First-Class Seduction Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Other Books by

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  “Feeling rough?” a sympathetic male voice asked, close to her ear.

  Her eyes flew open. As her vision adjusted, a lean, attractive face, the jaw rough with morning stubble, came into focus.

  He was lying beside her, propped on one elbow, a sheet pulled up to his middle. His muscular shoulders and tanned chest were bare.

  So, undoubtedly, was the rest of him.

  Bel sat up with a jerk. She, too, was naked.

  His appreciative gaze strayed over her and lingered on her mouth. “You’re even lovely first thing in the morning with a hangover.”

  She pushed back the sheet and attempted to get out of the bed. The sudden movement sent her head spinning.

  It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if the man beside her had been the man she was going to marry, but for it to be Andrew Storm…!

  LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

  Books by Lee Wilkinson

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS® 1991—A HUSBAND’S REVENGE 1933—THE SECRET MOTHER 2024—WEDDING FEVER

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  First-Class Seduction

  LEE WILKINSON

  CHAPTER ONE

  THOUGH lunchtime was almost over, the quiet backstreet restaurant was still fairly full.

  Bel Grant had just paid her bill and was preparing to leave when she noticed Mortimer Harmen, their company secretary, sitting at a corner table. In a reflex action she ducked her smooth blonde head.

  She disliked and distrusted Harmen, and avoided him whenever possible.

  Handsome in a beefy, florid way, his smile brash, his manner bold, he clearly thought he was God’s gift to women.

  He made Bel squirm.

  Even during business meetings his pale blue eyes always seemed to be stripping her. The last thing she wanted now was for him to spot her and insist on walking back to the office with her.

  A surreptitious glance showed that, though at the coffee stage, he was still deep in conversation with his luncheon companion, a dark-haired man who had his back to Bel.

  She picked up her bag, and was making her way to the door when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harmen rise to his feet. He appeared to be looking in her direction. Muttering, ‘Oh, hell!’ she dived into the Ladies.

  While she waited for the coast to be clear Bel checked her appearance. She hardly looked like a fugitive, she thought quizzically.

  Mirrored walls reflected a slim, charmingly businesslike woman wearing a charcoal suit and white blouse. Her gleaming ash-blonde hair was up in a neat chignon. Her oval face, with its small neat nose and generous mouth, the clear green eyes perfectly set and slightly elongated, was cool and composed, and free of make-up.

  Though her father owned the cosmetics company she worked for, Bel used few of their products. Well marked brows and lashes several shades darker than her hair, combined with a flawless skin, did away with the need—except for evenings out or special occasions.

  After hovering impatiently for two or three minutes, afraid she would be late for the two o’clock board meeting, Bel cautiously emerged.

  The table Harmen and his companion had shared was now vacant, and there was no immediate sign of her bête noire.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she was making a beeline for the door when she cannoned into a tall, muscular figure and went staggering back.

  Lean hands shot out and gripped her shoulders, steadying her. She found herself looking up into a pair of thickly lashed eyes the exact colour of woodsmoke, and was suddenly breathless.

  Telling herself it was the impact that had robbed her of breath, she stammered, ‘I—I’m so sorry.’

  He said nothing, but as he studied her face a flame kindled and leapt in those smoky eyes.

  An answering spark, a flare of excitement, of sexual awareness, ran through her, heating her blood and bringing a flush to her cheeks while she stood staring into his eyes as if mesmerised.

  Then those handsome eyes blurred out of focus, and for an instant firm lips touched hers.

  Drawing a deep, shocked breath, she pulled herself free and hurried out, refusing to glance back.

  To any onlookers they must have appeared to be lovers taking leave of each other rather than total strangers.

  She felt shaken and indignant, furious with him, and with herself, because she was forced to recognise that his powerful masculinity had appealed to everything feminine in her.

  Trying to push the disturbing little incident to the back of her mind, Bel headed for Hyde Park, where the dusty trees and yellowing grass of late summer baked in the hot sun.

  The offices of Grant Filey Cosmetics were situated in an elegant Georgian house in a quiet cul-de-sac close to the park.

  ‘Made it in the nick of time,’ the young receptionistcum-secretary in the outer office greeted her. ‘The others have already gone through to the boardroom.’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie.’ Bel smiled at the girl before making her way to the inner sanctum and sliding into her chair with seconds to spare.

  It was a hot day, and Harmen, already seated, was mopping his red perspiring face with a silk handkerchief that matched his flamboyant tie.

  At the head of the table, Bel’s father, Peter Grant, a grey-haired, nice-looking man, his usually cheerful face set and serious, rose to address this emergency meeting of the board of directors.

  ‘We seem to have a potentially dangerous situation on our hands. Someone has already bought up a lot of our privately owned shares, and is apparently on the look-out for more. Whoever is buying seems to be working undercover, and all the signs point to the fact that it’s an attempt at a hostile take-over…’

  Bel, sitting on her father’s right, already knew the disturbing news he was telling the rest of the board, and was aware that he was blaming himself for not having acted sooner to safeguard the company.

  The previous evening, his brown eyes showing his anxiety, he’d admitted, ‘It was a mistake to let Ellen keep those shares.’

  Ellen, blonde and beautiful, friendly and ingenuous, closer to Bel’s age than Peter’s own, was his second and recently divorced wife.

  At the time of the divorce Peter had been under financial pressure, and as part of the settlement had agreed to let Ellen retain a block of Grant Filey shares, relatively unimportant in themselves, but crucial in the present situation.

  Trying to reassure her father, Bel had said with more confidence than she’d felt, ‘Surely she wouldn’t sell them without consulting you?’

  The split had been an amicable one, and they had all remained the best of friends, but Ellen had no head for business, and what she wouldn’t do out of malice she m
ight well do out of ignorance, if approached.

  ‘I wish I could be certain of that,’ he’d answered, frowning. ‘I’ll be happier when I can get hold of her and make sure she doesn’t’

  ‘How long was she planning to be away?’

  ‘I don’t really know. She just left a message on the answering machine saying she was looking forward to having a few days in Paris and she’d be in touch.’

  Monitoring her father’s face now, anxious on his behalf, Bel sighed. After more than a year of financial problems, he could well have done without this latest worry.

  Now, as the meeting continued, her attention gradually drifted away from business matters, and she found herself remembering those extraordinary blue-grey eyes that had looked into hers.

  With a shiver of something akin to apprehension, she recalled the flame that had sprung to life in their smoky depths as he’d studied her face, and her own instinctive response to that sexual challenge.

  He must have been tall, over six feet, but apart from his eyes, and an impression of lean toughness, she had no real idea what he looked like.

  Remembering the feel of his lips on hers, and still feeling flustered and angry, she went hot all over. Though the contact had been fleeting, there had been nothing in the least diffident about his kiss. It had seemed like a declaration of intent, a statement of impending ownership…

  Oh, don’t be ridiculous! she told herself sharply. It could only have been an impulse on his part. He’d seen a chance and taken it. Nothing more or less.

  But the thing she found most incredible, and disturbing, was that a perfect stranger she probably wouldn’t even recognise if she saw again had been able to affect her so strongly.

  In an effort to banish the memory, Bel stared at the diamond solitaire on her engagement finger. If Roderick knew what she was thinking and feeling, he would be astounded.

  Just the other night, when she’d called a halt to his lovemaking, he’d said, his smile a shade rueful, ‘You always manage to stay cool and in control. Don’t you find it hard?’

  A little guiltily she’d realised it wasn’t hard at all. She found it easy.

  Too easy?

  Concerned, she’d asked him, ‘You don’t think I’m really cold, do you?’

  He’d answered, ‘No, my sweet, I don’t. No one with a mouth like yours could be cold. I just think you know the value of chastity, to use an old-fashioned word, and that makes you very special and precious.’

  For a while Bel managed to keep her mind safely on her fiancé, but soon her recalcitrant thoughts strayed to the disconcerting stranger once more.

  Scared of the effect that brief encounter still had on her, she told herself it was a relief to know they would never meet again.

  Yet somehow, despite the fact that she knew he spelt danger, it felt more like regret.

  When the board meeting finally ended, and the directors, talking amongst themselves, had filed out, Bel turned to her father and asked, ‘Sure you won’t change your mind and come to Kent this weekend?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Patting her hand reassuringly, he added, ‘I prefer to be in London in case Ellen tries to contact me…Is Roderick picking you up?’

  ‘He’s out of town on business, so as soon as I’ve showered and changed I’m driving down.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get off home, then. See if you can beat the rush hour.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t spend the weekend worrying.’

  ‘Indeed I won’t,’ he said, a shade too heartily. ‘As long as Ellen hangs onto those shares there’s not that much to worry about.’

  ‘You’ll let me know if you hear from her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The house Bel lived in was on the corner of a tree-shaded square less than fifteen minutes’ walk from the office. Number ten Clorres Place, which was fronted by black spiky railings, had been divided into three self-contained flats.

  Bel had the basement.

  Having descended the wrought-iron steps to a paved area brightened by tubs of flowers and a long windowbox overflowing with orange nasturtiums, she let herself into the small, white-walled flat and kicked off her smart court shoes.

  After a cool, refreshing shower, leaving her long hair loose, she changed into a navy sleeveless dress and flatheeled sandals.

  These days she seldom wore high heels. Roderick was a bare inch taller than her five feet seven, and she had discovered quite early in their relationship that he hated to be loomed over.

  Her weekend case was packed and waiting. She collected it and, after walking round the corner to a sidestreet which bore the sign ‘Tenants Only Parking’, got into her white Cavalier.

  She was ahead of the Friday afternoon rush hour and her journey out of London was comparatively easy. While she drove she considered the coming weekend.

  Roderick, an only son, backed by the Bentinck family money, was in banking. He owned a bachelor pad in the City but, having no great liking for town life, preferred to escape into the country from Friday until Sunday.

  His parents, who were always delighted to see Bel, had given her an open invitation, and after she had become engaged to Roderick she had usually accompanied him.

  Her father had occasionally been persuaded to join them on what, apart from the odd game of tennis, were essentially peaceful, relaxing weekends.

  But on this occasion, because it was the Bentincks’ fortieth wedding anniversary the following day, there was to be a weekend get-together. It was due to begin with a Friday evening party to welcome both visiting relatives and guests.

  Bel had been looking forward to it until the previous day, but now worry cast something of a blight.

  As soon as the Cavalier drew up on the paved apron in front of the mellow creeper-covered walls, Daphne Bentinck, a slight woman with grey hair curling around a cheerful face, came out to greet her.

  ‘How lovely to see you!’ she exclaimed as Bel got out of the car.

  Defying the heat in a mauve twin-set and pearls, she gave her future daughter-in-law a quick hug before rattling on in her usual non-stop, staccato fashion.

  ‘Roderick isn’t home yet, I’m afraid, and I have to pop into the rectory. Such a nuisance. But you won’t mind taking care of yourself, will you? You’re in the rose room as usual.

  ‘I’ve left the front door open for you. Leave your car where it is; Thomas will move it later. Tell Maggie to make you a pot of tea and some sandwiches to tide you over. Must dash…’

  She trotted off at speed towards an elderly Bentley parked in front of a stable block long since converted into garages.

  Smiling, Bel took her case from the car and, leaving the keys in the ignition, made her way to the house.

  As she entered the long, oak-panelled hall Margaret McDougal appeared and asked cheerfully, ‘You’ll be wanting some tea?’

  ‘I’d love a cup. When I’ve put my case in my room I’ll come down to the kitchen, if you like, and save your legs.’

  As soon as Bel reached the pleasant, familiar room, with its rose-patterned wallpaper and light fashionable furniture, she unpacked and made sure the present she was carrying was safe.

  A Jesse Harland figurine to add to Daphne and Roger Bentinck’s priceless collection, it was simple and oddly moving—a boyish figure of a young girl in jeans, the head tilted slightly, the gaze shy but steady.

  Roderick had suggested that, to get the maximum effect, instead of having it gift-wrapped it should simply appear on the Bentincks’ breakfast table the following morning, and she had agreed.

  Putting it carefully on the dressing table, Bel went to wash her hands and run a comb through her hair before making her way down to the huge kitchen.

  On the oak table, large enough to have graced a medieval banqueting hall, Maggie had set out a tray with a freshly brewed pot of tea, a plate of dainty sandwiches and a selection of home-made cake.

  ‘That looks wonderful,’ Bel said appreciatively.

  ‘Then sit yourself do
wn.’

  ‘Won’t you have a cup with me?’ Bel asked.

  ‘Aye, I might that.’

  Maggie filled two cups with the steaming amber liquid, and the women sipped in amicable silence.

  Peckish, after a salad lunch, and with no need to calorie-count to keep her slim figure, Bel ate a couple of the sandwiches and a piece of cake. She was on her second cup of tea when the door opened and Roderick came in.

  Though he couldn’t be termed handsome, be was a pleasant-looking man, with fine brown hair, a thin, intelligent face and clear hazel eyes.

  His small features, slightly sloping shoulders, and neat hands and feet made him appear somewhat prissy.

  Which he wasn’t

  He was open-minded, humorous, and excellent company, and Bel had liked him since they’d met at a business conference early in the spring.

  ‘So there you are.’ He stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘I saw the car, and when you were nowhere about I thought you must have gone for a walk or something.’

  Dropping into the seat Maggie had vacated, he asked, ‘I take it you saw Mother? Did she tell you she’s had to invite Suzy for the weekend?’

  Without waiting for an answer to either question, he went on, ‘It was a bit awkward, as her parents are two of our oldest friends. When they were invited, it was understood that Suzy would still be abroad. But she came home yesterday, and Mother had no option but to extend the invitation to her. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Bel told him, while admitting silently that she would have preferred the other girl to be safely abroad.

  It wasn’t so much that she didn’t like Suzy, as that Suzy didn’t like her.

  Barely eighteen, and spoilt rotten, the pretty, petite redhead hero-worshipped Roderick and had been devastated when she’d lost out to another woman.