Bought With His Name. Penny Jordan

      Bought with his Name

      Penny Jordan

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE party was very obviously in full swing when Genista pushed open the door to Greg Hardiman’s flat. She had knocked on it several times, but the noise generated by the party had prevented anyone from hearing her. The living area of the flat seemed to be full of couples smooching around to the sensual strains of the music coming from the hi-fi system, and it was several seconds before Genista could find her host. When she did, he slid an arm round her slender waist, pressing her against him, smiling down into the perfect oval of her face. Her eyebrows rose mockingly and she moved slightly away. Greg had been drinking and retained his grasp of her waist.

      ‘Well, well, look what the wind blew in,’ he commented, eyeing her assessingly. ‘I didn’t think you were going to be able to make it, sweet. A little bird told me you were planning to work late tonight. Keeps you busy that boss of yours, doesn’t he?’

      ‘Someone has to earn the profits,’ Genista reminded him dryly.

      It was true; she had been going to work late, but Bob’s wife Elaine had rung and asked him if he could go home earlier than planned, and finding herself at a loose end Genista had come to the party. Already she was regretting her decision. She had been away from the office on her annual holiday and had returned to find the place in an uproar.

      ‘C’mon, I’ll introduce you around,’ Greg told her, interrupting her chain of thought. ‘It isn’t often you grace our humble efforts at entertaining with your presence. Pity I’m leaving for the States at the end of the week. I’ve always fancied you, Gen; wondered what goes on behind those cool “keep your distance” barricades. I don’t suppose you feel like staying on when the others have gone?’

      Genista had heard the same question too often before to feel shocked or angry. What was it about men that made them calmly assume that any woman who wasn’t attached and over twenty-one must automatically want to jump in and out of their beds? She had been putting men like Greg down for nearly four years, but still they had the arrogance to think all they had to do was smile and pay a few meaningless compliments for a girl to be ready to sleep with them.

      She moved away, refusing Greg’s offer to introduce her around. She knew most of the people present. Like her, they worked for Computerstore, a small firm pioneering and selling advanced computer softwear to industry and commerce. Genista had been with them for four years—ever since she had come to London, in fact, and she thoroughly enjoyed her job as personal assistant to the firm’s Liaison Manager, or at least she had done up until now. A small frown furrowed her brow as she remembered the the news which had awaited her return from Greece. Computerstore had been taken over by a large organisation, and there were fears within the firm that jobs would be lost; parent company men brought in over the heads of existing staff; people made redundant. Bob Norman, her own boss had worn a perpetual frown all week. Genista bit her lip. She was very fond of Bob. She liked working for him very much. They made a good team, and although she had taught herself not to be emotional about other people she knew it would be hard for her to work as well with someone else.

      Collecting a drink from the makeshift bar, she leaned against the wall, watching the antics of her fellow-guests with a certain sardonic appreciation. If she was any judge, a couple of promising affairs would result from the forced hothouse atmosphere of tonight’s party; her lip curled faintly, although she was unaware of it. She was by far the most attractive woman in the room. Tall, slenderly elegant, her dark red hair curling on to her shoulders, her features almost classically sculptured. It was several seconds before her antennae warned her that she was being watched. She didn’t make the mistake of looking straight away to see who was watching her, but instead let her eyes drift casually across the room.

      He was leaning against the opposite wall, and lifted his glass to her, in a salute which was partially appreciative and wholly arrogant. With a sense of mingled distaste and anger Genista realised that he expected her to make her way across to him. He was, she recognised, a man to whom women would always run. Well, not this one. He was easily the most striking man in the room. Even slouched against the wall his body held an element of leashed power more suggestive of the jungle than a small London flat. He was dressed quite casually in black cord jeans and a black cotton shirt, his thick dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt at the back.

      He must be in his thirties, Genista mused; far too much aware of his sensual impact on susceptible females. He moved, easing his weight from one leg to the other, the action tautening the powerful thigh muscles beneath the cord. He was watching her with hooded eyes. A pretty, dizzy young blonde from the typing pool walked past him, eyeing him provocatively. Silly little fool, Genista thought pityingly. Couldn’t she see he was way, way out of her league, and if she played with him, she would be badly hurt?

      It did not occur to her to wonder who he was. She felt no curiosity about his identity. She felt no sense of pleasure because she had caught his eye. She could read what was in his mind as easily as if it were an open book. Had she responded to that look he would have dated her a few times, and would no doubt have expected to be repaid by sharing her bed, and then when he grew tired of her she would be quickly ditched while he moved on to the next conquest. She watched the pretty blonde typist trying desperately to catch his attention; he knew what the silly little thing was doing, and although he acknowledged her efforts with a faintly bored smile he made no attempt to spare the girl the humiliation which would undoubtedly be hers in the cold sober light of morning. He looked across at Genista once again, and in that look she read everything she most disliked about his type of man; an arrogant assurance that she was his for the taking, and all at once she was filled with a desire to show him exactly how wrong he was. As she smiled secretly and provocatively into her half empty glass, knowing he thought the smile was for