Ruthless Seduction: Pleasured in the Billionaire's Bed / The Ruthless Marriage Proposal. Miranda Lee

area compelled Lisa to forget her irritation, her love of all things beautiful drawing her forward till she was standing in the middle of the spacious room, surrounded by the sort of place she dreamt about owning one day. She almost sighed over the huge tinted windows, the amazing view, the acres of cream marble tiles and the wonderfully clean lines of the furniture. Nothing fussy. Everything classy and expensive. Cool leathers, in cream and a muted gold colour. The coffee- and side-tables were made of a pale wood. The rugs blended in. Nothing bright or gaudy.

      Ever since she’d been a child, Lisa had hated bright colours, both in décor and clothes. She could not bear the recent fashion of putting loud, clashing colours together, oranges with pinks, and electric blues with lime greens. She literally shuddered whenever she saw red anywhere near purple.

      ‘I do realise that there are a lot of tiles to clean,’ he said abruptly from just behind her. ‘But Gail never had a problem.’

      Lisa swung round to face him, grateful that he hadn’t thought she’d been envying him his house.

      ‘They won’t be any problem to me, either,’ she said swiftly. ‘I’ve been cleaning houses for years.’

      ‘You continue to amaze me. You look like you’ve never had a chipped fingernail in your life.’

      ‘Looks can be deceiving, Mr Cassidy.’

      ‘For pity’s sake, call me Jack. Now, a few instructions before I get back to work. Do you know about the extras I like done?’

      ‘You wish your sheets and towels to be changed, washed, dried and put away.’

      His eyebrows lifted, then fell, his expression betraying a slight disappointment that he hadn’t caught her out in some way.

      ‘You’ll find everything you need in the laundry,’ he told her. ‘My bedroom is the last door on the left down that hallway,’ he said, pointing to his right. ‘My study is the first door. Did Gail warn you I don’t like to be disturbed when I work?’

      ‘She did mention it. She said you were a writer of some sort.’

      Lisa almost asked him what kind of books he wrote, but pulled herself up in time. She’d always instructed her cleaners during their training never to become too familiar with male clients, especially ones who were in the house whilst they cleaned.

      The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry fashion. ‘Yeah. A writer of some sort just about describes me at the moment.’

      The sound of a telephone ringing somewhere in the penthouse brought a scowl to his face. ‘Damn! I should have switched on the answering machine. Still, I doubt it’s telemarketers at this hour in the morning. I’d better answer the darned thing,’ he grumbled before turning and marching off down the hallway to his right. ‘You might not see me later,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I’m on a deadly deadline. Your money’s on the kitchen counter. If I don’t surface, just leave when you’re finished.’

      When he disappeared into his study and shut the door after him Lisa was flooded by a weird wave of disappointment.

      The realisation that she’d actually been enjoying their conversation shocked her. What was there to like about it? Or about him?

      Absolutely nothing, she decided emphatically as she whirled and went in search of the laundry.

      Chapter Three

      JACK plonked himself down in front of his computer before snatching up the nearby phone.

      ‘Jack Cassidy,’ he answered, leaning back into his large and very comfy office chair.

      ‘Jack, it’s Helene.’

      ‘I had a feeling it might be you,’ he said drily. Helene hadn’t become a top literary agent by letting her clients fall down on the job. This was her fourth call this week.

      ‘Have you finished the book yet?’

      ‘I’m on the last chapter.’

      ‘Your publisher in London has been on to me again. He said if you don’t deliver that manuscript by the end of this week, he might not be able to get it on the shelves for the British and North American summers. And you know what that means. Lower sales.’

      ‘It’ll be there, Helene. Tonight.’

      ‘Is that a promise?’

      ‘Have I ever let you down before?’

      ‘No. But that’s because I hound you to death. Which brings me to the other reason for this call. The annual literary-awards dinner is tomorrow night. You’re the hot favourite for the Golden Gun award again, so you will show up, won’t you?’

      ‘Wild horses won’t keep me away, Helene.’

      Although he wasn’t overly fond of award nights, Jack was actually looking forward to going out tomorrow night. It had been weeks since he’d socialised in any way, shape or form. Weeks, too, since he’d slept with a woman, a fact brought home to him this morning when he’d answered the door and found a drop-dead gorgeous blonde standing there, instead of plump, homely Gail.

      Despite her hoity-toity, touch-me-not manner, Lisa Chapman had certainly reminded him that there was more to life than work.

      Too bad she was married. Jack’s observant eyes had noted the rings on her left hand within seconds of her introducing herself.

      ‘Jack! Are you there?’

      ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Helene. Just wool-gathering.’

      ‘Thinking about that last chapter, I hope.’

      ‘All the time.’

      Jack hated last chapters. He had a tendency to want to end his stories with a happily-ever-after scene. But that would be so wrong for a Hal Hunter book, especially at this stage in the series. Jack needed to come up with something seriously anti-heroish for his hero to do this time to finish up on. Couldn’t have his readers start thinking Hal was some kind of saint, just because he went around making sure the baddies got their comeuppances.

      Jack knew that it was Hal’s political incorrectness which appealed to his fans. They enjoyed Hal doing what they would never dare do themselves. They thrilled to his ruthlessness, plus his uncompromising sense of justice and vengeance.

      ‘I’d better get back to work, Helene.’

      ‘Fine. But one last thing about tomorrow night. Do try to bring a girl who’s read a book this time, will you?’

      Jack laughed. The blonde he’d taken to the awards dinner last year had been none too bright, something he hadn’t realised when he’d first met her on Bondi Beach and asked her to come with him. He’d been distracted at the time by how well she’d filled out her bikini.

      By the end of the evening, any desire he’d originally felt for her had well and truly disappeared. He’d taken her straight home, much to her obvious disappointment.

      ‘Look, I’ll probably come alone.’

      ‘I find that hard to believe. Jack Cassidy, without a gorgeous blonde on his arm?’

      ‘I don’t just take out blondes,’ he protested.

      ‘Yes, you do. The same way Hal does.’

      Jack’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t realised.

      Still, there was no gorgeous blonde in his life at the moment, except for the very beautiful girl who was currently cleaning his penthouse.

      If only she wasn’t married…

      Some people tagged Jack as a womaniser. But he wasn’t. Married women were off limits in his view, no matter how attractive they were.

      On the other hand, Hal was a womaniser. The so-called hero in Jack’s books wouldn’t have cared less if Lisa Chapman was married. Not one iota.

      This