the hotel in silence, he sitting against the window on the right side, frowning over scrawled notes in a pocket diary, Hannah on the left. She was grateful he wasn’t attempting any small talk; she was still angry at how she’d been bulldozed into playing a part in a charade to dupe an innocent woman. She glanced at her watch. It was just past six-thirty. If these things went as they usually did, she’d be safely back in a cab again by ten o’clock. Nine-thirty, if she was lucky.
She looked at Grant MacLean again. He’d been a trial lawyer with a reputation for never losing before he’d taken up his esoteric speciality in international law, and it was easy to see how he’d got that reputation. Once he’d determined what he wanted of her, he’d never backed down. He’d been willing to do whatever it took: he’d bullied, threatened, cajoled, dangled rewards—anything to get his own way. Her gaze moved over him, taking in the slightly jutting nose, the firm jaw, the powerful body contained within the carefully tailored navy wool suit. He was a formidable opponent; it would be frightening to go head to head with him over something that really mattered.
He was, as well, an awfully attractive man. Sally and the other girls always said so, but Hannah had never paid his looks very much attention. For one thing, she’d learned her lesson years ago about good looks: a handsome face and hard body were just superficial trappings. It was the inner man that counted.
For another—she shifted in her seat. For another, she’d never really looked at him as a man, until tonight. He’d always just been her boss, Mr MacLean, until five minutes ago, when he’d handed her into the cab.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she’d said stiffly, and he’d given her a look cold enough to freeze water.
‘Be sure and address me that way in front of Miss Karolyi,’ he’d said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘That’s bound to convince her you’re my date.’
Grant. She was to call him Grant. Grant…
‘We’re here.’
Hannah looked up. The cab had pulled to the kerb; a uniformed doorman was holding the door open and smiling politely at her. She stepped on to the pavement and gazed at the hotel. A laughing couple were strolling up the steps to the main door, she in a gauzy cocktail gown, he in a dark suit, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists, and suddenly she wondered why in heaven’s name she’d let herself be talked into this. She wasn’t dressed right, for one thing, and she could never carry it off. She didn’t want to carry it off. Grant MacLean was her employer, he controlled her nine-to-five life, and hadn’t he said he didn’t see her as a woman?
‘Are you all right?’ His voice was low, his breath warm against her ear. Hannah looked at him as his fingers closed lightly around her arm.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said in a quick rush, and he gave her that smile he’d given her a lifetime ago, when he’d first asked her to take part in this game.
‘Of course it will, sweetheart,’ he whispered, and then, before she could draw back, he cupped her face in his hand, bent to her, and put his mouth to hers. The kiss was brief, the press of his lips firm and cool, but when he drew back her heart was racing as if it wanted to escape her breast.
‘Don’t,’ she spat. ‘You have no right——’
She caught her breath as he kissed her again, his mouth closing over hers with gentle persuasion. She felt the light brush of his tongue against her lips, then its warm thrust. A tremor went through her, not o
f revulsion or even anger but of something far more primitive and powerful.
Grant drew back. A smile of satisfaction curved across his lips.
‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘that’s much better.’
‘You—you——’
‘Magda’s not a fool, Hannah. Telling her we’re intimate won’t serve any purpose if you don’t look the part.’
‘Intimate?’ she stuttered. ‘Are you crazy? We agreed I’d be your date; you said——’
‘But you look convincing now, with that little flush on your cheeks and that swollen softness to your mouth.’ He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘Now smile, sweetheart, and look at me as if you’ve just come from my bed.’
‘You can’t do this to me,’ she said as he hurried her along beside him—but he was already propelling her up the steps and through the door. By the time they reached the ballroom they’d been stopped by half a dozen people.
Hannah ached to turn her back and walk away from him, to leave him on his own and let him fend off all the predatory women in Hungary with his own devices. But how could she storm away from the president of the Chamber of Commerce in the middle of an introduction, or the director of the San Francisco Symphony? How could she ignore the head of the largest bank on the West Coast, or the mayor? And then there was the one person no one could ignore, a woman in a crimson gown that looked as if it had been spray-painted on, all creamy shoulders, breathtaking décolletage, and masses of golden curls piled high atop her head. She came bearing down on them with a little shriek of delight, and Hannah knew immediately who she was.
‘Magda Karolyi?’ she whispered.
Grant tensed beside her. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘dear God, that’s her!’
‘Grant,’ the blonde said, launching herself at him, ‘oh, darling, how vunderful to zee you again!’
He twisted his head at the last second, so that her kiss fell on his cheek and not his mouth. Then he stepped back, put his arm around Hannah’s waist, and drew her forward.
‘Magda,’ he said pleasantly, ‘it’s wonderful to see you, too.’
The blonde’s eyes, a dark chocolate that contrasted vividly with her pale hair, gave Hannah a quick, assessing glance.