Edge of Paradise (4 page)

‘Of course not. I know exactly what you're getting at. It would be highly unpleasant to wonder, in the tender moments, if your lover was researching a love scene for his next book. Don't worry about me. It's a business proposition and that's the way it's going to stay.'

‘What if he wants you to go with him?'

‘
Go
where
with him?'

‘Wherever he's going to set his next book. I was just thinking,' Ally said with a mischievous giggle. ‘I hope it's not a whaler in the Antarctic.'

‘Do you mind!' Catherine could think up enough disquieting thoughts off her own bat without Ally's dubious help.

* * *

This conversation with her friend strengthened her resolve that the meeting with Paul Hebden
at
his hotel must be conducted on a strict business footing, and that meant putting the seduction of her favorite deep claret-red dress, so becoming to her dark hair, back in her wardrobe and selecting the protective veneer of a dress made of less clingy material, its color the dense gray of woodsmoke. For her peace of mind it was lucky she didn't realize what an illusory protection it was. The cut of the dress, with its own matching jacket, was excellent. Her assessment that it was the type of outfit the retiring companion of a high-born lady would wear to keep her place in the background was spot on, but she failed to see that her own looks foiled any attempt to appear insignificant. If anything, the severity of its color and cut enhanced the sweetness of line from her forehead to chin, the tender grace of her throat and youthful curves. If the question of her age cropped up, people were always surprised to learn that she was twenty-two, because she looked much younger, possibly because of the childish hugeness of her brilliant sapphire blue eyes within the silky frame of her hair.

She reached for her ivory-backed hairbrush, which was part of a set given to her by her mother on her sixteenth birthday, and applied several vigorous strokes. It was the last birthday present she had ever received from her. One murky night, in a moment of carelessness, her mother had stepped off the
pavement,
and the driver of an oncoming car hadn't been able to apply his brakes soon enough to offset the dangerous condition of the rain-polished road surface. Her father had subsequently remarried, choosing for his bride a widow with two young children. He had decided on a fresh start and had made a home for himself and his new family in the West Country, a place without memories. Most of the time Catherine could use her hairbrush without getting a lump in her throat. But now wasn't one of those times and a poignant sadness made swallowing difficult. ‘Don't you dare go soft on me,' she scolded herself aloud as she reached for her jacket.

* * *

The Park Royal Hotel had a very imposing facade. As Catherine walked toward it, the commissionaire, his dark uniform resplendent with gold braid, raised a white-gloved hand in a military salute before darting ahead to open the door for her.

She could have done without the red-carpet treatment; she felt overawed enough at the prospect facing her. She wished she hadn't been so brusque with Paul Hebden, a little less dogmatic that she wouldn't keep the appointment. She sighed. It had been an instinctive reaction, and no way could she have foreseen the possibility of her having to eat
humble
pie.

From her superior height the girl at the reception desk seemed to look a long way down her nose at Catherine. It was a slightly aquiline but very elegant nose, which suited the elegance and haughtiness of her face. Cool blondes seemed able to look haughty without trying, an ability which Catherine envied at that moment.

It was quite amusing to see how dramatically the other woman's expression altered when Catherine gave her name and asked for Mr. Paul Hebden.

Envy was now written all over the receptionist's face and her tone was positively fawning as she cooed, ‘Mr. Hebden left instructions that you were to go straight up to his suite, Miss Mason.'

It was an odd sensation to be eyed up and down by a girl who, in Catherine's opinion, was ten times better looking than she was and know that the girl was wondering how she had pulled it off. She wanted to say, ‘It's not like that at all. It's for a job, so puzzle no more.' Even more than that she wanted to turn around and go home. Dull, safe, not-very-nice Charles suddenly seemed a much more desirable prospect than the golden tiger man sitting upstairs in wait to gobble her up.

She took note of the number of his suite and marched toward the lift, saying under her breath, ‘You just try it, boy. You might find
yourself
with a bad case of indigestion.'

She had to knock three times before his deep voice instructed her to enter. Admittedly, a mouse could have done better than her first two attempts. She wondered if she'd exaggerated his virile attractiveness in her mind, imagination running riot and all that.

He came forward to greet her, a sardonic twist to his mouth. A white silk figure-molding shirt was tucked into the dark trousers of his formal suit. The jacket, obviously in readiness to slip on, was laid across the back of a chair. From his arrogant golden head, down his well-toned body, which suggested a disciplined, healthy lifestyle and physical strength, to his polished black shoes, he exuded an expensive and immaculate gloss. Her eyes returned to renew their acquaintance with his face, taking pleasure in the strong features, the well-shaped masculine mouth, the obdurate quality—a definite character clue—of his thrust-out chin. Saving the best for last, she dwelt finally on those splendid jade green eyes. No, imagination hadn't run riot. If anything, her memory had sold him short. He was even better looking than she had remembered.

The amused awareness in his eyes, a look that had been maintained for several seconds, belatedly penetrated her brain, causing her to dip her chin in dismay and anger at allowing herself to be caught studying him so intently. What could she have been thinking of? Her
consternation
invited his smile. She heard it in the hateful smugness of his tone and saw it curling the corners of his mouth as her eyes dropped away.

‘I told you that you would come,' he said.

‘So you did. You apparently knew more than I did,' she said, flaunting her chin at him again.

‘May I ask what made you change your mind?'

‘Necessity.'

‘Necessity?' he repeated, showing his annoyance at her tendency to throw him by saying the unexpected thing. ‘Is it your special gimmick? Or is it a new trend? If so, let's hope it soon drops from fashion.'

‘What trend?'

‘This way you have of talking in riddles. Shall we discuss it over dinner?' he asked, his bland smile returning as he reached for his jacket and slid his arms into it, as though the matter were settled.

Standing firm, not only against him but against the rumbling of her stomach reminding her that she had been too tensed up to eat before she came, she said, ‘I'm not dressed for the kind of place you obviously have in mind.'

He awarded her a brief summing up look, showing no sign of perturbation, although he must have seen that her plain dress was ludicrous beside his formal attire. His tone was pleasantly persuasive as he said, ‘You look all
right
to me.'

She gulped. He hadn't used his writer's craft to pay her a flowery compliment. He had really sounded as though he meant it. Yet she went on, just as if he hadn't spoken, ‘In any case, dinner isn't a good idea.'

His eyes lowered again, and this time the kindly look was more prolonged and stayed below the level of her chin. ‘You can't be dieting. You've got an excellent figure. Unless it's that way because you watch your diet?' he asked as an amused afterthought.

‘I can eat what I like. I'm this way naturally,' she said, wishing he'd raise his eyes and at the same time hoping he wouldn't because she didn't want him to look at her face, which she was sure showed her flustered thoughts.

‘If that isn't the reason, what is? I thought . . .' His forehead furrowed in puzzlement. ‘Our communication system is decidedly erratic. Would you explain what you mean?'

‘There's nothing to explain,' she said shortly. ‘You don't have to take me out for a meal; in fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't. I would like to keep this on a strictly business footing.'

‘Business footing?' he repeated. ‘I'm not with you.'

‘Allycats. You can't have forgotten,' she said in dismay.

He acknowledged, ‘I do recall your mentioning something about it at the party. I remember thinking what a very pretty name
you
have—Catherine—and how sinful it was to let anyone shorten it to Cat, besides being totally inappropriate.' Her wish to know what he thought
was
appropriate was on the point of being granted even as she worked to banish it, because such curiosity was treacherous. ‘Would you like to know what pet name I would prefer to call you by?'

‘No,' she said in defiance of her own softening attitude.

‘Then I won't tell you,' he said tantalizingly.

‘I do believe you're doing this on purpose,' she burst out in fury. ‘You're finding it fun to taunt me.' Her mind, which was going 'round like a revolving door, admitted a new thought: If you weren't interested, why did you ask me to come here tonight? Her thoughts changed course again and she said with renewed indignation, ‘Unless you've had second thoughts—in which case the decent thing would have been to tell me straight out instead of leading me on like this.'

‘Obviously that's not the case. Would I still want to take you out for a meal if I'd changed my mind?'

‘I don't know. You might—to let me down lightly.'

‘Now why should I want to do that?'

‘You might think I'm inexperienced.'

His brows came down. ‘I'm not sure I like the meaning of that.'

‘I can't see anything to take exception to. I
can
understand that you might want to deal with someone . . . well . . . established. But have you thought that the fact that we're new brooms could be a point in our favor? In the matter of building up good will it's imperative to give efficient, satisfactory service.'

She was conscious of a change in his manner. It might be her imagination, but he seemed a different person than the man who said he thought her name was pretty and told her in all sincerity that she looked all right to him.

No, it wasn't her imagination. He had dropped that teasing smile which had brought the blushes to her cheeks and his attitude had turned colder—icy, even. She didn't know the reason for his rapid personality change and could only stare at him dumbfounded as she tried to puzzle it out.

But what was there to puzzle out? Wasn't it obvious? He was angry because she was refusing to let him wine and dine her. Feminine adoration had ruined him. He was so used to getting his own way with women that when one stood up to him he didn't know how to cope.

If the only way she could get his business was by being ‘nice' to him, she didn't want to know. Let him get his typing done by a more accommodating girl, if that's what he wanted. She wasn't going to lower her principles and be blackmailed into anything, even if it did
mean
the end of Allycats.

‘Apparently we have nothing to discuss, Mr. Hebden. So if you will kindly excuse me, I'll say goodnight.'

‘Don't be so hasty,' he remonstrated sharply. ‘I didn't understand. Now, sit down and let's talk this out. And you can cut out the high-handedness. In the circumstances it's downright ridiculous.'

She was too taken aback to do anything else but comply, but not without a tiny surge of gratitude, because it went against the grain to have to beg for work, and her legs were beginning to shake under the pressure. She didn't think they would have supported her for much longer.

‘I suppose the situation isn't all that unusual,' he said after a moment of brooding contemplation.

She felt instant sympathy for him. ‘You must be heartily sick of being approached in this fashion,' she said. Because obviously that was why he was annoyed. She saw now that he would be a ready target. Typing the manuscripts of such a celebrated author would carry an enormous amount of prestige. Not to mention being the first to read his work, before his publisher and his public.

The look he gave her was wry. ‘I've been approached in this way before. Yes, I'll admit to that. The difference is that I've always been aware of it before. What an extraordinary girl
you
are. I don't know what to make of you. Just as a matter of interest, how did you get involved in this racket?'

‘It was Ally's idea. Her husband died and left her financially insecure. He was ill for a year. He didn't know he was going to die, although Ally did. She thought it better to use their savings to cram a lifetime of all the good things he wouldn't have time to do into one fabulous year, and worry about the consequences of keeping a roof over her head and taking care of Samantha, their daughter, afterward.'

‘Mm.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘I was just wondering what you are. A soft touch or a fool.'

She was instantly on the defensive. ‘Ally didn't twist my arm. I left my secretarial job of my own free will to go in with her, though I was thinking mostly of Ally and little Samantha at the time. The partnership has given her the flexible hours she wouldn't find in a nine to five office job, and I don't regret it. It's opened my eyes to a lot of things. Ally says it's shown her who her friends are, and the same applies to me. It's shown me who
my
friends are, too.'

‘I can imagine,' he said tersely. ‘How old are you?'

‘Twenty-two.'

‘Have you any family?'

‘My
father . . . and I suppose I should also say a stepmother, stepsister and stepbrother, but I don't really know them at all,' she said revealingly.