Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ straight dark brows. And he was wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist.

      Her heart gave a thud of alarm; had she escaped from the frying pan only to fall into a very much more dangerous fire? Of course—she tried desperately to rationalise—he had just dragged her out of the water; he would have had to take his wet clothes off…She closed her eyes again swiftly, but the image of that darkly bronzed body, hard-muscled and covered with a smattering of rough, male hair, seemed to have been burned onto her eyelids.

      ‘Brandy?’ he offered, a sardonic inflection in his voice.

      ‘Er…No, thank you…’ ‘You’d better drink it.’

      Her eyes flew open in angry indignation as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to lift her to a sitting position. A strong whiff of alcohol assailed her nostrils, and as she opened her mouth to protest he deftly tipped the fiery liquid down her throat.

      She gasped in shock, choking as she swallowed it. ‘How…dare you?’ she demanded, furious.

      ‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia on me,’ he taunted in that laconic Australian drawl. “That would rather spoil the game.’

      She glared up at him, the heat of the unfamiliar brandy coursing through her veins and doing odd things to the rate of her heartbeat. This was clearly a man who was accustomed to having his every word unquestioningly obeyed; there was an arrogance in that strongly carved face that would make poor César look positively meek.

      He lifted one questioning eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong, Blondie? Aren’t I playing it to the right script?’

      She hesitated, struggling to get a grip on the situation. She wasn’t accustomed to being treated with such off-hand familiarity. Brought up by her grandfather with the knowledge of the substantial fortune she was to inherit, she had been taught from her cradle to keep any hint of emotion under the strictest control, and the image of chilling reserve she projected was usually enough to keep the world at arm’s length.

      ‘I…appreciate your rescuing me,’ she managed, her voice stiff with dignity. ‘However, I would prefer it if you didn’t call me Blondie.’

      He shrugged those wide shoulders in a gesture of casual unconcern. ‘OK—so what do you want me to call you?’

      She slanted him a measured glance from beneath her lashes. He didn’t know who she was. That wasn’t surprising, really—she was usually quite successful in avoiding having her picture in the papers, and even if he had seen it he was unlikely to recognise her with her hair soaking wet and slicked to her head.

      Well, that suited her. She had no idea who he was either—she might easily find herself in a far more dangerous position than with César. ‘I…there’s no need for you to call me any-thing, ’ she responded as coolly as she could. ‘If you would just be so kind as to take me back to Mangrove Bay…’

      He laughed that lazy, mocking laugh. ‘Don’t put on that haughty act with me,’ he advised drily. ‘You’re not the first pretty mermaid to get herself washed up alongside my boat. Though I have to admit,’ he added, slanting her a look of insolent approval, ‘you’re the best looker of the bunch so far.’

      She stared up at him in shocked amazement. ‘You surely don’t believe I did that deliberately?’

      ‘Either that or you’re plumb crazy,’ he returned, a glint of amusement in those dark, deep-set eyes. ‘You don’t look stupid enough to take a flimsy thing like that out for a pleasure cruise, and it’d be a pretty bizarre way to commit suicide.’

      ‘I certainly wasn’t trying to commit suicide!’ she protested hotly.

      ‘Then what were you doing?’

      ‘I—’ She stopped herself abruptly; she couldn’t tell him the truth without revealing who she was—and worse, revealing details of the awkward episode with César. ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ she countered, injecting several degrees of frost into her voice.

      ‘No?’ He was laughing at her! ‘You mean any old yacht would have done? Provided it was big enough and swanky enough, of course. Well, I guess that puts me in my place.’

      She glanced around, for the first time properly taking stock of her surroundings. The yacht certainly was ‘swanky’, although the style was as uncompromisingly masculine as the owner. The saloon was easily as large as her own. Rich dark mahogany lined the walls, and the huge, comfortable sofa she was lying on was one of four, upholstered in pale cow-hide, surrounding a heavy brass-edged coffee-table. Beyond, she could see a dining area that would easily seat twelve around a large oval table.

      ‘Who are you?’ she queried, frowning up at him.

      ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ A disturbingly sensual smile was curving that sardonic mouth. ‘Jackson Morgan—at your service. My friends call me Jake.’

      Jake Morgan—oh, damn, that was all she needed! Jake Morgan was known as one of the most predatory sharks of the southern hemisphere. His name had first hit the financial pages only about five or six years ago, but in that short time he had earned himself a reputation for gobbling up smaller fry apparently just for the sake of it.

      And he was as famous in the tabloids as he was in the serious financial press, she had heard—his reputation with women was deadly. She had been inclined to doubt a good many of the stories about him, knowing how fond the newspapers could be of exaggeration—but now that she had met him she could believe every one.

      ‘Ah, so the name does mean something to you after all?’ he taunted, his eyes glinting with dark humour. ‘Are those dollar signs I see lighting up those great big beautiful eyes? What were you hoping for? A couple of weeks cruising in the sun and a few pretty diamonds to take home with you afterwards? Or something more? I wonder if you’d be worth it…?’

      Before she had time to realise what he was going to do, he had bent his head and his mouth had brushed lightly over hers. She felt the heat, and her lips parted in shock; only once before had anyone ever presumed to kiss her like this—she had been seventeen years old, and he had got her riding crop across his cheek for his insolence.

      But this was alarmingly different. As the moist tip of his tongue flickered into the sensitive corners of her lips she felt an odd little shimmer of heat run through her veins. The musky scent of his skin, mingled with the salt tang of the sea, was somehow drugging her senses, making her heart beat so fast that it was difficult to breathe.

      She closed her eyes, a strange melting sensation flowing through her as he pinned her back against the warm leather upholstery, yielding helplessly as he plundered the soft sweetness of her mouth in a flagrantly sensual exploration. Maybe it was just the brandy that was making her head float like this…

      He lifted his head, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her in quizzical amusement. ‘That’s quite an act, Blondie,’ he commented, a mocking edge in his voice. ‘Shiver, then sizzle—you could make a man catch something far worse than pneumonia.’

      Shock turned to coruscating anger, and without thinking about it she swung her hand at his cheek. Her palm sang and he gasped in surprise, touching his fingertips to the scarlet mark she had made. And then his eyes darkened with lethal anger, and with swift ruthlessness he had grasped both her wrists, forcing them down behind her back and pinioning them with one powerful hand.

СКАЧАТЬ