Flirting With the Forbidden Read online

  She’d felt enough of an idiot far too many times before.

  ‘Well, she said that I have to bring you down even if I have to drag you by your hair.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  Morgan stood up and stretched. She took stock of her outfit: a white T-shirt with a slate jacket, skinny stone-coloured pants tucked into black, knee-high laceup boots. It wasn’t the Moreau corporate look, but she’d do.

  Morgan walked towards the door and allowed it to close behind her; like all of the other rooms in the building, entrance was by finger-scan. Keys weren’t needed at Moreau’s.

  ‘Did you get your dress for Merri’s wedding?’ Riley asked as they headed for the stairs.

  ‘Mmm. I can’t wait. We’re hitching a lift with James on the company jet, by the way. He’s flying out on the Thursday evening.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  And it was... Their friend Merri was getting married in her and Riley’s hometown of Stellenbosch, South Africa, and Morgan couldn’t wait to go home. She desperately missed her home country; she’d love to return to the vineyards and the mountains, the crisp Cape air and the friendly people. But if she wanted to cement her reputation for being one of the best jewellery designers in the world—like her grandfather before her—then she needed to be in fast-paced NYC. She needed clients with big money who weren’t afraid to spend it...

  And talking of exceptional, she thought as they stepped out of the lift onto the fifth floor, where Hannah and the New York-based directors of MI had their offices, she had to start work on the piece Moreau International had commissioned her to design and manufacture that would be sold as part of the silent auction at the charity ball. Maybe that was why Hannah wanted her at the meeting...

  TWO

  Morgan watched as her glamorous, sophisticated mother stepped out of her office in a lemon suit, nude heels and with a perfectly straight platinum chin-length bob.

  ‘I need a decision about the jewellery for the auction,’ Morgan announced as Hannah approached them. ‘Do you have any gemstones in stock that you want me to use? What do you want me to design? Diamonds? Emeralds? Rubies? Classic or contemporary? Is that why you want me at this meeting?’

  ‘Hello to you too, darling,’ Hannah said in her driest tone. ‘How are you?’

  Morgan waved an elegant hand in the air. ‘Mum, we had coffee together this morning; you didn’t say anything then about me having to come downstairs.’

  ‘It’s a conference room, not a torture chamber, Morgan,’ Hannah replied, her tone as dry as the martinis she loved to drink. ‘Nice photo of you in the Post, by the way.’

  Since she hadn’t been out recently, Morgan wasn’t sure where she’d been photographed. ‘Uh...where was I?’

  ‘At the opening night of that new gallery in Soho.’

  Her friend Kendall’s new gallery; she’d popped in for five minutes, literally, and it couldn’t go undocumented? Sheez! But she was, very reluctantly, a part of the NYC social scene, and because she was a Moreau whenever she made an appearance she was photographed extensively. Many of those photographs ended up in the social columns and online.

  Hannah folded her arms and tapped her foot. Good grief, she recognised that look.

  ‘Morgan, it’s time we talked about you joining Moreau International in an official position.’

  Morgan sighed. ‘Has six months passed so quickly?’

  They had an agreement: Hannah was allowed to nag her about joining the company every six months. For the last twelve years they’d had the same conversation over and over again.

  ‘I’ve decided that I want you to be MI’s Public Relations and Brand Director.’

  Run me over with a bus, Morgan thought. PR and Brand Director? That was a new title. ‘Mum, I’m happy doing what I’m doing—designing jewellery. You and James are doing a fabulous job with MI. You don’t need me.’

  And she was damned if she was going to take a job away from a loyal MI employee who was way more qualified for the position than she’d ever be. And—funny, this—she actually wanted to get paid for what she did, not who she was.

  But she had to give Hannah points for being persistent. She’d been trying to get her to work for MI since she was sixteen—shortly after they’d received the happy news that Morgan was just chronically dyslexic and not selectively stupid.

  It had only taken her mother and a slew of medics, educational psychologists and shrinks to work that out. Everyone had been so pleased that they’d found the root cause of her failing marks at school, her frustration and her anger.

  The years of sheer hell she’d lived through between the time she’d started school and her diagnosis had been conveniently forgotten by everybody except herself.

  Water under the bridge, Morgan reminded herself. And she knew her mum felt guilty for the part she’d played in the disaster that had been her education.

  Morgan knew that it hadn’t been easy for her either. She’d been thrust into running MI in her mid-thirties, when her adventure-seeking husband had decided that he didn’t like the corporate life and wanted to be MI’s chief geologist, discovering new mines. Hannah, with her MBA in business and economics, had taken over the role of MI’s CEO, juggling its huge responsibilities with two children, one of whom had made her life a great deal more difficult by her inability to meet her mother’s and teachers’ expectations.

  How often had she heard variations on the theme of, ‘She’s such a bright child; if only she would try harder.’

  Nobody had ever realised how hard she’d always been trying, how incredibly frustrating it had been not to meet her goals and everybody else’s. Had they honestly believed that she didn’t want to learn to read and write properly? That she’d enjoyed being the class freak?

  Ages eight to sixteen had been a suck-fest of epic proportions. Finally being diagnosed as being chronically dyslexic had freed her, a little, from the shame and guilt she’d felt for years. She’d started to believe that her learning disabilities weren’t her fault and her relationship with her family—well, mostly with her mother—had rapidly improved. Her mum was still a controlling corporate queen, and she still marched to the beat of her own drum, but they’d found a way back to each other—even if they did have to have this conversation every six months.

  Morgan knew that she wasn’t stupid, but she also knew that working for MI would require computers and reading and writing reports. While she could do all of that, she just took longer than most—okay, a lot longer—and the corporate world couldn’t and wouldn’t wait that long. And shouldn’t...

  Until she was the best person for a job, she wouldn’t take it. Not to mention that her dyslexia would become an open secret; she wouldn’t be able to keep it under wraps. Wouldn’t that be fun? She could just see the headlines: The ultimate dumb blonde... Gorgeous but thick... With her looks and money, who needs brains anyway?

  She’d heard them all before—even from someone she’d loved...

  Morgan shuddered. No, thank you. Call her stubborn, call her proud, but she wasn’t going to expose herself to that much ridicule again.

  Besides, designing jewellery was her solace and her joy—her dream job. If only Hannah would see that and get off her back about working for MI her relationship with her mum would be pretty much perfect.

  Morgan took her mum’s hand and squeezed. ‘I love you for the fact that you believe I should play a bigger part in MI, but I am neither qualified nor suited for the corporate world, Mum. I don’t want to be part of that world. I’m happy being on the fringes of MI.’

  ‘I will wear you down someday.’ Hannah sighed loudly. ‘On another subject, I want you to haul out your designer dresses and start creating hype around the ball at social events.’

  Morgan gagged. ‘Ugh. Don’t I do enough already?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Han
nah sniffed. ‘One function every two weeks and cutting out early isn’t good enough to promote your business, and not nearly good enough to promote the ball. You need to charm more people than you’re currently doing. Darling, you are a social disgrace. How many invitations did you turn down this week alone?’

  Morgan shrugged. ‘Ten...twelve?’

  ‘Helen, my personal publicist, said that you were invited to at least twenty-five, maybe more. Soirées, charity dinners, afternoon teas, breakfasts...’

  Morgan tipped her head and counted to ten, then thirty, before attempting to speak rationally. ‘Mum, I have a business to run, designs to get out the door. I work, just like you do. Okay, I don’t oversee a multinational company but I work. Hard.’

  ‘You’re a Moreau; you should be out more. Can you start going to some more formal parties? The benefits, the political fundraisers, the balls? That is where the money is, darling—the people who can actually afford the price of the ball tickets. We need to target the people who have the real money, and they are at the more sedate functions.’

  Sedate meaning deadly dull. ‘Don’t nag me, Mother. You know I hate those stuffy functions where the conversation is so...intense. The situation in Syria, the economy, the plight of the rainforests.’

  ‘Because, you know, those issues aren’t important...’ Riley said, her tongue in her cheek.

  Morgan glared at her. ‘I feel...’ She wanted to say stupid but instead said, ‘I feel out of place there.’

  Like all the other issues related to her dyslexia, it had taken her many years to conquer her social awkwardness and to decode social cues. She still battled with new situations, and she knew that many people took her occasional lapses of concentration and her social shyness as self-absorption and disinterest. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She generally loved people, but she could never tell if they loved her back.

  When she added that to her ‘I wonder if he sees me or just the family money’ concerns, dating was a bit of a nightmare...

  And, really, she would rather have a beer in a pub in jeans and a T-shirt than be in a ballroom in shoes that hurt her feet.

  Riley smiled at her and Morgan recognised the mischievous glint in her eyes.

  ‘You poor child...being forced to dress up, drink the best champagne in the world and eat the finest food at functions that are by invitation only. It’s almost abuse—really, it is.’

  Morgan’s searing look promised retribution for Riley’s teasing and her encouragement of her mother’s campaign to get her to be the reigning young socialite of New York City.

  Morgan wrinkled her nose at her mother. ‘You and James just do it so much better than me. You’re suave and sophisticated and far more charming than I’ll ever be—with or without the big D. Look, we’ve discussed my contribution to the ball so can I go now?’ Morgan asked hopefully.

  ‘No, I’d still like you to attend this first planning meeting with Riley, Jack—our PR director—and the new consultant James has appointed to assess security,’ Hannah said as they walked down the carpeted passage to the boardroom.

  On the walls either side were framed photographs of the Moreau collection of jewels.

  ‘Why can’t Moreau’s own Chief of Security handle it? He always has,’ Morgan said, because she felt she should show some interest.

  ‘Since the last Moreau ball there have been a number of armed robberies on jewellery exhibitions.’ Hannah rapped her fist against the frame that held a picture of the Moreau Diamond—a gem Morgan’s three times great-grandfather Moreau had bought from a broke Russian aristocrat and which had once been owned by Elizabeth of Russia. ‘Fifty-three carats, D-colour, flawless. Worth more than five million dollars. You want to risk it getting stolen?’

  When she put it like that...

  ‘Our jewellery collection is priceless, Morgan, so James has contracted Auterlochie Consulting to look at every security hole we have and to plug it. Their best operative will be in charge...’

  Auterlochie...Auterlochie... Why did she know that name?

  ‘In you go, darling, and smile!’

  Hannah placed a hand on her back and she bared her teeth at her mother as she stepped into the conference centre. Her hand still on the doorknob, she looked around—and her head jerked back as dazzling blue eyes connected with hers.

  Deep brown hair... Auterlochie... A deep Sean Connery voice explaining that it was a town in the Scottish Highlands, situated on a loch, and he’d once visited it with a friend. Two young boys had fished and explored the icy banks there, and he’d told her when he opened his business it would be called Auterlochie something.

  It was the one of the longest sentences he’d strung together, and Morgan had been enthralled by his Scottish accent and the light of determination in those fantastic cobalt eyes... Noah Fraser.

  Morgan’s heart splattered as it hit the floor. Bats on a broomstick.

  She stepped back behind the door and squeezed her eyes shut. Eight years and she still wished she could acid-wash the memory out of her brain.

  ‘Excuse me. I really need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh, Morgan? Right now? The meeting...’

  Hannah’s voice followed her down the hall.

  In the upscale visitors’ bathroom where she’d fled after Hannah had dropped her verbal meteor strike, Morgan sat on the lid of a toilet and stared at her hands. She knew she had to get moving, get to the meeting, or her mum would hunt her down like a rabid fox but she didn’t know if she could face Noah Fraser again.

  She’d rather flush herself down the toilet bowl.

  ‘Morgs?’ A fist rapped on the door. ‘You in there? Your mum is not a happy camper.’

  Morgan leaned forward and flipped the lock to open. Riley pulled the door open and frowned. She sent her a pointed look. ‘Why are you hiding out in the bathroom?’

  Morgan bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Did you meet Noah Fraser?’

  ‘The security guy? Yes. Very intense, very hot.’

  Morgan swore and dropped her face to her hands.

  ‘And the problem is...?’

  Morgan briefly explained her history with Noah and Riley lifted her hands in confusion. ‘So you made a move on the guy and he said no? It was a long time ago, Morgan.’

  Morgan knew that if there was anyone who would understand what she was about to say Riley was it. They’d been friends forever and she had witnessed Morgan’s constant struggles with the system. Shortly after the incident with Noah she’d moved in as Morgan’s flatmate. Riley had watched her struggle through college to get her diploma in Gemology and Jewellery Design—it had taken her double the time to get as anyone else, even with a scribe—and she knew the challenges she faced on a daily basis and had supported her through the hard times.

  ‘Okay, I need more details. So tell me about Mr Melt-My-Panties. And hurry up—your mother is going to have both our hides soon.’

  ‘When I was nineteen the parents had some kidnapping threats made against them by some weird group and Noah was assigned as my bodyguard.’

  ‘Uh-huh...’

  ‘After a week of hanging with him I threw myself at him—actually, I threw my naked self at him.’ Morgan nodded at Riley’s wince. ‘He kissed me, discovered I was a virgin, and then he declined the offer. I was so humiliated. I liked him—felt so at ease with him despite the fact that he hardly spoke—and his rejection felt like—’

  ‘Like what, hon?’

  ‘I can’t explain it, and I don’t know why, but his rejection made me feel swamped with shame. Every emotion I’d ever experienced with my dyslexia—the lack of self-belief, the fear of judgement—dropped on me like a ton of bricks. It was horrible. He made me feel worthless again. And now is not the time to tell me that nobody can make me feel worthless!’

  ‘Okay. No l
ectures. Did he know that you were dyslexic?’

  ‘No, I was very careful to keep it from him. For that summer I was Morgan without the big D. That’s what made it even harder, I think... He rejected me anyway. Around him I was the most normal I had ever been and it still wasn’t enough. I still can’t think of that night without feeling cold and clammy.’

  ‘Oh, honey... Well, you know you’re not worthless. You’ve worked hard to climb out of that pit of feeling less than and not valued. Why are you letting those feelings, and that man, chase you into a bathroom stall? You’re better than that.’

  She was, dammit. ‘I know that...’ she muttered.

  ‘Then get your butt out of there and pick up your chin. You’ll be fine. Me, I’m not so sure.’ Riley wiggled her butt.

  Morgan lifted her hands in query. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I think my panties are starting to melt...can I hit on him?’

  ‘Sheez, Ri!’ Morgan snapped. ‘No, you can’t hit on him! I mean, yes, you can... Aarrgh!’

  Riley’s chuckles followed her out of the bathroom.

  * * *

  This time he’d sent her running.

  Judging from her hasty retreat and her oh, crap! look, nobody had told her he would be at the meeting. While he hadn’t expected Morgan to attend this meeting, at least he’d been prepared to run into her. And he’d had a six hour flight to practise his oh-it’s-you face.

  He understood her belting out of the room; he’d fought the same impulse himself. That and the inclination to grab her and pick up where they’d left off years ago. She’d be naked, of course...

  Noah looked down at the table he was sitting at and concentrated hard. Thirty-three years old and he was grateful that his crotch was hidden from view by a sleek boardroom table.

  Get a grip, Fraser. Distraction... Years ago he’d used firearm drills; now he just flipped open his iPad and checked his emails. Ten minutes later he glanced at his watch and stifled a frustrated sigh. The meeting still hadn’t started.