Taken By The Maverick Millionaire. Anna ClearyЧитать онлайн книгу.
the merger. But don’t you worry. I don’t know much at all about share prices and the Stock Exchange.’
It was like kerosene to the bonfire. He hissed in a long searing breath, and stood stock still. Then he began to advance on her, his grey eyes glinting through the screen of his black lashes. ‘What else?’ he murmured, his deep, rich voice smooth with menace. ‘What else did you hear?’
Her heart revved up to an insane degree, but there was a crazy exhilaration in taunting him that drove her on. She gave a breezy little shrug and neatly eluded his grasp, sashaying over to the table to take a look at his notes.
‘Nothing else,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Oh, except the part about Ms West’s divorce. Something about deceiving the courts so she can rip off her husband in the division of property, et cetera. It was all really too complicated for me to take in.’ She shuffled through the pages and slanted him a mocking glance. ‘And then there was that bit about how you have to hire a woman.’ She gave an amused laugh.
He stared at her for seconds, his eyes narrowed in calculation, then strolled across and tweaked the pages from her grasp. In a visible change of tack, he perched casually on the edge of the table, quite close to where she stood.
Too close for comfort.
‘Now, how does a female body,’ he drawled, cool amusement in his deep, dark voice as he made a slow, appreciative appraisal of her from head to toe, ‘so clearly designed for an angel, come to house such a teasing little devil?’
In spite of herself her blood heat rose. She told herself she was impervious to flattery. Her body wasn’t like an angel’s, unless it was a fallen angel that had consumed one chocolate too many. She made an effort to keep her voice under control. ‘I’m—just doing my job.’
‘Now, now, Cate.’ His mouth edged up in a smile. It gleamed in his grey gaze and lit his harsh, sardonic face with such warmth, it was impossible to believe she’d not seen at once how handsome he was. ‘You know you can’t write a word of it. Think of your code of ethics. Wasn’t it the Clarion who invented it?’
He was all suave reason and charm. She knew he was turning on the seduction, but it worked. All the air was sucked from her lungs and her heart started an erratic thumping.
‘The code, yes,’ she agreed, breathless. ‘We do, we do—adhere to it. Religiously. Although if something’s in the national interest—I’m sure Harry would think that a merger between Russell’s and the West Corporation—’
‘Won’t happen if you publish it.’ He still smiled, but the warmth vanished. ‘Olivia will pull out. Then I’ll sue you for a billion and take your Clarion to the cleaners.’
The cold menace in the words helped her to pull herself together. She fished in her bag for a notebook. ‘That sounds like a threat, Mr Russell.’ She challenged him with her eyes. ‘Hang on, I’ll just write it down.’
Danger flashed in his grey irises like a lightning strike. ‘Take care, sweetheart. This is not the day to be playing games with someone who can ruin you.’ He gestured at her accusingly. ‘Consider your position. Here you are, caught red-handed, listening in on a conversation in which some highly sensitive information is being discussed. You’ve deliberately concealed your press pass—’
She gave a deep sigh. ‘I explained that.’ Resigning herself, she capitulated, feeling in her bag for the pass, then lifting up the edge of her jacket while she clamped it on. ‘See? Ruins it.’
His eyes were fastened to her waist. He must have only seen the merest fragment of bare skin over her ribs before she dropped the hem back, but his pupils dilated and she saw his heavy black lashes give an almost imperceptible flicker. He raised his darkened gaze to hers.
Somehow she couldn’t look away. The air tautened and she felt her mouth dry. She pulled the pass off and patted down the hem several unneccessary times, conscious of her heart’s sudden mad racketing.
A priest’s dark figure loomed in the doorway, and they both started. A gang of small, fresh-faced boys crowding in behind him told her that the choir had arrived. She became fully conscious then of something she’d had at the edge of her awareness for some time, but had been too intensely absorbed in Tom Russell to notice.
The organ was playing, and there was a growing swell of voices.
The church was filling up.
‘I’d—I’d better go,’ she said, making an abrupt move towards the door, looking for a way through the milling boys. ‘I don’t want to miss my spot in the church.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Tom Russell sprang to his feet and caught her elbow. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight.’
Visions of Mike, outside, fuming, assailed her. ‘But—I have to do my job—’
His hand closed around her wrist in a deceptively light grip. ‘Until I decide what to do with you, sweetheart,’ he said softly,
‘you’re with me.’
CHAPTER THREE
IT FELT surreal, walking into the main chapel with Tom Russell. All over the church heads swivelled their way, and there was an added buzz to the murmurs of the congregation. Everywhere she looked, she met the interested stares of celebrities and socialites, business high-fliers and politicians, plenty of whom had tasted dust, courtesy of the Sydney Clarion.
She had the unnerving sensation that she was in the maw of the enemy. A small crowd surged to greet Tom, but she couldn’t help noticing that, despite their sombre murmurs of sympathy, their curious glances kept shifting sideways to scrutinise her.
Perhaps their interest mightn’t have been as avid if he hadn’t been keeping such a firm hold on her arm. A stylish older woman, who looked vaguely familiar, rushed up to engulf him in an emotional embrace and he was forced to relax his grip. Cate saw her opportunity, and tried to slip away, only to feel a ruthless hand grasp hers and draw her back. Despite her sudden shock, or because of it, his hard palm in sudden connection with hers sent her blood coursing in giddy confusion.
The woman appeared to be one of Marcus Russell’s exwives. ‘Who’s your friend, Thomas?’ she demanded, leaning forward to peer closely at Cate once her effusions had run out. ‘Introduce me.’
Tom Russell’s caustic gaze clashed with Cate’s. ‘No one you want to know.’
The woman looked taken aback, then, when his attention was diverted by the next well-wisher, whispered to Cate, ‘Don’t take any notice of him, dear. This is a difficult day for him.’
Of course. It must be, Cate thought with some remorse. How could she have taken such pleasure in taunting him?
The service was surprisingly simple and austere. Though the chapel was packed to the rafters with celebrities, there was none of the razzmatazz Sydney had come to associate with Marcus Russell. Someone had chosen the most exquisite, spiritually moving music in the repertoire. If music could waft Marcus’s poor old soul to heaven, Cate reflected, then J. S. Bach and Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ should do it.
She gave up trying to escape to Mike, and allowed herself to be jammed into the front pew beside Tom Russell and a gaggle of expensively dressed stepsisters and their mothers, who all stared at her with surprise and curiosity. Some of the glances at her suit made her wonder if she’d left the price tag showing. She crossed her ankles under the seat, hoping to spare her shoes from their merciless scrutiny. She prayed when the others prayed, and sang the Twenty-third Psalm along with everyone else.
A stream of dignitaries, including the Prime Minister, stood up to honour the memory of Marcus Russell, but after a tedious while she tuned down to listen with half an ear, and started to plan her story for tomorrow’s issue. Her absent, wandering gaze drifted down to the burnished leather shoe resting next to hers, and she surfaced from her reverie with a small start of surprise. Why hadn’t she noticed before?
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