Secret Surrender. Laura Martin

‘A celebrated chat-show host lost for words? I find that very hard to believe.’

      His gaze travelled the length of her, surveying the halter-style top and matching long plum skirt, with its fashionable sexy thigh-length split, as if he had all the time in the world. As if, Christy thought angrily, she were a possible acquisition that needed one last look before purchase.

      ‘This is my table,’ Christy ground out through clenched teeth, aware that Drew Michaels had become, if that were possible, even more devastatingly attractive since she had last laid eyes on him.

      Dark thick hair, left a little long. Piercing eyes that seemed somehow to delve right into her very soul… Christy took a breath and shifted her gaze from his face. He was dressed in his usual, understated mode: dark jacket, white shirt that was undone casually at the neck, revealing just a hint of strong dark hair, just a hint that the body beneath was tanned and bronzed, full of power and potent male strength. He was so…so blatantly masculine, she thought, forcing herself to think impersonally about him. He exuded an unexplainable aura of self-confidence, of personal relaxation. Nothing seemed to faze him at all. Nothing. But then that was because he didn’t give a damn.

      ‘This is your table? Indeed?’ His lips twitched with sarcastic amusement. ‘And there was I with the impression that the restaurant owned everything.’ He raised an enquiring brow. ‘Or are you a shareholder? Does the Christy King empire extend to this most exclusive of eating houses now?’

      ‘You know what I mean!’ Christy replied with crisp acidity, struggling to appear calm, despite everything, despite the fact that she was suddenly seething like a raving-mad woman underneath her glossy exterior. ‘I booked this table two days ago.’ Assuming this aloof, almost haughty expression was practically killing her. She took another deep breath when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer and raised herself up to her full height. ‘I always sit here,’ she added tightly. There was pomposity in her tone and she regretted it immediately. For some reason only this man could do this to her, she thought angrily—bring out the worst part of her nature at a moment’s notice.

      ‘But not, it seems, tonight.’ Drew Michaels threw her a bored smile and leant back against his chair, picking up the menu as he did so, scanning it casually as if the subject were closed, dismissing Christy as if she were no more than a waitress come to the table with the wrong order.

      ‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Christy grated, losing a little of her hard-fought-for composure. ‘I suppose you just waltzed in here and sat down in the first place that took your eye!’

      Drew raised his head and cast Christy another distinctly bored glance. ‘No. As a matter of fact we were shown here by Roland, the owner himself. He told us this was the best table in the house, didn’t he, Annette?’ Drew smiled fondly across at his companion, who, Christy noticed, was looking slightly bemused and embarrassed, ‘and wished us a pleasant evening. Of course at that stage,’ he added with deliberate, cutting sarcasm, ‘he wasn’t to know we were going to be verbally accosted by a deranged chat-show hostess.’

      ‘How dare you?’ Christy’s tone was as sharp as the look in her eyes. ‘I could sue you for slander, or for defamation of character, or…or whatever the proper term is.’

      ‘And I could call Roland to settle the argument and take great pleasure in making you look very small!’ Drew informed her with quiet menace. ‘Do yourself a favour, Miss King: retreat now, while you still have some shred of credibility left.’

      ‘Christy!’

      She turned, breathless with annoyance, to find Conrad at her elbow, to find practically the whole restaurant listening with avid attention, their eyes swivelled as one in the direction of her, Drew, and the desirable table she was laying claim to.

      A long, slow, very, very hot flush rose steadily from the base of her neck up to her face, covering every inch of visible flesh in a vivid puce. So long since she had blushed, so long since she had found herself at the wrong end of a foolish situation. The last time had been three years ago, hadn’t it? With this same, impossible man.

      What on earth was she doing? She flinched inwardly and wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

      Christy swivelled her head sharply back around and found herself looking at a highly amused Drew Michaels.

      ‘Christy, we’re sitting somewhere else,’ Conrad whispered, putting himself between her and the other interested diners. ‘Roland apologised but hoped we’d understand as it’s just for this evening. You don’t mind, do you?’ Conrad’s voice was low, embarrassed. He always hated any kind of a scene, Christy thought bitterly, always so well-mannered, so proper, so damn meek! ‘It’s over here,’ he continued hurriedly; ‘quite nice, by the window. I’ve ordered your Martini.’

      ‘There, Miss King, a quite nice table by the window. All sorted!’ He was mocking Conrad. Such a contrast between the two of them, she realised, such a difference…’Now, there’s no need to apologise for making such a fuss,’ Drew added smoothly. ‘It’s just gratifying to know that you’re capable of making mistakes like the rest of us mere mortals.’

      ‘Very funny!’ Christy snapped, putting every ounce of cold dislike she could into her gaze, while frantically scanning her brain for some last parting shot, some witty put-down that would help her out of this mess.

      It was happening again. Why? Why did her brain always go like stodgy rice pudding when it mattered most—when Drew Michaels was around?

      ‘Christy!’ Conrad placed a light hand coaxingly on her bare back.

      She didn’t move. There were three choices, she decided swiftly. Stay and argue further and look even more ridiculous, go and sit with Conrad and practically choke trying to eat a meal, knowing the whole of the place was gossiping about her, or walk out with head held high and refuse ever to eat in this place again.

      Her mind instinctively ran over the last time she had had occasion to meet ‘God’s gift—first to the silver screen and now to the literary world’. The party had been one of the best: well-planned, sumptuous. Full of famous faces. His had been the most famous, of course, an unexpected arrival that had had Vicki, the host, in raptures.

      A thoughtful expression spread over Christy’s face as she remembered that night. It had been an enjoyable moment, cutting him completely dead, spearing him with a look of icy aloofness in front of at least a dozen people. He had continued to smile that slow, lazy smile of his, thrown her a look of amusement that had been a little galling at the time, but underneath it all she had just known he was seething. Oh, yes, maybe it had been a small revenge for the way he had treated her, but it had been a sweet one nevertheless.

      But it wasn’t enough. And here, here was another occasion. If she didn’t take her chance now, she would never get another opportunity—unless…Christy considered swiftly, running through the newly occurred possibility that maybe, just maybe, if she played her hand very carefully, she could turn everything around.

      Three years on. There was just no comparison between the promising young model turned hopeful chat-show host and the sharp, respected interviewer she was today. And she was ready for him this time. Drew Michaels, she thought, aware of her own sudden quickening heart, could surely, with careful questioning, be made to look foolish at the very least.

      ‘Unless you would both care to join us? Foursomes aren’t generally my thing, but in the circumstances I’m willing to make an exception.’

      Christy’s gaze fell to a glass of wine, placed temptingly near to her hand. To throw the contents full in his face appealed to her enormously. Childish, of course, quite out of keeping with her character, but oh, how pleasurable to take that smug look off his face, to still the mobile mouth and dancing eyes for just a moment.

      But then, weren’t there far better ways to get her own back, to even the score? Damn it! Why should she allow him to dominate her life? That time, three years ago, needed laying to rest; she needed to settle the score.

      She would interview him.