Fire With Fire. PENNY JORDAN

her.

      At the sound of Drake Harwood’s name she perked up a little. No doubt she was a far cry from the women normally asking to see him Emma reflected dourly. He had been mentioned in the gossip columns quite a lot recently, and she had read that he was currently escorting one of the ‘models’ featured in his newly acquired magazine. Although she had no deep-rooted objection to members of her sex making a living from capitalising on whatever they considered their most saleable assets to be, she viewed the men who made their living selling the female form both in the flesh and on celluloid with considerable distaste. It was true that Drake Harwood had merely gained control of his girlie magazine as part of a larger package, but he had been quick to accept the challenge thrown down by the rival magazine and to boast that he would soon boost its ailing circulation.

      Emma didn’t doubt that most of the women who posed for such magazines did so with their eyes open—witness Fiona’s determined attempts to catch Drake Harwood’s attention—but for herself … Only last summer Camilla had commented on what she called her ‘prudishness’ when she had refused to go topless during their holiday in France. ‘Everyone does …’ had been her younger sister’s critical comment. Maybe, but Emma had never been one to follow the general herd. Her own body was something she rarely thought about. Camilla had laughed when she insisted on wearing a swimsuit, but her skin was fair and burned easily.

      ‘Mr Harwood will see you now. Go up in the far lift,’ the receptionist directed in bored accents. Reminding herself that she was twenty-six years old and had just been offered the sort of job which ought to boost anyone’s self-confidence, Emma stepped into the lift and pressed the single button, hoping that the fluttering in her stomach was as a result of the upward surge of the lift rather than her own nervousness.

      A secretary as elegant as the girl in the foyer was waiting for her; blonde hair immaculately in place.

      ‘This way please.’ She knocked briefly on a door and then held it open.

      The room Emma walked into was enormous, with a panoramic view over the rooftops of London. The decor was almost austere; the rosewood desk huge; the Beber carpet underfoot a masculine blend of russets and browns.

      ‘Miss Court …’ He took advantage of her momentary consternation to ask mockingly, ‘I take it you did get the job? I shall look forward to seeing you on screen when the new programme goes out.’

      She had recognised him instantly of course, but it had taken her several seconds to assimilate the fact that the man in the corridor of the television building and Drake Harwood were one and the same. Remembering his open sexual inspection of her, she felt her face burning with a mixture of tension and anger. He had obviously known then who she was. Tension sharpened her instincts. How had he known about the job though? She recalled the muted deference in her companion’s manner towards him and anxiety feathered along her nerves. If he wanted her to comment on the coincidence; on the fact that he knew about her new job, he was going to be disappointed. Exciting Fiona had called him, according to Camilla, and she could understand why. If ever a man exuded sexuality it was this one, she thought clinically. His hair was thick and dark, almost unruly as it grew low into his nape. Even seated he gave the impression of height and breadth. His suit was expensively tailored, discreetly dark and Saville Row, and yet it left an unmistakable impression of solid muscle and bone; a legacy from his early days working on building sites, she decided. His skin was olive toned and tanned, the bones shaping his face arrogantly masculine. Even without those green eyes she would have been wary of him. He was a man whose every movement revealed a raw pleasure in his masculinity; a man who would never consider a woman to be his equal, Emma thought drily.

      ‘Like what you see?’ His words left her in no doubt that he was aware of her scrutiny. Emma fought down the urge to snap back that she disliked everything about him, and said instead, ‘It’s always interesting to come face to face with the people one reads about in the press.’

      ‘Really?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Surely you aren’t admitting that you succumb to hero-worship Miss Court. Somehow I can’t see you in that role.’

      She wasn’t admitting anything of the sort and he knew it damn him. Angrily Emma suppressed an inclination to bite out that far from hero-worshipping, she was more likely to find herself criticising him, and reminded herself of the purpose of her appointment.

      ‘Quite a coincidence, our meeting twice in the one day.’

      Emma had the distinct feel that he was toying with her in some way, playing a game which was giving him huge amusement and not a little masculine satisfaction.

      ‘They do happen.’ She was fighting to control her responses. Instinct told her she would need all her wits about her to match this man. ‘As you know from my letter, I wanted to discuss my sister with you. You may remember, she had a slight accident in your car.’

      She had wanted to get him off the subject of her and on to the subject of Camilla and she had succeeded. His eyes sharpened, his eyebrows lifting tauntingly. ‘A slight accident? Is that how you describe theft and several thousand pounds worth of damage? Why hasn’t she come to see me herself?’

      Not for the first time it crossed Emma’s mind that the whole thing might simply be a ploy to get to know Camilla better—on his own terms, with him calling the tune. He would demand that sort of relationship she guessed intuitively; he would derive satisfaction from knowing that he was the one in command. Well he might as well know from the start where he stood with Camilla.

      ‘She asked me to come because she doesn’t want her fiancé to know anything about what happened.’

      If he was disappointed to learn that Camilla was engaged, he wasn’t showing it.

      ‘And what did happen?’ he asked softly. ‘I have wondered … The first I knew of anything was when the police rang me to say that my car had been involved in an accident. Quite a surprise, as you can imagine.’

      ‘Camilla attended one of your parties. It seems that she had rather too much to drink.’ She managed to say it quite calmly, but could not bring herself to look at him. ‘When she woke up in the morning and found herself in a strange bed, she panicked a little I’m afraid …’

      ‘She did? I wonder why,’ he mused sardonically. ‘I take it this strange bed contained no one other than herself?’

      ‘Not as far as I know.’ Let him make what he liked of that.

      ‘And this er … panic … motivated her into stealing my car.’

      Stealing wasn’t the word Emma would have used, but she forced herself not to say so. ‘It was very early in the morning. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by calling a taxi … I’m afraid she was in too much of a panic to think things through properly.’

      ‘Unlike her sister, who I’m sure never does anything without doing so.’ The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. ‘I take it this panic was on account of her fiancé. She doesn’t want him to know she spent the night at my house is that it? Seems an odd relationship to have with a prospective husband. Why is she marrying him?’

      ‘Because she loves him.’

      His eyebrows really did rise then. ‘My, my, does she so … But not obviously to the extent of being able to tell him the truth.’

      ‘There are complications.’ Emma knew she sounded brusque. ‘They need not concern you. Camilla wanted me to ask you if you would be prepared to take instalment payments to cover the repairs to your car. She can’t afford to repay you in a lump sum. She simply doesn’t have that sort of money.’

      ‘But her fiancé does, presumably, otherwise she wouldn’t be marrying him.’

      The cynicism in his voice prompted Emma to snap, ‘Yes he does, but naturally she wouldn’t want to ask him to lend her such a sum before they are married, if that’s what you were going to suggest. The repayments will include an interest element, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

      ‘No, it does not worry