The Innocent Virgin

But all the time those interviews were taking place a buzz had been felt in the studio. Both crew and audience obviously waiting expectantly for the time the estranged pair would come on together, with the promise of emotional fireworks in the air.

Except it had turned out Brad and Natalie were no longer estranged!

Abby had announced the two of them coming on together, feeling the tension rising in the studio as she did so, and could have collapsed in a heap when, instead of showing antagonism, Brad and Natalie had smiled warmly at each other before kissing and sitting down close together, their hands entwined, as Brad announced that the two of them had been reconciled for three days.

Abby had been rendered speechless by the announcement. All her carefully prepared questions had become null and void—questions she had spent hours labouring over in an effort to ensure she wouldn’t become the cause of further antagonism between the separated couple, intending to leave it to the two of them to set their own scene with as little prompting from her as possible. Brad’s announcement had made a complete nonsense of them.

She’d done her best to rally round at this sudden change of circumstances, congratulating them on their reconciliation, asking what their plans were for the future. A baby, for goodness’ sake; after all the public insults they had hurled at each other over the last six months!

Yes, Abby had done her best to keep the show alive and buzzing, but she had been aware that it had definitely lacked the sparkle and interest she had been hoping for when she’d invited the pair on her show.

And Gary Holmes’s snort of derision when she’d finally walked off the set had been enough to send her hurtling for the champagne bottle the moment she’d reached Dorothy and Paul’s house half an hour ago.

‘Go away,’ she told Max Harding a second time, turning away to lift up the champagne bottle, having no intention of crossing swords with him this evening.

Instead of complying with her request, she felt him take the champagne bottle from her hand. Her grip tightened but was no match for Max’s superior strength. The fluted champagne glass in her other hand was the next to go, before Max took her by one of her now empty hands and pulled her effortlessly to her feet.

‘You need food,’ he told her firmly as she began to protest. ‘Otherwise the headlines on tomorrow’s tabloids will read “Abby Freeman plastered”, accompanied by a photograph of you being carried out of here!’ He didn’t wait for any more arguments as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her into the adjoining room, where a table was set with a sumptuous buffet supper.

Not that Abby had been about to argue with him; the way she’d swayed unsteadily as she got to her feet, with the room tilting dizzily, was enough to tell her that food was exactly what she needed. Even if it was the last thing she wanted!

‘There you go.’ Max placed a heavily laden plate in her unresisting hand before turning to choose some food for himself.

Abby’s vision blurred as she looked down at the food. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ She sniffed, not sure she was going to be able to hold back the tears for much longer, despite blinking them away desperately.

He glanced at her, very tall and handsome in a black evening suit and snowy white shirt, although the dark hair was even longer than it had been when they’d met three weeks ago, and the grey eyes were still as mockingly amused.

‘I figured someone ought to be,’ he drawled dismissively. ‘You presented rather a lonely figure sitting in there.’ He nodded in the direction of the drawing room.

Pity. He felt sorry for her. And only hours ago she had hoped to finish this evening on a note of triumph. Euphoria, even.

‘Keep your damned pity!’ she snapped as she slammed the untouched plate of food back down on the table, her eyes sparkling deeply blue, twin spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘You’ve heard of the phoenix rising from the ashes? Well, watch the show next week and see what a good job I make of doing exactly that!’ She turned on her heel and walked—steadily, thank goodness!—out of the room, unknowingly beautiful in her midnight-blue knee-length dress, dark hair loose about her shoulders. She made her way over to where she could see Dorothy, chatting with a well-known newspaper reporter.

Dorothy’s parties were always like this—attended by the rich and the famous—although Dorothy herself was one of the least glamorous people Abby knew. Her plain black evening gown was an old favourite with her, her face was homely rather than beautiful, and her figure tended towards comfortable plumpness now that she was approaching her sixtieth year.

But Abby had known the other woman all her life—knew that it was Dorothy’s genuine warmth and kindness that attracted people to her like a magnet. Her handsome husband of the last thirty-five years absolutely adored her.

‘You can’t leave just yet, Abby!’ Dorothy responded with genuine regret at Abby’s excuse of tiredness. ‘I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to anyone,’ she protested. ‘Jenny and I were just commenting on what an absolute triumph your programme was this evening. Natalie and Brad have made complete idiots of themselves these last few months, and I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house—well, certainly not in this one!’ she admitted unabashedly ‘—when they announced that they’re back together and trying for a baby.’

Abby’s smile was fixed on her face with sickening determination. She knew Dorothy was only trying to be kind by talking like that about her show—the older woman didn’t know how to be anything else!—but Abby really wished she didn’t have to stand here and listen to this. The whole show had been a disaster as far as she was concerned—and as far as Gary Holmes was, too, if his scornful remarks as she’d left the studio were anything to go by.

‘Yes.’ Jenny Jones took over the conversation, her manner slightly gushing. ‘The Natalie and Brad reconciliation was an absolute coup for your first programme!’

Was it? Or was the other woman just veiling her sarcasm for Dorothy’s benefit?

No, Abby realized, slightly dazedly, Jenny Jones looked genuinely disappointed that she hadn’t been the one to scoop the exclusive.

Abby brightened. Maybe it hadn’t been such a disaster, after all? Meaning that perhaps Max’s earlier comments hadn’t been out of the pity that she had thought they were either?

No—there was no need to go that far! If her show hadn’t been the complete failure she had initially thought it was, then she still knew she had only scraped through by the skin of her teeth, and someone as acutely intelligent as Max would be aware of that fact, too. And she would rather listen to Dorothy and Jenny’s misplaced praise, than Max’s mocking condescension.

‘My editor is running the story on the front page tomorrow,’ Jenny confided. ‘“Abby Shock: Brad No Longer a Free Man!”’

Abby gave a pained wince at the awful play on her surname. Although she couldn’t really have expected much else from the dreadful rag Jenny worked for. But she didn’t think Natalie would care for the headline too much, either!

‘How clever,’ Dorothy put in lightly at the lengthening silence. ‘I do so wish I could think of things like that.’

‘It comes with experience,’ Jenny consoled her slightly pityingly as she laid a sympathetic hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘I—Oh, look, there’s Max Harding.’ Her green eyes were bright with the fervour of the predator as she spotted Max entering the room. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to him for absolutely ages. If you ladies would excuse me…?’ she added distractedly, not waiting for either of them to reply before striding purposefully across the room in Max Harding’s direction.

‘Gladly!’ Dorothy muttered with feeling. ‘That woman is such a pompous bore!’ she added with disdain.

‘Dorothy…?’ Abby looked at the older woman incredulously. ‘I’ve never heard you say an unkind word about anyone before,’ she explained at Dorothy’s questioning look.

‘No? Well, put it down to my age.’ Dorothy chuckled, easily shrugging off her brief bad humour. ‘My only consolation is that I know Max will quickly send her away with a flea in her ear! There.’ She nodded with satisfaction as she glanced across the room. ‘That has to be something of a record—even for Max.’ She sounded impressed.

Abby turned just in time to see Jenny Jones beating a hasty retreat from the glacially angry Max. There were twin spots of humiliated colour in the tabloid reporter’s cheeks. Having received what Abby was sure was a similar put-down herself only three weeks ago, she couldn’t help but feel a certain fleeting sympathy for the other woman.

‘Why does he do that?’ she mused, shaking her head as she turned back to look at Dorothy. ‘And get away with it, too!’ she added wryly, absolutely positive that not a single word of Max’s rude put-down of the other woman would ever reach the pages of even the tacky tabloid Jenny worked for.

‘Because he’s absolutely brilliant at what he does, of course,’ Dorothy answered. ‘And gorgeous as hell, too,’ she added with relish.

Abby watched as Max fell into easy conversation with Dorothy’s husband Paul. The two men were of similar height and build. Paul’s blond hair was sprinkled liberally with grey, but otherwise, to Abby’s eyes, he looked every bit as fit and handsome as the younger man.

‘I would rather have Paul any day,’ she announced firmly.

‘Well, of course, having been married to the darling man for thirty-five years, so would I,’ Dorothy agreed laughingly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to the way other men look—and Max has to be the epitome of “tall, dark and handsome”. And all that brooding aloofness has to be a direct challenge to any normal red-blooded woman!’

Then Abby had to be an abnormal red-blooded woman—because she had been daunted by Max rather than attracted to him.

Well…she had been attracted to him too—but the daunting had definitely outweighed that attraction!

‘If you like that sort of thing,’ she dismissed, with an audible sniff of uninterest.

Dorothy gave her a searching look, warm blue eyes probing now. ‘You never did tell me how your meeting with him went three weeks ago…?’

Abby withstood that searching gaze for several long seconds before looking away. ‘I told you—he said no to coming on the show,’ she said with a casual shrug.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Dorothy, I really don’t want to talk about Max Harding.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he drawled mockingly from directly behind her, making Abby start guiltily. His grey eyes were openly laughing as she turned sharply to face him. ‘I find the subject of me boring, too,’ he acknowledged, with a derisive inclination of his dark head.

‘Then at least we’re agreed on something, Mr Harding!’ she came back waspishly, completely disconcerted at having him appear behind her in this way; the last time she had looked he had been deep in conversation with Paul.

‘Well, well.’ Dorothy chuckled with delight. ‘What do you have to say to that, Max?’ she teased, obviously deeply amused by the turn in conversation.

Max gave the older woman an affectionate smile. ‘That Abby obviously has exceptional taste,’ he drawled unconcernedly. ‘Here.’ He handed Abby one of the two champagne flutes he held in his hands. ‘I thought you might be in need of it after talking to Jenny Jones!’ He grimaced.