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‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Miss Freeman,’ he reminded her harshly, those grey eyes glacial now.
Abby bristled; he sounded like a schoolteacher talking to a disobedient schoolgirl!
‘Maybe you should go and put some clothes on?’ she suggested with forced pleasantness. ‘I’m sure you—’ and she! ‘—would be more comfortable if you did.’
‘I’m not uncomfortable, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her derisively, enjoying the fact that she obviously was. His mouth hardened before he spoke again. ‘Exactly what story did you spin Henry in order to get him to let you up here without first ringing me?’
That cold silver gaze was very forceful, Abby decided with discomfort. The sort of gaze that would compel you to confess to whatever it was this man wanted you to confess to, whether you were guilty or not.
She grimaced. ‘I told him I was your younger sister, that it’s your birthday today, and that I wanted to surprise you,’ she answered truthfully.
That sculptured mouth twisted wryly. ‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he drawled.
Her cheeks flushed. ‘Now, look—’
‘On your way out,’ Max Harding continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘you can tell him you succeeded.’ He opened the door pointedly. ‘I’ll tell him what I think later!’ he added grimly.
Abby didn’t move towards the door. Having got this far, she had no intention of leaving just yet. ‘I hope not with any idea of reprimand in mind? I can be very persuasive when I try.’ She gave him an encouraging smile.
A smile he made no effort to return, and that steely, unamused grey gaze quickly made the smile falter and then fade.
Back to business, she decided hastily. ‘I’ve written to you several times, Mr Harding—’
‘Twice, to be exact,’ he interrupted, his terse tone telling her that he liked to be that, at least. ‘Two letters, both of which I read before duly consigning them to the bin!’
He had enjoyed telling her that, Abby realised with an annoyance she tried hard not to show—one of them being antagonistic was quite enough! Besides, she couldn’t afford to be. She had assured the sarcastic and sceptical Gary Holmes, director of The Abby Freeman Show, that she would get Max Harding to appear on her final show. A very ambitious claim, she had come to realise over the last few weeks, but she needed something—someone!—really impressive to finish the series if she were to stand any chance of being offered another contract.
Though she did wish she had approached Max Harding before making that ambitious claim to Gary…!
She gave Max Harding a bright, unruffled smile. ‘Then you will be aware that the whole of the half-hour show will be dedicated to you—’
‘No.’
‘Oh, but I’m sure I made that clear in my letter.’ Abby frowned. ‘I would hardly offer less to a man of your professional stature—’
‘Cut the bull, Miss Freeman,’ he bit out harshly. ‘In this case flattery, professional or otherwise, will get you precisely nowhere! I have no intention, now or ever, of appearing on The Abby Freeman Show.’ He made the programme title sound like something obscene.
Nevertheless, Abby persevered; this was too important to allow obvious insults to upset her. ‘But you’re such an interesting man, Mr Harding,’ she said lightly. ‘You’ve seen so much, done so much, and I’m sure the general public would be fascinated to hear about—’
‘The general public have absolutely no more interest than you do in hearing about any of the things I’ve seen and done,’ he rasped coldly. ‘All anyone wants to hear about from me is the night Rory Mayhew tried to commit suicide on my television programme.’ His eyes glittered icily. ‘It also happens to be the one thing I will never discuss in public. Is that clear enough for you, Miss Freeman?’
Crystal-clear. And he was partly right about the Rory Mayhew ‘incident’; obviously it was such a big thing that she could hardly not ask about it. But it certainly wasn’t the only thing she wanted him to talk about. They could hardly discuss an attempted suicide for the whole of a thirty-minute interview, for goodness’ sake.
‘I thought about mentioning that initially, obviously,’ she conceded. ‘But then I thought we could move on to other things. Your last two years as a foreign correspondent have made fascinating listening, and—’
‘I said no, Miss Freeman.’
‘Oh, please do call me Abby,’ she invited, with a warmth she was far from feeling. In fact, the coldness emanating from this man was enough to make her give an involuntary shiver.
‘You can call me Mr Harding,’ he bit out. ‘But first—’ he moved to close the door again, its soft click much more ominous than the loud slam of a few minutes ago ‘—I have one or two questions I would like to put to you.’
The sudden smoothness of his tone was more menacing than his previous sarcasm and coldness, making Abby very aware that she was completely alone in this penthouse apartment with a powerful-looking man. A very angry, half-naked, powerful-looking man!
She gave him another of her bright, confident smiles—although inside she was neither of those things. This meeting with Max Harding wasn’t turning out at all as she had hoped. ‘Fire away, Mr Harding,’ she invited lightly. ‘I’m happy to answer any questions you have concerning the programme. In fact, I look on it as a very positive—’
‘My questions have absolutely nothing to do with your programme, Miss Freeman,’ he assured her scornfully, ‘and everything to do with how you obtained my personal address in the first place.’ His voice had hardened over this last, his expression grim.
Not much of a chance of him offering her a coffee, then! Or inviting her to sit down in the comfortable lounge she could see through the open doorway behind her.
Not much chance of this turning into a successful meeting, either, if the conversation so far was anything to go by.
‘And don’t say the local telephone book,’ he warned. ‘Because I’m ex-directory.’
Her palms were starting to feel slightly damp, and she was sure there was an unbecoming sheen materialising on her top lip.
Nevertheless, she forced another carefree smile to her face. ‘The how isn’t really important—’
‘It is to me.’ He stood firmly in front of the door now—her only means of escape!—powerfully muscled arms folded in front of that bare chest.
In the same circumstances, wrapped only in a towel, Abby knew that she would feel at a distinct disadvantage talking to anyone. And yet this man gave no such impression—in fact, the opposite. He seemed to know exactly how his near-nakedness was making her feel—and he was enjoying watching her squirm.
Because squirming she undoubtably was. This man, Max Harding, she was becoming increasingly aware, exuded a sexual magnetism that had very little to do with whether or not he was wearing any clothes! There was a toughness to him, a self-containment, that at thirty-nine had been hard earned.
He made a sudden movement, quickly followed by the first sign of amusement, albeit mocking, she had seen on his harsh features. Abby instinctively took a step backwards. ‘I don’t usually eat little girls like you until after breakfast,’ he drawled, grey eyes mocking as he looked her over with slow deliberation. ‘You’re one of those “bright young things” the powers-that-be in public television have decided the masses want piped into their homes every minute of the day and night, aren’t you?’
‘I—’
‘What did you do before being given The Abby Freeman Show?’ he continued, unabated. ‘Present one of those kids programmes where you have to constantly look like a teenager—even though you’re not—and rush around risking life and limb climbing mountains and jumping out of aeroplanes? I’m sorry, what did you say?’ he prompted scornfully as Abby muttered something inaudible.
Her chin rose defensively, twin circles of colour in her cheeks. ‘I said I was the weather presenter on a breakfast show, and then the stand-in presenter,’ she repeated tautly. Withstanding Max Harding’s obvious derision certainly hadn’t been in her plans for today!
He continued to look at her, his expression blank now, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had heard her correctly. And then his mouth twitched and he began to laugh, a harsh, humourless sound that echoed the scorn in his eyes. ‘A weather girl?’ he finally sobered enough to say disbelievingly.
Her cheeks felt on fire now. ‘You don’t have a lot of respect for your fellow presenters, do you?’
‘On the contrary, Abby, I have immense respect for my fellow presenters—you just don’t happen to be one!’
This was important to her—very important if she was to prove to Gary Holmes she wasn’t the lightweight he insisted on treating her as. But right now, with Max Harding’s derision directly in her face, she wanted to turn on her heel and run. Unfortunately, Max Harding still stood between her and the door!
Attack, she was sure, was still the best form of defence. ‘I never had you figured for a misogynist, Mr Harding!’
He didn’t even grimace at the insult. ‘Oh, but I’m not, Abby,’ he told her, silkily soft, his grey eyes hooded as he looked her over with slow deliberation from her toes to the top of her ebony head. The arrogantly mocking gaze finally returned to her flushed face and he gave a derisive shake of his head. ‘You just aren’t my type,’ he drawled, with deliberate rudeness.
She should never have come here, Abby realised belatedly. She had thought she was being so clever, fooling Henry downstairs, and had been quietly patting herself on the back at her success all the way up here in the lift. But all she had really succeeded in doing was totally annoying this man. And even on this short an acquaintance she knew he would be dangerous when he was annoyed!
Come to that, he was dangerous when he wasn’t annoyed. She couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking of!
She hadn’t really been thinking at all, she finally realized. Had been too stung by Gary Holmes’s scornful scepticism that she would ever persuade Max Harding to appear on her show to plan this meeting today any further than actually meeting the man face to face.
‘You and my director should meet,’ she snapped irritably. ‘The two of you have so much in common!’
‘Doesn’t he like working with amateurs either?’ Max Harding taunted.
That was it.
She had had enough.
More than enough!
She had already spent weeks at the sharp end of Gary Holmes’s sarcastic tongue; she had no intention of taking it from this man too! Besides, he wasn’t going to appear on her show anyway, so she really had nothing to lose!
She drew herself up angrily. ‘I have no idea why I ever thought anyone would be interested in hearing anything you have to say.’ And she didn’t—not anymore. ‘You’re rude. You’re arrogant. You’re mocking, and thoroughly unpleasant. And I don’t like you!’ Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.
Max Harding continued to look at her for several long seconds, and then he gave a decisive nod. ‘That, my dear Abby, is the most honest thing you’ve said all morning! Come on.’ He stepped past her into the lounge. ‘I’ll put some coffee on to brew while I’m dressing.’
Abby stood open-mouthed, watching him as he strolled across the sitting room and into what she assumed must be the kitchen.
She had been as rude and brutally frank as he was himself, and now he was offering to make her coffee!
She gave a slightly befuddled shake of her head before following him. She would have given up all pretence of politeness long before now if she had known this would be the result.
The sitting room, as she had already observed from the hallway, was spacious and well-furnished, decorated in warm, sunny golds and creams, with a wonderful view over London from the huge picture window. It also looked totally unlived-in—like a hotel suite, or as if the interior designer had only finished his work yesterday and everything was new and unused.
The kitchen was almost as big, with walnut cupboards and gold-coloured fittings. But apart from the coffee percolator, which had already started its aromatic drip into the pot, the work surfaces were bare—as if this room were rarely used either.
‘Take a seat,’ Max Harding invited, without turning round as he got coffee mugs from a cupboard.
Abby made herself comfortable on one of the stools at the breakfast bar—well, as comfortable as someone of five foot four could be on one of the high stools!—still not quite sure how she had managed to get herself invited in for coffee. But she wasn’t complaining. The less inclined Max Harding was to throw her out, the more chance she had of persuading him to change his mind about appearing on her programme.
‘Right.’ He turned from what he was doing. ‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes while the coffee’s filtering. Oh, and Abby?’ He paused in the kitchen doorway, his expression once again derisive. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’
She looked at him blankly for several seconds, frowning, her cheeks becoming hot as she realised what he meant. ‘I’m not a snoop, Mr Harding,’ she protested waspishly.
His mouth twisted. ‘That’s why you’ll never make an investigative reporter!’ he retorted, before leaving the room.
Abby put her elbows on the breakfast bar and leant forward to rub her throbbing temples with her thumbs, wondering if all these insults really were worth it. Even if she succeeded if getting him to appear on the show—which was doubtful!—there was no way, him being the man that he was, that she was going to be able to control the interview. And that wasn’t going to help her get that second contract she wanted. Maybe…
‘I didn’t mean it quite that literally,’ Max remarked scathingly as he came back into the room. ‘You could have helped yourself to coffee.’
In truth, she had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t really been aware that the coffee had stopped filtering into the pot. And, as she looked up at him now, her mind once again went completely blank.
‘I’ll go and throw on some clothes’ was what he had said, and, looking at him, that was pretty much what he had done. His damp hair looked as if he had just run a hand through it, he was wearing a clean, but very creased white T-shirt, and a pair of ragged denims, also clean, but worn and faded, the bottoms frayed. And that was all he was wearing from what Abby could tell. His feet were bare on the coolness of the tiled floor.
He looked sexy as hell!
This side of Max Harding hadn’t really been apparent in the tapes of his shows she had watched from the archives, but she had certainly been made aware of it when he’d opened the door earlier, wearing only a towel. And—strangely—she was even more aware of him now, because the clothes hinted at the powerful body beneath.
She straightened, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. It didn’t occur to me.’
He placed a steaming mug of black, unsweetened coffee in front of her. ‘There isn’t any milk,’ he announced off-handedly as he passed her the sugar bowl. ‘I only got back late last night, and I haven’t had time to shop yet.’
‘Black is fine,’ she assured him, though she usually took both cream and sugar in her beverages. Somehow, from the look of the unused kitchen, she doubted he had time to go to the shops very often!
‘So.’ He sat down opposite her at the breakfast bar, his gaze piercing. ‘You have yet to answer my question.’
She could always try acting dumb and ask which question he was referring to—but as he already thought she was dumb that probably wasn’t the approach to take!
She shrugged. ‘I obtained your address from a friend of a friend,’ she said dismissively, wishing she felt more self-confident and less physically aware of this man…
His gaze narrowed. ‘Which friend of what friend?’
‘Is that grammatically correct?’ She attempted to tease, deciding that probably wasn’t a good idea either as his scowl deepened. ‘You aren’t seriously expecting me to answer that?’
He didn’t return her cajoling smile. ‘I rarely joke about an invasion of my privacy,’ he grated.
She raised ebony brows. ‘Aren’t you overreacting just a little? After all, I only rang the doorbell. You were the one who invited me in!’
‘I can just as easily throw you out again!’ he rasped. ‘And I “invited” you in as you put it, for the sole purpose of ascertaining how you obtained my address.’
‘Knowing full well that I couldn’t possibly reveal my source,’ Abby came back sharply. Challengingly. It was the first rule of being that investigative reporter he had told her she would never be; a source’s identity was as sacrosanct to a reporter as the information a client gave to a lawyer.
Max sat back slightly, his expression—as usual!—unreadable. ‘Tell me, Abby,’ he said softly, ‘just what made you think you would succeed where so many others have failed?’
She blinked, not sure she quite understood the question. Surely he didn’t think that she trying to attract—?
‘Not that, Abby.’ He sighed. ‘I was actually referring to other requests for me to appear on TV programmes or give personal interviews to newspapers over the last two years. Haven’t I already assured you that you aren’t my type?’ His mouth twisted scathingly as his gaze raked over her ebony hair, deep blue eyes, creamy complexion and full, pouting lips.
Exactly what was ‘his type’? Abby felt like asking, but didn’t. As far as her research was concerned, he didn’t appear to have a type. He had been married once, in his twenties, and amicably divorced only three years later, and the assortment of women he had been involved with over the years since that marriage didn’t seem to fit into any type either, having ranged from hard-hitting businesswomen to a pampered Californian divorcee. The only thing those women seemed to have in common was independence. And possibly an aversion to marriage…?
‘Well, that’s something positive, at least,’ Abby came back dismissively. ‘Because you aren’t my type either!’
Grudging amusement slightly lightened his expression. ‘No,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I should imagine a nice, safe executive of some kind, preferably in television, would be more your cup of tea.’
This man managed to make everything he said sound insulting!
And in this case he was wrong; she had been briefly engaged to a ‘nice, safe executive of some kind’—and been totally bored by Andrew’s complete lack of imagination. Besides, Monty hadn’t liked him…
‘Really?’ she said wearily. ‘How interesting.’
Max continued to look at her for several seconds, and then gave an appreciative grin. ‘You sound like my mother when confronted by one of my father’s more boring business associates!’
His father, Abby knew, was James Harding, the owner of Harding Industries. His charming and beautiful wife Amy was a banking heiress, and Max’s mother. Obviously Max hadn’t inherited that first trait of hers!
‘Really?’ Abby repeated unhelpfully, slightly disturbed by the attraction of that grin—and desperate not to show it.
‘Really?’ he mimicked dryly. ‘Am I boring you, Abby?’
So far she hadn’t been able to relax enough in this man’s company to feel bored! But if he wanted to think that—fine; she needed every advantage she could get with this thoroughly disconcerting man. ‘Not specifically,’ she drawled, sounding uninterested.
