was clear he was not intent on anything but seeing her safely inside. Leaving a woman alone on the street at night, even at this hour and in this relatively quiet neighbourhood, was, apparently, not something Grant MacLean did—probably, she thought uncharitably, because he was afraid of the possible legal ramifications.
She snapped open her purse and dug out the keys. ‘Here,’ she said, just as coldly. The door swung open and she held out her hand. He ignored it.
‘What floor are you on?’
‘The third. But—’
He took her arm and ushered her to the curving staircase that led up into shadowy darkness. They climbed in silence; when they reached the top floor, Hannah was not foolish enough to try and send him on his way. He was going to see her to her door, that was obvious, and trying to stop him again would only let him emphasise which of them was in control.
So far, she seemed to be losing.
When they reached her door, she stopped and faced him.
‘My keys, please.’ He held them out, his smile as polite as hers. The keys dropped into her open palm. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Goodnight, Mr MacLean.’
‘Miss Lewis?’
She had just inserted her key in the lock when he spoke. What now? she thought irritably, and swung around to face him.
‘Mr MacLean,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s getting late. And——’
The words caught in her throat. He was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that made her wish desperately that she could flee inside and slam the door between them.
‘You’re a hell of a good legal assistant. But you’re a phoney when it comes to being a woman.’
She gasped, but it was too late. His arms went around her, he pushed her against the door, and his mouth came down hard on hers.
He had kissed her twice on this night, but not like this. No man should kiss a woman like this, Hannah thought desperately as she slammed her hands against his chest. This wasn’t a kiss, it was an exercise in control, brute masculine control, passionless and degrading. She whimpered and tried to twist her face from his, but it was impossible.
A shudder went through her, more of abhorrence at this invasion of her senses than of fear. It was as if he’d been waiting for that signal. He drew back instantly. When he spoke, his tone was frigid.
‘I just wanted to be certain there was no mistake about the language. You called me a bully earlier tonight, Hannah. Well, that’s the way a bully would behave.’
‘And what did you expect me to call you?’ Her voice shook as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘My date? My lover?’
‘Ah, Hannah, Hannah.’ He laughed. ‘If I were your lover, I’d kiss you goodnight properly.’ Before she could stop him, he plucked the glasses from her nose. ‘Like this,’ he whispered, and drew her to him.
His mouth caught hers with almost lazy insolence. Hannah tried to pull back, but he clasped her face in his hands and went on kissing her, slowly, gently, his mouth moving on hers, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones—and suddenly, with no warning at all, she felt warmth flood through her body.
The hands that had been pushing against his chest curled into the lapels of his jacket instead. A muted sound of male triumph growled from his throat and he caught her tightly to him, holding her and kissing her until the world had no meaning...
And then he put her from him. Hannah swayed unsteadily on her feet, stunned, trying to make sense out of what had happened. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat she thought he was as confused as she, but then he slipped the glasses back on her nose and she knew it hadn’t been confusion she’d seen at all but smug, patronising satisfaction.
‘Thank you for an interesting evening, Hannah.’ He started for the stairs, then turned back at the last moment. ‘Oh, by the way, it’s all right if you want to come in late tomorrow.’ He laughed softly. ‘Hell, after the hard work you’ve put in, you’re entitled to a good night’s sleep.’
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
HANNAH slipped into a black wool coat-dress, buttoned it, then strode to the mirror and looked at her reflection. Yes. It was perfect. The dress had been an extravagance, costly not because of its classic style but because of the perfection of its fabric and workmanship, bought on sale in a moment of weakness but never yet worn. She’d saved it for a special occasion—but who would have dreamed that that would be the day she left her job? .
Because that was what she would be doing today, she thought grimly as she slipped on black leather pumps. What choice did she have? There wasn’t a way in the world she could to go on working for Grant MacLean. She’d decided that within the first five minutes after he’d left last night.
What had taken a little longer was determining exactly how to quit. Her first instinct had been to just not show up in the morning, let him come to work and find himself without an assistant.
But that would have been a mistake. She was entitled to a decent reference after four years at Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean. More than that, she’d be damned if she didn’t make her reasons for quitting absolutely clear. Otherwise, MacLean would make up a bunch of lies that would salve his monumental ego and leave her looking like a fool.
Hannah stared into the mirror. ‘I am resigning,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘because you, Mr MacLean, are an overbearing, arrogant male chauvinist. And—if they weren’t among the nicer creatures—I’d say “pig,” too.’
He was the kind of man who should wear animal skins instead of Savile Row suits, and to continue in his employ would be sentencing herself to purgatory. Of course, Grant MacLean would not see himself that way. God’s gift to women, that was what he thought he was. Just look at the elaborate plot he’d hatched to evade Magda Karolyi.
Hannah grimaced as she brushed her hair back from her face. And it wasn’t terribly difficult to imagine the scene that must have taken place between him and the woman she’d replaced last night when that nameless fool had begun to expect a more permanent relationship with him.
The man wasn’t any sort of gift as far as she was concerned, Hannah thought as she clipped her hair into place at the nape of her neck. The question wasn’t how many women Grant MacLean had made fools of in the past, it was whether any of them had told him what a bastard he was.
She, however, would. She’d face him in his lair and tell him what she thought of him, because, if she didn’t, he was certain to think he’d triumphed last night when he’d forced his kisses on her. Hell, he’d probably tell himself she was ashamed to face him.
Hannah glared at the mirror. ‘You’d love to think that, Mr MacLean, wouldn’t you?’ she said.
Yes. She just bet he would. It would do a lot more for his overblown ego if he believed she’d clung to him, when in truth the stress of the evening had suddenly caught up to her and taken its toll.
‘It was vertigo, Mr MacLean,’ she said coldly to the mirror. ‘What else did you think it was?’
That he’d forced her into participating in an ugly scheme was bad enough, but then he’d made things even worse by trying to humble her, and all because she’d dared tell him what someone should have told him years ago: that he was a bully and that he couldn’t get away with such behaviour in today’s world.
Hannah glanced into the mirror one last time and permitted herself a faint smile of satisfaction. She looked cool and controlled, the very epitome of a professional.
‘You’re not a woman, Miss Lewis,’ MacLean had said yesterday, ‘you’re my assistant.’
That was exactly right, and why his words should have given her even a moment’s pause was beyond her. She was a professional, not a