Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

her—after all, she had been soaking wet at the time they had met.

      Well, if he thought he would be able to use that incident to blackmail her in some way, he would be disappointed, she vowed resolutely. No one knew about it, and she would simply deny that it had ever happened.

      The May Day Ball in aid of the Geldard Foundation was one of the most glittering events of the social calendar. The foundation had been another of her grandfather’s grand gestures, set up to support research into heart disease—unfortunately he had stubbornly refused to listen himself to the advice available, dismissing all his doctor’s pleas to give up his brandy and cigars.

      The grand ballroom of one of London’s top hotels was the venue for the occasion, where two hundred and fifty of the cream of society could dine and dance in elegant style into the small hours of the morning while being parted from as much money as possible in the name of a good cause.

      Georgia cast a last anxious glance over the setting as the first of the Bentleys and Rolls Royces began to disgorge their elegant occupants outside the imposing entrance. It was as near perfect as six long months of hard work by the committee—and several days by the staff of the hotel—could make it. Long white-clothed tables, awash with silver and crystal, sparkled beneath the massive chandeliers that swung from the lofty ceiling, and the wide expanse of parquet dance-floor gleamed with polish.

      It had occurred to her more than once that it would probably be a great deal easier to call the whole thing off and simply write to people asking for a financial contribution, instead of going to these lengths to prise open their wallets. But she was aware that her grandfather had had a more cynical motive in mind—it did the company a great deal of good commercially to be associated with such a prestigious social event.

      ‘Georgie, darling! What a fabulous dress! And the Geldard diamonds too, I see. So that’s the reason why some of these “waiters” have such magnificent shoulders!’

      Georgia turned, smiling in welcome for her old schoolfriend, now married into the minor echelons of the aristocracy. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she responded lightly. ‘The insurance company insisted on it I’d really rather leave the damned things in the vault and wear paste.’

      ‘Oh no, surely not,’ Margot protested, shocked. ‘They’re so beautiful—if they were mine, I’d wear them all the time. Even to bed! Especially if one of those gorgeous hunks had to come along to keep an eye on them!’ she added outrageously, slanting a flirtatious eye over one of the stonefaced security-guards who had been assigned to protect the priceless gems around Georgia’s throat, his bulk not too discreetly concealed beneath the white dinner jacket of a waiter.

      Georgia shook her head, laughing. ‘Margot, you’re impossible! You’re supposed to be a respectable married woman these days.’

      ‘Me? Respectable?’ her friend gurgled. ‘Not likely. Oh, Charles is a dear, but he’s just a husband, after all. But what about you?’ she added, frowning slightly as she held Georgia at arm’s length and subjected her to a critical survey. ‘How do you keep your figure? I’ll swear you’re even slimmer than the last time I saw you, and yet you eat like a horse!’

      ‘Oh, I…get a lot of exercise,’ Georgia explained, waving one beautifully manicured hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘And I…had a slight bout of flu or something earlier this year.’

      ‘Flu, huh?’ Margot’s searching eyes were watching her face for the slightest betraying flicker. ‘Not a man, then?’

      ‘Of course not!’ Georgia concealed a stab of alarm at her friend’s shrewd guess. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’

      ‘It’s usually the only way I ever get to lose any weight,’ Margot confessed ruefully. ‘Excitement while I’m falling in love, and pining when it’s all over! Though now I’m married I suppose I shall have to forego all that sort of fun.’

      ‘It doesn’t sound much like fun to me,’ Georgia returned drily.

      Margot chuckled. ‘Ah, you ought to try it. In fact, it’s about time you did—it would do you good. Your grandfather’s got a lot to answer for, you know—I suppose he was only trying to do what he thought was best for you, but he ended up convincing you that no man could be interested in you for any other reason than your money.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margot,’ Georgia protested, aware of a slight waver in her voice. ‘Oh, you’ll have to excuse me—I see some more guests arriving. I’d better go and do my duty.’ And she slipped away before her friend could ask any more probing questions.

      As she crossed the foyer she caught a fleeting glimpse of her own reflection in the large gilded mirror on the wall. Was Margot right? Had her grandfather made her too suspicious? The image that looked back at her seemed to mock her. Poor little rich girl, it seemed to say—you’ve got everything, and yet you’ve got nothing.

      Her hairdresser had swept up her hair in an elegant style, and her slim-fitting dress of silver-white satin had a pure simplicity of line, cut low across the honey-smooth curve of her breasts, hugging her slender figure right down to her ankles—all the better to show off the fabulous Geldard diamonds.

      She didn’t actually like them very much; they were rather too ostentatious for her taste—a heavy collar of sparkling white gems, set in gold, with matching drops swinging from her small ears. They were reputed to be part of the Russian Crown Jewels, though Georgia was inclined to doubt the truth of that. Her grandfather had bought them for her grandmother as a silver wedding present; that lady, a plain Yorkshirewoman, had thought it a terrible waste of money, and Georgia heartily agreed with her—most of the time they were locked up in the vaults at the bank.

      But at least while she wore them no one would doubt that the Geldard fortune was as healthy as ever. And if she was going to have to fight a hostile takeover bid, it was vital to keep up appearances.

      ‘Great party, Georgie! Just about everyone’s here!’

      Georgia smiled, discreetly weaving her partner out of a potential collision; Robin Rustrom-Smith was an excellent dancer when he was sober, but at the moment he wasn’t. ‘Yes, it’s going very well,’ she agreed, glancing around the crowded room with satisfaction.

      “Everyone” was indeed there—aristocrats rubbing shoulders with film stars and captains of industry, all willing to abandon their dignity to compete fiercely in a game of bingo to win trinkets that had cost less than they’d spend on breakfast, or to scrabble for the prize balloons. A swift glance at the slim Cartier watch on her wrist told her that it was almost midnight; she could at last begin to relax in the knowledge that the ball had raised a great deal of money for the foundation…

      Suddenly she stiffened as a tall figure near the door caught her eye. It wasn’t the first time this had happened—several times over the past three months she had spotted a man of a certain height and build, with dark blond hair curling over his collar at the back, and her heart had tripped over itself until inevitably a second look confirmed that it was a complete stranger.

      But this time she didn’t need a second look; there was no mistaking the arrogant set of those wide shoulders, the tilt of his head as he surveyed the room. The formal dinner jacket he was wearing was beautifully cut, but the vivid memory that flashed into her mind was of his bare chest, hard-muscled and bronzed by the sun, scattered with rough, curling, male hair…

      Her heart fluttering in panic, she nudged Robin across to the far side of the dance-floor—fortunately his brain was rather too fuddled by the excellent champagne that had been flowing generously all evening for him to notice anything amiss. Hidden by the crowd of dancers, she watched warily, like a small mouse hiding in the long grass, hoping the farmyard cat wouldn’t notice she was there.

      She had known that there was a risk that she would run into him if he stayed in England for any length of time. But what was he doing here tonight? His name wasn’t on the guest-list; and besides, he had only just arrived—if he had been there at dinner, she would certainly have seen him. Was it just an unlucky chance, or