It was loathing at first sight. Well, it was loathing for Molly di Perretti. George Hunter seemed to look on it more as a game. George, she found, enjoyed games.

Molly was the brightest young consultant at Culp and Christopher, London's coolest Public Relations agency. George Hunter was the client from hell that she had never wanted to work with.

Unfortunately, George Hunter knew that. He knew it because he heard her say it.

It was his own fault. Molly had not known he was there. Clients never came down onto the work floor at Culp and Christopher. That was one of the reasons it was a fun place to work. You could let off steam without having to worry about who was listening. Molly let off steam a lot.

So, that day, she was not being discreet. She was kicking her heels against the black and silver bar stool, which she insisted gave her inspiration, and yelling into her hands-free phone.

"I won't do it. I hate millionaires. There's nothing you can do with them."

On the other end of the phone Jay Christopher, owner of the agency, disagreed.

"Okay," said Molly, ultra fair-minded. "There's nothing I can do with them. I'm too young, too creative, and much, much too hip."

Jay protested.

Molly overrode him. "Millionaires don't want to be hip. They want to be warm and fuzzy. The only reason they employ a PR agent in the first place is so people forget how they made their millions."

At the desk opposite her, blond Sam Smith winced. Sam was nominally Molly's boss. But at C&C; hierarchy was strictly theoretical. Sam was just better at keeping her temper.

Now she mouthed, "Friend of Jay's."

Molly cast her eyes to the ceiling and said to the phone, "Oh, great. Mate of yours is he, Jay? What else is wrong with him? No, don't tell me. He despoils the countryside? Employs child slaves in Asia? Smokes?"

"None of the above," drawled a voice like a saxophone in a smoky New Orleans cellar.

Molly whipped round so fast she fell off her bar stool.

He caught her and sat her upright again, as if she was about four years old. No mean feat, that. Molly was five foot ten and no stick insect. Indeed, his eyes lingered appreciatively on her shadowed cleavage, as he restored her to the vertical.

The rest of the office held its collective breath. Molly di Perretti was acknowledged to be a genius in her field. She was also known to have poured a full cup of coffee down the silk shirt of a client who came on to her. And she was glaring.

But the newcomer stayed calm. "George Hunter," he said, holding out a hand. "Orun Software."

Molly took his hand on autopilot. She looked stunned.

Understandably. Not only was the man a client where no client should be, but he was gorgeous. Broad shoulders, slim hips, a mouth that looked as if it knew all there was to know about kissing ? and was willing to share the knowledge, if you asked nicely.

Not, they all knew, that that would cut any ice with Molly.

"Jay said I could wander round," said George, all Southern Gentleman charm.

Molly's futuristic head of Day-Glo orange hair seemed to fizz with indignation. "You mean Jay told you to soften me up," she said curtly. She spun round and shouted at the telephone, "The answer's still no, Jay, you Machiavelli. Millionaires are the clients from hell. And another thing ?

George Hunter leaned round her and cut the call. No hesitating. He took one look at the state-of-the-art machine and pushed a couple of buttons.

Abby and Sam exchanged startled glances. But he was ignoring everyone in the office except Molly.

"I think we need to talk about this," he said in that alluring drawl. "Come and have a coffee. Tell me ? just for the sake of argument ? if I asked you, how you would set about turning this boring old millionaire hip?"

Boring? Old?

Molly gulped. She recognized mockery and she was not used to it. To her fury and everyone else's astonishment, she blushed to her eyebrows.

George Hunter smiled. All old-fashioned charm, he took her arm. And walked her out of the office.

And Molly ? Molly ? went with him like a sleepwalker.

To be continued?



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