Which, of course, she was. She had a stimulating career as a personal assistant in an advertising agency. A frown furrowed her wide, smooth brow as she thought of the man who had, up until recently, been her boss. Oliver Mallory, the infamous hand that had guided the well-known firm to its present place as one of the top six advertising agencies in the country. She had been his protégée and he had been her friend. Oliver had built the agency up from nothing and now he was gone. Though this left her own position uncertain, it was genuine sadness at the loss of the dear old reprobate that made her sigh.
She had everything she had wantedâa career, a flat of her own, independence, good friends, freedomâbut without a man at her side she knew that her friends and relations would see only a jilted woman. The widely held conviction that a woman needed a man for fulfilment was one she personally detested. She had seen her own mother go through a series of temporary affairs of the heart, each one leaving her a little more desperate and lonely than the last. Her own recent experience of loss had made her determined never to repeat it.
âDo you mind taking your hands off me?' she said, raising her lowered eyes to the face of the man who was, given the time and place, in socially unacceptable proximity to her.
The hand that had captured her attention still lay along the line of her jaw; the tips of his fingers were burrowed into her hairline. His bent head was level with her own, close enough for her to be able to admire the texture of his bronzed skin, smell the masculine fragrance that drifted from him.
One of his fingers worked its way around a stray lock of hair that had escaped the confines of her wildly expensive headgear. The expression in his heavy-lidded, shadowed eyes as they watched the temporary corkscrew effect of his casual labour was absurdly riveting. Also the hard thigh pressed against her own on the wooden seat was distractingâunpleasantly so, she told herself, frowning as a pack of butterflies ran riot in the pit of her stomach.
The familiar strains of the Bridal March issued forth from the organ and, heart thudding, she pulled free, giving her escort a cold, dismissive look, as much to convince herself that he had nothing to do with the adrenaline surge that sent her heart against her ribcage as anything else. At a time like this she couldn't possibly spare a second thought for anything but the main event.
The bride was tiresomely lovely, her responses clear and resonant. It was the groom who sounded less than his usual confident self. Georgina waited for the humiliation of the occasion to hit her, but with a sense of anticlimax she realised that she was able to view the whole ceremony with detachment. It was like watching a scene of a play she felt totally uninvolved.
Outside the sun did its duty and the guests huddled together whilst photographs were taken. Her lips curled in a cynical smile, Georgina watched her mother speaking with some animation to a distinguished-looking man she didn't recognise. She kept her chin high and replied cheerfully to greetings from familiar faces, who looked at the tall figure at her side with varying degrees of curiosity, tinged in some cases, she was amused to see, with envy. Well, it was infinitely preferable to pity, she told herself.
âWhy did he ditch you?'
âThat's an extremely insensitive question,' she observed, stiffening. Her paid company was watching the proceedings with an air of impatient boredom.
'I've never been one to indulge maudlin self-pity.'
âOr one to keep your opinions to yourself, it would seem.'
âJust displaying a friendly interest.'
âJust fishing for the salacious details, more like.'
The thick dark brows shot towards his hairline. âSalacious? I was just trying to make conversation, but now I'm really interested.' The gleam of humour in his eyes was faintly malicious.
âActually, it was all very civilised. I went to London to do a business-studies course. We weren't engaged or anything,' she said with a detached smile, skimming sketchily over an emotional blow that had devastated her.
âEveryone, including you, expected marriage,' he observed shrewdly.
It was peculiar, but his neutral cynicism was much easier to cope with than the understanding sympathy that had been doled out to her at the time. âThere was an understanding,' she agreed, switching her weight from one foot to the other and checking who was within hearing distance. It would never do to have this conversation overheard.
She'd agreed that a ring was an extravagance when she and Alex were saving so assiduously. Strange how Harriet had managed to get a serious diamond on her finger in record time, she thought cynically. That was probably why Alex had exchanged his racy coupé for a more sedate saloon. Harriet was worth the sacrifice, it would seem.
âDid you put up much of a fight? Or had you already got someone more interesting lined up? That can't have been difficult,' Callum said, his mind returning to this girl's relationship with his uncle. Her rather full lips had drooped slightly. For someone who gave off such an air of wholesome sexiness her mouth was altogether more...sensual. A more accurate indication of her character? he wondered. Had her unorthodox manner of promotion been the bone of contention between lovers?
âNo man is worth fighting for,' she replied, her tone ringing with grim conviction.
Callum caught her arm and swung her out of the path of a gaggle of small pages and bridesmaids. âIsn't that a rather sweeping statement?'
âI prefer comprehensive and accurate.' The arm casually draped around her waist showed no inclination to shift. Rather than make herself conspicuous, she let it stay there. She hoped her attitude showed him how totally oblivious to the near proximity she was.
âAfter getting your fingers burnt once?' he said incredulously. âOr am I to infer you have a more chequered past than that?'
His cynical, knowing expression made her long to throttle
him. âI know you're bored, but I'm not about to enliven your afternoon with any juicy stories. My mother will track you down any moment and extract your vital juices,' she said darkly and with some relish. Some people deserved her mother.
It was irritating to have to raise her chin to look into his face. Alex was just the perfect heightâespecially when he'd kissed her, she recalled wistfully. What would it be like to be kissed by this man? Dry-mouthed, she allowed the thought to crystallise with clarity in her head. Swallowing with difficulty, she killed this frivolous piece of speculation and lowered her eyes, which might be less obedient than her brain.
âShe seems occupied at present,' Callum observed, glancing towards the spot where Lydia stood with the middle-aged guest.
âPredictably so.' Her mother was laughingâa low, husky sound that grated on Georgina's frayed nerves.
âDo I detect criticism from the daughter? Ought you not to have grown out of the desire to view your parent as a sexless entity? I take it your father is no longer around?'
She wriggled her hips decisively and his hands intuitively fell away from her waist. Where did he get off analysing and criticising her?
âFor your information my father has never been aroundâat least, not since I was born. He walked out on her, unable to take the strain of domesticity,' she drawled sarcastically. âBut Mother never gives up. Her life is not complete without a man on her arm and in her bed. In a place like this the fact doesn't pass without comment. But they all slip away eventually. Like mother, like daughterâwe obviously can't hold our menâ' Breathing hard, she stopped abruptly and bit hard on her trembling lip, appalled at what she'd just said to a total stranger.
The unvarnished distress emanating from her was unsettling
to Callum. He quashed any chivalrous instincts. He wasn't about to let sentiment interfere with his original reason for seeking out Miss Campion. âAre you going to faint?' He tried to sound unalarmed at the prospect but the violent fluctuation of her colour made him suspect the worst.
The grin was sudden and surprising, full of self-mockery and quite unintentionally charming. âThrow up, more likely,' she said frankly. âBut don't worry; it's passed. I'd be grateful if you'd forget what I just said.'
He met the direct, almost green stare squarely. âYour hang-ups are your business, lady,' he drawled, his accent slightly more pronounced than usual. He touched his forehead as if saluting. The casual elegant gesture had none of the military about it.
Her lips tightened. âHow do you manage to make everything you say sound like a judgement? Does it ever occur to you you're in the wrong line of work? A charming, relaxing companion was what I was promised... Instead I got the Grand Inquisitor.'
âIf you're not satisfied you can always complain. I'll probably lose my job.' The sigh was stoical. âBut don't let that deter you; we live in a consumer society. There's no place for sentiment.'
She had to grin; he did âmeek' rather well. âJust try and look pretty and don't say too much,' she advised.
âSexist,' he mumbled as they were ushered into a photo line-up.
Â
The top table was not where she'd hoped to find herself placed. She scented Cousin Harriet's hand in this arrangement; she always had been less than generous in victory. A great believer in salt rubbed firmly in the wound, our dear Harriet. Still, if she sat far enough back in her seat the depth of Callum's impressive torso gave her some defence
from the sight of the happy couple. The voices were not so easy to block out.
She'd wasted her breath telling Callum to keep his mouth in a strait-jacket. He'd been in earnest conversation with her uncle George for the past ten minutes. She couldn't catch everything they were saying, but financial terms kept drifting in her direction. He might be a good con artist but her uncle made a very successful living as a financial advisor and it was only a matter of time before he discovered that Callum didn't know what he was talking about.
She picked worriedly at her fish and drank her wine faster than was advisable on an empty stomach. One ear on an elderly relative on her left, she tried to hear what Callum was saying in his rather deep voice, waiting for her uncle's respectful expression to turn to scorn.
Callum intercepted her sidelong glance and winked, his expression not changing as he continued to expand on his subject.
Angrily she accepted the wine waiter's solicitous offer of a refill and swigged it back with scant regard for an expensive vintage. He'd laugh on the other side of his face when she spoke to the agency, she thought militantly. It might be a joke to him... A lump of self-pity rose in her throat as Harriet's laughter made her teeth clench.
âCallum, dar-r-rling,' she purred. Her nails made inroads into the hand she affectionately covered on the damask tablecloth. âYou really mustn't talk business. You promised,' she added, her eyes flashing warnings. If it hurt he managed to disguise the fact remarkably well.
With a flash of white teeth he picked up her claw-like hand and pressed it, open-palmed, to his lips. The gesture was more erotic than courtly.
Her eyes were caught in the bold, mocking glare of his regard. The explosion of heat that flooded across her skin
must have been evident to him; it was a response that appalled and disgusted her, a physical thing over which she had no control. The confusion of churning sensations in her belly was profoundly basic and instinctual and she was ashamed of being susceptible to the brazen sexuality of this man. The wine obviously had a good deal to do with this uninhibited response.
âAre you feeling neglected, angel?' The dark brows lifted, but she could see the acknowledgement in his eyes of her helpless, angry response. âThat will never do,' he murmured huskily, and he let his lips move once more over her hand.
If she could have, she'd have climbed out of her skin. Her nerve-endings were on fire, screaming. Dry-mouthed, she shifted in her seat fretfully.
Uncle George regarded them indulgently. âMy fault, Georgie, dear. You've got a sound man there,' he said approvingly.
This unexpected recommendation made Georgina's fuming silence lengthen. Her uncle was not the sort of man who threw compliments around lightly. âYou always were a sterling judge of character, Uncle George,' she said drily. The man she loved was barely feet from her and here she was, suffering contemptible, primitive responses to a stranger. It was morally indefensible; worse still, she hadn't had the sense to hide it.
âWill you behave?' she said in a furious undertone as she pulled her hand free.
âIn what particular way did you have in mind?' he enquired with interest. He winced as girlish laughter rang out once more. âYou know, I think you should pity that stuffed shirt of yours. He'll have to live with that laugh for the rest of his natural. Always supposing things last that long.'
âI wish them all the best,' she observed primly.
âLying little hypocrite,' he said conversationally. He
swirled the liquid in his glass around but didn't lift it to his lips. âLike all females you're a vindictive little beast who can't wait to see the man grovel at your feet.'