Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

high above their heads, pastel-coloured balloons drifting around their feet, curling lengths of streamer decorating their hair and shoulders.

      As the dance came to an end she was surrounded at once by a throng of admirers, clamouring for the chance of being next to lead her round the floor.

      ‘My turn, Georgie.’

      ‘Georgie, you promised me.’

      ‘Pardon the intrusion from the far-flung Colonies, boys, but I think this is my dance.’

      It was that lazy, mocking drawl she had tried so hard to forget. To Georgia’s disgust, not one of the other claimants to her hand seemed willing to challenge the newcomer; groaning in protest, they conceded defeat, standing aside to let him step in. He held out one imperious hand, and she could do nothing but put hers in it and let him draw her out onto the dance-floor and into his arms.

      He danced well, for a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on horseback, herding half a million sheep across the outback, she reflected with a touch of asperity. And she couldn’t deny that the elegant cut of a formal dinner jacket suited him remarkably well. But the memory of the last time he had held her in his arms was swirling in her brain, and all her usual cool poise had deserted her, leaving her feeling as gauche as a schoolgirl.

      His soft laughter mocked her. ‘Well, good evening, Blondie. This is a pleasant surprise.’

      She lifted her eyes to stare up at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded raggedly.

      ‘I bribed my way in,’ he admitted without shame. ‘I’m staying here at the hotel, and I was passing across the hall when I happened to look in—and who should I see but my little mermaid? So I collared one of those fearsome old dragons who always seem to run these things, and gave her a nice fat cheque to let me in. I was hoping I might run into you while I was in London, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be here.’ His voice took on a note of sardonic amusement. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you…with your clothes on.’

      She returned him a look of cool dignity which she hoped would override the betraying hint of pink in her cheeks. ‘If you’re going to make coarse remarks like that, I shall walk off the dance-floor.’

      He chuckled with laughter, the arm around her waist tightening just a fraction, as if to warn her not to try it. ‘I see you got your diamonds,’ he remarked, a hard edge in his voice. ‘Quite a set—the real thing too. You have been busy since the last time we met. Found yourself some rich fool to marry, did you? Who is it? That pasty-faced creep you were dancing with when I came in?’

      ‘Robin isn’t a creep!’ she protested hotly.

      ‘He isn’t man enough for you.’ He had drawn her closer, his warm breath stirring her hair, his hand sliding slowly down the length of her spine to mould intimately over the smooth curve of her derrière. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish, when you feel his scrawny hands on your smooth, satin skin, for a real lover?’ he taunted provocatively. ‘One whose touch would be warm and gentle on your soft, naked body—who would caress those ripe, firm, beautiful breasts with tenderness and who would make love to you all night, in every way you could possibly imagine…?’

      Georgia drew in a sharp breath, shocked not so much by his words as by her own reaction to them; breathing the musky, male scent of him was conjuring a memory of that brief encounter on his yacht, a memory so vivid that she felt as if she was once again naked in his arms, her mouth bruised by his kisses, her creamy smooth skin flushed beneath that insolent dark gaze.

      It took a considerable effort of will to regather the scattered threads of her composure. But she couldn’t let herself weaken—she knew only too well how swiftly he could take advantage of any lowering of her resistance. From beneath her lashes, she studied him warily. It seemed that he still didn’t know who she was. It was possible, of course—he had been here no more than a few minutes, and he might not have bothered to ask anyone her name.

      Or, on the other hand, he could be playing some kind of cruel game with her. If he was the mysterious figure behind the holding company that was buying up Geldard shares, she was quite sure he would try to use their previous meeting to gain an unfair advantage—there was no mistaking the hint of ruthlessness about that hard mouth.

      Either way, she had to keep her nerve, keep planning her moves. And, for the moment, it seemed that the best tactic was to play the confident, sexually assured siren he had taken her for. It was hardly a role that came naturally to her, but all she had to do was copy Margot’s style—it couldn’t be that difficult.

      Slanting him a flirtatious smile, she lifted her eyes to his. ‘I…didn’t know you were planning to come to England,’ she remarked carefully. ‘You didn’t mention it.’

      Only the slightest flicker of those dark eyes registered his surprise at her change of manner. ‘Well, now, as I recall we didn’t get too much time to talk about anything before you disappeared from my life,’ he responded on a note of mocking humour. ‘But since the only thing I knew about you was that you were English—at least I figured that from your accent—it seemed like the best way to find you was to come to London.’

      Heavens, he must think she was stupid! She laughed lightly, hiding her annoyance behind a gloss of sophisticated amusement. ‘Really? You didn’t exactly rush, though—it’s been nearly three months.’

      ‘Ah, well…Unfortunately there were one or two business matters that forced me to go back to Australia first,’ he explained. ‘But I came as soon as I could.’

      She shook her head, mimicking Margot’s best arch mannerisms. ‘No, really—what are you doing here?’ she persisted. ‘Do you have business interests in England?’

      ‘A few,’ he conceded, those enigmatic dark eyes giving nothing away. ‘I’m just looking around for anything that catches my eye. I’ve already picked up a nice little filly—as a matter of fact I named her Blondie, after you.’

      Georgia’s jaw was aching with the effort of maintaining her smile. ‘So I saw in the paper. Am I supposed to be flattered?’

      ‘I like the name,’ he countered genially. ‘And I don’t know your real one.’

      She laughed the implied question aside. ‘And where’s your other “filly” tonight?’ she enquired, trying for an air of worldly unconcern. ‘Not with you?’

      ‘You mean Sheena? No, she’s working—Paris or Rome or somewhere. Why do you ask?’

      ‘Oh, just…mildly curious,’ she responded, not quite able to keep her voice as even as she would have liked.

      ‘Not jealous, by any chance, are you?’ he taunted.

      ‘Jealous? Of course not.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders in a gesture of unconcern. ‘I have no reason to be jealous.’

      ‘No, you don’t,’ he murmured, drawing her closer again. ‘She’s almost as beautiful as you, but she doesn’t kiss like you. You tasted like honey and melted in my arms like a dream…’

      ‘I was…half-drowned,’ she choked out, her mask abruptly slipping.

      ‘So you were,’ he conceded softly, mockingly. ‘But you’re not half-drowned now.’

      With a small stab of alarm she realised that he had waltzed her out through the open French windows at the far end of the dance-floor into a cool marble atrium, where a green cast-iron fountain played amid a riot of tropical palms beneath a high glass-domed ceiling. Before she could protest, he had drawn her back into the shadows behind one of the Doric columns that ran around the outer rim, and his mouth had claimed hers in a kiss that she didn’t know how to resist.

      His lips moved over hers, warm and sensuous, and with a soft sigh she surrendered to their sweet persuasion, granting him admission to the moist, secret depths he sought. The musky male scent of his skin was drugging her mind, stirring an instinctive response that was far beyond the reach of reason.

      She