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‘Cheryl-Ann likes everything in life to be pleasant and predictable. Particularly her men.’
‘Are there so many of them?’ she asked curiously. ‘I thought you two were a big item.’
‘And I thought you didn’t believe everything Merrilyn tells you. More champagne?’ he said, and splashed some into her glass from the carelessly offered bottle. Most of it slopped over the edge and onto her fingers.
‘Sorry,’ he said as she sucked in a gasp at the sudden chill. ‘Would you like me to lick it off for you? No free hands.’ He extended his arms wide in explanation, his unbuttoned jacket splitting wide over his snowy pleated shirt-front, now lightly frosted with bubbles.
‘No, thank you,’ she said primly, pushing away the unsettling thought of his tongue stroking across her skin. ‘But if you’ll hand me the bottle I’ll pour myself some more—I don’t trust your aim.’
He laughed again, and tucked the bottle under his arm. ‘I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.’
She shrugged. ‘It was worth a try. You could be a bit more co-operative.’
‘Why should I?’ His mouth turned down, making him look wilful and determined to be difficult. She was reminded that while he seemed preternaturally mature, and commanded a lot of power
in his position, exuding an air of intimidating and apparently effortless authority, he was still four years her junior. She should be able to handle him with one hand tied behind her back!
‘Well, surely you don’t want people to think that you’re a lush?’ she wheedled.
‘I’m rich enough not to have to care what people think,’ he said, with breathtaking arrogance and unfortunate accuracy. ‘But, as it happens, I have none of the usual vices.’
‘Just the unusual ones?’ hazarded Rachel unwisely.
‘What would you classify as unusual?’ he murmured in a sultry undertone, his dark eyes suddenly uncomfortably curious. She was acutely aware of his closeness, and the restless energy that seethed through his body, creating an invisible charge that made her exposed skin feel supersensitive to the sultry air.
‘Never mind,’ she said hurriedly, running her hand nervously through her hair. At this rate she would soon be tearing it out! ‘Look, can we just agree that you’ll moderate your behaviour for Merrilyn’s sake?’
‘Not for yours? After all, you seem to be the only one willing to brave my drunken wrath. Why is that, by the way?’ Cynicism coated his voice as he speculated. ‘What’s in this for you?’ His eyes narrowed as he leapt from cynicism to suspicion. ‘In fact, what are you doing here at all? Merrilyn’s guests are all from the ranks of Auckland’s social élite, the movers and shakers—on what grounds do you qualify?’
Rachel hesitated.
‘I happen to be her personal trainer,’ she said, but she had spoken a heartbeat too late. Even steeped in alcohol Matthew Riordan’s brain was unnervingly quick.
‘My God, could it be that you’re not really here as a guest at all?’ he murmured, with the beginnings of a goading smile. ‘That you’re just the hired help! I saw a car with Weston Security markings in the driveway—is that why you’re here? Helping make sure that we movers and shakers aren’t slyly pocketing the silverware?’ He began to laugh, uninhibitedly.
‘Could you please keep your voice down?’ she snapped, looking over her shoulder at the people watching from the terrace.
His laughter abated to a taunting grin. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You and that bulky young man on the door are playing on the same team.’
‘WSS is supplying the security coverage here tonight, yes,’ she admitted stiffly.
He rocked on his heels, shaking his head. ‘I just don’t believe it!’
Rachel had had enough of being the target for his amusement. ‘What? That we’re capable of doing a first-rate job? You may have chosen to think otherwise, but Westons has a string of very satisfied private and corporate clients who are extremely impressed with the services we deliver—’
‘And what little service are you, personally, delivering this evening?’ he wondered, with a mocking leer at her exposed skin. ‘A “relief” massage for the stressed-out cat burglar?’
Even though she’d thought she was inured to sly jokes about being a masseuse, Rachel found herself blushing.
‘I’m in charge!’ she threw at him, and when his eyebrows climbed above the frames of his glasses she sucked in a furious breath at his provoking scepticism. ‘You know damned well from reading our bids that I’m a qualified security guard—’
‘With the ink barely dry on your certificate,’ he charged.
‘And a licensed private detective—’
‘Ditto…both of which only serve to prove that you passed a police vetting of your background.’
‘And in monitoring private functions like this, where there’s a lot of valuable art on display and expensive jewellery around people’s necks, it’s standard practice to have operatives working undercover,’ she finished grittily.
