No Need for Love Page 3

  ‘Magda needn’t think we’re lovers, I suppose. It will be enough that I’m with another woman.’

  But she wasn’t a woman. Hadn’t he just said so? She was his assistant.

  ‘I really don’t see the problem here. Unless—have you another engagement tonight?’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t think…I mean, this isn’t—it’s not part of my job, after all.’

  ‘Would it make you feel better if it were? Then think of it that way—as part of your job description. When you signed on for this position, I made it clear that this wasn’t a job for someone with a nine-to-five mentality. You said you understood. In fact, you gave me your assurance that you would give me your very best at all times. Do you remember?’

  Hannah flushed. ‘Of course. But I never meant—I never thought you meant——’

  ‘Haven’t you ever attended a social event as part of your job, Miss Lewis?’

  ‘Yes, once or twice. But those times were different. They were receptions given by the firm for——’

  ‘This is the same thing.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean aren’t hosting this. And you’ve no right to—’

  ‘A matter of semantics,’ he said, shrugging away her comment as if he were brushing off a fly. ‘The evening is simply part of your workload. Have I mentioned that you’ll be on overtime?’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, sir. But—’

  His brows drew together. ‘Look, Miss Lewis, I can’t spend the next hour debating this. Can you work late tonight or can’t you?’

  Hannah stared at him. ‘Work late tonight? Well, yes, if you——’

  ‘Good girl.’ He reached past her and opened the door to the outer office. ‘Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.’ His hand brushed lightly across her hair, then touched her cheek and, for reasons that made no sense whatsoever, a feeling of lightness engulfed her. ‘And do something with yourself, please,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Let your hair loose, put on some lipstick—we’re going to a party, not a conference. All right?’

  No, Hannah thought, it was not all right at all, but how could she tell him that, when she was already standing on the other side of the closed door?

  Fifteen minutes later, he came striding out of his office. ‘Ready?’ he asked crisply.

  Hannah turned. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving the single word as much irritation, annoyance and downright anger as she could manage. But MacLean didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he marched towards her, clasped her by the shoulders, and drew her under the uncompromising glare of an overhead fluorescent lamp.

  ‘The lipstick’s fine. A little pale, but it complements your colouring.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose you have another blouse on hand?’

  Her chin lifted. ‘No,’ she said tightly, ‘I do not.’

  ‘Well, this will have to do.’ He reached out and closed his fingers around the top button. Hannah caught his wrist, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘You look like a schoolgirl, Miss Lewis. Surely you don’t go out on dates wearing blouses closed to the collar, do you?’

  ‘This is not a date,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I really resent…’

  Two buttons slipped out of their holes; she felt the swift, impersonal brush of his fingertips against her skin, and that strange, out-of-body feeling went through her again.

  ‘That’s better.’ His gaze moved over her slowly. ‘A little informal, perhaps, but not unacceptable.’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘I thought I told you to wear your hair loose.’

  Her hand went to her hair, drawn back, as usual, neatly on her neck and held in a tortoiseshell clip.

  ‘I always wear it this way,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Yes. I’ve noticed.’ The clip came loose, and her hair tumbled free. ‘But you’re going to wear it differently tonight,’ he said, as he thrust his hands into her hair and drew it over her shoulders. When he was done, he held her at arm’s length and inspected her with slow, almost insulting care. Hannah’s chin tilted.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked in a frigid voice.

  His gaze moved to her face, drifted across her features, and then that little angular smile tilted across his mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and he sounded almost as surprised as she felt when the softly spoken word sent a little rush of pleasure tingling through her blood.

  Well, she thought quickly, why wouldn’t it? A compliment from Mean MacLean was as rare as a blizzard in July. Naturally she’d react to such a thing.

  They taxied to the hotel in silence, he sitting against the window on the right side, frowning over scrawled notes in a pocket diary, Hannah on the left. She was grateful he wasn’t attempting any small talk; she was still angry at how she’d been bulldozed into playing a part in a charade to dupe an innocent woman. She glanced at her watch. It was just past six-thirty. If these things went as they usually did, she’d be safely back in a cab again by ten o’clock. Nine-thirty, if she was lucky.

  She looked at Grant MacLean again. He’d been a trial lawyer with a reputation for never losing before he’d taken up his esoteric speciality in international law, and it was easy to see how he’d got that reputation. Once he’d determined what he wanted of her, he’d never backed down. He’d been willing to do whatever it took: he’d bullied, threatened, cajoled, dangled rewards—anything to get his own way. Her gaze moved over him, taking in the slightly jutting nose, the firm jaw, the powerful body contained within the carefully tailored navy wool suit. He was a formidable opponent; it would be frightening to go head to head with him over something that really mattered.

  He was, as well, an awfully attractive man. Sally and the other girls always said so, but Hannah had never paid his looks very much attention. For one thing, she’d learned her lesson years ago about good looks: a handsome face and hard body were just superficial trappings. It was the inner man that counted.

  For another—she shifted in her seat. For another, she’d never really looked at him as a man, until tonight. He’d always just been her boss, Mr MacLean, until five minutes ago, when he’d handed her into the cab.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she’d said stiffly, and he’d given her a look cold enough to freeze water.

  ‘Be sure and address me that way in front of Miss Karolyi,’ he’d said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘That’s bound to convince her you’re my date.’

  Grant. She was to call him Grant. Grant…

  ‘We’re here.’

  Hannah looked up. The cab had pulled to the kerb; a uniformed doorman was holding the door open and smiling politely at her. She stepped on to the pavement and gazed at the hotel. A laughing couple were strolling up the steps to the main door, she in a gauzy cocktail gown, he in a dark suit, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists, and suddenly she wondered why in heaven’s name she’d let herself be talked into this. She wasn’t dressed right, for one thing, and she could never carry it off. She didn’t want to carry it off. Grant MacLean was her employer, he controlled her nine-to-five life, and hadn’t he said he didn’t see her as a woman?

  ‘Are you all right?’ His voice was low, his breath warm against her ear. Hannah looked at him as his fingers closed lightly around her arm.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said in a quick rush, and he gave her that smile he’d given her a lifetime ago, when he’d first asked her to take part in this game.

  ‘Of course it will, sweetheart,’ he whispered, and then, before she could draw back, he cupped her face in his hand, bent to her, and put his mouth to hers. The kiss was brief, the press of his lips firm and cool, but when he drew back her heart was racing as if it wanted to escape her breast.

  ‘Don’t,’ she spat. ‘You have no right——’

  She caught her breath as he kissed her again, his mouth closing over hers with gentle persuasion. She felt the light brush of his tongue against her lips, then its warm thrust. A tremor went through her, not o
f revulsion or even anger but of something far more primitive and powerful.

  Grant drew back. A smile of satisfaction curved across his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘that’s much better.’

  ‘You—you——’

  ‘Magda’s not a fool, Hannah. Telling her we’re intimate won’t serve any purpose if you don’t look the part.’

  ‘Intimate?’ she stuttered. ‘Are you crazy? We agreed I’d be your date; you said——’

  ‘But you look convincing now, with that little flush on your cheeks and that swollen softness to your mouth.’ He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘Now smile, sweetheart, and look at me as if you’ve just come from my bed.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me,’ she said as he hurried her along beside him—but he was already propelling her up the steps and through the door. By the time they reached the ballroom they’d been stopped by half a dozen people.

  Hannah ached to turn her back and walk away from him, to leave him on his own and let him fend off all the predatory women in Hungary with his own devices. But how could she storm away from the president of the Chamber of Commerce in the middle of an introduction, or the director of the San Francisco Symphony? How could she ignore the head of the largest bank on the West Coast, or the mayor? And then there was the one person no one could ignore, a woman in a crimson gown that looked as if it had been spray-painted on, all creamy shoulders, breathtaking décolletage, and masses of golden curls piled high atop her head. She came bearing down on them with a little shriek of delight, and Hannah knew immediately who she was.

  ‘Magda Karolyi?’ she whispered.

  Grant tensed beside her. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘dear God, that’s her!’

  ‘Grant,’ the blonde said, launching herself at him, ‘oh, darling, how vunderful to zee you again!’

  He twisted his head at the last second, so that her kiss fell on his cheek and not his mouth. Then he stepped back, put his arm around Hannah’s waist, and drew her forward.

  ‘Magda,’ he said pleasantly, ‘it’s wonderful to see you, too.’

  The blonde’s eyes, a dark chocolate that contrasted vividly with her pale hair, gave Hannah a quick, assessing glance.

  ‘This is Hannah Lewis, Magda. Hannah, you remember all the things I told you about Magda, don’t you?’ He looked down at her, his eyes filled with warning.

  Hannah gave him a long, steady look. You put your life in my hands, Grant MacLean, she thought, and now you’re going to get what you deserve. She smiled, took a deep breath, and turned to Magda Karolyi.

  ‘Miss Karolyi,’ she said, ‘Mr MacLean asked me here tonight, and now I feel I owe you an apology.’

  Her voice faded away, but not because of the sudden pressure of Grant’s hand on her waist. It was Magda who was responsible. Hannah stiffened as the chocolate-coloured eyes swept across her. She could feel the other woman taking inventory, dismissing the plain silk blouse, the grey blazer and skirt as beneath contempt, moving upwards to Hannah’s face, noting the simple fall of shining hair, the minimum of make-up, even the lack of jewellery.

  A little smile settled on to the pouting crimson lips, and Magda Karolyi turned her back to Hannah in complete, unsubtle dismissal.

  ‘You naughty boy, Grant,’ she purred, ‘vy haven’t you telephoned? I’ve been in San Francisco two whole days, vaiting for your call.’

  Hannah touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘That’s what I was about to explain, Miss Karolyi.’ The blonde turned towards her with a look of sharp irritation. Hannah smiled and moved more closely into the curve of Grant’s arm. ‘It’s my fault Grant hasn’t called you.’ She gave him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. He was watching her closely, his face expressionless. ‘I’m his assistant, you see, and we’ve been so terribly involved. At the office, I mean. We never seem to find the time…’ She tilted her head so that her hair swung softly back from her face. ‘Isn’t that right, Grant?’

  There was a moment of silence, and then Grant cleared his throat.

  ‘Hannah’s my paralegal, Magda.’

  ‘Yes,’ the blonde said coldly, ‘I’m sure she is.’

  ‘She does all the groundwork for the cases I handle. I—uh—I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  Magda Karolyi gave him a sharp look. ‘Is that so?’

  Hannah leaned her head against Grant’s shoulder.

  ‘Well, I certainly try my best,’ she said sweetly.

  Magda’s mouth narrowed into a tight line. ‘I bet you do,’ she said coldly. ‘It’s been good zeeing you again,

  Grant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see some other guests I must greet.’ Her eyes shifted to Hannah. ‘Miss Lewis.’

  ‘Miss Karolyi.’ Hannah smiled cheerfully. ‘It’s been—delightful.’

  The woman’s nostrils flared. ‘Indeed,’ she said, then turned on her heel and stalked away. There was another silence, and then Grant began to laugh softly.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that takes care of Magda.’

  Hannah drew away from him. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Damn, but I wish I could have recorded that. I thought you were going to feed me to the sharks and instead you put a knife right into Magda’s—’ he grinned ‘—heart.’

  ‘Her padded heart,’ she said coldly. ‘And I certainly didn’t do it for you.’

  His smile faded as he looked at her. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think you had.’

  Hannah took a deep breath. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can try this little trick again. I’ll endure the rest of the evening because I said that I would, but when it ends, so does your right ever again to drag me into a scheme like this.’

  A slow smile curved across Grant MacLean’s mouth. ‘Threats again, Miss Lewis?’

  ‘Statement, Mr MacLean. I don’t like being intimidated.’

  ‘And I,’ he said quietly, ‘don’t like being spoken to as if I were a schoolyard bully.’

  Hannah looked at him. He was still smiling; she knew that to anyone in the crowded room it would look as if he was saying something pleasant, even intimate. But his eyes had gone dark and cool; there was a glint in their depths that sent a faint chill up her spine and she wished there were some way to back off without it looking as if she was backing down.

  But there was none, and so she stood her ground and met those cold eyes.

  ‘Then don’t act like one,’ she said softly.

  She heard the quick intake of his breath, saw the sudden way his mouth twisted—but then it was over, gone so quickly it might not have happened.

  ‘Grant,’ a deep male voice said happily, and within seconds they were enclosed in a group of laughing guests. There was a lot of hand-shaking and back-slapping.

  ‘This is Hannah Lewis,“ Grant said. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a little smile. ‘She insists that I introduce her as my legal assistant. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”

  It was the sort of remark that made everyone laugh. It was also the sort of remark that intimated she was anything but his legal assistant. Still, he treated her with courtesy and propriety, enough so that she was convinced that she had got through the worst of the evening.

  A little after nine, just as the tables were being cleared and the dance band was settling in, Grant made apologies for their early departure, drew back Hannah’s chair, and led her out of the hotel.

  ‘Aren’t we staying for the dancing?’ she said, before she could think. ‘I mean, won’t your friends think it strange that you left early?’

  Grant barely glanced at her as he handed her into a taxi and climbed in after her.

  ‘It was a business evening, Miss Lewis, not a social one. I thought I explained that earlier.’

  His voice was cold. Hannah risked a quick look at him as the cab pulled out from the kerb.

  ‘I only meant——’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  She told him her address and he leaned forward and repeated it to
the driver. Then he settled into the far corner of the seat, folded his arms across his chest, and clamped his lips together.

  By the time they reached the three-storey town house in which her flat was located, an oppressive silence had settled between them. Hannah threw open the door and scrambled on to the pavement.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ll see you in the——’ The door slammed shut behind her and a steely hand clamped around her arm. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. It was a stupid question. What he was doing was marching her swiftly to the house, then up the steps.

  ‘Your keys,’ he said sharply.

  ‘You don’t have to see me in,’ she said with sudden wariness.

  ‘Your keys, Miss Lewis.’

  The frost in his voice made all the difference. It was clear he was not intent on anything but seeing her safely inside. Leaving a woman alone on the street at night, even at this hour and in this relatively quiet neighbourhood, was, apparently, not something Grant MacLean did—probably, she thought uncharitably, because he was afraid of the possible legal ramifications.

  She snapped open her purse and dug out the keys. ‘Here,’ she said, just as coldly. The door swung open and she held out her hand. He ignored it.

  ‘What floor are you on?’

  ‘The third. But—’

  He took her arm and ushered her to the curving staircase that led up into shadowy darkness. They climbed in silence; when they reached the top floor, Hannah was not foolish enough to try and send him on his way. He was going to see her to her door, that was obvious, and trying to stop him again would only let him emphasise which of them was in control.

  So far, she seemed to be losing.

  When they reached her door, she stopped and faced him.

  ‘My keys, please.’ He held them out, his smile as polite as hers. The keys dropped into her open palm. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Goodnight, Mr MacLean.’

  ‘Miss Lewis?’

  She had just inserted her key in the lock when he spoke. What now? she thought irritably, and swung around to face him.

  ‘Mr MacLean,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s getting late. And——’