Taming The Notorious Billionaire (HQR Presents)
Read this classic romance by USA TODAY bestselling author Carole Mortimer, now available for the first time in e-book! Previously published as Untamed in 1984.
The one woman to tame him…
Keilly refuses to let herself to fall for a man like Rod Bartlett! A man who can so calculatingly seduce one woman and then discard her for another, until she, too, becomes dispensable.
But Rod has an easy charm and the ability to make Keilly feel as if she is the only woman in the world. Soon even Keilly wants to believe Rod is a kind and sensitive man—one who has fallen for her…as much as she has for him!
Taming the Notorious Billionaire
Carole Mortimer
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
CHAPTER ONE
‘MISS KEILLY GRANT, I presume?’
She looked up with a start, used to having the beach to herself this time of the evening, seven o’clock being too late for the children to be here playing, and too early for the late night strollers walking their dogs.
The man standing several feet away from her as she vigorously dried her hair after her swim certainly didn’t look as if he fitted into either of those categories. Her first thought was that he was big and powerful, her second that he could be that third category of people that occasionally wandered down to Beachy Cove, the sort of man her Aunt Sylvie was always warning her about—a man looking for an easy pick-up. The cove was usually full of such men during the short summer season, all of them out for a little holiday fun and sure she could provide it. But this man looked too handsome to be that type either, surely having women chasing him, not the other way around! Besides, there was the puzzle of him knowing her name.
Nevertheless, she stood up to pull her full-length beach robe over her head, and pulled the zip up to her chin, glad of the warmth of the towelling material after her dip in the coolness of the October sea. The task of covering herself completed, she turned her attention once more to the man standing a short distance away.
He hadn’t moved as she dressed, his hands still thrust into the pockets of his thick sheepskin jacket, his shoulders broad and powerful, as was his chest, his legs long and lean in the fitted denims of faded blue, tancoloured boots on his feet. For all of the casualness of his appearance his clothes looked expensive, and Keilly raised her gaze to his face with more than just idle curiosity. Looking at each feature separately, the piercingly deep blue eyes, the long straight nose, firm but sensual mouth, and strong square jaw, he was nothing spectacular, but put them all together and he was—breathtaking. At least, she assumed his jaw was strong, it was difficult to tell beneath the neatly trimmed beard and moustache, usually finding that such facial hair was grown to hide the weakness of a chin or mouth. In this man’s case she doubted that were true; he exuded power and assurance, the deep blue eyes looking at her steadily, as if he didn’t allow himself any kind of weakness. His hair was thick and dark, several grey streaks laced through its mahogany colour, although the beard and moustache showed no such ageing. His age was hard to define, perhaps his early thirties, although the lines of experience fanning out from the blue eyes seemed to say he had knowledge far beyond those calendar years.
Keilly took in all this about him in a matter of seconds, knowing he had taken the same few seconds to appraise her own appearance. And she knew it couldn’t be very favourable! The salt water had left the feathered style of her shoulder length black hair tangled and lacklustre, needing the shower she always took after her daily swim to give it back its naturally glossy beauty. Her face was bare of make-up, naturally sooty black lashes framing dark grey eyes that could often look blue, her nose short and stub, her full mouth a deep pink colour, her chin small and determined. It wasn’t an unattractive face but neither was it a beautiful one, and her lack of make-up made her appear younger than her twenty-two years. But her body, despite her smallness in stature, was completely adult, full breasts, a slender waist and gently curving hips, her legs long and attractive. And the man in front of her hadn’t missed a single inch of her appearance, not before she donned the towelling robe or after, the black bikini showing the tan she still had from the summer months.
She didn’t like being made to feel self-conscious about her appearance; as the receptionist in the hotel owned by her aunt and uncle she was usually coolly assured in any situation, had learnt to deal with people with calm patience and understanding. But this man made her feel inadequate in a way she didn’t like, her chin rising with stubborn pride. ‘Yes, I’m Keilly Grant,’ she answered him coolly. ‘How did you know who I was?’ Because he obviously had known. She had watched his approach as he walked down to the beach from the cliff, and he hadn’t even hesitated, coming straight over to her.
His mouth quirked, his teeth very white against the darkness of the surrounding hair. ‘Your aunt told me to look for the only lunatic down here swimming,’ he looked pointedly at the deserted beach. ‘You appear to be it,’ he mocked, the blue eyes full of humour.
His voice was deep and attractive, as smooth as honey, filling Keilly with a pleasurable warmth that she dismissed as being ridiculous. She didn’t even know who this man was, let alone feel attracted to him! ‘My aunt told you where I was,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Why were you looking for me in the first place?’
He hunched down even further into his fleecy jacket as a strong October wind blew in from the sea, the fine golden sand about them whipped into the air to land painfully against their faces. ‘Could we get off the beach now that you’ve finished your swim?’ The lines had increased about his eyes where he had narrowed them against the wind. ‘You’re likely to catch pneumonia!’
With a shrug Keilly bent to thrust her wet towel into her beach bag, dangling her shoes from the other hand as they walked across the softness of the sand that led up to the pathway that went to the road on the cliff. ‘I only stay in the water a few minutes,’ she offered the information stiffly. ‘I’ve swum every day like this since I was a child. And I rarely, if ever, even get a cold,’ she announced confidently.
The man at her side glanced back at the grey-black of the Irish Sea, shivering involuntarily. ‘It looks freezing!’ he grimaced.
‘It is,’ she gave an amused grin. ‘But I can’t stand the way it gets so crowded down here during the summer months.’
He quirked dark brows. ‘When your aunt and uncle run a hotel?’
‘I know,’ she pulled a face. ‘I should be glad we have the business. But in the summer you can hardly get near the water. Then I have to come down at five o’clock in the morning.’
He held her arm as she bent to put on her shoes, maintaining that hold as they began the steep ascent up the cliff path. ‘You like to be alone?’ he asked softly.
‘I don’t like to see natural beauty marred by commercialism,’ her voice was stilted as she tried to release her arm from his grasp—and was effortlessly restrained from doing so. There was strength in the lean fingers that clasped about her upper arm, a strength she felt sure was tempered so as not to bruise her more delicate flesh. Nevertheless, she didn’t like the way he held her, still had no idea who he was or what he was doing here. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she turned to look at him, night beginning to fall now. ‘Why were you looking for me?’
‘I was interested in meeting the woman who wrote so scathingly about Rod Bartlett.’
‘Not a
nother reporter!’ She gave an exasperated sigh, wrenching her arm away from him to glare up into the deeply tanned face that must have been at least a foot above her in the rapidly falling darkness, this man well over six feet in height, moving with natural grace for such a big man.
‘Another one?’ he asked curiously, pushing both hands back into his pockets.
Keilly gave him an impatient look. ‘Ever since I wrote that letter in reply to a magazine article that was totally egotistical about a man who should be able to earn a living more reputably than by taking his clothes off in a film that had no other purpose than to flaunt his body, I have been inundated with reporters trying to find out what my angle is.’ Her mouth twisted with distaste. ‘Most of them seem to think I’m a scorned lover.’
‘And are you?’
The quietly voiced question had the effect of making her anger flare higher than ever. ‘No, I am not!’ she snapped furiously.
‘Then what is your angle?’
Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘Just who are you?’
‘Another reporter, I’m afraid,’ he revealed with regret. ‘Rick Richards,’ he held out his hand to her.
Keilly ignored it, not even breathing hard from the exertion as they reached the level of the road, although it irked her to see that neither was Rick Richards, obviously a man who kept himself in condition. She could feel grudging respect for that, even if she heartily disliked his profession.
His hand dropped back to his side as he once again fell into step beside her. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ he derided softly.
She didn’t answer, just wanting to shake him off as she had the other reporters, wishing now that she had never given in to the impulse to write that scathing letter to the widely circulated magazine. It was just that it made her blood boil when she read what a brilliant actor Rod Bartlett was, how good looking, how macho, when she knew what sort of man he really was. He was egotistical, completely selfish, giving no thought to anyone but himself and furthering his career. His three year, much-publicised, affair with a woman ten years his senior several years ago was proof of that. Until he became Veronica King’s lover he had been virtually unknown; after moving in with her he had suddenly made meteoric stardom. And he hadn’t cared who he trod on or who he hurt to get there. He would be thirty years of age now, had been much in demand for almost ten years—and Keilly couldn’t even bring herself to go and see even one of the twenty or so films he had made during that time. She just wasn’t interested in Rod Bartlett and how wonderful everyone thought he was, his female fans going wild when it was revealed that in his latest film he actually appeared naked for several minutes. The film was still doing the rounds of the cinemas six months after its release, was reputedly breaking box-office records.
‘My refusal to speak about the matter is not a personal insult to you, Mr Richards—’
‘Rick,’ he put in with that smoothly charming voice. ‘I prefer Rick.’
She shot him an irritated glance. ‘Well, my refusal to talk about Rod Bartlett is simply because I don’t have any more to say on the subject.’
‘Probably not,’ he gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You were pretty vocal in your letter. Now what was it you said about the fact that Rod Bartlett hasn’t returned to this, his home-town, for almost twelve years? Ah yes,’ his mouth twisted with humour. ‘ “Perhaps Mr Bartlett is too ashamed to show his face here—or any other part of his anatomy that cinema-goers are now so familiar with.” I think I have that more or less right, don’t I?’ he mused.
Hot colour had stained her cheeks at his word-perfect quote from her letter. She had written it with searing contempt, little dreaming it would cause such a stir. The first reporter to come here and try to interview her had come from the magazine itself, and after her had come a steady stream of them, all looking for some as-yet undiscovered scandal in Rod Bartlett’s past. Keilly hadn’t been about to tell them anything, and she didn’t intend Rick Richards to be any different. She just wanted to forget she had ever written the damned letter.
‘But not you, Keilly?’
‘Not me what?’ she frowned at the question, not understanding it.
‘You aren’t familiar with the anatomy of Rod Bartlett?’
‘How dare you!’ she flared indignantly. ‘I’ve never even met the man!’
‘I meant up on the big screen,’ he mocked.
Her mouth twisted with derision. ‘I have no wish to see Rod Bartlett up on the “big screen” or anywhere else. He just doesn’t interest me.’
Rick nodded. ‘But why did you use the word ashamed? Does he have a wife and ten kids hidden down here somewhere?’ he mocked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped.
‘Then what is the big secret?’
‘There isn’t one!’ she almost shouted her exasperation. ‘I just don’t happen to agree with the general consensus that Rod Bartlett has the sex appeal of Rudolph Valentino, the good looks of Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford all rolled into one dynamic package! I’m entitled to my opinion, Mr Richards.’
He held up his hands defensively. ‘I’m not disputing that. It just seemed to me, and obviously to others too, that it was a very personal attack. Too personal in some ways.’
Once again the colour darkened her cheeks, and she was relieved to see they were nearing the hotel where she lived with her aunt and uncle. ‘I told you, Mr—Rick,’ she amended at his raised brows. ‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘No,’ he gave her a considering look. ‘You look a little young for him.’
She bristled resentfully. ‘He prefers older women, I understand.’
‘You mean Veronica King?’ the man at her side voice softly, his expression unreadable in the gloom of dusk.
‘Of course,’ she said dismissively. ‘Everyone conveniently forgets, six years later, that the two of them lived together, that the poor woman was so devastated by the rumours of his other women that she crashed her plane and killed herself rather than go through the humiliation of losing him to someone who could give him more than she could.’
‘You seem so certain that’s the way it happened?’
‘The newspapers were sure too at the time!’
‘The same newspapers you now think exaggerate everything about the man?’
She gave Rick a look of intense dislike, hating the way he twisted her words to confuse her. She knew how selfish Rod Bartlett was, she didn’t need the newspapers to tell her anything about him. ‘I have to go in and shower, Mr Richards,’ she told him distantly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.…’ His hand on her arm stopped her going into the cheery warmth of the hotel that had become her home on the death of her mother fifteen years ago, her aunt and uncle taking her into their family without a qualm, their daughter, her senior by six years, becoming the elder sister she never had.
‘Have dinner with me,’ he invited huskily.
Her eyes darkened with confusion. ‘I always eat with my aunt and uncle,’ she refused.
‘Couldn’t you make tonight the exception?’
She felt almost as if she were drowning in the sensuous warmth of liquid blue eyes, held mesmerised by him as he compelled her to accept. ‘I—I suppose I could,’ she heard herself say. ‘As long as you don’t intend to talk about Rod Bartlett all evening,’ she warned firmly.
He grinned, suddenly looking younger. ‘I promise you I won’t quote a single word you say about him.’
‘You do?’ she blinked, strangely believing him when she hadn’t trusted any of the other reporters who had pestered her.
‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘Now do you want to eat here at the hotel or do you know of any good restaurants nearby?’
Keilly’s eyes widened. ‘You’re staying here?’
‘Of course,’ he sounded mockingly scandalised. ‘You don’t think your aunt would give your whereabouts to just anyone, do you?’ He smiled, looking rakishly attractive, a little like the pirates must have done long ago, the beard and moustache suiting him.
She brought her thoughts up sharp as she caught herself wondering what it was like to kiss a man with a beard. She had agreed to have dinner with the man, nothing else. Although in the circumstances it might be better if they ate right here at the hotel.
‘Coward,’ Rick murmured after she told him her decision, bending so close his breath warmed her ear. ‘And I’ve been told on good authority that it doesn’t tickle at all,’ he murmured throatily.
She moved jerkily away from him, almost as if she had been burnt, looking up at him with wide eyes.
‘They’re very expressive,’ gentle fingertips moved across her lids, ‘I can almost read every thought you have.’
‘As long as it remains only almost,’ she said waspishly. ‘I’ll meet you in the dining room in an hour—er—Rick.’
‘I’ll be waiting, Keilly,’ he added softly, watching until she disappeared through a door behind the main desk marked ‘Private’.
Keilly felt his gaze on her the whole time, wondering if she hadn’t perhaps been a little impetuous in agreeing to have dinner with him; she had treated the other reporters with a bluntness that bordered on rudeness. It wasn’t even as if she knew anything about Rick, only his name, that he was staying at the hotel, and that he was interested in her dislike of Rod Bartlett. It was the latter part that bothered her. All reporters seemed to have an inborn natural curiosity, a need to probe until they unearthed what they were looking for. And if Rick Richards did that this time he would be hurting a lot of people. Damn the flash of temper that had given her the courage to write that scathing letter and so draw attention to herself and Selchurch!
She erased the dark frown from her brow as she went through to the kitchen to see her aunt, kissing her affectionately. ‘Dinner smells good,’ she greeted warmly, the aroma of food being cooked filling the room.
Her aunt smiled, small and plump, enjoying running the relatively big hotel in this small northern sea-side town, having built up a steady clientele the last twenty-five years. ‘Did Mr Richards manage to find you?’
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