His Untamed Innocent Read online

  ‘Which does not solve the problem I have this evening,’ Jake Radley-Smith said curtly.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I quite see she should have stayed here on the off chance you might need her,’ she returned with equal crispness. ‘But Lynne happens to have a life, and on balance I’d say it’s rather more important for her to meet the people who are going to be her in-laws than hang around in order to pander to her employer’s last-minute requests.’

  There was a silence, then he said, ‘Quite a speech, Miss…er…?’

  ‘Wade,’ she supplied. ‘Marin Wade. And, as you can see for yourself that Lynne isn’t here, I’d really like you to go, please.’

  He said almost pleasantly, ‘I’m sure you would, Miss Wade, but it’s hardly for you to order me off my own premises.’ The blue eyes looked her over again very much more slowly, and she felt her throat tighten.

  It occurred to her that she’d only ever seen him before in newspaper photographs, none of which had done him much justice. He wasn’t handsome, she thought, not with that beak of a nose which looked as if it had been broken at some point, but he was more than attractive. Very much more. His eyes were stunning, when they stopped glaring at people, while his mouth…

  She stopped right there, telling herself hurriedly that she didn’t even want to contemplate his mouth, which had begun to slant into a faint but dangerous smile.

  ‘And you’re hardly in any position to throw me out,’ he went on softly. ‘Not when you’re so delightfully undressed. I don’t think that towel would stay put for long if it came to a struggle.’

  He had her at a total disadvantage, of course. The dark formality of his charcoal business-suit set off the lean virility of his tall body, while the grey brocade waistcoat accentuated his slim waist. His shirt was white and crisp, and his tie was deep-red silk.

  He couldn’t have been more fully dressed if he’d tried, she thought with bewilderment, so how could he give her the troubling impression that he was exactly the opposite? That, in fact, he wasn’t wearing any clothes at all?

  She needed to return to safer ground—and fast. She said, dry-mouthed, ‘What do you mean—your premises?’

  ‘This is a company flat, Miss Wade,’ he drawled, his mouth quirking now in open sensuality. ‘It belongs to me, and I use it for foreign clients who don’t care for hotels. Lynne is borrowing it, as her landlord, much against his will, is being forced to carry out a major refit of her flat, and all the others in the property. Didn’t she explain that before inviting you to move in?’

  She shook her head. She said in a small, wooden voice, ‘There wasn’t much time for explanations. And she didn’t know I’d be coming until I rang her from the airport and told her I was pretty much stranded.’

  He frowned. ‘What happened? Were you robbed on holiday?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I was working in France, and it—went wrong. And my own place is let for five months.’

  ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘So, that would seem to make you homeless, unemployed and broke.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I don’t need to have that pointed out to me.’

  ‘Therefore,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘We might be able to do a deal. How much would you charge to spend the evening with me?’

  Marin gasped in sheer outrage. ‘What do you take me for?’ she burst out, then stopped, furiously aware of the response she was inviting.

  ‘Well, clearly not what you’re thinking.’ He had the audacity to laugh.

  ‘No matter how fetching you may look in that towel—which has slipped a little,’ he added softly, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Colour stormed into her face as she tugged it hastily back to its former level, cursing his powers of observation.

  ‘And I’m making you a bona fide offer,’ he continued. ‘I have to go to a party tonight, and the girl I was taking has succumbed to a virus. That’s why I called Lynne—because I don’t want to turn up at this shindig flying solo, and I’d have paid her over the odds for helping me out. But, as she’s not around, you’ll do instead.’

  There was a taut silence, then she said, ‘You have to be joking.’

  ‘Now, there’s a stock response,’ he commented. ‘Your earlier eloquence seems to have deserted you.’

  ‘But not my sense of humour.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you for your gracious invitation, Mr Radley-Smith, but—no. Not if my life depended on it.’

  ‘I was thinking more of your immediate fiscal future, Miss Wade. Can you really afford to turn down several hundred quid for a couple of hours in my company?’

  No, she probably couldn’t, she admitted silently, but what difference did that make?

  She said, ‘I don’t belong in your high-powered PR world, Mr Radley-Smith, believe me. I don’t mingle well, I never network and I’m hopeless at parties. Spend your money somewhere else.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ he said softly, ‘If you obliged me in this, I could be persuaded to turn a blind eye to Lynne’s infraction of her tenancy here by taking in waifs and strays. I might even let you stay until your life takes a turn for the better.’

  He smiled at her again. ‘So, why don’t you slip on your little black dress and come with me tonight?’

  ‘Because I do not have a little black dress,’ Marin said angrily. ‘But I’m sure you have a little black book, Mr Radley-Smith.’

  In fact, she knew he had, because Lynne had once told her, laughing that his list of girlfriends was legendary, right up there with the telephone directory. Marin had looked back at her stepsister, so confident and so pretty, and asked, wide-eyed, ‘Has he ever made a pass at you?’

  Lynne had shrugged. ‘Once, in the early days—almost. But never since. I’m not his type—and he certainly isn’t mine,’ she’d added firmly. ‘That’s why we work so well together.’

  ‘It’s a little late in the day to start ringing round,’ he said. He paused, frowning a little. ‘Besides, you’re an unknown quantity, which suits my purpose far better. So stop arguing, like a good girl, and go and get dressed—black, white or sky-blue pink, I don’t care. If you’ve nothing suitable, borrow from Lynne. You’re about the same size, as far as I can judge.’

  She could have done without that particular judgement, that lingering blue gaze that seemed to treat her towel as if it had somehow ceased to exist.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on more slowly, ‘We could always give the party a miss and stay here together instead. There’s champagne in the fridge, so we’d be able to relax while you tell me all about yourself, including how you lost your last job.

  ‘And then you wouldn’t need to change. You could stay looking as delightful as you do now, give or take an adjustment or two,’ he added silkily. ‘And subject to negotiation, naturally. Maybe I could persuade you to let that towel slip a little further next time—or even a lot. What do you say?’

  ‘I say,’ Marin returned between gritted teeth, aware that she was not only blushing but that her heart was thudding erratically, and resenting him on both counts. ‘That on reflection I’d prefer to go to your bloody party.’

  His grin made her long to hit him. ‘A wise decision, sweetheart. And I’ll wait dutifully, if reluctantly, here while you carry out the necessary transformation.’ He paused pensively. ‘But if you need any help don’t hesitate to call me.’

  ‘Count on it,’ she said with poisonous sweetness. ‘The moment I can think of a name bad enough.’

  And, still clutching her towel, Marin beat a strategic if not wholly dignified retreat.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I MUST,’ MARIN muttered under her breath, ‘be completely out of my mind.’

  She looked at her reflection with disfavour. Even with the aid of Lynne’s cosmetics, she still looked—ordinary. And no one was ever going to believe she was Jake Radley-Smith’s girl of choice, even for five minutes, let alone an entire evening.

  But at least her favourite dress—a
silky, olive-green wraparound, knee-length with cap sleeves, and a long sash that tied on the hip—was wearable. Probably because, unused during her time in France, it had been the last thing she’d taken from the wardrobe and had been packed on top of everything else.

  She could only hope it would build her confidence once she had it on, as it usually did. Except that nothing was usual about this particular evening.

  She had seriously considered making a dash for it, but Mr Radley-Smith would have seen her passing the living-room door, and she didn’t relish the idea of him making a dash for her in return.

  Like being stalked by a black panther, she thought with a sudden shiver.

  Besides, in practical terms, if she was about to lose her job then she really needed the money he was apparently prepared to pay her for doing him this favour, plus the place to stay. Although the thought of being beholden to him grated on her severely.

  The incident in France had been a nightmare, but some instinct she hadn’t realised she possessed warned her that any involvement with Jake Radley-Smith had the potential to be infinitely worse.

  And she couldn’t rely on her lack of glamour to be her safeguard any more, as she’d found to her cost.

  She sighed softly, almost despairingly. But some cash in hand would be more than welcome, she reminded herself. In fact, it could be essential.

  And, although she might not like parties, she knew what to do at them—grab a soft drink from the tray and become invisible in some corner until it was time to leave.

  She was retying her sash in a bow, her fingers having unaccountably turned into thumbs, when he knocked on the door.

  ‘How much longer are you planning to be?’

  The dossier was building up nicely, she thought grimly. Too many girlfriends. Far too manipulative. Not enough patience. Plus an excessive amount of—what?—charisma? Sex appeal? She wasn’t sure what to call it. Only that she was afraid of it, and would be extra-careful in consequence.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she called back, slipping her feet into the waiting high-heeled pewter sandals, and picking up the small bag on its long chain that matched them and her cream-fringed shawl.

  She’d expected some comment when she emerged from the bedroom, but he just flicked her with a glance and nodded abruptly.

  Not that she wanted his approbation. God forbid. But still…

  She said, ‘I didn’t know what to do with my hair.’ She touched its shining fall, reaching, straight as rain water, to her shoulder blades with a self-conscious hand. ‘Whether or not I should try to put it up, perhaps.’

  ‘It looks fine.’ He walked to the door. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Whose party is this?’ she asked, eventually breaking the silence as she sat beside him in the black cab he’d summoned with such irritating ease. ‘Or is it strictly on a need-to-know basis?’

  ‘It’s being given by the boss of Torchbearer Insurance, a major client of ours,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘And is your agency doing a good job for them?’

  ‘The best,’ he nodded.

  ‘Then you should be among friends,’ she said. ‘So why trail a strange girl along with you?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘Call it—a different kind of insurance,’ he said. ‘Personal liability. And perhaps I should ask you a few questions before we get there—for a start, how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty.’ Telling him straight seemed better than some coy evasion.

  ‘You look younger.’

  So the carefully applied make-up hadn’t supplied one atom of sophistication after all, she thought, and stifled a sigh.

  ‘And what do you do for a living—when you’re in work?’

  ‘I’m a secretary,’ she said. ‘I do agency work here in the UK and Europe. I’m good with computers, and I speak French and a smattering of Italian. I also book restaurant tables, make excuses on behalf of my employer, send flowers, organise travel and collect dry-cleaning.’

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You sound like a wife.’

  She played with the chain on her bag. ‘Doesn’t Lynne do all that for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But she’s actually going to be a wife, probably thanks to my specialised training.’

  Somehow the outraged gasp she’d intended turned into a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ he said, and grinned back at her. ‘So, what happened to the job? Was the restaurant overbooked? Did the flowers fail to arrive?’

  Her throat tightened; she didn’t look at him. ‘There was a—misunderstanding which couldn’t be resolved.’

  There was a pause, then he said drily, ‘I see.’

  No, she thought, you don’t. But it’s still too new, too raw for me to talk about. And, even if the memory is still capable of making me feel sick to my stomach, you are the last person in the world I could ever confide in anyway.

  She hurried into speech. ‘Maybe you should tell me how I’m supposed to address you this evening. I can hardly go on saying—“Mr Radley-Smith.”’ She hesitated. ‘Do I call you Rad, as Lynne does?’

  ‘That’s for working hours,’ he said. ‘In my more private moments, I prefer Jake. So make it that, please.’

  She bit her lip, thinking the last thing she wanted was to be part of any of his private moments. She said tautly, ‘I’ll—try to remember.’

  And when all this is over, she thought, I’ll try even harder to forget.

  The party was being held at the Arundel Club, just off Pall Mall. The entrance hall was like a grand foreign church, complete with classical statues, and Marin, self-conscious about the clatter of her heels on the wide marble staircase, wondered if she ought to tiptoe instead.

  At the top of the stairs, they turned left into a wide corridor carpeted in dark blue. There were alcoves at intervals along the entire length, some with a small, gilded table displaying either a large and elaborate piece of antique ceramic or a flower arrangement, while others were occupied by small armchairs upholstered in gold-and-ivory stripes.

  Jake Radley-Smith indicated a door on the right-hand side. ‘The women’s cloakroom,’ he said laconically. ‘You might want to check your wrap.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I probably should.’

  As she stepped inside, Marin was engulfed in a high-pitched chatter, and a clash of expensive perfumes. Handing over her shawl, she was aware of two girls next to her glancing at it, and then looking at her, before exchanging faintly derisive smiles.

  No, she told herself. They’re quite right. I don’t belong here. I’ll just have to keep thinking of the money and that will get me through.

  She fussed with her hair for a minute or two and applied a touch more lipstick, waiting for the crowd to clear.

  When she emerged into the corridor, Jake Radley-Smith was standing a few yards away, frowning at a large, predominantly brown landscape occupying the wall between two alcoves.

  She made herself walk towards him and forced a smile. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Somehow,’ he said, ‘I rather doubt that.’ As she reached him, he took her by the shoulders, spun her into the nearest alcove and kissed her very slowly, and extremely thoroughly, that astonishing mouth moving on hers with an expertise that turned her legs to water, and almost—almost—had her clinging to his shoulders to steady herself.

  ‘What the hell,’ she said furiously when she could speak, ‘was all that in aid of?’

  ‘Window dressing,’ he told her calmly. ‘Nothing to get uptight about. But I’m not usually seen with anyone who looks quite so untouched, and people might wonder.’

  ‘You,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘don’t have to be seen with me at all. This was your idea. Not mine.’

  He said, ‘Then consider the kiss an afterthought.’ He smiled at her. ‘And it’s worked. You look just ruffled enough for people to wonder.’

  Then he took her hand and walked her briskly to the end of the corridor, where a pair of double door
s stood ajar, and ushered her into the room beyond before she could think of a crushing remark—or anything to say at all, for that matter. Because ruffled was hardly the word to describe the welter of emotion churning inside her.

  The President’s Room was vast, ornate, brightly lit and full of people, all of them talking above the efforts of a string quartet to play Mozart.

  Almost as soon as they got inside, a male voice called, ‘Rad—good to see you. I’ve been wanting a word.’

  For a moment, they were surrounded, then suddenly her companion was gone, drawn forward on a wave of greetings into a group of other men and hidden behind a wall of suits.

  Which meant, thankfully, that she now had her hand back, so all she needed to do was try to recover her breath, along with some much-needed composure. And not touch a finger to her tingling mouth to see if it was really as swollen as it felt.

  Mr Radley-Smith was clearly someone who intended even the least of his kisses to be remembered, she thought, swallowing. And his casual riposte of ‘window dressing’ was also going to linger in her mind for some time to come. As would ‘afterthought’.

  More than time for Operation Camouflage, she decided, unclenching her fists in order to take a glass of fresh orange juice from a proffered tray and looking round for sanctuary.

  The crowd seemed to be drifting in the direction of the long buffet tables, where chefs in tall, white hats were waiting to carve from an enormous turkey as well as joints of beef and ham, for a moment, Marin’s stomach lurched in longing. But she resisted temptation, telling herself she could still cook the pasta supper she’d originally planned when she got home.

  She headed instead for one of the long windows which had been left open to the warm evening air, stepping out on to a tiny balcony with a wrought iron balustrade.

  With a bit of luck, Mr Radley-Smith might think she’d taken advantage of his momentary inattention to disappear completely, she told herself, relishing the coolness of the orange juice against her dry throat.

  But escaping from him out here was not proving as successful as she’d hoped. Instead, Marin found she was reviewing everything Lynne had ever said about him.