The Innocent Virgin. Carole Mortimer

had said, and, looking at him, that was pretty much what he had done. His damp hair looked as if he had just run a hand through it, he was wearing a clean, but very creased white T-shirt, and a pair of ragged denims, also clean, but worn and faded, the bottoms frayed. And that was all he was wearing from what Abby could tell. His feet were bare on the coolness of the tiled floor.

      He looked sexy as hell!

      This side of Max Harding hadn’t really been apparent in the tapes of his shows she had watched from the archives, but she had certainly been made aware of it when he’d opened the door earlier, wearing only a towel. And—strangely—she was even more aware of him now, because the clothes hinted at the powerful body beneath.

      She straightened, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. It didn’t occur to me.’

      He placed a steaming mug of black, unsweetened coffee in front of her. ‘There isn’t any milk,’ he announced off-handedly as he passed her the sugar bowl. ‘I only got back late last night, and I haven’t had time to shop yet.’

      ‘Black is fine,’ she assured him, though she usually took both cream and sugar in her beverages. Somehow, from the look of the unused kitchen, she doubted he had time to go to the shops very often!

      ‘So.’ He sat down opposite her at the breakfast bar, his gaze piercing. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’

      She could always try acting dumb and ask which question he was referring to—but as he already thought she was dumb that probably wasn’t the approach to take!

      She shrugged. ‘I obtained your address from a friend of a friend,’ she said dismissively, wishing she felt more self-confident and less physically aware of this man…

      His gaze narrowed. ‘Which friend of what friend?’

      ‘Is that grammatically correct?’ She attempted to tease, deciding that probably wasn’t a good idea either as his scowl deepened. ‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to answer that?’

      He didn’t return her cajoling smile. ‘I rarely joke about an invasion of my privacy,’ he grated.

      She raised ebony brows. ‘Aren’t you overreacting just a little? After all, I only rang the doorbell. You were the one who invited me in!’

      ‘I can just as easily throw you out again!’ he rasped. ‘And I “invited” you in as you put it, for the sole purpose of ascertaining how you obtained my address.’

      ‘Knowing full well that I couldn’t possibly reveal my source,’ Abby came back sharply. Challengingly. It was the first rule of being that investigative reporter he had told her she would never be; a source’s identity was as sacrosanct to a reporter as the information a client gave to a lawyer.

      Max sat back slightly, his expression—as usual!—unreadable. ‘Tell me, Abby,’ he said softly, ‘just what made you think you would succeed where so many others have failed?’

      She blinked, not sure she quite understood the question. Surely he didn’t think that she trying to attract—?

      ‘Not that, Abby.’ He sighed. ‘I was actually referring to other requests for me to appear on TV programmes or give personal interviews to newspapers over the last two years. Haven’t I already assured you that you aren’t my type?’ His mouth twisted scathingly as his gaze raked over her ebony hair, deep blue eyes, creamy complexion and full, pouting lips.

      Exactly what was ‘his type’? Abby felt like asking, but didn’t. As far as her research was concerned, he didn’t appear to have a type. He had been married once, in his twenties, and amicably divorced only three years later, and the assortment of women he had been involved with over the years since that marriage didn’t seem to fit into any type either, having ranged from hard-hitting businesswomen to a pampered Californian divorcee. The only thing those women seemed to have in common was independence. And possibly an aversion to marriage…?

      ‘Well, that’s something positive, at least,’ Abby came back dismissively. ‘Because you aren’t my type either!’

      Grudging amusement slightly lightened his expression. ‘No,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I should imagine a nice, safe executive of some kind, preferably in television, would be more your cup of tea.’

      This man managed to make everything he said sound insulting!

      And in this case he was wrong; she had been briefly engaged to a ‘nice, safe executive of some kind’—and been totally bored by Andrew’s complete lack of imagination. Besides, Monty hadn’t liked him…

      ‘Really?’ she said wearily. ‘How interesting.’

      Max continued to look at her for several seconds, and then gave an appreciative grin. ‘You sound like my mother when confronted by one of my father’s more boring business associates!’

      His father, Abby knew, was James Harding, the owner of Harding Industries. His charming and beautiful wife Amy was a banking heiress, and Max’s mother. Obviously Max hadn’t inherited that first trait of hers!

      ‘Really?’ Abby repeated unhelpfully, slightly disturbed by the attraction of that grin—and desperate not to show it.

      ‘Really?’ he mimicked dryly. ‘Am I boring you, Abby?’

      So far she hadn’t been able to relax enough in this man’s company to feel bored! But if he wanted to think that—fine; she needed every advantage she could get with this thoroughly disconcerting man. ‘Not specifically,’ she drawled, sounding uninterested.

      His mouth quirked humorously. ‘How about unspecifically?’

      She pretended to give the idea some thought. In fact, she very much doubted too many people found this man boring; the level of mental alertness necessary just to have a conversation with him wouldn’t allow for that. Besides, the man was playing with her, and, despite what he might think to the contrary, she really wasn’t one of those vacuous ‘young things’ he had initially accused her of being. At least, she hoped she wasn’t!

      She had left school with straight As and gone on to graduate from university three years later with a degree in politics. But two years of working as a very junior underling to a politician who just wasn’t going to make it, despite putting in sixteen-hour days, had very soon quashed her own ambitions in that direction, and she had done a complete about-face, becoming interested in a career in television instead.

      Being the smiling face of a lowbrow programme’s weather segment hadn’t exactly stretched her mentally, but everyone had to start somewhere. Besides, being offered her own six-week series of interviews now was worth the year she had spent getting up at four-thirty in the morning just so that she could be at the studio bright and early to give her first weather report of the day when the programme began at six-thirty.

      And even Max Harding, despite his privileged background and a father who had probably been able to pull a few strings for him, had to have started somewhere—

      ‘Sorry?’ She shook her head as she realised Max had just spoken to her.

      ‘I asked whether your meteoric rise to fame has had something to do with the way you look rather than any real qualifications to do the job?’ He looked at her challengingly.

      He had obviously decided to make sure there was no possible chance of her being bored by him any longer!

      But if his intention was to anger her by the obvious insult, then he hadn’t succeeded in doing that either. She had heard every insult there was these last two months, from other women as well as men, and especially from Gary Holmes, and she was no longer shocked or bothered by them. Well…not much, anyway.

      She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Which one do you think I slept with? The producer or the director?’

      Grudging respect darkened his eyes. ‘Either. Or possibly both.’ He shrugged.

      Now he wasn’t trying to be insulting—he was succeeding! ‘Pat Connelly is a grandmother