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bsp; Everyone-including Joanne-had breathed a deep sigh of relief when he had flown back to England that same night, although the next day the office had seemed strangely dull and empty, and the hours endless. His phone calls since then had been spasmodic and often terse, and in the last few days approaching the holiday period her heart had finally accepted what her head had been trying to tell her for weeks-the celibate weekend had convinced him to leave her alone. And instead of the relief that would have been logical in the circumstances there was only a deep, dark, consuming blackness that ate away at her appetite, her sleep, everything that made up life.
She had to get the victory over this. As the taxi-cab whisked her home that night, three days before Christmas, Joanne looked at her wan reflection in the window and sighed heavily. She had enough on her plate as it was-the more she delved into the workings of Bergique & Son, the more she discovered just what a crook Pierre Bergique was and how many dubious deals he'd had going for him-and she just couldn't afford to be distracted by any sort of personal life.
Personal life? The phrase mocked her. Some personal life she had-on a par with the average nun, although if she had to put them side by side the nun would have her vote.
She sighed again, the icy drizzle outside the warmth of the cab clothing everything in a grey gloom that perfectly matched her mood. She wished she'd never stepped foot in France and taken on the daunting task of turning Bergique & Son round, she wished she'd followed her instinct and branched out into pastures new, without any threads from the past still clinging on to her; but most of all, most of all, she wished she'd never heard of Hawk Mallen.
She paid the driver and walked into the house with her head down and her mind a million miles away, and as she bumped into someone in the hall she was just going to apologise when her eyes met the piercing blue gaze that had haunted her for weeks.
'What time do you call this?' He sounded angry and irritated, and from one blinding moment of wild delight she plummeted into raw pain and hurt that he could care so little when she cared so much.
'Nearly ten o'clock,' she said crisply. 'What time do you call it?'
'Too damn late, that's what.' He glared at her, the sapphire eyes as cold as glass. 'I've got better things to do than sit here twiddling my thumbs while you gad about on a date.'
'A date?' Her senses were registering he looked gorgeous, totally drop-dead gorgeous, her fingers were itching to give him a good slap. 'What on earth are you talking about?'
'I'm talking about the reason you are so late home,' he said icily. 'Your hours are nine to four forty-five, and it is now-'
'I know what the darn time is,' she hissed furiously, longing to scream at him but knowing it would fetch Madame Lemoine out of her burrow like a bullet out of a gun. 'And not that it's any of your business, but I've been working, working, like I have done every other night I've been in this damn country. How do you think I've been getting the sort of results I have if I'd limited myself to a nine-to-five mentality? Answer me that! Or do you think I'm one of those females that sits about chatting on the phone all day and painting her toe-nails-?'
'Don't you mean fingernails?' he interjected with sudden and suspicious meekness.
'Fingernails, toenails-the thought's the same,' she bit back angrily. 'Besides which you've got no right to object one way or the other. You didn't tell me you were visiting France-'
'I had a fax sent this morning.'
'Well, I didn't receive it,' Joanne snapped tightly, 'and even if I had, and I'd made previous arrangements of some sort or other, I wouldn't have changed them. You own my work time, Hawk, not the rest of me, so let's get that quite clear.'
'Clear it is.' The coldness had evaporated like the morning mist and pure Mallen charm had taken its place. 'Have you eaten?'
'Eaten?' The sudden switch in mood and conversation had lost her.
'Because if not I would suggest you do so and then get an early night We're flying to the States tomorrow morning, and no doubt you'll want to be up with the lark.'
She nearly said, The States? in the same tone of voice she'd said, 'Eaten?' and stopped herself just in time, taking a deep calming breath before she spoke with a quietness she was proud of considering the circumstances. 'I have no more intention of flying to America in the morning than I have of allowing you to dictate what time I go to bed,' she said firmly. 'I don't know why you're here or what's wrong, but you're not bullying me like you do everyone else, Hawk.'
'My grandfather is worse.' The blue eyes were steady as they held her honey-brown gaze and watched it widen with shock and concern. 'He's expressed a wish to see you.'
'Me?' She stared at him in astonishment.
'You are now in charge of his old friend's pride and joy, Joanne,' Hawk said quietly. 'I would have thought it only natural he wants to see you for himself.'
'Oh, I see.' She didn't, not really; in fact it seemed crazy to request her presence in America when Jed Mallen could have all the relevant facts and figures as to how she was doing in a few moments of time thanks to modem technology. 'But I can't leave tomorrow. I'm sorry, but I just can't. I've things to do, people to see-'
'I thought you said you weren't involved with anyone here,' he said softly, his voice cold again.
'Business people, Hawk.' She glared at him before remembering he must be worried sick about his grandfather, and, making a conscious effort to moderate her tone, she continued, 'There's the matter of Netta Productions for a start. I'm supposed to meet the son of the ex-managing director tomorrow and I need to hear what he wants to say; he's sure his father was bankrupted deliberately-'
'Delegate.'
If he was trying to wind her up he was certainly succeeding, Joanne thought tightly as she struggled to keep any irritation from showing. Delegate indeed! 'It's not as simple as that, as well you know,' she said flatly. 'Surely your grandfather wouldn't mind if I saw him at the end of the month?'
'And what will you do over Christmas-work?' he asked with a curious lack of expression. 'Is that the way you take care of your particular ghosts, Joanne-by pretending they don't exist? Well, I'm sorry, we're flying tomorrow, and the return ticket is for December the twenty-ninth.'
'You mean stay over Christmas?' she asked weakly. 'Is that what you mean?'
