Georgia looked pointedly at the wall clock. âItâs time you were on your way.â
Jason closed the space between them. âHave you seen the state of the sea? I canât put out in that. Itâs a full-blooded storm.â
He wasnât leaving! Her heart beat faster.
âWhat a bore for you,â she said, and swung away, aware of the flirtatious flick of her skirt as the soft fabric settled seductively back against her thighs.
âDonât play games with me, Georgia! They can land you in more trouble than you can handle.â He swung her around to face him, their bodies almost touching.
âOr is that what you want?â he asked thickly.
The tips of his fingers began moving gently over her silky skin and Georgia felt herself catch fire. She sucked in her breath, caught the dark glitter of his eyes and knew he was going to kiss her.
Anything can happen behind closed doors!
Do you dare find out�
Welcome again to DO NOT DISTURB!
Meet Jason and Georgia, a couple thrown together by circumstances into a whirlwind of unexpected attraction. Forced into each otherâs company whether they like it or not, theyâre soon in the grip of passionâand definitely donât want to be disturbed!
Popular Presents>® author Diana Hamilton explores this delicious fantasy in a tantalizing romance you simply wonât want to put down.
So what happens when Georgia becomes Jasonâs mistress for one night of all-consuming passion? Turn the pages and find out!
JASON HARCOURTâS right hand hovered over the telephone for a second, then dropped down to his side. He pushed both hands into the side pockets of his dark, well-worn cords and hunched his wide shoulders.
The room was crowding in on him. The over-ornate French antiques, the baroque-framed paintings, the fussy carpets suffocating him. He paced to the long, elaborately draped French windows, dark brows drawn down over flint-grey eyes as he stared moodily out over Lytham Courtâs winter-bleak gardens.
How he hated this place!
Seven years since heâd set foot over the doorstepâexcept for the hour heâd spent here after Haroldâs second wife Vivienneâs funeralâand he was only here now because he had no real option. Lytham held bad memories, more than a few.
Following Vivienneâs death, four years ago, he had made peace, of a sort, with Harold, the man who had legally adopted him almost thirty years ago on his marriage to Jasonâs widowed mother. For a three-year-old child, whose real father had been killed in a climbing accident before he was born, it had been easy enough to accept the substitute.
Only after his mother had died of leukaemia, when he was seventeen, had he begun to see his adoptive father with new eyes.
But that was in the past, and the tentative peace had progressed relatively smoothly because he had stipulated that their occasional meetings took place at the older manâs London club. Neutral ground. He was glad, now, that heâd gone with the flow, somewhat sceptically giving Harold the benefit of the doubt when he had insisted heâd changed. He owed his adoptive father that much.
But the scepticism had hardened to downright disbelief when at their last meeting, two months ago, Harold had told him, âGeorgiaâs been back in England for six months now; weâve been meeting fairly regularly.â
Jason had watched the way the mere mention of her name had made Haroldâs tired, faded eyes brighten in the older manâs face, a face that had shrunk in on its own bones. Harold had gone downhill, slowly but very surely, since Vivienne had died, and his obvious physical frailty had been the only thing that had stopped Jason from getting up from the lunch table and walking out of the muted dark brown atmosphere of the club and into the relative sanity of Londonâs teeming streets.
âSo you keep in touch with Georgia.â He practically spat the words out, the old bitterness surfacing as it always did whenever he was unguarded enough to think about her.
âSince Vivvie died, yes. She, God rest and bless her, was the stumbling block there. Wouldnât have her daughterâs name mentioned.â Harold pushed his barely touched meal aside. Jason speared a forkful of game pie with smooth savagery, debated whether he wanted it, decided not, and laid down his cutlery.
âI know you said you were going to break the long silence and phone New York to tell her of Vivienneâs death,â he said carefully. He had offered to put his personal distaste aside and break the news of the fatal car accident, to spare Harold, but the old man had insisted he was the one to do it. As it turned out no one need have bothered; she hadnât cared enough to attend her own motherâs funeral.
âWell, yes.â Old eyes fell uneasily. âThere were things that had to be said, and I said them,â he stated enigmatically. âAnd I like to think we got close again after the air was cleared. It doesnât do to hold on to old grudges. In any case, sheâs well settled back in England now. She heads up one of the design teams at the branch of her advertising agency in Birminghamâyouâll remember she went out with the girl Sueâs family when the father opened a branch in New York?â