The Socialite and the Cattle King. Lindsay ArmstrongЧитать онлайн книгу.
Golightly hauteur had claimed his attention, and on discovering it was the same girl his annoyance had turned to intrigue. He was still intrigued by this version of Holly Harding—even more intrigued because he was quite sure he’d stirred some response in her…
Still, he reflected, these were improbable lengths to go to over a smattering of intrigue to do with a woman, particularly for him. But he had liked her fresh, slightly zany style in the pieces he’d read, he reminded himself, and he had even considered the possibility of offering her some publicity work for his new venture.
‘So?’ He lifted an eyebrow at her.
Holly meditated for a moment then replied quite candidly. ‘I’d love to say no, because you’ve pressed a few wrong buttons with me, Mr Wyndham. But—’ she flipped her hand ‘—you’ve also pressed a few right ones. My mother was an inspired one, in more ways than one.’ She cast him a strange little look from beneath her lashes. ‘Then there’s my editor. How I would explain to him I’ve knocked back this opportunity, I can’t even begin to think.’
She paused to take several breaths.
‘There’s more?’ he queried with some irony.
‘A bit more. You’ve got to be interesting—you’ve certainly captured the public’s imagination—so, on a purely professional level, I can’t turn it down.’
‘Am I expected to be flattered?’
Holly searched his eyes and could just detect the wicked amusement in their dark depths. ‘Yes,’ she said baldly. ‘I’m usually no pushover.’
‘OK, take it as read that I’m flattered.’ He stopped, flagged a passing waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne.
‘Oh. No!’ Holly protested. ‘I didn’t mean…’
‘You don’t think we should celebrate?’ He looked offended. ‘I do. It’s not every day I score a coup like this. Besides, I thought you liked champagne.’
‘You’re making fun of me,’ she accused.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Well, yes and no. You can be quite an impressive twenty-four-year-old. Thanks,’ he said to the waiter who delivered the champagne and carefully poured two glasses.
He handed one to Holly and held up his own. ‘Cheers!’
Holly reluctantly raised her glass to his. ‘Cheers,’ she echoed. ‘But I’m only having one glass. On top of everything else, I’m driving.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said idly.
‘Isn’t that a waste of champagne? Or are you going to drink it all?’
‘No. I’m meeting someone else here shortly. She also likes champagne.’
Holly took a hurried gulp. ‘Well, the sooner I get going the better.’
‘No need to rush; she’s my sister.’
Holly looked embarrassed. ‘Oh. I thought…’ She tailed off.
‘You thought she was a girlfriend?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Not that it matters to me one way or the other.’
‘Naturally not,’ he murmured.
She eyed him over her glass. ‘You know, I can’t quite make you out.’
He allowed his dark gaze to drift over her in a way that caused her skin to shiver of its own accord. She’d been inwardly congratulating herself on not having this happen to her during this encounter—an involuntary physical response to this man—but now it had.
‘The same goes for me,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t quite make you out.’
Holly made an effort to rescue herself, to stop the flow of messages bombarding her senses. How could it happen like this? she wondered a little wildly. Out of the blue across a little glass-topped table on a terrace in the fading light of day.
But her rather tortured reflections were broken by a canine yelp, a squeal then howls of pain as, limping badly, a dog skittered across the terrace and disappeared into the shrubbery.
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