The Innocent Virgin. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
with Max Harding wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. ‘Fire away, Mr Harding,’ she invited lightly. ‘I’m happy to answer any questions you have concerning the programme. In fact, I look on it as a very positive—’
‘My questions have absolutely nothing to do with your programme, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her scornfully, ‘and everything to do with how you obtained my personal address in the first place.’ His voice had hardened over this last, his expression grim.
Not much of a chance of him offering her a coffee, then! Or inviting her to sit down in the comfortable lounge she could see through the open doorway behind her.
Not much chance of this turning into a successful meeting, either, if the conversation so far was anything to go by.
‘And don’t say the local telephone book,’ he warned. ‘Because I’m ex-directory.’
Her palms were starting to feel slightly damp, and she was sure there was an unbecoming sheen materialising on her top lip.
Nevertheless, she forced another carefree smile to her face. ‘The how isn’t really important—’
‘It is to me.’ He stood firmly in front of the door now—her only means of escape!—powerfully muscled arms folded in front of that bare chest.
In the same circumstances, wrapped only in a towel, Abby knew that she would feel at a distinct disadvantage talking to anyone. And yet this man gave no such impression—in fact, the opposite. He seemed to know exactly how his near-nakedness was making her feel—and he was enjoying watching her squirm.
Because squirming she undoubtably was. This man, Max Harding, she was becoming increasingly aware, exuded a sexual magnetism that had very little to do with whether or not he was wearing any clothes! There was a toughness to him, a self-containment, that at thirty-nine had been hard earned.
He made a sudden movement, quickly followed by the first sign of amusement, albeit mocking, she had seen on his harsh features. Abby instinctively took a step backwards. ‘I don’t usually eat little girls like you until after breakfast,’ he drawled, grey eyes mocking as he looked her over with slow deliberation. ‘You’re one of those “bright young things” the powers-that-be in public television have decided the masses want piped into their homes every minute of the day and night, aren’t you?’
‘I—’
‘What did you do before being given The Abby Freeman Show?’ he continued, unabated. ‘Present one of those kids programmes where you have to constantly look like a teenager—even though you’re not—and rush around risking life and limb climbing mountains and jumping out of aeroplanes? I’m sorry, what did you say?’ he prompted scornfully as Abby muttered something inaudible.
Her chin rose defensively, twin circles of colour in her cheeks. ‘I said I was the weather presenter on a breakfast show, and then the stand-in presenter,’ she repeated tautly. Withstanding Max Harding’s obvious derision certainly hadn’t been in her plans for today!
He continued to look at her, his expression blank now, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly. And then his mouth twitched and he began to laugh, a harsh, humourless sound that echoed the scorn in his eyes. ‘A weather girl?’ he finally sobered enough to say disbelievingly.
Her cheeks felt on fire now. ‘You don’t have a lot of respect for your fellow presenters, do you?’
‘On the contrary, Abby, I have immense respect for my fellow presenters—you just don’t happen to be one!’
This was important to her—very important if she was to prove to Gary Holmes she wasn’t the lightweight he insisted on treating her as. But right now, with Max Harding’s derision directly in her face, she wanted to turn on her heel and run. Unfortunately, Max Harding still stood between her and the door!
Attack, she was sure, was still the best form of defence. ‘I never had you figured for a misogynist, Mr Harding!’
He didn’t even grimace at the insult. ‘Oh, but I’m not, Abby,’ he told her, silkily soft, his grey eyes hooded as he looked her over with slow deliberation from her toes to the top of her ebony head. The arrogantly mocking gaze finally returned to her flushed face and he gave a derisive shake of his head. ‘You just aren’t my type,’ he drawled, with deliberate rudeness.
She should never have come here, Abby realised belatedly. She had thought she was being so clever, fooling Henry downstairs, and had been quietly patting herself on the back at her success all the way up here in the lift. But all she had really succeeded in doing was totally annoying this man. And even on this short an acquaintance she knew he would be dangerous when he was annoyed!
Come to that, he was dangerous when he wasn’t annoyed. She couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking of!
She hadn’t really been thinking at all, she finally realized. Had been too stung by Gary Holmes’s scornful scepticism that she would ever persuade Max Harding to appear on her show to plan this meeting today any further than actually meeting the man face to face.
‘You and my director should meet,’ she snapped irritably. ‘The two of you have so much in common!’
‘Doesn’t he like working with amateurs either?’ Max Harding taunted.
That was it.
She had had enough.
More than enough!
She had already spent weeks at the sharp end of Gary Holmes’s sarcastic tongue; she had no intention of taking it from this man too! Besides, he wasn’t going to appear on her show anyway, so she really had nothing to lose!
She drew herself up angrily. ‘I have no idea why I ever thought anyone would be interested in hearing anything you have to say.’ And she didn’t—not anymore. ‘You’re rude. You’re arrogant. You’re mocking, and thoroughly unpleasant. And I don’t like you!’ Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.
Max Harding continued to look at her for several long seconds, and then he gave a decisive nod. ‘That, my dear Abby, is the most honest thing you’ve said all morning! Come on.’ He stepped past her into the lounge. ‘I’ll put some coffee on to brew while I’m dressing.’
Abby stood open-mouthed, watching him as he strolled across the sitting room and into what she assumed must be the kitchen.
She had been as rude and brutally frank as he was himself, and now he was offering to make her coffee!
She gave a slightly befuddled shake of her head before following him. She would have given up all pretence of politeness long before now if she had known this would be the result.
The sitting room, as she had already observed from the hallway, was spacious and well-furnished, decorated in warm, sunny golds and creams, with a wonderful view over London from the huge picture window. It also looked totally unlived-in—like a hotel suite, or as if the interior designer had only finished his work yesterday and everything was new and unused.
The kitchen was almost as big, with walnut cupboards and gold-coloured fittings. But apart from the coffee percolator, which had already started its aromatic drip into the pot, the work surfaces were bare—as if this room were rarely used either.
‘Take a seat,’ Max Harding invited, without turning round as he got coffee mugs from a cupboard.
Abby made herself comfortable on one of the stools at the breakfast bar—well, as comfortable as someone of five foot four could be on one of the high stools!—still not quite sure how she had managed to get herself invited in for coffee. But she wasn’t complaining. The less inclined Max Harding was to throw her out, the more chance she had of persuading him to change his mind about appearing on her programme.
‘Right.’ He turned from what he was doing. ‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes while the coffee’s filtering. Oh, and Abby?’ He paused in the kitchen doorway, his expression once again derisive. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’