She couldn’t help herself. Feelings she thought had died when Pierre did tumbled in on her. She blushed with confusion as warm, trawling tendrils of longing curled in her belly, in her breasts and groin. She looked down, then took his hand.

He had a firm, dry grip, but she could sense he was holding his hand loosely, that if he wanted to, he could crush hers.

Judy was dry-mouthed. She felt guilty for the first time that day. Hugh Montfort was so much more attractive, even, than Pierre had ever been to her. Pierre was dominant . . . ruthless, yes, a big businessman. But Montfort, Montfort now, versus Pierre then—he would have made mincemeat of her lover.

Pull yourself together, she thought, sharply.

“Have a seat, Miss Dean.” He showed her into the sitting room of his suite, and Judy sat carefully in one of the armchairs. Her fingers curled around the gold leaf brooch, gripping it tightly.

“Are you here in some official capacity?”

Judy shook her head, mutely. She noted, with a thrill of sheer pleasure, that Hugh Montfort also liked what he saw. His eyes were trickling over her body, running slowly, assessingly up her long legs, her firm, well-turned calves; his gaze lingered for a second on her breasts, not long enough for discourtesy, but long enough for her to see; then it stopped at her neckline, on her collarbone, before breaking evenly to hold her eyes.

Judy felt weak with lust. She ran her tongue over her lips.

“Unofficial,” she managed. “Very unofficial.”

He spread his hands, leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”

The girl was aroused. That much was obvious. Hugh was used to women flirting with him, and sighing after him, but this girl was sitting in front of him, so turned on he could practically smell it. She was blushing; her pupils were dilated a little. She was somewhat hard-bodied for his taste, but undeniably attractive, and Montfort found her interestingly responsive.

He would enjoy throwing this girl casually over his bed and fucking her brains out. But afterwards . . .

No. He got hold of himself.

“I have information on House Massot,” Judy said, boldly. “You can use it in your takeover bid. Expenditures . . . huge costs incurred. The shareholders will go nuts. Once they learn of this, they’re bound to support you.”

“And in exchange for this, Miss Dean, you want . . . ?”

There was a slight coolness to his tone she resented, and Judy lifted her chin defiantly.

“One million euros.”

“One million euros,” Montfort repeated. “What if I think what you have to say isn’t worth that much?”

“You won’t,” Judy said confidently.

“And what will you do with that money?”

Judy decided she wanted Montfort. She didn’t need to think about it too much. She wanted him, ached for him. They were in a hotel room. The way he’d looked at her . . .