Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

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      ‘Nice looking filly you’ve got there,’ the newcomer remarked, studying the horses in training through his own binoculars. ‘I was after her myself.’

      ‘Were you?’ Jake smiled grimly, the amusing irony of the remark not lost on him.

      Robin chuckled softly to himself. ‘You’d best be careful, Nige,’ he put in, with the air of one feeding fuel to a fire. ‘Looks like he’s making a habit of picking up fillies you were interested in.’

      The Honourable Nigel Woodvine cast his old schoolfriend a withering look down his aristocratic nose.

      ‘I’ve just been telling him about our Georgie,’ Robin supplied. ‘He doesn’t seem to believe me.’

      Nigel turned his cool survey on Jake, letting his lip curl into a slight sneer. ‘Is that so?’ he queried, carefully calculating a degree of disdain that would fall just short of provoking any serious danger from those hard fists—he too had been present at the Geldard Foundation May Day Ball. ‘You think you can do better than the rest of us, then?’

      Jake shrugged, returning the contempt. ‘Could be.’

      Nigel laughed unpleasantly. ‘I doubt it. From what I gather, you’ve barely made it to first base. Granted, that’s a little further than most people have got to with the damned frigid bitch—but you won’t get her into bed.’

      Jake examined his grazed hand, flexing the fingers contemplatively, wondering how the knuckles would stand up to another close encounter with hard bone. ‘You don’t reckon?’ he mused, deceptively quiet.

      Nigel lifted his binoculars, coolly watching the string of horses as they turned for home. ‘No, I don’t,’ he confirmed. ‘You putting that filly in for the Geldard Cup at Ascot in September?’

      ‘I expect so.’

      ‘I’ll tell you what—I’ll make a bet with you. My bay—the one leading the string there—against your filly says you can’t get her into bed before the race.’ He lowered his binoculars, his narrow eyes glinting. ‘What do you say?’

      Robin drew in a sharp breath. ‘Hey, Nige…!’ he protested, appalled. ‘I mean, come on! You can’t make a bet like that!’

      ‘Can’t I?’ Again he gave that unpleasant laugh. ‘Maybe our Australian friend doesn’t think he can take up the challenge?’

      Jake held his anger carefully in check; sometimes there were better ways of dealing with contemptible jerks like this over-bred Englishman than using your fists. Was he really considering accepting such a dumb bet? He’d never done anything like it in his life—even in his crass adoles- cence he wouldn’t have dreamed of it. But maybe the stiffnecked Miss Geldard had it coming to her.

      He lifted his own binoculars again, studying the elegant bay at the head of the string. ‘A bit showy for my taste, but I wouldn’t mind having her,’ he drawled with mocking self-assurance. ‘You’re on.’

      ‘Another red rose, Georgia.’

      ‘Thank you, Janet. Throw it in the bin like the others, please.’

      ‘Oh, but…It seems such a shame!’ her secretary protested. ‘He called three times yesterday, too.’

      ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who won’t take no for an answer,’ Georgia responded on a note of crisp dismissal. ‘I’m leaving for my lunch appointment now, Janet. And if Mr Morgan rings again, the answer is still the same—no, I will not have lunch with him, nor dinner with him, nor will I go to the theatre or anywhere else with him.’

      ‘Yes, Georgia,’ Janet conceded with a wistful little sigh. Normally briskly efficient, there was a small, romantic corner in her soul that was highly susceptible to the roughhewn charm of the big Australian who had been pursuing her hard-hearted boss with such determination for the past couple of weeks.

      Georgia smiled grimly, and swung her handbag onto her shoulder. ‘I have a meeting with Bernard at two-thirty, so I’ll be back by two-fifteen. And I’ll need the production figures for the Redford Road bakery by tonight—I have to write a briefing paper for next week’s board meeting.’

      Her secretary nodded, making a note. ‘Do you want the figures for the past three years?’

      ‘Better make it the past five. See you later, Janet.’ She swept from the office, studiously ignoring the single, per- feet red rose in its cellophane wrapper lying on Janet’s desk. She had more than enough to worry about, without Jake Morgan pestering her. The mysterious Falcon Holdings was steadily buying up more of her shares; they had almost fifteen percent now—another fifteen and they would have to announce a formal bid. She had already decided to start discreetly liquidating some of her assets, ready to fight it.

      And now, just when she didn’t need it, she had been informed that one of the companies that owned a small but potentially important block of Geldard’s shares had itself been taken over. Apparently it had been a friendly takeover, providing a rescue package that would save them from the hands of the receivers—which was fortunate for them. But it left her with a worrying question mark—would the new owners support her or not?

      The executive lift took her down smoothly and swiftly to the basement, where her chauffeur was waiting with her ice-blue Rolls Royce to transport her to the restaurant where she was meeting a representative from the new owners of Linepaq to discuss their continuing association with Geldard’s.

      ‘Morning, Miss Geldard,’ Maurice greeted her, opening the rear door.

      ‘Good morning, Maurice. What’s the traffic like?’

      ‘Not too bad, miss. Shouldn’t take us more than ten or fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Thank you, Maurice.’ She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist as she settled on the smooth Connolly hide rear seat and fastened her seat belt. She would be a little early; good—that suited her. She would have time to settle herself and be in control before her guest arrived.

      As Maurice eased the car up the ramp and out into the May sunshine she glanced at the file on the seat beside her. She was meeting a Mr Watson, the financial director, probably a grey man, full of figures, she speculated wryly—what a waste of a sunny afternoon. Around the Tower of London the tourists were enjoying the early taste of summer, sitting on the grassy bank beneath the high white wall, licking melting ice-cream cones—and she had to have lunch with some boring accountant.

      Laughing at herself, she shook her head. What was wrong with her lately? It wasn’t like her to be discontented with her lot—she knew that she was very privileged. It was just…sometimes she envied people whose lives were a little simpler. But then they probably envied her, she reminded herself crisply—gliding by in her gleaming Rolls, bound for lunch at one of London’s most exclusive eatinghouses.

      Le Périgourdin was a charming little restaurant, in a quiet street close to Covent Garden. By night it was a popular dining place for theatregoers, but by day it was also a favourite spot for business lunchers like herself. As Maurice dropped her at the door she reminded herself of another advantage of the privileges she enjoyed—she didn’t have to face the impossible task of finding a parking space.

      The head waiter knew her well, and came at once to greet her as she stepped through the door. The atmosphere СКАЧАТЬ