Flirting With Intent

About Kelly Hunter

Accidentally educated in the sciences,
KELLY HUNTER
has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds and losing herself in a good book. Husband … yes. Children … two boys. Cooking and cleaning … sigh. Sports … no, not really—in spite of the best efforts of her family. Gardening … yes. Roses, of course. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home.

Kelly’s novels
Sleeping Partner
and
Revealed: A Prince and a Pregnancy
were both finalists for the Romance Writers of America RITA
^®
Award, in the Best Contemporary Series Romance category!

Visit Kelly online at
www.kellyhunter.net

C
HRISTMAS
was commerce and retail excess. Christmas was family and sometimes it was farce.

Add to the day a wide-open wallet and a city bathed in neon and the memory of a Hong Kong Christmas burned brightly for ever. Ruby Maguire—born to riches and living in Hong Kong for over six years now—knew this from experience. Which meant that she should have been able to organise a perfectly splendid Christmas for the children of one of Hong Kong’s foremost investment bankers in her sleep.

A trip to Hong Kong Disney or Ocean Park. A holographic Christmas tree or three. More presents than they knew what to do with, a mad mix of Christmas lanterns and fake winter wonderlands and, if Santa was
really
on the ball, maybe their charming,
handsome, super-important father would put in an appearance and make their day.

Except that the West children were all grown up these days, and, from the snippets of information Russell West’s executive PA had let slip, Russell’s eldest son was unlikely to be in attendance, his firstborn daughter was recovering from serious injury, his other daughter was a reclusive genius, and his fourth-born—another son—was either a crime lord, a charming wastrel or James Bond.

So much for taking them to Disneyland.

Instead, Ruby had decked the halls of Russell West’s pristine marble penthouse with as much high-class folly as she could find. White orchids; real ones. Poinsettias; silk ones. Tapered white candles just waiting to be lit and more fat goldfish for the glass-covered pond. The pond ran beneath the base of the stairs and along the atrium wall until it reached the tiny rooftop terrace where the songbirds reigned supreme. The only thing missing from the scene was a pet cricket in a bamboo cage. For Australian-born Russell West, owning a pet cricket was taking cultural assimilation one chirrup too far.

December twenty-second already, with
the three younger West siblings due to arrive tomorrow. Upon arrival they would find immaculately prepared rooms, festive touches in the strangest places, and reservations for one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants, should they wish to dine out.

Ruby wasn’t a housekeeper or a cook, though her current job strayed into such territory at times. She far preferred to think of herself as Russell West’s social accountant—a position created just for her, out of pity most likely, but she’d tried to make herself useful, and the hefty bonus Russell had just presented her with gave credence to the notion that he thought her service of value.

She wrote Russell’s charity dinner speeches, briefed him on the changes in status of Hong Kong’s elite, and basically made his social engagements as stress-free and fruitful as possible.

Ruby’s latest challenge had been the buying of Christmas gifts for the children of Russell’s employees—an endeavour she had seen to with pleasure. Furthermore, Russell now had an up-to-date database citing the names, birthdates and interests of his employees’ spouses and children. She’d even done one for the wives and children of his
major business contacts. Whether Russell would
use
the information remained to be seen.

Trust a financial wizard to pay absolutely no attention whatsoever to the little things that went such a long way towards the cultivation of solid business relationships in Hong Kong.

As for the choosing of gifts for his
own
children; be they genius, wounded, idle, or missing … that was Ruby’s job too and she had approximately twenty-four hours to do it in. Russell hadn’t even given her a price range, let alone a guide as to what type of gifts they might enjoy.

‘Not even a hint,’ she muttered to herself as she dumped the box of sparkling mineral water on the kitchen counter and opened the French doors leading out to the terrace. ‘It’s not right.’ She plucked a pair of thin plastic gloves from the terrace cupboard and headed for the songbird enclosure.

No tiny bamboo cages for these little oriental white-eyes but a large bamboo aviary that ran the length of the courtyard wall and incorporated branches and greenery, nesting and feeding areas, and a newspaper lined roll-out litter tray that Ruby refreshed every
day. Western, very Western, and a source of no little amusement to many of Russell’s acquaintances, but the birds sang their pleasure, and both Ruby and her employer took pride in the freedom of movement the little birds enjoyed.

‘There should be a rule that says a father should damn well buy Christmas gifts for his children
himself,’
she told the flitty little birds who clung to the side of the cage in greeting. ‘Why is that such a stretch?’

‘Beats me,’ said an amused male voice from the direction of the kitchen, and Ruby glanced around, eyes widening at the splendid vision that had just presented for her perusal. A raven-haired blue-eyed stranger stood just inside the terrace doors, wearing nothing but a snowy-white towel that rode low on his hips and clung lovingly to well-packed thighs. His chest was bare, his shoulders impressive.
Not
an everyday sight in penthouse sixty-one.

‘Who are you?’ she said as she straightened from her crouching position, the roll of bird-dropping stained newspaper still firmly in hand.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ he murmured with a grin that put Ruby in mind of mischief and
at least one other thing she really shouldn’t be thinking about if this was indeed one of Russell’s sons.

‘I’m Russell West’s social organiser,’ she said, ignoring that lazy smile as best she could. ‘And you must be one of his sons. Trouble is, which one?’ She let her gaze drift once more over his very fine form. ‘One of you I wasn’t expecting until tomorrow. The other one I wasn’t expecting at all.’

‘I could be the pool boy.’

‘Yes, and I have absolutely no doubt that you’d make an excellent one, but alas there is no pool.’ Ruby continued to study him. ‘You’d think I’d be able to tell the difference between a mission-fatigued special intelligence officer and a feckless rogue by now, but you know what?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘You could be either.’

‘I’ve never had an insult wrapped so skilfully inside a compliment before,’ he murmured, that devilish gaze of his not leaving her face. ‘You must practise.’

‘And you must be Damon,’ she guessed. ‘Russell’s youngest.’

Ruby dumped the soiled newspaper into the mulching bin, peeled off her gloves and brought forth her manners and her hand. ‘I’m
Ruby Maguire. I’m looking after Christmas for your father.’

‘I see.’ Damon West had a nice touch. Firm but not bone-crunching. A man fully aware of his own strength. ‘How’s that working out for you?’

‘So-so,’ she said and took back her hand. ‘Your sisters are due in on flights tomorrow afternoon. I’m afraid there’s no word from your brother.’

Ruby watched a shadow steal across Damon West’s well-cut face. She was an only child with a raft of step-siblings she tended to avoid. Family politics was not her forte and she had no intention of getting involved in the West family’s woes. ‘I gather you’ve made yourself at home?’ There were half a dozen bedrooms in the marble delight, each with en-suite. ‘You’ve been here before, right? You don’t need the grand tour?’

‘Right.’

‘Coffee?’ Ruby headed for the wondrous stainless-steel-and-glass kitchen and set to washing her hands in the sink there. ‘Tea? Cold drink? I’m hoping it’s too early for gin but you never know in the tropics.’

‘It’s too early for gin,’ Damon said and padded over to the other side of the counter.

‘Coffee would be good. Espresso if it’s an option.’

‘It’s an option.’

‘So … Ruby. You live here?’ he asked just a little too casually as she set up the coffee machine and took a cup from the cupboard.

‘Hardly. No one lives here, unless you count your father sleeping here on occasion and entertaining here every so often. I feed the fish and the birds, water the plants, pick up your father’s dry-cleaning, stock the fridge, organise housekeeping and gardening and prepare for house guests.’

‘Has this always been your lot in life?’

‘No. In another life I was a law graduate working my way through the corporate law system but that all fell through when my father the investment banker decided to go to the Caymans rather than to prison. It was a good call on his part. The prisons here aren’t very nice.’ Ruby opened the fridge and reached for the sugar bowl. ‘Sweetener?’

‘You’re Harry Maguire’s daughter?’

‘Guilty.’ She set the sugar down in front of him and leaned forward, elbows on the counter, wondering just what it was about this man that made her want to poke at him.

‘I’d never have taken you for someone who reads the finance pages?’

‘Sweetheart, your daddy skimming eight hundred and seventy-two million dollars in point-one-cent increments and then disappearing into the ether didn’t
only
make the finance pages. He’s quite the crime star.’ Damon crooked his head in what Ruby decided was reluctant admiration. ‘So, where is he now?’

‘That’s the eight-hundred-and-seventy-two-million-dollar question, Damon. And truthfully, I have no idea.’

‘You weren’t close?’

‘We were very close.’ Ruby dropped her gaze to the glossy countertop and gave him the truth. ‘I grew up in a family of two. Me and my father and a never-ending raft of nannies, butlers, cooks and tutors. I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t.’

‘Because he broke the law? Or because he left you behind?’ asked Damon West gently and Ruby looked at him, really looked at him, and she didn’t see a charming wastrel any more. She saw a man who knew his way around the dark places of a person’s psyche. One who seemed entirely comfortable dealing in shades of grey.

‘The law’s a slippery thing, Damon.’

‘So it is.’ Damon leaned across the counter as if to meet her halfway.

Hard not to let her gaze linger on his mouth but she managed. Hard not to enjoy the potent mix of lazy intensity in his eyes and wonder whether or not it would carry through into the bedroom. A betting woman would have to go with yes.