Mistletoe Mistress

CHAPTER EIGHT

During the next few weeks Joanne worked very hard, even harder than she had done before Hawk's flying visit. She arrived at the office long before the rest of the staff and was still there for hours after they had vanished into the chill of the winter evenings, often leaving well after nine o'clock when the nights were cold and dark and the moon sailed brightly in a lonely sky.

She welcomed the hard, grinding slog; it was a very necessary opiate against the agony of soul that gripped her if she allowed herself to think of Hawk-in fact she didn't think she could have got through those few weeks leading up to Christmas without it.

He had dropped her at her apartment on the Sunday evening of their weekend together with nothing more adventurous than a brief, but passionate, embrace, and a long, lingering kiss that had brought fire to her cheeks and pain to her heart.

The next morning at the office he had very definitely stepped into business mode, his manner cool and remote and the ruthless side of him to the fore as he had caused a miniature whirlwind of panic and confusion among the rest of the staff, who had spent the day running hither and thither in ever decreasing circles.

Everyone-including Joanne-had breathed a deep sigh of relief when he had flown back to England that same night, although the next day the office had seemed strangely dull and empty, and the hours endless. His phone calls since then had been spasmodic and often terse, and in the last few days approaching the holiday period her heart had finally accepted what her head had been trying to tell her for weeks-the celibate weekend had convinced him to leave her alone. And instead of the relief that would have been logical in the circumstances there was only a deep, dark, consuming blackness that ate away at her appetite, her sleep, everything that made up life.

She had to get the victory over this. As the taxi-cab whisked her home that night, three days before Christmas, Joanne looked at her wan reflection in the window and sighed heavily. She had enough on her plate as it was-the more she delved into the workings of Bergique & Son, the more she discovered just what a crook Pierre Bergique was and how many dubious deals he'd had going for him-and she just couldn't afford to be distracted by any sort of personal life.

Personal life? The phrase mocked her. Some personal life she had-on a par with the average nun, although if she had to put them side by side the nun would have her vote.

She sighed again, the icy drizzle outside the warmth of the cab clothing everything in a grey gloom that perfectly matched her mood. She wished she'd never stepped foot in France and taken on the daunting task of turning Bergique & Son round, she wished she'd followed her instinct and branched out into pastures new, without any threads from the past still clinging on to her; but most of all, most of all, she wished she'd never heard of Hawk Mallen.

She paid the driver and walked into the house with her head down and her mind a million miles away, and as she bumped into someone in the hall she was just going to apologise when her eyes met the piercing blue gaze that had haunted her for weeks.

'What time do you call this?' He sounded angry and irritated, and from one blinding moment of wild delight she plummeted into raw pain and hurt that he could care so little when she cared so much.

'Nearly ten o'clock,' she said crisply. 'What time do you call it?'

'Too damn late, that's what.' He glared at her, the sapphire eyes as cold as glass. 'I've got better things to do than sit here twiddling my thumbs while you gad about on a date.'

'A date?' Her senses were registering he looked gorgeous, totally drop-dead gorgeous, her fingers were itching to give him a good slap. 'What on earth are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about the reason you are so late home,' he said icily. 'Your hours are nine to four forty-five, and it is now-'

'I know what the darn time is,' she hissed furiously, longing to scream at him but knowing it would fetch Madame Lemoine out of her burrow like a bullet out of a gun. 'And not that it's any of your business, but I've been working, working, like I have done every other night I've been in this damn country. How do you think I've been getting the sort of results I have if I'd limited myself to a nine-to-five mentality? Answer me that! Or do you think I'm one of those females that sits about chatting on the phone all day and painting her toe-nails-?'

'Don't you mean fingernails?' he interjected with sudden and suspicious meekness.

'Fingernails, toenails-the thought's the same,' she bit back angrily. 'Besides which you've got no right to object one way or the other. You didn't tell me you were visiting France-'

'I had a fax sent this morning.'

'Well, I didn't receive it,' Joanne snapped tightly, 'and even if I had, and I'd made previous arrangements of some sort or other, I wouldn't have changed them. You own my work time, Hawk, not the rest of me, so let's get that quite clear.'

'Clear it is.' The coldness had evaporated like the morning mist and pure Mallen charm had taken its place. 'Have you eaten?'

'Eaten?' The sudden switch in mood and conversation had lost her.

'Because if not I would suggest you do so and then get an early night We're flying to the States tomorrow morning, and no doubt you'll want to be up with the lark.'

She nearly said, The States? in the same tone of voice she'd said, 'Eaten?' and stopped herself just in time, taking a deep calming breath before she spoke with a quietness she was proud of considering the circumstances. 'I have no more intention of flying to America in the morning than I have of allowing you to dictate what time I go to bed,' she said firmly. 'I don't know why you're here or what's wrong, but you're not bullying me like you do everyone else, Hawk.'

'My grandfather is worse.' The blue eyes were steady as they held her honey-brown gaze and watched it widen with shock and concern. 'He's expressed a wish to see you.'

'Me?' She stared at him in astonishment.

'You are now in charge of his old friend's pride and joy, Joanne,' Hawk said quietly. 'I would have thought it only natural he wants to see you for himself.'

'Oh, I see.' She didn't, not really; in fact it seemed crazy to request her presence in America when Jed Mallen could have all the relevant facts and figures as to how she was doing in a few moments of time thanks to modem technology. 'But I can't leave tomorrow. I'm sorry, but I just can't. I've things to do, people to see-'

'I thought you said you weren't involved with anyone here,' he said softly, his voice cold again.

'Business people, Hawk.' She glared at him before remembering he must be worried sick about his grandfather, and, making a conscious effort to moderate her tone, she continued, 'There's the matter of Netta Productions for a start. I'm supposed to meet the son of the ex-managing director tomorrow and I need to hear what he wants to say; he's sure his father was bankrupted deliberately-'

'Delegate.'

If he was trying to wind her up he was certainly succeeding, Joanne thought tightly as she struggled to keep any irritation from showing. Delegate indeed! 'It's not as simple as that, as well you know,' she said flatly. 'Surely your grandfather wouldn't mind if I saw him at the end of the month?'

'And what will you do over Christmas-work?' he asked with a curious lack of expression. 'Is that the way you take care of your particular ghosts, Joanne-by pretending they don't exist? Well, I'm sorry, we're flying tomorrow, and the return ticket is for December the twenty-ninth.'

'You mean stay over Christmas?' she asked weakly. 'Is that what you mean?'

'That's what I mean, Joanne,' he drawled mockingly, temper and aplomb apparently quite restored. 'Bergique & Son won't grind to a halt because you leave the helm briefly. If there's one thing I've learnt in life it's that no one is indispensable, however much they like to imagine they are.' 'I don't imagine anything-'

'I do.' Suddenly his eyes were blue fire, hot and sensuous. 'Hell, you wouldn't believe what I imagine…' He pulled her into his arms almost roughly. 'You're in my head, do you know that? Locked in there, all long legs and creamy smooth skin… You drive me crazy.'

He bent his head and his mouth was hungry on hers, so hungry it lit an immediate flame in the core of her. She didn't want to respond to him; it wasn't fair that he could move in and out of her life like this, taking her up and then dropping her at will, but she might as well have tried to stop the rhythm of the tides as withstand him.

'I've thought about you every moment,' he whispered against her lips. 'Shy, beautiful Joanne. What is it about you that I can't get out of my mind?'

She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him that he couldn't fool her with all his sweet talk, but he took the words before they were uttered, his lips and his tongue probing as he folded her more deeply into him, wrapping his big dark overcoat round her as he enclosed them in a blanket of warmth.

'Say you'll come with me, Joanne.' She was utterly captivated by the time he raised his head again, lost in the flowing river of sensation that had turned her fluid. 'I want to spend some time with you, to show you my home, my friends. Say you'll come?'

This was a planned assault, an orchestrated campaign to get what he wanted, but even as the warning flashed through her mind she knew she was going to say yes. It was the gentleness that had done it, the languorous tenderness he had displayed that was so very un-Hawk-like and consequently terribly seductive.

'Well?' His voice was husky and deep. 'You'll say yes?'

'Would it make any difference if I said no?' she asked shakily, that tiny instinct in the back of her mind forbidding the total capitulation she longed to give. 'Would you take any notice?'

'You know I wouldn't.' He smiled, a wry little smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. 'But it would be good for my ego to have you there with me instead of fighting every inch of the way.'

'Your ego needs help?' she asked disbelievingly, pulling away an inch or two to look more closely into the devastatingly attractive face.

'Around you, yes.' She couldn't read anything in his deadpan expression, the mask he was so good at adopting suddenly very firmly in place. 'But I'm a big boy now; I can take it,' he added with mocking dryness, before turning and walking with her still held within the circle of one arm to the stairs. 'I'll see you to your door.'

'There's no need.' She was trembling but she couldn't help it. Here, in the hall, with the possibility of Madame Lemoine or the other flat-dwellers liable to appear at any moment, she had had some protection. But upstairs…

'Joanne, I've been waiting for over four hours to see you; I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I was cold…until I held you in my arms, that is,' he said with wry self-derision at his all too obvious arousal, the alien power of which she had felt as he had held her close. 'I'm going to see you to your door, and then leave you to your chaste little bed, okay? I'm bushed too.'

She couldn't answer so she just nodded, the confession that the great Hawk Mallen, the powerful and authoritative figure who had the world at his fingertips and a reputation for ruthlessness that was second to none, had been waiting for four hours in the hall of a little French house to see her rendering her dumb.

'Goodnight, little fawn.' They had stopped outside her front door and he cupped her face gently, his eyes piercingly blue as they looked into hers. 'Hell, you're lovely…' This time the kiss was fierce and burningly hot as he slipped his hands beneath her open coat and under the soft wool of her waist-length jumper, his fingers encircling the soft swell of her breasts and branding her skin with heat. She could feel him shaking as his tongue penetrated the sweetness of her mouth, his body rock-hard against hers, and his heart slamming against his chest like a sledgehammer.

Her love for him, stimulated by the need he couldn't hide, was sending her up in flames and she found she was breathing his name as she kissed him back with ever increasing passion, her head swimming and a wild clamouring in her senses that caused her to press deeper and deeper into the powerfully muscled body against hers.

'Damn it, Joanne, another minute and I shan't be able to stop.' His voice was a low growl of frustration and need, and as he unwound her arms from round his neck she saw his control was paper-thin. 'And that would really blot my copy-book, wouldn't it?' he stated with grim amusement. 'Your body might be willing but there's still that hesitation in your eyes that tells me you don't trust me yet.'

'It's important that I trust you?' she asked shakily. Trust him? She'd die for him.

'Strangely, yes.' He stood looking down at her, his face shadowed and dark and his big body taut and still. 'Yes, it is. Get some sleep, Joanne, and I'll see you in the morning.' His voice was suddenly cool, almost remote, and he had turned on his heel and begun to walk down the stairs before she could reply.

Los Angeles was everything Joanne had expected and more, but the shock of Hawk's sudden appearance, added to the long plane journey and electric tension that was gripping every nerve and sinew, rendered her almost deaf, dumb and blind on their arrival on the balmy West Coast. She was aware of the pleasant temperature-after the icy drizzle they had left behind in Paris the warm soft air that resembled a mild spring day in England was wonderfully relaxing-but little else registered on the drive from the airport to Hawk's home in Beverly Hills, the mental and physical exhaustion that had been steadily building for the last few weeks paramount.

Hawk seemed to understand perfectly, taking care of her in the same way he did everything else-calmly, firmly and with absolute authority, so that she was whisked effortlessly from pillar to post almost without being aware of it.

As they drew up outside Hawk's mansion, Joanne's impression of high, impenetrable walls-the perimeter surround being ten feet high-was overtaken by one of light and colour and life as they left the car and walked to the open door, where a pretty little maid was waiting for them.

The hall was vast and dominated by the biggest Christmas tree Joanne had ever seen, a vision of gold and red, with antique golden baubles, stars and ribbons, tiny flickering red candles and gold-berried ivy, all of which matched the deep red sofas scattered about the lushly carpeted expanse. Several piles of ravishing gifts were stacked under the tree, wrapped up in shiny gold paper and tied with green and pistachio ribbons.

'It's beautiful.' Joanne's voice was a soft murmur but Hawk heard it, and also recognised the dazed, vacant note as being indicative of near collapse.

'And it will still be here tomorrow,' he said quietly, 'along with the rest of the house. For now it's bed for you.'

'What?' Even in her tired state the word 'bed', when spoken by Hawk Mallen, was not to be ignored. She hadn't quite summoned up the nerve to ask him what the sleeping arrangements for this little holiday extravaganza would be, and she still couldn't find the words, but it didn't matter. He had read her mind. As always.

'I'm sorry, Joanne, but you can't get your itchy little fingers on my body tonight,' he said sardonically, with a cool disregard for the listening maid that brought mortifying colour flooding into Joanne's pale face. 'You'll have your own suite while you are my guest; kindly see that you stay in it without any midnight ramblings.'

'Hawk, that's not funny-'

'You're suffering from a combination of jet lag and overwork,' he continued as though she hadn't spoken. 'Tomorrow you have the morning in bed, okay? And Conchita will bring you a dinner tray once you've bathed and slipped into bed tonight.'

'I'm not a child,' she protested quickly.

'Tell me about it.' He gave a theatrically leering smile, his eyes laughing at her, and in spite of herself she smiled back. He was impossible. Quite, quite impossible, and she loved him so much it scared her to death.

Her suite was like something out of a Hollywood movie, and made the first apartment that Hawk had chosen in France seem positively modest.

'Conchita will run you a long hot bath.' Hawk signalled to the maid as he spoke, who immediately disappeared into the huge blue marble bathroom which boasted a bath that would easily have accommodated a team of rugby players. 'And while you're soaking she'll unpack your things and turn the bed down. Ring when you're ready for your meal; there's a bell-push over the bed.'

'Right…thank you.' She was too exhausted to hide the fact that she was completely overawed, her stance very much like that of a tired and nervous child as she stood just inside the luxurious blue sitting room after her quick tour of the suite, unconsciously nipping at her lower lip, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and apprehension.

'Come here.' His voice was very quiet, and as he beckoned her to him in the middle of the room she moved slowly to his side. It will all fall into place in the morning, Joanne,' he said softly. Trust me in that if nothing else.' His arms were comforting as he pulled her against his broad chest, but the deliriously male smell of him, added to the muscled power of the big body, brought the quivery feeling snaking through her limbs, and after he had kissed her-lightly, as though she were a kid sister or maiden aunt, she thought testily-she stood quite still in the middle of the room as he left, not trusting her legs.

She cried in the bath once she was alone. How could she even begin to compete with the beautiful, sophisticated women he was used to? she asked herself miserably, lying back in the warm, scented water with her eyes shut as hot tears burnt a path down her cheeks. They would take this house in their stride, revel in it, live up to it, whereas she… She had never felt so like a fish out of water in her life-the outsider looking in. Even the worst times in the home couldn't compare to the misery that was swamping her right now.

It wasn't as though he had chosen for her to come here even. His grandfather had wanted to meet her and so she had been brought over like…like a package, a parcel, she thought desperately. That was all she represented to him-a commodity, a useful piece of equipment, a loyal employee- Oh, stop it! Enough! The words were caustic in her head as she realised, even in her anguish, she was going too far.

He liked her, he was physically attracted to her-that much she was sure about, whether she was versed in the arts of love or not. He would be only too pleased to have an affair with her; he'd made that plain too. Yes, there was no doubt he was genuine in his desire for her-the trouble was he didn't desire or like her enough for it to be love. And, loving him as she did, that made the whole situation a very definite checkmate. And neither of them won.

She stayed in the bath until the water was tepid, her aching muscles slowly relaxing as the silky warmth did its job, and after washing her hair she climbed out slowly, surprised at how leaden her legs felt It was all she could do to slip into her nightie and towel-dry her hair, and the thought of drying it with the hairdryer was beyond her, so she left it damp about her neck as she slid into bed and rang for Conchita to bring her meal. Not that she really wanted to eat…

Only it wasn't the little maid who came into the room after a polite knock.

'Hawk!' She shot down in the bed, embarrassingly aware of the transparency of the nightie, her lack of make-up, her scraggy hair… 'What are you doing?'

'Bringing your meal-what else?' He walked across to the bed with casual animal grace, looking even more devastating than usual in charcoal jeans and an ivory silk shirt that made his dark good looks more foreign. 'Sit up and eat it while it's hot,' he added easily.

'I… You… Put it on the bed.'

'Joanne, don't be tiresome.' He sounded irritated and she really couldn't blame him; he must think she was more like a naive schoolgirl than a grown woman, she thought miserably. She dared bet his other women would be only too pleased to display their wares in similar circumstances, but then no doubt they wouldn't be caught looking like drowned rats in off-the-peg nighties. She just hadn't expected him to bring the food.

'There are two glasses; I thought we'd share a bottle of champagne while you eat to celebrate the beginning of the Christmas holiday,' he said coolly, watching her with narrowed blue eyes as she struggled up in the vast bed, the sheet wrapped round the top of her like a shroud. 'Are you cold?' he added mildly.

'No… Yes… I'm all right.' This was getting worse by the second.

'I'm not going to leap on you and have my wicked way.' It was said so conversationally it didn't register for a moment, but when it did she blushed scarlet. 'Relax, Joanne; you're making us both nervous.' There was a touch of steel in the coolness now.

It was all right for him, she thought testily. There he was, groomed to perfection as normal, calm, self-assured, perfectly in control, whereas she… The thought opened her mouth before she had time to consider her words. 'I…I look such a mess,' she said painfully. 'I didn't expect you to come.'

'Is that what's wrong?' he asked, the surprise in his voice telling her he hadn't considered such a possibility. 'Joanne, Joanne, Joanne…' He sat down on the bed, placing the tray at his feet before reaching forward and cupping her face in the palms of his hands. 'Don't you realise how beautiful you are, even freshly scrubbed and looking about sixteen?' he asked softly, the tenor of his voice making her shiver.

Freshly scrubbed and looking about sixteen! She gazed at him in frustration. She didn't want to look freshly scrubbed, she wanted to look alluring, voluptuous, sexy-like the other women he was used to. She wanted to dazzle him with her wit and sophistication, drive him mad with desire. She wanted-she wanted the impossible.

He bent down and picked up the tray, placing it on her knees before taking the cover from the plate to reveal a light meal of fluffy ham omelette and salad and baby new potatoes.

She stared at it miserably. She shouldn't have come. She shouldn't have come.

'Here.' He placed a wine glass in her hand before opening the bottle of champagne he had taken off the tray, its joyous explosion totally at odds with how she was feeling inside. 'Eat, drink and be merry,' he said mockingly, looking intently at her woebegone face. 'You're only stuck with me for a few days, Joanne; it isn't the end of the world.'

'I…I'm very pleased to be here.'

'You look it.' His voice was dark, grim even, as he poured her a glass of the sparkling effervescent liquid, before rising to his feet.

'Aren't you having one?' she asked quickly.

'Joanne, I know the image you have of me is of a womanising blackguard who hasn't got a sensitive bone in his body, but even I have my limits,' he said evenly, his face a study in controlled neutrality. 'We'll take this evening as a washout and try again tomorrow, okay?'

'Hawk-'

'And don't make any excuses; I really couldn't take them tonight.'

He was gone before she could say anything more.