Mr. Irresistible Page 4

  It wasn’t true. The giving hadn’t been one-sided. Kate thought of the interminable work functions she’d attended; the deals Peter had made as a result of her growing reputation; the huge efforts she’d made with his dysfunctional family. She wanted to protest, but then she thought of her response to Jordan’s kiss and said nothing. Numbly, she picked up the ring and put it back on her finger. He was right; it was over. She’d do what she could to mitigate his embarrassment.

  Peter stood up. “For the next month, we’ll be too busy working to see each other…maybe the breakup can be attributed to that. I’ll think about it and let you know.” He threw a bill on the table and picked up his coat.

  “Don’t let us end like this, Peter. Please.” They’d known each other for twelve years, been each other’s safe haven.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he left.

  Kate was in the car park when the shaking started. She fumbled to unlock her car door, scrambled in and gripped the steering wheel to steady herself, but she couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. Everyone she cared about was leaving her.

  She dug into her handbag for tissues and dried her eyes, then flipped down the visor and checked her face in the tiny mirror. For once she wished she carried more makeup. No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk had been her mother’s motto. Mop Up as Best You Can and Get On With It.

  On her way to work Kate stopped at a gas station and used their restroom to splash cold water over her eyes. She’d give anything to go home right now, but she wouldn’t shirk her responsibilities, unless she was really sick.

  Sick at heart didn’t cut it.

  THE BOYS WERE NOT AMUSED.

  Jordan saw that at a glance when he returned from lunch with Meg, to find his two partners waiting for him at reception, their expressions grim.

  “You’re in trouble,” murmured his secretary.

  “You tackle the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right,” he suggested, and startled his fifty-five-year-old assistant into an ill-advised laugh.

  The faces of his two friends darkened. “For God’s sake, Meg, don’t encourage him,” snapped Christian.

  If Christian couldn’t see a funny side, then something was seriously wrong. Jordan glanced at Luke’s clenched jaw, and without another word, beckoned them toward the boardroom.

  Christian barely waited until the door was shut. “I had a call from social services. All this negative publicity around your, quote, ‘home-wrecking affair’ unquote, is giving them second thoughts about the camp.”

  Jordan frowned. “Did you explain the situation?”

  “Yeah, and they don’t care. What they want is damage control—and fast.”

  Shit. “But she only wrote one column…one making the link. The second was tongue-in-cheek.”

  “Social services don’t have a sense of humor. All they see is that an influential columnist from a reputable paper doesn’t like you.”

  “If you recall, we did try and tell you that,” said Luke grimly. “You’re also front page news in Beacon Bay.” He thrust out a faxed copy, and Jordan read the headline with a sinking heart: Camp Trustee’s Ethics Called into Question. Luke started pacing the boardroom. “And you know some locals already oppose having so-called delinquents staying nearby.”

  Jordan’s hesitation lasted a split second. “Then I’ll resign as trustee,” he said, giving no hint of what the offer cost him. He turned and poured a coffee.

  “We thought of that,” Christian admitted from behind him. “But your resignation now would be an admission of guilt, and you’re not guilty.”

  “I can live with that,” Jordan insisted.

  “Besides…” Christian continued as though he hadn’t spoken “…you’d still be the other trustees’ business partner and friend—”

  “And those links can’t be severed,” finished Luke.

  Jordan swallowed a lump in his throat. He didn’t give a damn about his reputation, but he cared about theirs. And he cared about the camp. It had begun as Luke’s project; both he and Christian had survived terrible childhoods and wanted to use some of their wealth to help kids in the same predicament.

  Though a passionate supporter, Jordan had always felt something of a fraud. He was the oldest of five in a close-knit family, and the only tragedy to touch his life had been his father’s death when Jordan was twenty.

  From birth he’d been the golden boy—he’d even won a university scholarship before building his multimillion-dollar business. Maybe that’s why he was so careless of public opinion. Now a series of stupid choices threatened not only a cause that was hugely important to his best friends, but a project that could offer hope to hundreds of needy kids.

  Nothing mattered now but the fix. “Okay,” he said gruffly, “here’s my plan B.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU WANT AN INTERVIEW, I’m here to offer you one.”

  Kate relaxed in her chair. She’d been bracing herself for another tirade. Though she’d die before she’d let Jordan know it. He did scare her. But not with his outrageous demands.

  No, what frightened her was her body’s traitorous response to him. Even now, verging on loathing him after what his kiss had cost her, she’d found her pulse quickening when he’d sauntered uninvited into her office.

  “The office for bad jokes is down the hall,” she muttered, too bruised and battered to be clever right now. Then she saw his expression and her eyes widened. “You’re serious.” Every journalist in the country wanted to talk to this man. “What are you up to?”

  Jordan raised his hands, palms up. “There’s no pleasing you, is there?” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “I also wanted to apologize for the other night.” He smiled so beautifully that he only needed little angels playing harps around his head to make him appear more saintly. The smell of rat got stronger. “I’m taking a couple of kids canoeing on the Whanganui River to test it as a possible activity for the camp. Come with us.”

  Kate gave him her best basilisk stare; his expression remained guileless. Maybe she was being paranoid. “Well, I guess I could spare a half day,” she said cautiously. Opening her desk drawer, she grabbed her diary.

  “Actually, it’s five days,” he replied firmly.

  Kate’s professional interest wavered under a stronger instinct for self-preservation. But she didn’t want to lose the interview altogether. “My schedule doesn’t allow for trips…but I can find time for a long lunch.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already cleared it with your editor.”

  The penny finally dropped. Kate picked up her pen and started playing with it. She didn’t want to believe she’d been sold down the river. “And if I conclude you’re still a moral vacuum?”

  “You won’t,” Jordan replied confidently. “Besides, strictly speaking, you’re not writing about me. You’re writing about the work I’m doing with Camp Chance.”

  “Am I,” she said in a dangerous voice.

  “And your publisher thinks it’s a great idea.”

  “Does she?” Kate leaned forward. “Tell me, Jordan,” she said softly, “how it is that last week you told me all the strings you could pull, but wouldn’t, and now, a week later, you’re pulling them? How is it—” she pinned him with her gaze “—that last week you believed in my integrity, which, incidentally, did allow me to give you the benefit of the doubt when I calmed down, and now you’re trying to compromise the very integrity you so admire?”

  He didn’t look away. “I haven’t pulled any strings other than informing your editor and your publisher that I’m available.”

  “You know—” Kate sat back in her chair “—you can remove every doubt I have about your integrity by getting up right now and leaving my office.”

  He did stand up, but only to walk to the window. With his back to her, he said brusquely, “I’m afraid this has gone past what you and I want.”

  “Fine. If you won’t go, I will.” Getting up, she walked out of the room.

  “
Kate, let me explain,” Jordan called after her.

  Her father used to say that. Kate kept on walking.

  In the staff room, she jerked her head toward a table of colleagues by way of greeting, then got her mug from the pantry. She was so angry, her hand trembled over the selection of tea bags. Kate opted for calming chamomile, jammed one into the mug and filled it with boiling water.

  “We haven’t finished,” Jordan said from behind her, and she jumped.

  Kate stabbed at the tea bag with a spoon until it sank, then turned around and said loudly, “It seems to me you have a problem with the big N-O, Mr. King. I’m the only woman who hasn’t been suckered in by the phony charm, and you can’t stand it.” As she’d intended, there was a stir of sideways glances. Now he’d back off.

  “Then why did you kiss me last week?” he challenged.

  Kate led the way back to her office and slammed the door behind him. “Get out of my life.”

  “Point of order, before you get all pious about my integrity, lady. After what happened between us, getting engaged to Peter wasn’t only dishonest, it was dishonorable.”

  She clenched her fists. “The only dishonorable thing I’ve ever done was let you kiss me that night…another corruption coup for Jordan bloody King.”

  “I’m not here to fight with you!” Jordan realized he was shouting, and struggled to regain control. He hadn’t intended to bring up the engagement, because he knew she’d get defensive. But the way she kept looking at him, as though he was something she’d stood in, infuriated him.

  “The camp’s at a critical stage of the approval process, and your column made social services jumpy. A positive follow-up would make a huge—”

  “So finding yourself without a reputation, you want to bum a ride on mine. Well, it’s not for sale. You slept with a married woman. You kissed me knowing I had a boyfriend.”

  “And you kissed me back,” he reminded her, holding in his temper. “Which just goes to show that people sometimes do things they regret. You know I didn’t think she was married, and as for our kiss, I wouldn’t have given in to temptation if your boyfriend hadn’t already proved himself an asshole by…” He stopped himself just in time. In her mood, she’d kill the messenger.

  Her expression grew intent. “By…?”

  “Nothing.” Jordan turned away.

  “Well, I hate to tell you this, but schmoozing with my editor and publisher won’t get you anywhere. My contract gives me power of veto.”

  His frustration got the better of him again. “Even if I was morally bankrupt, who suffers if social services pulls the plug? Me? No. The kids.”

  She hadn’t expected it to go that far; he could tell by the dismay on her face. “Is that really what they’re threatening?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate folded her arms. “Then the solution’s obvious. Resign as trustee.”

  “My ties to the camp are too complicated for that.”

  “Damn it,” she cried, “this is emotional blackmail.” Kate turned her back on him and stared out the window. Jordan held his breath and waited.

  “Okay,” she said at last, through gritted teeth. “I’ll come.”

  Thank you, God.

  She turned around, stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “But if at the end of five days I still think you’re a lousy person to be involved in a kids’ camp, I’ll write that.”

  Jordan nodded. No arguments now, you sweet, sweet woman, and none for five days.

  “Deal?”

  He took a deep breath. How hard could it be to get this woman to like him?

  “Deal,” he said.

  When he’d left, Kate turned back to the window. Outside, a brisk wind rustled the leaves of the maple, stark and solitary on the inner-city street. She pressed her hands across the cold pane, then rested her head against the cool glass.

  Her life had been so orderly just ten days ago. Scrupulously tidy, with the past diligently polished to a reflective shine, showing her only what she wanted to see. One lousy newspaper column and a kiss…and now she was committed to a river trip with a man she wished to God she’d never set eyes on.

  “Are you okay?”

  Hearing the concern in Lucy’s voice, Kate pushed back from the window. “Hey, you. Yep, absolutely fine.” Avoiding meeting her best friend’s eyes, she went back to her desk and picked up her handbag. “Let’s go,” she said brightly. If she’d remembered they were going for a drink after work she would have canceled.

  Lucy put an arm around her shoulders. “What’s the matter, hon?”

  Kate’s throat tightened. On the other hand, she really needed a friend right now.

  THE CLOCK IN THE BAR chimed eight and, as if on cue, Lucy leaned across the table. One elbow missed the tabletop and they both laughed. Kate realized her friend was tipsy and, looking at her own empty glass—their third round—she decided she must be, too.

  Confiding to Lucy that she’d kissed Jordan back had been a mistake. Her best friend had never liked Peter, and while she was full of sympathy for Kate’s heartbreak, she saw no reason why Jordan—now that the moral issue had been cleared up to Lucy’s satisfaction—couldn’t help her get over him.

  “Obviously, Jordan King’s not husband material,” she repeated. “But as I’ve said before, you need fun in your life.”

  “Who does he remind you of?” Kate said abruptly.

  Lucy looked blank.

  “Let me paint you a picture. Someone handsome and charismatic, popular with the ladies—too popular. Unreliable, self-indulgent, careless of people he loves…his kids, his wife.” She watched comprehension dawn on her friend’s face.

  “Jordan King reminds you of your father?”

  “Reminds me?” With a bitter laugh, Kate picked up her glass. “Haunts me, more like. A playboy holds no appeal for me, Luce. I grew up around a dynamic, exciting man, and charm wears thin when there are bills to pay. When a man cares more about satisfying his appetites than he does about the well-being of people he supposedly loves.”

  Her voice hardened. “I’ve done that to death, and there’s no way I’ll ever do it again. Give me a man who works hard, is faithful, pays his bills and has no imagination for sin.” She swirled the red wine in her glass. Feeling a surge of grief, she put it down. Oh, Pete.

  Lucy reached over and squeezed her hand, and Kate noticed her friend’s eyes were moist. She forced a smile and sat back, signalling the waiter for coffee. “I’ll get over it,” she said. “I will.” If she said it enough times…Kate sighed. “Given everything, the big question is can I keep an open mind about Jordan King?”

  She lifted her eyes to Lucy’s. “I’d like to think I’m still big enough to do that, but…”

  The waiter delivered their coffee, and Kate paused until he left. “I haven’t liked what I’ve learned about myself over the past week, and I don’t know anymore, Luce. I just don’t know.”

  DARLING GIRL.

  Cliff sat on the front step of his bungalow with a South Sea mistral leathering his already weather-beaten face and chewed his pen. Now what? The surf breaking on the coral reef beyond the lagoon caught his eye, and he wrote, The wind direction could be good for fishing later.

  Fay came out onto the deck, wrapped in one of her hand-painted pareus, and he allowed himself to be distracted by its vibrant crimson and azure.

  Most Europeans wore pareus with a tourist’s self-consciousness, but Fay moved with the graceful assurance of a local. Her hair—bleached by sun and peroxide—was still damp from her recent shower.

  She picked a golden-hearted frangipani from the tree beside the deck. Then teased him by tucking it behind her left ear, signaling her availability, though she’d lived as his wife for close to four years.

  Cliff regularly asked her to marry him, but she always refused. “With your track record? You’ve got to be kidding.” She would never be a woman he could take for granted; it was one of the things he loved about her.

  She gave him a coq
uettish look that sat surprisingly well on a woman past sixty. “Write your letter.”

  Obediently, he looked down. My darling girl…

  By Cliff’s count, he’d written some eighty letters over the past seven years. And though they returned like homing pigeons, he liked to write each one as though a dialogue had continued unbroken over the years of estrangement.

  Since I last wrote, Fay and I have moved. We’re now renting a bungalow on Muri Beach, only twenty steps from the water.

  Cliff paused to look at the lagoon, crystal clear at the shoreline, fading into sky-blue as it deepened. You kids would love it here, he wrote, because he was an optimist.

  He picked up his pineapple juice, savored its icy sweetness before swallowing.

  Given the magnitude of his task, he had to be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  STANDING BY HER CAR, jarred and dusty from driving on dirt roads, Kate took one look at Jordan’s formidable back and her heart sank.

  In the late morning sun, his hair shone like gold as it streamed over the collar of his Swanndri bush jacket. The set of those broad shoulders was too confident, and his deft hands securing a load in one of two canoes—bright red and already half-full of waterproof storage barrels—were brown and callused. He looked horribly, seriously virile—and that was just his back.

  What the hell do you think you’re doing? You hate nature in the raw, your rowing skills are nonexistent and you’re scared of animals. Jordan turned and grinned. Especially wild ones.

  The small rise on which Kate stood fell rapidly to the rough clay clearing on the steep, forested banks of the Whanganui River. Wide, black and swift, the river cut through the dense green like a superhighway, its color softening to rust-brown as it eddied into the shallows where the canoes were beached.

  Camping gear lay on the grassy bank, waiting to be stowed. I’m next, she thought, and all the queasiness of the long drive returned.