Bad Influence

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.

‘So you like to play rough, do you?’ he grated menacingly. ‘Well, I can play a great deal rougher than you, and I can assure you that you’ll be the one who comes off worst.’

The kiss he inflicted on her was pure punishment, his lips crushing hers apart, his plundering tongue swirling deep into her mouth, asserting his mastery. She struggled wildly but she couldn’t escape—he was far too strong for her and she was only hurting herself. When at last he lifted his head, his mocking laughter inflamed her fury.

‘Let me go!’ she raged fiercely. ‘How dare you treat me like this?’

‘Well, now, isn’t this what you were after, frolicking around my boat?’ he sneered with icy contempt. ‘Why waste time playing coy little games? Like I said, you’re not the first pretty mermaid to try that kind of trick to get herself on board, but you’re the first who’s gone to such bold extremes.’ As he spoke, and his eyes raked coolly down over her body, the blanket had fallen away, and with a sudden stab of horror she realised that her bikini had gone—leaving her completely naked. It had been just a flimsy thing, designed for lounging around in the sun rather than serious swimming, and in her floundering around in the water it must have come unfastened without her even noticing. A deep blush of humiliation suffused her cheeks, and she turned her face away from him in total defeat.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ The harshness was suddenly gone from his voice. With a gentle hand he turned her face back towards him, brushing away a tear that sparkled on her cheek. She gazed up into those fathomless dark eyes, feeling herself once again drowning…

And then abruptly he let her go, rising to his feet and tossing the blanket back over her in a gesture of scornful disdain. ‘OK, Blondie—you get the Oscar for that one. I don’t know what game you’re playing but it’s a new one on me, and until I know the rules you can deal me out’

Still dazed with shock, she wrapped the blanket around herself, curling herself up into a defensive ball on the sofa, warily watching his every move.

‘And spare me the Sarah Bernhardt impersonation,’ he rapped acidly. ‘It won’t wash. Just get your cute little backside through that door and find yourself something to put on—there’s a dressing-gown of mine in the bathroom.’ He jerked his thumb towards a panelled door in the corner of the saloon. ‘Once you’re decent, you can come back in here—and then we’ll play the game by my rules.’

Without waiting to argue, she rolled off the sofa, landing in an undignified heap on the thick-piled carpet. Picking herself up, tripping over the trailing corner of the blanket, she dived through the door he had indicated, closing and locking it behind her. And then she leaned back against it, sliding slowly to the floor, her eyes closed, her whole body shaking in reaction.

Anyone who knew her only as the cool, self-assured chief executive of the huge Geldard Corporation would have been hard-pressed to recognise her as this frightened, bedraggled creature, huddled on the floor, trembling and crying, trapped on a stranger’s yacht—a stranger who had made his intentions absolutely clear.

But then she was the only one who knew how false was the faąde she showed to the world. At twenty-seven years old, with never even the slightest hint of a romantic involvement, it was inevitable, perhaps, that certain myths had grown up around her—indeed, she had deliberately cultivated them as part of her defence. Her eyes could freeze impertinence at twenty paces—few saw the hint of vulnerability in the softness of her delicately drawn mouth.

As sole heir to her grandfather’s substantial fortune, she had always known that any man who showed an interest in her was only trying to get his hands on her money or control of the Geldard empire. And she had learned to recognise the shallow compliments on her looks for what they were. Her blonde colouring and fine skin were well enough, and she would acknowledge that she had a good figure, kept in trim by regular exercise, but the Geldard features which had given her grandfather such an imposing air were really rather too strong for feminine beauty; a firm chin and a faintly patrician nose hinted at an assertiveness that terrified most men of her acquaintance.

And that was the way she liked it. She had never cared to put Grandfather’s teaching to the test—she had her own mother’s example as a constant reminder of the consequences of falling in love. Not that she, Georgia, would ever do anything as foolish as running off with a driving instructor—the ease with which the young man had been willing to be bought off had shown him up in his true colours.

She had grown up with the story of how Grandfather had brought home the jilted bride, chastened—and pregnant. Regrettably, her mother had further disappointed him by producing a mere girl instead of the longed-for grandson to inherit the biscuits-to-brewery empire he was busy building, and her weakness of character had further revealed itself in a steadily worsening drink problem. Georgia remembered her only as a pale wraith, haunting the overheated orangery at the back of the house, her breath always smelling of sherry, terrifying her with tearful attempts to make her sit on her lap. She had died almost unnoticed when Georgia was ten.

Surprisingly, however, Grandfather had taken to his granddaughter from the time she could toddle, and she had grown up to be the apple of his eye. She had inherited his biting intelligence and determination, and he had groomed her to take over the reins of the company as if she had been a boy.

And she had accepted that the privileges she enjoyed had their price, never allowing herself to regret that her wealth set her apart from the romantic pleasures of other young women of her age. Strictly trained to despise the weakness that had destroyed her mother, she was happy with her solitary state—most of the time; it was only sometimes at night, waking from a fitful dream with an aching sense of unfulfilled need, that she would even admit to herself that she was lonely…

But Grandfather would never have approved of her sitting here feeling sorry for herself, she reminded herself crisply—and she hadn’t escaped from César’s clutches only to fall victim to the notorious Jake Morgan! Pulling herself together with an effort of will, she sat up and looked around, taking careful stock of her surroundings.

It had grown dark outside, and sliding to her feet she found the switch that turned on the lights. The soft glow of silk- shaded lamps filled the room, gleaming on the rich, dark mahogany walls. This must be the master state-room—spacious and elegant, it had the same air of being an exclusively male province as the saloon. It was dominated by a huge bed, elevated on a low, carpeted platform and covered with winered silk sheets. What had she got herself into?

Curiosity drew her to explore, opening the doors set into the wood-panelled walls. One revealed a cavernous fitted wardrobe, half-empty—just a couple of beautifully-tailored business suits and hand-made silk shirts, but mostly good quality casual clothes, several pairs of rugged denim jeans and a stack of different coloured T-shirts. Another revealed a small television set and a large hi-fi, and a column of CDs which told her nothing but that his taste in music ran from jazz to hard rock, with a little country and a few unexpected classics thrown in.

The last door opened to reveal a bathroom of hedonistic black marble, complete with a huge, deep sunken bath with gold taps that would have been at home in a Roman potentate’s palace. And gazing back at her from the mirrored wall opposite was her own reflection. She stared at it, strangely disturbed to see herself standing there in such an alien environment, her eyes glittering darkly and her mouth as soft as bruised raspberries, the blanket slipping from her naked shoulders…

‘We’ll play the game by my rules…’ It didn’t take much imagination to guess what he meant by that, she mused, stealing an apprehensive glance back at that big bed. Suddenly a vivid image rose in her mind, of her own creamy-gold skin against those wine-red sheets—overlaid with a deeplybronzed, hard-muscled body…

Quickly she shook her head, alarmed by the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat. She had wasted too much time al- ready—at any minute he might grow impatient, and come in to see why she was taking so long. Stepping over to the window, she uttered a sigh of relief; her luck was holding—from the moonlit contours of the coastline she knew that they were sailing into Mangrove Bay, the exclusive hide-away where her own yacht was moored. It was really no coincidence, of course—naturally Jake Morgan would choose to stay at the best place on the island.

Seeking and finding the window that doubled as emergency exit, she pushed it open. She had nothing on beneath the blanket, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. Anyway, it was dark—with luck, she could get back on board her own yacht without anyone seeing her. Dropping the damp blanket to the floor, she clambered out of the window.

She couldn’t avoid making a splash as she tumbled into the water, but hopefully all the attention of the crew would be on the task of manoeuvring the big boat into a suitable anchoring spot among the others dotted around the bay. Striking swiftly away from the hull, she swam underwater for a short distance as an added precaution, before surfacing and looking around to get her bearings.

It took her only a moment to identify the Geldard Star. All appeared quiet on board—her captain would have waited, consulted with the company’s lawyers before raising a fullscale alarm. The swim-steps were down and she crept up them, keeping low.

Jake Morgan’s boat was no more than two or three hundred yards away, dropping anchor and tying up to a mooring-bouy with all the usual commotion and to-ing and fro-ing of crew—enough to distract the attention of her own look-outs for a crucial moment or two. Like a ghost she slipped across the deck and into the darkened saloon, at last reaching the safety of her own elegant state-room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, sighing with relief.

There had been moments, during the past couple of hours, when she had thought she was in serious trouble. But her grandfather had taught her never to give in, to keep planning her moves—the winners were the ones who really believed they could win, he always said. And she had won; she was back on her own ground, she could get some clothes on and stroll back out on deck, and unless she gave permission no one would even dare question where she had been. It would be as if none of it had happened.

The Geldard Star was one of the biggest boats in the bay, but Jake Morgan’s boat was even bigger; from her cabin she could see straight across to it. A solitary figure stood on the fore-deck, looking out over the dark waters of the sound towards the open channel between Spanish Point and Maria Hill—as if looking for mermaids.

A small shiver of heat ran down her spine as she remembered those glittering dark eyes, sweeping down over her naked body with such mocking contempt. No, it couldn’t quite be as if those past few hours had never happened, she reflected uneasily; she wasn’t going to be able to forget those kisses.

Absently she touched her fingertips to her lips, feeling still the warm softness that had melted them so sweetly. No, she wasn’t going to be able to forget.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_62af46db-3686-5b4e-bee5-69435280469b)

THE office of the chief executive of the Geldard Corporation was on the top floor of Geldard House, one of the tallest blocks in the City, with a spectacular view over London—from the silver ribbon of the Thames almost at its feet to the distant blue-grey hills of Hertfordshire, away beyond its northern suburbs.

Georgia could vividly recall the first time she had come up here with her grandfather, when the building had still been a concrete shell. Stomping around in his yellow hardhat, doling out orders right and left to the builders, he had insisted on walking almost to the edge of the open floor—the point where she was standing now—though then there had been no glass in place and the wind had been whistling through like a hurricane.

But old George Geldard had cared for nothing, not even the forces of nature—and certainly not for the fact that the costs of the building were spiralling while the prospects of letting space in it were tumbling. ‘Hold your nerve,’ he had used to say whenever she’d queried the wisdom of it. ‘Keep planning your moves. If you believe you can win, you will win.’

He had lived just long enough to see it completed—the pinnacle of his empire and very nearly its ruin. To finance it he had been forced to float a new share issue, even though it had meant losing overall control of the company; he had planned it to be only a short-term measure, until he could afford to buy back enough shares to hold a majority once again. She had been working to achieve that ever since.

The task would have been easier if it hadn’t been for the constant, bitter rivalry between her two uncles; it was ironic that in his disappointment at her birth her grandfather had settled blocks of shares on his own nephew and his wife’s, believing the management of the company would one day have to pass into their hands—they were so busy fighting each other, they couldn’t have managed a prayer meeting in a nunnery.

It had largely been their inability to agree on a compromise candidate that had enabled her to win the boardroom battle to be elected chief executive—in spite of the Old Man’s wishes, it had been no foregone conclusion. And in the three years since then she had had to fight every inch of the way to prove to the sceptics—particularly within the more conservative institutional holdings—that she was neither too young, nor the wrong gender, to shoulder such a substantial responsibility.

She knew that there were many who were watching and waiting for her to make a mistake. But she had worked damned hard, and at last she was beginning to feel that she was respected in her own right, not just as the Old Man’s granddaughter. It amused her when she heard herself described as a chip off the old block—even-the highest accolade—as George Geldard the Second.

Of course, the price of her success had been high—a single-minded ambition that could permit nothing to distract her. But it was a price she had always been willing to pay; she had every reason to be happy with her life—she had everything that money could buy. It would just be greedy to ask for anything more…

A discreet tap at the door brought her out of her reverie, and she moved back to her desk. ‘Come in.’ ‘Georgia? Sorry to interrupt—I hope you weren’t busy?’ Bernard Harrison had been the company secretary for almost fifteen years; loyal and dependable, he was one of the few people she felt she could trust. She smiled at him warmly. ‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I was just daydreaming, I’m afraid.’

He frowned, studying her in some concern. ‘That’s not like you. But you do look tired, you know—you ought to take a holiday.’

‘I had a holiday in February,’ she reminded him with a touch of asperity.

‘Yes-but that was almost three months ago,’ he countered, with the bluntness of one who could remind her what she had looked like in a gym-slip, with her hair in bunches. ‘And, to be honest, it didn’t look as if it did you a great deal of good. I know you don’t want to tell me what happened that last afternoon—’

‘Nothing happened,’ she returned with uncharacteristic impatience. ‘Heavens, I was only gone for a couple of hours—anyone would think I’d been missing for a week! I just went for a walk, that’s all.’

‘Without telling anyone where you were going…’

‘So I was irresponsible for one afternoon! Good heavens, I was on holiday—I felt like being off the leash for a while,

just being like any other holidaymaker, strolling around without anyone knowing who I was…Anyway, what was it you wanted, Bernard?’ she added, quickly changing the subject before he could probe any more.

‘You asked me to try to find out a little about this holding company that’s been buying up our shares,’ he reminded her, laying a slim file on the desk; the label, neatly printed in his own square hand, proclaimed “Falcon Holdings”. ‘Not much success, I’m afraid—it’s owned by a company in New York, which in turn is owned by a private trust registered in the Bahamas.’

Georgia sighed, picking up the file. ‘I was afraid of that,’ she mused wryly. ‘I suppose there’s no way of finding out who controls the trust?’