ON THE fourth floor Libby picked up her bag and headed out into the corridor. There was no window and it was in total darkness. It took her a moment to find a light switch, and then before she could reach her room the light clicked off leaving her struggling to find her way.
It was a relief when she found her door and stepped inside to find a pretty sun-drenched bedroom in pale primrose. The large windows overlooked a row of bourgeois houses all with balconies covered with tubs of red and pink geraniums.
Libby flung her bag down and went across to look out at the view. It was extraordinary being in France waiting for a reunion with her father, and in some ways it didn’t feel quite real. It was as if she had entered some limbo land between her old life and the future. Also it was strange that the reunion should be here in the Côte D’Azur, because this was where they had spent their last family holiday together. Libby only had hazy memories of it, but she remembered they had rented an apartment in Menton and her father had taught her to swim. She remembered how much fun it had been and how patient and loving he had been.
It was when they returned home from that holiday that her parents had separated. There had been no clue to it beforehand, no arguments, no angry atmosphere. One day they had been a happy family…or so she had thought…and the next her father was gone. And a few months later Sean had moved in with her mother. At first Sean had seemed nice, but Libby had quickly learnt that beneath the smiling façade lay a much more sinister character. She had missed her father, had asked for him and that had resulted in a swift and furious response from her mother’s new partner. Libby had tried not to ask too many questions after that.
It was a year after her marriage to Sean that her mother had taken her to one side and told her that her father was dead. Libby had had no reason to disbelieve her words. But now she knew her mother had lied. And it was such a cruel thing to do. Why had her usually gentle and loving mother done such a thing? Was it simply to stop her asking for her father? Maybe she had known her father didn’t want to see her and it had been some bizarre act of kindness?
These were the questions that were driving her mad and pushing her to make contact with her father. It certainly had nothing to do with money as Marc Clayton had so callously suggested.
Also, now that her mother was dead, her father was her only living relative. Libby’s eyes blurred with sudden tears as she thought about this. She still missed her mum; her death had been such a shock. But there was no point thinking about the past, she had to look to the future now.
She wondered when her father would arrive and felt a flutter of apprehension deep inside.
Had he really told Marc Clayton that he had tried to contact her and that she had wanted nothing to do with him, had slammed the door in his face? Why would he tell such a lie? Why would Marc make it up? None of it made sense.
She sighed and leaned her forehead against the window. Maybe she should have dinner with the enemy tonight. It beat sitting alone in a restaurant and maybe she would learn something.
The sudden change of mind swept over her from nowhere; along with the realisation that whether she liked it or not Marc Clayton was her only link to her father. So for the time being she would have to put up with him, but how was she going to do that? The man drove her mad; she needed a strategy, a plan.
She remembered how he’d accused her of using her femininity to gain control of the situation… Well, maybe that wasn’t a bad idea! Maybe she could play that game, grit her teeth as he flung insults at her and use some subtle flattery, some eyelash fluttering. He’d said he wasn’t fooled by her…well, she would test that theory out.
She smiled to herself as she headed over to unpack. The idea seemed sensible and, OK, she might be playing with fire, but she could handle Marc Clayton, she told herself confidently…couldn’t she?
Libby’s confidence started to falter as the time approached for her to go downstairs and face Marc again. She gave herself an extra spray of perfume and checked her appearance in the cheval mirror. What to wear shouldn’t have been too much of a problem, as she hadn’t brought a lot of clothes with her. She had two dresses: one was black and plain, the other butterfly-blue with shoestring shoulder straps. But unfortunately she hadn’t been able to make her mind up between them and had tried them both on twice before finally deciding on the blue one.
Not that she cared what Marc Clayton thought of her, of course, but she needed the extra confidence of knowing she looked good. Her eyes flicked critically over her figure. She was constantly battling to keep her weight down. Libby only had to look at a cream cake and it seemed to appear on her hips. And at the moment she did feel as if she were carrying an extra few pounds. The dress, however, seemed to hide that fact. It was summery and feminine and it fitted to the curves of her body in a way that was subtly sexy… It would do, she told herself firmly as she snatched up her purse and left the room.
She arrived downstairs at a few minutes before seven. There was no sign of Marc so she sat on one of the sofas in the reception area and flicked through a magazine, pretending to be cool and calm and collected when in fact she was anything but.
Pull yourself together, Lib, she told herself sharply. He’s just a man. You’ll have him eating out of your hand by the end of the evening. You can deal with him easily.
‘Hi. It’s Libby Sheridan, isn’t it?’ a friendly voice enquired.
Libby glanced up in surprise at a man who was vaguely familiar. She wasn’t expecting to see anyone she knew here and she couldn’t place him at all. He was wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt. Not bad-looking, blond hair and grey inquisitive eyes. ‘Hi.’ She half smiled as he walked across the reception towards her. ‘Sorry—do I know you?’
‘Yes, John Wright. We met last week in a London bar.’ He sat down next to her on the sofa and turned to offer his hand.
Libby felt a jolt of shock. ‘You’re that reporter, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’ His smile stretched even wider, but he dropped his hand when she didn’t take hold of it. ‘I gave you my card, remember?’
‘Yes, I do. And I told you I couldn’t help you,’ she said quickly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here with a few friends covering the film festival.’
‘And you are staying here, at this hotel?’ Libby frowned.
‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘So tell me—have you made contact with your father yet?’
Libby stared at him in astonishment. ‘Have you followed me here?’
‘No, of course not. I told you, I’m here for the Cannes Film Festival.’
Libby should have believed him; after all, it was too weird to think a reporter would go to the trouble of following her around. But bumping into him twice did seem too much of a coincidence. ‘Look, I told you before. I am not interested in talking to you.’
‘Oh, come on, Libby, give me a break,’ he implored. ‘Carl Quinton is hot property at the moment and a story about his reunion with his long-lost daughter would be of tremendous human interest. The tabloids will pay big money. It will definitely be worth your while.’
‘You are wasting your time with this.’ Libby put her magazine down as she saw Marc walking into the lobby and she got to her feet quickly. She didn’t want Marc to see her talking with a reporter. Heaven alone knew what kind of spin he would put on that, but she was willing to bet it would not be good. She remembered his words in the car. ‘Maybe you think you can sell your story to the press.’
‘Look, if you change your mind.’ John Wright also stood up and tried to hand her his card again.
Rather than make a scene she took it. ‘Goodbye, Mr Wright,’ she said succinctly, turning her attention firmly towards Marc.
He was wearing a dark suit that seemed to emphasise the width of his shoulders and the power of his physique and he looked so handsome that Libby felt her mind going into a weird kind of free fall for a second.
She was acutely conscious of the way he watched her as she walked across to him. No man had ever looked at her with that kind of intensity before; it was as if he was taking in every little detail about her.
‘Hi.’ He smiled at her, and it was a smile that for a moment lit the darkness of his eyes. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She was surprised when he leaned closer and kissed her on both cheeks. The touch of his lips against her skin and the scent of his cologne enveloped her in a heady wave of intoxication, sending sensations of pure excitement slithering down her spine. It took all of her strength to step back and smile coolly up at him.
‘So who is the guy?’ Marc continued swiftly, looking past her to where John Wright was now leaning nonchalantly against the reception desk.
Libby hesitated for half a second. She hated lying, but her inner voice was telling her it was the thing to do. ‘Oh, just some English guy who’s staying here.’ She said the words flippantly. ‘We were just passing the time of day.’
‘Really.’ Marc’s voice was dry. ‘And which paper does he work for?’
Libby felt her skin heat up as he waited laconically for her answer. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ she blustered. ‘Now, shall we go or are you going to shine a light in my eyes and do a thorough interrogation?’
Marc hesitated and she thought for one awful moment that he was going to go across to talk to the other man. But to her relief he just turned to lead the way out of the hotel.
The warmth of the evening hit her as they stepped outside and it was very welcome after the air-conditioned interior. She noticed that Marc still had the top down on his car and she wished she had remembered to bring a tie for her hair to stop the breeze ruffling it. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a complete frizz by the time they reached the restaurant. Marc opened the passenger door for her before going around to the driver’s side.
‘So how many meetings have you set up while you are here?’ he asked casually as he pulled the vehicle out into traffic.
‘Meetings?’ She forgot about her hair and glanced across at him with a frown.
‘Yes, meetings.’ He looked at her pointedly. ‘With journalists.’ He enunciated the words as if speaking to a wayward child. And as he spoke he reached across and pulled the card the reporter had given her from her fingers.
Libby watched as he read it, then threw it away into the blackness of the night, and her skin burned with annoyance. Damn, why hadn’t she refused that card?
‘If you are auctioning your story to members of the press, then I hope you have bigger fish than him on your hook,’ Marc continued smoothly. ‘He’s not going to pay much.’
‘I’m not doing anything of the sort,’ Libby muttered angrily.
‘So if you are so innocent why did you lie about him being a reporter?’
‘Because…’ Libby glared at him. ‘Well…because, let’s face it, if I’d told you I was as surprised to see him there as you were, I didn’t think you would have believed me, would you?’
Marc was silent for a moment. ‘Probably not,’ he conceded.
‘Well, there you are. I rest my case.’ She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘Although, when I think about it, I really don’t know why you would be bothered about my speaking to the press anyway.’
He glanced over at her. ‘Are you being deliberately naïve?’
‘I am not being naïve; I just find the whole thing bizarre. For one thing, I don’t know anything about my father’s life these days. I haven’t seen him since I was seven. I didn’t even know where he was until last week…actually, on second thoughts I still don’t know where he is now…and I have reporters tracking me down for my story.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all very strange.’
‘You do realise if you give the press a sob story about your father abandoning you, that it could seriously affect his career. His new film, where he plays the part of a warm and sympathetic family man, could be a complete flop at the box office.’
Libby looked across at him sharply. ‘I would never do anything that would hurt my dad.’
‘Well, that’s good to know.’
Libby thought she redetected a sardonic note in his voice. ‘You are determined to think badly of me, aren’t you?’ Her eyes blazed brightly as she looked across at him.
He glanced around and for a moment their eyes met. ‘No…on the contrary, Libby, I don’t want to think badly of you at all.’
The gentleness of his voice caught her off guard, made her feel confused. Hurriedly she looked away from him again.
‘You could have fooled me.’ She tried to keep her voice crisp, but it had lost its intensity now.
They were driving along the Corniche d’Or, a twisty road that hugged the coast giving spectacular views out across the Mediterranean. A full moon cast a silvery reflection over the road and the sea; the sky was studded with the glitter of a million stars.
‘Where are we going?’ Libby asked curiously.
‘A little country restaurant I know, it’s not far away now.’
‘Trying to hide me away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi?’ She asked the question wryly, still unable to believe that anyone would be interested in her.
‘I thought it best to go somewhere quiet where we can talk in peace.’
They turned a corner and a sparkle of light lit the night as they approached a small hamlet perched by the sea. Then Marc turned the car into a car park next to what looked like an intimate little restaurant.
It was probably the kind of place where lovers dined, Libby thought as they stepped through the front door. It had all the ambience of a romantic hideaway. All the tables were set within private wooden booths and the only light was from the candles that flickered there and the soft glow of lanterns that hung in the windows. Once upon a time it might have been a sea captain’s house; now its uneven wooden floors had been given a polished sophistication and fresh flowers adorned every table.
They were shown immediately to a booth and Marc ordered some wine. Libby glanced down at the menu she had been handed and noticed there were no prices on anything. Obviously this was the kind of place where it was taken for granted that the man would be paying.
‘So what do you fancy to eat?’ Marc enquired as he leaned across and filled her glass.
‘I’m not sure.’ She glanced over at him.
‘You did get an English menu, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but there are no prices on it.’
‘Well, surely you don’t need a price to decide what you want to eat, do you?’ His voice was grim.
‘No, but I just wanted to make it clear that I will be paying for my own meal. I am an independent kind of person and I prefer it that way.’
She could see from the dark glitter in his eyes that this thoroughly amused him. ‘Whatever you say, Libby.’
Was he being facetious? Libby stared at him for a moment, unable to make up her mind. He held her gaze steadily, then smiled at her and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to independent women.’ There was a slightly husky, sensual quality to his tone that made tingles of awareness suddenly shoot through her. Hurriedly she looked away from him and back at the menu.
She hated the way he was able to make her feel so…on edge. He was the most infuriating person she had ever met!
The waitress arrived to take their order and Libby transferred her attention towards food. She was surprised to find that she was very hungry, and then she remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything today apart from a small bowl of cereal before leaving for the airport this morning.
Marc spoke in fluent French to the waitress; she seemed to know him well and they laughed together about something.
‘You speak very good French,’ Libby remarked once they were alone again.
‘I was brought up here. My mother was from Nice.’
‘That explains your Mediterranean looks,’ Libby said with a nod. ‘Was your father French as well?’
‘No, he’s English. But after my mother died he stayed on in France; he’s very at home here. And I suppose I tend to think of France as my home as well. I have offices here in the Côte d’Azur and a house just outside Nice.’
‘Where do you spend the rest of your time?’ Libby asked.
‘You seem very interested in my private life,’ Marc countered the question with a raised eyebrow.
‘I was trying to make polite conversation… But on second thoughts…’ she shrugged ‘…I know the answer to that anyway. I’ve read about you in the papers.’
‘Have you now.’
‘Yes…just in passing…ages ago,’ she added hastily in case he thought she was particularly interested in him.
‘So what have you read about me?’ he asked lazily.
‘Interested in your own publicity?’ she responded wryly.
‘Interested to see how much research you’ve done before coming out here.’
‘I didn’t research you. I read about you casually as lots of other people have.’ It was an effort to keep the sharp tone out of her voice. She was supposed to be using her femininity, she reminded herself. ‘So let’s see—what can I remember…?’ She pretended to think. ‘Well, I didn’t know your mother was French. But I do know you have a beach house in Malibu, California, I believe.’ Libby had seen a picture of it as well and, from what she remembered, the place was a huge mansion fronting onto the sea, with massive verandas, a sunken pool and a Jacuzzi, but she didn’t bother to tell him she knew that. For some reason she had the distinct impression he might think she had paid attention to those photos for all the wrong reasons. ‘And let’s see…’ Libby paused. ‘You are thirty-three and divorced from the film star Marietta. And you have a daughter…I think she would be about two years of age now.’
‘Three,’ he corrected her.
‘Oh, well, it’s a while since I read about you.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Where is your little girl now?’
‘My ex-wife and I have joint custody. So Alice spends her time between Marietta’s house in Beverly Hills and mine in Malibu.’
‘It sounds a pretty civilised arrangement.’
‘Yes, it is. Unfortunately we couldn’t make our marriage work, but we both adore Alice. She is a very beautiful little girl, clever and sweet-natured. A real ray of sunshine to have around.’
Libby noticed how his manner relaxed and his voice softened as he talked about his daughter. ‘Do you have a photo of her?’ she asked impulsively.
Marc hesitated for a moment, and then reached into his inside pocket and took out his wallet. He slid across a photo of a little girl with long blonde curly hair and a bright cheeky smile. ‘She does look adorable,’ Libby said sincerely, then couldn’t help adding, ‘Obviously she takes after her mother.’
Marc smiled at that. ‘Yes, I suppose she does.’
Libby searched her memory and tried to remember what had happened between him and his ex-wife. She remembered their wedding pictures very clearly, remembered thinking what a perfect couple they made. Marc was so very handsome and Marietta…well, she was probably one of the world’s most beautiful women, she had a figure to die for and long wheat-blonde hair. But although Libby could remember those pictures she couldn’t remember anything about the divorce except something about Marc paying a huge settlement.
She slid the photo back to him. ‘You must miss her while you are here in France.’
‘Yes, but she is arriving soon with Marietta, so she will be coming up to spend a few nights at my house.’
‘Who—Marietta or Alice?’ Libby asked, wondering just how civilised their arrangement was.
‘Alice. Marietta will be very busy. She is staying in Cannes for the film festival.’
‘I would have thought it would be a very busy time for you as well.’
‘It is, but I have a lot of back-up here. My father and my sisters all want to have Alice over to stay with them.’
‘So you have a whole host of ready and willing baby-sitters.’
‘Yes. That’s right, and they are all really looking forward to seeing her again.’ He put the photo away. ‘So…what about you?’ Marc asked suddenly. ‘Have you ever taken the matrimonial plunge?’
Libby shook her head. ‘No, I’ve never been married.’ For a moment she found herself thinking about Simon. She had really thought that he was the ‘one’ and that they would have married and had children and lived happily ever after.
In honesty, if she had known up front that he hadn’t wanted children she probably would never have agreed to live with him, because she was a person who wanted a family life. But Simon had lied to her by omission, always managing to dodge the issue. And later, when she had discovered the truth, she had been too far into the relationship to want to extricate herself from it.
So she had made excuses for him, told herself that because he’d had a few broken relationships in the past he was just frightened by the thought of such a huge commitment, that if she was warm and patient and helped him to see how wonderful things could be in a loving relationship he would come around to the idea of having children in his own time. And she had really believed that, because she had believed that he had loved her.
‘Libby?’ Marc’s gentle voice brought her quickly back to the present.
‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
‘What were you thinking about?’
‘Nothing much.’ Libby was glad that their food arrived at that moment. She certainly didn’t want to tell Marc that she had been thinking about what an idiot she had been in the past. She could hardly bear to acknowledge the fact to herself, let alone tell him. Libby ran a distracted hand through her hair. She had always thought she was an intelligent woman and yet where love was concerned her brains seemed to scramble. Hell, there had even been months when she had carried Simon financially…not to mention the credit-card debacle. She had cancelled that card before leaving for France, but from what she could gather she seemed to have funded a whole new kitchen and helped him set up in his new home wherever that was! And he hadn’t returned any of her calls to talk about it.
‘And is there a special man waiting for you back in London?’ Marc leaned across and poured her a glass of wine.
Libby hesitated. She was by nature a truthful person, but for some reason, maybe pride, she didn’t want to tell this man that there was no one in her life. She wanted to hide from him behind a warm and happy façade…
‘Oh, yes…’ Libby shrugged. ‘Simon and I have been together for three years now. We are very happy.’
As she glanced over and met the darkness of Marc’s eyes she wished she hadn’t added that last bit…it was perhaps a bit over the top.
Before Marc could ask anything further she swiftly changed the subject. ‘So when will my father be arriving in town?’
‘He’s in the States at the moment finishing a tour of the chat shows to promote his film. He’ll be here directly after that.’
‘Gosh! You’re getting very brave telling me where he is!’ Libby looked across at him teasingly. ‘Aren’t you afraid I might misuse the information, try to sell it on the Internet or something?’
‘Well, maybe I’ve decided it’s time to start living dangerously where you are concerned.’ Marc matched her light bantering tone exactly. ‘In any case, most people will be catching him on cable tomorrow night anyway.’
‘Shucks—no profit to be made in spilling that secret, then.’
‘Afraid not.’
Libby tasted her salad; it was absolutely delicious. ‘This is lovely.’
‘Yes, the food is always good in here.’
Libby wondered whom he usually brought to dine with him here. He was so good-looking there had to be a woman in his life, maybe even a whole string of them. As she looked across at him she wondered what it would be like to be dated by Marc Clayton. Not that she was his type, of course; he probably only went for stick thin model girls. She frowned, annoyed by the thought. She didn’t care what Marc Clayton thought of her, she reminded herself firmly, because she didn’t even like the man. But she did need him to reach her father, she reminded herself sharply, and that meant swallowing her pride and being nice to him.
‘So you’ve decided to live dangerously where I’m concerned.’ She smiled at him and lowered her tone to a slightly husky note. ‘That sounds promising. Does that mean you are going to tell me where my father will be staying when he arrives?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Marc’s voice was equally low, equally warm and husky.
Maybe she could get to like him after all, she thought hazily as she looked into his eyes. ‘Good. I’m glad we can be civil about this.’
‘Absolutely.’ Marc smiled. ‘All you need to do is go along with my plans and prove to me that you do have your father’s best interests at heart, and I will help your reunion in every way I can.’
The lazily arrogant words set fire to Libby’s good feelings. Her eyes narrowed on him. ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
‘Well, I think you do. You see, your father hired me to look after his best interests and that is what I intend to do.’
The waitress arrived to clear the table and bring their main course. There was a stony silence as she served them. Libby was desperately trying to rein in her temper.
As they were left alone again Marc leaned across and topped up her wineglass.
‘Don’t look at me with those distressed blue eyes, Libby, because I’m not going to fall for your injured-party look. I have a duty of care towards your father—’
‘Don’t give me that holier-than-thou routine, Marc Clayton, because it isn’t washing,’ Libby muttered. ‘I am not stupid. I know damn well that you have probably invested a lot of money promoting my father’s career and his new film and the only duty of care you are worried about is to your profit margins.’
Marc shrugged, not one bit put out by her remark. ‘Yes, I’m a businessman…and, yes, I have spent a lot of money promoting your father’s career. But I also happen to like your father and I think of him as a friend. So, any way round you like to look at it, I’m not going to let you ruin things for him.’
‘And I’ve told you I am not going to ruin anything for him.’
‘Well, good, then we are both in agreement and there is no problem.’
The very smoothness of his tone irritated Libby. ‘So now we are in agreement, are you going to put me in direct contact with my father? I want to talk to him,’ she said succinctly.
Marc inclined his head. ‘As soon as he arrives I will arrange a meeting.’
‘You like being in control, don’t you?’
‘That’s the way it is, Libby,’ Marc answered her calmly.
‘How is he, anyway?’ she asked suddenly, looking over at Marc, her eyes wide with curiosity.
‘He’s fine, very excited about seeing you again.’
So why couldn’t he have rung her himself to tell her that? Libby wondered.
‘And in the meantime I think we should go over exactly what you are going to tell the press.’
Libby put her knife and fork down and pushed the plate away. ‘I’m not going to tell them anything.’
‘Yes, well, that might be a mistake. I think we should face the problem head-on rather than back away from it.’
‘There is no problem…except in your very fertile imagination,’ Libby muttered.
‘OK, so remind me again, was that a journalist at your hotel or was it just a figment of my imagination?’
Libby scowled at him.
‘You remind me of a schoolgirl. I think it must be those freckles over your nose. All you need to do right now is put that hair of yours in bunches and you’d be perfect.’
‘Very funny.’ Libby put a self-conscious hand up to her hair and wondered suddenly if it was sitting OK. She had meant to go to the cloakroom and check her appearance as soon as they had arrived and she had forgotten.
‘You’re very like your father,’ Marc remarked suddenly. ‘He always likes to be right as well. You’ve got the same fiery temperament, same dramatic colouring, except of course you are much…much more beautiful.’
The husky way he said those last few words caused Libby’s heart rate to increase. It wasn’t that she was taken in by the compliment. Marc was just a smooth operator; he’d say that kind of thing to any woman… No, it was more the way he was looking at her that really caused havoc with her emotions. There was something about the way his dark eyes held hers and then slowly, almost provocatively moved to rest on her lips that made her blood pressure soar. Desperately she tried to fight down the raw attraction that seemed to spring up inside her from nowhere and concentrate instead on the more annoying aspects of his words. ‘You mean you try and boss my father around as well?’
Marc laughed at that. ‘Well, every now and then I try…but like you he is incredibly stubborn.’
The waitress came to clear the table and Libby used the time to escape from Marc to try and clear her head. She checked her appearance in the bright lights of the restroom. Thankfully her hair hadn’t turned to frizz and was sitting relatively smoothly. Not that she really cared what she looked like, of course… Marc Clayton wasn’t her type; he was far too assertive and insulting. She re-applied her lipstick and remembered how he had made her feel when his gaze had rested on her lips… To her horror her hand trembled a little. She flicked the lipstick closed and put it away.
You are attracted to him! The words lashed through her brain like a very loud accusation. And she couldn’t deny them at all. OK, she found him attractive…of course she did. He was a very handsome man and, more than that, there was a raw sensuality about him that seemed to stir her in a way no other man had ever done. Something happened when he looked at her in a certain way. She disliked him intensely and yet he excited her, set her adrenalin racing and her pulse sky-high. It was very strange and more than a little worrying. An attraction had to be based on more than good looks, more than the ability to turn your insides to molten fire. How could she feel like this about someone she really didn’t like?
You are being ridiculous, Libby, she told herself firmly. You can’t be attracted to him…not even sexually! For a start the man thinks you are a gold-digger! He has said horrible things to you and he is trouble with a capital T.
OK, every now and then there was a charisma about him that fascinated her. But she had learnt from her mistakes in the past and she would never, ever allow herself to be taken in by any man again. From now on she was a new woman, strong, ruled by her head, not her heart. And she had Marc Clayton’s measure, that was for sure.
Another thing for sure was that trying to use her femininity on him was backfiring major style. As soon as she lowered her voice huskily or tried to flirt with him he responded in a similar style and it seemed that his smooth masculinity was more overpowering than her weak flirtations.
She was going to have to play things very carefully.