The Best Man for the Job. Lucy King

and into conversational territory into which he did not want to venture, moment of chivalry or no moment of chivalry, Marcus inwardly winced because, while he hadn’t seen Celia’s father for a good few years, now it was coming back to him that as far as unreconstructed males went one would be pushed to find one as unreconstructed as Jim.

      Going on what Dan had said over the years their father had never had much time for Celia’s considerable intellect or any belief in her education, as had been proven when Dan had been sent to the excellent private school Marcus had met him at while she’d been sent to the local, failing comprehensive.

      Now it was clear that Jim had no respect for the choices she’d made or the work she did either, but then over the years Marcus had got the impression that the man didn’t have much respect for women in general, least of all his wife and daughter. He certainly didn’t listen to either.

      ‘And one day I’d like to be doing exactly that,’ she said, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin, ‘but there’s still plenty of time.’

      ‘Not that much time,’ said Jim brutally. ‘You’re thirty-one and you haven’t had a boyfriend for years.’

      Celia flinched but didn’t back down. ‘Ouch. Thanks for that, Dad.’

      ‘How are you ever going to meet anyone if all you do is work? I blame that ambition of yours.’

      ‘If my ambition is to blame then it’s your fault,’ she muttered cryptically, but before Marcus could ask what she meant Jim suddenly swung round and fixed him with a flinty look that he didn’t like one little bit.

      ‘You married?’ he asked.

      Marcus instinctively tensed because for some reason he got the impression that this wasn’t merely a polite enquiry into his marital status. ‘No.’

      ‘Girlfriend?’

      ‘Not at the moment.’

      ‘Then couldn’t you sort her out?’ said Jim, with a jerk of his head in his daughter’s direction.

      Celia gasped, her jaw practically hitting the ground. ‘Dad!’

      Marcus nearly swallowed his tongue. ‘What?’ he managed, barely able to believe that this man had basically just pimped out his daughter. In front of her.

      ‘Take her in hand and sort her out,’ Jim said again with the tact and sensitivity of a charging bull. ‘Soften her up a bit. You have a reputation for being good at that and with the business gone and your future projects not yet up and running you must have time on your hands.’

      ‘Stop it,’ breathed Celia, red in the face and clearly—and understandably—mortified.

      Not that Marcus was focusing much on her outraged mortification at the moment. He was too busy feeling as if he’d been hit over the head with a lead pipe. He was reeling. Stunned. Although not with dismay at Jim’s suggestion. No. He was reeling because an image of taking Celia into his arms and softening her up in the best way he knew had slammed into his head, making his pulse race, his mouth go dry and his temperature rocket.

      Suddenly all he could think about was hauling her into his arms and kissing her until she was melting and panting and begging him to take her to bed, and where the hell that had come from he had no idea because she didn’t need sorting out. By anyone. Least of all him. And even if he tried he’d probably get a slap to the face.

      God.

      Running his finger along the inside of his collar, which now felt strangely tight, Marcus tried to get a grip on his imagination and keep his focus on the conversation instead of the woman standing next to him. The woman who couldn’t stand him.

      ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he muttered hoarsely and cleared his throat.

      ‘Of course it isn’t a good idea,’ said Celia hotly.

      ‘Why not?’ said Jim with an accusatory scowl, as if he, Marcus, was being deliberately uncooperative. ‘She might be a bit of a ball-breaker but she’s not bad-looking.’

      ‘Hello?’ said Celia, waving a hand in front of her father’s face. ‘I am here, you know.’

      Marcus knew. Oh, he knew. And not just that she was only a foot away. It was as if Jim had unlocked a cupboard in his head and everything he’d stuffed in there was suddenly spilling out in one great chaotic mess.

      To begin with, not bad-looking? Not bad-looking? That was the understatement of the century. She was gorgeous. All long wavy blond hair, eyes the colour of the Mediterranean, full pink lips and creamy skin. A tall hourglass figure that made his hands itch with the need to touch her. A soft, gorgeous, curvy exterior behind which lay a mind like a steel trap, a drive that rivalled his own and a take-no-prisoners attitude that was frighteningly awesome.

      Today, in a pink strapless dress and those gold high-heeled sandals with her hair all big and tousled and her make-up dark and sultry, she looked absolutely incredible. Sexy. Smouldering. And uncharacteristically sex kittenish.

      It was kind of astonishing he hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe subconsciously he had. The minute she’d walked into the church and he’d laid eyes on her, hadn’t everyone else pretty much disappeared? Hadn’t it taken every drop of his self-control to keep his jaw up, his feet from moving and his mind on the job?

      With hindsight it was a miracle he’d managed to get down that aisle without dragging her off into the vestry. He’d felt her touch right through the thick barathea of his sleeve and it had singed his skin and tightened every muscle in his body. The scent of her had scrambled his brain and the proximity of her had heated his blood. As for the pressure of her breast against his elbow, well, the lust that that had aroused in him had nearly brought him to his knees.

      If he hadn’t been so deeply in denial he’d have had bad, bad thoughts about her. In a church, for heaven’s sake.

      He’d told himself that it was exhaustion messing with his head, which, come to think of it, was the excuse he always made when it came to the irrational and inappropriate thoughts of her that occasionally flitted through his mind.

      But it wasn’t exhaustion. It was denial, pure and simple. Because how could he be so in thrall to someone who clearly didn’t feel the same way about him? How could he be so weak?

      So was that what bothered him so much about her, then? The one-sided attraction and the back-seat position it put him in? Was the fact that he’d never stopped wanting her the reason why the way she constantly judged him and always found him lacking pissed him off so much?

      Despite what she thought of him he fancied the pants off her, which meant that, despite his protests to the contrary earlier, Zoe had been right. On his side at least, there was chemistry, tension and, up until about a minute ago, a whole heap of denial.

      And as denial was now apparently not an option he might as well admit that her rejection of him still stung despite the fact that it had happened years ago. She was the one who had got away, and that was why she got to him, why he always retaliated when she launched an attack on him.

      ‘So what do you think?’ said Jim, interrupting the jumble of thoughts tangling in his head. ‘Would you be up for the challenge?’

      ‘He thinks you’re insane, Dad,’ said Celia fiercely. ‘And so do I. I know I’m a disappointment to you but, for goodness’ sake, this has to stop. Now.’

      Actually, with the realisation that he wanted her, what Marcus thought was that he was suddenly bone-deep tired of the animosity that she treated him with. It had been going on for years, and he was sick of not knowing what it was about or where it came from.

      After spending so long in denial it was surprising just how clearly he could see now. His vision was crystal, and he wanted answers. So whether she liked it or not he was going to get them before the afternoon was through.

      ‘Want to go and get a drink?’ he muttered, figuring that there was no time like the present and