Satan's Contract. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

message would you like to put with them?’ Marjorie was asking, the way she was gazing up at Shaun betraying very clearly that that eminently sensible married lady had succumbed without a fight to his smooth masculine charm.

      He smiled down at her, just a trace of sardonic humour in his eyes. ‘Let me see. I think just “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” will do,’ he said. ‘And you needn’t bother to put who they’re from—I think she’ll guess.’

      Pippa had stiffened, her pen stilled. Marjorie was laughing. ‘Lucky girl,’ she sighed, comfortable enough to amuse him with a little meaningless flirtation. ‘You’d like them delivered this afternoon?’

      ‘If that’s possible?’

      ‘No problem,’ she assured him, smiling. ‘I’ll take them myself. Pippa, have you finished with the order pad?’

      ‘Oh... Yes.’ She pushed it casually across, far too busy with taking her customer’s payment to even notice whom Marjorie was serving—though her jaw was clenched with the effort of ignoring him as much as he was ignoring her.

      ‘Now...’ Marjorie held her pen poised expectantly. ‘Who are they for?’

      ‘Miss Philippa Corbett,’ Shaun dictated, only that slight smile betraying his amusement in the situation. ‘The address is Claremont...’

      Pippa choked, her cheeks flaming a vivid scarlet as both Marjorie and the other customer stared at her in astonishment. Her eyes clashed with those deep-set hazel ones in a storm of anger—how dared he make a laughing-stock of her like this?

      ‘Don’t bother to take the order, Marjorie,’ she rapped, snatching back the pad and ripping off the sheet on which her friend had begun to write. ‘It’s just his stupid idea of a joke.’

      Shaun put on an air of hurt surprise that wouldn’t have deceived a child. ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘Why shouldn’t I send you flowers?’

      ‘You can save your money,’ she fumed. ‘I’m not going to have dinner with you.’

      His mocking laughter was a deliberate goad. ‘My, what a little hornet! You do change sides quickly—I can’t keep up with you. Yesterday afternoon you were batting those big baby-blues at me as if I were the answer to all your prayers!’

      ‘I was not!’ She caught herself up, furious with him for provoking her into such an undignified public argument. Tilting up her chin at a haughty angle, she responded with icy clarity, ‘Of course, if you chose to be conceited enough to interpret a simple apology for my father’s appalling rudeness as some kind of attempt to flirt with you, that’s up to you. All I can do is assure you that it was nothing of the sort.’

      ‘Ah, what a pity. And I thought I was beginning to make some headway.’ The regret in his tone was belied by the sardonic glint in his eyes. ‘I guess I’m out of luck.’

      Pippa hesitated, lost for a sufficiently cutting response. She was all too uncomfortably aware of Marjorie’s burning curiosity, and the mild amusement of the other customer, who was still standing watching. With a snort of angry frustration, she flashed them all a glare that would have stripped paint, and, turning on her heel, marched out into the back room of the shop.

      She was shaking with rage. No one, in all her life, had ever dared to treat her that way! Picking up the flower-scissors in a taut fist, she stabbed them into the wooden draining-board, wishing with all her heart it was Shaun Morgan’s damned handsome face.

      Marjorie came in after her, laughing a little uncertainly. ‘Hey, careful,’ she protested. ‘Those are the best scissors. Here.’ She took the pair from Pippa’s hand with exaggerated caution, and substituted some old ones. ‘If you really must start stabbing things, use those. They’re blunt.’

      Her friend’s gentle teasing made Pippa laugh at herself. She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t be much good, then, would they?’ She put the scissors down. ‘I’m sorry, Marje. But I could just kill that man!’

      ‘Oh, surely not!’ Marjorie protested. ‘He’s gorgeous! What’s he done?’

      ‘His name’s Shaun Morgan,’ Pippa explained, a slight flush of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘He’s...Gramps’s son.’

      Marjorie stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, I never! I never knew he had a son.’

      ‘Well, he did. Apparently his mother used to be Gramps’s secretary. I can’t say I blame him for going off and having an affair—my grandmother must have been hell to live with. Anyway, he came over for Gramps’s funeral. And according to the solicitor, because Gramps died without making a will, he’s going to inherit all his fortune.’

      ‘What—the house, and the company and everything?’ Marjorie queried, stunned. ‘But...what about your father?’

      ‘Oh, he’s hopping mad.’ Pippa confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘But there’s not a thing he can do about it. The law says it’s a child of the blood who inherits, legitimate or not, and a stepchild gets nothing at all.’

      ‘Well, I never!’ Marjorie sat down heavily on a convenient stool. ‘No wonder you’re mad at him.’

      ‘Oh, it isn’t that.’ Pippa pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not bothered about the money at all—in fact it serves my father right that he’s not going to get a penny. But he’s so arrogant! Do you know, he had the nerve to suggest that I was trying to...to get him to marry me, just as my grandmother married Gramps for his money!’

      Marjorie laughed, but there was a wise glint in her eyes. She had known Pippa from her babyhood—her own mother was one of Lady Corbett’s closest friends. And although she knew all about the notorious Corbett temper, she was shrewd enough to guess that her young friend would normally have been able to dismiss any such ridiculous suggestion with all her usual sense of humour. This could lead to all sorts of interesting developments!

      But the sound of the doorbell prevented her from exploring the situation any further. ‘Damn—there’s a customer,’ she grumbled, rising reluctantly to her feet. ‘Tell me the rest later.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘JEREMY, please—get down!’ Pippa begged, watching anxiously as the handsome boy teetered along the top of the high wall that surrounded the car park of the country club. ‘You’ve had too much to drink—you’ll fall off.’

      ‘No, I won’t—I can do it,’ he insisted obstinately. ‘Watch me—right the way to the end.’

      Their friends were cheering noisily, egging him on. ‘Go on, Jer—attaboy! Go for it!’

      Pippa sighed wryly, conceding defeat. Somebody had bet Jeremy fifty pounds he couldn’t walk the wall, and he had needed no second bidding. Considering that he was all of twenty-three years old, the Honorable Jeremy Hardwicke-Cooper frequently behaved like a little boy—especially when, as now, he was what he cheerfully called, ‘hog-whimpering’.

      At last, to her profound relief, he reached the end of the wall safely, and swung himself down, caring not a jot for the scuffing of his already rather well-worn dinner-jacket. ‘There!’ he proclaimed in triumph, swooping his arms around her and dropping a lightly affectionate kiss on her forehead. ‘Safe and sound—told you so!’

      To be fair, it wasn’t solely an excess of alcohol that accounted for the rowdy high-spirits of the group; having spent the earlier part of the evening dutifully attending a very stuffy charity ball, it was now as if they had been let off the leash.

      But Pippa wasn’t really in the mood for their usual high-jinks tonight. As they crossed the car park, she gently detached herself from Jeremy’s casually embracing arm—though in the midst of all the merriment he didn’t seem to notice.

      What was the matter with her? These were her closest friends, she had known them all her life—but