LITMIR.BIZ

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had remained trained on the man who looked like the absolute antithesis of all those things.

      ‘Do you know who that is over there?’ she asked a stockbroker acquaintance who was fishing in the same platter of prawns. ‘The tall, dark man with the killer frown.’

      The woman followed her sight-line and practically shivered when she said his name.

      Blake MacLeod.

      Ryan might accuse her of being more interested in computers than people, but even Nora had heard of Blake MacLeod…vaguely.

      She remembered someone in the office reading aloud from a newspaper column about New Zealand’s biggest domestically owned transport and communications conglomerate. Much of its current strong growth had been credited to the ‘defiantly unpolished’ MacLeod, who was said to be ferociously hard-working and ice-cool under pressure. He had been described as a maverick for his unorthodox views on business, and a brilliant opportunist for his ruthless, take-no-prisoners approach to acquiring ailing competitors. Much had been made of his working-class background, lack of formal qualifications and his cynical disrespect for the financial establishment.

      He was also, she dredged up from the blurred fringes of her recall, an unrepentant bachelor.

      ‘Isn’t he the head of PresCorp?’

      ‘Not yet. He’s Prescott Williams’s chief troubleshooter, but rumour has it that when the old man retires or kicks the bucket, the whole kit-and-caboodle will land fair and square in his lap,’ her informant supplied obligingly. ‘All the PresCorp shares are under Williams’s thumb, but he never married and there aren’t any children to inherit, you see.’ She leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘MacLeod hadn’t even graduated from high school when Williams took him into the firm and made him his pet protégé. Some say it’s because he’s really the old man’s illegitimate son….’

      Nora wasn’t interested in his murky antecedents, only his current personal status. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

      The broker gave Nora’s pale, absorbed face a sidelong look. ‘You want to steer clear of the likes of him,’ she warned kindly. ‘He’s got a bad reputation with women—great in the sack, but an ice-man out of it. Acquires mistresses rather than lovers, and none of them last longer than a couple of months. “Use ’em and lose ’em” seems to be his motto.’

      In other words, he was every bit as dangerous as he looked. Perfect!

      ‘He’s not your type, anyway, Nora,’ the other woman added as a parting shot. ‘His women are all interchangeably gorgeous—and definitely not the kind to take home to Mother, if you know what I mean….’

      She meant that Nora wasn’t his type. No one had ever come even close to calling her gorgeous. The words that had haunted her all evening rang again in her ears:

      I’m sorry, Nora, but you must know this was inevitable. I mean—you’ve been a good mate but, let’s face it, the sex between us has always been pretty pedestrian, hasn’t it? You take ages to get heated up and then you’re only lukewarm. I’m not blaming you—some women are like that—but I need someone who physically excites me….

      As an apology it had been a slap in the face. So he wasn’t blaming her for being stodgy and undersexed—how kind of him! She’d been a virgin when she met Ryan, so how had she been supposed to know that ‘the sex’ was pedestrian? She had never looked upon it as having sex, anyway, she had quaintly imagined that they were making love, sharing more than just their bodies. And he had never given any indication that he was dissatisfied with her lovemaking…or her cooking, or her frequent ironing of his shirts and tidying of his apartment, or the amount of unpaid time she had spent after-hours at Maitlands Consulting, where they both worked, helping him meet his project deadlines.

      Blake MacLeod might be a ‘user’ but at least he was open about it.

      And he was ‘great in the sack’.

      Nora was engulfed by a wave of heat. What she was contemplating was sheer madness, but she had earned the right to go a little crazy. She was tired of people pointing out her limitations. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

      After all, what was the very worst that could happen if she went over and tried out her womanly wiles on Blake MacLeod? An embarrassing snub? Nora was living proof that no one ever died of humiliation.

      On the other hand, in the wilder realms of possibility, if she actually succeeded…

      Her imagination failed her, and Nora took a hasty gulp of her drink to bolster her courage. She could do this. She might not be beautiful but she was smart—smarter, in fact, than Ryan, although she had learnt to downplay the fact when they were in company.

      If only he wasn’t standing next to a window….

      ‘Those who are about to die, salute you,’ she muttered, raising her glass in a fatalistic toast before forging her way through the crowd.

      A passing waitress mistook her gesture for a request for another drink and Nora paused to accept her offer of a refill. She had a feeling that she might need it!

      Progress in her spindly five-inch heels was slow, but given their inherent instability she didn’t dare hurry for fear of twisting an ankle.

      The nearer she got to that lean imposing back, the greater the number of butterflies trapped inside her chest. Her palms went clammy and her breath shortened. With every step she became more aware of the vast expanse of glass beyond him, and the fact that at any moment the dizzying vista could open up beneath her feet. Only by focusing fiercely on the solid breadth of his shoulders could she block out the incipient panic, and by the time she fetched up behind him she was wound as tight as a drum.

      At the last moment, with her hand reaching out to tap him on the shoulder and what she hoped was a mysterious Mona Lisa smile pinned to her lips, her nerve failed.

      She jerked her hand back and wheeled away, but the sharp movement dislodged the clutch-bag wedged under her armpit and it thudded to the floor, the faulty catch springing open to disgorge the contents.

      ‘Oh, no!’ Nora sank down on her knees amongst the forest of legs, trying to hold her wineglass on an even keel as she started to rake her possessions back into the yawning maw of the capacious bag with her other hand. To her mortification a floral-wrapped tampon had rolled up against the swivelling toe of a highly polished masculine shoe. She swept it up in her palm and thrust it into the dark recesses of her bag as the shoe flexed and the owner came down in a crouch beside her.

      ‘Allow me…’ Blake MacLeod’s amused grey eyes met her horrified ones as he picked up a pair of low-heeled black velvet shoes wedged one inside the other, and handed them to her.

      ‘You carry an extra pair of shoes in your handbag?’ he said, under cover of the party noise which buzzed uninterrupted over their heads.

      His voice was a deep, soft drawl that sent sensual ripples across Nora’s exposed nerves.

      ‘They’re for driving,’ she said quickly, avoiding his gaze as she stuffed them awkwardly into the bag. Thank goodness he had politely ignored the tampon!

      ‘Really?’

      Sensitised by her agonised embarrassment, she was quick to detect the lilt of scepticism. God, she was such a terrible liar. Why did she even bother?

      ‘No, not really,’ she confessed helplessly, sinking down on her folded legs. ‘I—that is, I bought the ones I’m wearing on the way to the party.’ She couldn’t believe that he had actually stooped to help her. Was this fate’s reward, or punishment, for her moment of cowardice? ‘At the hotel boutique downstairs. I was passing and saw them in the window and, well…’

      He tipped his head to look down at her feet, tucked beneath her bottom, and blinked, his hard mouth kicking up, revealing the unexpected fullness of his lower lip. ‘Let me guess—you just had to have them….’

      He made her sound wickedly self-indulgent, used to the instant

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