CHAPTER ONE

‘PLEASE don’t go in there, Bryony,’ Glenys Mercer told her daughter tremulously. ‘Your father has an important…er…visitor with him.’

Bryony’s hand fell away from the doorknob of the main study as she turned to look at her mother, standing in the great hulking shadow of the grandfather clock that had kept time at the Mercer country estate for six generations.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

Her mother’s drawn features seemed to visibly age before Bryony’s clear blue gaze.

‘I’m not sure your father would like me to tell you.’ Glenys Mercer twisted her thin hands together. ‘You know how he is about those sorts of things.’

Bryony did know.

She moved closer to her mother, her light footsteps on the polished floorboards echoing throughout the huge foyer, reminding her yet again of the emptiness of the grand old house since her brother’s death.

Ever since Austin had died almost ten years ago the house had seemed to grieve along with the rest of the family. Every window, room, corner and shadowed doorway held a memory of a young man’s life cut short, even the creaking of the staircase every time she went up or down seemed to her to be crying out for the tread of his steps, not hers.

‘What’s going on, Mum?’ she asked, her voice dropping to an undertone.

Glenys couldn’t hold her daughter’s questioning gaze and turned away to inspect the intricately carved woodwork on the banister.

‘Mum?’

‘Please, Bryony, don’t make a fuss. My nerves will never stand it.’

Bryony suppressed a heartfelt sigh. Her mother’s nerves were something else she knew all about.

There was a sound behind her and she turned to see her father come out of the study, his usually florid face pale.

‘Bryony…I thought I heard you come in.’ He wiped his receding hairline with a scrunched-up handkerchief, the action of his hand jerky and uncoordinated.

‘Is something wrong?’ She took a step towards him but came up short when a tall figure appeared in the study doorway just behind him.

Cold dread leaked into every cell of her body as she met the dark unreadable gaze of Kane Kaproulias, her dead brother’s sworn enemy.

She opened and closed her mouth but couldn’t locate her voice. Her fingertips went numb, her legs trembled and her heart hammered behind the wall of her chest as her eyes took in his forbidding presence.

He was much taller than she remembered, but then, she thought, ten years was a long time.

His brown-black eyes even seemed darker than they had been before, the straight brows above them giving his arresting features a touch of haughtiness.

Her eyes automatically dipped to his mouth as they had done every time since the day she’d put that jagged scar on his top lip.

It was still there…

‘Hello, Bryony.’

His deep velvet voice shocked her out of her private reverie bringing her startled gaze up to meet his compelling one.

She cleared her throat and tested her voice, annoyed that it came out husky and tentative instead of clear and forthright. ‘Hello…Kane.’

Owen Mercer stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and faced his daughter. ‘Kane has something he wishes to discuss with you. Your mother and I will be in the green sitting room if you should need us.’

Bryony frowned as her parents shuffled away down the great hall like insects trying to escape the final spurt of poison from someone holding a spray can above their heads. Her father’s words seemed to contain some sort of veiled warning, as if he didn’t trust the man standing silently just behind her not to do her some sort of injury while he had her all to himself.

She turned back to face Kane once more, her expression guarded, her tone clearly unwelcoming. ‘What brings you to Mercyfields, Kane?’

Kane held the study door open and indicated with a slight movement of his dark head for her to go in before him.

His silence unsettled her but she was determined not to show how much. Schooling her features into cool impassivity, she stepped through, trying not to notice the musky spiciness of his aftershave or the expensive cut of his business suit as she made her way past his imposing frame.

The Mercyfields housekeeper’s bastard son had certainly turned some sort of professional corner, she reflected. There was no trace of the gangling youth of her childhood now. He looked like a man well used to getting his own way, certainly not one who took orders from others.

She crossed what seemed an entire hectare of Persian carpet to take a seat on the wing chair near the window overlooking the lake. In an effort to maintain her composure she slung one long slim leg over the other and inspected the pointed toe of her shoe as she gave her ankle a twirl.

She knew he was watching her.

She could feel the pressure of his dark gaze on her body as if he had reached out and touched her. She was well used to male appraisals, but somehow whenever Kane Kaproulias looked at her she felt as if every layer of her clothing was slipping away from her, leaving her vulnerable and exposed to his all-encompassing dark eyes.

She sat back in the chair and regarded him with a cool impersonal stare.

He held her look without speaking. She knew it was some sort of test to see who would be the first to look away, but as much as she wanted to escape that brooding mysterious gaze she held on, not even allowing herself to blink.

His eyes went to her mouth and lingered there.

Bryony felt an almost irresistible urge to run her tongue over the parchment of her lips but fought against the impulse with every fibre of her being. So great was the effort to appear unaffected by his disturbing presence she began to feel the hammer-blows of a tension headache gathering at her temples, and her resentment towards him went up another notch.

Finally she could stand it no longer.

She got agitatedly to her feet and, crossing her arms over her chest, faced him determinedly.

‘OK. Let’s skip the weather and the current cricket score and get right down to why you are here.’

He held her defiant glare for another pulsing pause. ‘I thought it was time I paid the Mercer family a visit.’

‘I can’t imagine why. You’re not exactly on the Christmas card list any more.’

His mouth thinned in what she recalled was his version of a smile. ‘No, I imagine not.’

She forced her eyes away from the jagged edge of his scar, surprised at how it still affected her to see it after all this time.

He looked fit and strong, as if he was no stranger to hard physical exercise, and his skin was tanned, but then, she reminded herself, his maternal Greek heritage had always given him somewhat of an advantage in the summer sun. Standing before him now, her creamy skin seemed so pale in spite of the intolerably hot weather they’d been having since Christmas four weeks ago.

‘How is your mother?’ she felt compelled to ask out of common politeness.

‘She’s dead.’

Bryony blinked at his bluntness. ‘I…I’m sorry…I hadn’t heard…’

His eyes glittered with hard cynicism. ‘No, I expect the passing of a long-term servant wouldn’t quite make it to the Mercer breakfast table, let alone as a topic for discussion over lunch or dinner.’

The bitterness of his words stung her as he clearly intended it to. As much as she hated admitting it, he was very probably right. Her parents would never discuss servants as if they were real people. She’d grown up with their attitudes, had even demonstrated similar ones herself, but as she had grown older had shied away from maintaining such outdated snobbery.

Not that she was going to let him know that.

No, let him think her the spoilt brat heiress of the Mercer millions.

She sent him an imperious look over one shoulder as she wandered back to her chair, taking her time to arrange her skirt over her knees.

‘So—’ she inspected her neatly French-manicured nails before lifting her blue gaze back to his ‘—what do you do these days, Kane? I don’t suppose you’ve followed in your mother’s footsteps and clean up other people’s messes for a living?’

She knew she sounded exactly like the shallow socialite he’d always considered her to be; she could even see the slight curl of his damaged lip as if he was satisfied his opinion had been justified by her crass words.

‘You suppose right.’ He leant back against her father’s antique desk with the sort of indolence she’d come to always associate with him. ‘You could say I’m in shipping.’

‘How very Greek of you,’ she observed with undisguised sarcasm.

His dark eyes challenged hers, a flicker of anger lighting them from behind. ‘I am just as much an Australian citizen as you are, Bryony. I’ve never even been to Greece, nor do I speak any more than a few words of the language.’

‘How can you be sure of your true heritage?’ she asked. ‘I thought you didn’t know who your father was?’

It was a nasty taunt, and one she wasn’t proud of, but his manner had increasingly unnerved her to the point of reckless rudeness.

She watched as he reined in his anger, the white edge of his scar standing out as his mouth tightened.

‘I can see you still like to play dirty,’ he said.

She shifted her gaze back to the unfathomable depths of his. ‘When pressed to do so, yes.’

‘Let’s hope you can cope with the consequences if such a need arises in the very near future.’

Bryony couldn’t hold back a small frown at his coolly delivered statement. There was something about his demeanour that alerted her to the strange undercurrents she’d felt swirling about her ever since she’d driven down from Sydney that morning.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘What possible reason could you have to be here?’

‘I have several reasons.’

‘Let’s start with number one.’ She set her chin at an imperious angle even though inside she was trembling with an unnamed fear.

He crossed one ankle over the other, his action drawing her eyes to his long muscled thighs.

She tore her gaze away and forced herself to hold his Sphinx-like stare.

‘Number one is—’ He paused for a mere fraction of a second, but it was long enough for another flutter of unease to feather along the lining of her stomach. ‘I now own Mercyfields.’

Her eyes widened in alarm. ‘W-what did you say?’

Kane ignored her question and continued with implacable calm, ‘Number two is I also own Mercer Freight Enterprises.’

She swallowed her rising panic with difficulty. ‘I-I don’t believe you.’

Again he ignored her strangled comment. ‘I also own the harbourside apartment and the yacht.’ He paused as he gave her an inscrutable look before adding, ‘However, I have decided to allow your father to keep his Mercedes and Jaguar; I have enough cars of my own.’

‘How very magnanimous of you,’ she managed to quip caustically. ‘Is there anything else in the Mercer household you think you now own?’

He smiled a hateful smile that chilled her already tingling flesh.

‘I don’t just think I own the Mercer package, Bryony—I do own it.’

He reached for a sheaf of papers that was lying on her father’s desk behind him and handed them to her. She took them with fingers that felt like wet cotton wool, her tortured gaze slipping to where her father’s signature should have been but very clearly wasn’t.

Each document was the same.

The new owner of everything to do with the Mercer millions was now Mr Kane Leonidas Kaproulias. The houses, the business, the investments, the yacht…

She let the papers flutter to the floor as she stood up on watery legs. ‘I don’t understand…how did this happen? My father would never let things get to this state! He’d rather die than see you take everything.’

The loathsome smile was back. ‘Actually, he was quite agreeable to it all in the end.’

‘I don’t believe you. You must be blackmailing him or something, for he would never allow you to—’ She stopped as she thought about her father’s recent behaviour. Always a stressed-out control freak, he’d definitely worsened of late. Christmas had been a tense affair, his constant harping on at her had seen her make up an excuse to leave a couple of days early, even though she’d felt guilty at leaving her mother.

Had Kane set him up to destroy him?

He certainly had all the motives one would need to implement such a plan, for even though her father had sponsored Kane’s private academy education as a goodwill gesture he’d still treated him appallingly during the time he’d lived on the estate, when his mother had been employed to do the cleaning.

And not just her father. Her brother, Austin, had been relentless in his bullying at times, not to mention her own reprehensible behaviour, which still made her cringe with shame whenever she allowed herself to think about it…

‘I wouldn’t exactly describe it as blackmail.’ He cut across her thoughts. ‘Suffice it to say I persuaded him to consider his somewhat limited options. And, as I expected him to, he took the easy way out.’

‘The easy way?’ She gave him an incredulous look. ‘You call handing over several million dollars worth of assets the easy way out?’

‘It is when you’re facing a lengthy term in prison.’

She stared at him speechlessly, her heart ramming against her sternum until she was sure it was going to jump out and land at his feet.

‘Prison?’

‘Jail, the slammer, penitentiary, crim-coop, calaboose…’

‘I know what a bloody prison is, for God’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘What I don’t understand is why my father deserves to go there. What’s he supposedly done? Forgotten your birthday?’

‘Now that would indeed be a crime, considering my number five reason for being here.’

She mentally backtracked: one was the Mercyfields estate, two was the business, three was the yacht, four the city apartment…

‘What are you talking about? You’ve got it all; what more is there?’ she asked.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t guessed by now. It is, after all, the one thing I’ve wanted ever since the day my mother and I walked through the Mercyfields gate.’

‘Revenge…’ She almost whispered the word, so deep was her panic. ‘You’re after revenge…’

His dark eyes never once left her face. ‘Now, what form do you think that revenge might take, sweet Bryony?’

She injected her look with as much venom as she could. ‘I have no idea how the mind of a sociopath works; I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.’

He laughed, a deep rumble of amusement that sent ice through her veins. ‘How ironic you see me in that way.’

‘How else could I see you?’ she asked. ‘You were sent from Mercyfields with a criminal record for damage to property and unspeakable cruelty to animals, or have you forgotten about Mrs Bromley’s spaniel?’

His eyes hardened as they burned down into hers. ‘I did not commit that particular crime. The property damage, however, was an unfortunate outburst of temper on my part and I took full responsibility for it.’

She gave a derisive snort. ‘So you’ve grown a halo over the last ten years, have you? What a pity I can’t see it.’

‘You only see what you want to see,’ he said with bitterness. ‘But there will come a time when you’ll have to face the brutal reality of the truth.’

‘I find it highly entertaining to hear you mention the word truth as if you and it are regular acquaintances,’ she tossed back. ‘So tell me, Kane. What instrument of torture do you have planned? I take it I’m the one who has to pay the price, otherwise why would I be summoned to appear?’

‘Your father has an unfortunate habit of ordering people about, but I hope that he will soon see the error of his ways. I thought it in your best interests for you to be here this afternoon. I did not ask him to summon you.’

‘Can we get straight to the point of this?’ she asked with increasing impatience. ‘I’m getting a little tired of all the word games.’

Kane drew in a breath as he studied her incensed features. She thought the worst of him and for now that suited him. He couldn’t afford to let her find out his real motives in coming here today.

He’d waited a long time for a chance to confront Owen Mercer. Ten years of working unspeakable hours to climb up from the depths he’d been tossed into. Rage had simmered in his blood for the last decade as he’d waited for the opportunity to strike back.

Austin Mercer had met his destiny and, as much as Kane knew the family still grieved their loss, he didn’t feel a microgram of regret that the only male Mercer heir was now dead and buried.

Kane’s mother, Sophia, on the other hand, had died before he could provide her with the things he’d so wanted to give her in return for all the sacrifices she’d made.

All the filthy sacrifices Owen Mercer had made her make.

He watched Bryony’s struggle to keep cool under pressure and privately admired her for it. Her father had caved in like the cowardly bully he was, but Bryony was a fighter and he still had the scar to prove it.

She was even more beautiful as a young woman than she’d been as a teenager. Her figure was slim and she moved with the easy grace of someone well trained in the art of classical ballet. Her silky blonde hair was long, drawn back into a single clip at the back of her neck, her eyes an azure, mesmerizing blue. Her mouth was full and tended towards a petulant sneer, but he knew that was probably because she considered him totally beneath her, not worthy of the million-dollar smile she flashed at other men.

But he was patient. He’d waited this long; he could wait a little longer…

Bryony found Kane’s scrutiny increasingly disturbing but stood her ground, waiting for him to speak. She reassured herself that he couldn’t possibly do any worse than he’d already done. If it were indeed true that he now owned everything she would have to move out of the city apartment, but there were plenty of other places she could rent instead.

Her work as a ballet teacher brought in a reasonable income, but she still had to be careful financially, mostly because she found it hard to charge the going rate when children from less fortunate backgrounds fell behind in their fees.

She knew she could always supplement her income some other way, although she had no intention of asking for her father’s help. She suppressed a tiny bubble of what threatened to be hysterical laughter as she even considered taking up house cleaning.

‘Would you care to share the joke?’ Kane asked.

She stared up at him, uncertain of what to make of his expression. ‘No, actually, it wasn’t even funny.’

‘Not much in life is, is it?’ he asked.

She compressed her lips by way of reply. He of all people knew how much she’d idolized her older brother—yes, life wasn’t all that much fun any more.

‘I have made a deal with your father,’ he announced after another one of his nerve-tightening pauses.

‘Oh?’ She hoped she sounded uninterested.

‘I’m giving him the chance to escape the harrowing experience of the judicial system.’

‘Why would you do that?’ She frowned. ‘Especially since…’ She didn’t finish the sentence. She still remembered the shame and disgrace Sophia Kaproulias had gone through when her son had been charged with wilful damage. The local paper had got wind of it, calling Kane Kaproulias an ungrateful rebel who had turned on the benefactor who’d paid for his private education.

The hand of the law had fallen hard on him and she was glad it had. She’d heard he’d spent some time behind bars but had got out early due to good behaviour.

Somehow good behaviour and Kane Kaproulias didn’t sit all that well together in her opinion, especially now, with him watching like a hawk did before it made its final swoop.

‘Your father would not survive a month in prison,’ Kane said. ‘Your mother wouldn’t even make it past the first day.’

‘My mother?’ She looked up at him in sudden consternation. ‘What has my mother got to do with any of this?’

‘Your mother would be implicated in aiding and abetting a criminal,’ he informed her impersonally. ‘And, since I now own and control the family fortune, no decent lawyer would defend their case.’

‘You’re making this up…you have to be…’

‘I’m afraid not, Bryony. Your father has been doing some rather shady deals over the past few years. I got wind of it and decided it was time to make him face the music, so to speak.’

‘With you as principal conductor, I suppose?’ Her look was arctic.

‘But of course.’

She took a prickly breath. ‘So what is my role in all this? You can hardly implicate me. I don’t have anything to do with the family business; I never have.’

‘That’s true; however, you do have rather an important role to play now. For unless you play it both your parents will leave Mercyfields in the back of a police van as I did ten years ago.’

It was hard to maintain her composure as a vision of her fragile mother came to mind. She felt the drum beat of fear pounding deep in her stomach, sending shockwaves all the way to her brain as she tried to imagine what he had planned for her.

What sort of sick revenge would he require to appease his bitterness over the past?

There was only one thing she thought of that would truly rock her to the core of her being, but surely he wouldn’t be thinking along those lines…

He straightened from his leaning position against her father’s desk and strode with loose-limbed grace to where she was sitting on the edge of the wing chair, her crossed leg trembling just ever so slightly as he drew nearer.

She looked up at his face and for the first time realised she had seriously underestimated him. There was a hint of ruthlessness in his glittering eyes, as if he couldn’t wait to tell her of what he had in store for her but was deliberately making her wait to draw out the agony of her suspense for his own enjoyment.

She was close to losing her head and sensed he knew it. Her mouth was dry, her hands damp and her neck and shoulders so tense she could feel a muscle spasm begin in the middle of her back, beating in time with her increasing headache.

She got to her feet, then wished she hadn’t as it brought her far too close to the wall of his body, her thighs almost touching his.

She shrank back but one of his hands came out and held her by the elbow, making escape impossible.

‘Get your filthy hands off me.’ She hissed the words at him with aristocratic hauteur.

His nostrils flared and she felt the unmistakable tightening of his grasp for endless seconds before he finally let her arm go.

She fought to keep her breathing under some sort of control but the feel of his long fingers on her had set off a host of strange electric sensations throughout her body. She felt frightened of him but drawn to him all at the same time, making her feel confused and disoriented.

‘In time you will get used to having me touch you, Bryony,’ he said. ‘You may, in fact, eventually crave it.’

‘I wouldn’t have you touch me for all the money in the world,’ she told him with stiff pride.

‘What about for all the money in the Mercer family vault?’ he asked.

‘W-what are you talking about?’

He gave her an unfathomable look. ‘You see, that is my plan for you, Bryony. Your parents will maintain their freedom and, as I’m feeling generous, a certain level of financial support, but on one condition and one condition only.’

She gave one tiny nervous swallow before she could stop herself. ‘Which is?’ she asked, not really wanting to know the answer, somehow sensing it wasn’t going to be what she wanted to hear.

And she was right.

It wasn’t.

‘I want you to be my wife.’

CHAPTER TWO

BRYONY knew she was giving a very good imitation of a stranded fish, with her mouth opening and closing in shock, but there was little she could do to stop it.

‘You’re a whole two months early for April Fool’s day,’ she said when she could find her voice.

‘This is not a joke, Bryony.’

‘You surely don’t expect me to take this seriously?’

‘If you want your parents to avoid the weight of the law, then yes, I do.’

‘This has got to be some sort of sick joke!’ she insisted. ‘It has to be!’

‘No.’

His one word answer upset her more than if he’d rattled off an entire dictionary of words at her.

Her long stunned silence came to a jarring end when he announced with implacable calm, ‘You will be my wife within a fortnight or both of your parents will be staring at the four walls of a cell.’

‘You definitely need a little work on the proposal, Kane.’ Her tone was deliberately dry to disguise her distress. ‘It makes one wonder how you approached the whole issue of dating over the last few years. What did you do? Drag the nearest woman off by the hair?’

‘No, I never found I had to resort to such tactics.’

‘What did you do? Pay them?’

‘Careful, Bryony,’ he warned her silkily. ‘It wouldn’t be wise to test my control too much. I might be tempted to walk away with the lot and let your parents face a judge and jury all on their own.’

She wished she had the courage to call his bluff, but as her father’s business affairs were so unknown to her it made her realize she was at a distinct disadvantage.

‘I can’t imagine why you would want to marry me.’ She injected her tone with icy disdain. ‘We have nothing in common.’

‘I take it you’re referring to the fact that you have what your family likes to think of as blue blood while mine is, shall we say, a little contaminated?’

‘Your entire brain is seriously contaminated if you think I would ever agree to be your wife. I wouldn’t even agree to be your neighbour, much less live with you in a relationship such as marriage.’

‘It’s understandable you’d find the notion of marriage to me a little distasteful, but in time you may come to see it as justice well served.’

‘My parents would never allow such a marriage to take place,’ she said with somewhat shaky conviction. ‘It would break their hearts to have their only daughter marry the illegitimate son of one of their previous housekeepers.’

‘Your parents have expressed their distress but wisely realize what’s at stake. They’ve given their permission, not that I needed it, of course. I would have gone ahead without it anyway.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ She gave him a scornful glare. ‘Isn’t the bride supposed to accept the proposal?’

‘You have no choice other than to accept.’

‘Well, here’s news for you, Kane Kaproulias. I do not accept your outrageous proposal. You’d have to have me drugged and hogtied to get me within a bell’s toll of a church to marry you.’

‘I wasn’t thinking along the lines of a church wedding.’

She stamped her foot on the carpet at her feet. ‘There is not going to be any sort of wedding!’

He continued calmly, as if she hadn’t just screeched at him. ‘It will be a civil ceremony with the minimum of guests.’

‘The last thing I’d call you is civil,’ she tossed back. ‘You’re acting like a primitive jerk issuing these stupid commands like some sort of dictator.’

‘I can be very civil when I need to be, Bryony, but if my buttons are pressed a little too often I’m afraid you might find me less than urbane.’

‘I find you less than human! What were you thinking, coming back here after all this time waving property deeds around and insisting on extracting revenge when you were the one in the wrong in the first place? You are seriously unhinged if you think for one moment I’d commit myself to a man I loathe with every breath in my body.’

‘I shall enjoy teaching you to respect me. I’ve been waiting a long time to do so.’

‘How could I possibly respect you?’ she threw at him coldly. ‘You’re the very last man on earth I would ever respect. You’re nothing, do you hear me? Nothing but a piece of—’

She didn’t get time to finish her stinging insult. He was suddenly towering over her, both of his hands on her upper arms, hauling her up against his hard body, the contact of his flesh on hers knocking all the air out of her lungs.

His head came down, blocking out the fading afternoon sunlight as his mouth came crashing down to hers.

She began to struggle but as soon as his tongue drove through the cleft of her lips she felt herself melt as if he’d turned a switch inside her body from off to on. Sizzling heat coursed through her as his mouth commandeered hers with a mastery she knew was his particular speciality. After all, it had been him who had taught her long ago how truly devastatingly tempting a fiery kiss could be.

She felt the stirring of his body against her stomach, making her legs go weak with unexpected longing. She couldn’t understand her response to him, much less do anything to stop it. Need clawed at her insides, making her kiss him back without the restraint she’d intended on executing.

She felt the ridge of his scar as he shifted position, felt too the rasp of male skin in the dip between her chin and mouth, making her sink even further into his pulsing heat.

He dropped his hold and stepped back from her, his movement so unexpected and sudden she actually swayed on her feet.

It took her at least six precious seconds to gather herself enough to glare at him while she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if to remove the taste and feel of him from her lips.

‘Don’t you ever try that again,’ she ground out furiously, more angry with herself than him. ‘Who do you think you are?’

‘I am your fiancé until the week after next,’ he said smoothly. ‘After that you will wear my ring and receive my body without complaint.’

‘I hope you’ve got ready access to a large supply of stupefying drugs,’ she bit out. ‘For I can’t imagine any other way you’re going to get me to agree to sleep with you.’

The edge of his mouth lifted in a twisted smile. ‘Such dramatics I suppose are to be expected from someone who has had their own way all her life. Marriage to me will be the making of you, Bryony. I guarantee it.’

‘You’re assuming, of course, that I’m going to agree to this preposterous plan.’

‘I’m not just assuming—I’m counting on it. Any doubts you may harbour at this point will soon be swept away with just one conversation with your father.’ He walked to the door and held it open for her. ‘Why not go to him now and get it over with?’

She hesitated, somehow sensing that once she walked through that door she was going to be entering a completely different stage of her life.

He elevated one dark brow at her as he waited for her to move past, his action seeming to mock her indecision, igniting her fury anew.

She drew in a breath and, stiffening her spine, stalked past him with her head in the air, giving him her best imitation of affronted aristocratic pride.

She sensed his self-satisfied smile as she moved past and, clenching her teeth, strode away down the hall, her footsteps echoing with an agitated syncopated beat.

Her parents were in the green sitting room, her father standing at the window staring out over the view of the extensive gardens, her mother sitting in a frozen position on one of the linen covered sofas, her hands tied into two tight knots in her lap.

Bryony closed the door behind her with a little click that made her mother instantly flinch and her father turn around to face her.

‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked.

Her mother began to sob brokenly.

‘Shut up, Glenys.’ Owen Mercer threw his wife a disparaging glance. ‘It’s too late for hysterics; it won’t change anything now.’

Bryony hated the way her father always dismissed her mother but, as much as she wanted to berate him for doing it now, she was here for other reasons and didn’t want to be distracted from them.

‘Is it true?’ She addressed him squarely. ‘Does Kane Kaproulias now own everything?’

She saw her father’s Adam’s apple move up and down in his throat and the fine beads of perspiration clinging precariously to his fleshy upper lip.

‘Yes…it’s true.’

She blinked at him in shock. ‘But…but how? How did such a thing happen?’

Her father seemed to be having some difficulty in meeting her eyes.

‘I made a few mistakes,’ he began awkwardly. ‘None of them serious, but over time they started to bank up behind me.’

‘What banked up behind you?’

‘Debts…’

‘What sort of debts?’

He told her a sum and she sank to the nearest sofa. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘Kane heard about it and swooped in for the kill. There was nothing I could do to stop him.’

Her mind was racing with the effort of finding a way out of their predicament but all she could see was her future mapped out for her as if written in her blood on the wall.

Kane had come after her.

She was the one he had chosen to pay the price.

‘He’s offered us a solution to our problems,’ her father said into the silence.

‘Oh, really?’ She gave him a cold look. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve agreed to his tidy little solution, have you?’

‘Darling…’ her mother began.

‘I told you to keep out of this, Glenys,’ Owen barked at her before turning back to Bryony. ‘He’s a rich man. I might have asked for someone a little less…er…primitive, but his wealth will more than make up for that.’

‘You think that money means anything to me?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you realize what you’ve done? You’ve sold me like some medieval bride!’

‘You could do a lot worse.’

‘I’d like to know how.’ She sprang off the sofa in agitation. ‘I hate him! He’s a criminal, or have you forgotten that little detail?’

‘We all make mistakes, Bryony…’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this!’ she gasped. ‘You were the one to send him off to whatever correction facility he went to. How can you allow him to step in and carry me off like some sort of caveman?’

‘You’re being hysterical just like your mother.’

‘I’m being hysterical? This whole farce is hysterical! I will not marry him and that’s my final word.’ She spun away and stomped to the door and had her hand out to turn the knob when her father spoke, instantly freezing her to the spot.

‘He has information about me that will send both your mother and I to prison for the rest of our lives.’

Bryony turned around slowly, as if by prolonging the moment she might find her life had turned back to what it had once been, not the theatrical drama that was facing her now.

No such luck.

The look on her father’s face was nothing short of desperate and her mother was bent over double on the sofa, the sounds of her distress muffled but no less disturbing.

‘What did you do?’ she asked when she could move her stiff lips into gear. ‘Kill someone?’

His eyes skittered away from hers. ‘I won’t distress you with the details.’

‘I think under the current circumstances I can handle it,’ she informed him drily. ‘My shockometer has already blown a fuse this afternoon so one more hit shouldn’t make much difference.’

‘I don’t wish your mother to be upset.’

‘You’ve made it your lifetime’s work to make her upset so I can’t see why you’re feeling so solicitous now.’

‘I won’t be spoken to like that, young lady,’ Owen growled at her darkly.

‘I’m not a child you can smack into obedience,’ she flashed at him, recalling all the times he had as if they were yesterday. ‘I’m twenty-seven years old so you can hardly resort to such brutality now.’

‘You deserve Kaproulias as your husband,’ her father snarled at her. ‘You need someone cruel and calculating to bring you to heel.’

She didn’t think she had hated her father more than at that point in her entire life.

She knew Austin had been his favourite child. She had never come first in his affections and had barely managed to scrape in second. His work was his life and he’d brandished his wealth about with self-indulgent pride. She would have walked away long ago and never looked back except for her mother…

‘So my fate is sealed.’ She flicked a glance towards the bowed figure on the sofa, her heart sinking all over again at the sight of her mother’s brokenness.

‘It’s the only way out,’ Owen said. ‘You owe us this. You’re a Mercer and we must always stand together.’

‘What a pity you didn’t consider that when you went on your little gambling spree.’ She sent him a disdainful look. ‘I’m assuming that’s where most of the money has gone?’

He didn’t bother denying it. ‘I was on a winning streak, my numbers were up and then it all changed.’

Oh, how it had changed, she thought with increasing despair.

‘Kaproulias is being quite generous,’ her father continued. ‘He’s paying for your mother and me to go on a trip to get out of the line of fire. There are people after me…’

As far as she was concerned they were welcome to him but she couldn’t bear the thought of her mother suffering any more grief. In spite of her father’s mean-spirited nature, she knew her mother still loved him desperately.

Bryony couldn’t imagine ever allowing herself to love someone so unguardedly. Her heart was untouched and, as far as she was concerned, it was going to stay that way.

She left the harrowing spectre of her parents’ financial demise to the confines of the green sitting room and made her way towards the stairs.

‘I wish to discuss the details of our marriage with you.’ Kane’s deep voice sounded from behind her.

She sucked in an angry breath and turned on her heel to look at him, wishing she’d made it up four or five steps so she could at least have given her craning neck a rest.

Had he really been that tall all those years ago?

She was a good five foot seven, could even stretch it to ten in some of her heels, but he still towered over her, making her feel small and insignificant.

‘I thought you would have taken the hint by now and left,’ she said. ‘I don’t have anything to say to you.’

‘We have a wedding to arrange.’

‘It seems to me it’s already been arranged—’ she sent him a withering look ‘—by you.’

‘I want your input on one or two details.’

‘You’ve made all the decisions so far, so feel free to make the rest. I don’t give a toss.’

‘Do you not wish to know where we will live?’

She hadn’t given it a thought. So much had happened in the last hour; she was still reeling from the staggering blow she’d received, her brain more or less paralysed by a combination of fear and sick resignation.

Marriage to Kane Kaproulias was quite clearly inescapable. While she would have happily left her father to the pack of wolves currently after his blood, her mother was another thing entirely. Even if Bryony had to wed Lucifer himself it would be preferable to watching her mother destroyed.

She would not—could not let that happen.

‘Mercyfields is out of the question,’ she said, carefully avoiding his eyes. ‘I need to be close to my work in the city.’

‘You won’t need to work once you are my wife, or at least not in that capacity.’

She frowned at his statement. ‘Of course I must work. I love my job.’

‘I don’t mind if you have a job as long as you run my home for me according to my standards.’

Her jaw dropped open. ‘What did you say?’

His mouth tilted in a self-satisfied little smile. ‘I want you to be a proper wife. You will keep our home clean and tidy as well as cook on the occasions we don’t dine out.’

She couldn’t believe her ears. She felt like shaking her head to make sure she wasn’t going deaf and misinterpreting what he’d said.

‘You want me to do housework?’

‘But of course.’

‘I don’t do housework,’ she stated emphatically.

‘All wives do housework.’

‘Not in this century they don’t.’

‘I don’t expect you to do everything, of course—’ he folded his arms casually ‘—or at least no more than your family demanded of my mother.’

She was starting to put the pieces together in her head and it wasn’t looking pretty. Kane was out for blood for the way her family had supposedly treated his mother, but she could hardly recall ever speaking to the woman in the whole time she’d occupied one of the servants’ cottages at the back of the estate.

Sophia Kaproulias had been a quiet and seemingly diligent worker, but Bryony hadn’t been encouraged to mix with the household or grounds staff, especially when a rumour had started going around about the housekeeper’s promiscuous behaviour with someone on the estate.

Besides, she’d been at boarding school most of the year and during holidays at Mercyfields she’d pointedly avoided the housekeeper in case she came into contact with Kane who’d always seemed to her to be rather sullen.

She refused to think about the one occasion she had come into closer contact with him…

‘You’re totally sick.’ She clenched her hands into fists by her sides.

‘On the contrary, I’m in the peak of fitness and health,’ he returned as he held her infuriated gaze with ease.

She fought against the temptation to run her eyes over his tautly muscled form as he stood before her. She could sense the strength of his body, and imagined each and every muscle had been honed to perfection by a strict and disciplined approach at some state-of-the-art well-appointed gym.

She sucked in her post-Christmas tummy and gave him a glowering stare. ‘You think you’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? Mr Nobody makes the big time and lands himself a trophy wife. But you’re in for a surprise, for I refuse to be any man’s slave in any room of the house.’

Kane watched as her eyes flashed with hatred and couldn’t help wondering how passionate she’d be in bed. His body grew hard just thinking about it, speculating on how many men there had been before him.

She had the sort of mouth that begged to be kissed, the softness of her bottom lip jutting in sulkiness, tempting him so much he had to push his hands into the pockets of his trousers to stop himself from reaching for her again.

‘I don’t need a slave, I need a wife.’

‘You don’t need a wife; in my opinion you’re in desperate need of a behavioural psychologist.’

He laughed at her, the rich deep sound surprising her into silence.

She stood immobile at the foot of the huge staircase, staring up into his eyes while the grandfather clock kept solid time in the background.

One second…two seconds…three…four…five…

‘I have to get back to the city,’ he said, jolting her out of her stasis. ‘I’ll contact you at the city apartment to inform you of the arrangements.’

She watched as he made his way to the front door of her family home as if he owned the place, realizing with a sickening little lurch of her stomach that he now did.

And not just the house…

Bryony waited until the sound of his car driving over the crushed limestone driveway faded into the distance, the crunch of displaced stones reminding her of the impact he’d had on her in the space of little more than an hour.

How was she to cope with extended periods of time in his presence, much less marry him?

Marriage to anyone was anathema to her, let alone to someone whom she hated.

How had her father got them into this? And if her mother had known something of it, why hadn’t she thought to warn her?

Too agitated to stay within the house but for some strange reason unwilling to leave by the same exit Kane had just used, she turned and made her way out through one of the rear doors into the gardens.

She stood and breathed in the scent of sun-warmed roses, their heady fragrance a welcome relief from the cold and formal atmosphere of the house.

A light afternoon breeze shivered over the surface of the lake in the distance, its fringe of weeping willows offering Bryony a solace she found hard to resist. She walked across the verdant expanse of well-manicured lawn, her light footsteps cushioned by the lushness of fastidiously clipped growth, and headed for the shade of the arc of willows on the far side of the lake.

It was much cooler near the water.

She sat on one of the large rocks and, slipping off her shoes, dangled her toes in the cool dark depths, watching as the bowing branches moved on the surface like feathery fingertips as the eddy of disturbed water reached them.

She hadn’t been to this dark secluded spot for ten years.

Even the gardeners didn’t come this far. Their work was to make the exposed parts of Mercyfields appear perfect at all times. Under here, where the pendulous branches of the willows shielded the house from view, was of no interest to them.

She breathed in the earthy smell of the damp bank, the fragile lace of maidenhair fern shifting faintly as the warm breath of the breeze moved through the shady sanctuary, and her thoughts drifted just like the water she’d disturbed…

It had been one of those unbearably hot afternoons the countryside of New South Wales was famous for, the smell of eucalyptus-tinged smoke lingering in the sultry air, the clouds overhead gathering in wrathful grey clusters as if deciding whether or not to take out their rage on the earth below.

She’d come down to the lake to bathe in private, for even though the large kidney-shaped swimming pool lay near the wisteria walk at the rear of the house she hadn’t wanted to be observed, preferring the secluded shade of her favourite hideaway.

At seventeen she’d been conscious of the weight she’d gained during her final term. An injury to her knee, her anxiety over exams and the stodgy diet ordered by Madame Celeste had taken its toll on her normally svelte figure. She hadn’t been able to dance for eight weeks and it showed.

She’d slipped into the cool embrace of the dark water and sighed with pleasure, her limbs feeling like silky ribbons released after months of being tightly coiled. She’d swum back and forth beneath the shield of the hanging arms of the willows, glad to be finally free of the constraints of the school term.

She’d lain on her back and looked up through the canopy, the dapple of sunlight speckling along her wet body as if someone had dropped a handful of gold-dust over her.

Smiling at her overactive imagination, she’d begun stroking backwards, her arms slicing through the water, gradually gathering speed as she’d pretended she was in the final heat of the Olympic fifty metre backstroke, she was in front…she was going to win…Thump!

Bryony had gagged on the mouthful of water she’d swallowed before turning around to see what she’d run into, expecting to find a fallen log or even a partially submerged rock.

She had not expected to see Kane Kaproulias standing waist-deep in the water with his nose streaming blood…

‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped while her feet searched vainly for a foothold in the slippery mud.

‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked as his hands came out to her shoulders to steady her.

Bryony felt her feet sink into the velvet mud, offering her a stability she badly needed once Kane’s warm brown work-roughened hands touched the creamy skin of her shoulders.

She stared up at him, fighting for breath, suddenly conscious of the tight cling of her Lycra bathing suit which, in her current physical shape, was at least two sizes too small.

‘No…’ she said a little breathlessly, ‘you didn’t hurt me at all but look what I did to your nose.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He let her go and rinsed his face in the water.

‘I didn’t know anyone was here, otherwise I would have—’

‘It’s just a nosebleed, Bryony, it won’t kill me.’

She found it hard not to stare at his face. She hadn’t seen him for months. During her last holiday he’d been working part-time on a neighbour’s property, only coming home occasionally to see his mother. She’d heard he was saving up enough money to put himself through a university course but she had never asked him what he’d intended studying.

He looked much fitter and stronger than the last time she’d seen him. At twenty-two he was only a year older than her brother but somehow he seemed to be so much more mature.

Austin was boisterous and loud, as were most of his friends who often spent time at Mercyfields during their university vacations, their numerous boyish pranks in stark contrast to Kane’s silent brooding presence. She suspected his surly demeanour was an inbuilt part of his personality and not just a reaction to being labelled the cleaning lady’s son.

She couldn’t imagine what her father would say if he could see her now, standing in the water with Kane, his broad smooth chest glistening with droplets of moisture as he looked down at her with eyes darker than the mud beneath her curling toes.

‘Do you usually swim here?’ he asked.

‘I…no…not usually.’

‘You shouldn’t come here, especially not alone.’

She didn’t care for the quiet authority in his tone. She was the daughter of the house, he was the servant’s son—he had no right to tell her what to do.

She tilted her chin at him. ‘Why not? It’s my lake, not yours.’

The look he gave her was hard to decipher given the shady nook they were in, but she suspected he was sneering at her behind the screen of his dark lashes.

‘If you hurt yourself no one would find you.’

‘How could I hurt myself? I’m a good swimmer.’

‘You’re a very careless swimmer.’ He gave his nose another wipe with the back of his hand. ‘Instead of me it could have been a rock you hit. You could have easily knocked yourself out and drowned.’

‘It’s none of your business what I do,’ she said, annoyed that he was right but unwilling to admit it. ‘If I want to swim here I will and nothing you say or do can stop me.’

Bryony became increasingly aware of the pulsing silence. The shadows danced like wraiths around them, the water where his blood had spilled lapping gently against her thighs like a caress, heightening her awareness of his physical closeness in the most intimate and primal way.

The sunlight shifted, revealing more of his face to her, and she was relieved to see that his nose had more or less stopped bleeding. But then she gave a tiny involuntary shiver as she saw his eyes slide down to the overflow of her breasts, her tight bathing suit doing an inadequate job of keeping them contained with any sort of decency.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘I’ll tell my brother you have insulted me by leering at me like that.’

His gaze lingered another full ten seconds before he lifted it to meet her flashing one. ‘Do you imagine I am afraid of that spineless little jerk?’

She was incensed by his attitude towards the older brother she adored. ‘You will be when I tell him you’ve touched me under the willows of the lake.’

He didn’t say a word, just stood watching her steadily, which somehow made her even angrier.

‘Do you think he won’t defend his sister from the filthy hands of the cleaning lady’s son?’ she added spitefully.

‘He very probably will,’ he answered after another long cicadas-beating-in-the-background pause. ‘So in that case I’d better make sure that what’s coming to me is well and truly warranted.’

She was still trying to make sense of his coolly delivered words when he reached for her, his strong arms coming around her, pulling her out of the sucking mud and up against his hard body. His mouth came down, his lips warm and firm as they explored the soft surface of hers.

Bryony had never been kissed before and wasn’t quite sure how to react. Part of her insisted she pull away at once, but the lure of finding out what a real man’s kiss tasted like won. She closed her eyes and gave in with a soft sigh of pleasure at the feel of his mouth discovering the moistness of hers with a determined probe of his tongue. She could taste the metallic saltiness of his blood where it had come into contact with his mouth and a new and totally alluring sensation unfurled low in her belly, making her cling to him unashamedly.

He suddenly pulled away from her with a jerky movement that made her lose her footing. She went sprawling backwards, landing ungainly on her bottom in the mud, the murky water lapping her chin as she glared up at him in outrage at being released without warning.

He offered her a hand at the same time as her other hand came upon a rock under the water, her fingers curling around it as he hauled her inelegantly to her feet.

It was his smile that made her do it.

Without really thinking of the consequences, she raised her hand and smashed the rock in her tightly clenched fist against that sneering mouth…

CHAPTER THREE

BRYONY blinked herself back out of the past and stared down at the now still surface of the lake, surprised the water wasn’t still red even after ten long years.

She hadn’t thought an injury could bleed so much.

She hadn’t thought she’d been capable of such a despicable action.

She hadn’t thought he’d wait for ten long years to have his revenge…

She drove back to the city that night, unable to stay a minute longer now she’d disturbed the vault of her memory. Her parents hadn’t questioned her decision to leave. Her father hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye but her mother had more than made up for it by standing on the marble steps at the double front door, tears streaming down her face as she’d waved her off.

Bryony turned on the music system and hoped the heavy strains of a Mahler Symphony would distract her from what lay ahead, but even as she pulled into the garage of the apartment block two hours later she knew there was no escaping her nemesis.

Fate had written the script of her life ten years ago and now it was finally time for her to take her place on the stage…

By the time Bryony arrived at the studio on Monday, Pauline LeFray, her teaching partner, had already finished her warm-up stretches.

Pauline wiped her hands on a small towel, her brow furrowing at the look on her partner’s beautiful face.

‘What’s going on?’

Bryony slipped off her wraparound skirt and reached for the barre, easing herself into her pre-teaching routine.

‘It would take me a decade to tell you,’ she said, stretching her calves.

Pauline glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘We’ve got ten minutes until the five-year-olds arrive. Want to quickly summarise?’

Bryony eased her hamstrings into action as she met her friend’s interested gaze. ‘I’m getting married.’

‘Married?’ Pauline gasped.

Bryony lifted her right leg to the barre and bent her head to her knee, staring at the wooden floorboards below as she spoke. ‘Married as in wedlock, matrimony…’ Jail, she added silently.

‘This is a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Pauline asked. ‘I mean…I didn’t know you were even seeing anyone. Have you been seeing someone?’

Bryony changed legs and repeated the exercise, again staring at the floor. ‘No.’

Pauline’s frown deepened. ‘You’re not making a whole lot of sense, Bry. You haven’t had a date in years and now you tell me you’re getting married. Call me thick if you like, but how does that work? You’re not doing some crazy mail-order or Internet hook-up thing, are you?’

I wish, Bryony thought. Better to marry a perfect stranger than someone you couldn’t bear to look at because…

‘It’s nothing like that,’ she answered as she straightened. ‘I know it’s sudden but he’s someone from my…past and we just hit it off, so to speak.’

‘Hit it off?’

Bryony gave her a false smile and hoped it would pass for pre-wedded joy. ‘He’s tall, dark and handsome and disgustingly rich.’

‘Rich?’ Pauline stared at her. ‘You don’t do rich, remember? The last guy you dated, what was it…three years ago, didn’t even have a job!’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Hello?’ Pauline waved her arms in the air at her. ‘It’s me—Pauline. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you are attracted to a guy because of the size of his wallet.’

‘OK, so it’s not his wallet I’m attracted to.’ Bryony avoided her friend’s eyes in the wall-to-wall mirror as she stretched her arms.

‘Now you’ve got me even more worried. What else did this guy show you apart from his wallet? Don’t tell me you’ve finally done the deed?’

Bryony felt a trickle of warmth leak into her belly at the thought of Kane’s body possessing hers and in spite of the air-conditioning of the studio her whole body grew hot.

‘Have you?’ Pauline probed when she didn’t answer.

Bryony turned around and reached for her towel. ‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet? What do you mean, not yet? If you’re going to marry him, don’t you think you should check out if everything’s in good working order?’

‘I’m perfectly healthy and—’

‘Not you, dummy.’ Pauline rolled her eyes. ‘Him. He might be a complete dud for all you know. Would you buy a car without taking it for a run first? It’s the same with men. Take it from someone who knows about these things. If he’s not good in bed the relationship is dead.’

Bryony considered telling her the truth about her relationship with Kane but decided against it at the last minute. It was too complicated to explain, even to a close friend. It was better to let Pauline think it was a match made in heaven rather than reveal the true hell of her situation.

‘We’ve only just become engaged,’ she said instead. ‘It’s all happened so fast but I’m sure we’ll…er…get around to it.’

‘Yeah, well see that you do,’ Pauline advised as the outer door opened and ten little girls traipsed in dressed in tiny tutus and ballet slippers.

Bryony plastered a welcoming smile on her face as she faced the girls and hoped that by the end of the afternoon Pauline wouldn’t return to the topic of her sex life.

She didn’t have a sex life and, marriage or no marriage, she wasn’t going to have one if she could help it.

It was three days until Kane contacted her.

She knew it was him even before she picked up the receiver on her bedroom extension.

‘Hello, Bryony.’

‘Who is it?’ she asked, pretending not to recognise that unmistakable deep velvety voice.

‘You know who it is.’

‘How am I supposed to know who it is if you don’t identify yourself? Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s polite to announce your identity when you call someone?’

‘My mother taught me many things,’ he said, ‘and I intend to act on all of them.’

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to elucidate on just exactly what he meant so she changed the subject.

‘Why did you call?’

‘I think it’s time we went out on a date.’

‘A date?’ She frowned. ‘Save yourself the time and bother, Kane. You don’t need to wine and dine me; you’ve paid for me already, remember?’

‘As you wish.’

She knew it was inconsistent of her to be disappointed by his ready agreement but she just was.

‘I guess we can discuss the wedding arrangements just as easily over the telephone as we can over a dinner table somewhere,’ he continued. ‘I’ve decided we’ll have the ceremony conducted at Mercyfields overlooking the lake.’

Her hand around the receiver tightened until her knuckles went completely white.

‘Your mother will appreciate you being married at your home,’ he added when she didn’t speak.

‘It’s no longer my home,’ she pointed out somewhat sourly. ‘It’s yours.’

‘It will belong to both of us. Your parents’ things will be moved out while we’re on our honeymoon.’

‘Honeymoon?’ she choked.

‘That’s what newly married couples usually do, is it not?’

‘Yes…but…’

‘I’ve arranged a week on a private beach on the south coast.’

‘The south coast?’

‘You do know where that is, don’t you?’ he drawled.

‘Of course I do, but I—’

‘It will be slightly cooler there than the city but the water is warm and the beach long and lonely.’

‘You sound like a travel journal,’ she said with a touch of scorn.

His rumble of laughter sent a shiver over the surface of her skin.

‘I like to get away from the hustle and bustle of high city life,’ he said. ‘I go there quite a lot. It’s just about the only place you can still have the beach to yourself, no jet-skis, no crowds, just the sound of the waves beating along the shore.’

Bryony could almost smell the sea-spray. She loved the beach but it had been months since she’d felt the sand between her toes.

‘Your parents will leave for a month-long cruise of the Pacific Islands the day after our wedding,’ he informed her, apparently undeterred by her lack of response. ‘Until I settle all his debts over the next few weeks, your father needs to keep his head down. Your mother, quite frankly, needs a holiday.’

It was difficult not to voice her agreement but somehow she managed to remain silent.

‘It will take me the best part of that month to sort out the mess your father has made,’ he went on. ‘I have to wait until I get clearance of some international funds to relieve the situation.’

That did get her attention.

‘International funds? What international funds?’

‘I recently inherited my maternal grandfather’s estate in Greece. I have to wait until the bank clears the funds to access them.’

Bryony’s forehead creased in a frown. His maternal grandfather had been wealthy? It didn’t make sense. Why then had his mother worked her fingers to the bone cleaning?

‘I thought you didn’t know any of your relatives.’

‘I don’t, nor do I wish to. They didn’t help my mother when she most needed it so I don’t see why I should pay them any attention now.’

‘But surely if your grandfather left you his entire estate you must feel some sort of obligation to go and see the rest of the family and—’

‘My grandfather’s money is nothing more than guilt money. I’ve made my own fortune without it.’

‘Then why are you using it to sort out my father’s debts?’

‘You’re not listening, Bryony,’ he chided her. ‘I told you, my grandfather’s money is guilt money. I think it’s highly appropriate if I use it to dig your father out of the hole he dug for himself.’

Guilt money.

Her stomach churned as she thought about it.

‘Exactly whose guilt are we talking about here?’ she asked.

‘I think you know whose guilt we’re talking about,’ he answered.

She took a breath and hoped he didn’t hear the way it snagged in her throat.

‘What sort of outfit should I wear to the ceremony?’ she asked for the want of something to say to steer the subject away from the topic of guilt.

‘It’s a wedding, Bryony. Your mother will expect you to look like a bride.’

He really knew how to press her buttons. Her mother had been planning her wedding since she’d been five, her enthusiasm undaunted by her daughter’s flat refusal to select herself a groom.

‘I don’t look good in white,’ she said. ‘It’s not my colour.’

‘Wear cream, then.’

‘Shouldn’t I be wearing black?’ she asked. ‘After all, isn’t this the end of my life as I now know it?’

‘Quite frankly, I don’t care what you wear,’ he said with the first sign of impatience in his tone she’d heard. ‘Your job is to appear at the right time, say the right words and do what you’re told. If you don’t your father and mother will be cruising the exercise yard of whatever correctional facility they’re sent to instead of the Pacific Islands.’

Bryony stared at the buzzing receiver in her hand as he ended the call with an abruptness that left her feeling somehow deflated.

Her mother rang the next morning and arranged a time to meet her in the city to select the wedding finery. Bryony had to give herself a mental shake once or twice to remind herself that this wasn’t going to be a normal wedding in any shape or form, because her mother was quite clearly on a mission and had been waiting years to execute it.

‘I don’t want a huge bouquet,’ Bryony insisted in the florist’s shop.

‘You must have a big bouquet,’ Glenys said, thrusting yet another design under her nose. ‘This is the most important day of your life; you have to have everything perfect.’

Bryony stared down at the various floral arrangements in the brochure in front of her and wondered what had ever been perfect in her parents’ marriage. Her mother continually danced around her father’s demands, subsuming her own needs into the satisfaction of his. What was perfect about that?

‘I’ll have the roses,’ she told the hovering assistant. ‘Cream, not white.’

They left the florist to do yet another round of the bridal boutiques as she had been unable to find anything that suited her colouring or her figure.

‘I need to go on a diet,’ she lamented at the fifth boutique, her hands pushing against her tummy where the satin of the gown she was trying on was showing too much detail of her Christmas indulgences.

‘You worry too much about your figure,’ her mother remonstrated as she eyed the gown. ‘I was at least ten pounds heavier than you when I got married.’

‘At least you were marrying the man of your choice,’ Bryony said.

There was a funny little silence.

Bryony twirled around to face her mother, the rustle of the garment she was wearing the only sound in the changing room.

Glenys bent to the hem of the gown, fussing over some little detail which Bryony hadn’t noticed.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, darling?’ Glenys straightened and gave her an absent look.

Bryony rolled her lips together and, taking a breath, took one of her mother’s thin hands in hers, the tendons on the back reminding her of the struts of an umbrella.

‘You do want me to marry Kane, don’t you?’

Glenys gave her a watery smile. ‘I know you don’t think much of him but he’s doing us all a favour by marrying you.’

‘You make me sound like some sort of white elephant you can’t wait to get rid of,’ Bryony said indignantly.

‘I don’t mean to, darling, but your father has…’ She inserted a little choked sob. ‘Your father hasn’t been the same since Austin…left us.’

Bryony felt like screaming with frustration.

Why couldn’t anyone in her family say the words?

Austin had died.

He hadn’t passed away.

He hadn’t left.

He’d died.

She sighed and, reaching out, gave her mother a consoling hug, catching sight of herself in the mirror opposite, the outfit she was wearing making her look like a meringue without the cream and strawberries.

‘I hate this dress.’ She released her mother and began stripping off the gown. ‘I want something simple and elegant. Is there nowhere in Sydney where I can find what I want?’

She found it in Paddington.

It was cream, it was long and voluminous, it was elegant—it was perfect.

Even if her groom wasn’t.

He rang that night as if he’d somehow sensed she’d found what she was looking for.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Bryony.’

She pursed her lips sourly. ‘Who is it?’

‘You know who I am, so stop playing games.’

‘I’m not playing games. I just wish you’d identify yourself when you call.’

‘Don’t you have caller ID?’

‘I still like to know who is speaking. Numbers mean nothing to me.’

‘You’re definitely your father’s daughter then.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

She heard the rustle of papers before he spoke. ‘Your father has made the most God-awful mess of things. There are creditors breathing down my neck as we speak.’

She wasn’t sure how to respond. Should she thank him for what he was doing, even though he was taking away her freedom by doing it?

‘I had no idea…’

‘No, I imagine not,’ he said. ‘Are you doing anything right now?’

She tried to think of something that could be legitimately occupying her time at seven-fifteen in the evening but she’d already washed her hair that morning.

‘No…’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.’

‘But—’

The receiver buzzed in her hand for the second time in twenty-four hours. She put it back in its cradle and stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering why it was that her mouth suddenly felt the urge to smile.

Bryony opened the door fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds later to find Kane standing there dressed in a black dinner suit, his thick hair still showing the grooves of a recent comb.

‘Ready?’

She nodded, not sure what to expect but resigned to go along with whatever he had planned.

‘I have tickets,’ he said once they were in his silver Porsche.

‘What for?’

He gave her a quick inscrutable glance as he turned over the engine, ‘The ballet.’

She turned back to the front of the car and hustled her thoughts together.

The ballet?

He was taking her to the ballet?

She toyed with the catch on her evening purse. ‘I didn’t have you pegged as a ballet man.’

‘I like a good dance as much as the next man.’

She had to force herself not to look his way. ‘I must admit I can’t quite imagine you prancing around in a leotard.’

His laughter washed over her like a soft rain shower.

‘No, but I can definitely imagine you doing it. I’ve seen you many times.’

She swivelled her head to look at him. ‘You’ve seen me? Where?’

Kane expertly manoeuvred the car into a tight space between a Fiat and a Volvo a short walking distance from the Opera House.

‘At Mercyfields in the ballroom.’

She sat back in her seat in shock.

He’d seen her?

He’d seen her pretending to be the next bright star of the ballet world, when all the time her knee was telling her it was time to quit her dream of professional dancing.

‘I hope you liked what you saw,’ she said, then wished she’d phrased it a little better.

‘Oh, I did.’ He wrenched on the handbrake. ‘It was quite a revelation.’

She could just imagine. A leotard was so unforgiving at the best of times, let alone when an injury had set one to the sidelines for weeks on end. Her brain fizzed with the many possible viewing opportunities he might have taken advantage of.

‘Come on,’ he said, opening her door for her. ‘I don’t want to miss the first half.’

The first half made her cry, not that she let on.

She sat silently in her seat at the Opera House and bit down on her bottom lip to control the distinct wobbling of her chin at the sights and sounds in front of her.

She’d been to the ballet countless times but for some strange inexplicable reason seeing Cinderella with Kane sitting so close beside her unravelled her normally tightly controlled emotions.

During the interval she spent an inordinate time in the powder room, and when she came out to the raised eyebrow question on his face she muttered something disparaging about the discrepancy between male architects’ designs and female needs and returned to her seat with her head well down.

She barely made it through the rest of the performance.

She knew most of the cast and watched in a combination of awe and envy at what they were doing, wondering if there would be a time when she would be able to let her dreams go without a pang of deep regret.

The applause was deafening and she joined in with it enthusiastically, knowing how much it elevated a performer’s confidence.

The curtain came down on the stage like eyelashes closing over eyes and she felt Kane stir beside her, his strongly muscled suit-clad arm brushing the bare skin of hers.

‘Thank you.’ She rose to her feet and gave a discreet sniff. ‘I really enjoyed it.’

He unfolded his tall body from the seat and looked down at her, his brow creasing into a small frown. ‘Why are you crying?’

She turned away from his intense scrutiny. ‘I’m not crying. It’s somebody’s perfume that’s set me off. I have allergies…I’m allergic to some scents…’ She blew her nose inelegantly and stuffed the tissue up her sleeve. ‘It’s the cross I have to bear for having a sensitive nose.’

‘I hope my choice of aftershave doesn’t affect you,’ he said, holding her back with a hand on her hip so that someone could squeeze past them.

She felt the full imprint of his warm hand through her dress and felt her skin lift in response to his soft touch.

‘Oh, no,’ she said without thinking. ‘I really like your…I mean I don’t think it’s that…I’m just sensitive, that’s all.’

‘Come on.’ He took her arm once the aisle was clear. ‘I don’t know about you, but after watching all that exercise I’m starving.’

Bryony spooned another mouthful of blueberry cheesecake into her mouth and promised herself that tomorrow her diet would start in earnest.

Kane was sitting opposite with a barely touched summer pudding on his plate, his eyes steady on her.

She dipped her spoon into the creamy denseness of her dessert and holding it in front of her mouth, asked, ‘Since when did you start subscribing to the ballet?’

He stirred the long black coffee the waiter had placed in front of him a few moments ago.

‘I don’t subscribe regularly but I do enjoy certain performances.’

She scooped up another spoonful of pure sin and asked, ‘Do you have a favourite performance?’

‘Not really,’ he answered, picking up his cup and raising it to his lips. ‘What about you?’

She looked down at the two remaining blueberries on her plate and began chasing them with her spoon, thinking about how she should answer. Should she say Cinderella? What about Swan Lake? But then there was Petroucha and Prince Igor…

‘I love the whole atmosphere of ballet,’ she said at last. ‘I love the training and the discipline, the costumes and the emotions one has to engage in order to perform.’

He placed his teaspoon on the saucer of his coffee cup. ‘So you have to feel something to dance?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She gave up on the last blueberry and looked across at him. ‘You have to be the character, feel the things they would be feeling, just like an actor does on stage or in the movies.’

‘You must miss it terribly,’ he commented.

‘Yes…’ She stared at the lonely blueberry and sighed. ‘I do.’

‘Tell me about your dance studio.’ He set his cup back down.

She toyed with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘I teach classical ballet five afternoons a week.’

‘How many students do you have?’

‘I share the workload with my partner, Pauline, and two junior teachers, but the total enrolment stands at about one hundred and fifty students.’

‘That’s a lot of little girls in tutus.’ He reached for his coffee once more.

‘Yes…’

‘So tell me—’ he leaned forward in his seat to rest his wrists on the table ‘—does every little girl dream of being a ballerina?’

She found his dark eyes totally mesmerizing.

‘Not just girls,’ she said. ‘We have several boys as well.’

‘It must be difficult for them,’ he said, ‘being so outside the square, so to speak.’

‘We try to make them feel comfortable. We have one who is absolutely brilliant, very focused and determined. I think he’ll make it.’

‘Not many do?’

She shook her head and looked back down at her plate. ‘Not many girls, let alone boys. It’s not always about pure talent. It’s a combination of physical ability and luck and a certain level of skill.’

‘What stopped you?’

She gave him a rueful grimace before she squashed the hapless blueberry with the back of her spoon.

‘I have a dicky knee, as they say in the business.’

‘Have you seen someone about it?’ he asked.

She pushed the purple mess of her plate away. ‘I’ve seen the best money can buy and he said the same as all the rest. Take up swimming instead.’

‘Did you tell him you do a mean backstroke?’

Her eyes went to his. ‘No…I didn’t tell him that.’

He picked up his coffee and took a sip, looking at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I would if I were you. It might make him feel a whole lot better about taking your dancing away from you.’

No one had ever mentioned to her how difficult it must have been to relinquish her dream of professional dancing. How ironic that it was Kane Kaproulias who had done so first.

‘I haven’t swum in years,’ she said, unable to stop her eyes from going to the white-ridged scar on his top lip.

He waited until her eyes made their uncertain way back to his. ‘Neither have I,’ he said and, turning away from her, signalled to the waiter for the bill.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRYONY fell into step beside him as they made their way back to his car, unable to stop thinking about the evening they’d just spent together.

Together.

What an intimate word to be using when referring to someone like Kane Kaproulias!

He activated the central locking and opened her door for her, waiting until she was inside and belted up before closing the door and making his way around to the driver’s door.

She watched his progression from under the screen of her lashes, her eyes taking in his tautly muscled form and the easy grace with which he moved.

He looked across at her as he clipped on his seatbelt, his dark eyes dipping briefly to her chest as if he couldn’t help himself.

‘I was thinking we could have a nightcap or another coffee somewhere. I’ve narrowed it down to my place or yours, but I’m open to other suggestions.’

Bryony felt a sudden desire to see where she was going to reside.

‘Your place will be fine.’

‘My place it is,’ he said and fired the engine with a roar.

His place was nothing like she’d imagined.

Somehow she had thought his residence would be along the lines of the tackily overdone opulence of recently acquired wealth, but when he pulled into the driveway of his Edgecliff house she was surprised to see that it was of modest proportions with just the right amount of prestige to make it stand only slightly apart from its neighbours.

She walked with him to the front door, the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle wafting through the warm evening air as he turned his key in the lock.

The black and white tiles of the foyer welcomed her as she stepped inside, the sweeping staircase winding upwards elegantly, nothing like the menacing dark wood coil of Mercyfields.

‘The kitchen is this way,’ he said, moving towards a door off the hall. ‘And, if you need it, the bathroom is the first on the left.’

She chose the bathroom, not because she particularly needed it, but more because she wanted to gather herself for a few precious moments.

She stared at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror and wondered how she was going to negotiate the next few moves.

Kane was all politeness now, but what would happen when he had a circle of gold around her finger?

She was scripted as his trophy wife, the spoils of war, so to speak. He had waited a long time to claim her, no doubt planning every move of his revenge in fastidious detail…

She gave a little shiver and bent her head to wash her hands, but as she dried them on the soft towel provided she couldn’t help wondering who it was who kept his house in perfect order.

Nothing was out of place. Not a used dish or glass, not a speck of dust anywhere. The mirror in front of her was spotless. Would he expect her to keep it that way? Or had his threats been made simply to prove a point about the way in which his mother had been treated during her time as their housekeeper? But how could she tell for sure?

He was waiting for her in the kitchen, a tray set out with coffee steaming in two cups, a liqueur bottle with two shot glasses and chocolate.

Her eyes went straight to the chocolate, her mouth watering at the thought of allowing a square of its forbidden pleasure past the rigid shield of her lips.

Remember Christmas, she told herself.

‘No, thank you,’ she said as he offered her the mouthwatering squares.

‘Dieting?’ He raised one brow at her, his mouth tilted in mild amusement.

‘Always.’ Her tone was rueful as she took the cup of coffee off the tray he was holding.

He didn’t respond, which somehow irritated her. Why couldn’t he have reassured her by saying she didn’t need to diet? Most men would have, but then she remembered… He wasn’t exactly like most men. He didn’t issue empty compliments; neither did he speak unless he had something worthwhile to say.

‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked over the rim of her cup.

‘Close to three years.’

Three years.

He’d been living this close for three years? Her apartment was a few minutes away in Watsons Bay. She’d probably passed him on the road many times without knowing it, had maybe even walked past him on the street. It gave her a funny feeling to think of them being within such close proximity without her knowing it, especially as her awareness of him was so acute when he was in the same room as her, much less when he was touching her…

‘Where were you living before?’ she asked to fill the sudden silence.

‘Here and there,’ he said, stirring his coffee.

She took a sip of her coffee and wondered why he was being so evasive.

‘I understand you’ve found a dress for our wedding,’ he said.

She stared at him. ‘How did you know that?’

He gave a could-mean-anything shrug.

She narrowed her gaze. ‘Have you been speaking to my mother?’

‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Yes, I do have a problem with that,’ she said through tight lips.

Who did he think he was, calling her mother and quite possibly upsetting her? It wasn’t as if he were a real son-in-law-to-be. He was their enemy, he’d deliberately set out to destroy them and his marriage to her was the final blow in his dastardly enterprise.

‘Don’t you think it might appear strange to other people if I never speak to either of your parents?’ he asked.

‘I think people will think it even stranger if you do,’ she told him. ‘You’ve taken everything away from them, including me. I think that more or less warrants a cold war, don’t you?’

‘There will be no cold war, as you call it,’ he insisted. ‘Nor will anyone outside your family know our marriage is anything other than a genuine love match.’

‘Love?’ she spat in indignation. ‘How dare you insult me by using that word when referring to our situation?’

‘What are you going to do about it, Bryony?’ He held her glittering gaze and drawled with deliberate insolence, ‘It’s not as if you can call on your cowardly brother any more to settle the score for you.’

She flinched as if he’d struck her, so hurtful were his words. She couldn’t find her voice, and the anger she needed so badly to defend her dead brother was inexplicably out of reach, replaced by a sudden and uncontrollable urge to cry.

She caught her lip to stop it from trembling, the saltiness of blood informing her she was doing considerable damage to her mouth in an effort to maintain her fragile composure.

She put down the cup she was holding and, turning away, reached for her evening purse where she’d placed it on the bench.

‘I have to go…’ she mumbled, almost stumbling over her feet in her haste to leave. ‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘Bryony.’

Kane’s deep voice commanded her to turn back to face him.

She slowly turned and aimed her gaze at a point to the left of his shoulder so she didn’t have to witness the satisfaction on his hateful face that he’d finally made her crack emotionally.

‘I—I want to go home.’ She did her best to inject some steely determination into her tone but her voice wobbled dangerously.

‘I’ll take you home in a minute.’

‘I want to go now.’

There was a lengthy uncomfortable silence which Bryony suspected was a deliberate ploy on his part to get her pride to drop to rock bottom where he wanted it—at his feet.

But, to her surprise, he gave a long deep sigh and reached for his keys. ‘Come on, then.’

She’d expected a fight and had been so busily preparing herself for it that his ready acquiescence shifted her completely off course. She followed him out to his car in a wooden silence, the sheen of tears filming her eyes making it difficult for her to negotiate the path.

She felt his hand at her elbow as she almost stumbled, his touch light but protective, and even though her pride insisted she pull out of his hold, for some reason she didn’t.

A few minutes later Kane pulled up in front of her apartment, but even before he could get out of the driver’s door she’d opened hers and, with her head down, walked stiffly towards the entrance of the building without bothering to say goodnight.

Kane let out another sigh and waited until he was sure she was safely inside the building before reversing out of the car park with a squeal of rubber on the road that he was sure could be heard on the opposite side of the harbour.

Bryony worked her way through the week with an energy fuelled by her simmering rage at how Kane had crushed her so ruthlessly, promising herself she’d have her own revenge as soon as she could orchestrate it.

She ignored the phone when it rang and deleted any messages without listening to them, and when the security intercom sounded at the apartment she glared at it without responding.

Her last class on Friday evening was a private lesson with a young teenager who was on a slow path to rehabilitation after a serious horse-riding accident. Ella Denby hadn’t regained her confidence and needed lots of encouragement from Bryony to keep rebuilding her skills.

‘OK, now let’s take it really slowly,’ Bryony said as the young girl stood in front of the mirror with her. ‘Try the first position…great.’ She smiled encouragingly and continued, ‘And the second…good, now here comes the more difficult one as it requires a little more balance, position three.’

Ella’s right arm curved upwards while the other was just below shoulder height, her legs crossed at the ankles, her posture almost perfect except for a tiny wobble when she pointed her toes.

‘Good, Ella, now try position four.’

Ella reversed the pose and the wobble was hardly noticeable this time.

Bryony caught her young student’s smile in the reflection of the mirror and returned it with a brilliant one of her own.

‘See? I knew you could do it! Now, let’s finish off with the fifth and…’ Her words trailed off as she met another pair of eyes in the mirror.

Kane was standing at the back of the studio, his hands in his trouser pockets, his dark gaze trained on her.

‘Excuse me, Ella.’ She touched the young girl’s shoulder briefly. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Even though she wore track pants over the top she was still conscious of her close-fitting leotard as she crossed the floor, conscious too of her lack of height in her ballet slippers as she came to stand in front of him.

‘Do you mind?’ she demanded in an undertone. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a lesson?’

Kane looked down at her without speaking.

Bryony checked over her shoulder to see if Ella was watching before turning back to him, leaning closer to whisper, ‘I said: do you mind?’

He took his hands out of his trouser pockets and reached for her, pulling her into his chest and covering her startled mouth with his.

It was a brief hard kiss but no less distracting than any of his others.

He let her go and she wobbled, not unlike her young student, as she stepped backwards, her eyes flashing with instant fury.

‘If you don’t leave immediately, I will—’ Her harsh whisper was interrupted by the sound of Pauline’s voice calling out from the staff room door a few metres away.

‘So this is the man of your dreams!’ She came over and held out her hand to Kane. ‘I’m Pauline LeFray, Bryony’s teaching partner.’

‘Kane Kaproulias.’ He smiled and took her hand in his. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Bryony has told me all about you.’

Liar! She’d only mentioned her name once, Bryony seethed as he dished out his particularly lethal brand of charm, watching in disgust as Pauline almost melted into a pool at his feet.

‘I think it’s so terribly romantic, you sweeping her off her feet like that,’ Pauline gushed.

‘She deserves it,’ Kane said, his dark eyes gleaming.

Bryony sent him a fulminating glare over the top of Pauline’s head, infuriated at his double meaning, knowing he was doing it deliberately just to goad her.

Pauline turned to face her. ‘I’ll take over with Ella if you two lovebirds want to fly off.’

‘No, I—’

‘Oh, would you?’ Kane cut Bryony off with a grateful thousand watt smile towards Pauline. ‘I haven’t seen Bryony for a while and I’m getting rather impatient to be alone with her. You know how it is.’

‘I do indeed.’ Pauline beamed up at him in approval. ‘Take her away and paint the town.’ She flapped her fingers up and down in a little wave and left them to go to Ella, who was standing back at the barre trying to do a complicated stretch.

Bryony turned a vitriolic look his way and, tossing her head, went towards the staff room, informing him as she stalked off, ‘I have to get changed.’

‘Don’t be too long, agape mou,’ he called after her.

She turned at the door to look back at him, forcing her mouth into an overly sweet smile that didn’t match the anger sparkling in her eyes.

‘I won’t be too long…honeybunch.’ She blew him a kiss across the surface of her palm before she closed the staff room door behind her with a sharp little click.

Bryony let out her breath as she leant against the back of the door, her fists clenched in fury at the way he had so cleverly manipulated the situation to force her into going out with him. She could just imagine him the other side of the door busily congratulating himself on yet another clever manoevre executed to serve his ends.

She stuffed her leotard into a bag and pushed her feet into her shoes, not even bothering to tidy her long hair which had begun to slip from the high pony-tail she’d arranged earlier. She ignored her cosmetics and, snatching up her purse, went out to the studio, rearranging her outraged expression into one of pre-nuptial bliss entirely for Pauline’s and Ella’s sake.

It was a pity they weren’t even watching, which meant Kane got the full benefit of her smile which annoyed her no end.

‘Shall we go?’ He took her hand and, shouldering open the door, led her outside.

The warmth of the early evening hit her like a hot wet towel as soon as they stepped out of the building, the high humidity in the atmosphere instantly making her blouse begin to stick to her back.

She walked beside him, incredibly conscious of his hand swallowing hers. She couldn’t stop thinking of that very same hand and its twin on her body, touching her…

She pulled out of his hold in agitation and stared furiously at the pedestrian lights as if willing them to change so she didn’t have to stand beside him for any longer than necessary.

‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked.

‘Home, preferably alone,’ she said, striding out as the lights changed.

He caught her in half a stride and took her hand again, this time making sure she couldn’t slip out of his grasp.

‘You’re crushing my fingers,’ she snapped at him irritably.

‘You’re crushing my ego,’ he returned.

She flicked him a glance, blowing a loose strand of long blonde hair out of her face as she did so.

‘I’m sure it will make a complete recovery and come bouncing back bigger than ever.’

He threw back his head and laughed.

She sent him another caustic look but the edges of her mouth had already begun to twitch slightly and she eventually had to give in to the urge to smile. She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see it but it was too late.

‘Do you know that’s probably the first genuine smile you’ve ever given me?’

Her smile faded as she considered his comment.

Had she never smiled at him?

She’d known him for much of her teenage life; how had it happened that she had not once considered him worthy of a smile?

‘I hope you made the most of it,’ she said tightly. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Don’t bet on it, agape mou,’ he drawled.

‘I wish you would stop calling me that.’

‘You’d better get used to it, for in a matter of a week we’ll be husband and wife. Such name-calling comes with the territory of the newly wedded.’

‘The only names I want to call you are socially unacceptable,’ she said.

‘I don’t care what you call me, Bryony, as long as you call me to bed.’

‘Dinner,’ she informed him coldly, her cheeks heating. ‘That’s how that saying goes—call me to dinner, not bed.’

His smile was playful and totally disarming, so totally disarming that she had to look away immediately and pretend she hadn’t seen it.

Careful, she warned herself. Don’t let your guard slip around such charm. Don’t mess with him.

Kane took her to a small restaurant a short walk from the studio, the dimly lit interior suiting her need to keep her expressive face out of his reading zone.

Bryony examined the menu wishing she could have the fettuccine carbonara but her quick mental tally of the calories put her off.

‘I’ll have the green salad, no dressing.’ She closed the menu firmly.

Kane studied her for a long moment and then as the waiter approached informed him, ‘I’ll have the Porterhouse steak with forrestierre sauce and my fiancée will have the fettuccine carbonara.’

‘But—’ Bryony opened her mouth to protest but the waiter had already gone. She swivelled back to scowl at Kane, who was sitting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and then thought with resentment that if it did his hard body wouldn’t suffer the consequences as hers would.

‘Do you know how much cream is in that dish?’ she asked.

‘You can afford a little indulgence now and again.’

‘I think I can be trusted to order my own meals,’ she said. ‘I have to watch my figure, every dancer does.’

‘I’ll watch it for you,’ he said and then let his eyes do exactly that by sliding over her lazily, lingering on the swell of her breasts.

‘Stop it!’ she hissed at him furiously, conscious of the other diners in the tiny restaurant. ‘What will people think?’

‘They’ll think I can’t wait to get you home and into bed, that’s what they’ll think.’

She felt hot all over at his words. Her face flamed and her spine felt as if someone had just set a blowtorch to it, melting it like warmed honey.

‘You know I don’t want to sleep with you,’ she bit out.

‘I’m confident I can get you to change your mind.’

‘Your arrogance is misplaced for I won’t be changing my mind.’

‘You should run that by the rest of your body before you go backing yourself into such a tight corner.’ His eyes dipped back to the pointed peaks of her breasts where her nipples were clearly outlined. ‘Could be the rest of you might not agree.’

She sent him a withering look and crossed her arms. ‘It’s cold in here.’

The edge of his mouth lifted sceptically. ‘It’s close to thirty degrees. Mario warned me when I booked that the air-conditioning was playing up.’

‘You booked?’ She stared at him. ‘You were that confident I’d come?’

He lifted his wineglass. ‘You’re a pushover, Bryony.’ Winking at her, he tossed the contents down his throat. He put the glass back down and added, ‘I promise you, I will always make you come.’

She stared at him in a combination of outrage at his double entendre and fear that he would actually fulfill his promise.

She couldn’t hold his gaze, even in the dim lighting.

‘You’re going to be very disappointed.’ She addressed the tablecloth rather than face the burning glitter of his dark eyes.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Could we please talk about something else?’ she asked in desperation.

‘If you like.’

She gnawed at her lip for a moment, hunting her brain for a suitable topic but before she could come up with something he leaned towards her and spoke in an undertone. ‘I think I should warn you there’s a woman making her way to our table to speak to me. Someone I used to date.’

‘Why are you telling me? Do you think I’m the least bit interested in who you’ve managed to bribe into your bed in the past?’

He sat back in his seat and refilled his glass from the bottle on the table. ‘I just thought it would be polite to warn you.’

‘Well, you can take your version of politeness and stick it where—’

‘Kane!’ a husky feminine voice cooed just before a waft of heady, cloyingly cheap perfume hit Bryony’s flaring nostrils.

Bryony turned her head to see a blonde sashay up to the table, leaning her glorious cleavage down so Kane could have an exclusive view as she purred at him, ‘You naughty man. You haven’t called me in ages.’

‘I’ve been otherwise engaged.’

The brassy blonde totally ignored the real blonde sitting in silent fury at the table and continued in a breathy voice, ‘Well, you know my number if you’re ever at a loose end.’

‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ he said with a little smile.

Bryony felt like slapping it from his face and had to thrust her hands in her lap to stop herself from giving in to the temptation.

She sat silently seething at the disgusting little tableau being acted out in front of her, furious with him for allowing it to continue but equally annoyed with herself for even giving a damn.

Of course he would have slept around.

He was thirty-one years old.

He was a man, wasn’t he?

Wasn’t it imprinted in their genes to spread themselves as far and wide as they could?

‘I’ll be seeing you.’ The woman blew him a kiss that ruffled the flowers on the table with her nicotine-scented breath. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, will you?’

‘You have my word on that, Luna,’ he said.

Luna?

What was she, some kind of planet orbiting around him? Bryony gave a disgusted little snort as the woman made her way back to her noisy table of equally cosmetically and surgically enhanced revellers.

‘I did try to warn you,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure any type of warning would have been enough.’ She slanted a disparaging glance his way.

‘It was just sex.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘When is it anything else?’

‘Good point,’ he acceded and refilled his glass.

‘All I can say is you’re definitely marrying up.’

‘Am I?’ One dark brow rose over his eye like a question mark.

She opened her mouth to sling another stinging retort his way but the waiter appeared with their meals, the creamy garlicky fragrance of her fettuccine distracting her from her mission.

‘Enjoy.’ The waiter beamed as he sidled away.

Bryony picked up her fork and, giving Kane one last resentful glare, dug her fork into the steaming dish in front of her without a single pang of guilt.

After dinner was over Kane walked her back to her car where it was parked behind the studio, waiting until she was safely inside before hunkering down to speak to her through the still open door.

‘Want to have some fun with me on the weekend?’

She tried not to stare into the depths of his brown-black eyes. ‘I’m…busy.’

‘How busy?’

‘Very busy.’

‘Doing what?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I have to babysit my neighbour’s diabetic cat.’

He chuckled and got to his feet, his hand on the door to stop her from closing it. ‘Can’t you think of a better excuse than that?’

She turned over the engine and reached for the door handle. ‘I have to mop the floors.’

‘And that’s going to take you all weekend?’

‘I do it with my tongue.’

The look he sent her was pure temptation but she resolutely pulled the door shut, turning her head to the road ahead.

She gunned the engine and took off with a little squeal of brakes but it was several blocks before she could erase the vision of his slanted smile and even longer to stop her stomach tilting at the thought of being tied to him in marriage.

CHAPTER FIVE

AS SOON as Monday morning arrived Bryony felt as if she was on an out of control rollercoaster heading towards the weekend where the wedding loomed like a disaster just waiting to happen. There was nothing she could do to stop it. The invitations were out, the flowers ordered, the cake made, the dress hanging in her wardrobe.

Pauline was effusive in her praise of her choice of groom when she arrived at the studio. Bryony didn’t have the heart to tell he wasn’t exactly her choice of bridegroom…

‘So handsome!’ Pauline clasped her hands together theatrically. ‘And that scar! Has he told you how he came by it? Isn’t it intriguing?’

Bryony felt sick.

‘He’s so gorgeous!’ Pauline continued. ‘No wonder you fell for him so quickly. God, I would have dived into his bed even if it was filled with great white sharks.’

Bryony couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re seriously nuts, do you know that?’

‘He’s nuts about you,’ Pauline said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘That’s as plain as that scar on his face.’

Bryony wished she wouldn’t keep referring to that scar.

‘He got it in a fight,’ she said, hoping to deflate her partner’s bubble of admiration.

No such luck.

‘I thought as much,’ Pauline said, admiration colouring her tone. ‘What was he doing? Defending some girl’s honour?’

‘I…I’m not exactly sure of the details…’

Pauline gave a deep dreamy sigh. ‘I wish I could find someone like him to defend me…’

‘Women can defend themselves,’ Bryony felt it necessary to point out. ‘Anyway, fighting is so…primitive.’

‘Give me a primitive man any day over one of those meterosexuals who think you’ve committed a heinous sin for borrowing their razor.’

Bryony didn’t answer.

Her mind was far too busy with a vision of Kane’s razor sliding up from her ankle to her thigh and beyond…

Her mother phoned that evening, her tone lighter than Bryony had heard it in years.

‘Darling, I just had to tell you,’ Glenys said somewhat breathlessly. ‘Kane has settled all your father’s debts. He phoned a few minutes ago. Isn’t that nice?’

Nice? What was nice about blackmailing her into marriage?

‘Yes,’ she said instead, inwardly seething. ‘He’s nothing if not nice.’

‘I’m so glad you think so,’ her mother said. ‘I mean…I did hope you would feel some sort of gratitude for what he’s done for us…’

‘Believe me, Mum, I’m extremely grateful,’ she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.

‘I’m very relieved, darling, because I didn’t like to think of you marrying him when you hated him so much.’ There was a delicately timed pause. ‘You don’t hate him any more, do you?’

Bryony found it difficult to answer with any degree of honesty. On one hand she hated him with every bone in her body, but then…

‘I’m not sure what I feel about him.’ She went for the middle ground.

‘He’s a good man,’ her mother said. ‘One sort of knows these things.’

Bryony frowned. If her mother thought he was such an angel, why had she been complicit with her father in putting him behind bars ten years ago? None of it made any sense. Was there something they weren’t telling her?

‘Yes,’ she said by way of answer to her mother. ‘One does.’ But she didn’t believe it for a second.

The day of the wedding was mostly fine but a storm loomed overhead in steel-grey clouds that frowned down upon the perfectly trimmed and tended gardens of Mercyfields like disapproving eyes on a scandalous scene.

Bryony put the finishing touches to her face and hair and wished it would pour with rain to ease the tense atmosphere.

‘You look beautiful—’ her mother sniffed as she stood back to look at her ‘—radiant, in fact.’

Radiant with rage, Bryony thought sourly as she flicked her veil over her face.

‘I’m ready,’ she lied and turned to the door.

‘I’m so proud of you…’ her mother gulped and picked up her train. ‘So very, very proud of you.’

Bryony blinked back the sudden tears, hating Kane all over again for putting her through this.

He was waiting for her at the end of the wisteria walk, his gaze unwavering as she approached with steps that were deliberately out of time with the music of the string quartet.

What did she care? He was marrying her for all the wrong reasons. She was not going to be a submissive dutiful wife, no matter what amount of money he flashed around.

She met his dark mysterious gaze as she took her place beside him, her chin going up a fraction as the celebrant addressed the gathered guests.

‘We are gathered here to…’

To force a woman against her will to marry a man she loathes…Bryony’s imagination went off at a tangent, wondering what the assembled guests would say if she told them the bitter truth.

‘If anyone here has any reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them now speak or for ever hold their peace,’ the celebrant continued in an authoritative tone.

Bryony wished she had the courage to tell the small crowd the real story—that he’d forced her into marriage by holding her parents’ freedom to ransom. What would Great-Aunt Ruby, who was mopping up her tears, think then? And what about Uncle Arthur, who was smiling at her like a Cheshire cat who had got both the cream and the canary and two mice thrown in as an entrée? Not to mention Pauline, who was sobbing into a handkerchief, doing her best imitation of a romance addict who couldn’t wait for the happy ending.

There wasn’t going to be a happy ending.

Bryony knew it as certainly as the clouds gathered overhead in growing disapproval.

‘You may kiss the bride.’

She was jolted out of her automated responses by the lowering of Kane’s head as his mouth came towards hers. She braced herself for the impact of his warm lips, but in the end she realised there was nothing she could have done to reduce the effect on her senses as his mouth covered hers.

She forgot about the host of witnesses.

She forgot about the fact that she was supposed to hate him.

She forgot that she had resolved not to respond to him in any shape or form, having to concede that in the end it was his shape and form that was very likely going to be her downfall.

He was all male.

All hard, irresistible male as he held her against him, his large hands on her hips, his fingers splayed possessively, making her shiver with reaction as he brought her even closer.

She felt every imprint of his body on hers, his long rock-hard thighs brushing hers and the tantalizing hint of his growing arousal pressing against her stomach reminding her of what was to come.

She pulled out of his hold and gave him a forced little smile, hoping the guests couldn’t see the flutter of panic reflected in her eyes.

The guests applauded their passage back down the wisteria walk and Bryony stretched her stiff smile even further as she met each and every indulgent eye.

None of this was real.

It couldn’t be!

She was married to a man she’d hated since childhood.

A servant’s son no less.

She caught her father’s gaze and tried to hold it but he shifted his eyes away as if he couldn’t bear to see the sight of her walking arm in arm with his dead son’s enemy.

Her mother was mopping up tears as usual but she was smiling through them, which to Bryony was somewhat of a consolation.

‘Smile, Mrs Kaproulias,’ a voice said from the crowd and a camera flashed in her face, and another and another.

Bryony faced the cameras, her tight smile making her face ache with the effort.

It was going to be a long afternoon…

The first flash of lightning came about five p.m., just as the last of the guests were leaving. The catering staff were quietly and competently packing up in the background while Bryony stood by Kane’s side, trying not to panic at the thought of being alone with him once the Mercedes carried her parents out of the Mercyfields gates for the last time.

It was all arranged.

Her parents were leaving on the cruise the very next morning after staying at the city apartment overnight, where they would return to live once their vacation was over.

Mercyfields now belonged to Kane Kaproulias—her husband.

The dust stirred up by her parents’ departure was soon settled by the first droplets of rain, the sweet earthy smell of dry ground receiving moisture filling Bryony’s nostrils as she stood on the veranda under the scented arras of the jasmine clinging from the second floor balcony.

Kane leaned forward so his lower arms were resting on the veranda rail beside her, his dark gaze looking out towards the hills where the lightning was playing.

‘Looks like it’s going to be a big one,’ he observed.

‘It might pass us by,’ she said.

‘I could feel it coming on all day.’ He brushed a fly away from his face and turned his head to look at her. ‘Couldn’t you?’

His face was on a level with hers, his dark eyes so close she could see the heavy fringe of his lashes as they lowered slightly to squint against the angle of sunlight.

Her eyes slipped to his mouth, almost of their own volition, and she felt the most inexplicable urge to reach out and trace the ridge of his scar with her fingertip, to explore its contours for herself.

A slash of lightning threw its green-tinged light across the veranda, closely followed by the predatory growl of thunder, but she didn’t even flinch. She was too absorbed in looking at him, wondering when he was going to…

‘You like storms?’ he asked.

Bryony watched the movement of his lips as he spoke, a flutter of something indefinable passing over the floor of her belly.

‘Yes…’ Her eyes went back to his. ‘Do you?’

He turned his head to look out over the fields, breathing in the scent of dampened dust, closing his eyes for a moment as if committing it to memory.

She took the moment to study his features, the slightly Roman nose, the lean chiselled jaw, the dark shadow of masculine growth in spite of his morning shave and the mouth that smiled so fleetingly.

What was he thinking?

Was he busily congratulating himself on finally having acquired Mercyfields?

Was he thinking of his mother working long hours to provide for him?

Or was he thinking of the bride he’d bought? And how he would soon possess her?

Kane pushed himself away from the rail and turned to look down at her. ‘I’m going to have a drink to celebrate.’

‘You’ll understand when I don’t join you?’ Bryony’s tone was deliberately sarcastic in an effort to keep her distance.

He held her hardened look for a moment. ‘Don’t you want to drink to our future?’

‘I think I’ll give it a miss, if you don’t mind.’

‘Fine.’ He strode towards the open French doors. ‘I’ll see you later. I have some things to see to.’

She stared fixedly at the reflection of the angry clouds on the surface of the lake, wondering if what happened on the first day of a marriage was any indication of what would happen throughout its duration.

Was their union always going to a battle between two bitter parties, each vying for the upper hand?

The lightning split the sky into jagged pieces, the roar of thunder so close now that the old house seemed to almost shudder behind her in fear.

Acting entirely on impulse, Bryony stepped down from the veranda and, lifting her creamy voluminous skirts about her ankles, tiptoed through the gathering puddles on the driveway to the huge lawn beyond the rose garden.

She kicked off her shoes and, lifting her face to the splutter of warm rain, pirouetted three times, her gown billowing around her like creamy rose petals thrown up by a playful breeze.

The rain anointed her face as the lightning rent the sky, the drum roll of thunder booming in her ears, but still she danced.

She was on earth’s stage with the orchestra of nature accompanying her in a performance which spoke of regret and loss in each and every twirl of her body and poignant point of her toes.

She danced for her brother, whom she still missed so much, thinking of his life cut short by a stupid accident that should never have happened.

She danced for the loss of her freedom, envisaging a bleak future married to a man who saw her as a battle trophy instead of someone he could come to love.

She danced for Kane’s mother, Sophia, who hadn’t seen her son rise to the heights in her lifetime, but had spent hers in menial work to bring about his success. How she must be smiling down on him now, the proud new owner of Mercyfields.

She would have kept on dancing but the storm was receding, the strains fading away just like dying applause.

She picked up her shoes in one hand and, gathering her muddy skirts in the other, made her way back to the house through the storm-ravaged rose garden where the soft petals lay just like the used confetti on the lawn overlooking the lake where the official photographs had been taken.

Kane was leaning in the doorway as she came back up the steps, his brooding expression reminding her of the sky moments earlier.

‘You could have been struck by lightning,’ he growled at her.

‘I did try, but it just wouldn’t co-operate.’ She flicked her wet hair back off her face in a defiant gesture. ‘So you’re stuck with me after all. What a pity you couldn’t have Mercyfields without the excess baggage of me.’

‘Mercyfields means nothing to me.’

‘No, I know it doesn’t.’ She glared at him resentfully. ‘You just wanted it to prove a point. You had to wrench it away from my father—the man, who I might remind you, paid for your education out of the generosity of his heart. You wouldn’t even be the person you are today without his help.’

‘No—’ he gave her an unreadable look, his tone cryptic ‘—I certainly wouldn’t be.’

‘Are you happy now?’ she continued bitterly. ‘You’ve finally achieved what you set out to do, to bring the Mercer family to your particular form of rough justice. What a pity Austin wasn’t here to make your sick pleasure all the greater.’

‘You think it’s sick of me to want to see justice done?’ His tone turned harsh and embittered. ‘I’ll tell you what I think is sick. Your brother wasn’t the angel you think he was, nor indeed is your father. Your refusal to see the truth about them is what I would call sick.’

She was incensed by his callously flung words. She was under no illusions about her father, but Austin was something else.

He had no right to malign him.

No right at all.

‘Who are you to call my brother to account?’ she spat. ‘You, the son of our promiscuous cleaning lady?’

She shouldn’t have said it but it was out before she could stop it. She saw the flare of anger in his eyes, his features darkening with the effort of keeping it under some sort of control.

‘What exactly do you mean by promiscuous?’ His eyes ran over her like burning coals, scorching her from head to foot.

‘I…’ She swallowed and began to step backwards but his hand snaked out and held her fast.

‘I asked you a question, Bryony.’ His eyes glittered dangerously.

Fear widened her eyes as his fingers bit into the flesh of her arm, but her pride demanded she stand her ground and not cower as she had done so many times with her father in the past.

‘Your mother was sleeping with someone on the Mercyfields estate,’ she said, tilting her chin arrogantly. ‘Everyone knew about it.’

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. ‘Do you know who it was?’

She moistened her dry lips before answering. ‘No. No one would tell me. I…I think it was one of the gardeners.’

He let her arm go and turned away.

Bryony stared at his stiff back and wondered if he’d known about it before now. If not, she could just imagine the shock he must be feeling and she immediately felt ashamed.

‘I’m…I’m sorry…’ she said. ‘I thought you already knew.’

He swung around to face her once more, his scarred lip even more noticeable as his mouth stretched into a sneer.

‘Oh, I knew all right.’

She wasn’t sure how to interpret his tone.

‘Did you know who she was…seeing?’ she asked.

It seemed a very long time before he answered.

‘Leave it. What does it matter now, anyway? She’s dead.’ He turned away and gripped the railing with tight hands, looking out across the gardens with sightless empty eyes.

Bryony’s brow creased as she watched him.

‘How did she die?’ she asked after another long silence.

She heard him take what sounded like a painful breath, but his voice when he spoke was stripped of all discernible emotion. ‘Suicide.’

Suicide? Coldness crept along her skin in spite of the still warm evening air.

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be.’ He turned to look at her. ‘You weren’t the one to drive her to it.’

She couldn’t look away from the deep sadness in his gaze; it struck at the heart of her to see such raw suffering, having been through the process of grief herself.

‘How long ago did…it happen?’ she asked.

‘Not long enough for me to forgive the person responsible.’

‘Suicide creates a lot of guilt in those left behind,’ she offered as comfort, not entirely sure if it was adequate but feeling the need to do so all the same.

‘But unfortunately not in the people most to blame.’

‘You shouldn’t blame yourself…’

‘I don’t.’

She blinked at his forthright statement. ‘Then who do you blame?’

His eyes shifted away from hers and she knew without him even saying it that the subject was now closed.

‘We have an early start in the morning,’ he informed her impersonally. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and go to bed and I’ll wake you at first light?’

She stared at him in confusion. Didn’t he want her to…?

She opened and closed her mouth, hunting her brain for the right way to express herself, when he gave her a small smile touched by ruefulness.

‘You think I would be such a brute as that, Bryony?’ he asked.

‘I…’ What could she say? Yes, she thought him ruthless enough to insist on consummating their marriage, but then…

‘I know you think I just crept out of the primeval soup, but let me assure you I have no interest in sleeping with you this evening,’ he said.

She stared at him for a moment, the ambiguity of her feelings confusing her. She’d been expecting relief to course through her at the unexpected reprieve but instead she felt out of sorts and strangely let down.

‘I see.’ She lowered her eyes as she hitched up her muddy gown with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

Kane reached out and tipped up her chin with one long tanned finger, his eyes instantly reminding her of the lake and the secrets lying amongst its dark murky depths.

She held her breath as his mouth came closer, the warm caress of his breath on her face causing her lashes to flutter downwards. She felt the soft brush of his lips over hers, the dryness of her mouth making his scarred top lip cling to hers momentarily as he lifted his mouth away from hers.

She opened her eyes and felt the full heat of his gaze and, before she could stop herself, she lifted her index finger to his mouth, gently tracing the white edge of his scar.

He stood very still but she could feel the deep thud of his heart where her other hand had crept to press against his chest.

‘I should have said this a long time ago…’ she began awkwardly, her cheeks filling with heat.

‘You don’t need to.’ His voice was low and rough.

‘I—I do.’

‘It was a decade ago,’ he said. ‘You were just a kid.’

She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes for what he must have suffered and yet, as far as she knew, he’d told no one…

‘Why did you tell everyone you’d tripped over?’ she asked, her voice catching slightly. ‘Why didn’t you tell them the truth?’

‘For what gain?’ he asked. ‘I goaded you and you hit back. As far as I was concerned, it was over.’

But it hadn’t been over.

He’d come back for her, just as he had come back for Mercyfields.

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I didn’t want my pride dented any further. Can you imagine the ribbing I would’ve got if everyone had known you’d hit me with a rock?’

She bit her lip in distress. ‘There was so much blood…’

‘It wasn’t a pretty sight,’ he agreed.

‘You had every right to report it…I deserved to be…’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, Bryony.’ He eased himself away from her. ‘One would be extremely lucky to get through life without a scar or two. Mine is a little more visible than most, but there are a lot of people out there with bigger scars than this, the only difference being they’re on the inside where they do a whole lot more damage.’

She could well believe it. Didn’t she have wounds of her own lying festering where no healing hand could reach?

‘Sleep well.’ He flicked her cheek with one long finger before moving down the steps of the veranda and into the creeping shadows of the evening.

Bryony stared after him until she could no longer distinguish his tall form from the trees he’d walked towards.

The lake in the distance gleamed with the golden glow of the setting summer sun, the long fingers of fading light reaching as far they could across the surface, as if intent on peeling away what secrets lay there undisclosed…

CHAPTER SIX

BRYONY ignored the clawfoot bath and had a quick shower instead, climbing into bed soon after, not expecting to sleep a wink, but when she woke to the sound of the birds stirring in the gum trees fringing the gardens she realised just how exhausted she must have been.

She was out of bed and dressed before Kane tapped on the door.

‘Time to get up, Bryony.’

‘I’m up,’ she called back and straightened the bed before reaching for the bag she’d packed the previous day.

Kane had the car running outside, the boot open ready to receive her luggage, his brow lifting ironically at the sight of her modest bag.

‘Not taking the kitchen sink this time?’

She shook her head.

He shut the boot and once she was settled took his place behind the wheel and turned the car on to the long sinuous driveway leading out to the road.

Bryony maintained the silence even though a hundred questions were chasing each other around her head.

Why had he left her in peace last night?

Wasn’t his possession of her part of his detailed plan for revenge?

And, if he wasn’t intending to sleep with her, why was he taking her on a honeymoon?

Or was he deliberately stretching out her torture by prolonging her anticipation of his possession, knowing how much she dreaded it?

She drank in the view as they moved further down the coast, the sweeping views delighting her even as her trepidation grew at what lay ahead.

Kane drove with his usual quiet competence, sending an idle comment her way once or twice, but largely seeming to be disinclined to talk at length.

Bryony’s resentment grew with every minute of silence. She couldn’t help thinking he was doing it deliberately to increase her tension by not even bothering to put her at ease with casual conversation.

After another hour of silence he turned left and headed the car along a dusty road which seemed to Bryony to be leading nowhere. She flicked him a glance but he seemed to be preoccupied with negotiating the numerous potholes in the road.

The car thumped over another and she chanced a quick glance his way. ‘Where are we going?’

He slowed down to bump over the next dip in the rough gravel. ‘It’s not far now; wait till you see the view.’

She sat back in her seat, trying not to wince as the car lumbered over another chasm in the road.

He was right about the view, she decided a few minutes later.

The azure blue of the sea stretched out as far as the horizon, a speck of a rocky island floating in the distance, the white fringe of sand of a long beach below the cliff top breathtaking to say the very least.

‘It’s…beautiful…’

‘It gets better.’ He unfolded himself from the car and came around to her side but she was already out, breathing in the salty air.

‘How did you find this place?’ She turned towards him, her eyes alight with undisguised pleasure.

‘It’s not exactly off the map,’ he said, which didn’t really answer her question.

She decided not to pursue it and drank in the view instead. ‘I love the sound of the sea…it sounds so…powerful.’

The boom and crash of waves below gave credence to her words. She wandered over to the cliff face to look out to sea. Then, turning around to face him once more, she saw for the first time the cottage perched on a higher shelf of the cliff. It was cleverly disguised from the road, adding to the whole feeling of seclusion.

‘Wow…’ She let out her breath on a note of pure wonder.

He came to stand beside her, their bags in his hands. ‘You like it?’

‘I love it!’ She sent him a quick glance and scuttled up the rough path to get a closer look.

Kane followed at a distance, his own enthusiasm for the place taking a back seat to hers. He gave a soft smile as he saw her scamper off to investigate the view from the upper level, her long hair escaping its tight pony-tail, her cheeks pink from the sea breeze as she lifted her face to the bright glare of the sun.

He unlocked the cottage and she followed him in, her face still aglow.

‘I can’t believe such a paradise still exists!’ she enthused. ‘There’s no one around for miles.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I prefer it that way.’

She looked at him but he was gazing out to sea, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight spilling through the large windows.

‘Come here,’ he said, and without taking his eyes off the ocean, held out an arm for her to join him.

She hesitated for the briefest moment before slipping underneath his shoulder, his arm drawing her close as he directed her vision to a speck out to sea.

‘See that?’ he asked, pointing into the distance.

Bryony peered to where his finger was directed. ‘What is it? A boat?’

‘No, watch…there—did you see them?’

She watched in wonder as a pod of dolphins surfaced, their gleaming backs clearly visible where the sun caught the smooth perfection of their silvery skin.

‘Dolphins!’ she gasped, unconsciously slipping her arm around his waist as she peered into the distance.

‘They’ll come in closer to shore in a day or two,’ he said, glancing down at her.

‘Will they?’ She looked up at him in amazement. ‘How close?’

‘Close enough to swim with them.’

‘Really?’

He nodded, looking out to sea again. ‘I’ve swum with them lots of times.’

‘Oh, wow…I’ve always wanted to do that…’

‘Then you will,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I’ll organize some lunch for us. Why don’t you go and check out the pathway to the beach? I’ll give you a shout when I have things ready.’

‘Are you sure?’

He waved her away. ‘But take care on the path down the cliff; the gravel is slippery in spots.’

Bryony made her way through the coastal vegetation to where a well-worn path led down the cliff to the beach. It was, as he’d said, unstable in spots, but she clung to the grass roots as she negotiated her way down to the icing sugar softness of the sand below.

She kicked off her sneakers and sank her toes into the sand, relishing the feeling of freedom as the minutiae of tiny particles sifted over her feet.

The water sparkled with invitation, the lace of foam reaching her toes as each wave crashed into the shore. The water was warmer than she’d been expecting and, glancing over her shoulder to the cottage on the cliff, she made sure Kane wasn’t anywhere near the windows as she stripped down to her underwear, throwing her clothes to one side before plunging into the spewing waves.

She struck out through the wash to where the waves were forming, letting each one swell over her, lifting her up and lowering her in a gentle rocking motion.

She bobbed about for a while before catching a wave back to the shore, laughing as it spilled her out of its force amongst the crushed shells in the shallows.

She scrambled to her feet and went back in, looking for an even bigger wave to ride, undaunted by the roar of the surf as it gouged at the sand.

She came down the face of the next swollen wave, her legs almost folding over her head as it threw her towards the shore, her exhilarated laughter echoing along the stretch of lonely beach.

She pulled herself upright and, swinging her hair back out of her eyes, saw Kane standing on the fringe of white sand, watching her.

She hadn’t noticed him coming down the path and wished she’d been more attentive. Her lacy underwear was hardly the sort of attire she wanted to face him in, but the water was making her shiver by now and she had no choice but to make her way back to where she’d carelessly flung her clothes.

She avoided his eyes as she bent down to retrieve her cotton casuals, knowing her underwear was probably no less revealing than the red and white bikini she had in her bag at the cottage, but feeling self-conscious all the same.

‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself,’ he observed.

She buttoned the waistband of her trousers before responding. ‘I was. I haven’t been to the beach in ages.’

Kane’s eyes ran over her lightly, taking in her seaweed adorned hair and the radiant glow the physical exertion had put in her cheeks. ‘You should do it more often.’

‘I know.’ A tiny sigh escaped as she wrung out her hair. ‘I just never seem to get the time. Besides…it’s no fun by yourself.’

He gave her a long and intent look. ‘You haven’t dated regularly?’

She hesitated over her reply.

She didn’t want to sound like some desperate and dateless soon-to-be thirty-year-old woman, but neither did she want to pretend she had the sort of lifestyle that saw her flitting from man to man in search of the perfect lover.

‘Now and again.’ She took the middle ground in the end. ‘I guess I’m what’s known as ‘‘hard to please’’.’

‘It’s understandable,’ he said.

She looked at him, pushing the wet slick of her hair over one shoulder. ‘Why do you say that?’

He gave one of his non-committal shrugs. ‘Just a guess.’

She shoved her feet into her shoes and made her way to the path to avoid having to respond.

She knew he thought her a spoilt heiress with too much money and not enough morals, but she had deliberately avoided emotional entanglements for the simple reason that she didn’t want to end up like her mother. Of course now the irony of her situation was particularly galling. Here she was, tied to a man who hated everything to do with her and her family.

The lunch he’d set out was simple but exactly what she needed—fresh crusty bread, cheese, a small salad and chilled white wine.

She took the glass he handed her and lifted it to her mouth, her taste buds singing as the crisp passionfruit and gooseberry flavours burst over her tongue.

‘Mmm…this is nice.’

‘It’s local,’ he informed her, picking up his glass. ‘There are vineyards in the neighbouring hinterland.’

She sat at the table and laid her napkin over her lap. ‘How did you arrange for all this food to be here?’

He took his seat and handed her the bread. ‘I have some friends who look after this place for me.’

‘This is your place?’

He took a sip of wine before answering. ‘I bought the property a few years ago. I built the house last year.’

She sat in a stunned silence. ‘You built the house?’

‘You find the notion of me doing so difficult to believe?’

‘No…it’s just I…’ She wasn’t sure what she thought. ‘How did you make your money?’

‘The usual way.’

‘Luck?’

‘Only someone from your sort of background would assume that,’ he said. ‘No, it was sheer hard work and lots of it.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘The sort you and your family have always viewed with undisguised disdain—physical labour.’

She took another sip of wine as she collected her thoughts. Bitterness had crept back into his tone and, while she could hardly blame him considering her father’s snobbery of the past, she wanted the softer, more reachable Kane back. Although he’d done his best to hide it, she’d seen a glimpse of a different man other than the one sitting opposite her now and she realised with a pang, that she wanted to see more.

‘I guess someone has to do it,’ she said. ‘But how did you rise to the sort of heights you’ve achieved?’

‘The construction company I worked for was going into receivership so I made a bid for it with the help of a friend who gave me the necessary financial leg-up. I worked during the day, studied at night and paid him back with interest within a year of taking over the business.’

‘What are you planning to do with my father’s company?’

He gave her a brittle look as he reached for his wine. ‘I’m going to sell it.’

She felt the ruthless purpose in his blunt statement, wondering what else he had planned for the rest of his newly acquired assets.

‘And Mercyfields?’ she asked. ‘Do you intend to sell that too?’

‘Not yet.’

She wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed.

On one hand the thought of her family home being sold to the highest bidder appalled her, but on the other hand why would he keep an estate that had witnessed his repeated degradations as a youth by members of her family, including her?

‘I thought you said Mercyfields meant nothing to you,’ she said. ‘Why keep it?’

‘Quite frankly I loathe the place.’ There was no mistaking the astringency of his tone. ‘But I have things I want to do there first.’

‘Such as?’

He gave her one of his inscrutable looks. ‘Exorcise a few ghosts, that sort of thing.’

She felt a shiver of apprehension scuttle over her flesh.

‘Austin’s ashes are there…’ She swallowed painfully. ‘We spread them after…the year after you left.’

‘I didn’t leave, Bryony.’ His dark eyes glittered. ‘I was evicted.’

‘You deserved it,’ she said, remembering it all as if it had been last week, not ten years ago…

It had been a couple of weeks after she’d encountered him at the lake. During that time she’d avoided him meticulously, but in spite of her attempts to keep him at a distance she’d come out of the breakfast room one day a few months before Austin had died to find Kane waiting outside her father’s study. His customary indolent pose had irritated her, so too had the way his dark eyes ran over her lazily.

She could still recall the contemptuous curl of his damaged lip, red and inflamed where infection had struck, intensifying the already considerable damage she’d caused.

She’d caught her breath, wondering if he was finally going to spill the beans on her despicable actions. She’d been waiting for the axe to fall for a fortnight, knowing he was probably delaying doing so to prolong her torture.

Was that why he was standing outside her father’s study now?

She’d felt sick with the thought of what would happen if her father was told. Although bigoted and racist and at times even aggressive himself, she had known her father would not tolerate her demonstrating such violence and what the punishment would be if he ever found out—he would take it out on her mother.

‘Hello, Bryony,’ Kane drawled. ‘I haven’t seen much of you lately. Where have you been hiding?’

‘I haven’t been hiding,’ she bit out and made to brush past.

An iron fist came down on her arm, the tanned work-roughened fingers almost cruel in their grasp.

Bryony’s eyes met his above their joined bodies, the burning intensity of his brown-black gaze frightening her as much as it drew her towards him like a moth to a light too hot to touch. She felt the pull of his body, the heat radiating towards her, the male scent of him a combination of exercise and musky maleness that sent her senses into acute awareness. Her reaction to him shamed her, frightened her…secretly terrified her.

‘Let me go, Kane.’

She knew he wasn’t going to obey her command, and for years later often wondered what would have happened if her brother hadn’t come into the hall at that point.

‘Let her go,’ Austin commanded.

Kane’s eyes flashed with hatred so intense it totally unnerved her, but he let her arm go and stepped backwards.

‘What are you doing in the house, you filthy scum?’ Austin sneered at him nastily.

‘I have an appointment to see your father.’ On the surface Kane’s tone was polite but his physical manner was all surly insolence. ‘I have something I wish to discuss with him.’

Bryony’s eyes went to his in nervous appeal but the quick glance he slanted her was bitter and unbending. She moistened her dry mouth, her hands twisting into knots in front of her churning stomach.

‘What do you want to see him about?’ Austin asked with his usual haughtiness.

There was a nerve-tightening pause.

Bryony felt her breath stall as Kane’s dark eyes met hers for a heart-stopping second before moving away to address her brother.

‘A private matter.’

She felt the ice water of fear spill into her veins. This was it…he was going to tell her father…

‘A private matter, eh?’ Austin’s grey eyes glinted with derision. ‘I wonder what sort of issue could have to be so private between you and my father.’

Kane didn’t answer, for just then the study door opened and Owen Mercer stepped out, a heavy scowl on his face.

‘What’s all this noise out here?’ His glance flicked over the little tableau. ‘Bryony, I’ve told you before not to mix with the staff. Go to your room.’

‘But I—’ she began, but her father cut her off with a warning look from beneath his heavy brows.

‘Bryony wasn’t intentionally with me, Mr Mercer,’ Kane said. ‘She was just walking past.’

‘He was touching her,’ Austin put in with cold clarity. ‘God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t come along.’

Bryony stared at her brother in alarm. What did he think he was doing? Surely he knew how their father would react to such information?

‘I thought I told you to go upstairs.’ Owen turned his florid expression her way.

With a momentary hesitation which she knew would annoy her father immensely, she stepped away and turned towards the stairs.

She heard her father dismiss Austin before the study door was closed as Kane met him in private.

She had never been told what had been discussed during that meeting, and her embarrassment for her role in what had led up to it had kept her questions unasked.

All she knew was that within an hour of being dismissed from his meeting with her father Kane had driven one of the gardener’s tractors up and down the huge lawn overlooking the lake, the vicious teeth of the plough on the back tearing at the soft lush grass in a criss-cross of savage bites that had taken months and thousands of dollars to restore.

As if that wasn’t enough, he had then driven the tractor through the rose garden, tearing at decades of priceless bushes before parking it in the shallow end of the swimming pool.

Sophia Kaproulias had been summarily dismissed from her job within minutes of her son being escorted from the estate by two burly police officers.

Bryony had watched from her bedroom window as his wrists were restrained by handcuffs before being shoved towards the waiting police van.

Just as he was getting in Kane had turned his gaze towards the house, his sweeping look coming to rest on Bryony standing in the frame of her window.

She’d watched, her breath tightening her chest as he’d gathered some moisture in his mouth before spitting it viciously to the ground at his feet.

It still chilled her to think of the silent purpose in that single action.

It had been a warning…

Bryony could feel Kane’s tension as he sat opposite her at the cottage table, as if he too had just travelled back in time.

‘You know you deserved it,’ she repeated. ‘You caused thousands of dollars of damage, not to mention the grief and suffering you caused Mrs Bromley when you callously ran over her dog.’

He jaw tightened as he held her accusing look. ‘I’m afraid if you want to find a scapegoat for that particular crime you have no need to look any further than from within your own family.’

‘For God’s sake, Kane! Nero was found in the middle of the savaged lawn with tyre tracks over his back! How can you sit there and say you didn’t do it?’

‘I told you before, I did not kill that dog.’

Bryony felt confused, torn between wanting to believe him incapable of such a despicable act of cruelty but equally unwilling to lay the blame on someone much closer to home.

‘I suppose you expect me to believe someone else ran over the dog and planted his dead body so you would get the blame?’ she asked.

His mouth twisted as he pushed himself away from the table, the action sending a shock wave through the wine in her glass.

‘Believe what you like,’ he said roughly. ‘See if I give a damn.’ He turned for the door and it slammed behind him, making her flinch.

She stared at the still shivering wine and put her hand on top of the glass to steady it, her brow furrowing in bewilderment.

What was she supposed to think?

Although he’d always been taciturn and a touch surly she had never considered him the sort of person who would treat an animal with such heartlessness, but how could she be sure?

Did she really know him?

He’d stepped out of the past, taking ruthless control of everything marked with the Mercer name and, as far as she could see, her parents had let him do so without so much as a fight.

She had been the one to take the full brunt of his revenge, a revenge that he had planned meticulously.

She cleared away the barely touched food and once the plates and glasses were in the dishwasher wandered through the house.

It was beautifully crafted, the timbers of Tasmanian celery top pine and myrtle featuring throughout. She trailed her hand over the smooth surface of the railing on the mezzanine level, marvelling at Kane’s skill in bringing raw timber to such perfection.

She looked out towards the ocean rolling in and sighed. Would she ever know the full story?

Austin wasn’t around any more for her to ask about his version of events. It didn’t seem possible that the older brother she’d adored all her life could be party to what had gone on. She knew he and Kane had been at loggerheads most of the time during their youth and, although that didn’t really excuse her brother’s boorish behaviour towards him, she knew it had been well modelled by their father. Austin had simply adopted the same attitude from an early age and, to some degree, to her everlasting shame, so had she.

Bryony made her way back down the path to the beach, hoping the afternoon sea breeze would blow away her low spirits. She wandered along the water’s edge, stopping now and again to inspect a shell before continuing past a pair of sooty oyster catchers who were inspecting the waterline with interest.

A small flock of white-fronted terns carved the air a few metres in front of her, their wings moving in perfect unison as they circled back around as she passed.

It was the first time in her life that she’d walked on a totally deserted beach, the experience filling her with a sense of quiet awe.

It made her wonder about Kane’s need for solitude. Was he trying to escape the shame of his past by surrounding himself with the fragility of untouched, as yet unspoilt nature?

There was so much she didn’t know about him, but how could she draw closer? Wouldn’t it be disloyal to Austin’s memory for her to develop feelings for the man who had made it his life’s mission over the last ten years to destroy her family?

She turned her face to the stiffening breeze and wished she could erase the night of his accident from her memory for ever, but in moments like these when her guard was down it all came flooding back.

She’d been home on mid-term break, lying in her bed, her thoughts drifting preparatory to sleep when she’d heard a car pull up at the front of Mercyfields. Wondering who was calling at that late hour, she’d peered out of her bedroom window to see two police officers approaching the front door, their hats in their hands as a mark of respect.

She’d heard her mother’s bloodcurdling scream a few moments later and from that point Bryony’s life had gone into a tailspin from which she had yet to recover. She’d switched on to automatic to get through the trauma of funeral arrangements and the identification of Austin’s poor crushed body.

The inquest findings had indicated speed and alcohol were involved, but her parents had insisted he was innocent. She had let them think what they liked for their grief was so palpable she knew it would serve no purpose adding to it with details that could in no way change the final outcome.

Austin was dead.

Nothing and no one could bring him back.

The least she could do in honour of his memory was to keep Kane Kaproulias at a safe distance.

Her heart depended on it…

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRYONY was almost back to the cliff path when she saw something lying in the shallows about halfway along the beach in the opposite direction to which she’d walked.

She shielded her eyes from the slanting glare of the sun to see if she could make out what it was, but before she could identify it she heard the thud of rapid footsteps running through the sand behind her.

She swung around to see Kane sprinting towards her and in one of his hands a lethal-looking knife glinted dangerously.

She shrank away as he approached but he ran on past, calling out to her over his shoulder. ‘It’s one of the dolphins. I think it must be hurt.’

It took her but a second or two to get her legs into gear and, ignoring the protests of her knee, she ran behind him, coming to a heavily panting halt two hundred metres or so later.

It was indeed one of the dolphins.

It was lying on its side in the frothy shallows, one lustrous eye staring at her in unblinking pain.

‘Oh, my God!’ She sank to her knees, stroking her hand gently along the muscled skin of its neck. ‘What’s wrong with you, baby?’

Kane was examining the other side, his expression as he faced her murderous with rage.

‘Fishing line.’ He swore once, quite savagely, and she realised it was the first time she’d ever heard him do so.

‘Fishing line?’ She stared at him over the top of the dolphin’s back.

He nodded grimly. ‘We’ll have to roll him over so I can get to it. It’s embedded in his other flipper.’

‘Won’t we hurt him by moving him?’

‘He’ll die if we don’t; he’s halfway there already.’

Bryony watched in anguish as the dolphin rolled its eye at her as if giving credence to Kane’s gruff statement.

‘Put your arms under here.’ He directed her as she joined him on the other side of the dolphin. ‘Make sure your nails don’t scratch him, and push.’

She dug her feet into the sand and did as he commanded but the dolphin was a fully grown adult and heavy, not to mention terribly slippery.

‘Come on, Bryony, one more try,’ he said. ‘Here we go—one, two, three…’

The silvery body shifted slightly but the movement had distressed the poor creature, who began to struggle, his tail threshing about, sending a spray of water all over them both.

‘And again, agape mou,’ Kane directed as he shook the dripping water out of his eyes, his hands still braced against the dolphin’s body. ‘We can do it, I know we can…now push…’

She gave an almighty push, wondering why she was feeling so touched by his endearment when previously she’d berated him for addressing her so.

The dolphin moved at the same time as her knee gave way, but she gritted her teeth and kept pushing till he was safely turned over. Her breathing was still laboured as she stared down at the tortured flesh of the dolphin’s flipper, the nylon of fishing line almost cutting it in two.

‘Oh, you poor thing…’ she gasped in despair.

‘It’s all right.’ Kane set the knife in position. ‘Just try and hold him still for a minute while I get rid of this.’

She wasn’t sure she would have much to offer in resistance if the creature decided to move, but as if sensing Kane was trying to help he lay still as the knife cut through the vicious bite of the line.

Kane straightened and gave her a rueful smile. ‘That’s the easy part over with, now for the difficult bit.’

‘The difficult bit?’ She gave him a confused look.

He nodded his head towards the water, now even further from where the dolphin was stranded as the tide ebbed away.

‘Oh, no…’ Her face fell.

‘Oh, yes.’ He tossed the knife to the sand past the waterline and positioned himself at the dolphin’s tail. ‘I’ll try and pull him a bit closer but, as I do, can you watch that his damaged flipper doesn’t get too traumatized as we go? He’s likely to struggle but there’s no other way.’

‘OK,’ she said and took up her position, her bottom lip between her teeth as Kane began to pull.

The dolphin eyed her soulfully before beginning to thrash to dislodge Kane’s grasp.

‘No, sweetie,’ she cooed and stroked its head. ‘He’s trying to help you. Don’t fight against him; you’ll only hurt yourself.’

She thought about the words she’d just spoken and wondered if there was a truth in them for her as well as for the beached dolphin. She had done nothing but fight Kane, and it could well be only her who would get hurt in the end.

The dolphin’s flipper began to drag along the shelly sand as Kane gave another pull so Bryony got on her knees and, keeping a few inches ahead, dug out a trench to allow it to pass through without catching.

‘Good thinking,’ Kane said in approval and, gritting his teeth, gave another huge pull. ‘Almost there…’

As soon as the dolphin felt the water deepen he began to writhe in earnest. Bryony sat back on her heels, the path she’d dug no longer necessary as the creature began to float, his blowhole closing over as he felt the water finally take his weight.

Kane let the tail go just as the dolphin turned for the bay, the late afternoon sun shining on the rubber-like silver of his back as he swam off.

Kane turned and looked at Bryony sitting in the shallows, her cheeks flushed with effort, her blonde hair like a mermaid’s, her beautiful face turned towards the deep blue waters of the sea.

He walked out of the waist deep water to the shallows and, smiling down at her, offered her a hand. ‘We did it, Bryony.’

Bryony took his hand but stumbled as she got to her feet as her knee refused to take her weight. He frowned as he steadied her, his arms against her strong but gentle.

‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’

She winced as she tested her knee once more, clutching at his sodden T-shirt for balance. ‘I’ve done something to my knee…it’ll be right in a minute.’

‘Let me see.’ He knelt down carefully and rolled up her cotton trousers, sucking in a sharp breath when he saw the already swollen joint. ‘That looks painful.’ He straightened to look down at her, concern etched across his darkly handsome features.

‘It is.’ Her expression twisted ruefully.

‘I’ll carry you back to the cottage.’ He began to put his arms around her.

‘No!’ She put a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘I’m too heavy to haul up that path.’

‘Too heavy?’ He gave her an amused look before scooping her up in his arms. ‘Listen, agape mou, the dolphin was heavy. After lugging that thing back into the water, I can tell you, you’re going to be an absolute breeze.’

Bryony had to admit as he brought her to the door of the cottage a short time later he was a whole lot stronger than she’d accounted for. The dolphin episode notwithstanding, she knew it couldn’t have been easy carrying a child up the awkward path let alone her! And yet he’d kept up an easy level of conversation as they went, his breathing rate not even accelerating while hers, with her body pressed so close to his, was skyrocketing out of control.

He set her down in the bathroom and, making sure she was steady, reached across and turned on the shower.

‘Strip off and have a quick shower, then I’ll bandage your knee.’

She looked at him in alarm as he turned back to face her once the water temperature was right.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

She compressed her lips for a moment. ‘You can leave now…I think I can manage.’

‘On that knee?’ He frowned at her. ‘You’ll end up slipping over and doing even more damage. Don’t be stupid, do you think I haven’t seen a naked woman before?’

‘You haven’t seen this naked woman before,’ she said with a touch of pride.

He gave her a challenging look. ‘Not yet, but soon.’

Bryony snapped her teeth together, not sure she wanted to rise to that particular bait.

Kane’s eyes glinted teasingly as he handed her a big fluffy towel. ‘Have your shower in peace. I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.’

Her eyes followed him as he went out of the bathroom, her thoughts in tumbling disarray.

The running water called her back and, peeling off her wet clothes, she hobbled under the steaming spray and tried not to think of Kane’s dark eyes on her body some time in the future.

Her skin shivered in spite of the warm water, tiny goose-bumps of awareness lifting her flesh until she was tingling all over. What was happening to her? Was she so starved of physical affection she had to pine after a man who’d married her for revenge?

She turned off the shower and dried herself roughly, doing her best to force her mind away from the disturbing images it persistently tried to conjure up. Images of her body locked with Kane’s in the act of possession, his long hard body moving in time with hers, his mouth smothering the soft gasps of delight bursting from deep within her.

Bryony thrust her arms through the sleeves of the bathrobe she found hanging on the back of the door and, once she was securely covered, called out for Kane to come back in.

He came in bearing a first aid kit and a small stool for her to sit on while he attended to her knee.

He ran his hands over her joint, testing for tender spots with such competent gentleness she couldn’t help remarking on it.

‘You look like you’ve done this before.’

He looked up and gave her one of his slanted smiles, his eyes so dark she could barely distinguish the pupils from the irises.

‘Once or twice.’ He shifted his gaze and undid the cellophane wrapping on the tube of bandage and began winding it around her knee. ‘On a construction site there are always issues of safety. First aid training was part of the employment package.’

‘You should have been a doctor.’ She inspected her neatly bandaged leg.

‘I’ve been told my bedside manner needs work.’

Bryony was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with his bedside or, for that matter, his inside the bed manner, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

‘Thanks for bandaging it,’ she said instead and, with his help, got off the stool and tested her weight on her leg.

‘How does it feel?’ he asked.

‘Sore, but better for the support, I think.’

‘Good.’ He scrunched up the cellophane wrapping and placed it in the small bin under the basin before turning back to her. ‘Want me to carry you or do you think you can hobble a bit?’

‘I’ll give hobbling a try.’ She took the arm he offered.

They made their way back to the lounge overlooking the view and he helped her on to one of the white linen sofas, pulling over a footstool for her to place her leg on.

‘I think it must be time for a drink,’ he said. ‘What will you have—white wine, champagne or something soft?’

‘What are you going to have?’ she asked.

‘I was thinking along the lines of a cold beer, but don’t let that stop you having what you’d like.’

‘I’d like champagne but it seems a shame to open it for just one person.’

‘I think I can afford it just this once,’ he said with a hint of a smile.

‘Champagne it is, then.’ She found herself smiling back.

‘That’s two,’ he said, looking at her thoughtfully.

‘Two what?’ She blinked at him in confusion.

‘Two genuine smiles,’ he said. ‘Not bad, considering how long we’ve known each other.’

She watched him as he fetched their drinks, not sure she had ever known the man she saw in front of her now.

Where was the sullen son of the housekeeper? Where was the young man who had pressed her brother’s buttons so much? Where was the man who had cruelly run down their neighbour’s much loved spaniel and left it to bleed to death in the middle of the lawn he’d ravaged so callously?

Kane was none of those men—he was someone else entirely, which meant she was in very great danger of being tempted into letting her guard down around him.

He came back over with an effervescent glass of champagne for her, a beer in his other hand.

‘Cheers.’ He lifted his bottle in a toast. ‘Here’s to our friend, the dolphin.’

‘To the dolphin.’ She chinked her glass against the lip of his bottle of beer.

He took the seat to her right and, placing his feet on the coffee table, crossed his ankles. ‘You did a great job out there, Bryony.’

‘I…I did?’ She felt ridiculously pleased by his comment and silently berated herself for it.

‘Sure you did. No hysterics, you just got on with the task at hand.’

‘He was suffering…’

‘Yes, but he’s one of the lucky ones.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘I’ve seen too many who haven’t made it. It’s not exactly what you’d describe as a pleasant sight.’ He reached forward to set his bottle down on the coffee table near his crossed ankles, before leaning back with a sigh.

‘It’s happened before?’ she asked. ‘With a fishing line?’

‘Not just fishing line—nets mainly. The tuna industry has a bad reputation where dolphins are concerned. They often swim over large schools of tuna and, as a result, get trapped in the nets.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘It’s not just tuna-fishing crews.’ He leant forward for his beer once more. ‘A lot of amateur fishermen throw their snagged lines or bits of rubbish overboard, but as dolphins, and to an even greater degree seals, are very inquisitive marine mammals they often find themselves snared. As you saw from our friend, it can do untold damage, for a youngster particularly, as their body continues to grow around the noose. While a dolphin doesn’t use its flippers to swim, they use them to stop and turn. Being disabled leaves them seriously vulnerable.’

‘What can be done?’

‘Education, lobbying, that sort of thing. But it all takes time, valuable time.’

‘You really care about this, don’t you?’ she asked, watching him closely.

‘I don’t like seeing the innocent suffer; it all seems so pointless.’

Bryony considered his words, trying to align them with her view of him as a heartlessly cruel man who would stop at nothing to get his way.

None of it seemed to fit.

He was a man of contradictions. He had a heart, but up until this point she had never seen it displayed. She recalled the almost inhuman strength he’d called upon to drag the dolphin to safety. Was that really the same man who had forced her into marriage as an act of revenge?

She took a sip of her champagne and tried to organize her thoughts into some sort of framework where he could be innocent of all charges, but it just wouldn’t work.

He had been sent to prison for what he’d done. He’d deliberately sabotaged Mercyfields, killing an innocent animal in the process, all in an attempt to get back at her family.

He was guilty.

He had to be, for if he wasn’t…someone else had to be and that she just couldn’t bear.

‘I’m kind of wondering at this point how your views on animal cruelty fit in with what you did to Mrs Bromley’s spaniel.’

He visibly stiffened, his hand around his beer bottle tight, his eyes when they met hers dark with sudden anger. ‘How many times do you require me to say I didn’t kill that dog?’

‘Enough times for me to believe it,’ she tossed back.

‘You wouldn’t believe it even if the bloody dog came back to life to tell you for itself,’ he bit out. ‘You’ve had me painted as the villain almost from the first day I walked on to the Mercyfields estate with my mother when I was fourteen.’

‘OK, then.’ She sent him a challenging look. ‘If you didn’t do it, who did? Everybody knew that dog came to visit the kitchen for scraps at the same time every day. He was like a part of the family. Gloria Bromley was my mother’s nearest neighbour and closest friend.’

His mouth twisted as he reached for his drink. ‘Your sainted brother had a dark side. I think he did it to get back at me.’

‘You only think he did it?’ Her tone was cynical. ‘Where’s your proof?’

‘I have no proof. I just think he did it. He was always looking for an opportunity to get me off side with your father. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do.’

‘My brother loved animals,’ she put in. ‘All animals.’

He gave her a disdainful look. ‘Your brother’s only saving grace was the fact he loved you. Unfortunately your reciprocal love for him blinded you to the real persona he kept hidden from his family. I know for a fact he ordered me to be beaten up after our incident at the lake.’

She stared at him in shock. ‘W-what?’

His scarred lip curled. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

She shook her head, her stomach turning over.

‘I thought he’d relish the chance to reveal to you how he’d taught me a much needed lesson.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’ His eyes were like black diamonds, brittle with bitterness.

‘I didn’t tell a soul about what…what happened between us.’

‘You didn’t need to. It seems your brother had his willing spies. Within minutes of our meeting at the lake he was already marshalling his henchmen. He was too cowardly to do it himself, of course; he had to assign four men to beat me to a pulp while he watched on from the sidelines in sick enjoyment.’

Bryony stared at him in abject horror. Could it be true? Could her brother have done such a despicable thing?

‘No…’ Her protest came out on the back of a strangled gasp.

‘Why do you think my lip scarred the way it did?’ he asked.

She swallowed the lump of nausea in her throat, not trusting herself to answer.

‘Go on believing in your angelic brother for as long as you like, but I for one cannot regret his passing. As far as I’m concerned, he was a low-life just like your father who would stop at nothing to achieve his own ends.’

Bryony felt the energy drain from her as if someone had pulled a plug from deep within her body. She couldn’t get her head around anything he had told her this evening. She didn’t want to believe what he was telling her but the alternative was becoming equally unpalatable.

Someone was innocent.

Someone was guilty.

She had to choose.

‘I need some time to think about this…’ she said.

‘Take all the time you need.’ His tone was curt. ‘I’ve waited ten years for the truth to surface; a few more days, weeks or even months won’t make much more difference.’

There was so much bitterness in his tone that she felt tempted to put her vote of truth with him, but then she thought of Austin and his devotion to her, the way he’d protected her from their father when things had got out of hand, as they often had. How could she taint her precious memories of him?

Kane’s beer bottle was empty as too was his cold distant gaze as he trained it on her. ‘I’m going for a walk. Help yourself to whatever food you fancy. I probably won’t be back before nightfall.’

Bryony watched in silent anguish as he left the cottage, the screen door snapping shut behind him cutting all contact off with him as surely as his clipped statement.

She sat on the sofa and watched as the lowering sun spread its rays across the water, the long flat horizon stretching as far as the eye could see.

How far from the swathes of manicured lawns and meticulously tended gardens of Mercyfields this wild untamed paradise was. How different the cottage was from the heavily ornate mansion she’d spent most of her childhood in. Kane’s cottage was simple and functional but it seemed to her to have an atmosphere of tranquility about it, as if it was here and only here he could truly be himself.

She wasn’t sure why he’d brought her here given his embittered views on her family. Why taint the perfection of his sanctuary with her presence, a woman he’d married as a pay-back for past sins?

She knew his anger towards her simmered just beneath the thin veneer of politeness he’d recently maintained; the slightest negative comment from her would lift it to the surface and he would become prickly and defensive all over again.

They had worked so well as a team on the beach rescuing the dolphin, her respect for him going up in leaps and bounds at the humane way in which he’d acted.

She had met few men in her life she felt she could truly respect. Her experiences with her controlling father had made her cautious, and the last thing she’d wanted to do was end up like her poor mother, married to a man who treated her appallingly, her love for him keeping her tied to him in spite of her great unhappiness. But it was becoming more and more clear to her that Kane had certain qualities her father had never possessed. His care and concern over her knee, the gentle way he’d tended to it and how he’d smiled at her and made her comfortable, were actions totally foreign to someone like her father, who viewed any sort of physical ailment as a weakness of both mind and body.

She sighed as she thought about how she’d spoilt the recent and fragile truce between them by mentioning the past; the old ruthless Kane had come back with a vengeance, storming from the cottage with an angry scowl.

The trouble was she wasn’t sure she could afford to allow herself to get too close to him once this little spat blew over. He unsettled her in so many ways; her body had recognised it all those years ago and she knew that if she wasn’t too careful her mind and heart would rapidly catch up. She was already confused about her see-sawing emotions; they seemed to be changing from one moment to the next.

Would she be able to keep him at a safe emotional distance long enough to prevent herself from falling in love with him…or was it already too late?

Kane walked the length of the lonely beach, relieved to see that the dolphin hadn’t re-beached itself in the last hour or so. He was hopeful the injury it had sustained would soon heal in the salt water of the clean blue sea; however, he’d seen too many washed-up bodies in the past to take this particular rescue for granted. The irresponsible cruelty nauseated him, especially as it was so avoidable.

The wind was by now whipping up the surface of the bay into white caps and a lonely gull rose in an arc above his head, its plaintive call barely audible over the sound of the wind-driven surf.

Kane loved the untamed wildness of it all. It answered a need in him so deep and strong he felt it like a pulse in his body.

The constraints of city living were a necessity in order to control the vast empire he’d acquired but as soon as he had an opportunity to escape he took it. The isolation of this particular beach was like no other he’d ever seen. There was no development; even the road was unsealed and unsignposted, which left it well and truly off the tourist trail. It gave him a sense of power to think that this part of paradise was his to keep as it was, beautiful and as yet unspoilt, and he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

His wealth was something he had never allowed himself to become complacent about, certainly given his youth spent at Mercyfields as the housekeeper’s illegitimate son. Never had a day gone by without Austin or Owen Mercer reminding him of his lowly position. It still made his stomach crawl to think of all the things his mother had been made to do and, even though it had taken him ten years to address the balance, he was determined to enjoy every minute of bringing about the justice he knew would allow him to finally move on without the burden of guilt he’d been carrying ever since his mother had taken her own life.

Bryony was the only hiccup in his plan for revenge. It made him a little uneasy how he’d made her believe he’d swept her up into the maelstrom of his revenge, making her think the worst of him, when all the time he was hiding his real motives. There had been no other way; too much was at stake.

He could hardly tell her the real reason he’d insisted on her marrying him. He hadn’t been prepared to risk her saying no. She was married to him and he was going to make sure she stayed that way because that was the only way to ensure her safety.

The men after Owen Mercer had nothing to lose; they wanted to get at him in any way possible and Bryony was an easy target. It had taken Kane several hours of tense negotiations to convince them to leave both Glenys and Bryony alone. His only way of keeping them safe had been to take Bryony as his wife. That way no one would touch her, for in doing so they would then have to deal directly with him. He had loved her for too long to stand back and watch someone use her as a way to get back at her father.

It was too late to back out now.

Far too late…

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRYONY limped out to the seaboard deck to watch as the sun began to set, unable to refrain from sighing at the remote beauty of the uninterrupted horizon as the light gradually faded.

The first star appeared and then another. Then, after another half an hour, the inky blackness of the sky was peppered with the peep-holes of a trillion stars. The great sweeping whiteness of the Milky Way spread above her, the twin smudges of the greater and lesser magellanic clouds close by. Never had she seen the sky in such glorious exhibition, it was like being inside an observatory, so brilliant was the display.

She hadn’t heard the soft tread of Kane’s footsteps coming up from the cliff path until the shadow of his tall figure loomed over her, making her gasp.

‘Oh!’ She gripped the railing of the deck to steady herself. ‘You scared me.’

‘Sorry.’ His one word was gruff and her brow instantly furrowed. Was he apologizing for disturbing her or for something else? She inspected his features in the soft light coming from the cottage behind them but, as usual, it was hard to know exactly what he was thinking, much less what he was feeling.

She said the first thing that came to her mind. ‘Did you see any sign of the dolphin?’

‘No.’ She heard his faint sigh of relief. ‘I guess he’s made it back to the rest of the pod.’ He turned and leaned his back on the railing to face her, his face less shadowed as the light fell upon its masculine angles and planes. ‘How’s the knee?’

‘Fine.’ She tested it and disguised her grimace of pain. ‘I’m sure it will be better in a day or two. It usually is.’

‘You’ve had this happen before?’

She gave him a twisted and somewhat sheepish smile. ‘Yes, but never from shifting a dolphin.’

‘What happened the last time?’

‘Well…’ She slanted him a little glance of embarrassment before inspecting the night sky once more. ‘The last time I hurt it I was doing my best to avoid the bride’s bouquet at a wedding.’

‘Oh?’ There was a wealth of both interest and amusement in his tone.

She turned back to look at him. ‘I put in a huge effort to avoid its flight path but it virtually landed in my lap as I stumbled over the leg of a chair.’

The line of his usually hard mouth had softened with a smile and she had to look away, pretending an avid interest in astronomy when all she could think of was the brilliance of his dark eyes and how they threatened to outdo the splendour above her head.

‘Is that a satellite?’ She pointed to a moving light making its way across the canopy.

He turned and looked upwards. ‘Yes, there are hundreds out there.’

‘The stars are amazing…’ She let the silence of the night take over her paltry attempts to make conversation, her awareness of him increasing with every heartbeat.

After a while she heard him lean back against the railing and, sending a glance his way, saw that his dark gaze was still trained on her.

‘You never intended to get married, did you?’ he asked.

She pressed her lips together before answering flatly, ‘No.’

‘Because of your parents?’

‘What do you mean?’ She looked back up at the Milky Way so as to avoid the penetration of his stare.

She heard the slight rustle of his clothes as he shifted position.

‘The way I see it, the only thing keeping your mother tied to your father is guilt.’

Bryony frowned into the darkness. ‘My mother loves my father.’

‘Poor misguided fool.’

His tone brought her head around, her frown deepening. ‘My mother took her wedding vows very seriously. She’s…loyal and—’

‘She should have left him years ago.’

As much as Bryony was finding the topic of her parents’ marriage distinctly uncomfortable, she was intrigued as to why he would consider it his place to even discuss it, particularly with her.

‘You seem to me to be a highly unusual person to be an authority on marriage. After all, you had to bribe me into being your bride.’

‘I don’t deny the circumstances surrounding our marriage are unusual and to some degree regrettable but—’

She rounded on him crossly. ‘Unusual? Regrettable? If you’re having seconds thoughts on, what is it, day two of our marriage, can you possibly imagine how I feel?’

‘I know you hate being tied to me, but that’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to stay for the time being.’ His tone had hardened considerably.

‘I can have the marriage annulled as soon as we return to Sydney,’ she threatened.

The look he gave her was challenging. ‘Then perhaps I should make sure that such a claim will be considered null and void.’

She tried to outstare him but felt sure he would see the sudden and unexpected light of unruly desire in her eyes at his sexily drawled statement. She spun away and stared at Orion’s Belt instead, her hands on the rail tight as she fought to control her reaction to him.

‘You should be grateful I’m not quite the ruffian you’ve always assumed me to be. I could have had you from day one and we both know it,’ he said into the suddenly stiff silence.

Bryony wanted to deny it but her skin was already tingling in awareness of him standing so close, the fine hairs on her bare arms lifting like antennae.

‘You were hungry for me ten years ago,’ he continued. ‘The only reason you hit out at me was because you were angry at yourself for dallying with someone so beneath you. It wasn’t quite what a Mercer should do, was it, Bryony? Allowing the housekeeper’s son to kiss you and touch your breasts like some common little tart.’

She turned to defend herself but the dark intensity of his eyes immediately put her off course. The truth was that she still felt the shame of her reaction to his hard body all those years ago. She felt it now, the heat building up inside her looking for a way out. It burned in her breasts, it fired her mouth and it smouldered in her belly, sending a fiery trail to the core of her femininity where she most secretly longed and ached for him to be.

She stared at him for endless seconds as the heady realisation dawned. She didn’t want him to think of her the way he thought of her family. She didn’t want him to think her an arrogant snob who had always looked down her nose at him. She wanted him to love her as she had grown to love him.

How had it happened? How had her hatred turned to such desperate longing?

It wasn’t as if he’d turned on the charm; in fact, he’d done the opposite. He hadn’t complimented her nor courted her with flowers and jewellery as other men would have done. Instead he had charged into her life and demanded she marry him on his terms and his terms only.

But even still she had fallen in love with him.

She looked into his dark eyes and swallowed. At what point had her heart betrayed her? Had it been when he’d rescued the dolphin? Or perhaps it had been when he’d tended to her knee, his touch gentle and sure. Or maybe it went back much further than that…maybe it had been in the cool shadows of the lake ten years ago when his mouth had first covered hers.

The irony of it was inescapable. She was in exactly the same position as her mother—the position she’d sworn all her life she would never allow herself to be in—she was in love with a man who didn’t love her.

A light playful breeze picked up a strand of Bryony’s hair and blew it across her mouth but before she could brush it away Kane’s hand reached out and carefully tucked it behind her ear, the brush of his fingers making her quiver with reaction.

‘But we’re equals now, agape mou,’ he said, the low tone of his voice stroking her senses into instant overdrive. ‘And very soon we will become lovers.’

She ran her tongue over her dry lips and watched in nervous anticipation as he followed the movement with his eyes. His hand moved to cup the side of her face in a caress so unexpectedly gentle her heart felt as if someone had just reached into her chest and squeezed it.

His thumb rolled over her bottom lip, his eyes holding hers in a mesmerizing trance. She saw the raw need reflected in his darker-than-night gaze—felt too the magnetic pull of his body, the heat of it drawing her closer and closer. She lifted her right hand and gently touched the dark shadow forming along his lean jaw, the sound of the soft pads of her fingers moving across his unshaven skin audible in the stillness of the night.

‘Do you still hate me, Kane?’ She spoke the words before she could stop them, her voice just a whisper of sound.

‘Is that important to you, Bryony?’ he asked after a small pause.

‘I…I don’t want you to hate me…’ She captured her bottom lip with her teeth, her hand falling back to her side.

Kane used his thumb to gently prise her mouth open so her lip could escape the snag of her teeth, the action so achingly intimate her stomach began to crawl with hot desire.

‘You’ll make yourself bleed doing that,’ he chided her softly.

She tried a little smile but it didn’t quite work. Her eyes went back to his mouth, her breath hitching when she saw his head come down, his mouth stopping just above hers, his warm breath feathering against the too sensitive surface of her lips.

‘I won’t hurt you, Bryony. I want you to know that.’

She closed her eyes on his kiss, the movement of his lips unhurried and exquisitely gentle. Her mouth flowered open as soon as his pressure increased, her stomach hollowing when his tongue searched for and found hers. Heat fired through her limbs as he brought her up against his aroused body, the probe of his erection a stark but heady reminder of his potency and her own melting need. She could feel it between her thighs, the silky moisture triggered by the sensual movement of his mouth on hers and the intimate probe of his slow-moving tongue as it called hers into a primal dance.

After a few breathless minutes he lifted his head a fraction, his eyes burning a pathway to her soul.

‘Let’s go inside.’

He released her to open the sliding screen door of the cottage and she stepped through on unsteady legs, her skin shivering in reaction as he slid the door closed behind him.

‘Come here.’

His single command made her flesh tingle with the anticipation of his touch and she stepped towards him, her face up-tilted to his, her heart thumping against the wall of her chest at the promise in his eyes.

His lips met hers in a blaze of heat that left no part of her untouched by its intensity. She felt the soft tug of his teeth on her bottom lip and boldly nipped him back, her tongue responding to the thrust of his as it entered her mouth, circling it, commandeering it, conquering it.

His body was hard against hers, making her melt even further as she realised how instant and strong his desire for her was. She wanted the evidence of it imprinted on her tender flesh. She ached to feel the abrasion of his male skin on hers, the bunching of his sculptured muscles as he held her close.

She heard him suck in a harsh breath before his mouth covered hers once more, this time with even less restraint as his rigid control finally slipped out of his grasp. His tongue unfolded over hers, the heat and purpose of his embrace leaving her breathless.

Kane lifted her in his arms, his mouth still locked to hers as he carried her to the bedroom upstairs, each and every one of his footsteps making her feel as if he was taking her closer and closer to the fulfilment she had craved for so long.

He broke his kiss to lay her on the big bed, his dark eyes illuminated with passion as he stood back to haul his shirt from his body.

Bryony couldn’t take her eyes off his muscled chest, the sheen of his skin making her want to touch him all over. She reached up her arms towards him and he came down to her, his weight pressing her down into the mattress.

She didn’t give him the chance to change his mind. Her fingers went straight to the waistband of his jeans and slid the zip down with a determination fuelled by spiralling desire.

His black briefs were already straining with the extension of his erection and, as she unpeeled them from him, she felt her breath squeeze in the back of her throat at the thought of him possessing her.

She traced the length of him with exploring tentative fingers, the satin smoothness of his skin fascinating her, the tiny pearl of moisture beading on the tip reminding her that he was fighting to contain his release under the ministrations of her hands.

She looked up at him and saw that same battle raging on his face, his expression contorted with desire, his eyes neither open nor closed, his breathing rapid, his whole body tense.

She began to increase the pace of her stroking but he reached for her hand and, pulling it off him, secured it within his against the flattened pillows above her head.

‘You don’t play fair, agape mou.’ Kane’s warm breath caressed her lips. ‘Is this what you really want from me?’

‘I think you’ve always known this is what I’ve wanted from you.’

He examined her expression closely. ‘I thought you said you had no intention of sleeping with me?’

She aimed her gaze at the tanned skin of his chest, her fingertip tracing a circuitous path around one dark nipple. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

She felt the full heat of his gaze as she lay in his embrace. Her limbs felt useless, as if they were disconnected from the stabilizing ligaments that kept them in place.

‘What changed your mind?’

‘I don’t know…’ She circled his other nipple. ‘I guess I’m curious about you. You don’t seem to be the person I thought you were.’ She lifted her eyes back to his. ‘I guess the only way I’m going to know the real you is to get close to you.’

Kane bent his head to kiss her, still trying to summon up the strength to set her away from him, but somehow the delicate probe of her tongue searching for his was his final undoing. There was a shy hesitancy about her movements which made them all the harder to resist. The feather-like touch of her hands as they roved over his back made his skin tighten with pleasure and he took control of the kiss with a deep groan against her mouth. He had planned to give her more time, hoping she would come to care for him before committing herself physically, but his self-control had limits and he was well and truly at the end of them now with her lying beneath him.

Bryony could feel every bulge and ridge of him against her, the latent strength of him so apparent that her stomach hollowed as she thought of him driving through her, wondering if she should have told him she wasn’t quite the party girl he thought her to be. In the end she decided against telling him for the simple reason that she didn’t want him to stop what he was doing.

His mouth had moved from hers to take a slow pathway to her lace-covered breast, his tongue like a hot taper along her sensitive flesh. Her T-shirt went over her head but later she couldn’t recall which of them had removed it from her body; their hands seemed to be bumping into each other’s in a desperate attempt to remove the final barriers between them.

She felt the heat of his gaze as her breasts were freed from the lacy bra, his lazy appraisal firing her up beyond belief. He made her feel so damn sexy! Just one look from beneath those dark brows and she was smoking inside and out.

He reached out a fingertip and circled one jutting nipple, his touch so light it felt like a butterfly’s wing brushing over her.

‘I have wanted to do this for so long.’ His tone was husky as he moved his finger to her other breast and feathered over her other nipple.

She writhed beneath his barely there touch, her eyes glazing with need.

‘How long?’ she managed to ask, her soft mouth releasing the words on a soft gasp of pleasure.

Kane’s dark eyes seared hers. ‘Too long.’

His answer secretly thrilled her. It made her feel a surge of pure feminine power that she had lit a flame in his body all those years ago which had never quite burned itself out.

He wanted her.

He’d always wanted her.

Yes, he had gone to extraordinary lengths to claim her but she didn’t want to think about that now. Caught up in the moment as she was, the last thing she wanted to do was speculate on what exactly had been Kane’s intention in marrying her. It was enough for now that he wanted her with a desperation that he was barely keeping contained. She felt it in the press of his large body on hers, the heat of his swollen erection burning against her thigh, the increasing pressure of his mouth as it returned to hers.

He peeled away the lace of her French knickers with a glide of his hand along her thigh, his mouth never once leaving hers. She felt his hand come back up to begin an intimate exploration which left her fighting for air. One long gentle finger divided her, pushing into her secret folds with devastating accuracy, sending sharp spurts of desire all through her quivering flesh. He withdrew his finger to cup her in the palm of his warm hand, his action so restrained she wondered if he sensed her inexperience. Had she been so transparent?

She made room for him between her legs, the feel of him so close to her making her ache with a yawning emptiness. She felt the intimate nudge of his body before he checked himself with a softly muttered curse.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked softly, terrified he was going to call a halt.

He gave a rueful grimace and, reaching across her, opened the bedside drawer and removed the foil packet of a condom. She watched as he tore the packet open before sheathing himself, her stomach doing a crazy little somersault at the thought of him moving inside her unexplored tenderness.

He pressed her back down, his mouth just above hers, the mingling of their breaths intensifying the intimacy of the moment.

‘I’ll take it slowly,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

You could never hurt me, she wanted to say. How had she ever thought he was capable of cruelty? His touch was so poignantly gentle, almost worshipful. The holding back of his undoubtedly superior strength stirred her deeply, making her realise how much she had misjudged him in the past.

‘Relax for me, Bryony,’ he said against her lips, his turgid length parting her slowly.

How could she relax with her feelings spinning out of control? She wanted him to fill her, to surge into her moistness and claim her as his. He was taking too long; all her nerves were stretched to breaking point in anticipation of his possession, a possession she had craved so long it was like a dull ache in her soul. She wouldn’t be complete until he made her his; she knew it as certainly as she knew her love for him would last a lifetime and beyond.

He kissed her softly and, impatient with need, she toyed with his bottom lip with her teeth. He deepened the kiss, crushing her mouth as he drove forwards with carefully measured control.

Bryony felt him begin to stretch her and she forced herself to relax enough to take him further, the sensation of him inside her making her greedy for more and more of his length. She lifted her hips to his and he went even deeper, the harsh groan that escaped from his lips sending a shiver of delight right through her.

She felt him check himself once more, fighting to maintain control as her body tightened around him as if made especially for him. She heard the Greek curse under his breath, as if finally giving in to the lure of her slick body, and he surged forward with one deep thrust that sent a shockwave of delight through every nerve and cell of her body.

He filled her completely, stretching her with increasing urgency as the pressure for release began to build with incessant force. Bryony felt the flicker of it along her inner thighs before it moved to the core of her where it pulsed heavily with every rapid beat of her heart. It was impossible to escape from the maelstrom of feeling his body was evoking in hers. Every nerve in her body seemed to be screaming for release from the delicious tension building within her.

‘Let go, Bryony,’ Kane urged as he orchestrated his movements to intensify her pleasure. ‘Don’t hold it back, let yourself go.’

She felt the rolling waves of release wash over her just as the rough surf had done earlier in the day, her high cries of pleasure not unlike the sound of a seabird rising on an up-draught of ocean-warmed air. She could even hear the roar of the sea in the distance and knew she would recall this first wondrous moment of fulfilment each and every time she set eyes on the surf in the future.

Kane waited until she had settled back in his embrace before taking his own pleasure in four deep thrusts that sent him over the edge and into ecstasy’s oblivion.

Bryony felt his deep spasms and secretly delighted in the agonized expression on his face as he finally allowed his control to slip, his deep guttural groan and the contortion of his features telling her more than words could ever do.

He collapsed on top of her, his breathing ragged and uneven. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment.’

She smiled a secret smile. She knew all right, because she’d felt it too. She ran her fingertips up and down his arm, not quite sure she could meet his eyes right at this point.

It was a full minute before he spoke again.

‘Look at me, Bryony.’

She lifted her eyes to his after a moment’s deliberation. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘For what?’

‘You know what for.’

He reached out a hand and brushed a strand of hair out of her face with such gentleness she felt the wash of tears at the back of her eyes. The pad of his thumb caught one tear as it escaped and, pressing it to his lips, he kissed it before placing it on the soft tremble of hers.

‘Did I hurt you?’

She gave a jagged sigh. ‘No…not really.’

‘I’m so much bigger than you.’ His eyes went to her slight body, still trapped beneath the weight of his. ‘And you were so inexperienced.’

She felt an inward cringe but hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it. ‘Was I so obvious?’

He coiled a strand of her hair around his index finger as if thinking about her question. He released the golden strand before he answered. ‘I know you were determined to keep it under wraps but there’s no shame in being selective over lovers, at least not in this day and age.’

She shifted her gaze to a small dark brown freckle near his left nipple, concentrating on it as if her life depended on it.

‘Were you waiting for someone special?’ he asked.

She gave what she hoped was an indifferent shrug. ‘Not really…I just hadn’t got around to it.’

‘Too busy licking the floors?’

She felt the colour surge into her cheeks but smiled anyway. ‘I don’t really do that, you know.’

His answering smile did serious damage to the equilibrium she was trying to maintain.

‘No, I sort of guessed that.’

A small silence settled like fine dust between them.

Bryony considered moving out of his loose embrace but was loath to do so. She liked the warmth of his body against hers, the smell of his skin, the feel of his long legs entwined with hers.

She tiptoed her fingertips up the length of his forearm, her eyes following the movement rather than lock with his once more.

‘I didn’t know it could be so…’ She bit her lip momentarily. ‘So…enthralling.’

‘It depends on who you’re with.’

She concentrated even harder on his freckle. ‘Is it different with…someone else?’

He tipped up her chin so she had to meet his gaze. ‘That was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before.’

She couldn’t help feeling reassured by his answer and hoped to God it was genuine and not one of the many lies men told to keep the peace.

She lowered her eyes to his mouth, unable to stop herself from staring at his scar. It was like her own personal signature slashed across his mouth and, no matter how many times she looked at it, each and every time she felt her stomach twist anew with shame and regret.

She lifted her fingertip and traced the rough edge, her heart squeezing painfully as she heard his quickly indrawn breath. Slowly she raised her gaze back to his, this time not even bothering to disguise the film of tears in her eyes.

‘I wish I could make it go away.’ Her voice was barely audible, her mouth trembling as she fought to hold back her emotions. ‘I hate myself for what I did to you.’

‘Listen, Bryony.’ He tipped up her chin once more. ‘This scar and I have been through a lot together. I wouldn’t get rid of it even if I could.’

‘But why?’

‘Because every time I look at it I think of you at the lake, the way you felt in my arms. It’s a small price to have paid for the memory.’

Bryony wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or telling her the truth. His expression gave nothing away and, while his endearment had been delivered casually, it had been exactly that—casual. It didn’t necessarily mean a thing. She wanted to convince herself he had loved her for all those years but it seemed too far-fetched to have any basis in reality, especially given the way he’d gone about demanding reparation for her family’s part in his past.

She lowered her eyes and, with a barely audible sigh, leant her head against his sweat-slicked chest, her ear pressed to the deep thud of his heart. She closed her eyes as one of his hands began to stroke through the silky strands of her hair, wishing with all of her heart that she could stay like that for ever.

CHAPTER NINE

BRYONY opened her eyes some time later to find Kane’s dark gaze trained on her, his arms still around her, his long legs entwined with hers.

She moistened her dry mouth as he moved against her intimately, the hot surge of his flesh against hers sparking a slow steady burn deep inside her.

She sighed as his hand slid up from her waist to shape her breast. His hand stilled its movements, his palm warm as it rested against her soft flesh.

Her thoughts went haywire as he bent his head, his tongue gently laving the tightness of her nipple. She buried her fingers in his dark hair and became lost in the glory of being in his arms, telling herself she would think about the future some other time, for now this was where she wanted to be. Maybe he didn’t love her but he certainly desired her, and as long as he continued to do so, surely she had a chance to show him how much her feelings had changed?

She sighed again as he took her mouth beneath his, her slim arms coming around him, holding him to her, the soft tremble of her body against his propelling him to claim her without restraint, his harsh groan as he did so igniting her passion to new heights.

She felt herself being caught up in the rhythm of his deep stroking thrusts until her body sang with delight as every nerve stretched and tightened in search of release.

When he lifted her hips to intensify the contact of his hard body with her softness she tipped over the edge of reason into the free fall of heart-stopping ecstasy, the tremors of her body sending him on his own pathway to paradise. She felt him empty himself, the deep shudders of his large body reverberating along her much smaller one. Such physical closeness was mind-blowing to her. It seemed almost sacred and she wanted to hold the moment to store it away for private reflection.

Kane eased himself away from her and lay with his hand across his eyes, his chest moving up and down as his breathing gradually returned to normal.

Bryony lay in an agony of indecision. Should she tell him of how her feelings had changed or should she pretend things were as they had been before?

She took an unsteady breath and wished she had the courage to nestle up against him for reassurance. Apart from his obvious physical reaction, he seemed so unaffected by what had passed between them while her flesh was still tingling from his touch even as her heart was bursting with emotion.

In an effort to appear as unmoved as he, she eased herself off the bed and reached for a bathrobe with forced casualness, tying the knot at her waist as she turned back to face him.

‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she announced, releasing the curtain of her hair from the back of the bathrobe.

‘Want some company?’ His eyes flared with kindling desire.

‘I think I’ll be much quicker on my own,’ she answered somewhat primly.

His deep chuckling laugh sent a riot of sensations through her tingling flesh. ‘Have your shower, Bryony. I won’t disturb you any more tonight.’

She moved towards the bathroom, not sure she wanted him to see just how deeply disturbed she was by his presence. Her body ached tenderly where he had been, her inner muscles protesting with each step she took.

‘Bryony.’

His voice stalled her progression and she turned to look back at him propped up amongst the bank of pillows, his hands behind his head in a self-possessed manner, the thin sheet barely covering his arrant maleness.

‘Yes?’ Was that her voice, that tiny breathless whisper?

He looked at her thoughtfully without speaking.

Bryony felt her skin rise in goose-pimples at the undisguised heat in his gaze, as if he could see through the towelling fabric of the robe she was wearing. She unconsciously tightened the tie at her waist as his gaze ran over her, lingering on her mouth before returning to her face.

‘It was always going to happen, you know.’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘What was?’

‘You and me,’ he said. ‘It was only a matter of time.’

She turned back to the bathroom, unwilling to let him see the raw emotion she was feeling. Would she ever be able to look into those dark eyes without restraint? Would she have to disguise her love for him for years to come, never once revealing how deeply moved she was by his passion? How was she to negotiate such a future?

She turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, the fine hot needles stinging her flesh where a few minutes ago his mouth and hands had lingered. She sucked in a ragged breath as the water ran between her thighs, reminding her anew of his possession and the unerring gentleness of how he’d introduced her to his length. How had she thought him a barbarian for all those years? His touch had been almost reverent as he’d led her to paradise, his patience with her inexperience moving her to tears.

She closed her eyes and tried to envisage a future where they could both have what they wanted but it seemed impossible. Kane had wanted revenge and had sought it ruthlessly, taking everything away from her parents, including her. For her to love him so unreservedly seemed to be somewhat traitorous to Austin’s memory and tantamount to treason where her father and mother were concerned. How could she have it both ways? Wouldn’t she always have to choose between them and her own happiness?

When she came back to the bedroom Kane appeared to be sleeping, his long body taking up more than his fair share of the bed. Bryony hesitated beside the bed, wondering if he would notice if she slipped off to the spare room.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he rumbled without even opening his eyes, his hand holding open the sheets for her.

With just the slightest hesitation she eased herself in beside his warm frame, her breath tightening as his arms came around her to draw her into the hard wall of his chest, his long legs entwining with hers.

‘Comfy?’ His breath tickled the back of her neck as he spoke.

Bryony suppressed a shiver as his palm came to rest on her belly, his fingers splayed possessively against her quivering flesh.

She lay stiffly, not willing to move in case she betrayed her growing need of him. The masculine hair on his chest tickled her, his stirring erection tormented her and his warm breath on her shoulder tantalized her until she could barely think.

‘Relax.’ His tone held a trace of amusement as he tucked her closer against him. ‘You’re as stiff as a board.’

Her eyes widened as his hard male presence slipped between her legs, the heat and length of him almost burning her soft skin where it pressed so insistently.

‘I could say the very same about you,’ she gasped as his fingers moved a fraction lower.

She felt his rumble of laughter all along the sensitive skin of her back where it was pressed up against him.

‘Go to sleep, agape mou.’ His lips kissed the smooth skin of her shoulder. ‘I think you’ve had quite enough of me for one night.’

She closed her eyes and tried to make her muscles relax but it became increasingly impossible to ignore him. Her body began to pulse with need, her legs trembling where he lay between them, his hardness against her softness reminding her of all of the essential differences between them.

She listened as his breathing evened out, holding her own breath in case she alerted him to her unease, unwilling to reveal how much he unsettled her.

Just when she thought she could stand it no more she felt him move behind her, his hands coming to her shoulders, turning her over so she was lying half beneath him, his chest pressing against her tight breasts where they lay aching for his touch beneath the simple cotton of her nightgown.

The moonlight coming in from the windows cast his features in silver, the white line of his scar clearly visible as he looked down at her with eyes smouldering with desire.

‘Is this what you’re after?’ he asked, slipping into her warmth as her legs made room for him between them, her nightgown bunched up around her waist in wanton abandon.

Her choked ‘yes’ was swallowed by the descent of his mouth and her arms came around his neck to hold him to her as his body delved into hers for the release they both craved. She felt herself climbing towards it, the delicious sensations coursing through her, rising to a crescendo inside her head until she was uncertain where her body ended and his began.

The tumultuous release was a revelation to her; she had never imagined her body to be capable of such intense feelings as she soared to the heights of ecstasy.

His pinnacle of pleasure echoed through her tender flesh, the heat and strength of him as he burst forth demonstrating how tenuous his control had been. It secretly delighted her that she could bring him to such a point. It showed him at his most vulnerable, lost to the sensation of intimate flesh on intimate flesh and skin on skin in the mind-blowing exchange of pleasure.

She nestled against him, her cheek pressed against the wall of his chest where his heart thudded, his arms loose around her but no less possessive.

She felt safe in a way she had never felt before.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the warm scent of his skin, her hands around him, holding him to her, her lips silently mouthing the words she didn’t quite have the courage to say out loud: I love you.

Kane stared at the moonlight dancing on the ceiling above him, the soft weight of Bryony in his arms a burden he had waited years to bear. His body still throbbed with the echo of pleasure, his heart tightening at the realisation of his need for her to fill his life in every way imaginable.

For years he had scoffed at the notion of love, fighting against being ensnared by such a confining emotion which could only leave him as vulnerable as his mother had been. He’d had affairs that had touched his body but not his heart and he had turned away from them with few regrets.

He glanced down at the sleeping woman in his arms, her soft mouth pressed against his chest, her slight body warm from the intimate embrace of his.

He slid his hand down the smooth silk of her arm, his mouth softening as he recalled the way she had responded to him. He hadn’t been expecting innocence but it had delighted him all the same, making him feel as if she had been waiting for him all those years.

He felt her shift against him, her arms tightening around his waist, the soft murmur of something unintelligible leaving the soft shield of her lips as she burrowed even closer.

His hand went to the gloss of her hair, his fingers threading through the silky strands as if willing them to bind her to him.

He heard her sigh as she snuggled against him, her guard well and truly down now she was asleep.

He lowered his chin to the top of her head, closing his eyes as he breathed in the flowery scent of her hair, the fragrance of her skin, the touch of her hands where they lay against him like a soothing balm on the rough edges of his tortured soul…

CHAPTER TEN

BRYONY woke to the sound of the surf pounding the shore, a stiff breeze stirring the waves, the white caps of foam galloping across the surface of the bay like a thousand horses.

She turned from the window as the bedroom door opened, unconsciously clutching the edges of a bathrobe around her naked body as Kane’s dark eyes met hers.

‘How did you sleep?’ he asked.

Bryony found it hard to hold his gaze as a vision of their passion-driven bodies flitted unbidden into her mind. In the cold hard light of morning her actions of the night before seemed totally out of character and inconsistent with her earlier determination to keep well away from him, marriage or no marriage.

It appalled her that she had fallen into his arms so unguardedly, practically confessing her love for him while he was no doubt congratulating himself on finally achieving his despicable ends.

How he must be gloating with victory! He had taken everything off her father and to add to his considerable haul she had unthinkingly given him that which she had offered no other man.

She could see the light of triumph in his eyes as they ran over her possessively and she inwardly seethed.

Shame sharpened her tongue and injured pride brought daggers to her eyes as she faced him.

‘It was wrong of you to take advantage of me last night. You know very well I wasn’t ready to make that sort of commitment. It was nothing less than barbarous of you.’

His expression instantly tightened, his eyes darkening as they narrowed slightly.

‘I only took what was on offer, agape mou,’ he drawled. ‘And, as for not being ready—’ his lazy gaze dipped to her pelvis and back ‘—you were so very wet and—’

‘No!’ Bryony clamped her hands over her ears so she didn’t have to hear her shame spoken out loud. ‘That’s not true! I didn’t want you. I don’t want you. I hate you.’

Kane held her defiant glare. ‘We are married, Bryony, and now we are lovers. There’s no going back.’

‘Find yourself another sexual plaything,’ she tossed at him heatedly. ‘Have all the affairs you like. See if I care.’

‘You know you are far more like your mother than you realize,’ he said after a telling little pause.

Something in his tone unnerved her, making her autocratic demeanour slip a fraction. ‘W-why do you say that?’

‘Your mother has consistently turned a blind eye to your father’s affairs for years.’

Bryony’s mouth fell open and it was a full thirty seconds before she could locate her voice. ‘My father’s…affairs?’

He gave her a scathing look. ‘You surely don’t expect me to believe you didn’t know?’

She gave a convulsive swallow. ‘I…I had no idea…’

‘Oh, come on now, Bryony.’ His tone was now impatient. ‘Isn’t this taking family loyalty a little too far?’

‘I know my father isn’t perfect…’

‘He’s far from perfect, in fact, I’d call him more of a pervert.’

She reared back as if he’d struck her. ‘You can’t possibly mean that.’

‘You should know me well enough by now to know I mean what I say. Anyway, why are you so keen to defend him?’

‘He’s my father…’

‘So, no matter what evidence there is, you will continue to take his side, even though your gut feeling tells you differently?’

‘You know nothing of my feelings.’

‘I know you love your mother and at least we have that in common,’ he said. ‘I loved my own, even though I thought she was a fool to put up with what she did.’

‘My mother loves my father…’ she stated for the sake of something to say, even though to this day she had never really understood her mother’s continued devotion to a man who treated her so appallingly most of the time.

He gave her a long assessing look. ‘Your mother hasn’t been the only woman to love your father.’

Something in the intensity of his gaze held her transfixed. She felt as if she was on the cusp of something life-changing…as if he were about to dislodge every stable rampart she’d carefully constructed around her life to keep it as secure as possible under the constantly shifting circumstances.

‘His…affairs do you mean?’ she ventured.

‘One in particular springs to mind.’

‘Which one?’

He held her gaze for an interminable pause. ‘The one he had with my mother.’

The words fell into the room like the boom of a firecracker exploding. Bryony felt herself clutching at the chest of drawers behind her to anchor herself against the shock of his revelation, her thoughts flying around her head, trying to find a foothold to steady herself against the gut-wrenching realisation that what he had just revealed was in all probability true.

But Kane’s mother?

‘Your…your mother?’ she gasped. ‘My father had an affair with your mother?’

The look he gave her was filled with hatred but somehow she knew it wasn’t directed at her. ‘Your father wanted value for his money and he made damn sure he got it.’

She swallowed the lump of bile in her throat. ‘What do you mean?’

His eyes were like burning coals as they held hers. ‘Why do you think he offered to pay for me to go to the same private school as your brother?’

Bryony felt as if the floor had moved beneath her so great was her shock. She opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out of her strangled throat.

‘He struck up a deal with my mother,’ Kane continued grimly. ‘He offered to foot my educational bills in return for her sexual favours. My mother agreed to it because she loved me and wanted me to have what she couldn’t give me, having been rejected by her family for having a child out of wedlock. She also agreed to it because she believed Owen genuinely loved her. That, of course, was her biggest mistake.’

‘How…how long did…they…?’ she could barely get the words out, so great was her distress.

‘Their affair went on for years. I knew nothing of it until the day you saw me waiting outside your father’s study. I decided to find out if the rumour I’d heard was true.’

She stared at him as awareness gradually dawned. ‘That’s why you wrecked the lawn and the roses, wasn’t it?’

‘I wanted to put that bloody tractor right through the house but you were inside and…’ He cleared his throat and continued, his tone harsher than ever. ‘Your father always prided himself on the immaculate condition of the garden and lawn. I guess it was the first thing I thought of in that initial moment of blind fury. I wanted to make that garden as dirty and chopped up as I felt inside for having received the financial benefits of my mother’s sacrifices to your father’s demands.’

‘I…I don’t know what to say…’ She felt the sting of tears and blinked them back. ‘I feel so ashamed…’

‘You have no need to be,’ he said. ‘I sought my revenge against your father and succeeded.’

‘Your…your mother’s…suicide…’ She took an unsteady breath before continuing. ‘She did it because of my father, didn’t she?’

He gave a single nod. ‘When I was taken away by the police she begged him to pay for my bail so I wouldn’t have to go to prison. Of course he refused and sacked her both professionally and personally within minutes of my eviction. She took her life a few months later, before I could help her deal with her shame and guilt. I found a journal she’d kept; it filled in the parts I hadn’t known about. She was devastated by his rejection, not to mention deeply ashamed of me being incarcerated. She had no money to fight for my case legally, so in the end it all became too much for her.’

Bryony found it difficult to take it all in. Her brain felt as if it had been clamped between two book-ends with great force and her eyes ached with the pressure of welling tears.

‘I think I’m starting to see why you demanded marriage,’ she said. ‘Ravaged lawns and gardens aside, it was the perfect way to twist the knife in my father’s gut.’

He didn’t respond, which frustrated her no end.

‘That is why you did it, wasn’t it, Kane? You wanted to rub his nose in the fact that his lover’s bastard son had got the lot in the end, including his daughter. It wasn’t enough that you’d swept his assets from under him, you had to take me hostage too.’

‘I felt it appropriate at the time,’ he answered.

‘Appropriate?’ She all but gaped at him. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of the saying two wrongs never made a right? You got my father back, my mother too, although I have no idea what she ever did to you to incur your wrath. As for my brother, I realise you both couldn’t stand the sight of each other. And, as for me…’ She did her best not to let her gaze dip to his mouth but she felt the magnetic pull and finally had to give in to it. She gave a ragged little sigh as she stared at the hard line of his damaged lip. ‘I…I just wish you could have left me out of it…’

His hands came back to her shoulders, holding her so she had to look up at him once more.

‘I could never have left you out of it. You were part of it from day one.’

Bryony knew tears were tracking twin pathways down her cheeks as she held his forceful gaze but she was beyond disguising her pain.

‘You make me sound like some item you’ve had your eye on in a shop somewhere for years; do you have any idea how that makes me feel?’

‘Would you have ever considered entering into a relationship with me without me forcing you into it?’ he asked her roughly.

His question surprised her into silence.

She tried to imagine what it might have been like to have met as two adults without the history of their diverse backgrounds coming between them, but it was almost impossible to think of her father ever agreeing to her associating with anyone like Kane. Owen Mercer was unashamedly racist and had always made it clear she was never to date outside the white Anglo-Saxon boundaries he’d laid down. Kane’s half-Greek heritage would have caused the first stumbling block and his class the second.

Kane’s gaze released hers as he stepped away from her. ‘I guess that’s my answer then,’ he said. ‘You’re a Mercer after all, born and bred to always believe yourself above the rest of the human race.’

‘I don’t think like that any more, Kane.’ She brushed at her face with her hand. ‘I know I was an appalling little bitch to you before, but I’m not like that now; surely you can see that?’

He turned and looked at her, his expression impossible to read. ‘What’s happened, Bryony? Have you suddenly decided you don’t hate me any more now that you know the truth about your father?’

Bryony held herself very still, her breathing coming to a stumbling halt.

‘Your father was the same. He couldn’t stand the sight of me until I showed him my bank balance. Then he couldn’t wait for me to be his son-in-law.’ He stepped towards her, tipping up her chin so she had no choice but to meet his diamond-sharp gaze. ‘Be sure of one thing. I will have you whether you love me or hate me. It makes no difference to me.’

Bryony pulled away, her heart thudding in reaction to the steely purpose in his tone.

‘As far as I can tell, the only emotion you ever allow yourself to feel is hate; you have no room in your life for love, even if by some miracle I had changed my mind,’ she said through tight lips.

‘If I believed it to be a genuine emotion I would make room for it. I watched my mother prostitute herself for love; is it any wonder I no longer trust the concept?’

‘But aren’t you asking the same of me that my father asked of your mother?’ she demanded. ‘You’re using me just as he did your mother.’

‘I am not using you, Bryony,’ he insisted. ‘Unlike your father, I have at least given you the security and respectability of marriage. You came to me willingly last night and you will again. You don’t want to admit it due to your stubborn Mercer pride, but you want me even though you say you hate me. I knew it ten years ago and so did your brother and your father but they did everything they could to sabotage any chance of a relationship between us.’

‘But you only want me out of revenge and spite! What sort of basis for marriage is that? How long do you expect it to continue?’

‘I’ve told you before: our marriage will continue indefinitely, for even now, as a result of our lovemaking last night, you may well be carrying my child.’

Bryony’s blood chilled as she recalled the second and third time she’d received his hard male body during the night. She could still feel the sexy silk of him between her legs, the intoxicating scent of their combined passion one of the first things she’d noticed on waking.

Had he planned it? Had he planned to ensnare her even further into his complicated web of revenge by neglecting to use protection in order to tie her to him indefinitely?

The years stretched ahead of her, long lonely years filled with the misery of the emotional emaciation her mother had suffered, the continued cold indifference of her husband turning her life into a wasteland of lost opportunities and unfulfilled dreams while her children watched on in silent tortured anguish.

‘I suppose this was all part of your plan?’ Her eyes cut to his with bitterness. ‘You have orchestrated this so I have no way out.’

‘I did not really intend to put you at risk of pregnancy so early in our relationship but last night I could think of nothing but having you in my arms at last.’

From any other man she might have been mollified by such a confession but, coming from Kane, she felt angry instead. He’d made no secret of his desire for her, a desire that had been smouldering for ten long years, steadily stoked by hatred and bitterness until he could finally make his move.

‘I don’t know how you can sleep at night,’ she said. ‘You are no better than my father, using people for your own ends with no regard for their feelings.’

‘You have indeed a right to be angry, Bryony, but it is misdirected while it is aimed at me. I am not interested in exploiting you for my own ends. I only want what is best for you.’

She threw him a caustic look, her tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘I suppose you think I should be grateful for being selected for the highly esteemed position of your wife?’

He didn’t answer but she could see the tightening of his lean jaw as if he was trying to be patient with her in the face of her taunt.

She stalked across the room to stand just in front of him, her finger stabbing at his chest, her eyes flashing with fury.

‘You might have forced me into marriage but I won’t allow you to crush me the way my father did my mother. I would rather kill myself, do you hear me?’

He held her fiery look for so long she began to feel a little foolish standing there, her body far too close to his, the deep thud of his heart pushing against the sensitive pad of her finger.

Just when she thought she could stand it no longer he suddenly cupped her face in his hands and dropped a swift hard kiss to her mouth.

He stepped back from her and left the room without another word, the door swinging shut with a soft click behind him.

Bryony lifted the finger that had read his heartbeat to the trembling curve of her mouth and wondered how she could both love and hate him at the same time.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE sun was warm and the breeze light as Bryony made her way down to the beach an hour later. Her knee stood up to the journey, her limp easing off enough so she could walk almost normally once she was off the slope of the cliff path.

She placed her towel on the sand and sat with up-bent knees as she watched the surf, the earlier white caps flattened out now the breeze had dropped.

She could see Kane swimming in the distance, well beyond the breakers, the sun glistening on his back as he made his way along the length of the beach, his easy relaxed style demonstrating his superb physical fitness.

She couldn’t help thinking of her brother’s slighter build, his tendency for sunburn and his aversion for all things to do with the water as a result. Her father, too, was no fan of regular exercise and now in his sixties was showing the excesses of his earlier years, even the flight of stairs at Mercyfields drawing heavy breaths from his lungs.

Somehow Bryony couldn’t imagine Kane ever allowing himself to get out of shape. It was part of his magnetic power; the sculptured muscles and toned limbs spoke of discipline and self-control, something she knew her family had demonstrated very little of over the years.

She squinted against the sunlight as she followed Kane’s progress, her heart doing a crazy little lurch as she saw the surface of the water swirling a few metres behind him. She frowned as she got to her feet, shading her eyes from the glare as she tried to make out what was following him as he swam. She caught sight of a dorsal fin and her heart rammed against the wall of her chest in panic. They were on an isolated beach. If he were to be attacked by a shark she hadn’t a hope of getting him out of the water and up the cliff path to help and safety.

She cried out to him but he was swimming on with his head down, only turning every fourth stroke or so for air, the swell of the wave between him and the shore interrupting his view of her frantic waving.

She bit her lip as the fin disappeared. She imagined the grey body sneaking up on him, the lethal jaws wide, hungry for blood.

‘No!’ She was running through the waves towards him, throwing her arms about as she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Get out, Kane! Get out of the water! Sharks! Sharks!’

It was no good. He was still swimming, totally oblivious to the imminent danger he was in.

Bryony ran through the shallows until she was closer to him and, throwing all caution aside, ploughed ungainly through the waves to deeper water, her lungs almost bursting as she screamed for him to look around.

She trod water for a moment, trying to locate the shark, and didn’t see the wave until it was on top of her, rolling her over, the downward pressure of the sheer weight of water as it broke sending her face first to the sandy bottom with an aspiration of water not air trapping her lungs into immobility. She clawed at the sand to anchor herself but another wave followed the previous one and sent her along her nose through the shelly sand.

She was out of air and at least one and a half times her height below the surface, the tumultuous waves still rolling in leaving her little time to scramble to the surface.

Her chest grew tighter and tighter and panic sent white spots of alarm through her line of vision as her body cried out for oxygen.

With a strength she had no idea she possessed she spotted the surface and aimed for it, her limbs feeling like lead weights as the need for air clawed at her. She could see the sunlight on the surface and tried to reach it, but the weight of the water kept dragging at her, pulling her down as if with invisible clutching fingers…

Kane stopped swimming and, as he trod water, flicked the hair out of his eyes and looked towards the towel where Bryony had been sitting. He’d seen her come down to the beach a few minutes earlier, her red and white bikini showing off her figure even though she’d tied a sarong around her waist, no doubt to shield it from his hungry eyes.

She was gone.

He looked right along the shore but she was nowhere in sight. He turned to inspect the water and caught sight of the pod of dolphins as they drew close and circled him.

Even though he’d done it many times before, each time he swam with them he felt like laughing right out loud in sheer joy. Their tentative friendliness thrilled him, especially as their contact with humans was so limited in such an isolated place. He ducked beneath the pod to see if the injured dolphin had rejoined them but in amongst the swirl of silver streamlined bodies he caught sight of flowing blonde hair and pale, lifeless limbs a few metres away.

The hammer blow of dread hit him in the chest as he surfaced and, taking a deep breath of air, he dived back down and scooped Bryony off the sandy bottom and took her to the surface.

‘Bryony!’ He brushed the hair out of her pallid face as his hand sought her wrist to check her pulse. She wasn’t breathing as far as he could tell and, fighting down his fear, he towed her out of the deep water, half carrying, half dragging her to the strip of sand.

He fell on his knees beside her but before he could begin CPR she gave a gurgling groan and, turning her head, sent the contents of her stomach into his lap.

‘Bryony!’ He settled her into the recovery position and waited for her to empty the rest of her stomach, the tortured heaving gulps making him wince in empathy.

‘All done?’ He frowned down at her, his hand at her temple gentle as it brushed a wayward strand of hair away.

She nodded and fell back against the sand. ‘Sh-sharks…’ she gasped. ‘There…were…sharks following you…’

He frowned. ‘You came out to warn me of sharks?’

She nodded and wiped at her streaming nose with the back of her shaking hand. ‘They…they were following you. I…I had to do something or you would—’

‘Dolphins.’

‘—be killed and…w-what?’ She opened her eyes fully and stared at him.

‘Dolphins, Bryony. They were dolphins, not sharks.’

‘But…but the fin…it was huge. It was right behind you.’

‘I’ve swum with them heaps of times. They often follow me.’

Bryony felt foolish, pathetic and very, very sick. She shut her eyes and stifled a groan of shame as she thought about her screaming passage through the water, almost killing herself in her attempt to save someone who was in absolutely no danger.

‘You were very brave to come into the water if you thought I was being stalked by sharks.’

‘I-I had to do something.’

‘You could have let them eat me. I’m fully insured, so just think of how wealthy you would be. Mercyfields and my millions; what more could a girl want?’

Bryony opened one eye and glared at him for his insensitivity. ‘It might have escaped your notice, but I’m not really feeling up to your sick jokes right now.’

‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’ He fielded her icy glare with a challenging look of his own. ‘You didn’t have any need to rescue me, certainly given the terms of our relationship. Why did you do it?’

‘I had nothing better to do.’ She closed her eye and turned away.

‘That’s not an answer and you know it.’

‘I can’t stand the sight of blood,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to have to carry whatever limbs were left over back up that path for the mortician to classify.’

‘Charming.’

‘You asked for it.’

‘Come on.’ He got to his feet and offered her his hand. ‘We’d better have a rinse off before we go up to the house.’

She took his hand and got to her feet unsteadily, a wave of embarrassment washing over her when her gaze fell upon his thighs, where most of her breakfast had landed.

He saw the pathway of her vision and smiled. ‘You can anoint me with whatever bodily fluids you like. I can handle it.’

She spun away from him and strode somewhat shakily to the shallows where she washed her face, all the time conscious of him a few feet away as he performed his own rough ablutions.

They made their way back to her towel in silence. Bryony was relieved. She felt every type of fool for blundering into danger without thinking. The drowning toll was in no need of any bolstering by her but she had truly panicked at the thought of losing him and had acted on impulse instead of clear rational thought.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bryony,’ Kane said as he pushed open the cottage door for her to go in a few minutes later. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m really touched that you put yourself in danger for me. Remarkable when you think about it, considering the depth of your loathing for me.’

She compressed her lips to stop herself from responding to his teasing taunt.

‘Maybe you don’t hate me as much as you thought,’ he added when she didn’t speak.

‘Don’t hold your breath.’

He laughed at her stiffly delivered retort, her previously pale cheeks now bright with heightened colour. ‘Now, now, agape mou,’ he chided. ‘Don’t be angry at me. I just saved your life.’

She slammed the door on his chuckle of laughter and, turning the shower on full, stepped under it and promptly burst into tears.

Bryony avoided him for the rest of the day. She pretended to be sleeping when he came to her room some time later, not sure she wanted him to see her reddened eyes and blotchy skin.

At six p.m. he knocked on her door again and informed her that he was preparing dinner. She mumbled something in reply and, dragging herself off the bed, sifted through her things and pulled out a sundress and small three-quarter sleeved cardigan for when the evening grew cooler.

She slipped her feet into low sandals and went to the mirror to inspect her face. She grimaced as she saw her reflection. Her eyes were shadowed as well as red-rimmed and her nose was grazed from her trip through the sand. She applied some concealer to it before brushing her lips with lip-gloss. She left her hair loose, hoping it would provide some sort of screen from his penetrating gaze.

He was waiting for her in the lounge, thrusting the paper he’d been reading to one side as he got to his feet.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You slept for ages; I was worried.’

‘You had no need to be.’

‘All the same you had a nasty shock. It can affect you for hours later.’

‘As you can see, I’ve made a full recovery.’

He came closer and, bending down, inspected her nose. She had nowhere to look but into his eyes and her heart gave a sudden lurch as she saw the flicker of warmth smouldering there.

‘Does that hurt?’ He touched her nose so softly she wondered if she’d imagined it.

‘N-no.’

His eyes held hers for a long moment.

‘You’ve been crying.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Are you feeling unwell?’

She shook her head without looking up at him.

‘Bryony.’

She tried to step away but his hands captured her shoulders, bringing her closer. She was surprised by the warmth of his gaze, the way it softened his features and loosened the tightness of his mouth into a relaxed smile.

‘Why do you keep insisting on fighting this?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She struggled in his hold but he wouldn’t release her.

‘You are fighting yourself, Bryony, not me. I know you want me. We want each other and now there is no one to stop us from having what we both want.’

Bryony swallowed. He was right. She did want him. It didn’t matter that he had engineered their marriage for his own ends, the truth was she’d always wanted him and his seemingly outrageous proposal had given her the perfect excuse to have him, even if it had been on his terms and his terms only.

She was enslaved by her love for him. She didn’t want to think about a future without him. That was why she had put her own life at risk to save him. She just couldn’t bear another ten years without him in her life. Ever since the day he had kissed her she had felt connected to him in the most elemental way. For years she’d told herself it was her guilt over the way she had damaged his lip, but deep down she had known it was much more than that.

Kane completed her in a way no one else could. She felt half alive without him, her body craving the weight of his glance, let alone his touch. She ached for him to love her but was prepared to settle for less if only she could be with him.

Kane’s hands tightened on her shoulders as he looked down at her. ‘Deny what’s between us, Bryony, but it won’t go away. You can hate me all you like but you can’t hide the fact that you want me just as much as I want you.’

She didn’t bother denying it. Her body was already tingling with awareness, her breasts tight and her mouth swelling in anticipation of the pressure of his. She held her breath as he lowered his head, the warm dry brush of his lips on hers making her ache for more. When his kiss deepened she responded to it with the heated fervour of her desire for him. His tongue lit a flame inside her mouth, sending sharp arrows of need to the molten core of her where a pulse was already throbbing in preparation for the hard glide of his body.

Kane pressed her backwards against the sofa, his hands sliding down her body as he shaped her towards him. Bryony felt each hard contour of him against her, the heat and purpose of his body fuelling her need for even closer contact.

He slipped her dress and bra out of the way and his warm palm covered her breast in a gentle caress that made her feel totally feminine. His thumb rolled over the tight bud of her nipple and she arched her back in response, her senses teetering totally out of control when he replaced his thumb with his mouth, the shadowed skin of his jaw scraping her tender flesh as he moved to her other breast.

He moved from her breasts to her stomach, his tongue darting in and out of the tiny cave of her belly button before moving even lower in a slow tantalizing pathway to where her feminine pulse had become a dull, insistent ache.

She sucked in a prickly breath as he separated her, tasting her with such exquisite tenderness she felt herself melting, the dew of her desire anointing her in anticipation of his hard male presence.

She clutched at his shoulders as he deepened his caress, her head flinging back as the tiny tremors became earthquakes in her bloodstream. She shook against his mouth, her body racked with such intense pleasure she wondered if she would survive it.

Her eyes opened to see Kane looking down at her, his dark eyes smouldering as he took in her pleasure-slaked form underneath his.

She gave him a little shy smile, not trusting herself to speak after such a physically enthralling moment.

He gave her an answering smile, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes softening his appearance.

She held her breath as his hand cupped the side of her face, his long fingers warm against her skin.

‘No regrets this time?’ he asked softly.

She gave a small heartfelt sigh. ‘No.’

‘So you won’t call me every type of barbarian for making love to you?’

‘I’m sorry…’ She bit her lip, her cheeks firing. ‘I shouldn’t have said that…I was feeling out of my depth…’

‘You are beautiful, do you know that?’ Kane’s voice was low and husky.

His words made her glow inside with liquid warmth. Bryony wondered if he could see the way he made her feel. Surely there was some sign of it on her skin, where his mouth and hands had touched, or in her eyes, which had been ensnared by the burning heat of his?

Kane touched a fingertip to the soft bow of her mouth as he held her clear blue gaze.

‘What are you thinking, little one?’

She moistened her lips with her tongue, her stomach rolling over when she saw the way his eyes followed the movement.

‘That you make me feel so…’ She struggled to find adequate words but the task momentarily defeated her.

‘I make you feel what, Bryony?’ he asked.

She held his probing look. ‘I…I feel alive when I’m with you.’

His dark gaze intensified as it dipped to the soft bow of her mouth before moving back to her shining eyes.

His continued silence made her reckless, her need for reassurance overriding her inbuilt sense of pride.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What do I make you feel?’

The thick, slightly rough pad of his thumb traced a pattern on her bottom lip, the gentle movement causing Bryony’s breath to catch. When the seconds ticked by she wondered if he was going to ignore her question but then he smiled and tilted her head for his descending kiss, stopping just above her mouth to murmur softly, ‘How about I show you what you make me feel?’

‘Fine by me,’ she whispered as his mouth came down over hers.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRYONY spent the next few days in a haze of sensuality as Kane lavished her with his undivided attention. She kept nudging her mind away from thoughts of the future in order to concentrate more fully on the here and now, content to be in his arms under the brilliance of the warm summer sun.

The fringe of sand on the beach had been their bed so many times she lost count, the intense pleasure she felt each and every time making her love for Kane grow and grow until it seemed to fill every part of her.

As to his feelings, she was none the wiser. He was an ardent and attentive lover and, while he was free and easy with the use of affectionate endearments, no words of love ever escaped his lips, even in the throes of ecstasy. She tried not to be disappointed but his emotional aloofness was at times deeply unsettling. While his lovemaking more than made up for any other shortcomings, she couldn’t help feeling as each day unfolded into the next that she was on the same downward spiral as her mother, loving her husband so desperately while he remained untouched.

Bryony propped her chin on her up-bent knees where she sat on the beach, her eyes following Kane as he swam along the shore just beyond the breakers. The sunlight dappled the water and with every strong stroke of his arms she could see the myriad water droplets shining like diamonds as he progressed. The lonely cry of a gull and the hiss and suck of water were the only sounds she could hear, the isolation and solitude so soothing she almost dreaded returning to the city the following day.

Kane had informed her the previous evening of his need to see to some business matters as well as a trip to Melbourne which he could no longer postpone.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ he’d suggested.

Bryony had so wanted to accompany him but as she’d already been away from the studio for over a week she knew Pauline would be feeling the burden of taking her classes as well as her own.

‘I really have to get back to work,’ she’d said, trailing her fingers down the length of his arm to soften the blow. ‘Maybe some other time?’

Kane had eased himself out of her arms and, although he’d smiled down at her, she’d known that somehow her answer had annoyed him.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he’d said, stepping back into his jeans.

She’d watched him leave the room, the words to call him back hovering on her lips but at the last minute her courage had deserted her, leaving the words unsaid.

He’d made love to her later that night with an edge of ruthlessness that had both thrilled and terrified her, her responses to him reaching new heights. She’d clung to him, her nails scoring his back as he brought her time and time again to the high pinnacle of pleasure, her body rocking with his until she felt totally spent. She’d lain in his arms for hours later, unable to sleep, wondering how he could possibly remain unmoved by what had passed between them.

Bryony watched as he came towards her after his swim, his body tall and strong and deeply tanned after days under the summer sun. His dark hair was wet and falling across his eyes and he brushed it back as he lowered himself on the sand beside her, some droplets of water from his skin falling on her, reminding her of all the physical intimacies they’d shared in the last few days.

She ran her fingertips along the length of his arm, the corded muscles never ceasing to amaze her, the masculine hairs springy but soft to touch. She became aware of his gaze, the way it lingered on her mouth before slowly dipping to where her bikini top cradled her already aching breasts.

‘Kane…’ She gasped his name as his head came down towards her mouth, his arms either side of her effectively trapping her.

‘We have less than twenty-four hours before we leave.’ He spoke against the soft surface of her lips. ‘How do you suggest we spend them?’

She sucked in a breath as his fingers moved to unfasten her bikini top, freeing her breasts into his waiting hands. Speech was almost beyond her as his head came down, his tongue rolling over her engorged nipple.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I was thinking we could do this…’ He sucked on her breast for a heart-stopping moment before releasing her to smile at her. ‘And then this…’ One of his hands slid down her body to the moist heat of her femininity, delving deeply before withdrawing with agonizing slowness. ‘What do you think?’

‘I stopped thinking about thirty seconds ago,’ she breathed as his finger dipped again, this time lingering over the tiny pearl that triggered her release. She shuddered as he coaxed her into a response that surprised her yet again, the waves of pleasure so consuming she had trouble keeping her head.

He waited for her pleasure to subside before he took his own with a series of deep thrusts that spoke of his control finally reaching its limits. She held him as he convulsed through his release, glorying in the feel of him so vulnerable in her arms, his breathing laboured and his skin slick with sweat as it rubbed intimately against hers.

The sting of the afternoon sun drove them indoors into a cooling shower where Kane held her against him as the water anointed their bodies, the sensuous feeling of soapy skin heightening Bryony’s awareness of his maleness where he pressed against her.

He kissed her lingeringly, his hands cupping her face so tenderly she felt the prickle of tears at the back of her eyes. He lifted his head to look down at her, his mouth tilting at one corner as he saw her struggle to regain her composure.

‘I hope those are tears of happiness,’ he remarked wryly.

She smiled a watery smile. ‘I never thought I’d be saying this, but yes, I am happy.’

He stood under the rain of water without responding, his dark eyes holding hers in a silent embrace which communicated much more than words could ever do.

Bryony felt the squeezing of her heart as she looked up into his face and wondered, not for the first time, how she had ever thought she hated him.

He kissed her again, softly and slowly, before reaching behind her to turn off the flow of water, his hard wet body brushing hers awakening every nerve along the surface of her tingling skin.

He took a towel from the rack and began drying her, each soft press of the fabric like a caress on her damp flesh.

‘You have such an amazing body,’ he said, lingering over the proud mound of one breast. ‘Perfect in every way.’

Bryony drew in a prickling little breath as his thumb rolled over her nipple, wondering if she would ever be able to resist his touch. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from responding to him the first time he’d kissed her at the lake, and now he’d awakened such fervent need in her she knew it would be impossible to withstand the lure of satisfaction in his arms.

Kane placed the towel around her back and, tugging gently on both ends, brought her close to him, his aroused length probing her with male insistence.

It was difficult to think clearly with him so near to where she wanted him, the heat of his body scoring hers like a laser beam. She slid her arms up around his neck and rubbed herself against him, shivering in reaction when his body surged into her moistness, his hips pressing hard against hers, his hand on the wall of the cubicle to anchor them both.

Bryony felt each and every deep thrust, bringing her closer and closer to the summit of sensuality, no part of her untouched by the impact of his masterful lovemaking.

She felt him check himself, pausing in his urgent movements as if he was fighting to control his response. It made her feel so desirable and feminine, making her hope he cared for her other than in a physical sense.

Kane groaned against her mouth, his large body tensing all over.

His deep shudders of release triggered her own, the convulsions of his flesh against hers intensifying her response a hundredfold. She couldn’t hold back her high gasps of pleasure as the tumultuous waves flowed through her with breath-locking power.

She felt herself sag against him, her legs shaking with reaction at the devastation of her senses. His arms came around her, holding her to his still heaving chest, his face burrowed in the soft skin of her neck, his warm breath a sweet caress.

‘You’re still wet,’ she said, running her hands down the silky texture of his back, her fingers skating lightly over the sculptured muscles.

He lifted his head, grinning at her as he reached for the shower nozzle, releasing a torrent of water over both of them.

‘So are you,’ he said and, before she could get her startled gasp past her lips, he bent his head and claimed her mouth in another drugging kiss.

On the way back to the city the next day Bryony tried not to think too much about Kane leaving the next morning for Melbourne, but the closer they got to his house in Edgecliff the tighter her chest felt at the thought of the separation.

As if sensing her pensive mood he flicked a glance her way as he waited for the last set of traffic lights to change in his favour. ‘Why the long face?’

She gave him a soulful look. ‘Do you really have to go tomorrow?’

His eyes held hers for so long an impatient driver tooted him from behind. Glancing in the rear vision mirror, Kane lifted his hand and drove on, his expression thoughtful.

‘I did ask you to come with me,’ he reminded her.

‘I know…but the dance studio—’

‘Employ someone to take your place,’ he suggested. ‘You don’t have to work full-time now, anyway.’

‘But I like working,’ she said.

‘You don’t need the money. I have enough for both of us.’

‘It’s not about the money.’

‘What is it about?’ he asked, looking at her briefly. ‘Your independence?’

‘Is the notion offensive to you?’ she asked with an arch of one brow.

He turned back to the traffic. ‘I told you the terms of our marriage. I want you to be available to me, not distracted by the demands of a career.’

She twisted in her seat to stare at him. ‘You surely don’t mean it?’

‘I thought over the past few weeks I’d given you every possible reason to believe I mean exactly everything I say.’

Bryony sat back in her seat in a combination of shock and sinking despair. Surely he didn’t mean to keep her chained to the kitchen sink like some poor housewife out of the nineteen-fifties?

‘My business demands are exacting and tiring,’ he went on. ‘When I need to relax I don’t want to have to be cooling my heels waiting for you to be free.’

‘I’m not a plaything you can pick up and put down when you feel like it! I have responsibilities to my students, not to mention Pauline.’

‘Those responsibilities will now have to take a second place to me,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, when we begin a family I want my child to have a proper mother.’

‘You’re very good at saying what you want and don’t want but have you for once considered what I might want?’ she asked. ‘As far as I recall, I’ve never indicated to you a desire to have a child.’

‘From what I’ve observed, you have a nasty habit of cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ he said. ‘If you were honest with yourself you’d admit you want the same things as me. You crave stability and security, not to mention genuine affection, which one must assume comes from the dearth of such from your father.’

Even though he was as close to the truth as anyone could be, Bryony wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of confirming it.

‘Am I to suppose that what you feel for me is genuine affection or rather some sort of animalistic need to spread your genes into a more blue-blooded pool?’ Her tone dripped with derision.

‘How like you to throw a verbal punch when someone gets a little close to the bone,’ he said with a curl of his lip.

She tossed her head to stare fixedly at the front, silently fuming as he drove into his driveway, counting the seconds before she could exit the car away from his hateful presence.

The car purred to a stop and she wrenched open the door, slamming it behind her as she stomped to the house, rummaging in her bag for the set of keys he’d given her earlier. She located them and stabbed the right key into the lock, ignoring his command from behind her to stop.

As soon as the door opened a thousand sirens went off, the cacophony of sound so piercing that she dropped her bag and clamped her hands over her ears.

Kane strode over with a glowering look at her from beneath his dark brows and, punching in a code into the security panel inside the front door, turned to face her. ‘Happy now?’

On a childish impulse that hadn’t surfaced in years she poked her tongue out at him and brushed past to enter the house, grinding her teeth as the sound of his mocking laughter followed her up the stairs.

Bryony locked herself in the spare room for the rest of the night, trying to ignore her sense of pique that not once did Kane come to summon her out. When the clock finally dragged around to midnight she flung herself on the bed, certain she’d never sleep for the anger coursing through her veins, but somehow as soon as her head found the comfort of the feather pillow her eyelids drifted shut and, with a soft sigh, she dragged the sheet across her body and snuggled into the cushioning of the mattress…

When she came downstairs the next morning she found a short note propped up on the breakfast counter indicating that Kane had already left. Calling herself every type of fool for feeling disappointed, she tossed the piece of paper aside and made her way back upstairs to get ready for the studio.

When Bryony arrived Pauline was doing paperwork, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

‘Well, hello there,’ she drawled in her best Marlene Dietrich voice. ‘So how was the life in your man?’

Bryony forced herself to smile even though behind it her tooth enamel was being pulverized. ‘Fine.’

‘Only fine?’ Pauline gave a mock frown.

She could feel her cheeks heating and turned to inspect some papers on the desk. ‘Great, then; it was great.’

‘That’s better.’ Pauline rolled her chair back under the desk. ‘You had me worried. Anyway, I thought you weren’t coming back till next week?’

‘Kane had to fly interstate this morning,’ she explained.

‘You should have gone with him.’

‘I didn’t think it was fair to leave you on your own so long.’

‘I’m a big girl, more’s the pity.’ Pauline grinned ruefully and patted her thighs. ‘Anyway, I could have asked Gemma to do some of your classes. You know how keen she is.’

Bryony wished she’d thought of it earlier. Gemma was one of their senior girls who had often expressed a desire to teach the younger students.

‘I’ll give her a call some time,’ she said.

Pauline gave her an intent look. ‘Is everything all right?’

Bryony re-pasted her overly bright smile. ‘Of course it is.’

Pauline pursed her lips and tapped the pen she was holding against the back of her other hand. ‘You’re missing him, aren’t you?’

Bryony was about to deny it when she remembered that Pauline assumed along with everyone else that her marriage was a normal one. ‘Yes…I do miss him.’ She sighed, realizing it was perfectly true.

‘Poor darling,’ Pauline soothed. Then, giving her a wicked smile, she added, ‘Just think about the second honeymoon when he gets back. You probably won’t be able to walk for days.’

She turned away so Pauline couldn’t see the way her face was aflame. Even now she could still feel her internal muscles protesting when she moved in a certain way, reminding her of the hard male presence that had stretched her to accommodate him.

‘Your mother just phoned, by the way.’ Pauline reached for a memo note on the desk in front of her, handing it to Bryony. ‘She left a number for you to call.’

Bryony looked down at the piece of paper, her forehead creasing into a small frown. ‘I wonder why she didn’t call me on my mobile.’

‘Is it turned on?’ Pauline asked.

Bryony rummaged in her purse and grimaced as she saw the blank screen. ‘It must have gone flat while I was…’

‘Please!’ Pauline covered her ears theatrically. ‘Spare me the details, I’m far too innocent.’

Bryony couldn’t help a gurgle of laughter at her friend’s playful attitude. Her light-heartedness was just the tonic she needed.

‘I’d better call Mum. Will you excuse me for a minute?’

Pauline got up and pushed the chair towards her. ‘Go for it. I’m going to warm up. The little darlings will be here any minute.’

Bryony waited until Pauline was out of earshot before she dialled the number her mother had left. She held the receiver to her ear as the international beeps sounded, unconsciously holding her breath as she waited for it to connect.

Her mother answered on the third ring, her voice sounding panicky and strained. ‘Bryony? Oh, thank God you’ve finally called.’

‘Mum?’ Bryony gripped the receiver tightly. ‘What’s wrong?’

She heard the sound of her mother’s choked sob. ‘It’s your father…he’s had a stroke.’

A tremor of shock rumbled through her as her mother’s announcement sank in. ‘When? How is he? How are you coping?’ Her questions spilled out haphazardly, her thoughts tumbling over themselves in an effort to gain control.

‘Last night…darling, it looks serious.’ Another gulping sob accompanied Glenys’s words. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

‘Where is he? In hospital?’ Bryony asked.

‘Yes, but it’s all so primitive over here on this island! The doctor doesn’t really speak English and no one seems to care that your father is in a ward with several others. I can’t bear it. I think I’ll go mad if someone doesn’t do something.’

‘We’ll have to arrange to fly him home,’ Bryony said, keeping her voice calm and even to soothe her mother’s distraught emotions. ‘Have you contacted the Australian embassy?’

‘There isn’t even a hairdresser let alone an embassy on this wretched island,’ Glenys cried. ‘Besides, I don’t want to leave your father’s side in case he wakes up.’

‘He’s unconscious?’ Bryony asked.

‘He hasn’t woken since he collapsed,’ her mother informed her brokenly.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make the necessary arrangements if you give me all the details. Which island are you on?’ She jotted down the information as her mother delivered it to her in tearful bursts. ‘Now, sit tight and I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’

Bryony put down the phone with a trembling hand, wondering who she should call first. Before she could decide the telephone rang and she snatched it up, her voice cracking as she answered. ‘H-hello?’

‘Bryony?’ Kane’s deep voice sounded from the other end and a huge wave of relief washed over her. ‘You sound a little distracted, is everything OK?’

‘M-my father has had a stroke,’ she said. ‘I need to get him back to Sydney. My mother is a mess and—’

‘Leave it to me,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘I’ll make the arrangements; you sit tight until they get home.’

‘They don’t have a home any more,’ she cried as her emotions finally got the better of her.

There was a small pause before he spoke. ‘Leave it to me, Bryony. Just stay calm until I get back. I’ll be on the next available flight if all goes well. Do you think you can hang out that long?’

‘I-I think so,’ she said with a sniff.

‘That’s my girl.’ There was a gruff softness to his tone that made her heart squeeze. ‘See you soon.’

‘See you.’ She sighed as the connection ended.

She stared into space for several minutes, trying to get her head around the current crisis. Her father had always seemed so forceful and in control; it was hard to imagine him incapacitated by a stroke. She felt ill at the thought of what her mother would likely have to face if he didn’t recover full mobility. He would make her life a living hell, no doubt taking out his frustration on her at every available opportunity.

‘Oh, Austin!’ she sobbed. ‘Why did you have to die and leave me with all this?’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LATER Bryony had cause to wonder how she got through the first few days of her parents’ return. Her concerns about her relationship with Kane had to take a back seat as she offered what support she could to her distraught mother.

Kane had arranged for Owen to be admitted to a private hospital where he began to make some small signs of progress. Once Owen was declared out of danger Kane suggested to Glenys and Bryony that he be transferred to Mercyfields with the support of a private nursing agency.

‘Oh, Kane, that would be wonderful,’ Glenys gushed gratefully, mopping at her eyes. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done.’

‘It’s no problem.’

Bryony was well aware of her parents’ lack of finances and, once her mother had gone back in to be with her father in his plush single bed ward, she confronted Kane, her eyes flashing with brooding resentment. ‘I’d like to know how my parents are expected to pay for months of private nursing when they no longer have a penny to their name!’

He gave her a long and thoughtful look. ‘I don’t expect them to pay for it.’

‘Who do you expect to foot the bill—me?’ she asked, her mouth twisting bitterly, hurt and anger coursing through her. ‘No doubt with regular installments in the currency of the bedroom.’

He didn’t answer, which annoyed her into throwing back, ‘Or perhaps it’s all part of the plan for revenge. You already have the business, Mercyfields and me and now apparently you have my parents’ gratitude. Is that what you’re after? Their pride on a platter?’

‘You’re upset and overwrought,’ he said evenly. ‘Let’s go home so you can get some sleep.’ He reached for her arm but she slapped his hand away.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Her eyes grew wild with rage.

He shifted his tongue in his cheek as he looked down at her, making Bryony feel as if he were looking at a small recalcitrant child instead of a fully grown woman.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ She scowled at him.

‘I will look at you any way I wish. Now, let’s go home before I’m tempted to kiss you senseless right in front of those nurses who are showing an inordinate amount of interest in our conversation.’

Bryony flicked her gaze to the nurses’ station where three nurses were standing, rather too obviously pretending to be engrossed in a patient’s chart.

She drew in an angry breath and followed him as he shouldered open the double door leading to the exit.

She was determined she wouldn’t utter a word to him on the way home and then when he seemed equally disinclined to talk felt her resentment towards him going up another notch.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she asked as they turned into the driveway a short time later.

‘Did you want me to say anything in particular?’ He slanted a quick glance her way as he parked the car in the garage.

She pushed open her door without replying, slamming it behind her with unnecessary force. She wanted him to say many things, such as ‘I love you,’ but as far as she could tell he was more likely to tell her he had no further use for her. As he was footing her father’s health bills she knew it would be impossible to convince him that her love for him was genuine for he would see it as nothing more than gratitude for how he’d come to the rescue. He hadn’t touched her since he’d returned from Melbourne and, while she tried to convince herself he’d kept his distance due to the stress she was under with her father, another part of her wished he’d pulled her into his arms regardless.

Kane drew in a breath and followed her to the house, his brow furrowing at the difficulties that lay ahead for Bryony. He’d had a private discussion with Owen Mercer’s specialist, who hadn’t given a very promising recovery verdict. It was quite clear that Bryony’s father was going to be an invalid, at least for the foreseeable future, and it worried him to think of her doing her level best to support her mother during what would prove to be an arduous time. Even in the best of health Owen wasn’t a patient man; how much worse was he going to be, wheelchair bound and totally dependent on others?

Bryony deactivated the alarm and turned to look at him, her chin hitched up. ‘See? I’m not as stupid as you thought.’

‘I never said you were stupid.’ He followed her inside, closing the door behind him. ‘Stubborn maybe, bad-tempered and more than a little petulant but definitely not stupid.’

She bit her lip in such an endearingly childlike way he felt his gut clench painfully, making him want to enfold her in his arms and protect her from all of life’s hurts.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had a long day at the hospital and, as plush as Saint Honore’s is, hospital food, in my opinion, is really only fit for the very ill.’

As much as Bryony felt in the mood to contradict everything he said, she reluctantly had to agree with him.

‘I’m starving. The sandwich I had at lunchtime tasted like it came out of the bottom of someone’s gym bag.’

He smiled as he loosened his tie. ‘I’ll fix us something. Why don’t you go and have a shower or something while I fire up the kitchen?’

Bryony felt fired up physically by his disarming smile, all her earlier anger receding as if someone had turned a switch. She wanted food but much more than that she wanted to feel his arms around her, holding her close, telling her he would be there for her in the rough times ahead. Sudden tears pricked at the back of her eyes and she blinked to push them away.

‘Why are you being so nice to me when I’ve been such a bitch to you all evening?’

He rolled up his tie and placed it on the nearest surface. ‘You’re not a bitch, agape mou. Annoying at times, intractable at others, but definitely not a bitch.’

His gentle teasing was her undoing. She blundered towards him, burying her head into his chest, sobbing openly and clutching at his shirt with her fingers.

‘Hey, there…’ He placed a warm protective hand on the back of her head. ‘What did I say?’

‘N-nothing…’ She shook her head against his chest. ‘I’m just feeling really emotional right now.’

‘I understand.’ He stroked her back with his free hand, his chin resting on the top of her silky head.

‘I’ve been trying to be so strong for my mother but I can’t do it,’ she said.

‘It’s certainly been tough on you.’

‘She needs me so much.’ She gave a huge sniff and he handed her his clean handkerchief. She blew her nose and added, ‘Ever since Austin died I’ve had to be strong for everyone. I didn’t get time to grieve because I had to hold up everyone else. I just can’t do it any more.’

‘You don’t have to do it alone,’ he said.

She eased herself away from his chest to look up at him. ‘Why should you help? You’ve always hated my family.’

He considered her words for a lengthy moment. ‘Hate is a very strong word. I am wary around them but I no longer hate them.’

Bryony tried to make sense of his statement. If he no longer hated her parents was there a chance he could feel something more lasting for her? She stared at the open neck of his shirt, still in the circle of his strong arms, wishing she had the courage to tell him how much she loved him, how she believed him to be the most noble and caring person she’d ever met.

Kane released her gently, tapping her on the end of her nose with a long finger. ‘Go and get into your most comfortable night gear and meet me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes. I promise you I’ll have a veritable feast for you.’

She went upstairs and did as he’d said, somehow feeling better for the shower and a change of clothing. Deciding against her comfortable pyjamas, she put on one of his bathrobes instead, unable to stop herself from breathing in the lingering scent of his skin as she did so.

He was dishing up as she entered the kitchen, a tea towel tied around his waist.

‘Grab yourself a glass of wine.’ He pushed the open bottle towards her along with a glass. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Bryony sniffed the air, her stomach instantly rumbling at the hint of garlic in the air. ‘What have you made?’

‘Garlic and pesto chicken,’ he informed her.

‘So soon?’ She eyed the elaborate dish he set in front of her.

He tossed the tea towel to the bench and pulled out the stool opposite hers. ‘This is the one I prepared earlier, just like all the celebrity chefs.’

She couldn’t stop her smile in time.

He grinned back at her and charged his glass against hers. ‘Eat, drink and be merry.’

She finished the quote with a grimace. ‘For tomorrow someone may die.’

Kane put his glass down. ‘He’s not going to die, Bryony.’

She sighed and ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass rather than look up at him. ‘I know it’s awful of me, but sometimes I wish he had; that way my mother could finally be free.’

‘She wouldn’t want to be free in that way,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t understand why she loves him, but it’s quite clear she does and maybe this situation is exactly what Owen needs to show him what a loyal wife he’s had all these years.’

Bryony considered his words as she sipped her wine. Her mother had certainly thrown herself into the primary carer role with gusto, taking charge of her husband’s needs with authority and competence. Gone were the jittery nerves and endless tears; in their place were calming words and quiet and steady devotion as she saw to the many intimate details of her father’s day.

‘Maybe you’re right…’ She looked up at him. ‘My father has always criticized my mother for fussing over silly little things, berating her for being too sensitive. But those are the very qualities he will need in her right now if he’s to get through this.’

‘Life has a habit of teaching us the lessons we need to learn,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit of a believer in what goes around comes around.’

‘Karma.’ She sighed as she cradled her glass in both hands and stared into the golden contents. ‘My father is in for a rude shock, then.’

‘Maybe.’

She lifted her gaze back to his. ‘What did he do? I mean, what did he do that would incur a lengthy prison sentence? You’ve never told me.’

Kane drained the contents of his glass and set it back down. Bryony couldn’t help thinking how loud the sound was in the sudden silence.

‘It’s irrelevant now,’ he said, picking up his cutlery. ‘I’ve sorted it all out.’

She frowned slightly. ‘How?’

‘The usual way.’

‘Money?’ she asked.

He dissected a piece of chicken and held it close to his mouth before he answered. ‘It’s the only language some of your father’s disgruntled cronies speak. It was pay them off or stand by and watch them take him out.’

‘He really had a contract on his head?’

‘Not just one, I’m afraid. He’d certainly angered a few people but what do you expect? If you hang around the wrong sort of dogs, sooner or later you’ll end up with fleas.’

Bryony toyed with her food, her appetite waning as she thought about what he’d said and also what he’d cleverly avoided telling her. She’d known her father wasn’t father of the year material but neither had she thought he was an underworld criminal. Her mind scurried with horrible scenarios—contract killings, blackmail, grievous bodily harm…

‘Quite frankly, I wasn’t all that interested in protecting your father’s back but word was going around that the people after him were going to issue a couple of serious warnings,’ he continued. ‘I couldn’t ignore that, no matter how much I thought your father deserved what was coming to him.’

Bryony put her cutlery down, her desire for food totally disappearing. ‘What sort of warnings?’

He refilled their glasses before he answered, his dark eyes coming back to hers, his expression serious. ‘The sort of people your father put offside don’t lie awake at night tortured by their conscience. They would think nothing of disposing of a wife and daughter to tighten the screws a bit.’

She stared at him as the sickening realisation dawned. ‘They were going to come after my mother and me?’ She shifted in her seat, knocking her cutlery to the floor with a jarring clatter.

‘You first—your mother second.’

She swallowed the rising fear, her throat aching with the effort. ‘How did you…how did you convince them not to do it?’

His eyes meshed with hers, their unreadable depths holding her captive for endless seconds before he finally spoke. ‘I married you.’

She swallowed deeply, her eyes widening in incredulity. ‘And that was enough to call them off?’

He picked up his glass and twirled the contents for a moment or two. ‘I won’t go into the details, but suffice it to say I was owed a favour or two. Once I made it clear you were to be my wife they had no choice but to back down. As soon as I released my grandfather’s funds I paid them all that your father owed with interest.’

Bryony found it hard to get her head around this latest development. She’d thought he’d married her to get back at her father but if what he said was true…

She sat back in her seat, mentally backtracking to the afternoon he’d arrived at Mercyfields to announce his plans, informing her of his ownership of her father’s business and assets. He’d made it clear she was part of the package for revenge, that if she didn’t marry him he was going to feed her parents to the sharks already circling them looking for blood. She’d been convinced she had to marry him to save them, had only done it so that her mother wouldn’t have to suffer. Why had he covered up his motives? Why hadn’t he come right out and told her of his plan to protect her from harm?

She looked back at him, her expression clouded with uncertainty and confusion.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you tell me you were marrying me to protect me? Why make me think the very worst of you?’

He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, his height instantly shadowing her. ‘I didn’t make you think anything you didn’t already feel. You hated me from the moment I walked into Mercyfields as a teenager. You looked down your nose at me from day one, as did your family. I was scum, remember? The bastard son of a lowly housekeeper who lifted her skirts for the man of the house in order to keep food on the table.’

She got to her feet, surprised to find they were still capable of supporting her. ‘You should have told me. I had a right to know.’

‘I wasn’t prepared to risk it. Negotiations were tricky and I couldn’t afford to waste valuable time trying to convince you to follow my plan. I decided to spin things so you had no choice but to marry me. I know it was blackmail, but as far as I was concerned it was a means to an end. The alternative was too frightening to think about.’

She watched as he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles, making him seem uncharacteristically vulnerable and unguarded.

‘Why was it more frightening?’ she asked, watching him closely.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gathered their half finished plates of food and disposed of the contents in the kitchen tidy, his actions effectively shutting her out.

‘Why, Kane?’ She approached him, touching him on the arm to make him look at her. ‘Why did you find the alternative frightening?’

His dark eyes met hers briefly before he turned back to the sink. ‘Leave it, Bryony. You and your family are safe; that’s all you need to know.’

She wanted to press him but could see by his taciturn manner that the subject was now closed. What secrets was he hiding about her father’s dodgy dealings? Was he trying to spare her further pain or refusing to speak of it for his own reasons?

She wondered if her parents knew how much they now owed him. The irony of it was striking. He’d come charging back into their lives, taking everything out from under her father, issuing demands to be met, speaking of revenge for past wrongs, when in truth his motives had been anything but vengeful.

It was unthinkable that her life had been in such danger, that her father’s underhand dealings had put both her mother and her at risk, but she’d read enough in the papers about how the underworld worked. It was definitely an eye for an eye out there, the law of the land holding no sway.

Kane switched the dishwasher on and, drying his hands on a tea towel, turned to leave the kitchen.

‘I’m going to have a shower. I’ll leave you to sleep in peace in the spare room.’

She hovered uncertainly, her expression falling at the thought of a long night alone.

‘You don’t want me to…?’ She hesitated, not sure she could finish her sentence without betraying the real state of her feelings.

He came back towards her, tilting her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. ‘You look done in, Bryony. There are shadows on top of shadows underneath your eyes.’

‘I don’t want to sleep alone.’ There, she’d said it, admitted her need of him.

His hand moved from her chin to cup the side of her face, his thumb rolling across the smooth skin of her cheek in a softer than soft caress.

‘Please…’ She held his dark gaze, her tongue slipping out to moisten her dry lips. ‘I don’t want to be alone tonight.’

It seemed an age before he spoke.

‘If I was truly a gentleman I’d put you from me right now and insist you get the good night’s sleep you really need.’ His hands went to her hips, bringing her closer to him, not quite touching but close enough for her to feel the heat of his body.

‘I’m not tired.’ She pressed even closer.

His eyes burned down into hers and she felt the unmistakable spring of his body against hers, making her own flesh leap into life with clawing need.

His mouth came down slowly, her eyes fluttering closed as his lips found hers, touching, pressing, lifting off briefly before coming back down with increasing pressure. She felt the gentle probe of his tongue and opened to it, circling its commanding presence with her own in soft, more hesitant movements. His arms tightened around her, his body hard and insistent against her softer yielding one.

He tore his mouth off hers to look down at her, his dark eyes glazed with desire. ‘If we don’t move right now this kitchen is going to see a little more heat than it’s currently used to.’

She snaked her arms up around his neck and rubbed herself up against him enticingly, her blue eyes shining with passion. ‘Just how hot does it get in here?’

He gave her a bone-melting sexy smile. ‘Want to find out?’

‘Why not?’ She dimpled at him mischievously.

He walked her backwards, thigh upon thigh until she was up against the kitchen bench. He lifted her effortlessly so she was sitting, her legs either side of him, her head thrown back as he released the tie of the bathrobe.

What followed next both shocked and thrilled her. His tongue left no part of her feminine form unexplored, drawing from her a response she hadn’t thought possible. It was wild and unrestrained. It was heady and intoxicating; it was exhilarating and rapturous. She slumped when the tumult was over, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to restore some sort of normal breathing pattern.

He stood back from her, his eyes wild with unrelieved desire. ‘Is that hot enough for you?’

She shimmied down off the bench and reached for the waistband of his trousers, sending him a sultry look from beneath her downcast lashes. ‘Not quite. Why don’t we see if this does the trick?’

He drew in a sharp breath as her searching fingers found and released him, her open mouth coming down, her warm breath feathering over his engorged length.

His hands went to her head to stabilize himself as her tongue ran in slow motion along the length of him, tasting him at the tip before going back in agonizingly slow movements, the slight abrasion of her tongue an exquisite torture in his heightened state of arousal.

He felt himself coming, unable to hold it back, the force of it rendering him helpless under the ministrations of her mouth. His scalp lifted as he braced himself for the final plunge, his voice hoarse as he tried to warn her, ‘I can’t hold it any longer.’

She drew on him even harder and he spilled, his body shuddering with the impact as she held him against her mouth, her hands tight on his hips.

After a few heart-thundering moments he eased himself away, his hands drawing her upwards until she was standing upright against him.

‘You didn’t have to do that.’

She ran her tongue across her lips, her bluer than blue gaze smouldering. ‘I enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

His breath snagged on her sexy smile. ‘You know I did.’

She snuggled against him. ‘Can we go to bed now?’

He drew her close, burying his head into the fragrant cloud of her hair. ‘I can think of nothing better.’

A few minutes later Bryony lay back to receive him, his hard body pressing her into the mattress, his mouth on hers, his hands everywhere she wanted them.

No words were spoken, their bodies relaying the message of passion with fervent energy as each of them clamoured for their own release. Bryony distantly registered her sobbing cries against the hard muscles of his shoulder where her mouth was pressed and then, when his answering groan sounded as he emptied himself, her heart tightened in relief that she could have that effect on him.

She closed her eyes to the summon of sleep, her head on his chest, his heart thudding beneath her ear as his arms came around her like an embrace of velvet-covered steel.

She felt safe.

He was her protector.

She owed him her life…

Kane had left by the time she surfaced the next morning and, doing her best to squash her feelings of disappointment, she busied herself with getting ready to accompany her parents on the journey to Mercyfields.

When she arrived at the hospital her father was in a filthy mood but her mother was coping with uncharacteristic strength of spirit, issuing orders to the transporting staff as if she’d been doing it all her life.

Bryony stood back and watched as her father was wheeled into the back of the ambulance, his features distorted by a heavy scowl. In spite of her animosity she felt a faint trace of empathy for him. How the mighty are fallen, she thought as she followed the ambulance on the long drive to Mercyfields.

Not long after her father had been settled for an afternoon rest the front doorbell of Mercyfields sounded. Bryony gave her mother a quick questioning glance but Glenys looked at her blankly.

‘Who can that be? I’m not expecting anyone, are you? Kane said he was coming down tomorrow for the weekend, not today.’

Bryony got to her feet and made her way to the door, opening it to find an air courier standing there with a pet carrier in one hand.

‘Delivery for Mrs Glenys Mercer,’ he announced. ‘I need a signature.’

Bryony turned to her mother, who was hovering in the background. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

Glenys approached warily, her gaze going to the now wriggling carrier in the courier’s hand.

‘I’m not expecting any delivery,’ she said, placing a nervous hand to her neck.

The courier gave them both a don’t-tell-me-I’ve-driven-all-this-way-for-nothing look and handed Bryony the carrier. ‘Sign here.’ He thrust a pen into her hand. ‘Pedigree puppy for Mrs Mercer, a gift from Mr Kane Kaproulias.’

Bryony scratched her signature and handed back the form to the courier, taking the carrier without demur. She waited until he’d gone before setting the crate down and opening the door.

A tiny Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy came waddling out, his big bug eyes wide in both innocence and trepidation.

Bryony felt herself melting as the tiny body came towards her. ‘Mum, look!’ She picked up the tiny bundle and cuddled it closely, delighting in the lapping of the little enthusiastic tongue as it found her cheek. ‘Look what Kane has sent you! A puppy to keep you company while you look after Dad.’

Glenys stared at the puppy in horror, her face crumpling as she clutched at the nearest surface for support.

‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped and sank to the bench seat in the foyer, looking up at Bryony in anguished despair. ‘How could he have possibly known?’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRYONY stared at her mother blankly. ‘Mum? What’s the matter? I thought you loved dogs. Here, look—isn’t he gorgeous?’ She held the squirming puppy in front of her mother but Glenys instantly shrank back, her face a deathly white.

‘No, take it away…please.’

Bryony frowned as her mother got unsteadily to her feet, her high heels click-clacking agitatedly as she hurried off into the green sitting room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Bryony put the puppy back in the carrier and, leaving it out of harm’s way, made her way to her mother, her puzzled frown even more entrenched on her brow.

When she’d seen the puppy she had been touched by Kane’s thoughtfulness, knowing he had done it to help ease the burden her mother carried in looking after her father. Her mother’s reaction was certainly confusing, considering how devoted she had been to Nero, the neighbour’s dog, in the past. Bryony knew her mother had been very upset at Nero’s death, but surely it wasn’t still affecting her after all this time?

When Bryony opened the door Glenys was standing, staring out of the window overlooking the lake.

‘Mum?’

Glenys turned around to face her and again Bryony was instantly struck by her ghostly pallor.

‘Darling…I have something to tell you. I should have told you a long time ago but…’ Glenys brushed at her leaking eyes and continued. ‘Your father thought it best we let things stand as they were. It was too late to change anything. Kane had been taken away and the chance to tell the truth had gone.’

Bryony felt her legs begin to tremble at the tortured expression on her mother’s face.

‘Go on.’

Glenys looked at her without wavering. ‘It wasn’t Kane who killed Nero. It was me.’

‘You?’ Bryony’s eyes widened in shock.

Glenys gave her a pained look. ‘I didn’t mean to, of course…’ She began to wring her thin hands. ‘I overheard the argument between Kane and your father. Things were said…I don’t want to distress you with the details—’

‘I know about Dad’s affair with Kane’s mother.’

Her mother’s face fell. ‘I wish I could have spared you that.’ She sat on the edge of the nearest sofa and continued, staring at her knotted hands as she did so. ‘I was so angry and upset. I got in my car and bolted out the driveway…I didn’t even see Nero until he was…under the front wheel. I didn’t know what to do. I stopped and, wrapping him in the car blanket, took him back to the house, but when I came around the side I saw Kane driving the tractor through the rose garden. He’d already ruined the lawn…’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Bryony groaned.

Glenys met her daughter’s agonized look. ‘I’m so ashamed of what I did, but I was terribly upset. When I saw Kane I immediately thought of his mother and…and I wanted to get rid of both of them. I put Nero in the groove of one of the tractor tyre tracks on the lawn and went back into the house.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No, but I told your father. I sometimes wish I hadn’t. He’s used it to keep me quiet about some of his…dealings. When Kane took over the company and Mercyfields I wanted to come clean but when he insisted on marrying you I thought better of it. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize your future together.’

Bryony felt like screaming at her mother. The secrets and lies of the past had practically destroyed any chance of a happy future for herself and Kane. If only she had known! She cringed to think of how many times she’d accused him of killing that innocent dog! Would he ever forgive her for not believing in him?

Glenys was openly sobbing now. ‘Kane must have known. Why else would he send me that puppy unless to show me he’d known all these years?’

Bryony came across and knelt down in front of her mother, taking her trembling hands in hers, stroking them soothingly.

‘Mum? Listen to me. I know for a fact that Kane wouldn’t be so cruel as to do something like that to you. Anyway, he told me ages ago he thought Austin was responsible.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Kane is the most caring person I know. I think I’ve always known deep down he couldn’t possibly have killed Nero even in a fit of rage. I know he likes people to think he’s ruthless and controlling but underneath he’s a gentle humane person.’

Glenys lifted her head to look at her daughter through tear-washed eyes. ‘You love him, don’t you?’

Bryony felt her own tears sprouting. ‘You have no idea how much.’

‘Does he?’ Glenys asked softly.

Bryony held her mother’s questioning gaze. ‘I think it’s probably time I told him.’ She got to her feet and smiled. ‘Would you mind very much if I went back to town this evening?’

Glenys gave her a watery smile. ‘Go, darling.’

Bryony pulled into the driveway of Kane’s house three hours later, just as the puppy on the back seat started to whimper.

‘Hang on, sweetie, won’t be long now.’ She lifted him out of the carrier and cuddled him close, loving the feel of his silky fur and fervent tongue as it rasped over the back of her hand.

She was bitterly disappointed to find that, although some lights were on, the house was empty. Her spirits plummeted at the thought of Kane out for the evening, her mind tortured with images of him escorting another woman on his arm, with the possible intention of bringing her back here to his house…

She sprang to her feet when she heard the front door open close to eleven, her heart thumping, her ears straining for the sound of a female voice.

She heard the firm tread of his footsteps approaching the sitting room and the door opening as his hand turned the knob.

‘Bryony?’ He came to a standstill and stared at her. ‘What are you doing back here?’

Just then the puppy made a sound and waddled over towards him, stopping in the middle of the carpet to relieve itself.

‘Oh, no!’ Bryony scooped him up but only managed to spread the damage even further, including over the legs of her jeans.

Kane handed her his handkerchief and took the puppy from her, holding it against his chest where it gave his large hand three licks before nestling into the crook of his arm and shutting its eyes.

Bryony grimaced as she looked at the puddle seeping into the carpet.

‘I can’t believe he did that. I took him out half an hour ago.’

‘Women.’ Kane gave her a quick smile. ‘They make your life hell but you love them anyway.’ He stroked the top of the puppy’s silky head with one finger as he held her gaze. ‘I take it your mother wasn’t so keen on the idea of raising this little chap?’

Bryony worried her lip with her teeth for a moment. ‘Would you mind very much if we were to keep him?’

His dark eyes were steady on hers. ‘Aren’t you afraid I might inflict some sort of intolerable cruelty on him some time in the future?’

‘No, I’m not the least bit worried.’

‘I see.’ He placed the sleeping puppy on the sofa, tucking him behind the safety of a plump cushion. He turned back to face her, his expression still slightly guarded. ‘May I ask what brought about this change of heart?’

‘I know you didn’t kill Nero,’ she said. ‘I knew it even before my mother told me this afternoon that she was responsible.’

A flicker of shock entered his dark gaze before he quickly covered it. ‘So we were both wrong.’

‘It wasn’t Austin and it wasn’t you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Kane, can you ever forgive me for misjudging you? I know it’s a lot to ask…I hate myself for being so blind for so long. I preferred you as the enemy because I thought I would be less vulnerable that way. I got it so wrong in so many ways.’

He stood so still before her that she wondered if he had taken anything she’d said in. His expression was masklike—blank, almost, his dark mysterious eyes giving her no clue to what was going on in his head.

‘Kane?’ She approached him hesitantly. ‘You said yesterday that you married me to protect me. I’ve been thinking about that…wondering why you would be motivated to do so when I have done nothing but demonstrate my dislike of you. Why did you do it?’

He had trouble holding her gaze, turning away to stare out of the window to the leafy street outside. His voice when he spoke seemed to be coming from deep inside him, ‘I’ve done some wrong things in my life. God knows I’d do differently if I had my time over, but I couldn’t allow someone to hurt you, not without doing everything within my power to stop it.’

Hope exploded inside her, making her breathless and unsteady as if a powerful drug had been released into her system.

‘Why?’ she asked, her voice scratchy with emotion. ‘Why did you want to protect me so much?’

His gravity was unsettling but she had come this far she couldn’t bear to go on any longer without answers. She placed her hand on his arm, turning him to face her. She slid her hand down to curl around his stiff fingers, stroking them into life.

She drew in a breath as his fingers curled around hers, enclosing them in the warmth of his palm, his body moving closer so they were touching chest to thigh.

Kane touched her face with his other hand, tracing the soft curve of her cheek before running his thumb pad over her bottom lip in a gentle caress that released a host of feathery sensations up and down her spine.

‘You can ask that?’ His voice was strangely husky. ‘You mean you haven’t already guessed?’

‘Guessed what?’ she asked, a tentative smile hovering about her mouth. ‘You’re like a closed book most of the time. How can I possibly guess what you’re thinking?’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ He gave a short rueful sigh. ‘For most of my life I’ve had to pretend to be invulnerable. One sign of weakness and others take advantage of it. I’ve learned that the hard way.’

Bryony was sure he was referring to her father and brother. She bit her lip, her expression clouding with guilt and shame.

He smiled down at her, his dark eyes warm as they rested on her up-tilted face. ‘What’s with the long face? I’m about to tell you I love you, so an encouraging smile would be really good right now.’

She stared at him in wonder, her stomach somersaulting, her heart tight with its own burden of love just waiting to be shared. A slow smile gradually spread across her face, her eyes becoming luminous with joy.

‘That’s better.’ He gently tapped the end of her nose in approval. ‘Now listen up because I’ve never said this to a woman before, unless you count my mother, but I guess that’s different.’ He paused, taking in her shining eyes and jubilant smile. ‘Bryony, I love you. I think I’ve always loved you, although I’ve probably done far too good a job of hiding it. I love the way you care for your mother, I love the way you’re so loyal to your brother’s memory, I love the way you smile and laugh, I love the way you respond to me and I love the fact that you stand up to me, which makes me realise your father hasn’t totally crushed your spirit.’

‘Oh, Kane…’ She breathed at last. ‘I’ve been hiding something from you too. I love you. I don’t know when I started to love you…I think it was when you kissed me at the lake, although you’d never think it by the way I reacted…’ She gave him a strained look, her eyes going to his scar. ‘How can you love me? How can you be so forgiving when my family caused you so much suffering?’

‘Do you think it wasn’t worth it to have you here with me now?’ he asked. ‘I would do it all again, even do double the time to hold you in my arms.’

‘I never dreamed you felt anything for me but hate. You seemed so intent on revenge, insisting I give up work to run your house. You didn’t mean a word of it, did you?’

He gave her a sheepish look. ‘As much as I like the idea of you pregnant and barefoot in my kitchen, I can assure you I was only needling you to stop you guessing what I really felt. I had my pride to maintain.’

She gave herself up to his firm hug, burying her head into his neck, breathing in his scent, marvelling at the way life had turned ten years of bitterness into love.

‘I don’t deserve you,’ she said. ‘I’ll never be able to make it up to you.’

He held her from him to smile down at her. ‘Then perhaps we need to instigate some sort of instalment plan to even the score a bit.’

‘What do you suggest?’ She looped her arms around his neck, her eyes alight with adoration.

‘I think it might be best to show you what I want.’ He scooped her up in his arms and began to carry her towards the door, but just as he went to shoulder it open there was a whimper from behind the cushion on the sofa.

‘Damn!’ he swore softly.

Bryony giggled. ‘I think our baby needs us. Can you wait until I do what needs to be done?’

He gave her a quick hard kiss and growled playfully, ‘Whose idea was it to start a family so soon?’

‘Not mine but I’m delighted, aren’t you?’

He set her back down on her feet, holding her in the circle of his arms as if he found the task of letting her go impossible.

‘I love you, Bryony,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea how much?’

‘No, but I’m hoping you might show me in a few minutes.’

He stepped away from her and picked up the puppy, addressing it in an affectionate but firm voice. ‘Listen, kid, your mother and I need some time together so be a good baby and go back to sleep so I can show her how much she means to me.’

The puppy blinked at him engagingly before giving his knuckle another enthusiastic lick.

‘Did you see that, Bryony?’ Kane asked, turning to her. ‘He loves me already.’

Bryony slid her arms around his waist and tilted her head to look up at him, her face radiant with love.

‘I wonder what took him so long?’

CHAPTER ONE

INSTRUCTING THE TAXI driver to wait, Cesare Saracino swung his long legs to the wet pavement and headed towards the small, old-fashioned butcher’s shop at the end of the largely deserted narrow high street, his dark eyes grim with determination.

His investigator had tracked down her widowed mother’s home address with no difficulty at all. Personally he couldn’t see Jilly Lee actually returning here, never mind living in a flat above a butcher’s in a small market town on the border of Wales where nothing much ever happened. She needed bright lights, the company of admiring free-spending males. Glitz and glamour.

She wouldn’t be here but her mother would know where she had gone since her sneaky disappearance from the villa. Jilly Lee—a soft and silly name for a first class bitch—would be made to pay. He’d find her and haul her back to Tuscany, demand reparation, force her to put her hunt for a wealthy husband and her thieving activities on hold and do the job she’d been hired to do.

His mouth tightened with pain. The way things were going, Jilly Lee wouldn’t be in harness for long. Nonna was visibly growing more frail, though it galled him to have to admit that since the arrival of the Lee woman she’d brightened considerably.

‘There are no signs of clinical disease,’ her specialist had informed him three months ago, early in the new year. ‘But your grandmother is well over eighty and has been a widow for how long?’

‘Thirty years.’

‘And one by one she will have seen most of her contemporaries pass away. The body gets increasingly frail and so the will to live dwindles, there is less and less to look forward to.’

Hating the thought that Nonna was simply letting go, he’d kicked against it and suggested hiring a congenial companion.

‘Someone to read to me while I do my embroidery? And drone on in a tedious, elderly way about the misdeeds of modern day youngsters and bore me with interminable tales of her own long-gone youth?’ She’d patted his hand, her smile, as ever, kind and fond. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Someone to keep you company.’

‘Rosa can do that.’

‘Rosa has her hands full of housekeeping duties. She can’t spare the time to go around the garden with you while you snip things off!’

A dry look. ‘There are plenty of gardeners to pick me up if I fall over while I’m deadheading—if that’s what worries you!’

He’d taken both her frail hands in his. ‘I spend as much time here at the villa as I can but I’m often away. Of course I worry about you. You took me in when I was a stroppy twelve-year-old. You cared for me. Let me now care for you. And there’s no law that says a paid companion has to be in her dotage.’

He’d drafted the advertisement himself, offered sky-high wages, sat in on the interviews and had noted the first spark of any real interest in the faded old eyes when Jilly Lee had been shown in.

On first sight she’d seemed vaguely familiar. A face glimpsed at a nightclub in Florence when he’d been entertaining an American client who’d expressed an interest in unwinding in a hot spot? But then these out-on-the-prowl bimbos all looked alike. Flowing long blonde hair, pouty scarlet lips, skimpy dresses designed to show pneumatic bosoms and endless legs. Ten a penny. He’d been hit on by enough of them during his thirty-four years to know the type. No wonder Nonna called him cynical.

He’d dismissed the impression. True, Ms Lee had long silky blonde hair but it had been neatly tied back with a black velvet band and the blue shift dress she’d been wearing, although doing nothing to detract from her blatant curves, was demure enough in the hemline stakes.

As in the three previous interviews he’d simply observed, leaving Nonna to run the show, only inputting when he’d felt the need for clarification.

On the face of it she had seemed ideal. Twenty-five years old, so definitely not the middle-aged bore Nonna had stated she wouldn’t countenance. English, but with very passable Italian. Excellent references from a famous London store. The time spent in the interim travelling in Italy, picking up the language, taking odd jobs to eke out her savings, moving on, never staying in one place for very long. Now she wanted to settle permanently in this beautiful country.

Rarely sparing him a glance, she’d chatted away with ease, charming and outgoing, and when Nonna—already captivated—had asked her to withdraw for a moment, told him with the first flash of excitement he’d seen coming from her in months, ‘I like her. She’s young, lively and lovely to look at. Just what I need since you point blank refuse to marry and bring a young bride here to brighten my days and keep me on my toes! Plus, we can practice my English together. I once spoke it as well as you do, but now I am rusty. What do you think? Shall we hire her?’

He hesitated, but only for a moment. She might seem ideal but something about this latest applicant struck a false note. An annoying niggle with nothing concrete to back it up.

With a small impatient shrug he dismissed it. Nonna liked her, which was the main thing. She was showing real enthusiasm for the first time in ages, which meant that she wouldn’t just let go, give up the will to live.

‘If that’s what you want.’

He would do anything for Nonna. He owed her so much. She had been the first person to give him any real affection. His parents hadn’t shown any, to him or each other. It had been a dynastic marriage gone wrong. His father, a workaholic, had rarely been home and his mother, to compensate, had spent money like water and taken a string of lovers.

He could only suppose they had stayed married for the sake of appearances. In the circles they moved in appearances were everything.

On their death in a light aircraft accident on one of the rare occasions when they’d been attending the same function together, he had become heir to the vast family-run business enterprise that ranged from the petrochemical industry through luxury hotels to dealing in fine art and precious gems.

Nonna had helped him come to terms with everything. The business was to be run by his late father’s hand-picked executive managers until he reached his majority, of course, but she had hired a private tutor to help him learn all he could about his future inheritance, a project he had eagerly embraced.

He could deny her nothing, but caution, and that niggle, had made him add, ‘I’ll do some rescheduling and stick around for the first few weeks to make sure you suit each other.’

A stab of anger shot through him now as he entered the dank passageway which obviously led to the door to the above-the-shop premises. Jilly Lee had charmed his grandmother into trusting her implicitly, into relying on her company, into actually enjoying what the scheming minx had called ‘Girl-talk’. And had done a runner when he’d made it plain that he didn’t want her in his bed and wasn’t in the market for marriage. Taking a whole load of the old lady’s cash with her.

He would make her pay. In spades. He stabbed a finger on the bell-push.

Milly Lee flicked on the overhead light and drew the skimpy curtains over the window to shut out the depressing sight of the wet April evening. It hadn’t stopped raining all day. The interior of the small living area was just as chilly and depressing and she wouldn’t have stayed here a moment longer than necessary after her mother’s death—would just have found herself an inexpensive bedsit with enough room for one—but Jilly wouldn’t know how to contact her if she did that and since she’d left her job in Florence Milly had no means of contacting her.

That her identical twin was thoughtless went without saying, but that didn’t mean Jilly wouldn’t get in touch at some stage, when she finally remembered her family back home. Sadly she reflected that Jilly didn’t even know that their mother had passed away. She would be gutted. So, until her twin remembered that she had a family who worried about her and made contact, she would have to stay put.

Pushing the floppy fringe of her short blonde hair out of her eyes, she opened the local evening paper she’d bought on her way home from work and optimistically turned to the Situations Vacant column.

She was going to need to find a new job.

Manda, her boss, had told her this morning that she was selling up. She and her husband wanted to start a family—at the age of thirty-six it was time. And conception might prove easier if she wasn’t rushing from pillar to post from the crack of dawn.

The likelihood of another florist taking over the business and keeping her on was slim—profits had been dropping for the last year. ‘You’d better start looking for something else,’ Manda had warned. ‘If you find something, don’t worry about working out your notice. I can wind the business down on my own. No probs.’ So that meant she had to find something double quick if she was to be able to pay the rent on this flat.

The sound of the doorbell made her spirits lift. Cleo, her best friend since schooldays, had said she’d pop by this evening, bring a bottle of wine, and they could discuss her wedding plans. Milly was to be chief bridesmaid.

Glad that her friend was a couple of hours early—she’d mentioned nine as the most likely time—she flew down the narrow, carpetless staircase to let her in. And found she was staring at a complete stranger.

A drop dead handsome stranger.

An unexplained sensation quivered its way down her spine, intensifying as a shard of triumph glimmered briefly in the stranger’s dark eyes and the sinfully sexy mouth curved in a smile that was definitely more predatory than friendly.

‘The disguise doesn’t fool me, Jilly, but it suits you—believe it or not.’

The deep voice was slightly accented; it made her toes curl. He obviously thought she was her glamorous twin, dressed in the sort of gear Jilly wouldn’t be seen dead in—faded old jeans and woolly sweater, the trademark long beautiful hair cut to a boyish bob, and she shook her head, about to tell him he’d made an understandable mistake. But he forestalled her, striding past her, drawling crushingly, ‘You should have known there was no place to hide. Lesson one—no one messes with me and mine. Lesson two—you pay for trying.’

Heavens! What had Jilly done now? The burning question went unspoken as he reached the foot of the dimly lit stairs and swung round to face her. Her breath caught, her heart hammered, speech was impossible for the moment because he looked so formidable.

Not an ounce of spare flesh on his impeccably suited six foot frame, broad shoulders, narrow waist and elegantly long legs. The dark hair, spangled with raindrops, was superbly cut, his features austerely sculpted but saved from coldness by a wickedly sensual mouth. And those eyes—rich dark chocolate with penetrating amber glints trained on her own green ones, which were wide with apprehension.

‘My grandmother is already missing you. I will not have her upset. I told her you had to leave the villa because of a family crisis. You will stick to that story.’ The long beautiful mouth tightened with distaste. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t let you within a mile of my home. But for Nonna’s sake you will return to Tuscany with me tomorrow. You will take up your duties, continue to amuse and charm her but with one stricture—’ he delivered chillingly ‘—there will be no more shopping trips in Florence on the pretext of refreshing her wardrobe and somehow persuading her to fill yours with designer gear. Understood?’

Not waiting for a reply, he drawled icily, his eyes threateningly narrowed on her now ashen face, ‘The alternative is a spell in prison. I personally take care of my grandmother’s finances. Did you think the large cash withdrawals would remain unnoticed? That I wouldn’t make enquiries? The forged signatures on the cheques you presented are good enough for casual scrutiny by a clerk who recognised you as having accompanied the old lady who always used cash because she considered the use of plastic the devil’s work. But not good enough to fool me. Or an expert brought in by the courts.’

Milly gasped and turned whiter. Shock had her feet rooted to the spot. Her heart was thumping so heavily she could hardly breathe. Her stomach seemed to be turning inside out and her head was reeling.

All through his hostile diatribe she’d been struggling to make sense of what he was saying, putting her initial and instinctive need to butt in and correct him on hold as the conviction that her identical twin was in trouble deepened, until the mention of prison, of fraud and theft made it impossible to let on that she wasn’t the woman he was looking for.

Jilly was plainly in a horrible mess and until she could figure out what to do, how to protect her sister, she’d say nothing and hope she’d nodded off and this was a nightmare, not real.

But it was all too real.

He turned and headed for the door, his stride lithe and totally assured, his shoulders straight and elegant. He opened the door, admitting damp air. ‘I will collect you at six in the morning. Be ready. If you attempt to disappear again, be sure that I will find you. Be very sure of that.’

He turned then, his stunning eyes hard and cold. ‘In the event of your non-compliance to my demands, I shall have no hesitation in hauling you through the courts and seeing you behind bars. My desire to protect my grandmother from the pain of discovering that the hired companion she had grown to trust, rely on and love was nothing more than a devious thief is strong. But even that has its limits.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘HE CAN’T MAKE you do that!’ Cleo howled, her perky face scarlet with outrage.

Secretly, Milly desperately wished she could agree with her. But she loved her twin and her conscience wouldn’t let her wash her hands of her. When her friend had arrived, complete with samples of fabric, wedding magazines and a bottle of wine, she had still been sitting, stunned, on the draughty staircase.

And she’d let it all out, relaying every word the Italian had said and now, the wine poured, Cleo was glaring at her across the table. ‘You must be crazy. I won’t let you! Phone him and put him straight. Now. What’s his name and where’s he staying?’

Milly shrugged, fiddling abstractedly with the stem of her wineglass. ‘How should I know? It would have given the game away if I’d asked his name, wouldn’t it! He thinks I’m Jilly, his grandmother’s companion. So I shouldn’t need to ask his name! And, as for where he’s staying, I didn’t get the chance to ask since he didn’t let me get a word in edgewise, and I was too shocked to even think of asking, even if he had. He just kept on threatening—’

‘Which is exactly why you should tell him who you really are,’ Cleo stressed. ‘Have nothing more to do with him, let him go find the real Jilly. Let her pay for what she’s done.’

Milly could understand her friend’s strong misgivings, but, she said, ‘I’m really worried about her. The guy who was here has a short fuse, that was glaringly obvious. If I tell him the truth and he has to go searching for Jilly all over again he’ll quickly run out of patience and get the law involved. He looked and acted like the kind of guy who would get Interpol jumping and she’d be hunted down and dragged in front of a judge.’ Her stomach twisted painfully at the thought and her voice shook as she repeated, ‘I’m worried about her. She’s always been headstrong but never dishonest. I’m as sure as I can be that there’s been some ghastly mistake.’

Which earned her a sharp reply, ‘You don’t call it dishonest to persuade your mother to mortgage her home to the hilt, cash in that bond your father set up for a rainy day just before he died, get her to go in as an equal partner in that crackpot beauty salon business then do a runner when it went bust, leaving your mother with a mountain of debts, no home to call her own, just this grotty rented flat.’

Put like that it did sound, well, a bit selfish. Milly’s clear green eyes clouded. But, to be fair to her twin, their mother had been only too glad to fall in with Jilly’s plans if only to have her favourite daughter permanently home again. Jilly, the outgoing bubbly twin, able to charm the birds out of the trees, had always been everyone’s favourite. She, Milly, had always been the quiet one, the home-body happy to be in the background, lacking her identical twin’s glamour and drive, so she hadn’t resented occupying second place. Not at all.

They’d been eighteen when Dad had died of a massive and totally unexpected heart attack, leaving his wife shattered and helpless.

Dear Arthur had always made all the decisions, handled all the finances, ruled his small family with a rod of iron. After his death Jilly had persuaded mum to finance a crash course to enable her to get her Beauty Specialists Diploma. It had meant living away from home and had taken almost every penny of mum’s liquid savings. ‘I’ll pay every penny back when I’m earning loads, I promise. Will you do that for me, Ma? For my glittering future?’

Who could resist Jilly in cajoling mood? So it had fallen to her, Milly, to go to work for Manda, to take her father’s place when it came to handling the family’s dwindling finances, to orchestrate the necessary move from the spacious five-bedroom detached in the leafy countryside surrounding Ashton Lacey to a three bedroomed semi behind the cattle market.

When Jilly had briefly returned to the quiet market town with her diploma she had looked fantastic, lightly tanned courtesy of a sun-bed, her long blonde hair stylishly cut and glistening with subtle ash highlights, her make-up perfect, as was her figure encased in narrow white jeans and an emerald silk shirt that deepened the green of her eyes and made them look like glittering jewels.

She’d stayed two days, being waited on hand and foot by her captivated mother, until she’d left for London, imparting that she had a job interview lined up with a top flight beauty therapy clinic attached to a famous store and if Milly had felt envious she’d blanked out the unworthy emotion because her twin had what it took and she obviously didn’t.

Jilly had got the job. No one had doubted that she would, but Milly and her mother had both missed the fizz she brought to the staid household. Her mother had become in turn tetchy or morose and rarely smiled and Milly, although she’d done her best, hadn’t been able to take the place of the favourite missing daughter.

And then Jilly had returned and dropped her bombshell. ‘I’ve jacked it in. I want to open my own salon here in Ashton Lacey. Why should I be a wage slave when I could rake in all the profits!’

‘Where will the money come from?’ Milly had wanted to know. ‘It would cost a small fortune to set up.’

Jilly had turned her brittle smile on her. ‘Trust you to be a wet blanket, sis.’ Turning to her mother, her smile now honey-sweet, she said, ‘You know what they say, Ma, you’ve got to speculate to accumulate. So this is how I see it—you could mortgage this house and cash in that bond thing Dad set up and you and I could go into partnership, fifty-fifty, or sixty-forty in your favour if you prefer. You’d never regret it. I forecast great things! After two years working for someone else I know the business inside out. We’ll make money hand over fist—you’d never believe the profit margins! We could pay off the mortgage then sit back while the money rolls in. Say yes, Ma, and we’ll go hunting for suitable premises to rent tomorrow.’

Ma had agreed, of course she had, her happiness that darling Jilly would be around permanently blinding her to the very real risks, and Milly could remember feeling like a no-account misery when she’d pointed out all the possible pitfalls.

The business had gone bankrupt within a couple of years. As Milly had tried to point out, Ashton Lacey wasn’t ready for a glitzy state-of-the-art beauty salon. Drawing custom from a population mostly comprising the wives of small traders and scattered farmers had proved impossible and the few clients they’d had had rarely come a second time.

Everything had been sold to pay the creditors and Jilly hadn’t hung around long enough to help them find somewhere to live—the rented flat above the butcher’s—but had gone to Italy to seek her fortune.

To begin with there had been occasional postcards. She’d found work in Florence in an upmarket nightclub. Moved into a basement flat behind the Palazzo Vecchio, was meeting lots of interesting people, picking up the language and having loads of fun.

Sadly, she was not yet earning enough to be able to send money home to help pay off debts. She’d even given a phone number where she could be reached most late afternoons. Then, around eighteen months later, the final postcard,

‘Wow! I think I’ve made it! I’m moving on. If I play my cards right—and I’ll make sure I do—I’ll be able to pay back every penny, Ma darling. With interest! I’ll write again soon and give you a contact number.’

It had been the last they had heard of her.

‘Jilly always meant to make things right, pay back everything Ma had lost,’ Milly defended. ‘She’d get these wild ideas and truly believe in them at the time, though how she imagined she’d make a small fortune working as a paid companion beggars belief.’

‘Steal it, apparently,’ Cleo put in drily, making Milly want to smack her.

‘There’s been a mistake. I know it.’

Cleo shook her head. ‘It didn’t sound like it from what that guy told you. She’s obviously done another runner. I don’t know why you insist on defending her.’

For a moment Milly couldn’t speak. She was too angry. Her eyes flashed fire and the skin over her high cheekbones pinkened.

Then, reminding herself that Cleo was genuinely concerned for her, she took in a deep breath and offered, ‘You don’t understand the bond between twins. Why should you? But it goes deep, I promise. When we were growing up she always looked out for me. I got bullied at school, so she sorted them out. At home Dad could be…difficult. If I did something wrong like, oh, I don’t know—like breaking something or tramping mud all over the floor—she’d take the blame and just stand there while he came down on her like a ton of bricks, bawled her out and sent her to her room or stopped her pocket money for a month. I love her and I owe her.’

‘Sorry.’ Cleo reached over and patted Milly’s hand. ‘Me and my big mouth! I just don’t like the idea of you disappearing into the wilds of Tuscany with a man who obviously loathes you, or rather who he thinks you are. And what will he do when he finds out you’ve made a fool of him?’

‘He won’t,’ Milly assured her with more conviction than she actually felt. ‘We are identical. Jilly looks more glamorous because she knows how to dress for effect and how to use make-up. There’s stuff of hers here that she left behind. She won’t mind me borrowing it so, initially, he won’t be able to tell the difference.’ She took a healthy gulp of her forgotten wine. ‘While he thinks I’m Jilly and I’m doing what I’m supposed to, she’ll be safe from prosecution. And I guess even companions have time off. I’ll use it to try and find her. She probably just walked out of the job because she got bored with dancing attendance on an old lady and there must have been some misunderstanding about the money. She won’t have any idea that the old lady’s grandson is out for her blood. When I find her she can go back and explain everything and sort the mess out.’

‘And do you think you will? Find her.’

‘I must.’ Milly replied with intensity. ‘At least I know now that she hasn’t come to any harm. When we didn’t hear anything after she left Florence we were desperately worried, though I tried to make light of it to Ma, stressing that Jilly had never been very good at keeping in touch, just a handful of postcards while she’d been working in London and even fewer when she’d been in Florence. But I was out of my head with worry. She hadn’t said what her brilliant new money-making project was and you know how headstrong and reckless she can be—I thought anything could have happened to her.’

She relaxed back into her chair. ‘At least I don’t have to worry on that score. She was safely tucked up with some nice old lady!’

‘Now—’ she sprang to her feet, dredging up every ounce of courage she could find and holding on to it, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Help me go through Jilly’s things and tell me what I should take. We won’t bother with her lingerie; I’ll pack my own underwear and night things. He won’t see that!’

‘If I must.’ Cleo followed her through to the third bedroom that had been set aside for Jilly’s use. ‘Though I’m miffed with you! You were going to be my chief bridesmaid, remember?’

Turning, Milly gave her a swift hug, promising confidently, ‘The wedding’s not for another three months—I’ll be back long before then!’

But hours later, lying sleepless, she wondered. What if Jilly proved impossible to trace? She’d burned her bridges here. She’d phoned Manda at home and told her she’d found another job and wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Had posted a cheque for three months’ rent to her landlord, just about cleaning her account out but at least what few possessions she had would be safe.

And tomorrow she was leaving the country with an intimidating guy who thought she was the dregs of humanity and who would watch her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t run off with the family silver.

She felt, quailing, as if her future no longer belonged to her.

CHAPTER THREE

MILLY KEPT HER aching, sleep-deprived eyes anxiously on the main double doors of the exclusive country hotel where the Italian had obviously spent the night. At least she now knew his name, which was a relief of sorts. When the driver had arrived at the flat, promptly at six, he’d asked, ‘Miss Lee to meet Signor Saracino?’

And now the driver had entered the hotel and would emerge at any moment with Saracino and they would be driven to the airport. Her stomach rolled with dread and if it hadn’t been for her need to find her sister and protect her from the intimidating Italian’s misguided wrath she would have been out of this car like a shot and legging it down the long meandering shrub-bordered drive as if the devil himself was after her.

Which he would be, she sickeningly reminded herself. He hadn’t impressed her as being a man who would give up easily. Give up full stop.

And then she saw him. And turned her head away abruptly, her heart pounding with the fleeting impression of immaculate strength, hard purpose and no mercy whatsoever. Her palms, knotted together on her lap, grew slick and she tried to pull a calming breath into her lungs but it stuck in her throat and almost choked her.

Could she hope to carry this off?

She had to. For Jilly’s sake. She had no other option because if he saw through the deception he would be off after the real Jilly Lee faster than a hot knife through butter.

While the driver stowed Saracino’s small amount of luggage in the boot alongside her bulky and battered suitcase and holdall the Italian merely gave her a cursory glance through the side window before wordlessly settling himself in the front passenger seat.

Relief that she’d been spared the ordeal of having him sit beside her in the rear of the car was sweet and she allowed herself the fleeting luxury of savouring it as the car purred back along the drive towards the main road. He probably couldn’t bring himself to get close to her, or even look at her properly, for fear of contamination, which was a good omen for the future. Couldn’t be better!

The more he kept his distance the safer she would be from discovery and she’d handle being a companion to someone who would naturally expect her to be au fait with the routine of their days somehow. Getting through check in without anyone noticing the slight difference in the name on the ticket and the one on her passport seemed another good omen.

But once they were at the airport, through security, he did look at her. Properly.

Dark eyes took on a cynical glint as they swept her from head to toe and Milly’s stomach rolled over then tightened into a sickening knot. Forcing herself to lift her chin and meet those coldly disparaging eyes, she assured herself firmly that there was no way he could tell he was looking at the wrong twin.

Jilly’s cream-coloured linen suit with its lapel-less fitted jacket and narrow knee-length skirt was classily eye-catching enough to fool him, especially since last night when she’d been wearing her usual boring everyday clothes he’d taken her for her twin—the short no-nonsense hairstyle, lack of make-up—all the things that had always marked her as being different from her sister.

Nevertheless she quaked in Jilly’s bronze kitten heels when he delivered cuttingly, ‘I’m glad to see you’ve toned down your act. Contrition? Somehow I don’t think so. More likely to be sheer pig-headed annoyance at having been traced and hauled back to make reparation for your sins.’

She didn’t know what he meant by that ‘toning down’ bit and watched with sickening fascination as broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug which denoted that he couldn’t care less either way. And then his strongly sculpted features hardened as he added, ‘You will stick to the fiction that you were called away because of a family crisis, apologise for not calling my grandmother during your absence and continue to please her with your company for as long as you are needed. The money you stole can be taken as future wages; you will receive no further payments from me. Is that understood?’

Dry mouthed, Milly nodded speechlessly, her flagging spirits taking a further nose-dive. She would work for him but would receive no pay!

She couldn’t use her debit card because, after forking out for that advance rent payment her account was as good as bare. And relying on her seldom used credit card was out of the question. She couldn’t afford to get into debt. Penniless apart from a couple of five pound notes and the loose change in her purse, her plan for travelling around on her days off—provided she was allowed such a luxury—to try and trace her twin bit the dust.

Trying not to let her agitation show, to sound as wryly confident as Jilly would have done in similar circumstances, she asked, ‘Will I still have time off? Or will I be locked in my room when your grandmother doesn’t need me, Signor Saracino?’

One strongly arched dark brow lifted in marked contempt as he countered, ‘So formal. I recall a much more intimate mode of address when you came to my bed.’

He swung away as their flight was called, leaving Milly to stagger in his wake, too shell shocked to notice that he hadn’t answered her question.

Cocooned in the luxury of first class, Milly’s mind was racing. A sideways glance showed her his impressive profile bent over a file he’d taken from his briefcase, the pen held in long finely made tanned fingers stabbing notes into the margins of the closely typed pages.

She looked quickly away, her heart fluttering as a strange sensation gathered in the pit of her stomach. Jilly and the Italian had been lovers.

So why had that announcement really shocked her? Her sister had had affairs before.

‘Things’ she’d called them. ‘I’m having this thing with—whoever.’ None of them had lasted longer than a month or two. Jilly had always been restless, easily bored.

Had it been different this time? Had Jilly fallen in love with the savagely handsome Italian? Milly, her cheeks growing greatly overheated, could easily understand that. He was drop-dead-gorgeous, magnetic. Even she, on the receiving end of his icy menace, could recognise that. In the role of sexy seducer he would be dynamite! Totally irresistible!

Had her sister believed Saracino loved her in return? Had she expected marriage? Been sublimely confident of it? That would explain the wild promise that if she played her cards right she would be able to pay Ma back with interest. Everything about him spoke of wealth and standing and it would explain why the lively, flamboyant Jilly had uncharacteristically taken the post of humble companion to an old lady. Just to be near the man she loved and hoped to marry, to be available.

And had she left secretly, nursing a broken heart, when she’d discovered that marrying her was the last thing on his mind?

She wouldn’t know for sure until she found her twin. But the scenario seemed likely given the information on that final postcard from Florence and what she knew of the callous yet handsome man at her side.

Hating to think of her sister in trouble—hounded by this cold-hearted devil because of some mistake—and hurting because he’d broken her heart she gritted her teeth and vowed to find Jilly and clear her name. Her twin had always looked out for her, had taken her part when they’d been growing up.

She was more determined than ever to repay that debt.

Milly woke when he prodded her. ‘Fasten your seat belt; we’re about to land.’

Hating his tone, contempt tinged with searing impatience, she groggily complied. She hadn’t thought she’d ever sleep again, at least not in his spiky company, but last night’s deprivation had caught up with her. Smothering yawns, she felt at a total disadvantage while she followed where he led and it wasn’t until they were well away from Pisa airport and driving along the labyrinthine white Tuscan lanes that he spoke to her, although she had much to her discomfit, been on the receiving end of quite a few penetrating sideways glances she’d felt rather than actually met.

‘For some reason Nonna thinks the sun shines out of you,’ he imparted drily. ‘Since your disappearance she has been fretting. You will do and say nothing to upset her. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly.’

Again that swift censorious sideways glance. ‘Don’t slouch! You look as though you’re being driven to the gallows! You should be thanking the patron saint of sinners that you’ve got off so lightly.’ His voice tightened. ‘If it weren’t for Nonna’s fondness for you then, believe me, you’d be in handcuffs right now!’

Milly dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. How she stopped herself from reaching over and strangling the hateful man she would never know! A scarlet flush of rage flooded her delicate features. If Jilly were in her place, the object of his withering contempt, she would fall out of love with him faster than she could draw breath.

She couldn’t trust herself to answer his scathing comments without giving the game away but, mindful of his scornful criticism, she sat up straighter.

In any other circumstances she would be enjoying riding in this open-topped racy sports car through the sun-soaked Tuscan scenery, through the patchwork landscape of vineyards and stately avenues of cypresses, orchards of lemon trees and distant craggy outcrops of rock.

As it was she was getting more wound up and edgy with every mile that passed and when a bend in the narrow road revealed a paved driveway flanked by elegant wrought iron gates and the imposing stone villa beyond she felt as if she were about to splinter with tension.

Would she make it through the acid test, her meeting with Saracino’s grandmother, without giving herself away? Back in England she had told herself that her identical physical appearance, the wearing of her twin’s clothes, was all she needed to stop the Italian searching for the real Jilly and having her charged with fraud and goodness only knew what else. But here the possible pitfalls loomed very large indeed.

Telling herself to watch her step at all times, she exited the car as the grim faced Italian pulled to a halt in front of the massive iron-studded open double doors and watched as he handed the car keys to a wiry little man who had appeared out of nowhere then turned to her.

‘Stefano will take your cases to your room. Wait in the hall while I go to prepare Nonna for your return.’

No way!

Outwardly compliant, Milly preceded him into the coolness of the marble paved reception hall, then watched as Saracino, handsome as all-get-out in the superbly styled light grey suit that drew attention to his broad back, narrow hips and long, elegantly strong legs, walked purposefully towards one of the gleaming, intricately carved doors that led off this huge space.

Then she dragged in a deep breath and scampered after Stefano as he mounted the sweeping staircase, congratulating herself on disregarding the boss’s orders and discovering where Jilly’s room was and avoiding the ignominy of pretending a short-term memory loss and having to confess to forgetting which room was hers!

Concentrating hard, she followed Stefano as he turned left where the magnificent staircase branched, down a panelled corridor hung with portraits and landscapes in heavy gilded frames, counting doors to left and right.

First hurdle over! It was the only positive thought she’d had since leaving England when Stefano opened the third door on the right. Smartly suppressing the instinctive cry of delight, she entered the room that had been supposedly hers for the last few months, the most beautiful room she had ever seen with its soft ivory-coloured carpet, panelled walls colour-washed in the same shade, gleaming antique furniture and the most opulent tester bed she had ever laid eyes on, layers of white lace topped by a satin quilt in a lovely shade of dusky rose, the whole enclosed with gauzy drapes. Not to mention the magnificent vaulted wooden ceiling, painted with swags of flowers, cherubs and exotic birds.

Placing her luggage on the low chest at the foot of the bed, Stefano said in passable English, ‘Not to use the smart valigia the Signora buy for you?’

As his glance rested on the old hold-all and shamefully battered suitcase into which she had stuffed Jilly’s lovely clothes she understood his meaning, found a smile and invented rapidly, ‘I didn’t want it to get scuffed; I wanted it to stay smart.’

Which earned her a beam of approval and the self-congratulatory thought that so far she was doing just fine. Which lasted precisely five seconds, the time it took for Stefano to exit and for her to realise that she was facing her reflection in a full length pier glass.

Staring at herself, she simply couldn’t believe Saracino hadn’t seen through the deception! True, feature for feature, she and Jilly were identical, but where her twin walked and held herself with sublime confidence, she drooped!

Hastily hauling her shoulders back, she pushed her fringe out of her eyes. Eyes innocent of any artifice. Unfortunately Jilly hadn’t left any of her cosmetics behind, just the clothes she’d worn a couple of times and grown tired of. So Milly had had to do the best she could with her usual moisturiser and rarely used rose-pink lipstick. Totally different from the trade mark scarlet pout, heavily darkened lashes and expertly applied foundation, eye shadow and blusher.

No wonder Saracino had made that scathing remark about toning down her act!

She was going to have to try harder! Make herself act, walk and talk like her sister, because if she didn’t then sooner or later—probably sooner—she would be rumbled. The thought terrified her so much that she felt nauseous as she made her way back to the huge hall.

Where Saracino was waiting, pacing, and clearly not pleased.

His nostrils flared, dark eyes shooting a dire warning at her, he bit out, ‘I told you to wait here.’

Inwardly quailing, Milly straightened her spine. Never mind how Jilly would have reacted to this ogre in the guise of an Adonis, she, Milly, wasn’t going to be spoken to as if she were a dim-witted form of low-life. ‘So you did.’ Proud of her dulcet tone, achieved with great self-control, she added serenely, ‘But I needed the bathroom. Now I will make my apologies to Nonna.’

‘She is not your grandmother. I won’t have a creature like you presuming family connections!’ The sensual mouth compressed with distaste as he took her arm in ungentle fingers. ‘You will address her as Filomena, as you always have done, and as Signora Saracino when speaking to the staff on her behalf.’

Little did he know it but because of her slip of the tongue he was being a great help. This thought buoyed her a little as he practically frog-marched her through an intricately carved door that led into a sitting room of beautiful proportions.

Tall windows lay open to an arcaded stone veranda admitting the soft spring light that gleamed back from gilded looking glasses and exquisite inlaid furniture. But Milly’s attention wasn’t for the obvious grandeur of the surroundings, it was all for the beaming elderly mauve-clad lady seated in a throne-like chair that dwarfed her frail body, both hands held out in welcome.

‘Jilly—naughty girl! Running away without a word!’ The warmth of the tone and the smile that went with it robbed her words of any sting. ‘Come, let me look at you.’

Unnervingly conscious of a pair of hard black eyes boring into the back of her head, Milly went forward on legs that felt like wet cotton wool, uncomfortably aware that if she put a foot wrong Filomena Saracino would see right through her and out her as the imposter she was.

Frail fingers clasped her own and the warmth of affection flooded through Milly and made her want to weep because the warmth wasn’t for her but for her charismatic sister. Jilly, the golden girl, only had to turn on that effortless charm of hers to have the recipient eating out of her beautifully manicured hands.

‘You’ve cut off all your hair; why did you do that, child?’

Disconcertingly—her sister was a total stranger to blushes—Milly felt her face flood with colour. She hated having to lie to this patently nice old lady. She pulled a breath into her suddenly oxygen-starved lungs and managed, ‘With the hot weather coming I thought it would be cooler,’ and heard behind her a cynical huff of breath. Saracino. He believed she’d done it to try to alter her appearance; he’d said as much at their first meeting.

‘Very practical.’ The silvery head was tipped assessingly, the faded eyes lively, ‘It suits you. You look younger; don’t you think so, Cesare?’

Which elicited no response, but Milly knew his first name now and that was one more brick in the edifice of deception she was building up—a necessary deception, she hastily reassured herself, as distaste for the part she was playing flooded her conscience.

The old lady released her hands and prompted gently, ‘Now pull up a chair and tell me about the family crisis that took you away from me.’

Silently Cesare placed a delicate upright chair a little to the side and a little in front of where his grandmother was sitting, then took himself across the room to lean against the huge marble fire surround, one arm draped over the top, feet crossed at the ankles.

He might appear relaxed but he wasn’t. Those dark hostile eyes didn’t leave her for a single moment, Milly noted sinkingly as she sat on the chair he had provided and tugged the hem of her narrow skirt more demurely over her knees. He was watching her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t do or say anything to upset his grandmother or leap up and snatch the rope of pearls from around the old lady’s throat and make a run for it, she thought with rising hysteria.

‘It must have been important,’ Filomena probed. ‘For you to leave without saying goodbye, or phone me later to tell me what was happening.’ Her voice trembled slightly. ‘I really missed you. The days seemed so long and dull without you to brighten them for me.’ The eyes that had seemed so lively on her arrival now dulled. ‘Would you have come back if Cesare hadn’t gone to England to find you?’

A lump the size of a small planet formed at the base of her throat and from the opposite side of the room Cesare put in, as smooth and deadly as black ice, ‘Don’t upset yourself, Nonna. I know Jilly can put your mind at rest.’ Dark eyes narrowed on her troubled face and she heard the threat behind his seemingly bland tone.

‘Can’t you, Jilly?’

CHAPTER FOUR

SUDDENLY MILLY COULD hear herself breathing. Shallow and too rapid. The soft calling of the doves in the flower-decked courtyard she could glimpse beyond the stone arcade seemed preternaturally loud in the ear-tingling silence that awaited her response.

She swallowed heavily and stared at her short no-nonsense fingernails, then clenched her fists to hide them out of sight of querying eyes because Jilly wouldn’t be seen dead without long, perfectly manicured nails.

Inventing an important crisis was completely impossible. Piling lie on unnecessary lie was utterly distasteful. Besides, of late hadn’t there been many all too real crises in her life—the bruising advent of Cesare Saracino, mislaying her sister, losing her mother?

The death of her mother just over a month ago had been the absolute worst. The reminder of that dreadful day was rawly, painfully devastating and her voice shook with the emotion she couldn’t hide as she whispered, ‘My mother died. It was very sudden.’ And at times it seemed as if it had happened only yesterday.

Her eyes flooded. The loss still hurt dreadfully, compounded by the fact that she had had no means of contacting Jilly and having her come home for the funeral to give her support and to pay her respects to the mother who had doted on her.

A beat of silence followed the statement, then, ‘Oh my dear! How sad for you. What a terrible shock.’ Filomena leant forward and took both her hands again, her eyes full of sympathy. ‘You make me so very ashamed of my grumbles. Of course you would have been too distraught—and harried with all the arrangements to even think about me, let alone phoning or writing to let me know what was happening. I understand perfectly. Forgive me for doubting your intention to return.’

Choking back a sob, it was all Milly could do to manage a husky, ‘Of course.’

The pressure of the frail fingers increased as Filomena angled a sharp look in her grandson’s direction. ‘I trust Cesare didn’t pressure you into returning before you were ready?’

There was no honest disclaimer Milly could give to that and, thankfully, the need to reply was obviated by the elderly lady saying, ‘I know you said your little sister is very practical and dull, without a sensitive or imaginative thought in her head, but will she be all right on her own? She must be feeling lonely without you, especially during this time of family mourning.’

‘She’s fine,’ Milly said hollowly and felt her cheeks flame with discomfiture. That Jilly should describe her as being her little sister she could just about understand. To Jilly it must have felt that way. Her twin had always been the leader, she the follower. But practical and dull with no imagination or sensitivity—was that how Jilly really saw her? It hurt.

Cesare had moved to stand behind his grandmother’s chair and the look he glued on her was definitely speculative. Which somehow made everything ten times worse.

The old lady turned her head briefly towards him then turned back again to smile at Milly. ‘We will invite your sister for a holiday. Next month? Before the weather gets too hot—May here is such a lovely month. A holiday will be good for you both and I shall enjoy having two young things to keep me company.’

Mistaking the unwitting look of horror on Milly’s face for something else entirely her mouth curved impishly. ‘I won’t expect you both to dance attendance on me all the time, of course. You will have the use of one of the cars to take her sightseeing and shopping. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall take my usual rest before dinner so why don’t you phone home and let your sister know you have arrived safely, and mention the offer of a holiday—do your best to persuade her? Then you must also rest after your journey and we’ll see each other again at dinner.’

Filomena got stiffly to her feet and Cesare handed her a walking cane. Then Milly noted sinkingly that his strong lean face was turned to her, those dark penetrating eyes burning into her apprehensive green ones as he addressed her in a torrent of Italian.

Feeling sick with nerves, Milly bit into the soft underside of her bottom lip, her brain turning dizzily as it scrambled to recall what Jilly had written on one of those postcards.

That she was picking up the language!

Was the deception to be uncovered so soon, so easily? There was a thumping silence as she failed to respond to what it was he’d been saying to her.

‘Now, Cesare.’ Unwittingly Filomena came to her rescue. ‘You know the rules. English only!’

‘Of course, Nonna. I apologise.’ Cesare dipped his dark head and Milly was sure a hard smile tugged at the corners of his handsome mouth. ‘I shall reframe my question in perfect English,’ he delivered silkily, eyes as cold as the Arctic winter holding hers. ‘Would Jilly like to give me her home number? I can dial it for her as I know the correct international code.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Milly returned thinly, and smiled for Filomena. ‘I’ll see you to your room before I phone home.’ She shot Cesare a challenging glance. ‘Milly won’t have left work yet. And I expect she’ll need to do some grocery shopping before she heads home.’

She had no intention of making that pointless call and with the feeling that she had survived somehow, had avoided quite a few pitfalls—even if the survival had relied more on luck than judgement—she accompanied the elderly lady to her ground floor suite, saw her settled and finally left with the promise that, yes, she would herself rest before dinner.

Thanks to her earlier foresight she found the room that had been Jilly’s with no trouble at all and sat on the edge of the huge, opulent bed and lowered her bright head to her hands.

Back in England, anxious to save her twin from being treated like a criminal, hauled before a judge to answer to charges she was surely innocent of, she had blithely believed that this deception was necessary if only to give her the time to try and trace her missing sister, put her in the picture and get her to clear everything up.

She hadn’t wanted the cold-hearted Cesare to find her first, refuse to listen to anything she said in her own defence and have her clapped in irons before she could draw breath.

She still didn’t. Of course she didn’t! But the deception was making her feel ill and desperately ashamed of herself. Not on Cesare’s account, that was for sure! He was the brute who had broken her sister’s heart, bedded her, led her to believe he would marry her. Then dumped her. At least everything pointed that way. Why else would Jilly have disappeared?

But deceiving a lovely, kindly old lady was despicable. It was pricking her conscience like a red-hot poker! She couldn’t do it.

She was going to have to come clean.

Cesare ended the second call and swivelled his chair away from the leather-topped desk so that he could face the bank of tall windows that overlooked the expanse of emerald-green lawns that swept uninterrupted to the stone perimeter wall.

Shadows were lengthening as the sun sank towards the horizon and beyond the wall he could see the misty amethyst of distant hills, the nearest terraced and surrounded by clusters of ochre-walled houses and farmsteads.

His strongly angled brows drew down darkly as he dragged in a huff of breath and swooped back from the view that always calmed him and faced his desk again, one lean tanned hand reaching for an address book.

The enigma he was tussling with was his grandmother’s wretched thieving companion. Lots of things about Jilly Lee didn’t sit right.

Her demeanour was quiet, almost subdued. Instead of in-your-face bright and bubbly. Short, unvarnished fingernails, the lack of beauty-salon-glossy make-up.

All of which could be put down to the fact that the bounce had been knocked out of her when he’d caught up with her and forced her to come back and work without remuneration until the amount she had stolen had been repaid. Plus, she would be on a low following the death of her mother. No puzzle there. Her grief had been genuine, the emotion real and raw.

Yet he had always been an astute judge of character and early on he had decided that Jilly Lee was completely shallow, incapable of an emotion that wasn’t entirely self-centred.

And then again—he had instant recall of her look of mystification when he’d addressed her in Italian. Jilly Lee was pretty near fluent.

True, English only was Nonna’s strict rule and it had paid off because she was now conversing with ease and the challenge to brush up on the language had been good for her, had given her a real interest.

But her companion had always used Italian when speaking with the staff and when she was alone with him—a situation she had contrived with tedious regularity.

So why the seeming lack of comprehension when he’d simply asked for a phone number?

Something didn’t sit right.

His mouth compressed, he leafed through the address book until he found the number he wanted. There were ways to get to the bottom of the enigma. Already he had put two investigators on the case. The one in England who had initially found Jilly Lee’s family’s home address, the other here to follow a possible Italian trail.

There was something he could do himself to get to the bottom of what was needling him. But he couldn’t do it here.

He drew the phone towards him, lifted the receiver and punched in numbers.

‘Contessa—’

The dining room was magnificent but Milly couldn’t exclaim over the wonders of the painted ceiling, decorated with garlands of flowers, fruits and impish putti, or the two fantastic Venetian chandeliers above the long, highly polished table because as Jilly she would know the interior of the villa inside out.

And she was in no real state to properly appreciate any of it, the room, the food served on delicate porcelain plates, the heavy silver flatware, the wine—a different one for each course—in exquisite crystal glasses.

Because.

She was riven with guilt over the deception. Had made up her mind to confess all to Filomena. But not while that handsome, cynical devil was around. His wrath at having been fooled would be shattering and his willingness to listen to her defence of her twin nonexistent.

But she was sure Filomena would listen. The old lady, trigged out in violet silk with diamonds at her throat was chattering nineteen to the dozen. Cesare remarked laconically, ‘You’re in good form this evening, Nonna.’ The old lady lifted her glass and replied, ‘That is because my dear Jilly is with me again, to keep me entertained and stop me from expiring from tedium.’

‘Which role I am obviously unable to fill,’ Cesare returned with wry fondness.

‘Of course!’ The faded eyes twinkled. ‘Girl-talk is a stranger to you! Besides—’ she dipped her spoon into her zabaglione with obvious relish ‘—you are so often away. Although I have noticed—’ again the twinkle this time accompanied by a tiny knowing smile ‘—that since Jilly joined us you have rarely left the villa.’

The interchange made Milly wonder if Filomena had guessed that the two had become lovers and had silently condoned it, hoping perhaps—as Jilly must have done—that marriage was on the cards.

Which reinforced her opinion that Filomena would listen to her, side with her in defence of her missing twin; she was genuinely very fond of her. Jilly had obviously done what she did best, had used her charm until the recipient was eating out of her pretty hands. A knack, Milly ruefully reminded herself, that she singularly lacked.

Yes, Filomena would roundly deny that Jilly had forged those cheques, would explain that she had signed them herself when she hadn’t been feeling on top form, which would be why the signatures had raised suspicions.

Emboldened by that possible explanation, she raised her eyes and found Cesare’s eyes on her, focused with an intensity that made her blood run cold and then hot. Very hot. The smile that played around the edges of his mouth was wilfully sinful and it did awful things to her.

Her stomach tightened then flipped, just as it had done earlier when he’d come to her room.

He’d entered after a perfunctory knock and she’d been standing there in her plain un-Jilly-like undies. Her face flaming, she’d grabbed her sister’s black silk sheath from where she’d laid it ready on the bed and held it in front of her. Feeling sick with embarrassment, she spilled out, ‘What do you want?’

Leaning with casual grace against the door frame he looked magnificent. All dark and brooding and unnervingly sexy in his cream dinner jacket and narrow black trousers. No wonder Jilly had fallen hook line and sinker for the heartless brute, was her near hysterical thought as she clasped the black dress infront of her as if it were body armour.

‘To remind you that we dine early, at seven-thirty, for my grandmother’s sake—in case you’d forgotten. You are already late.’ Delivered with extreme dryness.

‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ she denied. How could she forget something she hadn’t known? ‘I fell asleep,’ she excused untruthfully, unable to tell him that she’d spent ages going over the room here and in the luxurious en suite bathroom, opening cupboards and drawers to see if Jilly had left anything behind that would tell her that her sister had meant to return when she’d recovered from the worst effects of a broken heart and shattered dreams.

She had found nothing, not even a hairpin. Disconsolately she’d run a bath and had soaked for an hour, then selected the black dress from amongst the things one of the staff must have unpacked, and had been getting ready to dress and go down to Filomena’s room and tell her everything.

‘I’ll be even later if you don’t leave so I can get dressed,’ Milly said tightly, willing him to take his desperately unnerving presence away.

‘I’ll wait.’ Posting his intention, Cesare sauntered further into the room and Milly, her chin set at a stubborn angle, her eyes glittering with loathing, backed out and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

Who the hell did he think he was? she raged internally. Bang went her intention to explain everything to his unsuspecting grandmother before they all had to sit through dinner together.

Struggling into the dress, she did her best to calm down. In her role as Filomena’s companion she would get loads of time alone with her tomorrow. She had wanted to get everything off her chest right now, but it would just have to wait.

And at least he hadn’t figured out that she wasn’t the real Jilly. If he had she would have been thrown out of the villa at the speed of light, the doors locked and barred behind her and her intentions to confess to Filomena and get her on side vanishing like a puff of smoke in a hurricane.

Facing one of the mirrored walls Milly noted that her face had gone scarlet from the combined effects of temper, frustration and her inability to pull the back zip all the way up.

And then, to her huge annoyance, Cesare’s reflection appeared behind her. ‘Allow me.’ In one concise movement he had the zip in place, the backs of his fingers brushing against skin that suddenly felt unbearably sensitised. ‘I thought you might have died in here.’ His mouth curved in sardonic humour and, Milly translated huffily, he thought she might have jumped out of the window with the family silver concealed in her underwear!

His reflected eyes, partially veiled by his thick dark lashes, swept slowly down her body and Milly’s insides squirmed, her face reddening again. The dress fitted like a second skin. Jilly had always worn her clothes on the tight side. ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’ Whereas she had always preferred not to draw attention to her curvy hips, tiny waist and the generous breasts that were even now humiliating her by peaking, thrusting unashamedly against the fine silk barrier of the dress.

She didn’t know what had come over her to make her body respond this way. The stress of the situation, she guessed, frustrated because she seemed to have no control over her own body.

Moving briskly to one side, she turned and marched back into the bedroom, pushed her feet into a pair of Jilly’s heels and followed him out into the corridor and now here they were, the ongoing stress of having to pretend to eat and respond to Filomena’s chatter thankfully coming to an end and he was leaning back in his chair, cradling his wineglass in one lean, tanned hand, the picture of smooth sophistication.

Cesare had made little contribution to the conversation, just watched her from the depths of those clever eyes, making her wish the floor would open like a trapdoor and swallow her up, but when a stout black-clad woman entered with a dark-haired slip of a girl in close attendance, Filomena stood. ‘No coffee for me, Rosa. I think I will retire early after today’s excitement.’ Cesare stood too and settled his grandmother back in her chair.

‘Stay a moment. I have a surprise for you.’

‘A nice one?’ Her smile was teasing.

‘I believe you’ll think so,’ he replied fondly. ‘Amalia is coming to see you tomorrow. She plans on staying for at least two weeks. Apparently, she’s spent the last six months in virtual hiding recovering from her latest facelift and various nips and tucks.’

‘Amalia! How splendid!’ Pleasure shone from the old lady’s eyes. She smiled for Milly. ‘The Contessa di Moroschini is my oldest friend and so outrageous! I know you will enjoy her!’

‘That’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Nonna.’ He turned to Milly, the gentle warmth that always transformed his harsh features when talking to his grandmother disappearing like water down a plughole. ‘As Amalia will be here to keep you company and amused with her latest and possibly near-scandalous doings, I thought I’d steal your companion for a week—take her to the island and allow her to rest and recover from her recent bereavement.’ He turned back to Filomena and Milly, too shocked to speak, felt a peculiar shudder race down her spine.

‘That’s if you approve, Nonna?’

‘A splendid idea!’ Satisfaction wreathed Filomena’s features as she again got to her feet and Milly decided that her guess had been right. Signora Saracino knew about her grandson’s affair with Jilly and hoped it would have a happy ending. She would have to be disabused at some time, told that her so-perfect grandson had cruelly given Jilly the elbow, had made her fly from the villa with a broken heart. But now? When she was so happy at the prospect of a visit from an old friend?

Assaulted by violently conflicting emotions, torn between coming clean and spoiling the old lady’s time with a much loved friend and carrying on the deception for a while longer and trying, somehow, to trace her sister, Milly also rose to her feet.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Certainly not!’ Filomena was already heading towards the door as the coffee things were laid out and the young maid cleared the table. ‘I manage perfectly well. Enjoy your coffee and discuss your plans for the island.’

Her retreat blocked, Milly subsided back in her seat and wearily accepted the coffee Cesare had poured for her and bit back the instinctive words that would tell him she had no intention of going anywhere with him.

The real Jilly surely would have jumped at what would appear to be a chance of reconciliation. The opportunity to convince him that she hadn’t forged those cheques.

Not having a clue as to how to play it, she sat back and left the initiative to him, merely swallowing sickly when he drained his cup, setting it back on its saucer as he got elegantly to his feet and told her, ‘Be ready to leave at six-thirty,’ and strode from the room.

Milly shuddered. She felt sick. Stuck on an island with him. No chance to try to trace her sister. No time now to get Filomena on side, either. Alone with him, he’d no doubt speak Italian to her and the cat would be out of the bag with a vengeance.

He’d know she wasn’t Jilly.

And what he’d do then didn’t bear thinking about!

CHAPTER FIVE

ENIGMA SOLVED!

Everything neatly explained, from her look of total incomprehension when he’d addressed her in Italian to her flustered attempts to cover herself when he’d walked into her room and found her in her underwear. The Jilly he knew would have displayed no such modesty.

Inwardly on a high of triumph, Cesare landed the helicopter on the specially constructed pad on the west side of the privately owned island, the rocky side that looked out over the azure sea to the lushly forested hills of Elba on the horizon.

Waiting for the rotors to come to a standstill, he angled himself into his seat and studied his passenger through narrowed, luxuriantly veiled eyes.

Lying, cheating, devious minx! He wondered idly how she thought she would get away with it and what her motive had been in the first place, then dismissed the consideration as unimportant.

Two could play that game and he’d make a better fist of it than she had.

She was staring ahead, her shoulders rigid beneath the silky blue top she was wearing above cropped, narrow fitting white jeans. She hadn’t said a word since they’d left the villa, not even to ask where he was taking her, her lush mouth downturned like a sulky teenager, the only indication that anything was seriously amiss being the stark apprehension in those deep emerald eyes.

He could understand the apprehension. She was afraid of being found out. As well she might be; she was on decidedly shaky ground and must know it.

When he’d taken that call from the English agent back there on the mainland airstrip, he’d been icily furious but not riven by surprise. He’d been puzzled ever since he’d escorted Nonna’s absconding companion back to the villa and the flare of triumph over running the devious little thief to earth had died down sufficiently to let him see clearly.

The agent had made short work of discovering that there were two of them.

Jilly Lee and Milly Lee.

Identical twins.

His overriding imperative had been to wash his hands of the imposter, give her a well-deserved tongue lashing then walk away, leaving her standing on the airstrip, head back to the villa letting her find her own way back to England as best she could.

But in the space of time it took him to draw breath common sense had overcome his icy fury that she had believed she could make a fool of him—and, even worse, deceive his beloved grandmother.

To return to the villa now and explain everything to Nonna would be to deal her a severe blow. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. It would ruin the happiness she was currently enjoying. The company of her old friend—who hadn’t needed much in the way of pressure to agree to the last minute invitation to visit—and secure in the knowledge that her vibrant young companion was back in harness, her matchmaking tendencies surfacing again in her delight at his suggestion that he whisk her companion away to the island.

Nonna was old, she was frail and he loved her. Let her be happy for a little while longer.

His original intention to use the time on the island to solve the puzzle himself was now redundant. But he could amuse himself at her expense—she owed him a little light entertainment—and when she least expected it he would hit her with the fact that he knew the truth and hope to shock her sister’s whereabouts from her, assuming the Italian and English agents had drawn a blank.

‘You can get out now.’ Softly spoken, his condemning eyes on her delightful profile as he tried to read what went on inside that devious head.

The sisters were identical in face and body but this one—Milly—had an air of softness, almost vulnerability, about her that the other patently lacked. With her short blonde hair trailing soft tendrils against her tender nape and those startlingly green eyes she looked almost childlike. But there was nothing childlike about the full, pert breasts, tiny waist and luscious hips.

Gorgeous on the outside but inside they were, both of them, bent as corkscrews—she had to be just as devious and self serving as her much more in-your-face twin.

She gave no response, just the merest dip of her head to acknowledge she had heard him, her hands eventually straying with slow reluctance to the heavy-duty clasp of her seat belt.

Scared witless? As she had every right to be. Expecting him to bombard her with Italian, force her to confess she didn’t understand a word of the language and reveal her true identity. She would be quaking in her shoes, waiting for the axe to fall.

His smile was self-admittedly victorious as his feet touched the ground. He would gently erase the fear, lull her into a false sense of security. And then hit her with his knowledge. Not exactly ethical, he conceded, but Dio! Nobody treated Nonna like a cash cow or a dupe and got away with it—not while he had breath in his body!

It felt as though all the ants in the world were charging up and down her spine wearing spiked boots, Milly decided feverishly. In sickening mental turmoil, she watched as Cesare lifted down her old suitcase and shouldered his own rucksack. Reaching down for her case, he set off up the stony track at speed, leaving Milly with no option but to follow.

She had no idea why he had brought her here. Whatever his reason, it didn’t augur well for her, she acknowledged edgily. It certainly wasn’t for the good of her health!

He thought she was a thief, a common con-woman, and she, in her role as Jilly, hadn’t denied it and sought to clear her name as her maligned sister most surely would have done. She had just gone along with his dictates, seeing it as the only way to keep her sister out of his vindictive clutches and the cold hands of the law.

But she had the terrifying feeling that the deception would soon be discovered, laid bare before his contemptuous gaze. And then the hunt for the real Jilly Lee would be back on with a vengeance.

It wouldn’t take long. All he had to do was start conversing in Italian. Without his grandmother’s rules there was no reason why he shouldn’t use his native language and expect her to understand most, if not all, of it.

Knowing she had failed miserably and done her sister’s cause no good at all she was unable to concentrate on where she was going when her foot hit a rock and, emitting a sharp cry of alarm, she fell flat on her face and lay spreadeagled in the growing heat of the sun. Winded, humiliated, short moments later she felt herself lifted to her feet by two strong hands and her eyes sparkled like fine jewels with unshed tears of chagrin.

‘Are you hurt?’

Milly gulped for much needed oxygen and shook her head. Two displaced tears trickled down her pale-with-shock cheeks. He actually sounded as if he cared, his eyes narrowing with what looked suspiciously like concern as his gaze swept down the length of her shaken body.

His hands were on her slender shoulders now. They felt reassuring, comforting. She had the insane impulse to move closer to that strong, lean body, lay her troubled head against his broad chest and seek solace.

Hurriedly, she brushed the wimpy tears away and with them the weak need to be held by him. He was her sister’s enemy; therefore he was her enemy too.

In similar circumstances Jilly would swear like a trooper, brush herself down and make a joke of it. In the impersonation stakes she wasn’t doing too well.

She was going to have to try harder. Much harder. At least until he discovered that she wasn’t who she was pretending to be.

‘I’m fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ She lifted her chin, wondering what Jilly would say next, and hit on, ‘How much further? Isn’t there any transport on the island?’

Her sister hadn’t been known to walk if she could take a cab and rarely put herself in a situation where there wasn’t one within hailing distance. But at her most Jilly-like comment to date Cesare’s wickedly sexy mouth turned down at one corner as he drawled, ‘There is nothing on the island but one stone cottage. No people, no roads and no bright lights.

His hands dropped from her shoulders and he turned away, striding along the rough track to where he’d dropped the luggage, then waited until she joined him. ‘My father had it built when he bought the island many years ago. By all accounts he was a workaholic and came here at least once a year to recharge his batteries.’

‘You must have happy memories of childhood holidays,’ Milly responded to his totally unexpected mention of anything remotely personal, trying to act as normally as possible under difficult circumstances, doing her level best not to get too het up over the possibility of him leaving her here with no way of returning to the mainland once her deception had been uncovered. She certainly wouldn’t put that kind of action past him!

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t respond to her innocuous remark. She glanced up at his tanned, extravagantly handsome features and saw his mouth tighten with what she could only translate as scorn. ‘My mother never came here. She was a metropolitan creature. My father brought his mistresses here, he didn’t want me around. I only learned of the existence of this hideaway after his death.’

Biting back instinctive words of sympathy because she knew he wouldn’t want them, Milly concentrated on getting up the increasingly steep track that traversed the sun-baked hillside where herbs and wild flowers merged their perfume with the tang of the sea and the scent of the pines she could see ahead of them. Breathless with heat and effort—neither of which seemed to affect him in the slightest—her mind was busy.

If his father had taken mistresses openly enough for him to know about them then that would explain why, given such an immoral role model, Cesare took it as the norm to take a woman to his bed and throw her out of it when he got tired of her.

Poor Jilly!

Glancing up at him, Milly noted with a peculiar twisting sensation in her tummy that the slight breeze from the sea had ruffled his short, dark as night hair. It made him look more approachable, less the hard-nosed, ultra sophisticated business tycoon, and it was again impressed on her exactly why her up-until-now inconstant sister had at last fallen truly, deeply in love. Very few women would be able to resist his potent brand of sexual charisma.

‘Almost there.’

The effect of his voice rippled through her like a mild electric shock. Smooth as silk, consoling? Her heart pattering she narrowed her eyes against the sun. They had crested the brow of the hill and a shallow wooded valley lay before them. On the opposite side, its back to the hill, beyond which she could glimpse the sea and the sand of a small cove, was a sturdy stone house facing the green valley. A quiet, secluded place, ideal for lovers.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ She didn’t want to know the answer because she knew she wouldn’t like it but she had to ask because not knowing was getting to her. And his reply made her feel giddy.

‘Why do you think, Jilly?’

The slanting smile on his shamelesly sexy mouth and the glinting, terrifyingly intimate light in those stunning eyes made her tummy loop over, forcing her to recall why this secluded hideaway on an uninhabited island had been built by his womanising father. Had he given her that snippet of information to make sure she made the connection?

He and Jilly had been lovers. Did he mean to take up where they’d left off? Demand her presence in his bed—away from his grandmother’s sharp eyes and knowing smiles—in part payment for the massive debt she had accumulated by, according to his warped and cynical mind, forging those cheques?

Her heart squeezed in a severe contraction and her legs turned into wavering pillars of cotton wool. Surely he couldn’t mean that! And, if he did, what on earth was she to do?

Looking down into her suddenly pale as milk face Cesare bit back a peal of husky laughter. Aside from her looks, her imposter rating would be lower than nought out of ten. She’d obviously got the message loud and clear and it had floored her. Didn’t she know how her twin would have reacted to such a neatly couched invitation? Like a heat seeking missile homing in on a coveted target. All over him like a second skin.

‘Come, I’ll help you. The track’s steep in places.’

Milly shuddered right down to her toes as he took her hand, the warmth of his soft, silky tone, the heat of his skin as his strong lean fingers closed around hers made her heart beat in a frenzy, her lungs struggling painfully because, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to breathe.

Yet, uncaring breaker of hearts as she guessed him to be, he was more than careful as he helped her to negotiate the trickier places, only releasing her hand as they came to the paved area in front of the house.

Windows lay open and the stout wooden door was unlocked; obviously he had no fear of squatters or thieves intent on lifting anything they could carry away.

Mild surprise deepened to bewilderment as he ushered her into a square stone-flagged room that appeared to double as kitchen and informal living area.

Flowers in a terra-cotta bowl graced the central chunky pine table and near a small but functional looking cooker a fridge hummed gently.

Driven by feminine curiosity, Milly dived to open the fridge door and survey the lavish contents. She turned, her eyes wide. ‘If no one else lives here, how did this stuff get here?’ Had he lied? Were there other people on this island, someone she could turn to for help if he left her here after discovering—as he surely would eventually—that she wasn’t who she claimed to be?

‘By motor launch, not by magic.’ His slight smile registered superior amusement. ‘I have a caretaker on the mainland who, apart from checking up on the property from time to time, sees it is stocked if I phone him to tell him I’m going to be here. He gets the generator working, makes sure the water pump is functioning properly and soon.’ One strongly marked brow elevated mockingly. ‘Did you imagine I brought you here to starve or exist on fish from the sea? If so, you’d have had to do the catching of them. I do not own such patience.’

Face flaming, her chin notched up by several degrees, Milly faced the unwelcome truth that they were indeed alone here.

She ought to have known how the other half lived. Just one word and a minion would be found to carry out orders at a moment’s notice! Silly of her to have overlooked that fact of a life!

And she wasn’t about to ask again exactly why he had brought her here and risk another loaded answer. Instead she said tightly, ‘Show me where I’m supposed to sleep and tell me what you want for lunch. I’m sure you expect me to wait on you!’

Because he wouldn’t know how to boil water. He might be a whiz at doing whatever clever stuff he did to earn a dazzling living, but brought up surrounded by a platoon of servants, anxious to cater to his slightest wish, he wouldn’t have a domesticated bone in his body.

‘Now there’s a thought!’ Slumbrous eyes scorched her, and Milly hastily looked away. He was lethally attractive and she sure as Hades wasn’t going to follow her twin down that fatal track. She heaved a sigh of relief when he picked up her suitcase and led her up the staircase tucked away at the far side of the room.

There were two doors leading off the square landing. The first he flung open revealed a bathroom of almost clinical utility, the second a bedroom that contained the biggest bed she had ever laid eyes on and not much else.

Did Cesare, following his father’s track record, bring his women here? Had he brought Jilly? If so, she had goofed badly when she’d queried the lavish supply of foodstuffs, asked where she would sleep, because there appeared to be only this one bedroom.

So where would he sleep? Her throat closed and her stomach churned with the weirdest sensation she had ever experienced. Whipping round on her sandalled feet, intent on telling him that there was no way she was sharing a bed with him and if he had brought her here with that in mind he was going to have to think again.

But there was just empty space where he had been and from downstairs she could hear his tuneful whistle. She ground her teeth in frustration. He sounded in a good mood, was her ireful thought.

Looking forward to making the woman he’d dragged back to Italy to make reparation for her supposed sins, pay off part of her dues in his bed?

CHAPTER SIX

MILLY HAD STRETCHED her wash and brush up into the best part of an hour she realised guiltily when she finally glanced at her watch. Most of that time had been spent leaning out of the bedroom window, breathing the warm scented air and making herself concentrate on nothing else but the view of the shallow wooded valley, the arc of the blue sky overhead, soaking up the utter tranquility. Anything to take her mind off her decidedly dodgy situation.

In any other circumstances she would have loved being here, especially with the man she loved. It was the perfect place for a romantic idyll.

And where that had come from she had no idea. The wayward thought shocked her. She didn’t have a man to love, here or anywhere else!

Unlike her sister, to whom the male of the species gravitated like moths to a brilliant light, Milly hadn’t had much to do with the opposite sex. Quiet and unsure of herself, always deep in her twin’s shadow, she hadn’t exactly been sought after and had certainly never been in love.

Her first date had been a disaster. Sixteen years old and, compared with Jilly, still wet behind the ears, she’d been hugely flattered when, out of the blue, the local pin-up, Mitch Farraday, had asked her out.

He’d been earthily good-looking, full of himself, pushy. Her girl friends had all drooled over him. But the date had ended up in a scary tussle at the back of the cinema with him calling her vile names. He had taken it for granted that buying her a seat in the stalls fully entitled him to have sex. It had horrified her and she’d fought him off like a wild spitting cat.

It had frightened her, had put her off the male sex for ages. Then she’d met Bruce. Twelve years her senior, an accountant, he’d lived with his widowed mother.

He’d called into the shop to buy a pot plant and they’d got talking. Discovering a mutual interest in visiting local gardens open to the public, he’d returned a week later and invited her to accompany him and his mother to Bassett Hall gardens, an annual pilgrimage for them, apparently. And because she’d heard of the acres of rhododendrons and azaleas—at their best at that time of the year, the lakes and grottos, she’d accepted. Without her own transport she hadn’t been able to get there under her own steam.

And because Bruce was solid and worthy, without a flash bone in his body, and she was comfortable in his company they had seen each other once a week for the last two years.

He was a pleasant companion. He made no sexual demands. It had only been after the death of her mother that things had changed, subtle hints from him and not so subtle ones from his mother about settling down, formalising their relationship.

Sighing, Milly turned away from the window. She liked Bruce—and his mother—but she didn’t love him and never would. She’d been trying to think of a way to tell him, before he decided to come out with a proposal. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings or his pride.

But Cesare had happened. His misconceptions about her twin, his threats.

In the turmoil she hadn’t given poor Bruce a thought. He’d be worried about her and she felt really bad about that. But there was nothing she could do about it until she got back to the mainland. She could phone him and tell him she’d taken a temporary job as a companion. And thinking about Bruce—something she rarely did unless she was actually with him—was, she recognised, a cowardly delaying tactic.

Sooner or later she was going to have to face Cesare, carry on the deception as best she could and hope to discover why exactly he had brought her here. And hope to heaven that it wasn’t what she thought it was!

Sex.

She was pretty sure Jilly had confidently expected marriage. Was as sure as she could be that her twin had taken off, hurting and humiliated, the moment that brute had told her that all he wanted from her was hot sex.

Now he believed he had a hold over his grandmother’s companion. That with his threat to go to the law hanging over her she’d do exactly as he wished. So did he think he could take up where he’d left off? Did the idea of that brand of dominating sexual revenge give him a buzz?

According to his warped mind, Jilly had stolen an as yet unspecified amount of money. Was he now intent on exacting repayment? As Jilly’s stand-in the thought was enough to give her nightmares!

Her tummy muscles tight with nerves, Milly straightened her spine until it was ramrod stiff and made her way downstairs to set about making lunch. Not that she was hungry, but he, conscienceless, would be. And it would give her something to do, maybe even take her mind off the mess she was in for all of two seconds.

To be met by the sight of Cesare confidently dividing the contents of a pan between two plates with the panache of a professional.

‘I was just about to call you.’ A warm smile, lacking guile, then a slight inclination of his far-too-handsome head. ‘I thought we’d eat outside. The wine’s uncorked; perhaps you’d like to pour it.’

He’d found a small table and two chairs from somewhere, she noted, as she stepped out on to the sun-soaked paved area in front of the cottage. The edges of the white tablecloth moved lazily in the gentle breeze.

Cutlery, glasses, a basket of bread rolls and a slab of creamy butter on a blue earthenware plate. Her hands shook as she poured a little red wine into both glasses and she sank on to one of the chairs because her knees gave way as he appeared.

‘Tell me what you think.’ Cesare slid a plate in front of her and retreated to the chair on the other side of the table. ‘When I cook I like to experiment.’ An eyebrow quirked in rare self-disparagement. ‘Sometimes it goes horribly wrong!’

Against all her expectations the delicate aroma enticed the appetite she thought she’d lost for ever and, struggling with confusion, Milly forked up lemony rice and one of the perfectly cooked succulent prawns. The dish was garnished with mushrooms and roasted peppers and was absolutely delicious.

Suddenly ravenous, she reached for a roll and lavished it with butter and Cesare demanded softly, ‘Well, what’s the verdict?’

‘Fabulous—you can cook for me any time you like!’ Her first real smile for days lit up her features and he returned it with a devastating grin of his own before starting on his meal.

He could actually seem human, Milly marvelled, trying to see through the mists of confusion that were now fogging her brain. And how easily, naturally, she could respond to him was an eye-opener! A tiny frown furrowed her brow. She’d honestly believed that Cesare Saracino wouldn’t know how to boil a kettle and was too arrogant to even want to know how to perform that most mundane of tasks. Yet he’d set to and produced one of the most delicious meals she’d ever eaten.

She’d been proved wrong about that; was she also wrong about believing him to be all bad? And another thought struck her a savage blow. Had she been acting like a brain dead gnat when she’d entered this utterly distasteful deception?

She was trapped here. Once back on the mainland she would be trapped at the villa. With blithe stupidity she’d seen herself tracking Jilly down before Cesare reached her, combing the streets of Florence, calling the contact number her twin had given when she’d worked there, questioning her friends and her former employer in the hope of gaining a clue to her present whereabouts.

Fat chance! She might just as well decide to explore the dark side of the moon. Jumping on a bus or taking a taxi into Florence wasn’t an option when she had no money and, as Cesare had stringently pointed out, she wouldn’t be earning any either!

Reflectively she sipped her wine and Cesare, leaning back against his chair, one arm hooked casually over the back, said softly, ‘A penny for them.’

‘You’d be wasting your money!’ Milly came back abstractedly, fighting uncertainty over what to do.

Carry on in her role as her sister or come clean and confess all, throw herself on his mercy. After all, he thought she was, in his entrenched opinion, the devious Jilly and he’d been nothing but kind and friendly since they’d reached the island. A prelude to getting her to share that huge bed with him? Should she rid herself of this hare-brained deception once and for all?

It was what her conscience told her she wanted but she’d jumped in without thinking back in England, she wouldn’t do it again. She’d have to think it out properly.

‘I wonder. I’m fairly canny when it comes to handing out such vast sums of money!’

Milly’s breath caught in her throat. He looked so relaxed, so spectacularly good to look at; the hand that toyed with the stem of his wineglass was strong yet achingly elegant. Beautiful hands to match the rest of his perfect male physique. And that slight smile, tilted at one corner—the slumbrously wicked gleam in those dark, darkly seductive, eyes as they locked with hers, was more than she could take. Her breath was quickening and, to her deep shame, she could feel her nipples pressing against the silky top, tight, over-sensitive buds.

He was lethal! Jilly would have been a pushover. And in all honesty Milly couldn’t blame her!

Unable to prolong what suddenly and shatteringly seemed like a not so subtle form of torture—frantic heartbeat, trembling lower limbs, her skin scorchingly hot—Milly shot to her feet and got out through a throat that had gone suffocatingly tight, ‘I’ll do the dishes.’

‘Leave them.’ His voice was lazy but there was nothing lazy about the inescapable grip of those long beautiful fingers as they closed around her wrist. He rose to his feet, still holding her wrist, and her face flooded with hot pink as his darkly veiled eyes drifted over her body with a blatant lack of inhibition.

He couldn’t make his expectations more explicit, she thought wildly, out and out panic warring with the most unnerving sensation of being on a perpetual roller coaster ride.

The strong, imperative physical awareness was something she wasn’t equipped to handle. She most definitely didn’t need it. What type of creature was she to be turned on by a monster, just because he was the most handsome, sexy and wickedly charismatic male she was ever likely to set her eyes on?

And when he stepped round the table, released her wrist, gave her a tap on her curvy backside that lingered that little bit too long and said in a voice like melted chocolate, ‘Put on a pair of walking shoes; I’ll introduce you to my island,’ Milly fled, her haste making her heartbeat race even faster.

As Cesare cleared the decks and made short work of washing the dishes and returning the kitchen to pristine order a small satisfied smile hovered at the corners of his long mouth.

The imposter was running scared! A job well done. His off-the-wall decision to bring her here was completely justified. And he couldn’t believe that she could be so naive. She still believed she was successfully deceiving him.

Santo cielo! How could she be so naive? A deliberately steamy look and she coloured like the sunrise, trembled. Didn’t she know how her twin would have reacted?

The Jilly Lee he knew would have returned that look with interest, parted her glossy lips and lowered her artificially enhanced lashes over sultry green come-bed-me eyes. She would have smouldered, not trembled like a sacrificial virgin!

The imposter, Milly, gave herself away at practically every turn and he was debating how much longer he would wait before he dropped his bombshell when she appeared at the head of the stairs.

She was still wearing the blue top that skimmed her pert and perfect breasts, and the cropped white jeans that clung to her slender, beautifully formed thighs. And on her feet she wore what he supposed she classed as walking shoes. Flat soles and thin straps, gladiator-style.

But the thing that riveted his attention, squeezed his heart, was the way that stress had darkened her clear green eyes, widening them with a mute appeal that pierced him like an arrow, the way her soft unpainted lips hovered between a tremble and a wary smile.

Out of nowhere came the unwelcome feeling that he was behaving badly, married to an intense desire to care for her, protect her, keep her safe, kiss that lovely, vulnerable mouth until it melted into passion until desire and wanting replaced the stress in those beautiful stress filled eyes.

She was descending the stairs now. Slowly, uncertainly. Cesare closed his eyes briefly to shut her out and cursed himself for reacting like a green fool, an immature sucker for an exquisitely feminine face and form.

The vulnerable, little girl lost look had to be an act; he had to remember that or he’d find himself believing he was behaving like a monster! That he was wrong.

He was never wrong!

Like her twin, she would have left innocence and purity behind her soon after she’d first climbed out of the cradle! Despite her perfect, unsullied beauty—the opposite of her twin’s brash in-your-face would-be sexiness—she was just as devious and deceitful as her freeloading, thieving sister, he reminded himself with brutal firmness.

And later this evening—let her stew a little longer, not knowing what he expected of her in her role as Jilly—he would tell her what he knew and shock her into telling him where her twin was.

She would know; of course she would. Back in England she hadn’t corrected his initial belief that she was the absconding Jilly, as she surely would have done had she had an honest bone in her body!

As soon as he’d left she would have contacted her sister—who might even have been skulking in the flat above for all he knew. They would have concocted the plan between them. As long as Milly could keep up the deception Jilly would be free to disappear again, cover her tracks completely. And as soon as she thought her sister was safe from his demands for retribution Milly too would slope away in the night.

As she drew level he forced a light tone, a smile. ‘Let’s go.’ And turned away before she could sense the anger building inside him.

‘Wait.’ Firmly said but inside she was a quaking wreck. At some moment during the time she’d spent searching through her caseful of Jilly’s cast offs for something remotely resembling walking shoes it had hit her that she couldn’t go on with this. With every moment that passed the deception became more distasteful. Intrinsically honest, she hated living a lie and, to be brutally truthful, she wasn’t brave enough to face his formidable anger when she gave herself away—as she surely would. Better to confess first. That way she could show herself to be not all bad in his eyes. Though why his opinion of her should matter one way or the other she brushed aside as being unimportant.

True, so far he hadn’t had any suspicions that anything was wrong, that she wasn’t who she was pretending to be. He’d actually been rather nice, flirtatious at one unforgettable point. Intent on getting Jilly back in his bed even though the No Marriage proviso was still writ large? After all, as he saw it, Jilly was in no position to refuse his demands.

The whole business was making her feel thoroughly ashamed of herself, not to mention horribly nervous on her own account, but now, against her former reasoning she’d reached the snap conclusion that she had to carry on with it. Opening her mouth, telling him to wait prior to making her confession, she’d had a sudden blinding mental flashback to the way her twin had always been so protective of her when they were growing up. She couldn’t let her down now. Somehow she was going to have to find a way to track Jilly down before he did.

The broad shoulders beneath the soft white cotton stiffened perceptibly and after a strained moment he slowly turned. The smile he gave her was breathtaking, one ebony brow was raised slightly, half questioning, half humorous, adding even more charisma to those lean hard features. ‘You want to borrow some footwear that won’t disintegrate after the first dozen yards?’

‘No.’ If only it were that simple! If she were to carry on with this ridiculous deception, then for her own sake she had to get things straight—never mind how Jilly would have reacted in this situation. Slim shoulders tense, her soft mouth firm, she levelled at him, ‘I want to know why you thought it necessary to bring me here.’ A deep breath. ‘And where you’ll be sleeping tonight.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘YOU KNOW WHY I brought you here,’ Cesare responded lightly and with the apparent sincerity that hid the initial much darker intent. ‘As I said to Nonna—in your hearing, as I remember—after your recent loss you need a break. I am not a complete monster.’

As her lovely eyes darkened with pain at the reminder of her mother’s death Cesare fisted his hands and cursed himself, bitterly regretting the glib distortion of his motives.

A devious little liar she might be, but she was capable of having deep feelings.

Unlike her twin.

The hedonistic Jilly would have shed a few facile tears at the loss of a parent, he assessed. But, knowing her as he did, he couldn’t imagine her having a single unselfish emotion. When pressed about her family she’d dismissed them with that irritating tinkling laugh, claiming her mother to be small-town, small-minded and her kid sister as being practical and deadly dull, too boring—Not our kind of people, not worth talking about, dahling.

But this one—Ebony brows clenched, he narrowed his eyes on her expressive features. Silky lashes were lowered to veil her dark green eyes, her soft pink mouth trembled just slightly and her glorious breasts were heaving with suppressed emotion. Yes, this twin had deep feelings, despite her manifest faults—

‘Come.’ His voice soft with sympathy and regret for his own insensitivity, he slotted an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into the sunlight. ‘We will walk, relax.’ Unbidden, his long fingers caressed the firm warm flesh of her upper arm before he realised what he was doing.

When he did he suffered the sharp reminder of her duplicity and his arm dropped back to his side in double quick time. His voice was flat with cynicism as he made himself focus on her deception and the punishment he was meting out. ‘As for the sleeping arrangements, there is a ground floor bedroom beyond the kitchen. If that is a disappointment to you, you only have to say so. On the other hand—’ his voice purred now, surprising him by its husky quality ‘—you might find yourself sleepless, wondering when I will give in to my baser instincts and seek the pleasures of your bed.’

‘More pasta?’ His voice was slow, deep and nerve-quiveringly sexy.

Milly shook her head, trying to cope with the sudden, highly unwelcome way her tummy muscles went into hot spasm. Nothing to do with the spicy tomato sauce and spaghetti they’d cooked together, working companionably enough with just the odd tingling frisson when they’d touched, hands brushing or bare arm gliding against bare arm, and everything to do with the way he made her feel.

As if she were walking a tightrope in a high wind without a safety net.

He’d been lying when he’d said he’d brought her here to give her a break; did he think she was stupid enough to believe that? He thought she was Jilly, his ex-lover, the woman he was blisteringly angry with. This so-called break was a punishment. And the worst thing was she had no idea what form that punishment would take.

And on another level entirely, she felt utterly disorientated. Nothing made sense.

Why had she warmed to him during the long afternoon as he’d shown her around his island, forgetting why she was here, the depth of her own deceit?

Why had she relaxed enough to enjoy every single moment of it?

Why couldn’t she blank out that refusing-to-budge memory of exactly how she’d felt when those long tanned fingers had caressed her arm, or the way he’d slipped a protective arm around her waist as they’d stood on top of the cliffs above the cove nearest the cottage, looking down to the white sands far below. ‘Tomorrow we will bathe,’ he’d told her, ‘take a picnic, spend the day.’

She’d felt dizzy. Not because the narrow zigzagging track down to the secluded beach looked hair-raising but because the warmth of his strong hand clamped to her waist had sent a quiver of heat across her breasts, rippling and stinging there until it had arrowed down to the pit of her stomach with devastating accuracy, making her go weak at the knees and catch her breath.

Now he said, ‘You are tired? You would like to go to bed?’

His low, husky drawl made it sound like an invitation. A slow burn ignited her skin. If it had really been an invitation would she have had the strength of will to turn it down? Or would she, like her poor betrayed sister, have accepted it with open arms, giving him her love only to have it tossed aside?

But it had been nothing of the sort, she decided shortly. What had he said earlier? That she would spend a sleepless night wondering if he would give in to his baser instincts and seek her bed.

Meaning he would have to overcome his fastidious distaste for having sex with a woman he believed to be a thief! But he’d been her sister’s lover before. Was he still in lust with her?

Lying sleepless—nerves screaming—and wondering!

No, thank you!

‘I’m fine,’ she said, glossing over her raging internal turmoil. ‘I’ll sit awhile. It’s so peaceful.’

And it was. Despite his presence.

Darkness was closing in. They’d eaten supper outside. There was a candle in a glass bowl on the table and she could hear the mesmeric whisper of the incoming tide. If it weren’t for worrying about his intentions, agonising over the way she was drawn to him, she could have believed she was in Paradise.

‘Fine!’ Cesare scoffed silently. She was nothing of the sort. Tension came off her in almost tangible waves. Worrying about the prospect of his probable sexual demands? As he’d intended her to, he conceded toughly. A small, easily justified revenge for the way she had set out to deceive him.

A contrary impulse to rise, go to her, massage the taut muscles of her neck and shoulders until she relaxed, leant back into him while he gave in to temptation and slid his hands down to slip beneath the top that left little to the imagination to caress her inviting breasts was slapped down hard before the erotic wanderings of his imagination could do any real damage.

Initially he’d fully intended to hit her with what he knew this evening, demand she tell him the whereabouts of the twin she was impersonating so badly. But during the day something had changed. He didn’t know how or why or even what, but changed it had.

He needed more time to find out what she was really like. He grimaced. More time to analyse his own ambivalent reactions to her was probably nearer the truth.

As he settled back into the shadows his long mouth curved with hastily manufactured cynicism as he watched her reach for the wineglass he’d refilled. Her hand shook. She set the glass down again. Fearful of spilling the contents, betraying herself?

He’d have to be brain dead to have missed the signs. The way her soft flesh had quivered whenever he’d touched her, the tell-tale huff of indrawn breath, the unmistakable peaking of her tight nipples against her silky top.

So would she welcome him if he went to her bed? The unbidden thought had shattering appeal, set his skin tingling with the slow burn of desire.

Dio mio! His tough jaw-line hard, Cesare shot to his feet. Male lust was taking him places he didn’t want to be. The object of this exercise had been to punish her, not himself!

‘Finish your wine.’ His voice emerged coldly. He didn’t look at her, didn’t trust himself to see the look of soft vulnerability she seemed incapable of hiding and not do something about it. Something he’d bitterly regret. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

As Cesare swept back into the cottage Milly expelled a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She heard an inner door slam. The door to the ground floor sleeping quarters he’d talked about?

Whatever. He was suddenly riven with anger, that much she did know. But didn’t know why.

She passed a hand over her forehead in an attempt to rub away the tense frown lines. He was angry with Jilly, not with her, she had to remind herself. Keeping up with her dual identity was really getting to her.

She was finding the deception more than distasteful but at least it bought time she consoled herself as she hauled herself to her feet and began to stack the used dishes. More time for her to somehow figure a way of tracking her twin down, more time for Jilly to get over her going-nowhere affair with the charismatic far-too-sexy Italian tycoon so that she’d be in a stronger emotional state to argue her case, convince him that there had been some dreadful mistake.

And more time for her unwilling fascination with him to develop into a deeper phase? was the utterly disquieting thought that popped into her head.

Thrusting it aside as brutally as she knew how, she carried the dishes through and washed them at the deep stone sink and, drying her hands, listened to the silence until she felt calmer.

A door on the far wall, tucked between the dresser and a painted closet, a door she hadn’t noticed before, must lead to the bedroom he was using. Annoyingly, her eyes would keep straying to it. As if she were expecting Cesare to emerge, black hair damp from the shower, droplets glistening on the golden skin of his perfectly crafted torso, a towel slung low on his narrow hips?

Expecting? Wanting?

Ashamed of the burning heat, the sullen ache, that was claiming the most private part of her anatomy, she dragged in a shaky breath, turning her back on the door and carefully folded the towel she’d been using, naming herself for the worst kind of fool.

At least his manner of leaving her—anger because of what he thought Jilly had done taking precedence over what she, the imposter, guessed was his callous decision to exact sexual part payment for her perceived wrongdoing meant that she’d be safe from his desire to carry on from where he and her twin had left off.

Safe, too, from her own emerging weakness?

Even so, if there had been a key to her bedroom door she would have locked it.

‘The sea is waiting. Remember?’

The soft drawl brought Milly out of her troubled sleep at the speed of light, as if every nerve in her body had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Jerking up against the pillows, she belatedly tugged the sheet up to cover her breasts, bitterly regretting her decision to slip naked between the cool crisp sheets after her shower last night.

Embarrassment colouring her cheeks, deep emerald eyes flinchingly sought him beneath the tousled pale silk of her fringe. Sought and locked.

Casually leaning against the doorframe, incredibly sexy in narrow-fitting jeans and a sleeveless olive green T-shirt, he looked magnificent, magnetic, all male strength, lean lines, hard muscles.

Her breath stopped in her throat. Her eyes slid up to his face. That slight utterly devastating smile, the straight Roman nose that flared a little when he was angry, the dark as night eyes veiled now by impossibly thick and silky lashes.

It was so unfair!

If her worldly-wise sophisticated twin, who’d been wrapping besotted males around her little finger ever since she’d reached her late teens, hadn’t been able to resist falling for him then how the hell was she supposed to cope?

Conquests had always come so easily to Jilly, and had just as easily bored her. She’d always walked away without a single regret. But this time, if her hunch was right, Jilly had met more than her match. She’d finally fallen in love and Milly couldn’t blame her.

Worriedly she recalled that last postcard from Florence. It must have been sent just before Jilly had joined the Saracino household. She had been so sure that in the future money would be no object, that she would be able to repay her debts. She must have been convinced that her new lover would soon be her husband.

‘Get ready. We’ll eat breakfast on the beach and swim later,’ he delivered, fascinated by the blush that bloomed like wild roses on her cheeks. And turned away before he could get too fascinated by her naked state beneath the tangled sheet, tangled in a way that left one long, smooth and shapely leg exposed all the way to the apex of a creamy thigh, sternly reminding himself of the questions he had lined up for the lying little witch today.

He turned away, leaving the room, and Milly released a pent-up sigh of deep relief. She couldn’t believe how vulnerable she’d felt, lying here in a sheet and nothing else.

And the way he’d been looking at her, as if he could see right through the fine white cotton! Her whole body blushed and, to take her mind off it, she leapt out of bed and told herself she was doing fine. Just fine.

As she rummaged through her suitcase for something to wear she mentally ticked off all the pros.

So far he still had no idea that she wasn’t Jilly.

While that state of affairs remained he wasn’t out there hunting down the real Jilly, no doubt with a pair of handcuffs in his pocket.

He hadn’t made any attempt to get up close and personal.

She was sensible enough to slap him down if he did. Wasn’t she?

As for the cons.

There was the rest of the week to get through.

But she could hack it!

Sifting through Jilly’s cast-offs, she extracted an outrageous black bikini. Three triangles of fabric and a sort of thong thing. Her face went scarlet. Cleo must have added it to the pile while she had been helping her decide what to take. She, Milly, would never dream of flaunting herself in something so revealing!

She thrust it back into the case, then sat back on her heels, forcing herself to face facts.

Jilly would have no hesitation in wearing the thing. She was supposed to be Jilly, wasn’t she? So, to keep the impersonation going and not get found out, she was going to have to behave and dress as her twin would.

Not giving herself time to think about it, she put it on and smartly covered up with a pair of very brief pale lemon coloured shorts, the weird sandals and a sleeveless blouse in a toning, slightly darker lemon that tied just below her breasts, leaving her midriff bare, and went down to the kitchen before she could chicken out.

‘Coffee.’ Cesare pushed a mug of the fragrant brew across the kitchen table. He was seated, long legs outstretched, encased in faded denim. He was naked to the waist now; the tanned skin that stretched over whipcord muscles gleamed with health and vigour. Milly’s throat jerked. He was too much!

Feeling hot and bothered beneath his lazy scrutiny, she took the mug and carried it to the open door and leaned against the frame, looking out over the lush green valley so she didn’t have to look at him, doing her damnedest to appear relaxed. If only she knew what sort of game he was playing! It seemed as though he was making up the rules as he went along!

Before they’d arrived on the island he’d treated her as if she were beneath contempt, dark eyes filled with cold scorn, reinforcing what she already knew. That he was only suffering her presence beneath his roof and not hauling her before a judge because his grandmother had taken a real liking to her lively young companion. And his beloved Nonna’s happiness and wellbeing counted more than his own satisfaction at seeing her face prosecution.

Yet now—

‘It is a beautiful day, yes?’

Milly hadn’t heard him come to stand behind her and the sheer sensuality of his voice made her breath lock in her lungs and sent a skitter of sensation down the length of her spine.

She moved away, putting her coffee mug down on the outdoor table and managed, ‘So it is,’ and wondered when his motives would become clear. And what they were.

Getting her—Jilly—back into his bed? From the rapid alteration in his attitude, it kind of looked that way. The unwanted conclusion took her breath away and she snatched a deep gulp of fresh air, breathing in the scent of the sea and the abundant wild herbs.

‘Shall we go?’ He had joined her, a backpack hooked over one shoulder, bare feet in canvas deck shoes, sunlight gleaming on the skin of his torso making it look like oiled silk.

Her legs decidedly shaky, Milly followed, keeping behind him as the track leading to the cliff top narrowed. The way down to the beach looked more hair-raising than it had done yesterday.

‘Take my hand.’

‘I can manage.’

No way did Milly want physical contact. But he ignored her, taking her delicate hand in his much stronger one and he couldn’t have taken more care of her as he helped her negotiate the scary path if she’d been his best beloved. And observation that for a silly moment made her wish that she really was.

Her face red with embarrassment at the way her thoughts were taking her, Milly tugged her hand free the moment they reached the soft white sand of the cove, wishing again she’d never embarked on this crazy scheme. She had to remind herself firmly that now that she had to carry on with it as she watched him drop the rucksack in the shade of a rock.

Then he turned to face the sea, his dark head thrown back, his perfectly proportioned body stretching with sensual animal grace as he welcomed the warmth of the sun on his bronzed skin.

Milly told herself to look away but she couldn’t. He was magnificent, and when he turned to her, a grin making him look irresistible, and said, ‘We’ll swim first. Race you to the water!’ a skitter of something wicked attacked the length of her spine.

Those long tanned fingers of his were at his belt buckle. Milly’s heart began a wild tattoo as she became cringingly aware of the scanty nature of the so-called swim wear beneath her shorts and top.

She could always decline, refuse to go anywhere near the water. There was no law that said she had to.

But Jilly would never pass up on such an opportunity to flaunt her assets in front of such an eminently desirable male. She was no shrinking violet! Milly knew her twin inside out, knew how she would behave.

Here in this magical place, alone with the man she loved, she would be hoping to lure him into changing his mind about the veto on marriage, tempt him and then protest her innocence in the matter of theft. Milly was sure she couldn’t go that far, it was too dangerous. The protestations of innocence would have to come from her twin—and the tempting bit. But if she was going to continue to act the part of her twin then at least she had to stay in character.

As she forced herself to untie her top she noted that Cesare had shed his jeans and was now clad in brief black swim trunks that did zero to disguise his manhood. Gulping, she turned her back on him, her heart fluttering, nervous tension threatening to pull her apart as she reluctantly shed her top and muttered, ‘You go ahead. I don’t do racing.’

Cesare didn’t move. She was clearly uncomfortable. Desperately uncomfortable. Her back, naked save the narrow ribbons that must hold her bikini top in place, was taut with inner tension. Her fingers hesitated at the waistband of the shorts she was wearing.

Compassion twisted deep in his chest. Had her hard-nosed twin forced her into this charade against her will? It was beginning to look like it. The Jilly Lees of this world went full tilt to get what they wanted, never mind who got hurt in the process.

His hands fisted then uncurled at his sides as she took the plunge and stepped out of her shorts revealing smooth firm buttocks, long shapely legs. She was so beautiful. His heart jerked. And then she half turned and his mouth ran dry. The three scraps of fabric that pretended to be a bikini were outrageous, the bottom half barely held in place by a thong.

Exactly the sort of siren stuff her twin would choose. Plainly not expecting him to be still waiting, she shot him a wild look, her skin flaming, then fled for the sea. Following more slowly, Cesare actively disliked himself for putting her through this.

He should have told her he knew what was going on the moment they had set foot on the island, demanded to know where her twin was. Not played games.

Apart from short hair, short fingernails, she and Jilly were physically identical. Yet he had never been remotely attracted to her twin, finding her overt sexiness a distinct turn-off. Which led him to the uncomfortable conclusion that he was definitely attracted to the softer, gentler version.

Against his will. But still attracted.

As the cool aquamarine waters closed around her overheated body Milly relaxed just a little. She had truly believed he would have already been in the sea. But he’d been standing there all the time, watching her with those dark unreadable sexy eyes while she’d stripped off her top clothes. From the back she would have looked naked, she thought with a shudder of deep embarrassment, and from the front not a whole lot better. The tiny scraps of fabric did more to tantalise than to conceal.

And the way he’d looked at her—well, she wasn’t going to think about that! Striking out in a racing crawl, she kicked out for the headland that sheltered the cove.

She was a strong swimmer and loved the water. In fact she had won cups during her schooldays. It was the one area where she had left Jilly far behind. Jilly hated physical exertion.

For the first time since she’d made the momentous decision to go along with his belief that she was her twin sister, Milly felt free, at ease with herself and the watery elements as she stroked through the swells. But the rocky headland looked no nearer and at this rate she wouldn’t reach it until a week on Sunday—

A sudden surge, the impression that she was being attacked by an extra large and determined octopus, had Milly gasping, squirming as Cesare’s head emerged, sea water running in rivulets from his sleek head, his arms tight around her body.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she spluttered in outrage. She had headed out here to escape him for a short but precious time. But he’d followed. Wasn’t the ocean large enough for both of them?

He was spoiling her pleasure, wiping out that glorious feeling of freedom. ‘Let go of me!’ He was stopping her progress, what there had been of it. And worse, far worse, his grip meant their bodies were touching, breast to thigh. She could feel the hard determined strength of him against her slender curves and it was just too much. Her heart was pounding with the effort to stop herself from pressing much, much closer, winding arms and legs around every bit of him she could reach.

‘Saving you from drowning.’ His mouth was taut. The current here is deadly. As I would have warned you if you’d hung around long enough to listen.’ Treading water, he shook his head with a snap of impatience, water droplets scattering. ‘Head back. Now!’

Shuddering, Milly became aware of the undertow she’d unknowingly been fighting for the last few minutes, dragging them steadily and inexorably towards the horizon.

Frightened now, she struck out, fighting against the current, heading back to the distant shoreline, aware that Cesare was shadowing her, modifying his progress to hers, and she was more grateful than he would ever know because, strangely, she felt that nothing could harm her while he was with her.

When at last they were clear of the undertow he powered ahead of her and, seconds later, it seemed, he stood up, finding bottom, the gently swelling water reaching his trim waist.

Waiting. His features like a thunderstorm.

Milly swam slowly towards him, her lungs still burning from her strenuous fight against the undertow, the calm surface water hiding the danger. As soon as she was within reach Cesare slid his hands beneath her arms and hauled her to her feet and bit out with blistering fury, ‘Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again!’ his eyes black with fury. His hands tightened on her slender shoulders. ‘Dio mio! You could have died, you bird-brained little fool!’

And he could have died trying to save her, was her initial mortifying thought, fully aware that he would not have stood idly by and watched her put herself in danger. But his bellowed insult moved her to self defence and she raised her chin, her heart still pounding from her efforts, her breasts heaving, pushing against the clinging, useless scraps of fabric and snapped right back, ‘How was I to know? And you can stop yelling!’

She shimmied her shoulders wildly, trying to loosen his punishing grip, but his hands just slid down to her waist, tugging her towards him with a bitten out, ‘You—’ Then his mouth was on hers with forceful, angry passion, one hand pressing her body into his until she could feel the imprint of every muscle, the shocking hardness of his arousal against the wet quivering flesh of her tummy, the other hand behind her head, holding her against any hope of escape.

Not that escape entered her mind. She had never experienced anything like this—this hot searing passion, this crazy escalation of sensation, setting every atom of her flesh on fire.

Milly’s arms wound up to coil around his neck, her lips parting in instinctive eager welcome and she heard him groan, low and deep, his mouth gentling, moving sensually as his tongue stroked hers for giddying moments before moving down and taking the hard crest of her breast after nudging the unresisting scrap of wet fabric aside.

Cesare moved slowly towards the shore, taking her with him, bodies moving as one, clinging, lost in drugged pleasure, and his mouth explored now, gentle, awestruck by the sweet perfection of her, the soft hollow at her temples, the tender underside of her jaw, her throat where a pulse was beating madly. His hands moved, disposing of the flimsy scraps that were an insult to the pert glory of her peaking breasts.

Bewitching.

He was bewitched.

His hands moved, shaped her breasts then the tips of his fingers explored her tight nipples and the air in his lungs felt hot and heavy as she threw her head back, her eyes closing, her soft pink lips parted as her hips moved with instinctive rhythm against his rampant arousal.

Shock waves of sensation had him almost stumbling as his feet encountered the hot sand of the secluded beach. His mouth took hers with almost savagely passionate intent as he drew her down on to the sand and groaned with all male pleasure as she wrapped her lovely legs around his hips and trembled.

Madness.

Irresistible madness.

She was open to him. And hot. Hot. Hot.

‘Bella, bella, bella—’

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE DISTINCTIVE RING tone of his mobile phone had the salutary effect of a bucket of ice cold water. Cesare’s dark head shot up.

Porca miseria. Had he run mad? He’d been controlled by lust for the first time in his life, forgetting who she was, who he was! It was demeaning and he didn’t like the experience.

Her hands were clinging to his shoulders. He firmly detached them and, not looking at her for shame, he disentangled himself, jerked to his feet and strode over the few paces to where he’d left his rucksack before he’d turned insane.

Noting with deep distaste that his hands weren’t steady, he extracted the slim mobile and ground out, ‘Che?’ And went still.

Almost sobbing with a horrible mixture of shameful sexual frustration, blind panic and helpless mortification, Milly scrambled to her feet and stumbled over the soft sand and, all fingers and thumbs, began to struggle into her shorts and top.

What must he think of her? Her eyes sparkled with scalding tears and her face burned hot and scarlet. That she was an out and out slut? His for the taking!

And what was almost worse, the painful conclusion that she didn’t want him to think badly of her, that his good opinion mattered—more than anything else.

How could she explain, tell him that she wasn’t like that, that this sort of thing had never happened to her before—and expect him to listen, let alone believe her? And that led to another conclusion she really didn’t want to have to think about.

The final irony—he thought she was Jilly, his ex-lover. He wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at her frenzied response, naturally he wouldn’t, cynically putting it down to a resumption of past pleasures.

It just went to show that she’d been so lost in wanting him, needing him, that she’d totally forgotten who she was supposed to be to the extent that she’d been frantically wondering how she could convince him that this sort of behaviour wasn’t normal for her and what had happened had only happened because, for her, he was special.

Squirming inside with sickening embarrassment, she had to concede that she’d come within a whisker of giving herself away—in more senses than one.

If there had been no interruption their steamy encounter would have reached an inevitable conclusion. He would have known then; he wasn’t stupid. She was a virgin, Jilly certainly wasn’t!

Finally the top was in place, the tie ends more or less securely fastened and, her head downbent in mortification, she peered up at him through her lashes. He was speaking in his own language, his tone questioning, terse. Then he closed the phone with a snap, tossed it into the rucksack and dragged on his jeans.

The belt buckle swiftly dealt with, he scooped up the rucksack, slinging it over his shoulder, then turned to her as if he had only just recalled her existence, his brow clenched in a black frown. Milly hung her head in a vain attempt to hide the renewed flush of humiliation that burned on her face.

His voice harsh, he imparted, ‘Nonna had a bad fall this morning. That was Rosa to tell me they’d just returned from Casualty. We leave for the mainland immediately.’

He was striding away and, just as he reached the cliff pathway, she caught up with him, her own troublesome problems forgotten in her anxiety for the old lady she’d liked immediately. ‘Is she hurt? What happened?’

Brow clenched, he spared her a glance. ‘Broken collar bone and cracked ribs. Nothing life threatening but at her age the shock—’ His voice clipped on his last word and Milly impulsively laid a hand on his arm.

‘Try not to worry,’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘We’ll soon be with her. Look,’ she suggested firmly and calmly, ‘you go on ahead, do what you need to do—rev up the helicopter, or whatever. I’ll follow, quick as I can. And the stuff I brought with me, I’ll leave it. It’s not important, so I won’t need to waste time packing.’

Cesare’s eyes dropped first to the small hand that lay consolingly on his forearm and then lifted to her face. There was concern in those beautiful eyes, determination writ large on her exquisite features. His heart jerked with something indefinable and his voice was thick as he countered, ‘You come with me. I don’t want to have to fly you to hospital because you fell off a cliff!’

Common sense, Milly told herself as he took her hand and helped her along every step of the tortuous track. Of course he wouldn’t want her to miss her footing and fall; he wouldn’t want the delay of scraping her up off the rocks, she decided, determined not to read anything more into his care for her.

The way he strode rapidly ahead the moment they reached the safety of the cliff top gave credence to her assessment. He was waiting for her outside the little stone cottage when she arrived, out of breath. He had slung a casual, well worn light denim jacket over his naked torso and he enquired briefly, ‘Did you mean what you said about not packing?’

‘Of course. I left stuff back at the villa. I won’t have to walk around naked.’ And what had led her to say that she had no idea, especially when the throwaway remark earned her the glimmer of a quirky smile and a pointedly raised eyebrow before he set off across the island to the landing pad, leaving her to trot along in his wake, hot and bothered, wondering if what she felt for him was actually love. Wondering how she could be so stupid to even give that thought headroom.

The journey back to the villa was swiftly accomplished by helicopter and car, mostly in silence. Milly was aware of his impatience, the evidence of it written all over him as he braked the car to a gravel-splattering halt, slid out and strode into the villa where Rosa was waiting for him.

There was no way Milly could make head or tail of the rapid Italian conversation, but she picked out the word dottore and when Cesare headed for his grandmother’s ground floor bedroom she followed, anxious to know how the old lady was.

The room was exactly as she remembered it from the previous time she’d come here. Tall windows opened to the warm air, gauzy curtains filtering out the harshness of the sunlight, fluttering gently in the slight breeze. The delicate tester bed with Filomena propped up against the white embroidered pillows, one arm strapped in a sling.

Cesare strode towards the old lady, lifting the hand that wasn’t confined by the sling to his lips, his voice hoarse as he murmured what Milly, hovering uncertainly in the doorway, could only suppose to be reassurances.

Then he turned to the short stout man who was packing a stethoscope into a square black bag and fired questions at him in Italian.

Feeling out of place, still in turmoil over what had taken place between her and Cesare this morning, Milly was about to turn and go to her own room when Filomena registered her presence in the doorway.

‘My dear—come, sit with me!’ And in the same breath, ‘Cesare! English only as usual—to please me.’

Going to Filomena, Milly’s legs felt unsteady and almost gave way beneath her when she saw Cesare swing round, dark colour slashing along his angular cheekbones as his glittering eyes bored into her quaking body.

Once again he had forgotten all about her and definitely didn’t like being reminded that she was still on the same planet, she decided miserably, knowing that she would never be the centre of his thoughts and wishing she could be.

Trying to ignore that piece of insanity as Cesare saw the doctor out, Milly sank into the pretty pale lemon upholstered chair at the bedside and smiled with sympathy, ‘Poor you—how do you feel? A bit battered?’

The old lady was pale but her eyes were smiling as she answered, ‘Only when I try to move! I was careless and now I pay the price.’

‘How did it happen?’ Milly stroked the frail hand that lay on the white coverlet, trying to ignore the tingling sensation at the nape of her neck which told her that Cesare had returned and his black eyes were boring into the back of her head.

‘Amalia and I were walking in the garden and I was so amused by her wicked gossip that I was not paying attention and missed my footing on the steps leading down to the arbour.’

‘Where is the Contessa now?’ Cesare had stationed himself on the opposite side of the bed. Milly was determined not to look at him.

‘She left when I was returned on a stretcher. Such a fuss! She was fearful that she would be in the way.’

‘I should not have left you here with her!’ Cesare pronounced on a grim note of castigation. ‘If you are not even to be trusted to look where you are going!’

‘Grandson, you speak as if I am a child!’

Filomena was obviously growing distressed. Milly rose to her defence. Disregarding her intention not to look at him she glared across the bed, her green eyes glinting defiantly. ‘Your grandmother does not need to be grumbled at. If you can’t be gentle then I suggest you go find someone stronger to snipe at!’ She caught his look of stunned surprise and didn’t care.

From what she already knew of him throwing his weight around was second nature. He had probably not been spoken to in such a way during the whole of his over-privileged life. In her opinion a reprimand was long overdue!

Filomena reached for her hand and gave it a warm squeeze and Cesare, on his dignity, announced, ‘I apologise, Nonna. I have been anxious. Now I will go and arrange round the clock nursing care.’

He turned, his shoulders rigid, but was held back by his grandmother saying, ‘I forbid it. I will not have strangers fussing around me and doing objectionable things to me! I am not ill. I simply need to rest until I am mended. Jilly and Rosa will tend me between them.’

He turned back then. Slowly. His dark eyes sought Milly’s. ‘You are capable?’

Her chin came up. She returned the pressure of the old lady’s fingers. ‘Perfectly.’ Her dark green gaze steady, she held her breath. Would he back down or would he, after her insubordination, insist on hiring nursing staff?

They weren’t to know it but the real Jilly would run a mile rather than put a foot one inch inside a sickroom. She had no patience with what she perceived as weakness in anyone.

He was watching her through hooded eyes, as if doubting her capability, and was about to offer up some argument that would allow him to get his own way. It was time for her to put her foot down again.

‘Please ask Rosa to fix a lunch tray for your grandmother. Something light.’ She turned to the old lady. ‘A little soup, perhaps?’ She received her amused nod and added firmly, ‘And then she must rest.’

Did his savagely handsome mouth quirk? Milly wasn’t sure and was not about to let herself think about it, not while she was desperate to stop herself from having any thoughts about him at all, especially after what he had made her feel this morning. How he had made her behave!

‘You handle him well,’ Filomena remarked as soon as the door had closed behind him. ‘He has the habit of authority. Though well deserved, I am the first to admit. He is always right.’

She sounded tired and Milly wondered if she was brooding over his comment that she was not to be trusted to look where she was going. In her weakened state his snapped comment would have been upsetting.

‘He adores you,’ Milly was quick to console. ‘He was only grumpy with you because you’d given him such a fright. It’s a natural reaction.’

Had that first hot, savage kiss been born out of anger at the danger she’d unknowingly put herself in? Had it been a question of kiss her or shake her until her teeth fell out? Probably. And, as for what had happened next, well, he believed she was her sister, his ex-lover, and the progression had also been completely natural, that first punishing kiss rekindling old flames.

Nothing to do with her, Milly. Nothing personal.

Thankfully, Rosa appeared with a tray, taking her mind off such dejecting, demoralising thoughts. Settling it on the old lady’s knees, murmuring in her own language, the housekeeper finally addressed Milly. ‘Would you also like tray? Keep the Signora company?’

Breaking the soft bread roll that accompanied the broth and, buttering it, earning herself a smile of gratitude from her charge, Milly seized the offer. ‘Thank you, Rosa. I think I’ll take all my meals with the Signora, if it’s no trouble.’ That way she could avoid eating with Cesare. The less she could manage to see of him the better.

‘Di niente!’ The housekeeper beamed. ‘Much good plan!’

In the event Milly saw hardly anything of Cesare except when he visited his grandmother at around ten each morning and again at ten in the evenings, or whenever the doctor appeared to check up on his patient. And on every occasion Milly made her excuses and left the room, only returning when she was sure the coast was clear. For the rest of the time Cesare was closeted in his first floor office, commanding his empire or occasionally visiting headquarters in Florence.

She wasn’t being cowardly in avoiding him as much as possible, she assured herself. Just being sensible. She was in grave danger of believing herself in love with him. It was bad enough having him haunt her dreams at night—dreams so erotic she woke with a feeling of deep shame—without having to be in his company during waking hours.

It had been four weeks since Filomena’s accident and the old lady was making great strides and Cesare had been away on business—Hong Kong and somewhere in the Far East, according to the patient—for the past ten days, apparently comfortable about leaving her in charge which, she supposed, was progress!

On the whole Milly was much easier than she’d been when she’d first arrived. Her duties were satisfying. She and Filomena were growing fonder of each other as each day passed and life here at the villa had settled into a pleasant routine.

But.

Her deception was really bugging her now. Deceiving a kind, trusting old lady was despicable—there was no other word for it and she was no nearer tracing her sister than she had been back in Ashton Lacey. And deceiving Cesare was every bit as distasteful.

She was going to have to come clean and take the flak, she decided with a sickening lurch of her stomach. Let Cesare with his wealth and clout find her sister and then they could finally get the misunderstanding cleared up and she could go home—providing Cesare didn’t decide to prosecute her as well which, she decided miserably, was a high probability!

And, not nearly as important but still troublesome, she was heartily sick of having to wear Jilly’s cast-offs. Everything was either too tight-fitting, too short, too low cut, too brashly in-your-face, or a mixture of all four! Whatever she wore she felt uncomfortable.

Putting her sour mood down to the cream leather miniskirt and matching sleeveless top—surely one of Jilly’s impulse buys because it didn’t seem to have been worn before—she collected secateurs from the garden room and headed across the cobbled courtyard on the spindly heels that were de rigueur as far as Jilly was concerned, apart from the weird sandals that had finally fallen to pieces during that last hurried scramble over the island to the helicopter.

Rosa was sitting with her mistress for a couple of hours, as she did each afternoon, and Milly would cut fresh roses for Filomena’s room. She knew how much she enjoyed them, especially as she couldn’t get out in the garden herself yet.

Soothed by the prospect of an hour in the beautiful gardens, she made her way through the formal box parterre, theatrical with its stone urns and magnifient central carved fountain, through the perfumed lemon grove and on to the path that led to what Filomena called her English garden, a yew enclosed area that was filled with her precious roses in generous beds edged with aromatic lavender.

After looking in on Nonna briefly and, having a word with Rosa to make sure his grandmother’s steady progress was continuing, Cesare headed for his office and dumped his bulging briefcase. Loosening his tie, he allowed that he was more than glad to be home.

For the past few months he’d worked from home, or when necessary from the Florence office, feeling trapped, missing the dynamism of covering all the corners of his business empire in his private jet, the hands-on troubleshooting he thrived on.

It had been necessary, initially because of what he had seen as Nonna’s worrying lack of interest in staying alive, and then because, although the young companion he’d hired had kept her amused, seemingly giving her a new lease of life, something had told him Jilly Lee couldn’t be trusted.

And so he’d stayed home, his decision validated when he’d been left to pick up the pieces after the thieving little tramp had disappeared.

A problem to be solved at the Far East refinery followed by his unavoidable presence at the opening of the opulent retail outlet for the breathtakingly expensive Saracino gems had necessitated a stop-over in Hong Kong. Once a regular part of his focused—some said driven—working life, jetting between the various arms of his empire, making sure everything was working smoothly.

But instead of feeling free, enjoying doing what he did best, he had been itching to get back home.

Facing facts as he prided himself on doing, he wandered to the tall window that overlooked the courtyard, shedding his suit jacket on the way, ignoring the clatter of the fax machine.

Concern for his grandmother wasn’t the reason—daily reports from Rosa had assured him that she was doing splendidly, that the companion, Signorina Jilly, was amazing all the staff by showing her gentler side, so much good humour and patience.

So even his staff had noted the startling change in character!

Put simply, he hadn’t been able to get the bewitching little imposter out of his head. Remembering how her practically naked, perfectly lovely body had felt in his arms, her passionate, generous response, had been responsible for more sleepless nights than he wanted to think about.

And the way she had avoided him since they’d returned to the villa had had him wanting to punch holes in walls. He had to discover why she was pretending to be her much harder twin sister. Every time he’d decided to make her come clean something had happened to stop him. It was as if fate was conspiring against him. And the need to know was assuming monumental proportions.

Thrusting his hands into the side pockets of his narrow fitting suit trousers, he rocked back on his heels and told himself that her deliberate avoidance had forced a necessary and sensible patience on his behalf.

Have the whole thing out with her he would, but not until Nonna was fit again and back on her feet. There was always the danger that, when confronted with what he knew, had known for weeks, the imposter would run.

Short of locking her in her room and chaining her to the bedpost, there was little he could do to ensure that she didn’t simply disappear. And he was honest enough to acknowledge that he had more reasons than one for not wanting that to happen.

He froze, the breath locking in his lungs as a savage stab of lustful sensation arrowed through him. The object of his serial thoughts had just entered the courtyard, heading for the garden room, judging by the flowers that were cradled in the crook of one arm.

She looked hot, uncomfortable. Pausing, she thrust out her lush lower lip and puffed out a breath to shift the now overlong silvery blonde fringe out of her eyes, then plucked crossly at the unsuitable tacky leather miniskirt that showed far too much of her delectable legs than was wise in company.

Just the sort of tasteless garment her twin would choose, he decided as she walked on, tottering on ridiculously high heels over the cobbles.

Cesare expelled a harsh breath and, lust ignored for the moment, decided on a pang of soft sympathy to do something for her. Retrieving his mobile from his jacket pocket, he flipped it open and began to dial.

‘They are beautiful, my dear,’ Filomena enthused as Milly fed the last rose into place in the crystal bowl. ‘How I miss my garden! It is so thoughtful of you to bring it to me.’

‘It won’t be long now,’ Milly promised with a warm smile. Next week Filomena was due to have another X-ray and if the collar bone was healed she could be rid of the sling and could venture out of doors. Already she was able to walk around her room without discomfort, which showed her ribs were healing well, and she sat for several hours in the armchair by one of the tall windows. ‘Now, would you like me to read to you?’

There was a shelf full of new books which, she learned, Jilly and Filomena had chosen in Florence—thankfully all English language editions because of the old lady’s wish to thoroughly familiarise herself with the tongue she had learned as a young woman. They were currently halfway through Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, Milly’s choice because she’d been given a copy on her tenth birthday and had read it annually ever since, gradually acquiring all the great author’s works.

‘Later.’ Dark eyes twinkled. ‘We will talk now and you will tell me more about yourself. Especially about young men. I’m sure you must have someone special waiting for you back home.’ She smiled with pure mischief. ‘Most anxious to see you again—just as I’m sure your little sister must be!’

A bubble of hysteria burst in Milly’s stomach. So far nothing more had been said of the horrible suggestion that she invite her ‘little sister’ over for a holiday! What if her putative boyfriend were to be included in the invitation?’

Trying not to squawk in horror at the prospect, she tugged at the horrid leather top, which made her feel overheated and tacky, and denied, ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ Which was the absolute truth.

The moment Cesare had left the premises for his headquarters in Florence a few days after they’d returned to the villa she’d phoned Bruce to stop him worrying about where she had got to and had received a far from interested or sympathetic reaction to her news that she was working in Tuscany for the time being as paid companion to a lovely Italian lady.

Words like Inconsiderate…Flighty behaviour…Mother and I always thought you were steady and sensible…Disappointed in you…

In the end she had put the phone down on him, thanking her lucky stars that she had never regarded him as anything more than a friend, only being thrown in a loop when his mother had talked about formalising their so-called relationship.

‘Now why do I find that so hard to believe?’ Filomena questioned with a mischievous smile and Milly shifted uneasily in the chair she’d chosen to use, hating the way the leather skirt stuck to her thighs and made a discomfiting sucking noise when she moved and wishing she could kick off her silly shoes because her feet were killing her and wondering how Jilly could actually choose to wear such stuff.

Thankfully, when Cesare entered the room, she was spared more personal delving. She hadn’t known he was back and, to her horror, a hot spiralling ache invaded her pelvis as she stared at his broad and gorgeous back and narrowly clad long legs as he immediately strode over to where his grandmother sat and lifted her hands to his lips, sparing Milly not a single glance.

Gratefully seizing the opportunity to make herself scarce, she got to her feet and, as if Cesare had second sight, he drawled, ‘Stay where you are. I need to talk to you both.’

Turning, he caught her in the act of sneaking out of the room. Her face flushed a furious scarlet then paled to ash grey beneath the light tan she’d picked up since arriving in Tuscany when he announced, his fantastically handsome face the picture of innocence, ‘Nonna, if you can spare Jilly, I need to be in Florence. I’d like to take her with me—I’m sure there are things she needs to buy and I’d like to give her dinner afterwards.’

As a bombshell it couldn’t have been more unwelcome. She had no idea what he was up to. In her role as Jilly she should jump at the opportunity to spend time with her one-time lover, hoping against hope he could be persuaded to change his mind about marriage.

But as she wasn’t her twin, merely her pale shadow—a shadow who craved his company as well as seeing the personal danger in that weak self indulgence—she would have to get out of it somehow.

She sent an unconsciously pleading look in Filomena’s direction, willing the old lady to voice an objection at being deprived of her companion, and felt sickeningly let down when all she got was a bright smile and, ‘What a splendid idea! I spoiled the break she needed when I had that silly accident and she has worked tirelessly and so cheerfully. A daughter couldn’t have shown more kindness—she deserves to be spoiled!’

Milly cringed at the fulsome praise, she didn’t deserve it, not while her deceit was sticking like a hard rock behind her breastbone. And there was no way out as far as she could see, not unless she threw a sudden fainting fit. As she didn’t trust her acting ability to accomplish that she mumbled through a mouth that felt too stiff to open, ‘I’ll get changed, then.’

‘There’s no need.’ Cesare was at her side. A firm hand encircled her arm, just above her elbow. Her flesh burned and quivered at his touch. It was the first time he had touched her since that morning on the beach and it sensitised every cell in her body, made her so sexually aware of him she didn’t know what to do with herself.

‘You can change later,’ he promised silkily. ‘Right now, Stefano is waiting to drive us.’

CHAPTER NINE

STARING AT THE back of Stefano’s neck and thankful for the sleek, top-of-the-range vehicle’s effective air-conditioning that helped her feel marginally less sticky and uncomfortable, Milly vowed that the moment she and Cesare got some privacy she would come clean, tell him everything and take his understandable and flaying anger because she guessed she deserved it.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to ignore the bombardment of nerves that was turning her stomach upside down and inside out at the thought that after his initial rage would come his scornful hatred. She tried to concentrate on figuring out why Cesare, cool and brooding and speechless at her side, had insisted she go to Florence with him and what he had meant when he’d told her she could change later.

She would have asked him there and then but she positively knew she wouldn’t get the whole truth, just something bland, fit for Stefano’s ears.

When the car at last drew to a halt in front of the Saracino Palace she stared at the opulent Renaissance building with wide-eyed awe. During one of her long chatty conversations with Filomena the old lady had mentioned in passing that the hotel had been in their family for decades, as if it was no big deal!

Unable to imagine what it must be like to belong to a family that had old money coming out of its ears—not to mention the gigantic profits that came from a world-spanning business empire, Milly settled to wait as Cesare fired off instructions in Italian to Stefano and slid his long legs to the pavement, imagining that perhaps she was to be dropped somewhere else in the city and returned at an hour of Cesare’s choosing.

But the door at her side swung open and she found herself staring into that darkly sexy face, her stomach flipping as he commanded with impatience at her glued to her seat stance, ‘Come, we are blocking the traffic.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought—’

‘Basta! Just move it!’

Only now aware of the cacophony of car horns Milly slid out, appalled by the way her borrowed miniskirt skidded up to reveal her no-nonsense white panties, flushing to the roots of her pale blonde hair as someone vented a loud wolf-whistle. Her colour in no way subsided as Cesare clamped a lean bronzed hand on her elbow and hustled her on to the pavement as a uniformed doorman gave him a deferential greeting.

Respect and genuine warmth enveloped him on all sides, Milly noted as he strode with her over the cool marble paving of the immense reception area. She was horribly aware of the same eyes assessing her, though.

His staff probably thought she was some slapper he’d picked up off the street and, her slim shoulders slumping as she tried to make herself invisible, she muttered uncomfortably, ‘I’m not dressed for this place and if you’re thinking of eating here—’ he had told Filomena he wanted to give her dinner ‘—I’d rather find a back street joint,’ and found herself ushered into a private lift and whisked upwards.

Cesare, leaning back against the satin finished steel wall, studied her through veiled eyes. The blonde silk of her hair tumbled into her eyes and her lovely mouth was a mutinous pink pout and she winced whenever she took a step in the ridiculous heels she was wearing. His heart ached for her discomfort and he marvelled at the feeling of guilt that consumed him over what was to come.

Telling her he was fully aware that she was not who she was pretending to be would shame and embarrass her and he hated the thought of that, of doing or saying anything to hurt or discomfit her, and tried to make sense of the immense protective feelings she aroused in him. Shifting his position uneasily he hoped he wasn’t turning soft, losing his edge!

But it had to be done, he reminded himself with cool determination as the doors whispered open directly on to the sitting room of the elegant suite kept exclusively for his use.

Milly’s spiky heels sank into the depth of the soft jade-green carpet that covered a vast room in which a group of pale lemon silk-covered upholstered armchairs surrounded a long low marble-topped table, the rest of the furniture being ornate antiques, the Tuscan landscapes on the silk-covered walls framed with gilded opulence.

‘This suite is kept for my use,’ he imparted coolly, slapping down his libido and ignoring the growing need to kiss her again, to discover if she would respond as beautifully as she had on that never to be forgotten occasion. ‘And for the use of important clients or occasional business colleagues.’

Had he brought Jilly here? Had he insisted on conducting their affair away from the prying eyes of his grandmother and his staff at the villa? A shiver coursed through her and only stopped when she got her brain into gear and remembered that he thought she was Jilly and if he’d brought her here before he wouldn’t be making those explanations.

This ridiculous and utterly hateful situation had to end! Gathering all her courage, her confession on the tip of her tongue, her eyes shot to his as he forestalled her. ‘I have something for you.’

His eyes were warm—she would have said tender had she been in the habit of giving way to wild imaginings. And his smile made her forget what she’d been going to say as he led her through to a sumptuous bedroom where half a dozen classy boxes were laid out on the satin coverlet of the enormous half tester bed.

‘I had these delivered. Replacements for the clothes you left behind on the island in your desire to waste not one moment because you understood my haste to fly to Nonna’s side. I hope you approve, I explained your size and your characteristics in detail.’

He sounded like a sultan bestowing favours on the newest member of his harem, she thought wildly, and just knew the boxes would contain thongs, miniskirts and see-through tops, the sort of overtly sexy stuff Jilly went for—all singing, all dancing, look-at-me stuff!

A hand in the small of her back he edged her forwards, towards the bed, but she dug her heels in and said, ‘I can’t take them!’ And then, because that sounded really ungrateful because he obviously believed he’d been doing her—Jilly—a favour and no one liked having their generosity and good intentions shoved back at them, she amended, ‘It was a nice thought but I can’t take them.’ She dragged in a huge breath and got out in a rush, ‘I’m not Jilly. I’m her twin sister. I’m sorry to have deceived you, but I did have my reasons.’

For a long moment Cesare found it impossible to articulate a single word for the flood of relief that took his breath away. Many signs had told him that she was deeply uncomfortable with the situation she had put herself in—or her twin had forced her into—but finally she had found the courage to tell him the truth and saved him from having to accuse her. He admired her for that. More than admired her? He shelved that question and studied her instead.

Her long lashes veiled the brilliance of her eyes as she stared at the floor and her face was pale, her shoulders tense as if she were expecting a blow. Or his anger.

Quick to disabuse her of that expectation, he put a gentle forefinger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his.

Her colour returned in a flood. Milly felt it in the hot burn of her skin as she met the steady intensity of those dark-as-night eyes and dizziness almost overwhelmed her as he announced softly, ‘I know, Milly. I began to have suspicions almost as soon as we reached the villa from England. They were confirmed by telephone on the following morning just before we set out for the island. Jilly Lee had an identical twin, Milly.’

‘Oh!’ Her heart began to pound and her knees turned to unset jelly. ‘Why? Why didn’t you—?’

‘Say something?’ he supplied and, placing a steadying arm around her waist, he led her to a white velvet upholstered chaise and watched while she sank on to it with every appearance of wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. ‘I made a mental date on several occasions to hit you with what I knew but something always happened to make me hold back.’ He folded his lean powerful length on to the seat beside her and a smile warmed his voice to smooth honey. ‘And in retrospect I’m glad. My first intention was to let you stew during that first day on the island and then come down on you like several tons of bricks. Had I done so I would not have discovered how unlike your twin you really are.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Milly said strickenly, her breath catching in her throat. He was so close that the spicy, faintly lemony, husky male scent of him was in her nostrils; it made every nerve-ending in her body quiver. She felt punch drunk by his proximity and knew she shouldn’t.

A tiny whimper of distress escaped her and Cesare sprang to his feet and strode out of the room, so lithe and graceful he made her heart ache, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful because the raging anger she’d braced herself to meet hadn’t materialised or whether to curl up with smothering humiliation because all the time he’d known she wasn’t Jilly and must have been laughing his silk socks off at her useless attempts to pretend she was.

Returning moments later, Cesare put a glass into her hands, closing her fingers around the cut crystal bowl. ‘A little brandy. You are in shock, I think.’

He sounded so damned complacent! Milly tossed the fiery liquid back and a rare upsurge of rage had her blurting, ‘So all the time you were laughing at me! Watching me make a fool of myself! I hate you!’

‘No, you don’t,’ Cesare stated with infuriating calm and prised the empty glass from her tense fingers. ‘Whatever emotions you have inspired in me, mirth wasn’t one of them. I admit to being as furious as an angry bull when I first had my suspicions confirmed. That changed to interest. Why had you stepped into your twin’s shoes—quite literally—when you are so unlike each other?’

‘Not so!’ Milly contradicted, the effect of the alcohol in her bloodstream making her reckless. ‘We wear our hair differently, that’s all. Jilly would never wear hers short, but you weren’t to know that.’

‘Superficially you look alike, providing one scrapes away the layers of make-up your sister uses. But deep down, where it matters, you are astonishingly different.’ On that assurance, he cupped her flushed face with both hands. ‘Jilly is hard, self centred. Manipulative. Charming when it serves her purpose but insincere. She flaunts her sex to get what she wants. That makes her ugly.’

The balls of his thumbs stroked her delicate cheekbones and Milly’s heart missed a beat then turned over, making her forget what she’d been about to say in her sister’s defence as he continued. ‘You are beautiful. You are warm and gentle, caring. Yet unafraid to speak your mind if you think someone else has suffered an injustice—as you rebuked me, quite rightly, when my recent anxiety made me speak sharply to my grandmother. I admire that. That is the difference that sticks out a thousand miles.’

Glorying in the touch of his hands, heat curling deep in her pelvis, her nipples shamingly prominent, it was all Milly could do to stop herself from hurling herself at him, hold him close, beg him to kiss her.

She had to remind herself very vigorously that he was merely being kind to someone who’d just been shocked to learn she’d been the biggest fool in Christendom. Showing him that she wanted him quite desperately would only make her look an even bigger fool in his eyes than she already did!

‘Now—’ his hands left her face as he unfurled his impressive length and rose to his feet ‘—all this must have been difficult for you. Come—’ he took her hand and urged her to her feet ‘—you will shower and change into something more suited to you and then we will eat and you will explain why you felt it necessary to impersonate your sister.’

Loving the feel of his strong fingers as they curled around her own, and despising herself for that weakness, Milly allowed herself to be escorted to the bed. ‘Choose what you would like to change into,’ he suggested, hitting the nail on the head with the shrewdness she was beginning to expect from him when he added, ‘You clearly are not comfortable in your sister’s choice of clothing.’

That comment needed no reply but Milly’s hands were unsteady as, at his prompting, she opened the nearest box and gasped as Cesare plucked a dream of a dress from the tissue layers. Delicate voile in subtle soft stripes of oyster and pale pink, it had a discreet V neckline, a slightly bloused bodice and a soft flowing skirt below the neat waistline. It was just the sort of dress she would have bought herself had she ever been remotely able to afford to do so.

Quelling her excitement as further goodies were revealed—tailored linen trousers, cream-coloured and light charcoal, elegant shirts, cool filmy skirts and tops, shoes with neat kitten heels, delicate fine cotton underwear hand-embroidered with pretty sprays of forget-menots—Milly felt deeply regretful as she stressed, ‘I can’t possibly accept all this.’

‘But of course you can.’ Cesare swept her objection aside with a downward slash of one long-fingered hand. ‘Look on these things as payment in lieu of wages.’

‘You said I had to work for nothing,’ she reminded him sternly because so far he had held the moral high ground and she was determined to snatch some of it for herself. Gentle and caring in his eyes—although she had never looked at herself in that light—but a doormat she most certainly wasn’t!

But as usual he had an unassailable come-back. ‘I made that stipulation when I believed I had cornered your sister. You are not your sister. You have put in the hours caring for my grandmother. Reading to her, chatting, bringing her flowers, taking her mind away from her injuries. I wouldn’t expect anyone to work for my family for nothing. I suggest you take that shower and get out of that thing you are wearing.’

Cesare turned away. The temptation to take that tacky apology for a skirt off her, strip the tight-fitting matching leather top from her lovely body and join her in the shower was overwhelming. An over-active libido? Or something else?

Milly had given up trying to figure him out. Basically he was a good man. He cared for his staff, was always polite and considerate in his dealings with them and he adored the grandmother who’d brought him up after he’d been orphaned. So, knowing she wasn’t the twin who stood accused of theft in his eyes, he had been kind to her, mostly, especially after he’d decided not to come down on her like several tons of bricks.

It really puzzled her. And it was pointless trying to figure it out and tying her brain in knots, she decided as she stepped out of the most welcome shower she’d ever taken in her life.

Wrapping herself in one of the huge fluffy bath sheets, a different thought struck her like a bolt of lightning and robbed her of the ability to breathe, to move.

When he’d started to make love to her it hadn’t been because he believed she was his ex-lover as she’d thought. He’d known she wasn’t!

It was she, Milly, who’d turned him on!

Her gaze met her reflection in one of the floor to ceiling mirrors and her heart jumped. Her eyes looked huge, sparkling and her mouth looked swollen, soft, as if she’d just been kissed to within an inch of her life.

Smothering an internal groan she turned away and began to towel dry her hair with startling vigour. She wasn’t going to go there! It was a non-starter of a track, ending nowhere!

She would just enjoy feeling fresh and clean, her skin perfumed with the fragrant body lotion she had found and was using lavishly. She slipped on the pretty undies and the dream of a dress, which fitted her to perfection and made her look cool, classy and strangely elegant—a far cry from the way she’d presented herself in Jilly’s cast-offs.

Locating a comb on the dressing table, she ran it through her silky hair and was ready. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the pair of oyster-coloured butter-soft leather kitten heels she’d selected and walked to the en suite bathroom door, ready now to do her utmost to convince Cesare that Jilly wasn’t a thief, that there must have been some terrible mistake. To beg him to try to trace her whereabouts because she was growing increasingly anxious for her vanished twin’s well-being.

As she entered the bedroom Cesare appeared in the doorway that led to the sitting room.

He had shed his suit jacket and his silk tie and there was a tension about the broad shoulders beneath the fine white cotton of his shirt. After a timeless head to toe scrutiny his eyes held hers for what seemed to Milly like long breathless moments, as if he could reach into her soul and read it.

And then he smiled. Slow and devastating. And commanded, his voice thick, ‘Come here.’

CHAPTER TEN

MILLY WENT LIKE a sleepwalker, something in the depths of those fathomless dark eyes, something slow, burning and impossible to resist, was drawing her to him.

Her whole body unbearably sensitized, she stood before him, felt the heat of him, the firm caress of his hands as they settled on either side of her tiny waist.

Lush ebony lashes veiled the gleam in his eyes and his voice was a purr of masculine appreciation as he murmured, ‘Bella, bella! La direttrice understood my directions perfectly.’ Then, the line of his gorgeous mouth wry with a hint of amusement, ‘Forgive me. Not one word of my native language must be spoken because you do not understand it! It was the first test I ran, weeks ago, and it heightened the suspicions I was already having.’

Cesare’s thumbs were rotating seductively against her ribcage, the wicked sensation making her breath tremble in her lungs, her breasts surge in urgent invitation for his touch against the confines of her pretty flower-sprigged bra. Her rosy flush had nothing to do with the humiliation of knowing that she hadn’t fooled him for more than a handful of hours and everything to do with her fierce hunger for him.

His hands had worked their way upwards and tension held her very still. Burningly expectant. Another fraction of an inch and his seductive hands would be touching the underswell of her breasts.

Barely containable excitement rippled down the length of her narrow spine and heat pooled wildly between her thighs as she willed with everything she had for his hands to move that fraction higher. Then, his voice oddly hoarse, he promised, ‘I will teach you my language. It will be a pleasure for both of us.’

At mind-blowing speed Milly came crashing to her senses, straight back down to earth.

What was he talking about? And what on earth did she think she was doing? Teach her his language? When? Did he expect her to stay on? As Filomena’s companion, even though that dear old lady would surely despise her for her deceit? Or because he fancied her, as he had briefly fancied Jilly, so she would be handy whenever he got the impulse to invite her to share his bed?

Pushing small hands against the hard breadth of his chest she swung away. Wrapping her arms around her midriff to stop herself from trembling, she clenched her teeth and gritted, ‘We need to talk about my sister, remember?’

‘We do?’ He sounded lightly amused as he positioned himself to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders, fingers touching the bare flesh of her upper arms.

He touched his long sensual mouth to the pale hollow where her neck met her shoulder and she shuddered with forbidden delight and made herself resist the febrile temptation to turn, wrap her arms around his neck and beg for his kiss.

‘You hurt her badly,’ she pronounced baldly. She paced a step away from him, away from the danger of him. ‘That’s my educated guess.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He sounded genuinely perplexed. He was one class act, Milly reminded herself, he was a twenty-four carat womaniser. If she’d been weak enough to join in his no doubt standard seduction routine, then by now he would have been undressing her, and she would have been helping him, destination that handy big bed with no thought of future heartbreak, no thought except her consuming need for him.

Would it have given him a kick to notch up both twins?

Would she have welcomed his love-making because she loved him?

The thought appalled her, made her speechless so that Cesare had to prompt, ‘So tell me about your educated guess.’

The arrival of room service gave her breathing space, allowing her to piece together her fragmented wits while the slim young waiter whisked the trolley through tall windows that led out to a balcony.

‘We can talk while we eat.’ A hand in the small of her back propelled her over the sea of jade green and out on to the balcony that overlooked secluded gardens that gave up the heady perfume of jasmine into the dusky air.

Holding out a chair for her at the small round table he promised huskily, ‘And after talking, who knows?’

Milly closed her ears to that! And shivered slightly despite the warmth of the evening air. At his invitation, she helped herself to a little of this, a little of that, of what exactly she couldn’t have said because she was far too wound up to even think of eating.

A healthy gulp of the crisp, sparkling and delicious champagne gave her the impetus to state, ‘Jilly isn’t a thief. My guess is she only disappeared because you’d hurt her so badly. The last time we heard from her was when she wrote and told us she was leaving her job as a receptionist—at least I think it was a receptionist, I don’t remember exactly—at a high class nightclub here in Florence. She didn’t say where she was going or what she’d be doing, only that she would soon be able to pay back every penny she owed our mother.’

She levelled an accusing glance at him and stabbed a prawn as if she were wishing she could stab the fork into him. ‘She obviously believed everything was coming good. We had no idea she’d moved in with you, acting as your grandmother’s companion. She must have met you before, here in Florence, I would imagine. You were lovers and I guess she believed you and she would be married.’

Another throat cooling draught of champagne, then, ‘When she realised that wasn’t going to happen she left, broken-hearted.’ She shot him a darkly glittering look. ‘I know she’d never been in love before. She’d had loads of boyfriends. They didn’t seem able to resist her, from what she told us. But never anyone serious for her. Except you, apparently. And you only wanted one thing. And that was sex,’ she spelled out with brutal frankness.

She set the glass down with a mini crash. ‘There has to be some misunderstanding about the theft. And I want you to undo some of the damage and help me find her.’ Her mouth wobbled. ‘I’m getting really worried about her. And she doesn’t even know—’ the wobble got serious ‘—that Ma died.’

‘Cara.’ Cesare leaned across the table, his eyes intent on her troubled features. ‘I hate to see you upset. We will find her, I promise you. Already the search is well in hand.’

‘It is?’ A slight frown appeared between her eyes.

‘But of course.’ He leaned back again, relaxed, exuding male confidence.

‘But of course,’ she parroted as the penny dropped with a decided clang, an edge of bitterness in her tone. ‘Oh, silly me! You know, I only decided to step into Jilly’s shoes to stop you hounding her, to give her time to get over the way you must have treated her, let her get her act together so she’d be fit to speak in her own defence. But the moment you knew I wasn’t who I was pretending to be the search was back on.’

Across the table the slight elevation of one ebony brow infuriated her. She shot to her feet. ‘Take me back to the villa. It’s getting late.’ Her chin came up, her deep green eyes glinting with intent. ‘I’ll stay with Filomena until she’s back to normal—provided she wants me to when she learns who I really am—and then I’m off and you can hire another companion.’ It was the only way. She was really stupid and in grave danger of falling for a serial womaniser. Stay around him and she’d end up as broken-hearted as her twin.

‘Nonna doesn’t expect us to return tonight.’

The bald statement stopped her in her tracks. Oh, the rat! He had brought her here, had supplied her with a whole wardrobe of lovely new clothes, a fancy meal which she’d hardly touched, plied her with champagne, all with the intention of seducing her! Her face burned, hot as a furnace.

He had stationed himself in the doorway to the interior of the suite, blocking her way. She faced him. ‘Is this your normal routine? Shower your prey with pretty gifts, promise marriage and access to untold wealth, then walk away when you get bored!’ She took a deep breath, her tone as icy as she could make it. ‘Let me pass.’

Dusk was deepening to night but she could see the slight flare of his nostrils, denoting anger. Well, tough. No man—especially a man as all-fired self confident and proud as Cesare Saracino—liked to have his faults rammed down his throat.

‘I don’t need a routine and I don’t recall asking you to marry me,’ he sliced back at her. His hands shot out to fasten on her forearms. ‘And there are a few things we ought to straighten out as it seems I’m to be cast as the bad guy,’ he announced grimly. ‘First and foremost, since it seems to be your priority, your twin was traced to a nightclub in this city. Where she worked as a so-called hostess, not a receptionist—no mention of that dubious occupation was made in her CV. No one had heard from her since she left, and the consensus was that no one cared. She was not well liked. Enquiries were made at the London store—supposedly the last full time job she held before she came to Italy—and again blanks were drawn. Her former colleagues hadn’t cared enough about her to want to keep in touch. Since then the investigation has returned to Italy. I’m sorry,’ he added more temperately as he felt the fight drain out of her. ‘Jilly may attract a certain type of man, but among women she is far from popular.’

Trying to get her head round what he was telling her, that her dazzling, outgoing sister was actively disliked by her female colleagues, she failed to resist when Cesare slipped an arm around her waist and walked her back into the living room.

Settling her into one of the armchairs, he sat on the arm of the adjacent one, the light from the overhead chandelier burnishing his raven-dark hair, throwing the sculpted bones of his spectacularly handsome face into hard masculine relief.

Milly averted her eyes. He was so beautiful, so tempting. She hated what he was implying about her twin and yet she still wanted him and she had to find some way of defending Jilly, but—

‘There can be no doubt about the signatures on the cheques she cashed,’ Cesare said flatly. ‘A handwriting expert confirmed what I believed. They were forgeries.’ Forcing himself to ignore the way her delicate skin lost all colour, he stated, ‘And, just for the record, I was never her lover.’

At that Milly straightened her spine. ‘You as good as admitted it,’ she reminded him thickly. ‘Once, early on, I addressed you as Signor Saracino and you made some snide comment about my not being so formal when I came to your bed!’ Her eyes defied him but she felt sick inside. If he’d lied about that he could have been lying about everything else.

‘True.’ A strong hand cupped her chin, forcing her to keep looking at him, and his voice softened. ‘I will not repeat the crude words she used when she appeared uninvited and unclad in my bedroom. That is what I was referring to when I still believed you were your twin. But I will tell you that I told her to get out of my sight in double quick time or she was out of a job—regardless of how Nonna had come to rely on her company. I was heartily sick of her coming on to me. I was not, and never could be, interested. Soon after that, no doubt realising she was on a loser, she disappeared. And a few days later, while doing Nonna’s accounts I noticed a couple of large withdrawals to cash. The rest you know.’

Milly closed her eyes to hide the sudden sting of tears. Her emotions were all over the place. She had been fighting it but now she knew she had to believe him. He had no need to lie.

But Jilly—it hurt her immeasurably, but she had the horrible feeling that everything he’d said to her twin’s detriment was no less than the truth.

Seeing her sister through unblinkered eyes, she had no option but to acknowledge that Jilly had taken their mother’s nest-egg, her only safety net, and had lost every penny and much more. Then those careless, airy promises to pay it back, something that had never even begun to materialise, her thoughtlessness in rarely contacting them, as if they didn’t matter, as if their having to live in a mean rented flat in severely reduced circumstances because they’d had to pay off the huge debts she’d incurred was nothing to do with her.

How she had always boasted that she could get any man she wanted. No problem.

But not this man!

The words echoed through her mind like an anthem of thanksgiving. And this man was stroking away an escaping tear with the ball of his thumb and she was choking with emotions she couldn’t put a name to, but they were real and shatteringly strong.

‘I’m sorry to have upset you, cara. But for my own sake it had to be said.’

For his sake? Too fraught to resist or even think about doing so, Milly found him standing over her, drawing her to her feet, into his gently enfolding arms.

She could have moved away if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t. She felt safe.

‘You’ve always hero-worshipped your sister,’ Cesare guessed astutely, marvelling at his self-restraint in the way he was holding her when he ached to kiss every wonderful inch of her. But for her sake he knew he had to wait until she came to terms with her relationship problems with her sister.

‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ She held her bright head back to meet the warm concern in his eyes, her own cloudy, he noted on a tide of protective warmth. ‘She was always the stronger character.’

Bossy, he mentally translated.

‘She looked out for me when we were growing up and told me to always go to her if there were problems with other kids—like bullying—and she’d sort it.’

Thereby ensuring she was the dominant one, making sure she stayed that way, he assessed, pretty sure that the selfish Jilly wouldn’t do anything without an ulterior motive, his hands taking on a will of their own and softly caressing her slim back.

‘She could stand up to Dad,’ Milly remembered quietly. ‘He was a bit of a control freak and she couldn’t always get her own way with him. But she could with Ma—she could twist her round her little finger.’ Much to their mother’s financial impoverishment, she thought with a stab of anger as she remembered the way they’d had to scratch and scrape to pay the rent and buy food.

Then, as if to make up for the ferocity of that thought, she confided shakily, ‘When you appeared threatening prosecution I had to go ahead with—’ her voice faltered, then gathered strength ‘—I had to do what I could to help her. We are twins and, believe me, whatever her faults there’s a very strong bond.’

A bond that went one way only, Cesare amended savagely, but held his tongue, promising instead, ‘When she’s found, and she will be, I won’t drag her through the courts, if it will please you. But I’ll give her such a fright that never again will she be tempted to develop sticky fingers.’

Milly closed her eyes on a rush of relief. She trusted him to keep his word. Jilly might be careless with other people’s money, careless when it came to keeping in touch with her family, dishonest—but maybe she’d been really desperate. It didn’t excuse what she’d done—but she was her sister and she still couldn’t bear to think of her having to face a prison sentence.

‘Just one other thing—’ She felt the warm brush of his lips on first one eyelid and then the other and she whimpered low in her throat in weakening response and dragged in a jerk of breath as he told her, ‘I had those clothes delivered because I knew you weren’t comfortable in the sort of gear your sister wore. And I didn’t bring you here to seduce you, though I do admit to being very tempted.’

Her eyes flew open at that admission and locked on to the undisguised hot desire in his. She was shaken to the core as she realised that only this man had ever, could ever, awaken such a hunger in her that she would be trembling on the brink of taking everything he could offer, giving back everything she was, and to hell with the consequences.

‘And you, too, are tempted.’ His seductive hands caressed her swollen breasts with breathtaking tenderness and her breath fluttered in her throat as she fought to control her desperate craving for him, snatching at a fast receding memory of the way she used to be—the glamorous Jilly’s out-of-focus, boringly sensible shadow—just to get her feet back down to earth again.

‘I think this shouldn’t be happening,’ she managed, almost disintegrating as fire burned low in her pelvis, mortified by her almost manic need to drag his clothes off. Her face glowed scarlet at the novel wanton thought. He touched his mouth to hers, his lips brushing hers lightly as he murmured, ‘Feel with your heart; don’t think with your head.’

Exactly where the danger lay! She felt light-headed, her entire body aching with powerful sexual awareness, and she had to scratch around for something to bring her back to her senses and finally managed unevenly, her breath melding with his as his mouth continued to tease and torment her, ‘You forget, I am not my sister.’

His head came up, his stunning eyes holding hers as he denied, ‘I forget nothing, cara mia. If you were your sister I would not be here. I would not be wanting you as I have never wanted any woman.’

His hands slid down to her narrow waist as he eased her closer to make her discover for herself exactly how much he wanted her and, ignoring her gasp, he elaborated, his voice thickening, ‘Stop comparing yourself unfavourably to her. ‘You are beautiful in a way she could never be. It comes from within you. She is base metal, you are pure gold. Remember that.’

His words filled her head until she felt dizzy. All of her life people had rated Jilly above her. She didn’t think anyone had meant to, but when her sister walked into a room, a flash of bright colour, a stream of animated chatter, she dominated the space, all attention fixed on her.

Without a jealous bone in her body, Milly had always accepted her subordinate position as a fact of life that had no hope of changing. But now—now this fantastically charismatic, sexy man actually put her first!

Something twisted tightly inside her. She trembled violently and coiled her arms around his neck, knowing she had fallen in love with him and not afraid, now, to recognise that fact. It was a glorious, heady feeling and she would never regret it, even though she knew he would never feel the same way.

Both his hands snaked up to the back of her head, his fingers deep in the soft brightness of her silken hair as he bent his mouth to hers, lightly at first, a mere brush of butterfly wings against her quivering lips, and then as those lips parted the pressure increased and his tongue sought and found hers. He felt her body go up in flames as she kissed him back with all the fervour of an addict and he was lost, he who never lost himself, was drowning in this perfect woman.

He drew back, closing his eyes as her body squirmed with wanton eagerness against his, and said thickly, ‘I burn for you.’

Her response was a mew of pleasure, the exploration of her small hands beneath the shirt that had somehow become unbuttoned. A shudder of driven need raked through him as he lifted her in his arms and strode with her to the bedroom beyond.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE ARRIVAL OF Room Service woke Milly from the scant two hours of slumber she’d managed; she had fallen asleep with the dawn in Cesare’s strong arms.

She knew instantly that she was alone in the wildly rumpled bed and she could see morning sunlight behind her closed eyelids but was reluctant to acknowledge the waiter, to face the day that would surely have Cesare making arrangements for her return to England because, without doubt, Filomena would not waste time in seeing the back of her.

And much as he might have preferred her to stay on at the villa, available until he decided he wanted to hunt in pastures new, he would always bow to his beloved grandmother’s wishes. Much as that reminder turned her sick inside, she knew a swift departure, a clean break and no regrets on her part would be for the best. The thought of leaving him now was pretty near unendurable. How much worse would it be if she stayed on as his lover for weeks, maybe even months?

So she would remain in her drowsy state for just a little while longer and blissfully relive every ecstatic moment of the most wonderful night of her life with Cesare, the man who had lodged himself firmly in her heart for all time.

She would never regret a single precious moment of their closeness, she vowed as she turned over and buried her face in the pillow and she would never forget him, what he meant to her.

She’d been an obvious novice to start with but Cesare had been so patient, his tenderness bringing tears to her eyes and making her love for him assume massive proportions. When he’d turned away to use protection it had given her pause as she’d wondered if he’d been that sure of making a conquest.

But that small doubt had vanished like morning mist, blown away by her sensible thought that he was simply being careful. He wouldn’t want a pregnancy, though she wouldn’t mind having his child. In truth she would welcome his child with all of her being. The difficulties of being a single parent would be as nothing beside the joy of having part of him with her for always.

Then even that thought had been blasted into orbit as he’d turned back to her, parting her thighs and trailing tiny kisses up the quivering length of them until her mind had been blown to pieces as he’d found the secret, damp heart of her femininity.

Her entire body glowed beneath the thin covering as she recalled how, after that first shatteringly magical time, she hadn’t been able to get enough of him, all untutored eagerness that she recalled now with a secret catlike smile, had seemed to drive him wild.

‘Cara.’ A kiss on her naked shoulder had her snaking round to feast her eyes on him, her sleep-flushed features wreathed with a smile of loving welcome.

His midnight hair was wet from the shower, his bronzed skin spangled with water droplets and his only covering was a towel hooked around his lean hips.

Her eyes limpid with adoration, Milly raised her arms to him, marvelling at the way daylight did nothing to dispel the intoxicating intimacy of the night hours as the sheet fell away to reveal breasts that were tight and swollen, aching for his touch.

Dark colour banded his sculpted cheekbones as he sank down on the bed beside her, took her hands and muttered raggedly, ‘You are an invitation that’s hard to resist! However,’ he released her hands and reached to the night table, handing her a bowl-like cup of coffee and announced prosaically, ‘I need to head back to the villa, speak with my PA and call a meeting of all heads of department in New York for next week.’

Instead of offering her hot coffee he might just as well have doused her with icy water, Milly mourned, regretful that something that had been so wonderful for her was, for him, obviously an interlude that could be so easily blanked out, his world-spanning business empire uppermost in his mind, everything back to normal. The earth-shattering intimacies of the night were forgotten in the light of day with a single-minded masculine drive to get on with the important things of his life.

Was that what happened after a one night stand?

With her free hand she tugged the sheet up to conceal her nakedness. How was she to know? She had never played that game before and didn’t know the rules. At least she had more pride than to whine and cling, and ‘back to normal’ raised a knotty problem.

Avoiding his stunning eyes because they always robbed her of her dwindling reserves of common sense, she asked, ‘What do I tell Filomena? She’ll be so upset to know she’s been the victim of a con-trick. I don’t want to go on deceiving her—I’ve felt truly bad about it.’ Distress flooded her voice. ‘But I will, just for a week or two, if you think we should keep the truth from her until she’s properly well again.’ She raised her eyes at last. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think…’ he said slowly, lush ebony lashes not hiding the warm golden gleam in the eyes that could reduce her to a quivering state of absolute longing in the space of a single millisecond. A smile played now on his beautiful sensual mouth. ‘I think that we should tell her that you are to be my wife.’

In a state of deep shock, her soft mouth fell open and her skin crawled with hot colour. ‘Be serious,’ she demanded unsteadily. As a joke it wasn’t funny; it wasn’t funny at all!

In reply Cesare took the untouched coffee from her nerveless fingers, replaced it beside his on the night table, then took her hands in his. ‘I have never been more serious in my entire life, amore,’ he vowed softly, lifting her hands, his lips grazing her knuckles. ‘I want you. Your exquisite body, your gentle heart. I want it all—the whole package. To be able to care for you, protect you, adore you, cherish you and spoil you. To be your husband, to give you my children.’

Her eyes widening, Milly shook her head slightly. Was she dreaming? How could the most wonderful man in the whole world want her to be his wife?

She put out an unsteady hand to touch his face, her fingers trailing over one high proud cheekbone, the hollow beneath, the corner of his so sexy mouth, trying to convince herself that this was real and not some fantasy born of her overwhelming love for him.

‘Say yes!’ His voice was demanding, his accent thickening, yet there was a trace of uncertainty there and it astonished her more than anything and sent her heart racing.

Then his mouth was on hers and his kiss ravished her until she was incandescent with need and her, ‘Yes, oh yes! Cesare, I love you—so much, so very much!’ brought his head up, his chin at a proud angle. He promised, ‘You will never regret this, amore mia.’ His hands on her slim shoulders he held her away from him. ‘And now, much as I regret it, we have to dress. Stefano will be here in thirty minutes to drive us back to the villa.’

Bestowing one swift slashing smile on her, he stood up, dropped the towel and strode in his glorious nakedness to a chest of drawers, pulling out garments at seeming random. His physique was so perfect it took her breath away and, unable to move a muscle, filled with such excitement that she thought she might explode from an overdose of happiness, she excused his ability to snap back in an instant to the business at hand.

Getting the job done was his modus operandi and she could live with that, she decided meltingly as he told her, ‘On second thoughts, cara mia—and provided you agree—we will not tell Nonna of our marriage plans until she is perfectly well and strong again.’ He pulled on a pair of light grey chinos and fastened the button at his lean waist, imparting, ‘Knowing my stubborn grandmother and her joy to see me marrying at last, she will immediately start planning the service, the reception, the guest list, the flowers and your wardrobe. An earthquake wouldn’t stop her. And in her present state of health it would prove to be too much. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Of course!’ Milly’s eyes sparkled with love at his consideration. And what did it matter if the wedding announcement was delayed for a couple of weeks?

‘Grazie—thank you!’ His smile dazzled her. He fastened the buttons of a black silk shirt. ‘Besides, I will be overseas—a business trip that, alas, I cannot cancel—it will keep me away for several weeks. When I return we will share our news. And, as for Nonna and what she will think when you tell her who you are, do not trouble yourself, mi amore. She already knows.’

‘She does!’ At that shattering information Milly sat bolt upright, her eyes very wide.

‘Indeed.’ He was tying a silver-coloured silk tie. ‘I told her before we came here and about your sister’s theft. She was not surprised. In fact, when I explained that I was bringing you to the Saracino Palace to finally bring things out in the open she begged me not to give you a hard time! She insisted that you must have had good reason because you were too gentle and loving to have harboured a bad one.’

Four determined strides brought him to the bedside. His dark gaze glittering, he reached for her hands and drew her to her feet. ‘You have not a single thing to worry about on that score. Now—’ he dealt her backside a gentle slap— ‘get dressed.’

Cesare had made his excuses and headed for the room set aside for his high-tech office as soon as they returned to the villa, closely followed by the arrival of his PA, a brisk young man, bristling with the efficiency his boss demanded.

Despite Cesare’s assurances Milly had been full of trepidation as she’d taken herself to Filomena’s room. Her deception had to be unforgiveable, didn’t it? She felt slightly nauseous at her own uncharacteristic devious behaviour.

But the old lady’s delight in seeing her, the warmth of her welcome, laid her anxieties to rest, as did Filomena’s immediate and regally imperious demand to sit out on the terrace for a while so that they could enjoy the air and have the talk she’d been itching for ever since Cesare had informed her that she was Milly, her companion’s twin sister.

An operation that was treated as a military manoeuvre, everyone from Stefano to the youngest housemaid being enlisted to move the wooden table and benches from the rose-shaded arbour at one side of the terrace to make room for a cushion-piled armchair, Rosa herself bringing up the rear with a tray loaded with chilled orange juice and little almond cakes.

‘I was a little puzzled,’ Filomena admitted with her beautiful smile as she sat like a queen on her throne as her staff melted away, ‘as to how my companion had so changed in character! If I had had my wits about me I would have suspected something. Brittleness all gone, replaced with warmth and gentleness. More thoughtfulness. Your choice of reading matter too; Dickens as opposed to the sex and shopping sagas your sister was so fond of. Please—I’m not saying her company wasn’t good for me. At that time it was. I had become bored with myself and being old! Cesare had become convinced I had a death wish! Jilly took me out of it with her amusing chatter, her liveliness and those flashes of charm that were most in evidence when my grandson was around. Sometimes, in my room at night, I could hear her laughing with him on the path outside my windows, and I thought—no matter. Yes—’ she brought herself back to what she had been saying ‘—such charm. It could make you forgive almost anything.’

‘Even theft?’ Milly had to ask, feeling deep shame on her twin’s behalf.

‘Even that. She must have been desperate and I have much wealth. But,’ she added with a flash of asperity, ‘I wouldn’t condone it as a career choice. Now—we talk of brighter things.’

Over dinner, the first meal Filomena hadn’t taken from a tray since her accident, Milly, feeling cold inside because although Cesare had finally joined them he had barely acknowledged her presence, broached the subject of her friend’s wedding.

‘Cleo’s really keen for me to be her bridesmaid. I’d hate to disappoint her. And I do need to vacate the flat.’ She had given up all hope of Jilly ever bothering to try to contact home in the near future. While Cesare had been away she had phoned Cleo and her landlord and had given her contact number should her sister remember she had a family and try to get in touch. But so far nothing.

Her face glowed with sudden unconcealed pleasure. She would have no need of the flat. She and Cesare were to be married! The thought had the power to rock her, even though the way he’d been as good as ignoring her up until now had made her feel invisible!

‘And when does this event take place?’ Cesare had joined them at the last minute and it was the first she had seen of him since he’d shut himself away in his office.

She met the cool questioning of his eyes and a wave of intense disappointment surged through her. Last night those eyes had been filled with raw desire, sending her up in flames, now he was looking at her as if she were a menial asking for time off when it wasn’t due to her!

‘Around six weeks,’ she answered unsteadily. ‘But I’d need to go back to England a couple of weeks earlier. Dress fittings—that sort of thing. I’d come back the day after the wedding.’

His impressively handsome profile was turned to her now. He wasn’t looking at her and Milly doubted that he had heard a word she’d said. It was left to Filomena to step into the breach.

‘Then of course we must spare you. And who knows, you might learn something of your sister’s whereabouts. From what you told me earlier, I know you worry about her complete disappearance. Cesare—’ her voice sharpened ‘—you will arrange this?’

‘Nonna—’ He laid down his cutlery and leant back in his chair, an ebony brow elevated just slightly. ‘If you recall, I will not be here to arrange anything. However—’ he pushed back his chair and stood up in one fluid movement, the very image of cool Italian sophistication ‘—give Stefano the details and he will make the travel arrangements. Now, if you will excuse me, I still have work to do before I leave for Madrid in the morning.’

How Milly got through the rest the meal and the ritual of helping Filomena get ready for bed while behaving as if she was perfectly happy she would never know.

Cesare had as good as looked through her, she fretted as she reached the sanctuary of her own bedroom. Had not addressed her except to ask that clipped question. It hurt quite unbearably. She was hard put to reconcile his attitude over dinner with that of the man who had made glorious love to her, had asked her to be his wife.

Deciding to get up extra early, run him to earth and demand a few answers before he left in the morning, she had a quick shower, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed wearing a baggy old T-shirt. She felt too emotional to creep through the silent house to his office and demand answers now. Right now. Her pride wouldn’t let her show him how insecure she felt.

He hadn’t once said he loved her, she reminded herself on a flood of nervy anxiety. Then told herself to grow up and swiftly assured herself that no man in his right mind would ask a woman to marry him, share his life and bear his children if he didn’t love her and, anyway, he probably had a whole load of stuff on his mind to do with his up-and-coming extended business trip.

Too much stuff to give much thought to his fiancée when he would, with man-like pragmatism, consider enough had been said on the subject of what he felt for her to make emotional scenes and the display of female insecurities plain annoying. Make him think that she would prove to be a demanding wife, whining and complaining when he put business first, throwing a hissy-fit if he ever dared to be late home by as much as a single minute.

Reaching that sensible conclusion, she flicked off the bedside light and closed her eyes only to open them again almost immediately as the door opened and Cesare, wearing a towelling robe, was illuminated by the light from the broad passage behind before the door closed again and he was at the bedside breathing, ‘Forgive me, mi amore!’

He reached for her in the darkness, pulling her into the circle of his arms. ‘I ignored you!’ he confessed rawly. ‘I couldn’t look at you, talk to you, without aching to have you in my arms, to kiss you! I need you so much I would have given our secret away. Nonna may be old but she’s far from stupid!’ He breathed in very deep, his lips against the side of her neck. ‘Say you forgive me!’

‘Anything! I forgive you anything!’ Melting against him, Milly slid her hands beneath his robe, her fingers splaying against the hard, muscular planes of his chest, breathing in the aphrodisiacal scent of warm male and a slightly tangy aftershave, her head swimming dizzily on a wave of love and longing and annoyance with herself for feeling any insecurities whatsoever.

Immeasurably flattered because he’d admitted he couldn’t look at her without betraying a primitive urge to make love to her, her brain reeling with the knowledge of her feminine power, she lifted her head and put her soft mouth against his lips, very gently, and teased softly, ‘Then I know what I must do to test your powers of endurance to the limit, don’t I?’

‘Strega! It is just as well I am to be away from the temptation of you while Nonna completes her recovery!’ And then he claimed her mouth with a passionate intensity that made her heart beat wildly and somehow his robe got lost in the vortex and her T-shirt went the same way as his tongue mated with hers with driven hunger until he reared away, flicking on the bedside light.

‘I need to look at you, amore mia. I need to feast my eyes,’ he announced raggedly. He laid her back on the bed. ‘I need to touch.’ His voice thickened. ‘Here—’ Reverent fingers brushed her tight nipples and her breath caught in roughened gasps as those same fingers stroked over the flat planes of her tummy, then lower. ‘And here—’

As his hand brushed through the golden curls at the apex of her thighs and discovered the aching, molten heat, excitement had her writhing against him, her every enticing movement begging him to take the burning ache for him away. As if he understood her uncontrollable hunger, he kissed her with such sweet tenderness she thought she might die from it and murmured softly, ‘Slowly, mi amore. Tonight I will take you to Paradise many times, I promise you.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WAS POURING with rain and the flat felt damp and chilly. Shorn of the curtains and rugs, the brightly coloured cushions she’d bought one cold winter day in an attempt to make their home look more cheerful, the place looked what it was, drab and dingy.

Milly’s throat tightened at the thought that her mother, living in pleasant, leafy suburban comfort while her husband had been alive, had been reduced to this during her final years. And all because of Jilly’s wildly selfish schemes.

Surveying the assembled packing cases, Milly felt a stab of deep sadness, they represented the sum total of her mother’s life.

Pathetically little.

She’d packed the remainder of Jilly’s possessions and had taken the more respectable items of hers and her mother’s clothing to a charity shop and even now removal men were taking the packing cases and furniture into storage because at some time in the future Jilly might need some of it if she returned to set up home in England and she felt bad about disposing of everything without consulting Jilly first.

That was if her sister ever turned up!

She didn’t know what she felt most, anger at her twin for her less than honest behaviour and her blithe disregard for her family, or deepening anxiety at her mysterious disappearance.

Whatever— She turned from the window and the unprepossesing view of the rain-soaked high street and the top of the removal van parked outside the butcher’s shop and went to the poky apology for a kitchen to brew tea for the removal men. Fretting about her twin wouldn’t solve anything.

At least yesterday, the day of Cleo’s wedding, had been warm and sunny. Her friend had looked beautiful and the groom proud enough to bust a gut, she recalled, determined to think of something cheerful.

Besides, she would be returning to Italy tomorrow after overnighting at an airport hotel and soon now, very soon, she would be seeing Cesare again.

Her spirits soared. She’d missed him so much, but soon the waiting would be over. After his departure, in the weeks before she’d returned to England, he’d phoned the villa twice a week to speak to his grandmother and ask after her state of health and on a couple of occasions she’d been able to speak to him herself and those conversations had been heartwarmingly precious.

She poured tea into mugs and set them on a tray. Cesare had even gone to the trouble of setting up a credit account for her use, which was really generous of him because they weren’t yet married. She was merely his secret fiancée, though she’d been hard put to keep quiet, especially as Cleo had done a lot of probing over what she called the ‘blackmailing Italian guy.’

She’d longed to state that he was completely wonderful and soon to be her husband. Only her promise to Cesare to keep their plans secret had kept her from confiding her wonderful news.

But Filomena was now as good as new. Or so the old lady had affirmed when Milly phoned her a couple of days ago. Already she was directing a major overhaul of the long herbaceous border and was anxious for Milly’s return and her horticultural input. So that meant there would be no further delay on Cesare divulging their wedding plans!

Her stomach flipped with electrifying excitement. He was all she could ever want and then some. And he wanted to marry her!

Leaning against the chipped enamel draining board, misty-eyed and moony at that world-shaking prospect, the tea forgotten, the shouts and grunts of the three men who were humping the ancient sofa down the narrow staircase receding, her imagination conjured up a blissful image of her wedding day, her fabulous dress—all white and floaty, or maybe satin and sleek—the clearest image of all that of Cesare looking stunningly fantastic, his dark head turned, his eyes drenched with love as she walked towards him up the aisle—

‘Milly!’

She tensed, breath locked in her lungs, hazy romantic images dispelled by something so immediate and real it set her heart racing.

Only one man made her plain ordinary name sound special. Only one man’s voice could send shivers of delight skittering down her spine.

Cesare!

Galvanised, she fled from the kitchen and hurtled down the wooden staircase, erupting into his open arms with a squeal of welcoming delight. The sound was stopped right there in her throat as he lowered his dark head and kissed her with a ravishing thoroughness that left her feeling helplessly dizzy.

‘I needed that, cara,’ he at last announced with husky conviction, holding her by her upper arms so that he could look at her properly.

‘Bella, bella. Perfection!’ Lushly veiled eyes drifted over the elegant pale lemon-coloured linen suit she had chosen to travel in with its waist clipping jacket and narrow knee-length skirt. ‘You choose well when not constrained by near poverty,’ he approved, his eyes homing in on the swell of her breasts hinted at by the classy cut of the jacket.

Milly squirmed, her lovely face flushing uncomfortably. She so didn’t want him to think she was greedy, out for all she could get!

But this suit had cost an arm and a leg and, dithering over it, severely tempted, Cleo had dealt the knockout blow. ‘You must have it. It’s perfect for you!’ And the amount of credit on the card Cesare had set up for her was mind boggling.

‘Cleo and I had a day in London before the wedding,’ she confessed. ‘I had my hair done.’ And that had cost a small fortune, she recalled, her blush reviving with a vengeance as she relived the guilt that had swamped her when she’d seen the size of the bill.

In the past she had slipped out in her lunch hour and Marjorie in the salon just up the road had cut it for her for a minute fraction of the cost. But she had to admit that the London guy had done a much better job.

‘And I bought a few things. Not too many, I promise,’ she ended on an uncomfortable whisper.

‘Amore mia—’ He dropped a kiss on her luscious mouth. ‘What is mine is yours.’ He smiled into her wide emerald eyes. ‘As my wife you will have the best. I expect it. No, I demand it,’ he stated firmly, moving her aside as one of the removal men clattered down the stairs with the rolled up rug that had softened the bare boards of the tiny bedroom set aside for Jilly’s use.

‘We found the tea, luv!’ He gave her a broad wink and Cesare enquired, ‘How much longer?’

‘Just finishing, guv.’

Cesare glanced at the slim gold watch that banded his flat wrist. ‘Five minutes, tops.’

Receiving an assurance, he turned his attention to Milly. ‘Ready to leave?’

‘I’ve just got to fetch my case.’ A new one to hold the lovely things she’d bought. She felt her cheeks turn pink again and hurriedly informed herself that he seemed fine about her spending some of his money, so she really had nothing to feel guilty about. One day soon she was going to have to make him understand that his wealth meant nothing to her. She’d marry him if he was a pauper and she’d happily go out scrubbing floors to put bread on the table!

Mounting the stairs at a rush, she wondered what the hurry meant. That he couldn’t wait to be alone with her? Her heart beat faster. In one of his recent phone calls to his grandmother he had probably heard that today she would be packing up and leaving the flat and had dropped everything to be with her.

Wondering if he could get a seat on her flight back to Italy tomorrow, she decided that his all-fired rush to get out of here at least meant she didn’t have the time to get maudlin over the sad memories she was leaving behind. That was all to the good since she had such a blissful future to look forward to.

He took the case from her the moment her feet touched the bottom stair and, while she was locking the outer door and posting the key back through the letter box for the landlord to collect, she smiled up at him through the drizzle. ‘I didn’t expect you. I’m so glad you came.’

‘Nonna told me you were due back at Pisa Airport tomorrow. I cut into my itinerary and took the chance that you would still be here. There is a chauffeured limo waiting to take us to the airport. The company jet’s ready to fly us south.’

‘My! You certainly know how to whisk a girl off her feet!’ She grinned up at him, feeling immensely privileged and proud to be about to be married to a guy who only had to click his fingers to have his needs of the moment catered to immediately. The sort of guy whose personal magnetism made him stand head and shoulders above the rest, regardless of wealth and standing.

He didn’t return her smile. His classically gorgeous features were stamped in stern mould and, shaken, she voiced a sudden fear. ‘Is anything wrong? Filomena?’

‘Nonna is fine.’ He hooked an arm around her shoulders and began pacing towards a sleek silver limo. ‘Your sister has finally been located. Working in Naples. I am here to take you to her.’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to her now,’ Milly stated as Cesare emerged from the en suite bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel. She turned from watching the brilliant sunset from the enormous soundproof windows of the luxurious modern hotel room he had brought her to, explaining that although there were older, more atmospheric places he could have chosen, Naples was a noisy city and such raucous bombardment of their auditory senses would not be conducive to a decent night’s rest, adding with a slashing grin that made her heart flip that a decent night’s rest wasn’t his top priority.

‘The morning would be best.’ He tossed the towel aside.

Milly sighed. He looked heartbreakingly gorgeous with his damp dark hair mussed, his impressive torso delineated by a black T-shirt that topped beautifully cut stone-coloured chinos. She quelled the immediate urge to go to him, snuggle up, forget everything else. She had an entirely valid point to make.

‘She’ll be at work in the morning.’

‘She’s working now.’ He paced to her, rubbed a light fingertip over the frown line between her eyes. ‘Your sister now rejoices in the name of Jacinta Le Bouchard and works as an exotic dancer and hostess in the type of nightclub I wouldn’t expect or want you to go near.’

Milly felt her spine crumple. The hostess bit was obviously a euphemism, judging by the way his mouth had flattened with distaste. Surely her poor sister hadn’t been reduced to selling her body to any man willing to hand over a fistful of money?

No wonder that during the flight over he had said little more on the subject other than that his investigator had tracked Jilly down to Naples, reiterating his promise that she would have time alone with her twin initially in order to break the news of the loss of their mother but that he would then give her the lecture of her life, although he did not intend to press charges of theft.

‘I’m sorry, amore mia.’ He folded gentle arms around her and splayed his fingers in her silky blonde hair as he drew her head against his heart. ‘If I could have spared you any of this I would have done. You are naturally worried for her future welfare,’ he soothed. ‘And for your sake I promise to find her more salubrious employment, provided she agrees that her lifestyle must change.’

He held her a little away from his body, ‘And now I suggest you shower and change. I’ll order from room service and we will have a night of such pleasure that you will forget your anxieties over tomorrow. Yes?’

His dark eyes were brimming with tenderness and her love for him overflowed, making it difficult to breathe. He was such an intrinsically good man. She adored him so much it hurt!

For her sake he was willing to put his previously driven need to see Jilly clapped in irons behind him, even to the extent of offering her a way out of the present seemingly dodgy career she had embarked upon. So for his sake she would put her twin right out of her head. Tomorrow morning would come soon enough.

‘I love you,’ she breathed, distinctly disinclined to part from him even for the space of time she would need to take a swift shower and gained herself a fleeting kiss, a mere butterfly brush of his lips against hers and a husky command to, ‘Go now. Before you wreck my plans for a night to remember!’

And, as she headed for the sumptuous bedroom and the luxurious en suite bathroom, the blood fizzing in her veins over that promise of a night to remember, he called softly, ‘Don’t spend ages dressing up for me, cara. I am not a patient man!’

Patience was a virtue in short supply as Milly showered in record time and, not even bothering to slip into the complimentary bathrobe, sped to the bedroom to fling open her suitcase. As her fingers encountered cool silk a Mona Lisa smile curved her full lips.

Perfect!

The black silk nightie she’d been completely unable to resist when she’d laid eyes on it in a stylish London boutique had been earmarked for their wedding night. But what the heck! There was nothing to stop her wearing it for him now!

It was an impractical confection of whispering sheer silk that had had Cleo breathing, ‘Wow! Sinful, or what? Sure there isn’t a man in your life—and I don’t mean the stodgy Bruce either?’

Explosive heat erupted deep in her pelvis as she slipped into it, her breasts tingling as they peaked against the cool fabric and her tummy fluttered as she encountered her image in one of the full length mirrors.

The silk clung everywhere. It subtly moulded every last intimate contour of her body, only the just-above-the-knee length side split allowing the wearer to walk.

The words brazen and siren slipped into her mind so she roughly pushed them out again. Cesare was her future husband.

But he’d said that he’d found Jilly’s in-your-face-sexy choice of apparel to be a total turn-off.

Diving back into her suitcase she pulled out the matching negligee and slipped it on and if she still looked too come-and-grab-me she’d just have to start over, dig out a dress and fresh underwear.

An agitated appraisal did something to settle her nerves. Dressing like a vamp didn’t come naturally to her—hadn’t she loathed wearing her twin’s cast-offs? The negligee helped. Sleeveless too, it was generously cut, falling in graceful folds to her ankles, the edges banded with delicate silk ruffles.

A little sigh of relief quivered on her soft mouth. Better. And anyway, what was wrong with a woman looking willing when she was about to spend the night with her soon-to-be husband?

On a wave of renewed confidence she opened the door to the living area. Cesare was standing at the huge window looking down at the teeming city, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his chinos. He looked so commanding, so gorgeous that she just stopped breathing. And as she swayed towards him—it was the only form of locomotion she could manage because of the tight cut of the nightie—he turned and watched her, a smile of all-male appreciation wreathing his stunning features.

‘Gift wrapped too!’ He strode forward to meet her necessarily slinky approach, taking both her hands, holding her a little away from him, and his gleaming dark eyes swept slowly over her from head to toe with hot appreciation, making her cheeks glow and her heart beat like a steam hammer.

Lean hands slid to her slender waist, tugging her closer to the hard perfection of his body. ‘I just lost my appetite for food,’ he confided in a husky undertone. His lips found her earlobe. ‘However, we will both make an effort.’ His mouth moved to the sensitive hollow beneath her jaw and Milly’s knees immediately turned to water. ‘Anticipation adds spice, don’t you think?’

His accent had never been so pronounced Milly decided, completely intoxicated by him as he led her to the alcove where a low table fronted a voguish deeply upholstered sofa.

White linen napkins, heavy silver flatware, elegant crystal glasses, champagne on ice and a mouthwatering array of seafood, salad and pasta dishes. Milly couldn’t imagine eating any of it, she thought as she slid on to the sofa. Sexual tension was closing her throat up. Impossible to swallow the smallest morsel.

But when Cesare handed her a glass of the foaming liquid and angled his lean muscular body on to the sofa beside her she relaxed just a little until his knee touched hers and sheet lightning shot from that heated spot right into the private pulsating heart of her.

Her need for him was driving her crazy! Shakily, she put the glass down on the table just as Cesare angled his hips to extract a small velvet-covered box from a side pocket.

He put it into her nerveless fingers. ‘For you, amore mia. Open it.’

For a long moment her eyes meshed with his. He had never said he loved her, but his eyes said it for him. Her heart full to bursting point, she lifted the lid. And gasped.

The square cut emerald in its simple gold setting was spectacular. Tanned lean fingers extracted the ring from its velvet nest and slipped it on her finger.

‘For me!’ Eyes as deeply green as the magnificent stone lifted to him, watched his mouth curve.

‘I don’t recall asking anyone else to marry me. And this…’ He took a fine gold chain she’d been too dazzled by the emerald to notice from the velvet box and dangled it from his fingers. ‘With this you can wear my ring around your neck until we are together to tell Nonna of our wedding plans, when she is stronger. But wear it now, wear it for me.’

Still too dazzled by the brilliance of the exquisite gem to grasp his meaning, she tipped her head on one side. ‘I don’t understand. We’ll both be returning to the villa after—after tomorrow, won’t we?’

‘Alas, no. As I said, I broke into my itinerary to bring you here. Tomorrow afternoon you will fly to Pisa, where Stefano will meet you. And I go to London for a series of crucial meetings with the CEO of the fine gems offshoot and the top two designers.’

Disappointment hit Milly hard. She had so hoped—believed—that they would return together to break the wonderful news to Filomena, begin to organise their wedding.

Thankfully, common sense came to her rescue and stopped her whining like a child deprived of a favourite toy. Cesare had a huge world-spanning business empire to run and he was the sort of guy who firmly believed in the hands-on approach. And of course Filomena needed to get her strength back before she threw herself into wedding plans, as Cesare had warned she would.

She lifted her glass and raised it to him, her eyes glinting with teasing laughter now she’d got her priorities straightened out. ‘To the longest secret engagement on record!’

‘Not that long, I promise.’ His response was sombre, and she didn’t quite know what to read into that change of mood, then thought nothing more of it when he selected a fork and began to feed her delicious morsels. Reciprocating, she fed him and the mood was good again. Close. Warm. Until, reaching forward to spear a yummy-looking piece of lobster for him she noted that the edges of her robe had parted, displaying full breasts lovingly moulded by wispy black silk, and noticed with a shock of pleasure that his eyes were riveted.

Laying down the fork he’d been using, he muttered in his own language, something that she took to be an imprecation, rose to his feet and scooped her into his arms with a husky, ‘There’s only so much anticipation a guy can take!’ and carried her into the bedroom.

Even through the tinted glass windows Milly could see that the narrow streets they were driving through at a snail’s pace looked pretty sleazy. For the first time this morning she was beginning to feel edgy about the coming encounter with her sister.

She’d woken feeling fabulous, sated and limp limbed from what had truly turned out to be a night to remember. Cesare had brought her breakfast on a tray. Juice, coffee, toast and thin slices of ham.

He’d joined her, easing his lean boxer-clad body beside her, and in no time at all he’d reached out and smoothed a hand over the curve of her naked shoulder, drawing her to him murmuring unsteadily, ‘You’re so sexy. I can’t keep my hands off you.’

‘I don’t want you to,’ she’d confessed huskily, drowning in pleasure as his fingers caressed her distended nipples. Pushing the tray aside, she’d turned then, her body stretching out to connect with his. With uninhibited passion she had hooked her fingers around the waistband of his boxer shorts and pulled them down.

And the rest, as they said, was history!

Later they’d showered together with predictable results. Her body glowed at the memory.

She’d still been on cloud nine while she’d dressed in the cream-coloured linen trousers and a tailored dark green cool cotton shirt while Cesare had gone to the lounge area. She’d heard him talking on his mobile, first in English and then in his own language with no room in her head for a single thought that centred on her delinquent twin.

Now as the driver negotiated the tangled warren of streets, the thought of the coming difficult interview made her heart thump and her stomach turn over. As if attuned to her every thoughtwave, Cesare’s fingers tightened around hers as he stated, ‘There’s nothing to worry about, cara. Don’t let her browbeat you or spin a tissue of lies. Simply break the news about your mother, tell her I have incontrovertible proof that she stole from my grandmother and leave the rest to me. I promise I won’t involve the police.’

On an impulse she rested her head against his broad shoulder. ‘I’m grateful. I know she deserves to have the book thrown at her, but—’

‘She is your twin sister and there is a bond,’ he finished for her. ‘I can understand. Though I strongly doubt she would feel the same.’ And before she could argue with that, remind him that Jilly had always looked out for her when they’d been kids Cesare announced, ‘We seem to have arrived.’

They were parked in front of firmly closed doors with peeling paintwork flanked by grimy glass fronted panels containing coloured photographs of scantily clad females in suggestive poses. Inexpertly painted names were angled over and beneath them. Jacinta Le Bouchard prominent among them.

Feeling decidedly anxious over her twin’s disastrous career choice, not to mention her even dodgier future prospects, as Cesare helped her out of the sleek black car she watched as he leaned in the front and spoke to the driver, who nodded, picked a newspaper from the front seat and settled down to read.

‘Come.’ He cupped a hand beneath her elbow as they entered a narrow malodorous alley beside the nightclub. ‘I will leave you alone with her for twenty minutes, half an hour max, before I join you. When that is over the driver will take us to the airport and I will see you on a flight to Pisa before heading for London,’ he told her flatly, releasing her elbow, some kind of tension hardening the sculpted angles of his stunning profile.

He was making her too uneasy to say anything more than a mumbled, ‘Thanks.’

She felt suddenly that a great yawning gulf had opened up between them, that he was deliberately distancing himself from her. Had coming face to face with the way her twin was earning a living given him second thoughts about having anything to do with her, let alone marrying her and introducing tainted blood into his high status family?

The thought was unworthy, too horrible to contemplate. Milly ousted it with a decisive shake of her head and followed him up a short flight of crumbling stone steps, through an open doorway and into a narrow passage.

The first door he came to—more flaking paintwork—bore a card with the cringe-making ‘Jacinta Le Bouchard’ printed on it in violet ink. Pressing his finger on the bell, keeping it there, his jaw set, he didn’t look at her. His mouth was flat with contemptuous distaste when, after a minute or two, the door was roughly dragged open and Jilly stood there, wearing a kimono splashed all over with brightly coloured dragons, her long hair all over the place, her mouth dropping open with shock.

Turning, he levelled an unreadable look at her and Milly paled, even more colour leaving her face as he turned on his heel and strode back down the narrow passage as if he couldn’t wait to get away. Her troubled eyes followed him every step of the way until he disappeared out of sight.

Was he recalling her initial deception, lumping her morals with her twin’s? Two of a kind?

‘What the hell are you doing here with that bastard?’

Milly turned to face her twin. Her unwelcoming face still bore traces of last night’s make-up and it wasn’t like Jilly to be less than ultra-fastidious about her skin care routine, she thought with a pang, making herself remember that she was here for a purpose. ‘Can I come in?’

As a reply Jilly turned and walked across the tiny hallway and through a beaded curtain. Milly followed, leaving the front door open, because who knew when she’d leave her twin to her own devices and leg it after Cesare to make him explain why he’d looked at her as if she was the last person on earth he wanted to be with?

Gathering herself with the reminder that there were things that had to be said, she brushed through the hanging strands of beads and stepped into a room which one look told her served as sitting room, bedroom and kitchen. Clothes were strewn everywhere and Milly had the unfond memory of how, for as far as her memory stretched back she’d had to clear up after her twin.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news,’ she said softly as her twin parked herself on the scarlet satin covered bed.

‘Spit it out then.’ With an uninterested shrug, Jilly reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit up, blowing a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.

Milly moved closer, ready to offer comfort. There was no way to break this gently. ‘I’m sorry, but Ma passed away a few months ago. It was sudden.’ She reached for her twin’s cigarette free hand, noted the sudden frown between the mirror-image of her own eyes, and could have wept for her, vividly remembering her own shock and grief. ‘I would have contacted you,’ she impressed on her quietly, ‘but I didn’t know how. You hadn’t been in touch since you left Florence.’

Jilly’s face went pale and still, her jaw clenched, as if she were desperately holding back strong emotion. Shock and grief, Milly thought on a pang of painful sympathy, her fingers tightening around her twin’s.

Jilly dragged her hand away. ‘Then how did you find me? How did you meet up with that bastard?’ Her mouth twisted as she stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray.

Milly, stunned, threw at her, ‘Is that all you can say? Don’t you feel anything? Don’t you care?’ She took a pace back. The sister she’d admired and loved all her life now seemed like a stranger.

Jilly shrugged. ‘It’s a lot to take in. ’Course I care, damn you! So don’t come the Holy Joe with me! Anyway, she didn’t have much to live for, did she?’

‘And whose fault was that?’ Milly wanted to strangle her! ‘At least she died firmly believing you’d one day make good the money you lost. She kept faith.’

‘Well, I did try,’ Jilly defended herself, for the first time looking uncomfortable, and Milly tipped a pile of underwear off a chair and sat down because her legs had started to shake beneath her. She had never said a harsh word to her twin in her life and now she couldn’t seem to stop.

‘How?’ she demanded, tight lipped. ‘By stealing it?’

‘What did you say?’ Jilly looked as though sibling strangling was a two way street.

Taking a deep breath, Milly told herself that they were getting nowhere by yelling at each other. As calmly as she could, she ran through the whole story, starting at the point where Cesare had mistaken her for Jilly and she had gone along with it, getting so caught up in the plot that she ended with, ‘He’s been really good about it. Those cheques you forged, I mean. He’s got the proof but he promised not to take it any further.’ Her eyes sparkled with tears. ‘Oh, Jilly—how could you do that? I’m really worried for you!’

‘The bastard’s got you well and truly hooked!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Milly looked into her twin’s eyes and shivered. Cold. Hard. Two flags of bright colour flamed angrily on her cheekbones.

‘I think you know. Or if you don’t you’re even dafter than I thought you were!’ Jilly took another cigarette, the wreathing plume of smoke making her eyes look mean and narrow. ‘Is that his ring you’re wearing? Has he got you into bed yet?’ Taking the violent flush that suffused her twin’s face as an affirmative, seeing the way she instinctively placed a protective hand over the huge emerald, she snapped. ‘I thought so. So cut the lecturing. Okay, so I helped myself to some of the old girl’s money. It’s not as if she’d miss it; the old bat’s loaded.’ Shooting off the bed, she paced the cluttered room then swung round, faced Milly and announced bitterly, ‘And after Cesare dumped me when I told him I was expecting his baby, I needed it!’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MILLY FELT THE blood drain from her face as wave after wave of dizziness made her sway where she sat. She clutched at the sides of the chair for support. This wasn’t happening. It could not be happening! She must have misheard.

‘You’re expecting Cesare’s child?’ Her voice sounded weak, threadlike, her eyes pleading, begging to hear a denial.

‘Was,’ Jilly corrected with a sigh. ‘I miscarried. I had a tough time with the early stages of the pregnancy—it was the reason I didn’t come home to England. Ma would have been devastated with the shame of having a daughter who had a baby without the benefit of a wedding ring on her finger—you know what she was like.’

Milly put her fingertips to her temples. The squalid room was tilting around her and her ears were buzzing. She had known this interview would be difficult. But not as bad as this, please, not as bad as this!

She flinched as Jilly put a hand on her shoulder, shaking her head violently as her twin asked, ‘Want a brandy or something, kid?’

Rebellion stirred. She wasn’t a kid! And Cesare wasn’t the type of man to turn his back on his own child. He was her future husband! She trusted him, didn’t she?

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Jilly that she knew she had to be lying because Cesare had confessed that he found Jilly a total turn-off but, to spare her sister’s feelings, she kept her mouth shut. It would be bad enough for her to know she’d been branded a thief without the further humiliation of hearing that the gorgeous Cesare Saracino preferred the quieter twin over the sex-on-legs version.

‘We’re going to be married, I won’t believe anything bad of him!’ The words were out before she could stop them.

She cringed when her twin countered drily, ‘Yeah? ’Course you are. That’s what he led me to believe too.’

Jilly dragged a chair from under the table and settled at Milly’s side. ‘Listen kid, you’re in denial and I can’t blame you. But haven’t I always looked out for you?’

‘Like you did when you left me to pick up the pieces after you lost every penny Ma had and more? Not that I minded looking after her the best I could, but you could at least have phoned or written, told us where you were and what you were doing.’ Attack was the best form of defence, wasn’t it? Anything to change the subject, because she couldn’t bear to hear any more of Jilly’s lies. They were lies, weren’t they? They had to be! She tried to stand, to leave this hateful place, but her legs had turned to jelly and wouldn’t hold her upright. Miserably she sank back on the chair and let her twin’s words wash over her.

‘I had my reasons, okay? Listen, there I was working in an upmarket club in Florence when this fabulous guy walks in with another man. Every woman around was riveted. Well, he’s pretty hard to overlook. I think I fell for him there and then. I asked around and found he was the head of the Saracino empire. Next thing I knew he was advertising for a companion for his ancient grandmother. I was in there like a shot, and he hired me on the spot. I could tell he was interested. Well a girl can, can’t she? Well, things progressed. From what I gathered from the old woman, he was rarely home—flying here, there and everywhere on business—but he hung around because of me. And, give him his due, he’s a fantastic lover. Talk about insatiable! He vowed he loved me, all the usual guff, asked me to marry him.’ She snorted her contempt. ‘Even gave me a ring.’

Picking up Milly’s hand, she examined the emerald, her eyes narrowing with spite. ‘Yeah. Same one. I left it behind. I would have kept it and sold it and not had to dip my fingers into the old bat’s bank account out of desperation. But I had it valued. It’s a cheap fake. Like him! ’Course, I wasn’t supposed to wear it openly,’ she scorned. ‘He wanted to bring the old woman round slowly to the idea of his marrying a foreigner.’

Her jaw set, as if she were trying to keep emotion at bay. ‘If you still don’t believe me you could tackle him head on. He’ll deny it, of course. And if you ask the old woman for corroboration of the so-called engagement you’ll draw a blank. He made sure she knew nothing about it. And I fell for it. I was madly in love with him and believed every lying word he said. I even thought with him being so filthy rich he would give me a whopping allowance after we were married and I could begin to pay Ma back. But face it, kid, his kind doesn’t marry down. When he proposes and actually means it she’ll be upper crust and filthy rich.’

Milly stared at her twin with shattered eyes as the words dripped agonisingly into her mind like poison. She didn’t want to believe any of this but—

Had Cesare given her twin a chain too? To keep their fake engagement secret? He’d insisted that they keep their plans secret, hadn’t he? Using his grandmother as an excuse, the same excuse he’d given Jilly. In her twin’s case to give him time to talk the old lady round; in her own case he’d insisted that they wait to break the news until his grandmother was strong again.

It came to the same thing.

And why on earth would Jilly lie about the pregnancy? It made no kind of sense, she thought on a wave of nausea. Such a wicked fabrication would gain her absolutely nothing. It made far more sense to take everything she’d said as the truth.

Pregnant and dumped by the man she’d believed she would marry, she’d admitted she’d been desperate. And so she’d stolen what she’d thought she was owed. It didn’t excuse theft, nothing ever would, but it did explain it.

A wave of dizziness attacked her and Jilly’s voice came as if from far away, at the end of a long, echoing tunnel. ‘Listen kid. Take my advice and dump him before he dumps you. Salvage some pride, get out before he comes back—if he ever does. Go back home, where you belong. Look.’ She shot to her feet and crossed the room to pull a bundle of notes from beneath the scarlet-covered pillow. ‘I’ll even lend you the money for your fare back and call a cab to get you to the airport. So don’t say I don’t look out for you!’

Milly shook her head and forced herself to her feet, ignoring the proffered notes. Dragging in a deep breath, she straightened her slender shoulders. ‘We’re twins. Part of each other,’ she stressed, her lips feeling as if they had been carved out of wood. ‘Neither of us would knowingly do anything to harm the other. So do you swear that what you’ve said is the truth?’

‘You really doubt me?’ Green eyes rolled in expressive disbelief. ‘Would I have told you all that stuff if it wasn’t gospel, when it shows me up as a gullible idiot? Look, Milly…’ She attempted a hug but Milly stepped back, too close to breaking down to allow a sympathetic gesture that would have her falling to pieces. ‘Take my advice, get out before he makes a fool of you too.’

Milly turned, her spine ramrod stiff. Cesare had said he’d give her time alone with her twin. But would he still be waiting in the car knowing that Jilly would surely spill the beans? Or would he have instructed the driver to take off, leaving her stranded?

As she entered the narrow hallway she decided bleakly that she hoped he had taken off. Being stranded in a strange city surrounded by people who didn’t speak her language seemed preferable to seeing his handsome, devious, cruel face again.

The shock that had left her weak and shaky was replaced by searing anger. If she saw him again she would kill him! Beat him to a pulp just as he had taken her loving heart and ground it beneath his heels!

Blinded by rage, fuelled by a hurt that filled every inch of her with indescribable pain, she stepped out on to the hot pavement and collided with a wall of stunning Italian manhood.

Too stunning by half! Feeling those strong arms go round her, she pushed him away and, all dignity deserting her, she lifted her chin in wounded defiance and held his dark as night, devious eyes, dragged his ring off her finger, dropped it and yelled brokenly, ‘Put it back in the Christmas cracker!’

‘Cara—’ He reached for her but she leapt back, her voice choky as she informed him of her opinion of his character. ‘Don’t touch me, you—you despicable louse! I never want to see you again!’

And no way would she share that car with him! She’d find her own way back to the hotel on foot to collect her stuff, even if it took the rest of the day! She knew a brief flare of triumph as a youth on a skateboard bore down on the gap between them blocking Cesare’s way. She took the opportunity to scramble into the waiting car, not understanding the rapid flow of Italian Cesare directed at the driver, not caring either. She gabbled, ‘Back to the hotel, pronto!’ hoping the driver understood and more desperately hoping that Cesare wouldn’t climb in after her, then sank in a heap of misery against the leather upholstery as the car drew away and Cesare turned abruptly and entered her twin’s lodging place, his stride ominous, his shoulders rigid.

Stifling the urge to give way to wildly abandoned weeping kept her fully occupied as the car made its stately progress through the narrow streets and she was unsurprised when she was deposited outside the hotel they had used, where their luggage was waiting to be collected. The louse would have instructed the driver to bring her back here to collect her belongings then leave her, she realised, fuming, barely heeding the driver’s thickly accented, ‘You to wait. Capice?’ before, as predicted, he drove away, leaving her to find her own way back to England. Which was no punishment, she thought savagely, because that was precisely what she meant to do!

Her small face grim, she swept into the main reception area, adamantly dismissing the driver’s instructions to wait. What for? To hang around like a spare part that had no further use, just for the privilege of seeing the wretch one last time when he finally appeared to collect his own luggage. Not likely!

Thankfully, the chief receptionist spoke fluent English and was obliging enough to call a cab to take her to the airport, exchanging the small reserve of sterling in her purse for euros to enable her to pay the fare. Unfortunately, she would have to use her credit card to buy a ticket back to the UK. She would be in debt, jobless and homeless. But those problems were small change compared with the devastating pain of a shattered heart and savaged dreams, she thought wretchedly as she paid off the driver and made her way into the departures hall, hardly having the mental energy left to wonder if there would be a spare seat on the next flight back home which, so the obliging receptionist had informed her, was scheduled to leave in half an hour from now.

Cesare exited the hotel at speed and hurled himself back into the waiting chauffeur driven car and in moments they were heading for the airport.

She hadn’t waited. His jaw tightened. Had he expected her to? After the admissions he’d dragged from her twin, he acknowledged bitterly that waiting for him would be the last thing she could stomach.

The seven kilometre drive to the airport seemed to be taking for ever. Venting a savage expletive he leant forward to instruct the driver to break all speed records. According to the receptionist, the signorina was hoping to get a flight back to London. And that flight would be leaving in fifteen minutes!

He ground his strong white teeth in desperate frustration then subsided in black anxiety. Even if by some miracle the flight had been delayed and he caught up with her would he ever be able to regain her trust after what her sister had told her? By some unholy coincidence her lies would have struck a chord, ringing true to Milly. Even back when Nonna had insisted on hiring her, his instinct had told him that Jilly Lee was bad news. She was a thief, a liar, a self-centred taker. Her twin was a giver, a life enhancer. And he loved her more than life. His gut twisted.

He glanced at his watch and fisted his hands at his sides. They’d arrived at the airport environs just as her flight was taking off.

Frustration roared through him but, never one to give up, Cesare was already deciding his next course of action. His private jet was scheduled to take off for London in an hour. He wouldn’t be that far behind her. He had no means of knowing where she would go now that she’d vacated the flat. But he’d track down the friend whose wedding she’d attended and, through her, find the love of his life.

Simultaneously Cesare and the driver saw her. A slight figure standing outside the departures area. Cesare sent up a silent prayer of gratitude as the car slid to a rubber-burning halt.

She looked lost. He exited the car at speed, something twisting inside him as his eyes took in her lone, forlorn figure. His heart was bursting with a deep, protective love. He strode towards her, his heart thumping heavily in the cavity of his chest. Paces away, she lifted her bright head and he could swear he saw relief spark in the depths of her lovely sea-green eyes.

He wanted to fold his arms around her, hold her, never let her go. But the situation was too delicate for that. Regaining her trust was his absolute priority.

Her slight shoulders straightened. ‘I didn’t know if I would be able to find you.’ Relief flooded her voice. ‘By the time I got back to the hotel you might have already left.’

‘But I would have found you, cara mia. I would have searched the whole world for you.’

Milly searched his eyes, the force field of strong emotion emanating from him holding her spellbound. Her voice shook as she confided, ‘I meant to try to get back to England. But I just stood there like a prune because it hit me that if what Jilly said had been true you wouldn’t even have told me she’d been found, never mind taking me there and giving me time alone with her because you would have known she would tell me—things.’ A flush of colour stole over her ashen cheeks.

Controlling the driven impetus to take her in his arms, rain kisses on her heartbreakingly lovely face, took some doing but he was rewarded when she stated with distress, ‘I threw your beautiful ring back at you, called you names. I—I lost faith. I didn’t even bother to ask you if what she’d told me was true—about you promising to marry her then ditching her when she told you she was carrying your child. I believed her as I always have. I’m so sorry.’

Her head bowed on the slender stalk of her neck and Cesare snatched in a deep ragged breath and gathered her in his arms regardless of interested onlookers who, being Italian, would probably start applauding any time now.

‘Per amor di Dio! You believe in me now; that is all that matters,’ he murmured, his lips tantalisingly close to hers now. ‘I made your sister admit to the lies she had told and I must admit that for a moment I was furious that you hadn’t trusted me over her! But my fabled common sense kicked in.’ A finger beneath her chin had her downcast eyes meeting his wry grin. ‘And it told me that her lies would have sounded convincing and that somewhere, away from me, you were feeling in shock, betrayed and hurting. It was unbearable for me!’ he claimed extravagantly. ‘And I swear on my life and on yours that I never so much as touched your wretched sister! But I think you have worked that out for yourself. That I want you to be my wife, that I truly love you, more than any words of mine can ever portray. Yes?’

‘Yes!’ Milly’s heart swelled with love, so much love she could barely contain it. Her hands rose, her fingers tangling in the soft dark hair at the nape of his neck and he brought his mouth down on hers with a passion that scorched her soul. She loved him so much and she had almost lost him.

Immersed in emotion, it was long minutes later that Cesare raised his proud head and Milly saw through a daze of glorious happiness that they had gained an avid audience and she blushed to the roots of her hair as her stunningly handsome future husband gave the throng a wide grin then folded an arm around her shoulders and drew her to the waiting car, leaving the driver to retrieve her abandoned luggage.

A rapid string of instructions issued from lips that still echoed that grin. The moment the driver was behind the wheel and as the car was put in motion Cesare was already extracting a slim mobile from an inner pocket, speaking rapidly in Italian, his free hand clasping hers possessively. The moment he finished she asked, ‘Are we both going to London?’

‘Change of plan. My pilot is now getting ready to fly us to Florence. We are going home to break our news to Nonna. And if I have to tie her down to stop her from launching into wedding arrangements, then I will! My PA will handle my London meeting. From now on, where you are I will be during all the days of our wonderful future together.’ His arm hooked around her shoulder, drawing her closer and she snuggled into him as he explained, ‘Over the past few weeks I have been away from you and every moment was a torment. But it was a necessary evil if I was to make sure that everything was in place, making sure the more-than-able heads of the various enterprises knew of my plans.’

‘Plans?’ she murmured, her eyes limpid as he placed a tantalising kiss on the corner of her mouth.

‘To be with you. To spend the majority of my time with you and any future family we might have.’ This time the kiss was full-blown and so spectacular that Milly was totally disorientated when they reached the private airstrip where the company jet was waiting.

Immediately after take-off Cesare reached for her hand and slipped the emerald back where it belonged, saying huskily, ‘It would be a shame to put it into a Christmas cracker! I much prefer to see it on your finger.’

Blushing over the cheap jibe she’d thrown at him, she was further mortified when he lifted her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed each fingertip in turn and pronounced, ‘It is a family heirloom, one of many. I will delight in seeing you shine in glittering diamonds, rubies as red as wine and more emeralds than you can possibly imagine.’

She wriggled in her seat as it really hit her that he must be one of the wealthiest men in Christendom. She faced him squarely and told him staunchly, ‘I only want you.’

‘You have me. Body, heart and soul.’ He settled her back into the curve of his arm. ‘But a little extra won’t come amiss, mi amore. And, talking of extras, I made a few phone calls this morning back at the hotel while you were dressing. I have arranged for your sister to take up a vacant receptionist’s post in the New York Saracino complex. My agent will contact her with flight tickets and further instructions. And, before you get one tiny doubt about why I should be so magnanimous when she deserves to be damned to hell, I did this for you, not for her. I knew you would be happier, with a little long-distance help she could make a more hopeful future for herself, away from that seedy place. I know you care for her and would worry about her—and, more than any thing, I want you to be happy. You are so loving and generous in your nature that you’ll probably forgive her for what she’s done—which is something I will never do, even should I live to be a thousand years old!’ he declared extravagantly. ‘So don’t even begin to think that I arranged this for her out of anything but a desire to put your mind at rest.’

‘Oh, I don’t. I truly don’t!’ she assured him, smothering a giggle at his vehement protestations loving him all the more for his generosity towards a woman who had brought him nothing but trouble. ‘But—’ she shot upright so that she could see his beloved face ‘—I did have one nasty moment—even before Jilly told me those poisoned lies.’

‘And that was?’

‘When we arrived at where she’s living. I felt as if you’d gone away from me. That you’d had it in mind that I’d set out to deceive you, pretend I was my twin and it had hit you that we were tarred with the same brush. Bad blood.’

‘Never! Never think that—I absolutely forbid it!’ He hooked a finger beneath her chin, his eyes scorching hers. ‘For the first time in my life I was scared witless. Terrified that she would say or do something to come between us. I knew how you valued the bond you have with your twin, how you went against every natural inclination within you to try to protect her from me and what at that time you would have seen as my unfair accusations and threats of the courts. I was deeply afraid that somehow she would persuade you to stand beside her against me,’ he confessed rawly. ‘I can face any disaster with courage. But not that. I had not gone away from you, as you feared. I was simply afraid.’

‘Cesare!’ she managed shakily. That this wonderful man should love her so much and that what he had most feared had almost come about because it had taken her a good hour to work things out, think logically, shook her to the core. She coiled her arms around his neck, her voice a thread as she whispered, ‘Kiss me.’

And he obliged with all the dedication and enthusiasm in the world.

Just over a year later Milly tucked baby Carlo into his muslin draped cradle while Maria, the comfortable nurse-maid Cesare had insisted they bring along to their villa in Amalfi, drew the nursery blinds.

Milly smiled besottedly down at her son. At three months old he was already showing signs of developing into a carbon copy of the devastatingly handsome, strong-willed father who adored him. She couldn’t be happier! Wonderful was too tame a word to describe life with her sexy, masterful yet achingly tender husband.

Nonna had welcomed her into the family with genuine joy and had become even more sprightly since the birth of her first great-grandson and the only small cloud—a tiny one—in her life had dispersed when a couple of months ago Jilly had written out of the blue expressing her deep regrets for the lies she had told, confessing everything. That Cesare had never been interested in her and that sheer spite and malice that he had fallen for Milly had motivated her lies. She apologized profusely for her behaviour and concluded with her own happy announcement. She had recently married on Teddy Myerburg, the third, a really great guy. Jilly was sorry not to have invited her but felt it would be too soon for her sister to forgive her, though she hoped that day might come.

Passing the letter to Cesare to read, she’d watched his jaw tighten, then left him to it and studied the photograph enclosed with the letter. Jilly, wearing a plain white sheath dress looked fantastic. And smug. Her groom was portly and balding and looked immensely proud. But not as proud as Cesare had looked when she’d walked down the aisle to him, wearing a fabulously expensive confection of white silk embroidered with seed pearls.

‘Myerburg’s a wealthy guy. I met him once in New York. A decent character. His first wife died. It took him a while to get over it, apparently. A bit old for her, but his money should keep her in line.’ He passed the letter back. ‘As for forgiving her, I imagine you already have. Maybe we’ll invite them both over for the christening of our third child, when and if fortune blesses us and that happens.’ He gave her that wicked grin that told her that it wouldn’t be for the want of trying.

But if she never came face to face with her twin again that would be OK. Just knowing she was happy, had someone to care for her, was enough.

Bestowing one last loving look on her beautiful sleeping son, she left the nursery, meeting Cesare on his way there. Clad in wet swimming briefs, his hard male physique spangled with water droplets, he was enough to turn her knees to jelly.

‘I’ve been in the pool,’ he stated superfluously. ‘I forgot the time. Have I missed bedtime?’

‘You have. But he won’t hold it against you.’

‘Pity. It’s the first time I missed out on tucking him in.’ He reached for her, one hand at her tiny waist, the other busy with the tiny buttons on the front of her cool voile dress. ‘To tell the truth, I was too busy fantasising about what I would do when you joined me to remember the time. Take this off and I’ll turn fantasy into reality.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Much better. Her heartbeat accelerated. She took his hand and led him into their airy spacious bedroom. ‘It’s a good two hours before we eat.’ When they were here they took their meals on the balcony overlooking the old town and the glorious panoramic view of the bay. ‘Enough time, I think.’

‘Just about,’ he considered huskily, discarding her dress, his hands moving with practised ease to the fastening of her lacy bra. ‘Do you know how much I adore you?’

‘If it’s half as much as I adore you,’ she breathed, revelling in the sensation of wanton expectation as he slipped her matching briefs slowly down to her ankles, ‘then I’ll be satisfied.’

‘Ah, but I’m insatiable! I’m always coming back for more, you should know that by now!’ he groaned as he tumbled her on to the bed, shed his briefs and proceeded to show her exactly what he meant.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘COME here—come closer so we can see you,’ the male voice commanded.

Cursing softly under her breath, Zoë Chapman slithered down to the ground and straightened up. Uncomfortable but invisible, or so she’d thought, she had been wedged into a smooth crevice between two giant rocks, discreetly observing the activity around the campfire.

She had located the flamenco camp and chosen her hiding place before anyone arrived. Her unique and popular cookery shows depended upon the co-operation of special interest groups, but the fact that she worked on a TV programme didn’t make her welcome everywhere. She had wanted to observe the dancing before she introduced herself, just to make sure it was as good as was rumoured in the village.

The man speaking now had arrived shortly after she had. Back turned, he had stood gazing out across the valley. She had seen nothing more than an aggressively tall male figure, a shock of inky black hair and a wide sweep of shoulders—in fact, everything she had vowed to avoid since gaining her freedom.

As more people had joined him, she’d realised he was the leader of the group. Why hadn’t she been surprised? She had wondered who he was, wondered about the quivers running through her as she stared at him. It had made her angry to think she had learned nothing since her divorce. She was still drawn to dangerous men.

Now, walking up to him, she saw he was everything she had expected: strikingly handsome, arrogant, and angry that she was here uninvited. If this hadn’t been work she would have done the sensible thing, and left.

During the course of her television series she searched out interesting people from all walks of life. Local people in whichever country she chose to film were the seasoning in her shows, the magic ingredient that lifted her above the competition.

Generally she enjoyed the research. This time she had to put her personal feelings to one side and hope the dancing started soon. She couldn’t let some local brigand put her off. Forget the man! This was her target group. The only thing that mattered was persuading someone to perform flamenco on her programme.

Dance was Zoë’s passion outside of work. She knew she would never make a professional, but part of her climb-back after the divorce had been to join a jazz dance exercise group. It had proved the best therapy she could have chosen—though right now it looked as if all her good work was being undone.

She could not have prepared for this, Zoë reminded herself. She had not expected to run up against such a strong character again quite so soon.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

He beckoned her forward with a short, angry gesture, and his voice was cold. It brought back memories she didn’t need, but she was like a terrier with a bone when it came to work, and she focused her concentration easily. They were attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps one of the people around the mountain hut would agree to audition for her programme?

The man held up his hand to stop her coming any closer. It was close enough for Zoë, too. He was quite something. Along with the aura of power and brute strength, she had to admit he had style. Why did she have to find such a man irresistible when she knew he had danger carved into the stone where his heart should be?

Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he was around six feet two or three, and his build was every bit as impressive as she had thought from some distance away. Everything about him was dark: his eyes, his hair…his expression.

‘Why have you come here?’ he demanded.

‘I heard this is where flamenco enthusiasts gather, and I want to learn more about flamenco.’

‘So you can go home to England and show off to your friends?’ He made a derisive sound and clicked his fingers, mimicking the worst of the shows she had seen down on the coast.

‘No, of course not. I…’ His steely gaze remained fixed on her face, but she couldn’t let that get to her. ‘I am genuinely interested in flamenco.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘I am at the moment—’

He cut her off. ‘At the moment?’

‘I know this looks bad—’

‘What do you mean, you’re alone at the moment?’

‘I’m working with a television crew. They’re not here right now.’

Could his expression darken any more? She tried to explain, but her voice came out as a croak. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her throat. She should have brought some water with her. She had been at the mercy of the sun all afternoon, and now she was desperate for a drink.

‘Do you think I could have some water?’ She gazed around.

‘What do you think this is? A café?’

But people were drinking all around her. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Did you think this was one of those cheap tourist places where you get a free drink along with your paella and chips?’

‘No!’ She calmed herself. ‘No, of course not—’

He straightened up and moved a menacing pace towards her, and all her courage drained away. Lurching backwards, she nearly stumbled. She was only saved by the sheer bulk of a man behind her. He was carrying a stone flagon and some pottery beakers. He didn’t understand when she started to apologise, and poured her a drink.

She didn’t want it. She just wanted to get away—back down the mountain to safety, to where people barely looked at her, where no one knew who she was or where she had come from.

But the man with the flagon was still smiling at her, and the situation was bad enough already. ‘Gracias, señor.’

Keeping watch on the brigand, Zoë took the beaker from the older man and gratefully drank from it.

It was delicious, and tasted harmless—like fruit juice and honey laced with some spice she couldn’t name. The beaker felt cool, and she was so thirsty she didn’t protest when he offered her more. The golden liquid gleamed in the light as it flowed from the flagon, and the elderly man filled her beaker to the brim.

‘Salud!’

The alpha male’s voice was harsh and unfriendly. Handing the beaker back to the man with the flagon, Zoë raised her chin. She felt better now, bolder. ‘Delicious,’ she said defiantly, staring her unwilling host in the eyes. ‘What was that drink?’

‘A local speciality, brewed here in the village.’

‘It’s very good. You should market it.’

‘On your recommendation I’ll certainly consider it.’

His sarcasm needled Zoë, but it also renewed her determination to go nowhere until she got the feature for her programme. At any cost?

At the cost of a little charm, at least. ‘I really should introduce myself.’

‘You really should.’

Brushing a strand of titian hair from her face, Zoë stared up and tried to focus. She hadn’t realised the drink was so strong. On an empty stomach, she was suddenly discovering, it was lethal. She was in no state to object when he reached forward to steady her.

His grip on her arm was light, but even through an alcohol-induced haze she could feel the shock waves radiating out from his fingertips until every part of her was throbbing. He led her away out of earshot, to where a wooden hut cast some shade.

‘So, who are you?’

‘Zoë—Zoë Chapman. Could I have a glass of water, please?’

Rico thought he recognised the name, then brushed it aside. It hardly mattered. She had damned herself already out of her own mouth: a television crew! He might have known. He grimaced, catching hold of her again when she stumbled.

‘I think you’d better sit down.’ He steered her towards a bench, and once she was safely planted turned and called to two youths. ‘José! Fernando! Por favor, café solo—rápido!’ Then, turning to her again, he said, ‘Welcome to the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp, Zoë Chapman. Now you’re here, what do you want?’

‘It’s good to meet you too—’

‘Don’t give me all this nonsense about flamenco. What do you really want? Why have you come here? Are you spying on me?’

‘Flamenco isn’t nonsense.’ She reeled back to stare at him. ‘And I’m not spying on you. I’m researching.’

‘Oh, of course. I see,’ he said sarcastically.

No, he didn’t, Zoë thought, shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to focus on his face. Her head felt so heavy. It bounced instead of simply moving. Squeezing her eyes together, she struggled to follow his movements—he seemed to be swaying back and forth. ‘So, who are you, then?’ Her tongue was tied up in knots.

‘Rico. Rico Cortes.’

They were attracting attention, Zoë noticed again. Peering round him, she gave a smile and a little wave. He moved in closer, shielding her from his companions. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Rico.’ As she put her hand out to shake his, it somehow connected with a coffee cup. Raising the cup to her lips, she drank the coffee down fast. The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to pull round from this fast. The last couple of programmes based around flamenco were supposed to be the crowning feature of her series.

‘Here, drink some more.’

His voice was sharp, and then he made a signal to the boy with the coffee pot to fill her mug again.

‘Leave it here, José, por favor.’

He sounded different, warmer when he spoke to the youth, Zoë registered fuzzily.

‘We’re going to need every drop,’ he added.

And he was back to contempt when he turned to look at her! It wasn’t the best start she’d ever had to a programme.

This time, once she’d drained the strong black coffee, it was Zoë who asked for more. The second she had finished, the questions started.

‘If you’re with a television crew I take it you’re after an exclusive. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were spying on us, sneaking about.’

Thanking the boy, Zoë gave him back her empty cup. Her head was clearing. She felt better, much more focused. She might still be a little under par, but she had no intention of being bullied by Rico Cortes—by anyone.

‘I’m here to see if flamenco will make a suitable item for my television series. Nothing more.’

‘Your television series?’

‘It’s my programme. I have full editorial control. I own the company that produces the programme.’

‘So, it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘Staying at the Castillo Cazulas.’

‘Yes, my company has taken a short-term lease on the castle—’

‘And it’s there you’re going to create your masterpiece?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice now. Could he have been more disparaging? She had worked long and hard to raise her programme above the rest, to make it different and special. She had brought a great team together, and she was proud of what they had achieved.

‘Flamenco for Spain, opera in Italy, fashion when you shoot a programme in France—is that how it goes? Skimming over the surface of a country, using the name of art just to make money?’

‘I make money. I won’t deny it. How would I stay in business, pay the wages of the people who work with me, otherwise? But as for your other assumptions—frankly, they stink.’

‘They do?’

His voice was faintly amused now, and he was looking at her in a whole different way. She wasn’t sure if she liked it any better. Her thundering heart told her it was dangerous. ‘Look, Rico, if you’re not the person I should be speaking to about the dancing, then perhaps you could find me someone who will listen to what I have to say.’

‘And allow you to trample over my privacy? I don’t think so.’

‘Your privacy? I wasn’t aware that my programme was going to be made around you.’

His look was cynical. ‘It’s time you went back to your film crew, Ms Chapman.’

‘Are you asking me to leave?’

‘It’s getting dark—I’d hate for you to lose your way.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go. Just as soon as I finish my business here.’

‘You have finished your business here.’

‘Why are you so touchy about my being here? I’m not doing you any harm!’

‘People have a right to space.’

‘And this is yours?’ Zoë gestured around.

‘If you like. I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

‘Correct,’ Zoë said, standing up to face him. ‘But I wasn’t aware that there were any private estates up here in the mountains. I’ve got as much right to be here as you have. And, for your information, I have never had a single complaint from a guest on my show. I treat everyone with respect.’

He shifted position and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was a ‘don’t mess with me’ smile.

‘I give you my word,’ Zoë insisted. ‘Nothing in my programme will invade your privacy—’

His short bark of laughter ran right through her, and his derision made her cheeks flame red.

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Then you’re dreaming.’

‘Perhaps if you’d allow me to explain how everything works—’

‘You still couldn’t come up with anything to reassure me.’

This was her most challenging project yet. But she had never failed before. Not once. No one had ever refused to take part in one of her programmes, and she wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes start a trend.

‘Have the effects of that drink worn off yet?’

He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, Zoë guessed. ‘Yes, they have.’ Hard luck. She was firing on all cylinders now.

He turned away. Evidently as far as Rico was concerned their discussion had come to an end. He couldn’t have cared less about her programme—he just didn’t want her blood on his hands when she tumbled over a cliff after drinking the local hooch at his precious flamenco camp. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet!’ she shouted after him.

‘I have.’

As he turned to stare at her Zoë wondered if he could sense the heat building up in her. His slow smile answered that question, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when he walked back towards her. ‘Please, let me reassure you. I don’t pose a threat to you or to anyone else here. I’m just trying to—’

‘Find out more about flamenco?’

‘That’s right.’

As their eyes met and locked Zoë shivered inwardly. Rico was exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid. ‘It’s getting late.’ She looked hopefully at the sky. ‘Perhaps you are right. This isn’t the time—’

‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he sneered.

She was painfully aware of his physical strength, but then something distracted her. A broken chord was played with great skill on a guitar, so soft it was barely discernible above the laughter and chatter—but this was what she had come for. Silence fell, and everyone turned towards a small wooden stage. Lit by torchlight, it had been erected on the edge of the cliff, where it could catch the slightest breeze from the valley.

‘Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well stay for the performance.’

Rico’s invitation held little grace, but she wasn’t about to turn it down.

He cut a path through the crowd, and Zoë followed him towards the front of the stage. She could see the man with the guitar now, seated on a stool at one corner of the stage, his head bowed in concentration as he embraced the guitar like a lover. Then an older woman walked out of the audience and went to join him. Resting her hands on her knees to help her make the steep ascent up the wooden steps to the stage, she looked her age, but when she straightened up Zoë saw an incredible transformation take place.

Giving the audience an imperious stare, the woman snatched up her long black skirt in one hand and, raising the other towards the sky, she stamped her foot once, hard.

A fierce energy filled the air as the woman began her performance. Zoë had no idea that Rico was watching her. She was aware of nothing outside the dance.

‘Did you feel it?’ he murmured, close to her face, as the woman finished and the crowd went wild.

‘Did I feel what?’ she said, moving closer so he could hear.

‘Duende.’

As he murmured the word she looked at his mouth. ‘Duende.’ Zoë tasted the word on her own lips. It sounded earthy and forbidden, like Rico Cortes. She sensed that both had something primal and very dangerous at their core.

‘You wanted real flamenco,’ he said, drawing Zoë back to the purpose of her visit. ‘Well, this is real flamenco. This is wild, impassioned art at its most extreme. Are you ready for that, Zoë Chapman?’

She heard the doubt in his voice. Perhaps he saw her as a dried-up husk, incapable of feeling passion of any sort—and why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to think that. ‘I’m just really grateful to have this chance to see flamenco at its best.’

‘You don’t see flamenco. You feel it.’

‘I know that now.’ He thought of her as a tourist out for a cheap thrill, Zoë realised. But she was a long way from the tourist trail here. She was a long way from her old life too— the old Zoë Chapman would have backed off without a fight, but there was no chance of that now. She knew what she could achieve, with or without a man at her side. And she hadn’t come to Spain to be insulted. She had come to make a programme, a good programme. She wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes distract her from that goal. ‘Can you explain this word duende to me?’

‘You’ll know it when you feel it.’

‘What—like an itch?’

‘Like an orgasm.’

Zoë’s mouth fell open. Not many things shocked her. OK, so she’d been less than reverent in response to his cutting remarks, but it had been a serious question. She had been right about him. Rico Cortes was a man of extremes—a man who was looking at her now with a brooding expression on his face, no doubt wondering if his shock tactics had been sufficient to scare her off.

‘An emotional orgasm, you mean?’ She was pleased with her composure under fire.

‘That’s right.’

There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. It gave her a rush—maybe because there was passion in the air long after the woman’s performance had ended. Vibrations from the flamenco seemed to have mixed with his maleness, taking her as close to duende as she would ever get. She held his gaze briefly, to prove that she could, and found it dark and disconcerting. Her body was trembling with awareness, as if an electric current had run through her.

‘So, you have taken a summer lease on Castillo Cazulas,’ he said, staring down at her as if he knew what she was feeling. ‘And you want to make a programme about flamenco. Why here, of all places? Hardly anyone outside the village knows about the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp.’

‘People who know about flamenco do. And I enjoyed the walk.’

‘But how will you find your way back again? It’s almost dark.’

He was right, but she was prepared. ‘I have this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight. Suddenly it didn’t seem adequate. She should have remembered how fast daylight disappeared in Spain. It was as if the sun, having blazed so vigorously all day, had worn itself out, and dropped like a stone below the horizon in minutes.

They both turned as some more dancers took the stage. They were all talented, but none possessed the fire of the first woman. She had already found her guest artist, Zoë realised, but she would still need an introduction.

Glancing up, she knew that Rico was her best chance. But there were man waves coming off him in torrents, and he smelled so good—like pine trees and wood smoke. His sexual heat was curling round her senses like a blanket. And lowering her guard! She hadn’t come to Spain to indulge in an adolescent fantasy over some arrogant stud. Her interest in flamenco was purely professional. Work was all she cared about; a new man figured nowhere in her plans.

By the time the stage had cleared again it was pitch-dark, with no moon. Quite a few people had come by car, parking in a clearing not too far away. Zoë watched with apprehension as their headlights glowed briefly before disappearing into the night.

‘You really think that little light of yours is going to be enough?’ Rico said, as if reading her mind.

Zoë glanced at him. ‘It will have to be.’ Shoving her hands in the pockets of her track suit, she tilted her chin towards the stage. ‘Was that the last performance for tonight?’

‘You want more?’

‘How much would it cost to hire someone like that first performer—the older woman?’

She saw an immediate change in his manner.

‘All the money on earth couldn’t buy talent like that. You certainly couldn’t afford it.’

Zoë bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips. This was no time for temperament: everyone was leaving—the woman too, if she didn’t act fast. Their gazes locked; his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. This man frightened her, and she knew she should turn away. But she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity.

‘I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me. But you can’t blame me for being carried away by that woman’s performance—’

‘Maria.’ His voice was sharp.

‘Maria,’ Zoë amended. She felt as if she was treading on eggshells, but his co-operation was crucial. She generally made a very convincing case for appearing on the show. Right now, she felt like a rank amateur. There was something about Rico Cortes that made her do and say the wrong thing every time. ‘Maria’s performance was incredible. Do you think she would dance for me?’

‘Why on earth would she want to dance for you?’

‘Not for me, for my show. Do you think Maria would agree to dance on my programme?’

‘You’d have to ask her yourself.’

‘I will. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’ Zoë suspected nothing happened in Cazulas without Rico’s say-so.

‘It depends on what you can offer Maria in return.’

‘I would pay her, of course—’

‘I’m not talking about money.’

‘What, then?’

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You would have to win her respect.’

Did he have to look so sceptical? ‘And what do you think would be the best way to do that?’

They were causing some comment, Zoë noticed, amongst the few people remaining, with this exchange, conducted tensely head to head. It couldn’t be helped. She had to close the deal. She wasn’t about to stop now she had him at least talking about the possibility of Maria appearing on the show.

‘You’d have to bargain with her.’

An opening! Maybe not a door, but a window—she’d climb through it. ‘What do you suggest I bargain with?’ She smiled, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

‘Are you good at anything?’ Rico demanded.

Apart, that was, from joining the hordes who spied on him and the idiots who thought an important part of his heritage had the same value as the cheap tourist tat along the coast. She had manoeuvred him into starting negotiations with her, though. She was sharper than most. He should have got rid of her right away, but his brain had slipped below his belt.

He shouldn’t have stayed away from Cazulas for so long. He should have kept a tighter hold on who was allowed into the village. But he had trusted such things to a management company. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

‘I don’t just make programmes,’ she said, reclaiming his attention. ‘I present them.’

‘I apologise.’ He exaggerated the politeness. ‘Apart from your ability to make programmes and present them, what do you have to bargain with that might possibly interest Maria?’

‘I cook.’

Removing her hands from her pockets, she planted them on her hips. She smiled—or rather her lips tugged up at an appealing angle while her eyes blazed defiance at him. Her manner amused him, and attracted him too. ‘You cook?’

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all—it’s just unexpected.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you were expecting.’

Just as well. He had been running over a few things that would definitely make it to the top of his wish list, and cooking wasn’t one of them. Outsiders were practically non-existent in the mountains. It was a rugged, difficult terrain, and yet Zoë Chapman, with her direct blue-green gaze and her wild mop of titian hair, had come alone and on foot, with a flashlight as her only companion, to find—what had she expected to find?

Rico’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his experience, women made careful plans; they didn’t just turn up on the off chance. ‘We’ll discuss this some other time. I’ll have someone see you home.’

‘When I’ve spoken to Maria.’

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. He liked her lips. He liked her eyes too—when they weren’t spitting fire at him. She was about five-five, lightly built—but strong, judging from her handshake. The rest was a mystery beneath her shapeless grey track suit. Maybe it was better that way. There were very few surprises left in life.

But this was one mystery parcel he had no intention of unwrapping. The gutter press could use subtle tactics to succeed. Zoë Chapman might be working for anyone—how did he know? The television company, even the programme she was supposed to be making, could all be a front. Cazulas was special—the one place he could get some space, some recreation—and no one was going to spoil that for him.

‘So, you’ll introduce me to Maria?’

She was still here? Still baiting him? Rico’s jaw firmed as he stared at Zoë. The sensible thing to do would be to cut her, blank her out, forget about her. But she intrigued him too much for that. ‘It’s not convenient right now—’

‘Who says so?’

‘Maria!’ Rico turned with surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’

‘That is obvious.’ The older woman’s eyes were bright and keen as she stared curiously at Zoë. ‘But now I am here why don’t you introduce us, Rico?’

‘She won’t be staying—’

‘I will!’

Maria viewed them both with amusement.

‘I didn’t think you would be interested in what Ms Chapman had to say,’ Rico said with a dismissive shrug.

‘So now you are thinking for me, Rico?’

There was a moment when the two of them stared at each other, unblinking, and then Rico pulled back. ‘Maria Cassavantes—allow me to present Zoë Chapman to you.’

‘Zoë,’ Maria repeated, imbuing Zoë’s name with new colour. ‘I have heard rumours about your television programmes and I would like to talk to you. Forget Rico for a moment. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?’

It was everything Zoë had hoped for—but forget about Rico? That was asking a bit too much. She saw him tense and she couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph.

Rico was seething. What was Maria thinking of? They knew nothing about this Zoë Chapman—nothing at all. What set her apart from all the other female sharks, with their bleached teeth and avaricious natures? Maria hadn’t a clue what she was letting herself in for—she was playing with fire…

‘We should know more about your cookery programme before Maria agrees to do anything.’ He took a step forward, deliberately putting himself between them. ‘I don’t see how flamenco could possibly be relevant.’

‘If you’d only let me explain—’

‘How can I be sure you’re not wasting Maria’s time?’

‘I said I don’t mind this, Rico.’ Maria put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I would like to talk to Zoë and hear what she’s got to say—’

‘I promise you, Maria,’ Zoë cut in, ‘I’m not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time, least of all my own. And if you need me to prove it to you—’

‘I really do.’ It was Rico’s turn to butt in.

Maria was forgotten as they glared at each other. Then Zoë broke eye contact, allowing him a brief moment of satisfaction.

‘I’ll make everyone in the village a meal,’ she declared, gesturing extravagantly around the clearing. ‘How does that suit you, Rico?’

Now he was surprised. ‘That’s quite an offer.’ There was just enough doubt in his voice to provoke her, to brighten her green eyes to emerald and make her cheeks flare red.

‘I mean it.’

‘Fine.’ He lifted up his hands in mock surrender, then dipped his head, glad of the opportunity to conceal the laughter brewing behind his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think Ms Chapman would appreciate humour right now. But there were about one hundred and sixty souls in the village. She would never pull it off.

Ms Chapman. Who knew what was behind a name?

Rico’s gaze flew to Zoë’s hands. Clean, blunt fingernails, cut short, but no ring, no jewellery at all. He drew an easing breath. That was all he needed to know. It gave him the freedom to overlook his vow never to court trouble on his own doorstep again. ‘I shall look forward to it, Ms Chapman.’

‘Rico,’ Maria scolded him, ‘why don’t you call our new friend Zoë, as we’re going to be working together?’

‘So we are going to be working together, Maria?’

She sounded so excited. Rico ground his jaw and watched with concern as the two women hugged each other. Zoë Chapman wouldn’t win him round so easily.

‘I have never appeared on television,’ Maria exclaimed.

‘I’m going to make it special for you, Maria.’

Zoë’s promise grated on him. If she let Maria down—

‘I think we’ll make a good team.’ Maria looked at him and raised her eyebrows, as if daring him to disagree.

For now it seemed he had no choice in the matter. Zoë Chapman had won this round, but he would be waiting if she stepped out of line. Maria might have been taken in, but he wasn’t so easily convinced. The thought of an artist of Maria’s calibre appearing on some trivial holiday programme with a few recipes thrown in made him sick to his stomach.

As far as he was concerned, Ms Chapman had identified her quarry and had stopped at nothing until she got her own way. She was no innocent abroad. She had all the grit and determination of the paparazzi. That wary look he had detected in her eyes when she looked at him didn’t fool him for a minute. It was all an act. She was as guilty as hell. But Maria was right. He wouldn’t presume to make decisions for Maria Cassavantes, though in his experience third-rate television companies only dealt in plastic people; treasures like Maria were out of their league.

If he had to, he would step in to protect her from Zoë Chapman. But for now he was sufficiently intrigued to give Ms Chapman enough rope to hang herself. He would watch her like a hawk, and the first time she tried to cheapen or trivialise what Maria Cassavantes stood for both she and her television cameras would be thrown out of Spain.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CAN we talk business now, Maria?’

‘That sounds very formal,’ Rico cut in.

He was suspicious of her motives. She had to curb her enthusiasm, take it slowly, Zoë reminded herself. She usually got to know people first, before talking business. Building confidence was crucial. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone wanted to appear on television. Usually she was good at choosing the right moment, but having Rico in the picture was making her edgy, making her rush things.

‘I know it’s late—I won’t keep you long.’ She glanced at Rico. ‘Perhaps if Maria and I could talk alone?’

‘It’s all right, Rico,’ Maria said soothingly.

‘I’d rather stay.’

Zoë looked up at him. ‘It’s really not necessary.’

‘Nevertheless.’ He folded his arms.

For Maria’s sake Zoë tried to bite back her impatience, but she was tired and stressed and the words just kept tumbling out. ‘Really, Rico, I can’t see any reason why you should stay. Maria and I are quite capable of sorting this out between us—’

‘It’s better if I stay.’

She could see he was adamant. ‘Are you Maria’s manager?’

‘They call him El Paladín,’ Maria cut in, interposing her not inconsiderable body between them.

‘El Paladín?’ Zoë repeated. ‘Doesn’t that mean The Champion?’ She only had a very basic knowledge of conversational Spanish to call upon. ‘What’s that for, Rico? Winning every argument?’

‘Rico is everyone’s champion,’ Maria said fondly, patting his arm.

That seemed highly unlikely—especially where she was concerned, Zoë thought. ‘Champion of what?’ she pressed.

‘Zoë likes her questions,’ Rico observed sardonically, ‘but she’s not too keen on giving answers about why she’s really here in Cazulas—’

‘And Zoë’s right about you,’ Maria cut in. ‘You don’t like losing arguments, Rico.’

‘I like to win,’ he agreed softly.

Lose? Win? Where was all this leading? Zoë wondered, suppressing a shiver as she broke eye contact with Rico. ‘We’re never going to win Rico’s approval, Maria, but I believe we can make great television together.’

‘What have you been telling this young woman, malvado?’ Maria demanded, turning her powerful stare on him.

‘Nothing. If you want to dance and she wants to cook, that’s fine by me. Only problem is, we know you can dance.’

‘Rico!’ Maria frowned at him.

‘My third television series says I can cook!’

‘There—you see, Rico,’ Maria said, smiling at Zoë.

‘And the connection between dancing and cooking is what, exactly?’ He raised his shoulders in a shrug as he stared at Zoë.

He would never go for her idea, but at least she had Maria’s support. She had to forget Rico’s insults and build on what she had. But he was one complication she could do without. He probably crooked his finger and every woman around came running. Well, not this woman.

Turning to Maria, Zoë deliberately cut him out. ‘This is the connection, Maria: the people around me inspire the food I cook on television. In this part of Spain the influence of flamenco is everywhere.’

‘So cooking isn’t just a hobby for you?’ Rico said.

Zoë stared up at him. He refused to be cut out. ‘No, Rico, it’s a full-time career for me.’

‘Along with your television company.’

Maria stepped between them again. ‘So you would like me to dance on your television programme to add some local interest to the dishes you prepare? Is that right, Zoë?’

‘Exactly.’ Zoë’s face was confident as she flashed a glance at Rico. ‘I’ll cook, you’ll dance, and together we’ll make a great team.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria said approvingly. ‘I like the sound of this programme of yours. Of course, any payment must be donated to the village funds.’

‘Absolutely,’ Zoë agreed. ‘Whatever you like.’

Maria smiled. ‘Well, that all sounds quite satisfactory to me.’

But not to Rico, Zoë thought. At least he was silent for now. ‘I have never seen anyone dance like you, Maria. You are fantastic.’

‘Gracias, Zoë. And you are very kind.’

‘Not kind, Maria, just honest.’ Zoë stopped, hearing Rico’s scornful snort in the background. What did she have to do to convince him?

She turned to look at him coldly. There were a couple of buttons undone at the neck of his dark linen shirt, showing just how tanned and firm he was. She turned back quickly to Maria. ‘When you appear, I just know the programme will come to life…’ Zoë’s voice faded. She could feel Rico’s sexual interest lapping over her in waves.

‘Don’t worry, Zoë,’ Maria assured her, filling the awkward silence. ‘It will be fine—just you wait and see.’

Zoë wasn’t so sure, and she was glad of Maria’s arm linked through her own as the older woman drew her away from Rico, towards the bright circle of light around the campfire.

‘Have you offered Zoë a drink?’ Maria said, turning back to him.

‘She’s had more than enough to drink already.’

‘Surely you didn’t let her drink the village liquor?’

‘It’s all right, Maria,’ Zoë said hastily. She could see the hard-won progress she had made winning Maria’s trust vanishing in the heat of a very Latin exchange. ‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already had some coffee.’

Rico was staring at her almost as if he was trying to remember why she made him so uneasy. But they couldn’t have met before. And he couldn’t know about her past; she was anonymous in the mountains. Television reception was practically non-existent, and there were no tabloid papers on sale at the kiosk in the village.

‘So, Zoë, when do I dance for you?’ Maria said, reclaiming Zoë’s attention.

‘How about Tuesday?’ Zoë said, turning back to thoughts of work with relief. ‘That gives us both time to prepare.’

‘Tuesday is good for me.’ Maria smiled broadly as she broke away. ‘On Tuesday you cook, and I dance.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re taking on, Zoë?’

Rico’s words put a damper on their enthusiasm.

‘Why? Don’t you think I’m up to it?’

‘It’s what you’re up to that I’m more interested in.’

‘Then you’re going to have a very dull time of it,’ Zoë assured him. ‘I’m going to cook and Maria is going to dance. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but it really is as simple as that.’

‘In my experience, nothing is ever that simple.’

Zoë’s gaze strayed to his lips: firm, sensuous lips that never grew tired of mocking her.

‘Today is Saturday—no, Sunday already,’ Maria said with surprise, staring at her wristwatch. ‘It is well past midnight. I have kept you far too long, Zoë.’

‘That’s not important,’ Zoë assured Maria, turning to her with relief. ‘All that matters is that you’re happy—you’re the most important person now. I want to make sure you have everything you need on the night of your performance.’

‘Such as?’ Maria said.

‘Well—would you like to eat before or after you dance?’

‘Both. I need to build up my strength.’ She winked at Zoë. ‘Some people don’t need to build up strength, of course.’ She shot a glance at Rico. ‘But you had better feed him anyway. I’m sure he’d like that.’

‘I’m sure he would.’ Zoë’s gaze veered coolly in Rico’s direction. She might find him a few sour grapes.

‘Don’t take me for granted, Zoë,’ he said, ‘I might not even be there.’

‘Don’t worry, Rico. Where you’re concerned I won’t take anything for granted. I’ll expect you at the castle around nine?’ she confirmed warmly with Maria.

‘And I will dance for your cameras at midnight.’

Zoë felt a rush of pleasure not even Rico could spoil. She had accomplished her mission successfully, and there was a bonus—she had made a new friend in Maria. She just knew Maria would have what they called ‘screen magic’, and the programme in which she featured would be unique.

‘Rico, would you make sure that everyone in the village knows they are welcome to come and eat at Castillo Cazulas and celebrate Maria’s performance on Tuesday night?’ Zoë said, turning to him.

For a moment he was amazed she had included him in her arrangements. He had to admit he admired her guts—even if she did annoy the hell out of him. He should be there, just to keep an eye on her.

In fact, he could take a look around right now if he drove her back to the castle. Time to turn on the charm.

‘Don’t worry, no one loves a party more than we do in Cazulas—isn’t that right, Maria?’ He looked at Zoë. ‘You’ll be calling in extra help, I imagine?’

There was something in Rico’s eyes Zoë didn’t like. Something that unnerved her. ‘There’s no need. I’m not alone at the castle, Rico. I have my team with me—and don’t forget that cooking is what I do for a living.’

Turning away from him, she said her goodbyes to Maria, all the time conscious of Rico’s gaze boring into her back. He might as well have gripped her arms, yanked her round, and demanded she give him her life history. She could only think that having a woman set both the rules and the timetable was something entirely new to him.

‘How are you going to get home tonight, Zoë?’ Maria said.

‘I’ll drive her back.’

‘I’ll walk.’

Maria frowned, looking from Rico to Zoë and back again. ‘Of course you will drive Zoë home, Rico.’ She put her arm around Zoë’s shoulder. ‘It is too dangerous for you to walk, Zoë, and you will be quite safe with Rico—I promise you.’

There was something in Maria’s eyes that made Zoë want to believe her. But as she walked away Zoë could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she just asked if she could take a lift with Maria?

‘Are you ready to go?’ Rico said.

‘I thought we’d already been through this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight again.

‘Oh, that’s right. I had forgotten you were an intrepid explorer.’

‘I’ll only be retracing my steps—’

‘In the dark.’

‘Well, I’d better get going, then.’

She moved away, and for one crazy moment hoped he would come after her. When he did she changed her mind. ‘I’ll be fine, Rico. Really.’

‘What are you afraid of, Zoë? Is there something at the castle you don’t want me to see?’

‘Is that what you think?’ She ran her hand through her hair as she looked at him. ‘I can assure you I have nothing to hide. Come around and check up on me if you don’t believe me.’

‘How about now?’

‘I’d rather walk.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Maria’s right. I can’t let you do that. It’s far too dangerous.’

Maria hadn’t left yet. Her friend’s truck was still parked in the clearing. She might just catch them. But Maria moved as fast as she had on the stage. Climbing into the cab, she slammed the door and waved, leaving Zoë standing there as the truck swung onto the dirt road leading down to the village and accelerated away.

‘Don’t look so worried.’

Don’t look so worried? I’m stuck at the top of a mountain in the middle of the night with a flashlight and the local brigand—who happens to have a chip on his shoulder labelled ‘media-types/female’—and I shouldn’t worry?

‘Like I said, I’ll drive you back.’

‘No way!’

‘You can cut the bravado, Zoë—there’s no moon, hardly any path, and this stupid little light won’t save you when you’re plunging down a precipice.’

‘Give that back to me now.’ Zoë made a swipe for her flashlight, but Rico was too quick for her.

‘It’s no trouble for me to drop you at the castle.’

‘Thank you, I’ll walk.’

She got as far as the rock-strewn trail leading down to the valley before he caught hold of her arm and swung her around.

‘You are not going down there on your own.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Their faces were too close. As their breath mingled Zoë closed her eyes. ‘Let go of me, Rico.’

‘So you can mess up a rock? So you can cause me a whole lot of trouble in the morning when I have to come looking for your mangled body? I don’t think so, lady.’

‘Your concern is overwhelming, but I really don’t need it! I know these mountains—’

‘Like the back of your hand? And you’ve been here how long?’

‘Nearly a month, as a matter of fact.’ That silenced him, Zoë noted with satisfaction.

As long as that? Rico ground his jaw. Another reason to curse the fact he had stayed away too long. He couldn’t let her go—he didn’t want to let her go—and he wanted to find out what she was hiding. ‘You don’t know these mountains at night. This path is dangerous. There’s a lot of loose stone, and plenty of sheer drops.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘The road isn’t half bad.’

Somehow he managed to grace his last words with a smile.

She stopped struggling and looked at him, her bright green eyes full of suspicion.

‘Come on, Zoë, you know you don’t really want to walk.’ Charm again? New ground for him, admittedly, but well worth it if she agreed. If he took her back he could take a look around. He knew her name from somewhere—and not just from the television. But how did she affect him? Was she a threat? ‘It’s only a short drive in the Jeep.’

‘OK,’ Zoë said at last.

She was relieved she didn’t have to walk back in the dark. But as Rico dug for his keys in the back pocket of his jeans she wondered if she was quite sane. If it hadn’t been for Maria’s reassurances she would never have agreed to anything so foolish. She didn’t know a thing about Rico Cortes, and the day her divorce came through she had promised herself no more tough guys, no more being pushed around, mentally or physically.

‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll be a lot safer going down the mountain in the Jeep with me. Are you coming or not?’ he said when she still hesitated. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘That’s right—and I have things to get ready for Monday morning.’

‘What things?’ Maybe he was the local brigand, and Monday was his day for mustering the troops. And she had agreed to take a lift home with him…

Zoë frowned as he opened the passenger door for her. Rico Cortes was as much a mystery now as ever, and it wasn’t like her. She was an expert at winkling out information. It was the secret of her success—or had been in the past.

The moment he swung into the driver’s seat beside her she fired off another question. ‘What keeps you in this part of Spain?’ He was larger than life, which went with the dramatic scenery, but he didn’t fit into the small-town scene at all.

‘I have many interests.’

‘Such as?’

He didn’t answer as he gunned the engine into life. The noise was supposed to distract her, she guessed. He was dodging her questions like an expert—almost as if he was used to dealing with the media.

Local reporter, maybe?

No way! And better not to ask—better not to get involved. She had only just won her freedom from an unhappy marriage. Divorce had come at a high price, even if the break had been like a cleansing torrent that washed most of her insecurities away. And she didn’t want them back again. Ever. So why had she agreed to take a lift back to the castle with a man she didn’t know? The only answer was that Maria liked him, and she liked Maria.

Was that enough? It had to be, Zoë realised as they pulled away.

Maria had said he was a fighter. El Paladín. Was fighting his profession? Zoë felt a quiver of apprehension run down her spine as she flashed a glance at him.

No, it couldn’t be. Not unless he was the luckiest pugilist alive. He was built like a fighter but his face was unmarked, and his hands, as she had already noticed, were smooth. And in spite of his casual clothes, and his life up in this remote mountainous region, he had polish. But then quite a few boxers did too…

‘Seen enough, Zoë?’

‘I’m sorry, was I staring? I’m so tired I hardly know what I’m doing.’

Rico could feel the sexual tension between them rising fast. Any other time, any other woman, he might have swung off the road and fixed it for them both. But he had to know more about a woman before he got involved. He wasn’t about to commit some reckless indiscretion Zoë Chapman could broadcast to the world.

He had learned not to court disaster on his own doorstep. She was luscious, but she would keep, and she backed off every time he looked at her. If she had kept her legs crossed all this time she would wait a little longer.

What if she was innocent? It seemed unlikely, but— No. Life wasn’t like that. Fate never dealt him an easy hand.

Guilty, innocent—it hardly mattered which. He would still go slow until he’d worked out what made her tick… Go slow? So he was going somewhere with her?

Rico smiled. He could feel Zoë looking at him. Life got too easy at the top of the mountain. He hadn’t had anything approaching a real challenge to deal with in quite some time.

Normally Zoë was a confident passenger, but Rico Cortes scared the hell out of her driving back down the steep track. He really did know the mountains like the back of his hand. And the speed he took the road, it was just as well—because the only faster way would have been over a cliff.

She was relieved to arrive back in one piece at the castle, and even more relieved when she talked him out of staying. He’d wanted to look around, but he couldn’t argue when she pointed out how late it was and that they would wake everyone up. But he would be back on Tuesday for the party—he made that clear.

This mess had to be sorted out before then.

Zoë groaned as she looked round the set. She had discussed the layout with her chief designer. But, according to the note she’d found propped up on the kitchen table, Carla had been called home to attend a family emergency and her young assistant had stepped in.

Zoë couldn’t be angry with him; she could see he had tried. But he had fallen a long way short of achieving the authentic look she had decided on with Carla. How could she expect Maria to take part in a show that featured a fake Spanish kitchen decorated with imitation fruit? It might look real enough through a camera lens, but it would never pass close scrutiny, and it would only reinforce Rico’s misconceptions about her work.

Why should he barge into her thoughts? She had more important things to consider—like rescuing the programme from disaster! Men like Rico Cortes were no good—great to drool over, maybe, but worse than lousy in real life.

Planting her hands on her hips, Zoë looked round again, but things didn’t improve on closer inspection.

Posters brashly proclaiming the title of her latest bestselling cookery book were tacked up everywhere, while garish bunting was strung overhead. The exquisite marble-tiled floor had been hidden beneath a hideous orange carpet, and in the centre of the shag-pile the open-fronted area where she would be filmed sat in all its plywood and plastic glory. Hardly any attempt had been made to mask the fact that it was blatantly fake. There was lurid fake greenery draped around the top, with plastic fruit tacked in clumps to the backdrop.

It would all have to come down, but it could wait until the morning. She couldn’t concentrate while she was so tired. She couldn’t concentrate while her thoughts kept straying back to Rico Cortes. A good night’s sleep would help her get over him, and then she would get down to work.

As soon as it was light Zoë leapt out of bed. The crew were due on set at nine for a technical rehearsal. That was when the lights, camera angles and sound levels would be decided upon. The best she could hope for was that they would sleep in. She didn’t have much time to strip the set and redress it, but it was important she had an authentic set in place for the rehearsal so there would be little or no change when she recorded the programme. She didn’t like surprises when the red light went on.

Half an hour later she had picked fruit straight from the trees and brought in a basket full of greenery from the shady part of the castle gardens. Each time she’d visited the market in Cazulas Zoë hadn’t been able to resist buying another piece of the local hand-painted pottery, and she now laid out her hoard on a working table along with the fresh produce.

She stared up at the plastic bunting.

Balancing halfway up a ladder wasn’t easy, but, working quickly, she got the bunting down, then moved to the ‘fishing net’ on the back wall of the set to flip out some more tacks. Then she still had to tackle the plastic castanets pinned up with the plastic fruit on the same wall. Proper wooden castanets were miniature works of art. They came alive in the hands of an artist like Maria. These plastic efforts were about as Spanish as chop suey!

Sticking the screwdriver she had found in a kitchen drawer into the back pocket of her jeans, Zoë glanced at her wristwatch and made a swift calculation. If she could get the rest of them down without too much trouble, she might just finish in time.

‘Talk about a relief!’

‘Are you speaking to me?’

‘Rico!’ Zoë nearly fell off her ladder with shock. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her knuckles turned white as she gripped on tight. She watched transfixed as he swooped on the clutch of castanets she had just dropped to the floor.

‘Very nice,’ he said, examining them. ‘Which region of Spain do these represent?’

‘Bargain basement,’ Zoë tried lightly, trying to regulate her breathing at the same time. How could any man look so good so early in the morning after hardly any sleep? It just wasn’t human. ‘How did you get in?’ she said, as it suddenly struck her that she would never have gone to bed and left the front door wide open.

He ignored her question—and her attempted humour. ‘What is all this rubbish?’

Coming down the ladder as quickly as she could in safety, Zoë faced him. ‘The set for my television show.’ Her appreciative mood was evaporating rapidly. She had never seen such scorn on anyone’s face.

‘I gathered that.’ He stared around with disapproval.

OK, so it was a mess—but it was her mess, and she would sort it out. Zoë could feel her temper rising. According to the lease, at this moment Castillo Cazulas belonged to her. She could do with it what she liked. And if plastic castanets were her style, Señor Testosterone would just have to put up with it.

Reaching out, she took them from him. ‘Thank you.’ His hands felt warm and dry. They felt great. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Her voice was cool, but she was trembling inside.

‘Yes, you can. You can get all this trash out of here.’

‘Trash?’

‘You heard me. I want it all removed.’

‘Oh, you do?’ Zoë said, meeting his stare. ‘And what business is it of yours, exactly?’

Ignoring her question, Rico paced the length of the set, shoulders hunched, looking like a cold-eyed panther stalking its prey. ‘You can’t seriously expect an artist of Maria’s calibre to perform in this theme park?’

‘No, of course I don’t—’

‘Then get all this down! Get rid of it! Do whatever you have to do to put it right—just don’t let me see it the next time I’m here.’

‘Next time? There doesn’t have to be a next time, Rico,’ Zoë assured him with a short, humourless laugh.

‘Oh, forgive me.’ He came closer. ‘I thought you invited me here for Tuesday.’

‘If you feel so bad about all this—’ Zoë opened her arms wide ‘—there’s an easy solution.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll just withdraw my invitation, and then you won’t have to suffer another moment’s distress.’

‘That would be too easy for you.’

‘Easy?’ Zoë rested one hand on her head and stared at him incredulously. What the hell was easy about any of this? As far as she was concerned, nothing had been easy since she’d run up against Rico Cortes.

‘If you want Maria to dance, I’ll be here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Zoë said sarcastically. ‘You own Maria. You make all her decisions for her—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’

‘So what do you think is going to happen here, Rico? As far as I know we’ll be making a television programme. I’ll be cooking, Maria will dance, and everyone in the village will have a great time at the party. Is that so terrible?’

He made a contemptuous sound. ‘You make it sound so straightforward.’

‘Because it is!’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he trust her?

They glared at each other without blinking, and then Rico broke away to stare around. His expression hardened. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to allow my friends to come to a place like this on Tuesday night.’

‘Oh, so now you own the whole village? I didn’t realise the feudal system was alive and well in Cazulas. I suppose it’s never occurred to you that my neighbours might be capable of thinking for themselves?’

‘Your neighbours don’t know what you plan to do here.’

‘What do I plan to do, exactly?’

‘You don’t respect them.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You don’t respect their culture.’

‘How dare you say that?’

‘How dare I?’ Rico’s voice was contemptuous as he glared down at her.

He was close enough for her to touch—or attack—but she would never lower herself to that. She wasn’t about to lose control, like every man she had ever known, and let Rico add that to her long list of shortcomings.

‘You come here to Cazulas—Cazulas, of all the flamenco villages in Spain! And you try to tell me it’s just a coincidence? And then you bring Maria into it. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.’

She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand by and let him rant. ‘You’re right, Rico. Bringing Maria into my plans was no coincidence. The reason I asked her to appear on my programme is because she is easily the best dancer I have ever seen. She is certainly the best performer in Cazulas. That’s no coincidence; it’s a fact.’ Zoë couldn’t be sure if Rico had heard her or not. He was so tense, so angry—like a wound-up spring on the point of release.

‘You come here with your television cameras and your questions.’ He gazed around the half-finished set contemptuously. ‘You throw together some cheap items and pass it off as a Spanish setting. You really think that’s going to convince me that you’re putting together some worthy programme about cultural influences on Spanish cooking? You must think I’m stupid.’

‘You’re certainly mistaken.’ But she could see that he might think she was putting up the plastic rubbish, rather than taking it down.

He was so still, so keyed up, he reminded her of a big cat before it pounced. Zoë was beginning to ache with holding herself so stiffly. She sagged with relief when he pulled away from her with a jerk.

‘I’ll be back to check up on you later. If this rubbish isn’t removed by then you can forget Tuesday. Maria will not be dancing for you.’

‘Doesn’t Maria have a mind of her own?’

Rico was already striding towards the door. He stopped dead. He couldn’t believe that she would still dare to challenge him. ‘Yes, of course Maria has a mind of her own. She will take one look at this mess and refuse to dance.’

‘Oh, get out!’

As he wheeled around he saw the local produce—fresh fruit, greenery, even some attractive pieces of hand-painted pottery. His lips curled in a sneer of contempt. Someone had planned to do something classy for the programme, something appropriate to the area. What a shame Zoë Chapman didn’t have any taste.

She really was no better than the rest. Even if she didn’t work at the gutter end of television, he would not stand by and see her discard Maria the moment her usefulness was at an end. Maria was too soft-hearted for her own good. It was up to him to protect her from people like Zoë Chapman.

Zoë jumped as the door slammed. Contempt for the disastrous set was about where her dial was pointing, too. But that didn’t give Rico Cortes the right to come storming in, ordering her about.

Snatching a plastic parrot down from his perch, she tossed it into the bin bag with the rest of the rubbish. She hated being caught on the back foot, hated leaving Rico Cortes with the impression that this was all her doing. Most of all she hated the fact that he was coming back to check up on her later. Who the hell did he think he was?

But it would have been far worse still if he hadn’t planned to come back at all.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS all Rico could do to stay away from the castle. It was barely noon. He had planned to return around late afternoon, but every moment since leaving the castle had been torture.

He had never witnessed such desecration in his life. That was the only reason he was pressing his heel to the floor now. He ground his jaw with satisfaction as the Jeep surged forward. Zoë wouldn’t expect him until later, and a surprise visit always revealed more than a planned return. With any luck he would catch her unawares.

Maybe she wasn’t the type of tabloid journalist he loathed, but she was still as shallow as the rest, still ignorant of the precious heritage Maria carried forward in the village.

Before he’d left the castle that morning he’d found a member of the television crew, who had assured him they would still be in rehearsal at midday. The youth had also confessed that he was responsible for the set design.

What type of television company used boys fresh out of college for such responsible work? If she owned a decent television company, why didn’t she have a proper set designer? Plastic parrots! What the hell did she think she was filming? Treasure Island? And what kind of programme had sets dressed with garish rubbish? He could think of a few cable channels that might have gone down that route, and none of them was respectable.

He’d seen Zoë up a ladder dressed in figure-hugging jeans and a skimpy top, instead of her shapeless track suit—and he’d heard her harangue him. He knew now she could play angel or vamp with equal zest.

Glancing at his watch, Rico smiled grimly. He had timed it just right. The rehearsal should have started. He would check out what line of entertainment Zoë Chapman was really in. Anticipation surged through him. Even through the red mist of his rage this morning she’d looked sensational. Pin-thin women weren’t his style, and there was nothing pin-like about Ms Chapman. What would she wear to play her plastic castanets? She had curves that would have done credit to a Rubens.

Slowing the Jeep as he approached the ancient stonework, Rico picked up speed as he hit the long main drive. Accelerating down the avenue of cypress trees, he gave a final spin of the wheel and turned into the familiar cobbled courtyard.

Leaning back with his arms folded against a door at the far end of the Great Hall, he didn’t announce his presence, just stood watching in silence. No one noticed him in the shadows. All the focus was on Zoë, in front of the camera.

Even he had to admit the transformation to the set was marked. In place of the fairground bunting and fake castanets there was a plain wooden butcher’s block upon which she appeared to be chopping a mountain of herbs. She had a collection of wine bottles at her side, and from their shape he recognised a couple as coming from pretty decent cellars.

Rico began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as he watched Zoë working—and he never felt uncomfortable. But then, he had never misjudged anyone quite so badly before.

She couldn’t possibly have thrown all this together in a few minutes. It had to be how she always worked—she was too familiar with everything around her for it to be a sham. Brass pots gleamed brightly on the cooking range, and the implements suspended from an overhead rail were all steel, with not a single gimmick in sight. There were wooden bowls close to hand on the counter where she was working, as well as several white porcelain saucers—bearing a selection of spices, he supposed. Next to them a large, shallow blue and white ceramic bowl overflowed with fresh vegetables. Maybe there were a lot of other things he couldn’t trust about her, but this was real enough. He had to give her credit for that.

Zoë worked quickly and deftly, her small hands moving instinctively about the necessary tasks as she addressed herself cheerfully to camera. She had charisma as well as beauty, Rico thought, and he felt a sudden longing to harness her smiles and turn them in his own direction.

But how was he supposed to believe she had turned up in Cazulas by chance? If he could talk her into having dinner with him, maybe he could find out. But it wouldn’t be easy after their ill-tempered exchange that morning… Easing away from the door, he decided to go. He had seen all he needed to see.

In between takes, Zoë’s glance kept straying to the door. Half of her wanted to see Rico again, while the other half dreaded him walking in unannounced. But she needn’t have worried because her director, Philip, had just wrapped the day’s filming and there was still no sign of Rico. Empty threats, Zoë presumed. Rico’s Spanish pride had taken a hit when she’d stood up to him. Or maybe she was just beneath contempt. That was probably it. His face when he’d seen the apprentice set designer’s attempts to recreate a ‘typical’ Spanish setting had said it all. He’d thought she meant to trivialise everything he held dear.

And what was the point of trying to explain when he never listened? But he might have let her know if the others still planned to come on Tuesday night. If he had put them off… She would have to make sure he hadn’t talked Maria out of appearing on the programme or she would be facing disaster. Perhaps she should go back to the mountains and find out what was happening?

Zoë was still frowning when one of the girls in the crew asked if she would like to eat with them in the local café that evening. ‘I’d really love to come with you,’ she said honestly, ‘but there’s something else I have to do first.’

Was all this totally necessary for a trek into the mountains? Zoë asked herself wryly as she craned her neck to check her rear view in the elegant console mirror. Of course she could always take off the snug-fitting jeans and replace them with a dirndl skirt… No way! And what about the blouse: ever so slightly see-through, with just one too many buttons left undone? OK, so maybe that was going a step too far. She fastened it almost to the neck. Reaching for a lightweight cotton sweater from the chair, she checked her hair one last time and then added a slick of lipgloss and a spritz of perfume.

Her eyes were glittering like aquamarine in a face that seemed unusually pale, Zoë noticed—apart from two smudges of red, high on each cheekbone. That was thanks to excitement at finally bringing the programme together. It was the culmination of a year of hard work. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that she might be seeing Rico Cortes again.

She had come to him. Rico subdued the rush of triumph before it had time to register on his face. ‘Ms Chapman,’ he said coolly. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’

Leaning back against a gnarled tree trunk, arms folded, he watched Zoë’s approach through narrowed eyes. Her unaffected grace was so like that of the dancers she admired, and she looked great in casual clothes. She wore little make-up, and her skin was honey-gold from her time in the sun. She was beautiful—very different from the glamorous women he was used to outside Cazulas, but all the more beautiful for that. The light was slipping away fast, and the sky behind the snow-capped mountains was more dramatic than any he had seen for a while: a radiant banner of violet and tangerine—the perfect backdrop for their latest encounter. The night breeze was kicking up, rustling through the leaves above his head as she walked up to him.

‘You said you would come back to the castle.’

Her blunt statement took him by surprise—a pleasant one. ‘I did come back, but you were working.’

That rather took the wind out of her sails, Zoë thought, but her heart was still thumping so violently she felt sure Rico would be able to hear it. ‘I see.’ She was relieved to sound so cool. ‘I trust the changes I made met with your exacting standards?’

He gave a short laugh and relaxed. ‘You did a great job, Zoë. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Nothing stronger than orange juice!’

‘Fine by me.’

He gestured that she should follow him, and his impressive rear view led her to silently praise the inventor of close-fitting jeans.

It was too early for the campfire to be lit, but there were still quite a lot of people around. Most of them were waiting for the children to finish their dance class. This meeting place served a number of functions, Zoë realised. There was the social side, and the performance opportunities, as well as the very valuable teaching that went on to preserve tradition.

She could see the youngsters now, tense with excitement and anticipation as they clustered around their dance teacher, listening to what she had to say. In another area a couple of the boys were sitting at the feet of the guitarist who had played for Maria, watching engrossed as his agile fingers rippled across the strings.

Pouring them both some juice from a covered jug that had been left for the children on a trestle table, Rico handed a glass to Zoë and then took her to sit with him on a flat rock out of the way. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his chin on his hand as he listened to the music.

The low, insistent rhythm of the solo guitar was the perfect soundtrack for Rico Cortes, Zoë thought, glancing at him surreptitiously as she sipped her drink. Dressed in simple black jeans and a black top, he made her heart judder, he looked so good. The close-fitting top defined every muscle and sinew across the wide spread of his shoulders, and the jeans moulded thighs powerful enough to control a wild stallion, or a woman…

‘You’re far too early to see any of the adult performers dance, you know,’ he said, his gaze lingering on Zoë’s face as the guitarist picked out a particularly plangent arpeggio.

‘I haven’t come to see them,’ she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

‘Oh?’ A crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

‘Or you,’ she said immediately. ‘I hoped I might find Maria.’

‘Well, you will—but you can’t talk to her yet. So you might just as well settle back and enjoy the children rehearsing for our fiesta.’

‘Fiesta? That must be fun.’ Zoë turned to watch them. ‘Does everyone take part in the fiesta?’

‘Why don’t you come along and see for yourself?’

She wanted to. She really wanted to feel part of Cazulas. Since the moment she’d arrived in the village she had felt an affinity with the area, and with the people. Rico made it sound so easy for her to become part of their way of life, but she wouldn’t be staying that long.

‘When will everyone else arrive?’ Zoë looked around. There were a few cars parked already, notably Rico’s rugged black Jeep.

‘Most people take a long, lazy siesta in the afternoon, when the weather gets hot.’

‘So Maria’s still in bed?’ Zoë could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

‘Many people are still in bed—but Maria is not one of them.’ Standing up, he beckoned to Zoë to follow him, and, walking ahead of her, he made for the stage where the children were still learning their steps.

Once again, he reminded Zoë of a big black panther. He had the same grace and stealth of a big cat, and made her feel very small by comparison. It was impossible not to imagine how it might feel to be enclosed in his arms and held safe. Or to be pinned down by those long, hard-muscled legs, and— Stop it! Stop it now! This was dangerous.

‘Zoë?’

‘Maria!’ Zoë exclaimed, throwing her brain into gear. ‘I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. I didn’t realise it was you dancing with the children. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Why have you come here? Not to see the children, I think,’ Maria said, tapping the side of her nose.

‘No—no, of course not,’ Zoë said, recovering fast. ‘I came to see you.’

‘Ah,’ Maria said, staring at her keenly.

‘I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.’

‘Changed my mind? About dancing on Tuesday, you mean?’ Maria said. ‘Why would I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Zoë said, suddenly embarrassed at the weakness of her supposed mission. She was conscious of Rico watching them, arms folded, with the same brooding look that made her quiver. ‘I just wanted to be sure no one had put you off the idea.’ She stopped, thinking frantically for something to explain her visit. ‘After all, you don’t know me—’

‘Stop worrying,’ Maria insisted. ‘I will be there for you on Tuesday, Zoë. Your television programme will be made, and everything will turn out for the best in the end.’

Would it? Zoë wondered. There were moments when she wished she had never come to Spain. A fresh start was supposed to be just that—not a rerun with a matching set of characters that just happened to have different names.

Was she overreacting? She really hoped so. Men like Rico had always been her downfall: big, powerful men like her ex-husband. Men who oozed testosterone through every pore; men who made her believe she could be desirable and might even find sexual fulfilment with them.

Unconsciously, Zoë made a small sound of despair. She was a sexual oddity—and likely to remain so. She was frightened of sex, it always hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to improve the situation. Her husband had grown tired of her excuses. She had made him hate her. Small wonder they had divorced.

But that was behind her now. She had rebuilt her life. She couldn’t allow anyone, especially Rico Cortes, to fan her past insecurities into flame…

‘Zoë?’ Maria asked softly. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Collecting herself, Zoë spoke firmly and smiled. ‘Now,’ she added quickly, before Maria could probe any deeper, ‘I’d like to discuss my outline plan for the programme in which you’re to appear. I want to be quite sure you’re happy with everything.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria murmured softly, frowning a little as she allowed Zoë to lead her away from Rico.

The two women remained deep in conversation for some time. They were both on the same wavelength, Zoë realised. Maria was only too pleased to have the opportunity to bring genuine Spanish culture to a wider audience, and Zoë liked to present her food in context, rather than offering individual, unconnected recipes. This was her definition of lifestyle TV—a show that was genuine in every single respect—and now she had control over the content of her own programmes it was exactly what she delivered.

It was going to be really good, she realised with a sudden rush of excitement. Maria’s talent would imbue the show with her own special quality. Rico had correctly identified it as something that no amount of money could buy.

Glancing around, Zoë looked for him. But he must have left while she was talking to Maria.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ Maria insisted, chucking her under the chin. ‘I know what we will do,’ she added, getting to her feet.

Once again Zoë was struck by the difference in mobility between the Maria who had been sitting next to her and the Maria who performed on the stage—the one so fluid and graceful, the other showing definite, if gracious, signs of her age. ‘What will we do, Maria?’

‘We will dance together.’

‘Oh, no, I can’t—’

‘You can walk, you can run, and you can jump?’

‘Well, yes, of course—’

‘Then you can dance,’ Maria told her sternly. ‘But first we must find you some clothes. Those will not do,’ she said, eyeing Zoë’s slim-fitting jeans and top. ‘You look like a boy. I want to make you look like a woman.’

Zoë’s eyes widened. She was too polite to argue. And far too curious to see what Maria meant to refuse.

Now she knew the secret of the wooden mountain house around which people congregated. It was packed to the rafters with the most spectacular clothes: rows of shoes, boxes of hair ornaments, cascading fringed shawls, and dresses by the score in every colour under the rainbow.

‘You’re so lucky to take performing under the stars for granted.’ Zoë peered out of one of the small windows at the darkening sky. Someone had lit the campfire, and flames were just beginning to take hold. It was such a romantic scene, like something out of an old musical film. The children were still rehearsing—not because they had to now, but because they wanted to. Their heads were held high, faces rapt, their backs were arched and their hands expressive. ‘The children are a credit to you, Maria.’

Maria paused as she sorted through the dresses packed tight on the rail. ‘They are a credit to themselves and to each other,’ she corrected Zoë gently. ‘And if they can do it, so can you.’

‘Oh, no, really—I can’t—’ Her dancing was confined to her classes.

‘Who said you can’t? Here, try these on.’

Maria brought her an armful of clothes and Zoë’s face broke into a smile. Maria was like a gust of fresh spring air behind a heavy rain cloud. It was impossible to be hooked by the past when she was around.

‘The colour of this dress will look good on you.’

Zoë exclaimed with pleasure as she gazed at the beautiful lilac dress. Maria’s confidence was infectious.

‘You can put the dress on over there.’ Maria pointed across the room. ‘That’s where the children get changed—behind that screen. When you have it on, come out and choose some shoes to fit you from this row here. Don’t worry—I will help you to finish fastening the dress, and then I will do your hair.’

For once it was a pleasure to do as she was told. Zoë knew she would dance, because Maria would give her the confidence to do so. She was excited at the prospect of trying something new, especially now Rico had gone. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a show of herself if he’d still been around.

Maria was right; the low-cut lilac dress did look good against her titian hair. It moulded her figure like a glove down to her hips, where it flared out, and then was longer at one side than the other. She was showing quite a bit of leg, Zoë saw in the mirror, raising the skirt with a flourish. Just wearing the dress made her stand straight and proud, made her want to toss back her hair with the same defiant move she had seen Maria perform on stage.

Dipping her chin, Zoë tried out her expression, staring fiercely into the mirror through a fringe of long lashes. A poster on the wall behind her caught her attention. The dark-haired young woman was incredibly beautiful. Passion blazed from her eyes as she glared straight into the camera. She had the sinuous frame of a top model, though was more striking than any model Zoë had ever seen. Her full lips were slightly parted and a strand of her long ebony hair had caught across them, giving her flamenco pose a sense of movement. There was a single word stretched across the top of the fiery background: Beba.

‘Bueno!’ Maria said with approval when Zoë finally emerged from behind the screen. ‘That dress really suits you. I knew it would. Let me just finish the hooks and eyes at the back for you. They are hard for you to reach.’

‘I feel different. It’s ridiculous, but—’

‘It’s flamenco.’ Maria laughed happily and stood back to look at Zoë. ‘Now you feel proud and confident, like a woman should. Come, I will arrange your hair for you. And then we dance!’

Taka taka taka tak tak tak…taka taka taka tak… She was doing it! They had practised for about an hour on the dusty ground, and now Maria had deemed Zoë ready for the stage where, working together, the heels of their shoes made a crisp, satisfying sound on the hard wooden floor.

Breathing hard, her face fierce with concentration, Zoë thrust her head back as Maria had directed. One arm sweeping behind her back, she raised the other hand stiff, in a defiant pose, as if calling up some invisible energy…

‘Olé!’

‘Rico!’

‘Don’t stop now,’ Maria ordered sharply.

But Zoë suddenly felt exposed and foolish. ‘I’d much rather watch you,’ she said, moving to the back of the stage. ‘You haven’t danced a solo yet.’

‘I’m saving myself,’ Maria said sardonically. ‘Whereas you, Zoë, are hiding yourself.’

‘That’s not true…’

‘Isn’t it?’ Maria demanded as Rico approached the stage.

‘Why did you stop?’ He stared up at Zoë.

‘I’m very much a beginner—I’m not ready to perform in public.’ Her heart lurched at his assessing look.

‘But from what I have seen you have potential—don’t you agree, Maria?’

‘Mucho potential,’ Maria agreed, but she made a disapproving sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth when she looked at Rico, as if she sensed some double meaning behind his words.

‘So, will you dance for me, Zoë?’

Rico’s question had an alarming effect on Zoë’s senses. It was like every seduction technique imaginable condensed into a few short words. She would love nothing more than to dance for him, with this new and abandoned feeling rushing through her. Just the thought of being so uninhibited in his presence was tempting. She felt strong, and in control, and highly sexual—as if the dance had enabled her to plunge head first into a world of sensuality for the first time in her life. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Zoë realised she loved the feeling. It was intoxicating—and extremely dangerous.

‘I’m waiting for your answer,’ Rico reminded her.

Zoë glanced around, but Maria had melted away, lost in the crowds already gathering for that night’s performance.

‘Come down from there.’

She looked at him and hesitated.

‘Please, Zoë?’

She was surprised. His voice had gentled.

‘I don’t bite, and—’

‘Are you apologising to me?’ Zoë said, cocking her head to one side as she looked at him.

‘Me?’ Rico half smiled at her as he touched one hand to his chest.

His eyes were different now, she noticed. Darker, still a little guarded, but warmer—definitely warmer. ‘Yes, you. Who else has doubted my motives in Cazulas, Rico?’

And he still doubted her motives. But he could handle it. He could handle her too. ‘So, you’re too timid to dance for me?’

‘I don’t do private exhibitions.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Is it? Would you really think more of me if I made a habit of dancing for men? I don’t think so. You’ve already shown your contempt for me—I can just imagine what you would make of that.’

‘I admit we’ve got off to a bad start—’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘So, here’s our chance to start again.’

‘Should I want to?’

She saw his mouth quirk at one corner, as if he wanted to smile.

‘I hoped you might.’

Zoë half turned away, lifting her chin as she considered his words. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, turning back to him again with a frown. ‘Why should I? I don’t need the aggravation.’

‘Who said anything about aggravation, Zoë? Come on—come down from there and let’s talk.’

She couldn’t stand up on the stage all night. People were beginning to stare at her. She would have to do something soon—dance a solo or get off the stage. Picking up her skirt, she walked briskly down the steps.

‘Zoë, please.’

She looked down at Rico’s hand on her arm. ‘This had better be good.’

‘I hope you think so.’

She gasped when he drew her in front of him. ‘Rico, what—?’

‘I think I’ve behaved rather badly.’

‘Yes, you have.’ It was harder than she had thought to meet his gaze this close up.

‘I can understand why you don’t feel like trusting me now.’

‘Can you?’ She didn’t trust herself either when he was around.

‘Will you let me make amends? Have dinner with me.’

Zoë stared at him. Was he serious?

‘Zoë?’

She had to get herself out of this somehow. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Which is?’

He seemed amused. But hopefully this would get her off the hook. It was the only challenge she could think of that Rico wouldn’t want to take up. ‘If you cook for me, I’ll dance for you.’

‘Bueno.’ He didn’t waste any time over his answer. ‘Shall we say later tonight?’

‘Tonight?’ All the breath seemed suddenly to have been sucked out of her lungs.

‘We eat late in Spain.’ Rico was quite matter-of-fact about it. Did he think her hesitation was due to ignorance of local customs? ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

‘Ten o’clock?’ Zoë repeated, staring up at him blankly.

‘Yes, let’s say ten. That will give you enough time to prepare.’

To prepare what? She bit her lip. Unaccountably, her brain stalled, and not a single word of refusal made it to her lips.

‘Then it’s agreed,’ Rico said with satisfaction. ‘We will meet again, later tonight, at Castillo Cazulas.’

CHAPTER FOUR

THIS was the last thing she had expected to be doing, Zoë thought, as she tested the small four-wheel drive she had just hired to its limits. Rico had said he would follow her back to the castle later, to cook the meal and watch her dancing. She could only hope he was joking. The idea of dancing for him already seemed ridiculous.

Glancing in the driver’s mirror, she saw the bundle of clothes Maria had insisted she take with her, assuring her that she would feel more comfortable dancing in them than jeans. More comfortable? Maybe—until Rico saw her wearing the flimsy low-necked blouse and ultra-feminine practice skirt!

She knew she was playing with fire, but where Rico Cortes was concerned it seemed she couldn’t resist courting danger. Fortunately the film crew would be out partying until late, so no one would even know what she planned to do—or what kind of fool she made of herself.

As she pulled into the courtyard she thought about cancelling. But she didn’t know how to get hold of Rico—and why should she pull out? She was more likely to dance than he was to cook. It was an opportunity to redress the balance between them…he would never doubt her will again.

The heavy iron knocker echoed ominously through the long stone passages as Zoë hurried to open the front door. Prompt at ten o’clock, Rico had said, and he was bang on time, she saw, glancing up at the tall grandfather clock on the turn of the stairs.

She was shivering all over with excitement and apprehension, and, reaching the hallway, she made herself slow down. She didn’t want to appear too keen.

But as she walked her hips swayed beneath the ankle-length skirt, and as the swathes of fabric brushed her naked legs she knew the clothes Maria had given her to wear made her move quite differently. Even the simple peasant blouse was enough to make her want to throw her head back and walk tall. No wonder the women of Spain looked so magnificent when they stepped onto a stage when all their clothes were designed to make the most of the female form.

‘Zoë.’

She could feel her face heating up as Rico stared at her. She tried for cool and unconcerned as she stood aside to let him pass. ‘Welcome. How nice to see you.’

Nice! Zoë felt as if a furnace had just roared into flame somewhere inside her. She felt weak, she felt strong, and her legs were trembling uncontrollably beneath her skirt. She registered the flash of a dark, imperious gaze, and then he was gone, walking past her towards the kitchen.

He seemed to know his way—but then he would. Who knew how long he had been hanging around the castle earlier that morning? And so far he seemed to be keeping his side of the bargain: he had a box of provisions, as well as a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said, some time later.

‘You seem surprised.’

She was, Zoë realised. Not only had Rico kept to his part of their bargain, he was an excellent cook. ‘I am.’

‘Because I can cook?’

Zoë smiled. It was hard to concentrate on anything apart from Rico’s face as he stared at her. It wiped her mind clean, made her long to know him better. Physically, he was everything she knew to avoid. But they were alone together, and she wondered if she had misjudged him. He was still proud, male and alpha, but he had a sense of humour too—something she hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m not surprised you can cook. I’m just surprised that you can cook so well.’

‘Is there any reason why I should be incapable of feeding myself?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that most men—’

‘Most men?’

She loved the way one of his eyebrows tilted a fraction when he asked a question. She’d been thinking of her ex, sitting at the table waiting for his meal after they had both put in a long day at work. He’d only commented on her food when it hadn’t been to his liking. She had never received a compliment from him for her cooking.

‘Most men wouldn’t know their way around a warm barbecued vegetable salad with anchovies.’

‘Escalivada amb anxoves?’ Rico translated for her. ‘It’s a great dish, isn’t it? My mother is a fabulous cook, and she taught all her children how to prepare food. It is no big deal.’ He got to his feet to collect their plates.

‘Your mother?’ Instantly Zoë was curious. Either Rico ignored her interest, or he didn’t notice. But she noticed the fact that he was clearing up after them. He wouldn’t even allow her to help, just pushed her gently back down in her chair again.

‘Save your strength for the dancing.’

His eyes were glinting with humour again. Not mockery, humour—humour shared between them. Feeling her confidence returning, Zoë smiled back. ‘You know your way round a dishwasher too. I’m impressed.’

‘You must have known some very strange men in your time, Zoë.’

Zoë smiled faintly. You don’t want to know how strange.

Rico insisted on doing everything—even wiping down the surfaces and clearing the condiments from the table. Only when the kitchen had been returned to its former pristine condition did he turn to her.

‘Now it is time for you to dance, Zoë.’

His eyes, she noticed, were already dancing—with laughter and with challenge. But somehow it gave her courage. He gave her courage.

‘I’m ready. After that meal I’ve got a lot to live up to, so I’d better limber up before I begin. I would hate to disappoint you.’

‘I will tune my guitar while you prepare.’

How long would that take? she wondered. Not long enough for her to be ready to dance for him, that was for sure!

As fast as Zoë’s courage had returned, it vanished again. She wanted to impress Rico, and doubted she could. She wanted his gaze to linger on her, to bathe her in his admiration. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

She wanted to know more about his mother, Zoë corrected herself fiercely.

‘Why don’t we have pudding first, and talk a little longer?’

‘You can’t put it off all night. Are you having second thoughts, Zoë?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then no more delaying tactics,’ Rico said, reaching for his guitar. ‘Sweet things come later, when we have earned them.’

How good his command of English was! His few words had set her on fire. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to later, but clearly Rico had.

Subduing a rush of apprehension, Zoë led the way into the Great Hall. Rico sat on the stool she had placed there for him, and began adjusting the strings of his guitar.

‘You have a beautiful guitar.’ Under Rico’s hands it had come to life, producing sounds that were rich and lovely.

‘It’s a flamenco guitar, made of spruce and cypress.’

‘So it really does represent the music of the region?’

‘Absolutely,’ he murmured.

Zoë looked away first.

While Rico strummed some chords, testing them for clarity and tuning, Zoë centred herself, bending and stretching before the dance began.

Rico seemed to sense when she was ready to begin, and turned his head. With a brief nod, she walked to the centre of her improvised performance space in the centre of the vast square hall.

At first she was stiff and self-conscious, but Rico second-guessed her every move. She had never danced with such a sympathetic accompanist before—in fact she’d never danced with a real live accompanist before, and certainly not one who made her thrill even more than the music.

Rico made no allowances for the fact that she was new to flamenco, and in truth she didn’t want him to; after just a short time she didn’t need him to. Their partnership was as tight as Zoë could have wished, and after a few minutes all her tension disappeared.

There were some large ornate mirrors in this part of the hall, which was why she had chosen it. She could see Rico sitting cross-legged on his stool. He appeared lost in the music, but then he looked up and Zoë was lost in his eyes.

Instead of hesitating, Rico picked up the pace, his gaze boring into her as he drew rhythms hotter and more powerful than Zoë had ever thought possible from his guitar. His fingers moved at speed across the fretboard, producing an earthy sound that throbbed insistently through her. She could feel herself growing more abandoned with every step, until she was whirling in time to a rhythm of Rico’s choosing. Then, abruptly, he slowed the tempo so that it rose and fell in waves of sound that dropped at last to a low and insistent rumble.

The sound was so faint Zoë could barely hear it. She might not have known he was still playing had it not been for the fact that she could still feel the music in every fibre of her being.

‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he said suddenly, damping the strings with his hand.

She had been so absorbed in the dance, so lost in the sound he was creating, it took her a moment to come round and realise that Rico had stopped playing. She watched him prop his guitar against the wall, and was still in a sort of trance when he walked across the floor to her.

And then she came to with a bump, realising she was so aroused that her nipples were pressing tautly against the fine lawn top. Instinctively she lifted her hands to cover herself, but she could do nothing about the insistent pulse down low in her belly.

‘I think you enjoyed that, Ms Chapman…and you’re very good.’ He stopped a few feet away, and made no attempt to close the gap.

Zoë licked her lips. Rico knew she was aroused. She could feel his response to that arousal enveloping her. He might as well have undone the ties on her blouse and exposed her erect nipples. Or lifted her skirt high above her waist and seen her there… He could arouse her as easily as that—without even touching her. And now she didn’t want him to stop or turn away. This could be her one and only chance to push past arousal and see if she could handle the next stage…

‘I think it’s time for our dessert, Zoë.’

Zoë tried to hide her disappointment when Rico held out his hand to her. Her face was on fire at the thought she had made such a fool of herself. ‘Dessert? Yes, of course.’

‘Spanish-style.’

She saw the look in his eyes and felt a rush of heat flood through her as she realised that the last thing on Rico’s mind was a return visit to the kitchen. Oh.

Her gaze fixed on his hand. He was waiting for her to clasp it. Was this what she wanted? Could she go ahead with it? Wasn’t it better to stop now, before she proved to herself as well as Rico that as far as sex went she was one big disaster area? She didn’t want to spoil the evening—which was what would happen if she allowed things to go any further.

For some reason the young flamenco dancer on the poster in the mountain hut flew into Zoë’s mind. Beba was a proper woman, a sexual woman… But then Rico’s arms closed around her and it was too late.

Zoë shuddered with desire as his mouth brushed her lips. She felt so small, so dainty—and desired. This far was fine—it was as far as she could ever go: a kiss, a light caress… She closed her eyes as he applied a little more pressure, his firm lips moving over her mouth until she softened against him.

Could so much pleasure come from a simple kiss? But there was nothing uncomplicated where Rico was concerned.

He felt her tense, and stroked her back with long, light strokes until she eased into him again. He tugged lightly with his teeth on her bottom lip until the tremors rippling through her reached her womb. She whimpered, wanting more, and, teasing her lips apart, he deepened the kiss.

Zoë accepted the pace Rico set just as she had accepted the music he had played for her—music that had begun so gently, so calmly… It was like that now. He was so strong she could sense the powerhouse contained beneath his tracing fingers and wonderfully caressing hands. His touch was as light as the softest chord on the guitar, and as if she was his instrument now the vibrations through her body went on and on.

As their kisses grew more heated she was swept up in the need to rub against him, to feel the hard bristle on his face scoring her cheeks, rasping her neck. Their breathing was hectic and there were sounds welling from deep inside their throats as the pace quickened like the fiery rhythms of flamenco. Need was overwhelming them. They were as rough now, and as mindlessly passionate, as the final furious torrent of demanding chords.

Then a flash of reality intruded, brutal and strong. She didn’t know if she could stop him. He frightened her. She frightened herself. Things were getting out of control. What the hell was she doing?

Zoë tensed as the floodgates of the past gave way beneath the weight of ugly memories. ‘No, no! Stop it! I can’t—’ She tried desperately to push him away.

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Rico said sharply, holding her fast as he stared intently into her eyes.

‘I just can’t,’ Zoë said, snatching her face away from his as she struggled to break free.

But he wouldn’t let her go, and, cupping her chin, brought her back to face him again. ‘What can’t you do, Zoë? Answer me.’

She knew he sensed her fear.

‘Tell me, please.’

His voice was gentle, and when she looked up at him their faces were almost touching.

‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zoë. Is there someone else?’

‘I can’t tell you what’s wrong.’ Zoë pressed her lips together. That was true. How could she? Where were the words to explain how some giant switch had simply turned off inside her, so that all she felt now with him was fear and apprehension?

‘Has someone hurt you? Or do you already have a man? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?’

‘No!’ Zoë covered her ears with her hands, protecting herself against the barrage of questions, trying to shut out the ugly scenes replaying in her mind. She wasn’t ready for this. Would she ever be ready?

But none of it was Rico’s fault. Her gaze flew to his face, and she knew he saw the answer in her eyes.

‘Zoë…Zoë.’ He brought her close. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘We don’t know each other.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest.

‘I’d like to change that.’

She wanted to believe him. She wanted desperately to believe him, to think he might be different. But her past kept on insisting she was wrong. ‘Can we change the subject?’ She straightened her hair. ‘What about if I make the pudding?’

‘Zoë—’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Stop it, Zoë.’ Pulling back, Rico held her in front of him.

‘It won’t take me long.’ She couldn’t look at him.

‘Not tonight.’

There was a sharp note in his voice that drew her gaze, and she saw his face was serious and troubled.

‘All right, you make the pudding,’ she said.

She was determined to stick to the mundane, Rico realised. That way she could pretend it had never happened. He stared at her, wishing she would tell him everything, knowing that would never happen. ‘OK. I did promise to cook for you tonight.’

He could feel the relief radiating from her, but the easy atmosphere they’d shared earlier had gone; they both knew it. He had opened an old wound, and he shuddered to think what that wound might be.

Rico occupied Zoë’s mind throughout most of that night. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t think about anything apart from him. She had gone cold and he had gone—no surprises there. His bright golden fritters dressed with fresh lemon juice and vanilla sugar had been a surprise. They’d been truly unforgettable—as had his swift departure the moment he had bolted them down!

He hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. She couldn’t blame him. They had shared one lovely evening, thanks to Maria. And now, with The Kiss out of the way, at least he knew she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.

She had laid her cards out in front of him. She couldn’t be like other women—women who took their right to enjoy physical love for granted. Women like the flamenco dancer on the poster. It was better Rico knew that.

Her ex had been right. She was frigid. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try—she felt sexy, and she hoped she looked at least a little bit appealing, but as soon as things turned hot she went cold. That was what had happened tonight. No one could change what she was—not even Rico. Thumping her pillows into submission, Zoë settled down to sleep.

Zoë’s hands flew to her face. The stinging slap had jolted her whole frame. She could never beg; that was her problem. She could never ask for forgiveness, for understanding, when she didn’t know what she had done wrong.

She backed away, stumbling in the darkness, feeling for the furniture to guide her. Finally there was nowhere else to go. She was pressed back against the cold, hard door. She could only stand now, and wait for her punishment. There was no escape. The door was locked. She knew that too, without trying the handle. She knew it just as surely as she knew what was coming next.

She looked at him then, but his face was shadowed and she couldn’t be sure who it was. She searched her mind desperately, trying to think of something that would make him change his mind, make him listen to her. But he was already taking off his belt.

This was always the worst part—the waiting. She could hear herself whimpering as she held up her hands to shield her face…

‘Oh!’ Zoë lurched up into a sitting position, reeling with shock. It took her a few minutes to get her bearings and realise she was safe in her bed at the castle.

Steadying her breathing, she looked around. Of course there was nothing unpleasant in the room. It was quite empty. The castle was completely still. She had heard several doors slamming when the film crew came back from their evening at the café, but it was the middle of the night now; everyone was sound asleep.

Glancing at her wristwatch on the bedside table, she saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. Slipping out of bed, she pulled back one side of the heavy curtains and gazed out to where the castle walls were tipped with silver in the moonlight. Where was Rico now? Where was he sleeping? Was he alone? He had never told her where he lived, and she had never asked. Did he live with anyone? Was he married?

A bolt of shame cut through her. She would never hurt anyone as she had been hurt—yet she knew none of the answers to these questions. She had let Rico kiss her without knowing anything about him, and then she had gone on to betray her innermost fears to him.

Zoë pulled away from the window. Unwelcome details of the nightmare were slithering back through the unguarded passages in her mind. She couldn’t shut them out. She had tried that before, but they always, always came back. Rico didn’t know anything about her, about her past. How would she bear the shame when he found out? His rejection tonight would be nothing compared to the scorn and contempt he would feel for her then.

In her mind’s eye Zoë could already see his face; it was cold and unforgiving. But even that was better than revisiting the dark side of her memories. She could only be grateful that by filling her mind with Rico Cortes she had finally found a way to blot the worst of them out.

Was this how it was always going to be—her ex-husband haunting her for ever?

Yes—if she allowed him to, Zoë realised.

Opening the window as far as she could, she leaned out, drinking in the healing beauty of the mountains.

The moonlight was like a blessing on her face. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. There was a faint scent of blossom on the air.

CHAPTER FIVE

ZOË was up shortly after dawn on Monday. She was skilled at putting the dark shadows behind her, and, though she was tired after her disturbed night, her mind was full of the party the following day. She was determined to have everything ready in good time.

The local producers took a well-earned rest over the weekend, and Monday was the only day the market opened late. That played into her hands, giving her a chance to draw up a schedule and get organised before she went shopping for ingredients. She enjoyed supervising everything—even down to which flowers she would have on the tables.

Taking a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with her onto the veranda, she perched on a seat overlooking the cypress grove to make her list. It was still cool, and she had taken the precaution of wearing a cosy sweater over her pyjamas. Her hair was still sleep-tangled round her shoulders and for a while she just sat idly, soaking up the view. The air was quite still, apart from the occasional flurry of early-morning breeze, and there were few sounds to disturb her tranquil state other than the birds chorusing their approval of another bright new day.

Closing her eyes, Zoë relished the touch of the sun on her freshly washed face. She breathed deeply and smiled as she inhaled the same scent she had enjoyed the previous night. The cicadas were just kicking off with a rumba. The perfume of the blossom was overlaid with the warm, spicy aroma of Spain. She couldn’t have been anywhere else. She didn’t want to be anywhere else. Feeling a sudden rush of joy, she stretched out her arms towards the sun—then another sound intruded.

Opening her eyes, she straightened up and looked around, and saw a horse and rider coming towards her at speed. Shading her eyes against the low, slanting rays of the sun, she could just make out the shape of a man crouched low over the neck of his horse. He was galloping flat out towards her, down the tree-lined grove, using the mile-long stretch like his own private racecourse.

‘Rico?’ Zoë murmured, getting to her feet. Her heart was pounding, and for a moment she panicked. Only an emergency could have brought him to the castle at such a pace.

But then he slowed abruptly, when he was still some yards from the entrance to the courtyard.

Almost as if he knew he was close to water, the horse pricked up his ears and pranced towards the trough located right beneath the veranda where Zoë was standing. The sound of his hooves on the cobbles made her smile. Did everyone dance to the rhythm of flamenco in Cazulas?

The black stallion and his rider were a magnificent sight. Rico was so much a part of his mount it was difficult to tell who made the decisions, and Zoë smiled again in admiration as she raised her hand in greeting. She could ride—but not like that.

Reining in beneath the veranda, Rico smiled up at her.

Zoë was surprised he looked pleased to see her. Had he forgotten what had happened between them the previous night? She had made a fool of herself. So why was he here? What had he come for?

‘Buenos días, señorita!’ Rico bowed low over the withers of his horse. ‘I trust I find you well this morning?’

His uncomplicated greeting bolstered Zoë’s determination not to slip back into her old ways. He wasn’t being scornful or cruel, he was just saying good morning.

‘Buenos días, señor.’ Planting her hands on the veranda rail, she smiled down at him.

‘You look tired,’ Rico observed as he sprang down to the ground. Swinging the reins over the horse’s head, he tethered him to a pole.

‘Do I?’ Zoë put a hand to her cheek. She had no intention of telling him why. ‘I haven’t had a chance to put my makeup on. That must be it.’ Then she remembered her shabby old pyjama bottoms, flapping in the breeze beneath her rumpled sweater.

‘You don’t need make-up.’ He took the steps two, three at a time. ‘But you do look tired.’ Pulling off his soft calfskin riding gloves, he slapped them together in the palm of one hand. ‘That juice looks good.’

‘It is. I’m sorry, would you like one?’

‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

The jug of juice was in the refrigerator in the kitchen. And he would need a glass. She would have the chance to slip out and change into a respectable outfit. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll go and get the juice for you.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, that’s—’ Pointless arguing with him, Zoë thought wryly, leading the way inside.

Every tiny hair rose on the back of her neck at knowing Rico was behind her, and as he held the door for her she could picture his muscles flexing beneath the close-fitting riding breeches, the turn of his calf beneath the long leather riding boots. And that was before she considered the wide spread of his shoulders, the powerful forearms shaded with dark hair, the inky black waves caressing high-chiselled cheekbones, slightly flushed beneath his tan after the exertions of his ride.

She could picture everything about him—his mouth, his lips—she could feel the scrape of his bristle on her cheeks, and she could remember all too clearly that she had pushed him away when he had wanted to kiss her.

Because she was frigid.

It was no use, Zoë realised as they walked into the kitchen. She would never be able to relax with a man like Rico. She would never know what it felt like to be properly kissed by him. But that didn’t stop her wanting to.

‘The work for this meal isn’t proving too much for you?’ He looked around when she had given him a glass of fresh juice. ‘You seem to have made enough for an army already.’

‘I’m never happier then when I’m cooking.’ She stared at him as he went to wash out his empty glass at the sink. She was so used to clearing up after people she knew she would never get used to this.

When he had finished, Rico turned back to her. He slipped one thumb into his belt-loop, and before she knew what she was doing Zoë had followed the movement. Feeling her face flame red, she redirected her gaze into his eyes.

‘It all smells wonderful.’ Rico smiled.

‘Thank you.’ Zoë’s throat seemed to have closed up. The riding breeches moulded him precisely, revealingly—terrifyingly. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice sounded faint, and she was glad there was a table between them.

‘It’s such a beautiful morning I thought you might like to ride out with me—if you’re not too busy…’

She could hardly pretend to be when she had been lazing on the veranda when he arrived. ‘I’ve thought about riding lots of times since I got here, but—’

‘But?’

‘Well, I can’t ride like you.’

‘There are plenty of quieter mounts than mine to choose from in the stables.’

‘I’d really like that.’ Zoë frowned. ‘But I’d have to change.’

‘Go right ahead. I’ll wait for you.’

‘All right, then.’

Closing the door behind her, Zoë leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. What was she doing? She closed her eyes. She couldn’t let her old life get in the way. She had fought her way out; she wasn’t going to slip back now. There was nothing wrong in riding with Rico. She could do with the exercise. The rest of the day was for shopping and cooking, so an hour’s recreation would be perfect. In fact, it was just what she needed.

Zoë changed her clothes quickly, putting on jeans and a shirt. When she returned to the kitchen Rico was gazing around at the changes she had made.

‘I trust you approve?’ Zoë hoped she didn’t sound too defensive. He put the pottery dish he had been examining back on the shelf. The changes were small, but it made the place feel like home—and that was no easy task in a castle.

She spent so much time in the kitchen it had to feel right. It was where she prepared everything, painstakingly testing each dish any number of different ways long before the cameras rolled on set. So she had hung some new blinds at the windows to control the flow of light while she worked, and there was a row of fresh herbs lined up in terracotta pots along the window-sill. She loved the local pottery. It was precious in a world where everything was growing more and more alike.

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to do the filming in here?’

‘Yes, but my director felt there was more space in the hall, so I gave in to him on that point.’

‘Your director? He works for you?’

‘For my production company.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘No need to be. It’s not unknown in the television world for people to take the independent route.’

‘So whose fault was the set dressing?’

‘Mine,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘I own the company. The buck stops here.’

Rico’s lips pressed together as he stared at her, then curved as if he was amused. ‘Are you ready to go?’ He glanced towards the door.

As he held it open for her, and she walked past him, Zoë felt a tingle race down the length of her spine. The heady scent of saddle soap and leather laced with warm, clean man was overwhelmingly attractive, and her thoughts turned wilfully to what was beneath Rico’s breeches. She had never indulged in erotic thoughts before, always dreading where they might lead. But there was something about Rico Cortes that made it impossible to think about anything else.

Daydreaming was a dangerous game…

Once they were outside in the fresh air Zoë knew that at least for the next hour or so she was going to put every negative thought from the past out of her mind.

They stood on the veranda side by side for a few moments, enjoying the view. They were standing very close, close enough to brush against each other, but then Rico’s stallion scented his master’s presence and squealed with impatience.

‘I think he’s trying to tell us that he’s been kept waiting long enough,’ Zoë said.

‘We had better go down,’ Rico agreed, ‘before he pulls that post out of the ground.’

She followed him down the steps.

‘We should find you a horse.’ Rico tipped his chin towards the stables. ‘Before Rondeno breaks free.’

‘Rondeno?’

‘A native of Ronda. My stallion is named after the most famous of all the White Towns in Andalucia. Ronda is surrounded by rugged mountains that once sheltered bandits and brigands.’

‘How very romantic.’ And how perfectly suited to Rico, Zoë thought, looking up at him. He would have made a very good pirate, with his swarthy, dangerous looks. Had Rico’s career taken a similar path to her own, she could see him as a leading man, breaking hearts on the small screen as well as the large. There was always a hunger for new talent. ‘Have you ever thought of acting as a career?’

‘Never.’ He slanted her a look. ‘I prefer reality to fantasy every time.’

‘Flamenco, cooking, riding…’ She smiled. ‘Is there no end to your talent?’

‘You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface yet.’ He laughed. ‘Come on, let’s get you that horse.’

At a gentle canter, and with the warm wind lifting her hair, Zoë began to wonder if she had ever felt so carefree before. The countryside was bathed in a soft, golden light, and the sky was as clear a blue as she had ever seen.

In this part of Spain the ground was well fed by a fast-flowing river, but now it was approaching the hottest months of the year the water was little more than a sluggish trickle. The pastures in the shadow of the mountains, however, were still green, and provided the perfect ground for riding over.

‘We’ll stop over there by the bridge.’ Rico had brought his stallion alongside her horse, and was keeping pace at an easy canter. ‘There should just be enough water for the horses to drink.’

As she cantered ahead of him, Zoë couldn’t believe she hadn’t ridden one of the horses stabled at the castle before. She had assumed they were in livery for any number of local riders, and therefore not included in her lease. Not so, Rico had explained. They all belonged to the same person—someone he knew, presumably. He knew the horses, and had chosen a quiet gelding for her to ride, saying Punto was perfect for her.

And he was, Zoë thought, patting the horse’s dappled neck. Punto was just the type of horse she liked: he was kind, and willing, and wore an American-style high saddle, which was a lot more comfortable than the English saddle she was used to.

Rico’s stallion moved ahead as he scented water. Urging her own horse forward, Zoë caught him up by the slow-moving stream. She allowed the reins to fall loosely on Punto’s neck and gazed around. Apart from the gurgle of water and the sound of the two horses drinking there was utter silence. Lifting her face to the sun, Zoë closed her eyes, allowing the light to bathe her in its warmth.

‘It’s so beautiful here.’

‘I agree,’ she heard Rico murmur.

She longed for him to lean over in his saddle then, and kiss her as he had kissed her before. This time she wouldn’t pull back. No bad feelings could intrude here, on such a beautiful day.

But Rico didn’t kiss her. He didn’t even try to touch her. He just sat patiently, waiting for their horses to finish drinking.

Of course he wouldn’t kiss her. Men couldn’t stand women who pulled away at the last minute. It was every man’s idea of a turn-off. There were only so many knocks to his pride a real man could take. Wasn’t that what her ex-husband had told her? He was right, and this was the proof.

She collected up the reins. ‘I’d better get back to the castle. There’s still so much to do. I have to get to the market before all the best produce is sold.’ She turned Punto away from the water.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Rico insisted. ‘Why don’t I get someone to collect what you need?’

The breeze flipped Zoë’s hair from her face as she turned to him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Rico, but I prefer to choose everything myself.’

‘Force of habit?’

‘That’s right.’

They began to trot, and then the horses broke into a canter. ‘So, are you still coming tomorrow?’ She had to yell to make him hear.

‘Try and keep me away. Shall we race back to the castle?’

The challenge excited her. Urging Punto on, Zoë loved feeling the wind in her hair and hearing the sound of Rondeno’s hooves pounding after her. She knew Rico had to be holding back, and, snatching a glance over her shoulder, she laughed with exhilaration. Rondeno was far more powerful than her own mount, but she could almost believe Punto was enjoying this as much as she was.

The control Rico exercised over his mighty stallion was the biggest turn-on of all, and Zoë’s heart was thundering louder than the combined sound of both horses’ hooves. The friction of the saddle as she brushed back and forth was something new to her. She had never taken notice of it before, but now she was intensely and electrifyingly aroused. Leaning low over Punto’s neck, she begged the horse to speed up and carry her away from Rico—and away from temptation.

He had to dig his heels into Rondeno’s side to catch up with her. His laugh of pleasure and surprise was carried away on the wind because they were moving so fast. She was quite a woman. He liked her spirit. In fact he liked Zoë Chapman—a lot, Rico realised, easing up so they were galloping alongside each other.

Her lips were parted to drag in air, and there was a faint line of pink along the top of her cheekbones that had not been put there by the wind. Her lips were moist where she had licked them, and when she flashed him a glance he saw that her exquisite eyes had darkened to the point where only a faint rim of turquoise remained.

She was not leading him on even a little bit—she was sexually unawakened. The realisation sent arousal streaking through him like a bolt of lightning. So much sexuality packed into one woman with everything to learn about the art of love. Even if he’d cared nothing for her, he would still have had to find that a turn-on. But after Zoë’s fearful response to him sorting her out in the sex department was starting to feel more like a crusade. Her frustration was obvious—something had to give. And he wanted to be around when that happened.

As they approached the castle they both reined in, but Zoë kept the lead. She laughed, and smiled across at him in triumph.

The change in her was striking. Where was the cool professional businesswoman now? Where was the frightened girl who had pushed him away? Right now she radiated confidence. The grey cloud that sometimes hung over her had vanished; he hoped it stayed that way.

She wanted to feel this good for ever, Zoë thought as she sprang down from the saddle. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Rico, smiling. ‘That was the best time I’ve had for—’

‘Ever?’ he suggested.

‘I should definitely try to ride more frequently. Perhaps I will, now I know I can take one of the horses from the stables here.’

‘The groom will always pick one out for you, or just tell him you prefer to ride Punto.’

‘I will.’ Zoë rested her cheek against Punto’s neck for a moment. ‘He’s the best—aren’t you, Punto?’

‘Don’t ride unaccompanied until you know the lie of the land better.’

Zoë’s pulse began to race as she gazed up at Rico. ‘I won’t.’ It was such an easy promise to make. With Rico riding next to her she would be in the saddle every spare moment that came her way.

‘The groom will ride with you if you ask him.’

Somehow she kept the smile fixed to her face. ‘That would be great.’

‘Adios, Zoë!’

‘Adios, Rico.’ He was too busy holding his black stallion in check to note her sudden lack of enthusiasm, Zoë saw thankfully. ‘I appreciate you taking me out.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He wheeled Rondeno away.

I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it, Zoë thought, smiling to herself as Rico cantered away.

Turning, she viewed the elderly bow-legged groom with wry amusement. Riding was definitely crossed off her ‘must-do’ list for now.

CHAPTER SIX

TUESDAY was almost too busy for Zoë to give much thought to anything apart from cooking—cooking and Rico. Now she knew for sure he was coming, everything had gained an extra impetus. She wanted to make Maria feel she was part of something special, something that gave the exceptional flamenco dancer the recognition Zoë believed she deserved.

She was in the kitchen by nine, having been up at dawn to go to market to find the freshest ingredients for those dishes that could not be made in advance. On her return she had laid everything out on the counter to make one last check. But, however many times she looked at them, she couldn’t get past the feeling that there was still something missing.

She had decided upon a menu of clams à la marinara, in a sauce of garlic, paprika and fino sherry, with an alternative of zoque, the popular gazpacho soup made with red peppers and tomatoes. But for the main course she had called upon her secret weapon—a wise old man from the village who seemed to be everyone’s tio, or uncle. Zoë had been debating over the best recipe for paella, and the tio was the only person who could advise her properly, according to Maria, who had unexpectedly appeared at her side at the market.

Thanks to the introduction from Maria, the elderly expert uncle had approved Zoë’s choice of ingredients, after turning them over and sniffing for freshness. He had even demanded a heavy discount from the stallholders, reminding them, as Zoë would never have dreamed of doing, that they would be eating the food they had just sold to her when they came to the castle for the party that night.

‘Locals care more about the rice than the rest of the meal,’ the tio had said, patting his nose with one finger just as Zoë had seen Maria do. ‘It must be well washed if you want the grains to separate, and then the rice must be cooked in fish stock—never water—water is for soup. You must have caldo—sorry, broth—for your rice. And the yellow colour of paella comes as much from the noras—you would call them peppers—as it does from the strands of saffron you add to the broth. Did you enjoy your ride?’

Cooking methods and Rico in the same breath! Zoë knew her astonishment must have shown on her face.

‘It’s a very small village,’ the tio had explained with a smile, tapping his nose once again.

So it was, Zoë had thought, as she thanked him for his kindness.

Armed with quite a lot more local knowledge than she had bargained for, she had returned to the castle to prepare the main dish.

Balancing a cheap pan the size of a bicycle wheel on the counter, Zoë laid out pieces of chicken and squid, clams, scampi and rojas—large red prawns—with all the precision of a stained-glass window on top of a bed of rice, onion, garlic and peppers. Finally she added three types of beans and then some seasoning. Now the dish was almost ready for the oven.

She paused, inhaling the faint salty tang of the sea rising from the cool, fresh ingredients, her mind straying back to the earlier events of the day. How had the tio known she had been riding with Rico? Did everyone in the village know? Was it coincidence that Maria had found her at the market?

Suddenly Zoë wasn’t sure of anything. Had she imagined she could ride out with Rico, bathe in his glamour, and get away with it? Frowning, she turned back to her cooking. She had already made some rich fish stock laced with strands of deep red saffron, and she poured that over the raw ingredients. Standing back, she had to admit she was delighted with the finished product.

The tio’s last piece of advice had been to wrap the paella in newspaper once it was cooked. Then the finished dish should be left for ten minutes for the rice grains to separate. But wouldn’t the newsprint spoil the striking colours?

Newsprint. Banner headlines. Zoë actually flinched as she turned away.

The icy fingers of the past were with her again, clutching at her heart. Star Sells Sex. Three words that damned her for ever in her own mind, even though they were lies. As far as the world at large was concerned, the story had brought her to wider public notice, and, in the topsy-turvy way of celebrity, had actually boosted her career. Going along with public perception had actually helped her to get through things. Keeping a smile fixed to her face had become such a habit that gradually the reality that lay behind the headline had been consigned to the back of her mind like a sleeping monster.

The Zoë Chapman who didn’t appear on the television screen or at book signings was careful never to wake that monster—but she knew it would stir if she allowed herself to feel anything too deeply again. The shame, the failure, the brutality that lay behind it—all of that would rise up and slap her down into the gutter, where her ex-husband thought she belonged. So far she had frustrated his attempts to see her eat dirt, but it had been a long road back.

But she had made it back, Zoë reminded herself, and that was all that mattered. Every time the past intruded she pictured herself as a cork being held down in the water—she always broke free; she always bobbed up again. It was only men with brutally strong characters she had a problem with now. Men like Rico Cortes.

She had to get over this—get over him. She had to force her thoughts back on track. Perhaps she would wrap the paella in one of her huge, freshly laundered cloths when she removed it from the heat, and allow it to settle that way…

She could relax at last. The paella looked great on camera. It had been filmed at each stage of its preparation, and she had been sorry for the film crew, who had had to carry the loaded pan back and forth between the set in the Great Hall and the kitchen, where she was working.

Philip, her director, was demanding, but he was the best—which was why she had hired him. She trusted his judgement, and his decision to do things this way had kept everyone out from under her feet. Her own ‘to camera’ shots would be added later, when make-up and wardrobe had been let loose on her. It wasn’t easy to cook and appear as cool as a cucumber at the same time.

Now she had finished the paella, Zoë’s thoughts turned to pudding, which was her favourite part of any meal. She planned to serve a chocolate and almond ice cream, garnished with her own guirlache, which was crushed and toasted almonds coated with a sugar and lemon juice toffee. And there would be hot orange puffs dusted with sugar, as well as figuritas de marzapan, marzipan shaped into mice and rabbits for the children.

She concentrated hard, loving every moment of the preparation. Cooking was an oasis in her life that offered periods of calm as essential as they were soothing. She counted herself fortunate that her love of food had brought her success.

Resisting the temptation to sample one of everything she had made, Zoë finally stood back, sighing with contentment. It all looked absolutely delicious.

Someone else thought so too—before she knew what she was doing Zoë had automatically slapped Rico’s hand away as he reached for a marzipan rabbit.

‘Rico!’ She clutched her chest with surprise. ‘I thought it was one of the crew! I didn’t realise it was you…’ And then all she could think was that her chef’s jacket was stained and her face had to be tomato red from the heat in the kitchen. ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’

‘It is tonight.’ He gazed past her through the open window.

‘I must have got carried away. What time is it?’

‘Don’t worry. Not time to panic yet.’

Not time to panic? So why was her heart thundering off the chart? Zoë tried to wipe her face on her sleeve without Rico noticing. ‘What brings you here so early?’

‘I thought you might need some help. It looks like I was right.’

‘I’m doing fine.’

‘I brought drinks.’

‘Drinks… Drinks! That was what was missing!’ She turned to him. ‘I’ve made some lemonade to pour over crushed ice for the children, and for anyone who doesn’t drink…’

‘That’s fine, but you should have plenty of choice. It’s going to be a long night.’ Going to the kitchen door, he held it open and a line of men filed in. They were loaded down with crates of beer, boxes of wine and spirits, and soft drinks.

‘Cava, brandy, sherry, and the local liquor…’ Rico ticked them off, shooting an amused glance at Zoë as a man bearing a huge earthenware flagon marched in.

‘Oh, no—not that!’

‘You don’t have to drink it,’ he pointed out, smiling when he saw her expression.

‘You’re far too generous. Of course my company will pay for everything—’

‘We’ll worry about that later.’

‘The crew will drink everything in sight, given half a chance.’

‘Not tonight. Just worry about getting the white wine and cava chilled.’

‘What do you mean, not tonight? Once they’ve filmed Maria, and taken a couple of crowd shots, the crew will join in the party—’

‘Haven’t I told you not to worry?’ Rico slipped the lead man some banknotes to share around as tips.

‘You don’t know the crew like I do. I don’t want to spoil it for them, but, bluntly, with all this drink around—I just can’t face the mess in the morning.’

‘Let me assure you that your crew are going to be far too busy to get into any mischief. You have my word on it.’

‘Rico, what are you talking about?’

‘Your director has arranged for another feature to be filmed tonight. Hasn’t he told you yet?’

‘No…’ Zoë frowned. How could that happen when they always discussed everything in advance?

‘He is very enthusiastic.’

‘That’s why I hired him.’ She resigned herself. It had to be something good. She couldn’t imagine the man who was the mainstay of her team asking everyone to work late unless it was really worthwhile…

‘He’s got everyone’s agreement to work overtime,’ Rico added.

‘Can you read my mind?’

‘From time to time.’

Zoë looked at Rico, looked at his lips, then dragged her gaze away. ‘It must be an excellent feature.’

‘Last minute.’

‘Yes, I guessed that.’ She couldn’t be angry with Philip, though she was curious. She welcomed suggestions from anyone in the team. The strength of her company was that they worked together, with no one person riding roughshod over another. She knew from bitter experience that those tactics never worked. ‘Do you know what it is?’

‘A typical sport of this region.’

‘A sport?’ Zoë looked doubtful.

‘Something colourful and authentic for your programme.’

‘Don’t tease me, Rico. Tell me what it is.’

‘I’m going to get some extra glasses out of the Jeep.’ Before Zoë could question him further he added, ‘And by the way, señorita, your figuritas are delicious.’

So what was this surprise feature? Zoë flashed a glance at the door. Rico should have told her. He made her mad, and he made her melt too—a dangerous combination, and not something she should be looking for in a man. She wasn’t looking for a man, Zoë reminded herself firmly.

‘Tell me about this sport,’ she insisted, the moment Rico came back.

Putting the case of glasses down on the counter, he turned to look at her. Zoë tried not to notice the figure-hugging black trousers and close-fitting black shirt moulding his impressive torso, or the fact that there was something wild and untamed about him. It lay just beneath the sleek packaging, telling her he would never settle down. Men like Rico Cortes never did.

‘Wrestling.’

‘Wrestling!’ And then it all fell into place: El Paladín!

She shuddered inwardly. ‘Will you be taking part?’

‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve arranged for people to come and wash these glasses for you, and to serve tonight, so that after you finish filming you can have fun too. My people will clear up after the crew. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You should kick back a little, enjoy yourself for a change.’

‘Thank you,’ Zoë murmured, her good manners functioning on automatic pilot. Her brain was working on two levels: the first accepted the fact that she needed help on the practical side because she had promised the crew they could join the party after work; the second level was dragging her down to a place she didn’t want to go. Anything that smacked of violence, even a sport, made her feel queasy.

‘Wrestling is hugely popular in this part of Spain. When your director asked me about it, I knew I could help him.’

‘El Paladín?’ Zoë’s voice came out like a whisper, and she tried very hard not to sound accusing. It would make a good feature. If the programme was to reflect the area properly, it was just the type of thing she would normally want to include. ‘I’m always looking for authentic items to bring the programmes to life…’

‘It doesn’t get more authentic than this.’ Rico smiled at her on his way out of the door. ‘See you later, Zoë.’

Zoë watched with mixed feelings as the raised square wrestling ring was erected in the middle of the courtyard. A beautiful day had mellowed into a balmy evening, and there was scarcely the suggestion of a breeze. Wrapping her arms around her waist she knew she had to pull herself together and stop fretting. Half-naked men would definitely be a bonus for her viewers. She could do this. She had to do this. How hard could it be?

The ring was almost finished, and people were starting to arrive. Soon it would be showtime. Surely it couldn’t be that bad? She wouldn’t have to watch it all—though she would have to be in shot for at least some of the time.

Firming her jaw, Zoë took a final look through the ropes at the empty ring. She still had to take a shower and prepare for the programme. Turning back to the castle, she hurried inside.

By the time she returned to the courtyard it was packed. Men had come from all over the region to test their strength. She guessed it was something of a marriage market too, judging by the flirtatious glances several groups of girls were giving their favourites.

The thought of Rico stripping off and stepping half naked into the ring was enough to make anyone shiver. Zoë tried hard not to react when she spotted him at the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by a group of supporters. At first she thought he was just greeting friends and she relaxed, but then he stepped away from the others and she saw he was naked from the waist up. Maria and the wise old tio from the village were standing with him; it seemed every soul in Cazulas had come to support him. They were a good-natured group, and cheered him on as he strode to the ringside.

Zoë turned away, but then she guessed Rico must have vaulted over the top rope, because the applause around her was suddenly deafening. She looked up. She couldn’t help herself. She had to see him for herself.

He was everything she found attractive in a man—and everything that terrified her too. It was impossible to believe that any of the other men had a physique to equal Rico’s, or could match the fierce, determined look in his eyes. He was, after all, the champion. Rico Cortes was El Paladín.

Zoë fought down the panic struggling to take control of her mind. He was about to become a guest on her programme—no one said she had to sleep with him. She shivered, feeling fear and excitement in equal measure as she watched him flex his muscles in the ring. The woman standing next to her shouted something in Spanish, and then grabbed hold of her arm in her enthusiasm.

All the women wanted Rico, Zoë saw when she glanced around. For one crazy moment she felt like climbing into the ring and laying claim to him herself. And then the television lights flared on and she was working.

Smiling for the viewers, Zoë looked properly for the first time at the ring. She had to observe everything carefully so she could provide an appropriate voiceover for the film.

Clinging to her responsibilities certainly helped her through. But how to describe how she really felt at the sight of Rico’s smooth, bronzed torso without turning her cookery programme into something for late-night viewing?

His belly was hard and flat, and banded across with muscle, whilst the spread of his shoulders seemed immense from where she was standing. And she couldn’t stop her gaze tracking down to where his sinfully revealing wrestling shorts proved that it wasn’t just the spread of his shoulders that was huge.

She wanted to look anywhere but at the ring—but how could she when she knew the camera would constantly switch between her and El Paladín? She had to stare up at Rico Cortes, and she had to applaud enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.

As the evening wore on the temperature began to rise. Rico was red-hot.

She would see it through because she had to. It was only a sport, after all, Zoë told herself. But by the time the bell rang and the first bout was over she was shaking convulsively from head to foot.

Making her excuses over the microphone to Philip, she eased her way through the crowd and went back into the castle, where she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Sinking onto the chair in front of the dressing-table, she buried her face in her hands.

How could she go back? Lifting her head, Zoë stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pallid beneath her tan, and her hands were still shaking. She tried to apply some fresh lipgloss, and gave up. She couldn’t risk a smudge of red across her face. And why was she trying to make herself look appealing? Did she want to attract trouble? Was she asking for it again, as she had done in the past?

When the shuddering grew worse, Zoë sat with her head bowed until she’d managed to bring herself back under control. She had to go back outside again eventually. She couldn’t let everyone down—not Maria, not the tio who had helped her so generously, nor the film crew. And, most of all, she couldn’t let herself down. She had fought hard to get her life back. She had to get over this.

There was a soft knock on the door. Marnie, the girl in charge of Wardrobe, had brought her a fresh top to change into. It was identical to the one she was wearing—low-cut and sexy—and the brash cerise looked good with her jeans. It was meant to stand out on camera when she was in a crowd. It certainly did that, Zoë thought as she viewed herself critically in the mirror. The colour was identical to the skintight flamenco dress the girl named Beba wore on the poster at the mountain hut.

‘I’m going to change.’ She started tugging off the top.

‘You can’t, Zoë. What about continuity?’

‘I don’t care. I’m going to put on a shirt. If we have to reshoot, so be it.’ Zoë saw Marnie’s expression, but nothing was going to change her mind.

‘Do you need me for anything else?’

‘Marnie, I’m really sorry. This isn’t your fault. Just tell Philip I insisted.’

‘Well, it’s your programme,’ Marnie pointed out.

‘Before you go, could you redo my lips?’

‘Sure.’ Marnie smiled at her.

Marnie applied the lipgloss expertly, with a steady hand. Zoë knew it was more than she could have done. She checked in the mirror. ‘That’s great. Thank you. I’m sorry to have dragged you up here just for that.’

‘As long as I’m back in time to see Rico Cortes in action—’ Marnie winked at her ‘—I’ll forgive you.’

Zoë felt a chill strike through her composure, but forced a laugh as Marnie left the room.

She looked fine for the camera. The ice-blue of the shirt looked good against her tan, and complemented her red-blonde hair. She looked far more businesslike. She didn’t look sexy at all. It was much, much better.

The shots on set inside the castle went smoothly—too smoothly, Zoë thought, cursing her professionalism. They didn’t need a single retake.

‘The change of clothes is fine for in here,’ Philip advised her. ‘But of course you’ll change back into that cerise top again for ringside?’

‘No, Philip.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m keeping this shirt on. We’ll just say the second half of the competition took place on another day—I don’t care, I’m not changing.’ She could tell by his face that Philip was taken aback. It wasn’t like her to be difficult or unprofessional.

The competition was in its final stages by the time Zoë returned to the courtyard. The noise, if anything, had grown louder. Philip had to cut a path for her through the crowd. Then she realised that he meant her to stand right up at the front, as close to ringside as possible.

‘Is this my punishment for changing clothes without warning you?’ Zoë had to grab Philip’s arm and yell in his ear above the roar of the crowd. She even managed a wry smile. But the moment he left her to return to his cameras Zoë’s throat dried.

Philip’s voice came through on Zoë’s earpiece, testing the sound levels.

‘You OK, Zoë? You sound as if you’re getting a cold.’

‘No, I’m fine—absolutely fine.’

‘Then it must be the excitement at seeing all those muscles up close. You can’t kid me,’ he insisted, ‘I know you love it—just like all the other women.’

That was the point. She wasn’t like all the other women. She wasn’t normal.

It was surprising how well you could know people, and yet know nothing about their private lives, Zoë thought, remembering that Philip had once worked for her ex-husband. He had been surprised when she had called time on their marriage, having thought them the perfect couple.

‘Do you want me in shot for the presentation of the prizes?’ she said into her microphone, clinging to her professionalism like a life raft.

‘I’ll want a reaction shot. You should have chosen something more glamorous to wear than that shirt. You look so plain!’

Perfect, Zoë thought.

‘Never mind. It’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll stick to head shots.’

She felt guilty because Philip sounded so grumpy, but it couldn’t be helped. She was more concerned about getting through the next few minutes.

Women on either side of her were clutching each other in excitement as they stared into the ring. One of them turned to her, gesturing excitedly, and Zoë looked up. Rico was standing centre stage.

The television lights drained everything of colour, but Rico’s torso still gleamed like polished bronze. The ghosts were hovering at Zoë’s shoulder as she stared at him. But he was laughing good-naturedly with one of his defeated opponents, and then, leaning over the ropes, he reached out to help the elderly tio of Cazulas into the ring.

Zoë frowned. She hadn’t expected that. Drawing on other times, other trials of strength, she had expected a grim face, a hard mouth and cruel eyes. But those trials of strength had been no contest. How could there be a physical contest between a woman and a powerful bully of a man?

Watching her elderly friend take Rico’s hand and raise it high in a victory salute, Zoë tried to piece together what the tio was saying with her very basic knowledge of Spanish. Finally she gave up, and asked the woman standing next to her if she could translate.

‘Our tio is announcing the prize,’ the woman explained, barely able to waste a second of her awestruck gaze on Zoë.

A heavy leather purse changed hands between Rico and the tio. ‘What’s that?’ Zoë shouted as cheers rose all around them.

‘A purse of gold,’ the woman shouted back to her.

But now Rico was passing it back to the tio. ‘What is he doing?’ Zoë said, looking at her neighbour again.

‘It is the same every year,’ the woman explained, shouting above the uproar. ‘El Señor Cortes always returns the purse of gold to the village.’

‘And what are they saying now?’ Zoë persisted, but the excitement had reached such a fever pitch she couldn’t hear the woman’s reply. After several failed attempts her neighbour just shrugged, and smiled to show her it was hopeless.

Rico was staring at her, Zoë saw, going hot and cold. What did he want?

Holding her gaze, he walked quickly across the floor of the ring, leaned over the ropes, and held out his hand to her.

Zoë glanced around. No one could tell her what was happening because everyone was cheering and shouting at the top of their voices.

Rico held up his hands and silence fell. Everyone was staring at her now, Zoë realised. She couldn’t understand it, but then Rico leaned over the ropes again and her face broke into a smile. She reached out to shake his hand, to congratulate him on his win. The next thing she knew she was standing beside him, with the spotlights glaring down on them both, and the tio was beaming at her while the crowd cheered wildly.

Rico’s mouth tugged in a grin and he held up his hands again to call for silence. After he had spoken a few words in Spanish the cheering started up again. ‘I choose you,’ he said, staring down at Zoë.

‘Me?’ Zoë touched her chest in amazement. ‘What for?’ Her heart was racing out of control. She couldn’t think what he meant. She couldn’t think—

‘You will find out.’ Humour warmed his voice.

Zoë laughed anxiously as she stared up at him. She could still feel the touch of his hands around her waist— Her thoughts stalled right there. She might have weighed no more than a dried leaf in his arms. Shading her eyes, she tried to read his expression, but he drew her hand down again and enclosed it in his own.

Taking her into the centre of the ring, he presented her ceremoniously to the tio, and Zoë forced herself to relax. What could happen with the tio standing there? She found a smile. These pictures would be flashed around the world. The last thing she wanted was to cause offence to an elder of Cazulas—a man who was her friend.

The tio seemed delighted that Rico had ‘chosen’ her, and embraced her warmly.

‘What’s all this about, Rico?’ Zoë asked the moment the tio released her and turned away to address the crowd. Someone handed Rico a black silk robe and she waited while he put it on.

‘You’re part of my prize,’ he said, when he had belted it.

‘I’m what?’

Before Rico could answer, the tio turned around. Television cameras were angled to capture every nuance in Zoë’s expression, and she cared for the tio’s feelings, so she forced a smile.

‘Do you understand our tradition?’ he said to her warmly.

‘I’m not sure.’ She didn’t want to look to Rico for answers.

‘Allow me to explain.’ The tio made a gesture to the crowd, begging their indulgence. Then, taking Zoë’s hand, he led her out of the spotlight.

‘It is our tradition. Having won the competition, Rico may choose any woman he wants. He chooses you.’

Incredible! Antiquated! Totally unacceptable! But the tio was looking at her so warmly, so openly, and he made it sound so very simple.

‘Don’t I have any say in the matter?’ Zoë was careful to keep her voice light.

‘Don’t worry—the custom is not open to the same interpretation it might have been fifty years ago, when I was a young man.’

Zoë managed a laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ She smiled at him, and then glanced at Rico. The expression in his eyes suggested he would have preferred sticking to the old ways. Waves of panic and bewilderment started threatening to engulf her.

‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ the tio coaxed. ‘Look how disappointed you’ve made the other women.’

Zoë gazed around to please him, but whichever way she turned she saw Rico.

‘All you have to do,’ the tio explained persuasively, ‘is to spend one night with him.’

‘What?’

‘I mean one evening with him,’ he corrected hastily. ‘My English is…’ He waved his hands in the air with frustration, making Zoë feel worse than ever.

‘I’ll do it for you—of course I’ll do it. Please don’t worry.’ This wasn’t about her own feelings any more, or just work. It was about showing loyalty to an old man who was only trying to uphold the traditions of his youth. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Zoë allowed the tio to lead her back into the centre of the ring. She wouldn’t let him down, but she was damned if she was going to play some antiquated mating game with Rico Cortes. She smiled tensely while the official announcement was made.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a shower before I come back for you,’ Rico murmured, the moment the applause around them subsided.

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Rico,’ Zoë said, turning to face him. ‘I’m grateful you took me riding, and helped me out here with staff for tonight. But I don’t like surprises—especially not surprises that affect my work. The television lights are off now, the tio has gone to join his friends, and as far as I’m concerned the show’s over.’

‘And?’ His eyes had gone cold.

‘And I have no intention of becoming another of your trophies!’

‘Bravo, Ms Chapman,’ he murmured sardonically.

‘Why don’t you go and take that shower now? There are plenty of bathrooms in the castle.’

Rico’s expression hardened as he looked down at her—and who could blame him? Zoë hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but there was an engine blazing away inside her, and a voice in her head that said, Drive him away.

What had happened tonight—all the fighting, the sounds, the tension, Rico overpowering everyone… It was just too close to her nightmares. She tried telling herself that all his strength was directed into sport. She had seen him ride; now she had seen him fight. But another side of her said: This is Rico Cortes, El Paladín, the man who conquers everyone with his strength… Her mind was fogged with fear. Unreasonable fear, maybe, but she couldn’t shake it off.

The only thing she could latch on to in a world that was slipping away beneath her feet was the thought that she must not let the tio down. She would keep her promise to him, spend the rest of the evening with Rico. But first she had to go and seek some space, some cool, quiet place where she could get her head together.

She should fix somewhere to meet up with Rico before she did that. ‘When you come back, Rico, I’ll be—’

‘I’ll find you,’ he said coldly, swinging a towel around his neck.

He vaulted over the top rope, dropped to the ground, and strode away from her without a backward glance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE meal was everything Zoë hoped it would be. The tio stood up and told everyone that the paella was the best he had ever tasted.

Rico was sitting next to her at the top table. He turned when she sat down after accepting the enthusiastic applause. ‘Congratulations, Zoë. This has been a huge success for you.’

He was polite, but then, since he’d decided to trust her he was always polite. She wanted more. ‘It’s all thanks to the tio of Cazulas—’ But Rico had already turned away to continue his conversation with the young Spanish beauty seated on his other side.

Zoë’s smile faded. Rico had been cool ever since they’d sat down. It was understandable after her behaviour in the ring. But she couldn’t tell him why she’d felt so bad after the wrestling. The tio of Cazulas had embroiled her in some ancient fertility rite that had fallen flat on its face.

She had kept her part of the bargain, staying with Rico throughout the evening, though he preferred the company of the vivacious young woman sitting next to him. His back had been half turned to her for most of the time.

Zoë noticed people were still smiling at her and raising their glasses. She smiled back, raising her own glass, but it was a hollow victory. She was thrilled everyone had enjoyed themselves, but the one person whose enthusiasm really mattered to her was otherwise occupied. She had thought of changing tables, but it would only cause comment—and Maria would be dancing soon.

There were about twenty people seated around each of the long tables set at the edges of the courtyard. The tables were laden with food, as well as countless bottles of beer, still water, and jugs of wine. She had used red and white gingham tablecloths to add a splash of colour, and placed lofty arrangements of brilliantly coloured exotic flowers on every one. Strings of lights swung gently in the night breeze overhead, twinkling like tiny stars, and waves of conversation and laughter were flowing all around her.

Resting her chin on her hand, she saw Maria’s guitarist place his stool in a corner of the performance area. Sitting down, he began to strum some popular tunes. It was all perfect. She had asked to sit at the end of the table so that she could get up easily to supervise the food when necessary. Her plan had worked well—brilliantly, in fact. Though she might as well have stayed in the kitchen. Why hadn’t Rico chosen the ebony-haired beauty as his trophy in the first place?

Zoë was distracted from her thoughts by Maria’s entrance, and sat up. Straight away it was incredible. The air was charged with energy the moment she appeared. Framed in the doorway of the castle, Maria stood with one hand pointing towards the stars, calling up whatever mysterious energy fuelled her performance. Even Rico had turned to watch, forgetting, at least for a moment, the young beauty at his side.

The guitarist picked out an arpeggio, filling each note with incredible weight and passion. Maria stood unmoving until the last vibration from the strings of the guitar had faded away, and then she stepped proudly into the full glare of the television lights. Hovering like an eagle for an instant, she suddenly moved forward with all the grace of a much younger woman, crossing the courtyard with swift, precise steps.

She came into the centre of the performance area, raised her chin, and stared at some far distant point only she could see. The expression on her face was one of defiance, great pride, and anger, but there was pain and compassion too. Sweeping her crimson skirt off the floor in one hand, she made a powerful gesture with the other, and at the same time struck the floor one sharp blow with her foot.

Philip was by Zoë’s side minutes after Maria had finished her performance. ‘This programme will go down in history. That woman is superb—they’re saying she’s even better than Beba—though she’s old enough to be Beba’s mother.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Zoë frowned, tuning out for a moment. She had never heard of this Beba before in her life, and now she was haunted by the woman.

Philip dashed away before she could ask him anything, and then Maria had another surprise for them. She came back into the centre of the courtyard and invited everyone to join her in a dance.

Strictly speaking, this was country dancing, the tio said when he came over to explain what was happening to Zoë. All Zoë knew was that Rico’s seat, as well as the one next to him, was empty, and what he and his young partner were doing on the dance floor was more dirty dancing than country dancing.

‘Rico is good, eh?’ the tio said, following her interest keenly. ‘But the girl is too obvious. No subtlety.’

No subtlety at all, Zoë agreed silently. The young woman was like a clinging vine, all suckers and creeping fingers.

‘Why don’t you dance?’

Zoë turned to smile at the tio. ‘With you?’ She started to get to her feet.

‘No, not with me!’ The tio pressed her down in the seat again. ‘I mean you should dance with Rico.’

‘Rico is already dancing with someone,’ Zoë pointed out, trying her best to sound faintly amused and casually dismissive.

‘Here, in this part of Spain,’ the tio told her slyly, ‘women do not wait to be asked.’

Zoë turned to stare at him, wondering if she’d heard correctly, but instead of explaining himself the mischievous old man drew his shoulders in a wry shrug.

There were a million reasons why she could not—should not—do as the tio suggested, Zoë thought as she stood up. This was insane, she told herself as she walked towards the dance floor. Rico Cortes would simply stare at her and turn away. As for his young partner—Zoë could just imagine the look of triumph on her face when Rico told her to get lost. She was about to make a fool of herself in front of the whole village—the whole world, if you took the television cameras into account. But she just went on threading her way through the crowds on the dance floor.

‘Brava, Zoë! Eso es!’

‘Maria!’

‘You should have worn your performance dress,’ the older woman whispered in her ear before melting back into the crowd.

Too late for that now—jeans and a tailored shirt would have to do. She couldn’t stop to think about it, Zoë realised as she reached her goal. She tapped the young Spanish beauty lightly on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me. I’m cutting in.’

‘Qué?’

The girl couldn’t have looked more shocked. Zoë almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She didn’t have a chance to see the expression on Rico’s face; the next thing she knew she was in his arms.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’

She could feel his breath warm against her hair. ‘A pleasant one, I hope?’

‘Unexpected, certainly.’

He had changed into casual clothes for the party: blue jeans, shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open at the neck. He smelt divine, and he felt…

Zoë shivered as the music slowed to a sensuous rumba rhythm, as if responding to her mood. She saw that the young girl had quickly moved away to dance with some people of her own age, and didn’t seem too upset—though right at this moment Zoë had decided to be selfish. She only cared how she felt. And she felt wonderful.

Having so many people around them gave Zoë the confidence to relax in Rico’s arms. As they brushed past people smiled with approval. Whether that was to show their appreciation of the party or because she was in Rico’s arms, Zoë didn’t know, and right now it didn’t matter. Even with the difference in their size they fitted together perfectly. They were dancing as one, as if they had always danced like this, and the planes and curves of his body invited her to mould against him.

Rico had an innate sense of rhythm, and Zoë could only be grateful that Maria had given her the courage to dance in a way that made her feel seductive and desirable. Nothing existed in her universe outside of Rico as they danced on to the haunting music, and Zoë barely noticed when one of his powerful thighs slipped between her legs, bringing her closer still. She only knew that it felt right, essential to the dance, and now they were one—moving as one, breathing as one, and dancing as one…

He let her go when the melody turned to something lively. Zoë realised that they had been the centre of attention, and that now couples were turning to their own pleasures again. It was true, she had been so deeply and sensually aware of Rico she had forgotten for the space of their dance that they were not alone.

She trembled as Rico stared down at her. The tempo of the music had increased, but they were both oblivious to it. Nothing existed outside the ambit of his gaze, and as she watched his lips tug up in a smile Zoë realised she was hoping for something more.

‘Shall we?’ He tipped his chin in the direction of their empty places at the table.

She dropped back into the real world. Of course Rico didn’t want to dance with her all night. People were staring. The music had stopped again, and she was still standing on the dance floor like a fool.

‘I’ll…go and see if there’s any pudding left. Someone might be hungry.’

Rico didn’t try to stop her as she struggled to make her way through the whirling couples, but then she realised he was beside her, shielding her with his arm. When he stopped to talk to an old acquaintance she slipped away, making for the door to the kitchen. But she hadn’t even had a chance to close it when Rico came in behind her.

‘What’s wrong with you, Zoë? Why are you running away from me?’ He leaned back against the door, and she got the impression he wasn’t going anywhere until she explained.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ His voice was flat, disbelieving. ‘I think it’s time you told me what all this is about, don’t you? You were fine when we were out riding together, and then tonight you turn on the ice.’

‘You haven’t spoken to me all night!’

‘Do you blame me?’

Truthfully, she didn’t.

‘Then you come up to me and want to dance. And then you run away again.’ Rico made a sound of exasperation as he spread his arms wide. ‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’

‘I can’t—’

‘You can’t?’ He shook his head. ‘Why not, Zoë? You’ve never been short of opinions in the past.’

‘I can’t explain because you’ll just think I’m being ridiculous.’

‘Try me.’

She met his gaze, and this time neither of them looked away.

‘Violence frightens me.’ Her voice was just a whisper.

‘Violence?’ Rico frowned and straightened up.

‘Of any kind. I know how that must sound to you—and I do know wrestling’s just a sport—’

‘Are you saying I’m a violent man?’ His eyes narrowed, and she could see she had offended him deeply.

‘No—not you…’ Zoë’s voice dried. She looked away.

‘Are you saying I remind you of someone who was violent in your past?’ He looked stricken. ‘That’s it—isn’t it, Zoë?’

‘I can’t help it.’ She made a weak gesture with her hands.

‘Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’

She saw his hand tighten on the door handle until his knuckles turned white, and took a step towards him. ‘I’m sorry, Rico. I haven’t even congratulated you—’

He made an angry gesture, cutting her off. ‘I don’t know what shocks me the most—the fact that you can mention violence in your past as if it were nothing, or the thought that you could possibly confuse me with some snivelling bully who preys on women and others who are weaker than himself.’

‘I just don’t want tonight to be all about me. This is your night too, Rico.’

‘What you’ve just said overrides anything else.’

‘We can’t talk about it now. I can’t just abandon my guests.’

‘Forget the damned party!’

‘How can I?’ Zoë said, moving towards the door. ‘It’s wrong of me to keep you so long like this, Rico. Your young companion—’

‘Will do perfectly well without me.’ He caught hold of her arm as she tried to move past him. ‘You can’t leave it like this, Zoë. If you are protecting someone—someone who’s hurt you—’

‘I’m not,’ she said steadily, meeting his eyes. ‘I promise you, Rico, it’s all over now.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Yes, it is.’

He shook his head, and his eyes were full of concern. ‘Know this, Zoë: I am not and never have been a violent man. I have never raised my hand in anger to anyone. When you have great strength the very first thing you must learn is control. Strength has not been given to me to use against a weaker person, or some helpless creature. It has been given to me to help other people when I can, and for me to enjoy. Nothing more.’

And before she could say another word, he added in a fierce undertone, ‘And don’t you ever confuse me with some other man again.’

Rico opened the door for her and stood aside to let her pass, and the happy noise and bustle of the courtyard claimed her.

‘Señorita?’

Zoë looked round to see that he had followed her out. It took her a moment of recovery after their highly charged exchange for her to realise what he meant to do.

Sweeping her a formal half-bow, he offered her his arm. ‘May I escort you back to the party, Señorita Chapman?’

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and dancing for Zoë. By the time people started drifting away her feet were aching. She had joined in every traditional dance of the region—men, women and children, all on their feet, colourful skirts flying and proud hands clapping the irresistible syncopated rhythms.

Now she was exhausted, and more grateful than ever to Rico’s efficient staff, who had cleared away absolutely everything from the hall, leaving her with nothing to do there.

‘Why are you back in the kitchen?’

‘Rico—you caught me.’ Zoë turned, embarrassed that he had seen her stealing her own figuritas. Now it was her turn to get her hand slapped—the only difference was, Rico’s slap was more of a caress, and then he raised her hand to his lips. ‘You have earned a break, Zoë.’ He looked around. ‘My people are only too happy to clear up—I told them they could take anything that was left home with them.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m sure they can spare you one marzipan mouse.’

‘Why are you frowning?’

‘I just don’t have the knack of dismissing the things you told me—as you seem to have.’

‘Have I spoiled the party for you?’

‘Don’t trivialise what you said, Zoë. You can’t keep everything locked inside you for ever.’

Why not? She’d been doing a pretty good job up to now. ‘Let’s not talk about it tonight,’ she said, forcing a bright note into her voice. ‘We’re both tired—’

‘Are we?’

Heat flared up from Zoë’s toes to scorch her cheeks. ‘Is it a deal? Can we just leave all the other stuff for another time?’

Pressing his lips together, he frowned. He didn’t look keen. ‘If that’s what you want. I don’t want to spoil the night for you.’

‘You could never do that.’

The suggestion of a smile tugged at his lips.

They broke eye contact at a knock on the door. She couldn’t have given a better cue herself, Zoë realised as Rico’s helpers trooped in. It was impossible to talk about the past now. ‘Shall we go back to the party?’

‘Not for too long.’

There was something in the way he said it that made Zoë blush. ‘Why?’ She looked up at him, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Dipping his head close as he opened the door for her, he whispered in her ear: ‘I’m tired of playing games, Zoë. Can’t you see how much I want you?’

It was so unexpected. She couldn’t imagine anyone other than Rico even saying the words. No man had ever admitted to wanting her—he was the first. She didn’t know how to answer him. She didn’t know what was expected of her. ‘I don’t want to talk about—’

‘Who said anything about talking? And you have my word I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.’

Rico drew her out of the bustling kitchen through a door that led into the silent hall. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, pulling her close to drop a kiss on her brow. ‘I like to see you smile. I don’t want to see you tense and unhappy ever again.’ Nudging her hair aside, he planted a second tender kiss on the very sensitive place below her ear.

When he rasped the stubble on his chin against her neck Zoë gasped, and allowed him to draw her closer still. It was so easy to slip beneath Rico’s seductive spell. She could have broken away at any time; but his hold on her was so light there was no reason to try.

She parted her lips, welcoming the invasion of his tongue, but he teased her gently, pulling away until she locked her hands behind his neck and brought him back again. And then their mouths collided hungrily, and it was Rico’s turn to groan as she moulded into him.

She was in a dream state as Rico led her swiftly by the hand through the castle. Every part of her was aching for his touch. His hand was firm and warm, and she went with him willingly through the archway that led to the luxury spa.

‘I haven’t been down here before,’ Zoë admitted as Rico let go of her for a moment to close the door. She couldn’t bear the loss, and reached for him.

‘Not yet,’ he warned, his fingertips caressing her cheek.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s better this way.’

She followed him down a short flight of marble steps.

‘Are you sure you have never been down here before?’ Rico stopped at the bottom and turned to look at her.

‘Never.’

‘Then you’re about to get a very pleasant surprise.’

Zoë watched Rico punch a series of numbers onto a panel on the wall. A door slid behind them. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ve changed the code so we won’t be disturbed. Zoë?’ Rico touched her face with one fingertip when he saw the expression on her face. ‘The code is twenty-one, twelve—my birthday. Don’t look so worried. You can leave any time you want.’

‘I just thought if there was an emergency—and I needed to get out in a hurry—’

‘An emergency?’ Rico smiled. ‘What? You mean something like this?’

And then somehow she was in his arms again, and he was kissing her so tenderly, so thoroughly, Zoë wondered how she remained standing. Heat flooded through her veins, and when his tongue tangled with her own a soft moan came from somewhere deep in her chest, showing him how much she wanted him to kiss her.

When he pulled back, she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck to mesh her fingers through his hair and draw him close again. When Rico kissed her she felt no fear. She wanted him to know how she felt, that she was ready for him: moist, swollen, hot. But then she remembered…

‘First ice, and now fire?’ Rico murmured, looking down at her.

He was so tender, so caring—but how could she be sure he wouldn’t be shocked or disappointed when she experienced the painful spasm that had always made fully penetrative sex impossible for her? She had to be sure she wouldn’t stop, Zoë thought as her hand strayed to his belt buckle…

Rico moved her hand away, bringing her fingers to his lips to kiss each tip in turn. Zoë’s eyes filled with hot tears of failure.

‘You need to slow down, Zoë.’

Glancing up uncertainly, she saw his lips were curving in a smile. She started to try and say something, to explain herself, but, putting one firm finger over her lips, Rico stopped her.

‘I’m going to find you something to wear in the hot tub.’ He broke away. ‘And then I’ll order some refreshments for us from the kitchen.’

Something to wear? Food from the kitchen? She was so naïve! She had expected to be naked, feeding on him.

‘And then we’ll sample the hot tub together.’

Better.

She gazed around. The ancient walls had been sandblasted in this part of the castle until they were pale yellow. The floor was a mellow golden marble, and all the tiles and fittings had been selected with a view to nothing startling to the eye or the senses. The temperature was perfect, the silence complete.

Rico reached inside a beautiful old oak chest and brought out some fluffy caramel-coloured towels, then black swimming trunks for himself and a swimming costume the same shade as her eyes.

‘That’s a lucky find.’

‘Or good planning,’ Rico said.

‘You know your way around here pretty well.’

‘I should. The castle belongs to a very good friend of mine. Do you want to go and change now? Music?’ he added, handing her the costume.

‘Why not? Something gentle and soothing would be nice.’

‘I’ll see if I can accommodate you.’ His voice was ironic as he moved to select a CD.

A sinuous melody started weaving its spell around Zoë as Rico took hold of her hand again, and she went with him, deeper into the spa.

The hot tub in the centre of the floor was illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles. Zoë gasped. ‘How—?’

‘You ask too many questions. Just accept you’re going to be pampered for a change.’

There were a million questions she would have liked to ask him, but for once in her life she bit them back.

They changed in beech-lined changing cabins, and she covered her costume with one of the white towelling robes hanging on the back of each door.

‘To think I didn’t even realise this place existed!’

‘The hot tub is kept locked up for most of the time.’

‘Your friend must like you a lot to let you use it.’

Loosening the belt on his robe, Rico let it drop to the floor. Zoë kept her gaze strictly confined to his face, but to her relief saw the black bathing trunks in her peripheral vision.

‘Aren’t you going to take your robe off?’

‘Yes…yes, of course I am.’

Zoë waited until she was up the steps of the hot tub and had one leg in the water before slipping off the robe. Then she was in like a flash, submerged beneath the water before Rico had even climbed in.

There were tiny lights above her head, winking on and off in a deep blue ceiling decorated with puffs of smoky cloud to give it the appearance of a night sky. ‘This is unbelievable.’ Zoë sighed, stretching out her arms along the top of the tub to keep her balance in the swirling water. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

‘I prefer an open-air bathroom.’

She looked up again. Rico had settled himself across from her. ‘You mean the sea?’

A door opened before he could reply to her, and a waiter came in with a tray of refreshments for them.

‘Thank you,’ Rico said, glancing round at the man. ‘You can leave them here.’

Zoë blinked. There was champagne on ice, two tall crystal flutes, a bowl of sweet wild strawberries, some whipped cream and a bowl of chocolate sauce on the tray. ‘Now I have seen everything.’ She shook her head incredulously.

‘You really think so?’

Rico’s voice was challenging, and soft. She didn’t answer.

Wrapped in fluffy towels, and stretched out on a recliner next to Rico’s, Zoë sipped champagne while Rico lay back watching her through half-closed eyes.

‘If this is the Cazulas way of thanking people for giving a party, I may have to stay a lot longer than I planned.’ Putting her glass down, she relaxed back against the soft bank of cushions and stretched out her limbs in languorous appreciation.

Selecting a plump strawberry, Rico dipped it in rich chocolate sauce. ‘Open your mouth.’

He touched it to her lips, and she could smell the warm chocolate sauce. She wasn’t quick enough, and it started escaping in runnels down her chin. Leaning over her, Rico licked it off, and then he was kissing her—kissing her deeply.

It was the taste of Zoë that made him greedy. It made him want more, a lot more of her. It made him want everything. But he knew better than that. He knew he had to wait. Pulling back, Rico saw that her eyes were still closed, her lips still slightly parted as she sucked in breath, and there were smudges of chocolate all round her mouth.

‘Don’t be mean,’ she whispered, opening her mouth wider. ‘I want more.’

Smiling wryly, Rico began to feed her again. He kept on until she was begging him for mercy as she laughed; until she couldn’t keep up with the chocolate sauce and the cream, and it dripped onto her breasts, and slipped between them. Her lips were stained red with strawberry juice and her eyes were almost as dark as the chocolate. And then he couldn’t help himself. He was kissing her again, and she was clinging to him, not caring that her towel had fallen away.

Zoë gasped as Rico’s tongue began to lave between her breasts. She had sunk lower and lower onto the recliner, wanting him to continue until every scrap of chocolate had disappeared. Her breasts were streaked with juice and cream, and there was a coating of chocolate on each painfully extended nipple. His tongue was deliciously warm, and rasped against her sensitive skin in a way that was unbearably good.

She wanted more. But Rico was heavily into foreplay—something she had never experienced before. He knew how to tease and torment her; he knew every erogenous zone on her body. Her flesh sang with pleasure as she writhed beneath him, and she could no longer make any pretence at shyness. How could she, with his warm breath invading her ears? She cried out to him, shuddering uncontrollably, but just as she did so he pulled back.

Short of grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to suckle her breasts, she had no idea what to do next. She was getting desperate. ‘Shall I feed you now?’

Holding himself up on his fists, Rico looked down at her. ‘What did you have in mind?’

There was such a wicked smile tugging at his lips, Zoë couldn’t resist it. ‘Just this.’ Cupping her breasts, she held them out to him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

RICO stared at Zoë’s breasts. They were magnificent—a fact he had been trying hard to ignore from the moment he had seen her in a tight top pulling plastic oranges down from the walls. His control had never undergone such a painful test—especially now, when she was warm, soft, and more lovely than ever. But was she ready for this?

He couldn’t stop looking at her tight, extended nipples, currently reaching out to him in the most irresistible invitation.

‘Wrong colour?’ she teased him softly.

‘Perfect.’ And they were—the most delectable shade of shell-pink.

‘Wrong size for you?’

She was still smiling, waiting, her eyebrows arched in enquiry as she stared at him.

‘Zoë—’ Rolling off his recliner, he hunkered down by her side. ‘What would you like me to do, Señorita Chapman?’

‘Eat me.’

‘Eat you?’ He pretended surprise. ‘That’s very forward of you…’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

Taking matters into her own hands, she sat up and locked her hands around his neck to bring him down to her.

Swearing softly in his own language, he pulled back, drawing her with him, staring into her face as he unlocked her hands. Laying her back down on the narrow couch, he took a long, lazy look down the whole lovely, naked length of her. ‘Wild cat!’ he murmured approvingly.

There was barely an inch of Zoë’s body that had been spared the chocolate, the cream, or the sweet red strawberry juice. He applied himself first to the task of cleaning her breasts, using long greedy strokes of his tongue. With each caress she cried out—he might have been inside her, so intense was her response.

Had she never experienced foreplay in her life? He thought not. When he suckled her nipples she moaned rhythmically in time with his actions until he knew he had to stop. He had never known anything like it before; he had never been so aroused before. His senses were on fire and his anticipation of his final possession of her was overwhelming in its intensity. But before he realised what she meant to do she had surprised him.

Scooping up some sticky chocolate sauce, she smeared a handful over his chest. When she began to lick it off, he knew he was in danger of losing control for the first time in his life. Capturing her in his arms, he rolled with her onto a soft rug on the floor, straddling her, and pinning her arms down above her head. Trying to keep her still while she wriggled beneath him was almost impossible. She was moving her head from side to side, laughing and threatening him in the same breath. Finally securing her wrists in one strong fist, he reached for the cream jug with his free hand, and emptied the contents all over her.

Shrieking with surprise, and laughing at the same time, she tried to break away, but when he started lapping at her belly she changed her mind. Meshing her fingers through his hair, she was all compliance, all sensation, as she told him she wanted more. And when he moved lower, nudging her thighs apart, she whimpered with pleasure and angled herself shamelessly towards him.

He stopped just short of where she wanted him to be, making her cry out with disappointment. Before she had a chance to complain any more, he sprang to his feet and swept her into his arms.

The moment had come, Zoë thought, laying her head on Rico’s shoulder. As he carried her across the relaxation room she knew she trusted him completely. By the time they reached the wet room she was shaking with anticipation. She had never been so aroused. This time Rico would make everything right.

Zoë shrieked as she landed with a splash in the hot tub. Moments later Rico was in with her, holding her safe above the water. Reaching for a sponge, he began soaping her down until all the chocolate and cream had disappeared.

He had never been called upon to exert so much control in his life, Rico realised when they’d got out and he had reclaimed his sanity beneath an icy cold drench shower. And he had never had so much fun with a woman.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stared at Zoë drying her lush red-gold hair. She looked more beautiful than ever. Her cheeks were still flushed from their seductive play-fight, and her eyes were gleaming as if her zest for life had suddenly increased. She was starting to trust him, Rico knew, and they could never make love until she did. He only had to touch her, to kiss her, to look at her, to know how inexperienced she was. And it troubled him to think what might have happened to her in the past.

She was humming softly to herself, staring clear-eyed into the mirror as she arranged her hair like a shimmering cape around her shoulders. When he walked up to her, and she looked at him, he could feel his heart pounding so hard in his chest it actually hurt.

It seemed that whatever ghosts there were in her past, or in his, they had no power when they were together. He felt a great swell of happiness inside him. It was a dangerous development, and one that made him feel unusually vulnerable.

Dropping a kiss on Zoë’s shoulder, he went to get his clothes. He felt a lot more than lust for her. Her innocence had touched him deeply. Was this love?

When he was almost dressed she came to him. Standing close behind him, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt her rest her face trustingly against his back. And in that moment he knew the whole world and everything in it was his.

He wouldn’t have agreed to spending the night in separate rooms at the castle for anyone but Zoë, Rico realised, calling a halt to his pacing. She might be a successful career woman, but beneath the gloss of achievement he knew she was terribly vulnerable, and it made him feel protective, even responsible for her.

It was unusual—no, unique—to find someone so tender and pure. Gold-diggers disgusted him, and there were so many of them around. He had closed his mind years ago to the possibility of ever finding someone who cared for him, and not for his money. Zoë didn’t need his money, but even if she had, he knew she would have been as sickened as he at the thought of using a person’s wealth as a measure for their worth. It warmed him just to be thinking about her. This was special. She was special.

Going to the open window, he planted his fists on the sill and leaned out. A silver-pink dawn was creeping up the sides of the snow-capped mountains, and the sight bewitched him. Zoë would be sleeping now. He smiled to think of her curled up in bed, sleeping the deep, untroubled sleep of the innocent.

Gazing along the balcony they shared, Rico noticed that her window was open. Her career absorbed her completely. She had to be exhausted.

He turned to look at the computer screen. There was nothing yet.

Natural caution made him investigate everyone who threatened his privacy. He knew already that Zoë was no self-seeking adventuress, but his night-owl investigator had been on the case since she’d arrived in Cazulas. It was a juggernaut he couldn’t stop now. He had keyed in his password, and expected an e-mail at any time. Once his mind was set at ease, he would go and wake Zoë in a way he knew she would enjoy.

Just the thought of rousing her from sleep, all warm and tousled, and kissing her into the new day had been enough to keep him from his bed. He was eager to be with her. Throwing back his head, Rico let out a long ragged sigh of frustration. It was hard to believe that here, in one of the remotest regions of Spain, fate had put him on a collision course with someone as honest and forthright as Zoë. He was tempted to go to her right now, without waiting for reassurance.

He tensed abruptly, all senses on full alert. Pushing back from the balcony, he strode quickly to the door. He stood outside his room, in the corridor, and listened intently. He thought he had heard a cry. But there was nothing. He turned, knowing everyone in the castle was asleep. Some nocturnal animal must have disturbed him.

Going back into his temporary study bedroom, Rico closed the heavy door carefully. That was it! He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. The doors in the castle were so heavy no sound could possibly penetrate them.

Walking onto the balcony, he quietened his breathing and listened outside Zoë’s window. At first there was nothing aside from the soft swish of fabric as the fine voile curtains billowed in the early-morning breeze. Then he heard her cry out again, and, reaching through the window, he turned the key in the double doors and stepped into her room.

She was just awake, and clearly confused.

‘Zoë—what is it?’ He knelt down at her side. She was as beautiful as he had imagined, still warm from sleep and more lovely than any woman had a right to be if a man was to remain sane.

‘Rico.’ She pressed her hands against his chest. ‘Rico, I’m fine. I’m really sorry if I woke you—’

‘You didn’t wake me. I’m still dressed,’ he pointed out. ‘But as for your being fine—I’m sick of that word. You’re not fine.’

‘All right. I had a nightmare.’

‘A nightmare?’ He turned away. ‘You cried out, and I was worried about you—’

Her face went bright red, as if it was she who was in the wrong.

‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

He was amazed to see how quickly she could recover her composure. Then he remembered that she was used to covering up the truth.

‘As I told you, Rico. There’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘How long are you going to lie to me about this, Zoë?’

There was a long silence, and then she said, ‘I don’t know what makes you say that.’

‘I heard you this time. I heard you cry out. And then, as I came into your room, I heard what you said.’

She covered her face with her hands, but he couldn’t let it rest now. ‘Don’t,’ he said softly. Gently taking hold of her hands, he lifted them away. ‘You were in the throes of something much worse than a nightmare, Zoë. You were crying out, begging—’

‘No!’ She shouted it at him, and he waited until she grew calm again, holding her hands firmly between his own.

‘Begging?’ She forced out a laugh. ‘You’re mistaken, Rico—’

‘I am not mistaken. And I’d like to know what made you call out—‘‘Please, don’t hit me again.’’’

‘I’ve told you, you’re wrong. I would never say something like that. Why should I?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

She shook her head, and her eyes wore a wounded expression. ‘Is that why you were so gentle with me, Rico? Is that why you won’t make love to me? Is that why you agreed to stay over in a separate room? You feel sorry for me—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ He raked his hair in sheer exasperation. ‘I don’t spend time with women because I feel sorry for them.’

‘How many women?’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself, Zoë?’

‘I tell you, Rico, you’re wrong about me.’ She scrambled upright with the sheet firmly clutched in her hand. ‘You don’t need to feel pity for me. It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.’ She shook her head, seeing the disbelief in his eyes. ‘I’m really grateful you came in to make sure I was all right. You’re kind—very kind—and thank you—’

‘Don’t!’ His voice was sharp as he put his hand up. He regretted it immediately, seeing her flinch. ‘I would never hurt you.’ His voice was just a whisper, but she had already gathered herself into a ball and pulled the sheet up to her chin. ‘Don’t ever thank me for being kind to you, Zoë. It’s the very least one human being can expect from another.’ He was consumed with relief when she lifted her head and looked at him.

‘Who hurt you, Zoë?’

‘No one…’

Her voice was tiny, like a child’s, and it hurt him more than anything he had ever heard. ‘Is that why you were crying out?’ he pressed gently. ‘Were you remembering what had happened to you?’

‘Rico, please.’

He could feel the anger pumping through him. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, ached with tension. Who could ever hurt her? It was inconceivable to him that anyone could wish to harm one hair on her head. He wanted to protect her—but how could he when she insisted on pushing him away? ‘Won’t you trust me enough to tell me, Zoë?’

‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘Please, don’t shut me out. I want to help you, but I have to know the truth—’

‘The truth?’ Zoë made a short incredulous sound. She hated herself as it was for her weakness. How could she know she would cry out when she was sleeping? ‘Do you always tell the truth, Rico? Do you?’

He couldn’t answer her. How could he when he had been staring at a computer screen half the night? They were both victims of the past in their own way. Suspicion was branded on his heart, but Zoë was damaged too, and her wounds had been carved far deeper and more cruelly than his.

Standing up, he moved away from the bed, carrying the image of Zoë in his mind. Her hair was like skeins of silk, gleaming in the moonlight, and her skin was so soft and warm. The room was filled with the scent of the orange blossom she always wore. As he turned, she turned too, and their eyes locked. He longed to tell her everything. He wanted nothing more in all the world than to take her in his arms and keep her safe for ever. But he could not. Instead, he would go back to his own room and maintain his vigil until the information he had asked for came through.

‘Goodnight, Zoë.’ He walked onto the veranda, closing the doors softly behind him.

Throwing his head back, with his eyes tightly shut, he let out a heavy sigh. For the first time in his life the price he had to pay for being Rico Cortes was far too high.

CHAPTER NINE

CLUTCHING the receiver between neck and shoulder while she scooped up her discarded nightwear from the floor, Zoë listened patiently. There was an opportunity to do a live interview with a national television show—a roving reporter had just arrived with a camera crew. Could she make it in time?

She looked like hell after her disturbed night. She felt like it too, especially remembering what had happened with Rico. But this was work, and there was nothing on her face that make-up couldn’t fix. Her heart was another matter, but that would have to wait.

She was curious, and she was tempted too. The publicity would be great for the series—and she was interested to find out why someone from such a well-known show had come all the way to Cazulas to speak to her. Of course the last series had been a big success, and it had generated a lot of media interest. That had to be it.

‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said, decision made. ‘Half an hour suit you? OK, fifteen minutes,’ she conceded. ‘But get Marnie and the girls up here right away with the war paint.’

Philip had told her there would be a chance for a run-through first, so there would be no surprises and nothing for her to worry about. It was just what she needed to take her mind off Rico… He must have gone by now. There wasn’t much to keep him at the castle. But she still had her career. The thrill of the places it took her to, and the amazement that she had made something of herself after all, in spite of her ex’s assurances that she never would, had not diminished. She hoped they never would.

She had to stand under a cold shower to try and put Rico out of her mind. Finally, reasonably focused on work and totally frozen, she rubbed herself down vigorously with a towel.

There was a bad feeling niggling away inside her, Zoë realised as she dressed. It made no sense. She had done this sort of thing lots of times before, and knew that nothing was left to chance. It might all appear impromptu at home, but the groundwork had already been covered so that none of the questions came out of the blue. And yet…

‘To hell with it,’ she murmured, spritzing on some perfume. She was a seasoned campaigner and there was nothing to worry about.

Seasoned campaigner or not, she hadn’t factored quite such a bubbly young presenter into the equation. The latest in a long line of glamorous young women with an incisive mind, she was the type of person that Zoë found wearing, but fun in short bursts. They talked through the questions, and decided on the best strategy to adopt to promote the show. Zoë was confident she could keep things moving forward smoothly. They were going to film outside, with a backdrop of mountains behind them, and went on air almost immediately.

‘So, Zoë, how does it feel to be here in such a fabulous location, as opposed to being stuck in an overheated studio?’ The girl fanned herself extravagantly and smiled, as if this made them comrades in adversity.

Her openness made Zoë laugh. ‘It feels great, Lisa—but it’s hot outside here, as well as under the lights. Don’t forget this is Spain—’

‘You’ve got quite a glow going on there, Zoë.’ The girl cut across her, facing the camera to address the viewers. ‘Could this be something more than a suntan? I hear the Spanish men around here are quite something. Or man, rather,’ she added as Zoë stared at her. ‘Come on, you can tell us—we won’t tell a soul, will we?’ she exclaimed, turning again to include several million viewers.

‘Let’s talk about the programme first.’ And last, Zoë thought, keeping a smile on her face while her mind raced. They hadn’t planned to touch on anything other than her new television series. In fact she had made a point of insisting there would be no delving into her personal life. The past was just that—behind her. That was what she and the young reporter had agreed on.

‘You’re right, Zoë. Let’s talk about your programme. That’s what we’re here for.’

Zoë stalled. The look on the girl’s face was open, inviting… Inviting what? There was just enough guile in her eyes to churn Zoë’s stomach. ‘I think this series is going to be my best yet—’

‘You only think? Don’t tell me Zoë Chapman’s become a shrinking violet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not going to turn coy on us now, Zoë, are you? Disappoint the viewers?’ The girl turned to camera and made a moue, but there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes when she looked back. ‘After spending the night as the prize of a wealthy man?’

She had just managed to leave out the word again, Zoë thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.

‘That’s right, isn’t it, Zoë?’ The girl’s lips pressed down as she shrugged and managed to look ingenuous for the camera. ‘I’ve seen the footage.’ Her eyes opened really wide and she stared around, as if seeking confirmation that her reportage was absolutely accurate from some unseen source.

Zoë’s gaze iced over as she waited for the bombshell to fall. After all, the camera never lied…

‘Half-naked men wrestling beneath the stars in this sultry Mediterranean climate—and the champion, El Paladín, also known as Alarico Cortes, claiming you as his prize for the night.’ She stretched, showing off her taut young belly as if she had all the time in the world to deliver her coup de grâce. ‘Mmm, sounds pretty hot to me. He’s pretty hot!’

‘That was just an item.’ Zoë tried to laugh it off and put on a good-humoured smile for the camera. Inwardly she was seething. The girl’s agenda was obvious. This wasn’t about her series. There was still mileage in the old scandal.

‘Just an item!’ The girl cut her off with a short, incredulous laugh. ‘OK, Zoë, let’s cut to the chase. You bagged Alarico Cortes for one glorious night. I’m only quoting the age-old tradition here in Cazulas, Zo—no need to look at me like that. Alarico Cortes, if you don’t know of him at home, is only the most eligible bachelor in Spain—a billionaire, and a good friend of the Spanish royal family. So, what was it like? How does it feel, mingling with the aristocracy? And were you really just a prize for the night? Or is this love?’

Alarico Cortes? Aristocracy? Billionaire? Zoë was stunned. If what the young reporter said was true… The last way she would have wanted to hear it was like this.

‘I was lucky enough to be invited to take part in a traditional celebration that has been upheld here in Cazulas for centuries. It was great fun—nothing more than that. I’m really sorry to disappoint you.’ She finished with a good-natured shrug towards the camera. Game, set, and match, she thought, seeing the girl’s face turn sulky.

‘Well, you heard it here first, folks.’ The reporter quickly recovered. ‘The most beautiful celebrity chef on the circuit has something really special in the pipeline for all of us. Don’t miss Zoë’s new series, or you’ll miss those yummy men—and we’re talking drop-dead gorgeous in the case of Alarico Cortes, girls. Thank you, Zoë, for sparing us these few precious minutes away from your show.’

‘My pleasure,’ Zoë said, with a last cheery smile to the viewers. ‘Thank you all for your time.’

She even thanked the girl again when the cameras had stopped rolling. They both knew who had come out on top, and Zoë was determined to remain professional to the last. But she couldn’t quite believe she had allowed herself to be set up. It had been two years since the scandal broke. Two years to learn caution. She’d thought she was too wary to be trapped like this—but apparently not.

And Rico Cortes, all round good-guy and local one-man protection agency, had been lying to her all along: his friend’s castle, his friend’s horses, the down-homey camaraderie of the flamenco camp—and he was a Spanish grandee. Why wasn’t she surprised? It all made sense now. He had been lying to her ever since that first meeting, pulling the wool over her eyes, confusing her with his sweet talk and worthy notions. And wasn’t she a chump to have thought him any better than her ex? Rico Cortes was one smart operator.

‘Great job, Zoë!’

Zoë looked at Philip blankly as he clapped her on the back.

‘Our ratings will soar if you keep this up.’

‘That’s fantastic.’ She was already running towards the castle. She had no idea if Rico would still be there. Inside the castle—his castle!

Pausing for a moment in the middle of the courtyard, she looked around. Rico’s castle. His village, his horses, his spa, his kitchen, his bed, his office. Shading her eyes, she stared up at the balcony they had shared, and in that moment she hated him.

Zoë walked straight into the study bedroom where Rico had been sleeping. At least now he was gone she could use the computer to let her far-flung family members know the interview would be repeated on breakfast television throughout the morning.

‘Rico!’ Zoë’s heart lurched as she saw him, and her eyes filled with tears as he moved away from the computer screen. ‘I thought you would have gone by now.’

‘I came back.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t you knock before you enter a room?’

The situation had an element of farce. He was looking at her with a face full of mistrust and anger when she was the one who had been wronged. Rico had been lying to her all along—misleading her, pretending to be a local man when he was… She didn’t even know who he was.

‘I still hold the lease on the castle. Technically this is my room, Rico.’

Tension stretched between them. Whatever he had on the screen, he didn’t want her to see it, Zoë realised. ‘I’d like to use the computer now, if you don’t mind.’

‘There’s some data on here I can’t afford to lose.’

‘So save it. My mails are urgent too.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Plenty. But right now I want to contact my family, because I’ve just done an interview for TV—’ She stopped as he made a contemptuous sound. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘An interview?’ The look he threw her was full of disdain.

‘Yes, an interview, Rico—for my new cookery series. Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Nothing else?’

Zoë looked at him. ‘What are you getting at? Are you worried I might have talked about you, Rico? Let the world know I bagged myself a really rich man—a billionaire? A real live Spanish grandee and good friend of the King?’

When he said nothing, it was Zoë’s turn to make a low, angry sound. ‘Have you finished with the computer yet?’ she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, moving away from the screen.

She didn’t need to read the tall, bold letters on the monitor. They had been branded on her mind two years ago. They were lies. Everyone who knew her, who cared about her, knew that. Facing up to them was the only way she knew to snuff out their power.

Star Sells Sex.

Turning to look at Rico, Zoë could read his mind. He had believed the truth about her, and now he believed the lies. And his pride wouldn’t allow him to accept that he had been so wrong about her. He believed she had sold herself for money. The thought turned Zoë cold, drained her of feeling. As Rico thought so little of her, perhaps he had her pegged as a gold-digger, after his money, all the time. Perhaps he had even set up the interview to shame her in public… He couldn’t believe he had been so mistaken about someone. Neither could she, Zoë realised sadly.

‘Are you expecting a reaction from me, Rico? Heated denials—hysterics, possibly?’ She could see he was surprised she was so calm. ‘This all happened a long, time ago.’

‘Two years ago, to be precise.’

‘Well, it feels like a lifetime to me.’

Time flew, Zoë reflected. Two years since her ex-husband had tried to destroy her career. She had been so set on rebuilding her life she had hardly noticed how quickly the time had passed. She could still remember the burn of shame when she’d first read the headline. How could she have known then that the old adage would prove true? There was no such thing as bad publicity; this morning’s interview had only proved it yet again.

It was two years since her notoriety in the ‘Star Sells Sex’ scandal had put her name on everyone’s lips. Almost immediately her cookery programme had begun to break every ratings record. Her next step had been to form her own company, and that had led to even greater success.

These days the headline was hardly ever mentioned, and on the few occasions when it was people laughed with her, as if it had all been nothing more than a rather clever publicity stunt. She knew the truth behind the headline, and it couldn’t hurt her now. Only Rico could do that, if he believed the lies.

‘So you’ve nothing to say in your defence?’ he said. ‘No explanation to offer me at all?’

‘Am I supposed to ask for your forgiveness?’

‘The whole scandal blew over quite quickly.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s why I couldn’t place you at first.’

‘True.’ Zoë smiled sadly at him. ‘Did you hope I was hiding something, Rico—so that you and I could be quits?’

A muscle worked in his jaw; other than that there was nothing, until he said, ‘Do you blame me for being defensive?’

A short sound of incredulity leapt from Zoë’s throat.

‘If I had told you who I was from the first moment we met—’

‘I wouldn’t have thought any more or any less of you.’

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then, leaning in front of Zoë, Rico clicked the mouse and cleared the screen.

Straightening up, he gazed at her. ‘My full name is Alarico Cortes de Aragon. I have many business interests, but flamenco is my passion, and Castillo Cazulas, as I’m sure you have already worked out, belongs to me.’

‘When were you going to tell me, Rico? After we’d slept together?’

‘Don’t speak like that, Zoë. You must understand I have to protect my position.’

‘Your position? And I have nothing worth protecting—is that it? I was nothing more than an entertaining diversion while you toured your estates in Cazulas?’

‘Zoë.’ Rico reached out to her, and then drew back. ‘Try to understand what it’s like for me. I have to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘What are you trying to say, Rico?’ Zoë said softly. ‘A man as important, as rich and influential as you, has to be cautious about the type of woman he takes to bed?’

‘It’s a lot more than that, Zoë, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’m afraid I must have missed something.’

‘Can you imagine my shock when I read this headline?’

‘It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

‘How do you expect me to be? You tell me you have to protect yourself from me as if I’m some piece of dirt that might tarnish your lustre.’

‘Don’t say that. I asked for this information before I knew you, Zoë.’

‘And now you do know me,’ Zoë said bitterly, glancing at the screen. ‘You must be glad that you took that precaution.’

‘You don’t know me very well.’

‘I don’t know you at all.’

The coldness in her voice, the bitterness in her eyes cut right through him. He wasn’t sure about anything any more, Rico realised. He had spent most of his adult life protecting himself from the gutter press. It was ironic to think that it was their common bond. He focused on her face as she spoke again, and was shocked to see the pain in her eyes when she gazed unwaveringly at him.

‘I don’t have anything concrete like a headline to shake the foundations of my belief in you,’ she said. ‘All I have are candles, a romantic night in a beautiful luxury spa, and the horrible suspicion that maybe you arranged all that because you wondered if you had what it took to seduce a frigid woman.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘You seem shocked, Rico. Why is that? Because I’m getting too close to the truth?’

‘No!’ The word shot out of him on a gust of loathing that she could even think such a thing. ‘It isn’t true. I don’t know what’s happened to you in the past, but you’re not frigid. And I don’t need the sort of reassurance you seem to think I do!’

‘You lied to me.’ Her voice was low, and cruelly bitter. ‘You made assumptions about me, Rico. You invaded my privacy—that same privacy that’s so precious to you, El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon! You had me investigated.’ She ground out each word with incredulity, and then gazed up at the sky to give a short, half-sobbing laugh. ‘And while that was going on you tried to get me into bed. And then—’ She held up her hand, silencing his attempt to protest. ‘Then you sold me out to the tabloids for some type of sick revenge.’

‘Zoë, please—’

‘I haven’t finished yet!’ She shouted the words at him in a hoarse, agonised voice, leaning forward stiffly to confront him, her face white with fury. ‘To cap it all, you turn all self-righteous on me—pretending it matters to you that someone else hurt me, used me as a punch-bag—as if you care any more than he did!’

‘You’ve gone too far!’ He couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘How dare you compare me with that—that—’

‘What’s the matter, Rico? You think of him and you see yourself? Even you can’t bring yourself to admit what you are.’

‘And just what am I?’

‘A deceitful, lying user!’

‘User?’ He threw his hands up. ‘Who’s using who here, Zoë?’

‘That’s right—stay up in your ivory tower, where you’re safe from all the gold-diggers, why don’t you, Rico? Only I don’t want your money—I never did. I can manage quite well on my own!’

‘And that’s what you want, is it, Zoë—to be on your own?’

‘What do you think?’ she said bitterly.

‘Then I’d better leave.’

‘That would be good.’

‘You signed the lease on the castle. You can stay until it runs out. Do whatever the hell you want to do! I’ll see myself out.’

CHAPTER TEN

HE’D been thrown out of his own castle. That was a first. Rico looked neither left nor right as he strode purposefully across the courtyard towards his Jeep. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, he slammed the door, breathing like a bull. The knuckles on his hands turned white on the steering-wheel.

They wanted each other like a bushfire wanted fuel to sustain it. They were burning so hot they were burning out—burning each other out in the process. He had seen her muscles bunched up tight across her shoulders. And she wanted to believe him—that was the tragedy of the situation. They wanted each other, they wanted to believe in each other, to be with each other and only each other—but they were tearing each other apart. They needed each other—but she didn’t need him enough to tell him the truth. She didn’t trust him. Maybe she would never trust him. Could he live with that?

The answer was no, Rico realised as he gunned the engine into life. Some of it he’d worked out for himself—the rest he could find out. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her to tell him. She had to tell him if there was anything left between them at all. If she was the victim, not the architect, of that newspaper headline, why the hell didn’t she just come out and say so? Maybe there was a grain of truth in it—maybe that was why she couldn’t bring herself to explain.

Her accusers were guilty of making a profit out of the scandal—but newspapers were in business to make money, not friends. He had been shocked when he’d read the torrid revelations, but he had to admire her. She was a fighter, like him. But was she fighting to clear her name or to put up a smokescreen? Would he ever know?

Trouble was, he cared—he really cared—and it made him mad to think that all the money in the world couldn’t buy him the whole truth. Only Zoë could give him that.

Rico’s eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed into a flat, hard line. Thrusting the Jeep into gear, he powered away. She was entitled to stay on at the castle—he had no quarrel with that. He had always rattled round the place. Though it was certainly a lot more lively these days, he reflected cynically, flooring the accelerator pedal.

He eased the neck of his collar with one thumb. He was restless, frustrated—even a little guilty that he hadn’t stayed to fight it out with her. He shouldn’t have left with so much bitterness flying between them. He should have finished it or sorted it. But how could he when she had made such vicious accusations? The very idea of losing control to the extent that he’d hurt anyone, let alone a woman, revolted him. And then to accuse him of setting up that interview. He made a sound of disbelief. Didn’t she know how deep his resentment of trash journalism went?

Rico frowned, gripping the wheel, forcing himself to breathe steadily and wait until he had calmed down. Gradually the truth behind the furious row came to him, as if a mist was slowly lifting before his eyes. He could see that the level of Zoë’s passion was connected to the level of pain she had inside her. The legacy of her past had just played out between them. Instead of being hurt and offended by her accusations, he should be relieved that she had finally been able to vent her feelings, and that she had chosen to do it in front of him.

She was right. They both needed space, time to think. When he was with her his mind was clouded with all sorts of things that left no room for reason. He had never felt such a longing for anything or anyone in his life. Just the thought that someone—some man—some brute—had hurt her made him physically sick. So why wouldn’t she let him in? Couldn’t she see that he would take on the world to make things right for her again? Why wouldn’t she trust him?

Swinging onto the main road, Rico channelled his frustration into thoughts of exposing all the bullies in the world to public ridicule. It would be too easy to use strength against them; strength of mind was more his speciality, and a far better tool to drag Zoë back from the edge of the precipice that led straight back to her past.

As he settled into his driving he suffered another surge of impatience. It was so hard to be patient where Zoë was concerned. He had to remind himself that she was worth all the time in the world, and that he hadn’t made his fortune by acting on impulse. And, yes, she was right. He had expected an emotional response from her when she saw the screen full of huge letters, each one of them condemning her. He respected that. The headline was more than two years old, but he couldn’t believe she had ever reacted to it in any other way. It took real courage to handle it so well.

But he had seen her lose control later. Was it his betrayal that had forced her over the edge even when she could keep her cool under fire from the tabloid press? If so, did that mean there was something really worth fighting for growing between them?

Quite suddenly the newspaper article seemed ridiculous. Zoë had forged a successful career for herself; she had no need to sell anything other than her talent. But where sex was concerned she was seriously repressed. He had firsthand experience to back that up…

Remembering, Rico grimaced. He felt like hell. What had he done? What had he done to Zoë? He should have been there for her. He should have made allowances. He should have proved to her, as well as to himself, that he understood how complex she was. She wasn’t like other women, she had been right about that—but not in the way she thought. Her past had left her damaged, and instead of trying to help he had trampled her trust into the ground. There wasn’t a brazen bone in her body, and if he had to delve deeper into her past to find out the truth and make things right for her, then he would.

Why was it so important to her that Rico Cortes knew the truth? Zoë wondered as she closed the door on the study bedroom after sending her e-mails. She had been so sure she wouldn’t care, so certain she would brazen it out if he looked at her with scorn and contempt. He had done neither, but still the matter wasn’t resolved in her head. She had to see him at least once more to sort it out. She had thought she could treat him like anyone else—if he believed the lies, so be it; if he didn’t, so much the better. But now she knew she wouldn’t rest until he knew the truth.

Her ex had planted the headline—though Rico couldn’t know that. He had taken his revenge when she’d left him after years of abuse. She had refused to accept the public humiliation two years ago, and she wasn’t about to let it get to her now.

What hurt her far more was the fact that Rico Cortes was a man she might have loved, and that he had deceived her into believing he was nothing more than a local flamenco enthusiast. She could accept his need for caution; Rico was a very rich man indeed—and an aristocrat, according to the search engine on the computer. But he was a self-made man for all that; he had started with nothing but a title.

As she pushed open the kitchen door and walked inside Zoë made a sharp, wounded sound. She was just Zoë Chapman, marital survivor and cook—hardly an appropriate match for a billionaire aristocrat.

She had allowed herself to develop feelings for a man she could never have. Right now she wished she’d never come to Spain, had never met El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, because then he couldn’t have broken her heart.

Arriving back at his beach house, Rico tossed the keys of the Jeep onto the hall table and smiled a greeting at his butler.

‘A package arrived for you, sir, while you were out.’

‘Thank you, Rodrigo.’ Rico scanned the details on the well-stuffed padded bag as he carried it through to his study.

Before opening it he pulled back the window shutters so that brilliant sunlight spilled into the room. His whole vision was filled with the shimmering Mediterranean, and he drew the tang of ozone deep into his lungs. Simple things gave him the greatest pleasure. These were the real rewards of extreme wealth: the rush of waves upon the sand, the seabirds soaring in front of his windows, and the matchless tranquillity.

Opening the package, he tipped the contents onto his desk. There was a log of Zoë’s everyday life back in England, along with diaries, tapes, transcripts of interviews, photographs, press-cuttings… Rico’s hand hovered over the disarray, and then he pushed it all away.

He didn’t want to read what someone else had to say about Zoë. He didn’t care to acknowledge the fact that his pride and his suspicion had demanded such an invasion of her privacy. He felt dirty, and disgusted with himself, as if the contents of the package somehow contaminated him.

If he cared to look, he knew that whatever he found in the newspaper cuttings would be a sensationalised account. Even the most respected broadsheet had to succumb to such tactics in a marketplace where fresh news was available at the click of a mouse.

Coffee was served to him, and taken away again without being touched. The crisp green leaves of a delicious-looking salad had wilted by the time he absent-mindedly forked some up.

Pushing the plate away to join the rest of the detritus on his desk, he stood up and stretched. Walking over to the window, he was not surprised to see how low the sun had dipped in the sky. The colours outside the window were spectacular, far richer than before, as if the day wanted to leave behind a strong impression before it gave way to the night.

He would not let Zoë go. He could not. If she told him to go again, then he would still let her stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. It was a hollow, unlovely place without her.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he didn’t wait for the Jeep to be brought round to the front. Sprinting down the steps, he jogged down the drive towards the garage block and, climbing in, switched on and powered away.

He found her in the kitchen, eating with the crew. They were relaxing in the way only good friends could relax—some with their feet up on the opposite chair, men with their shirts undone, sleeves rolled back, and girls with hardly any makeup, and real tangles rather than carefully tousled hair. The table was littered with the debris of a put-together meal, and when he walked in a silence fell that was so complete it left the walls ringing. There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor as everyone stiffened and straightened up. He could sense them closing in around Zoë like a protective net.

Her lips parted with surprise as she stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes—faded pyjamas—with her hair left in damp disarray around her shoulders. She looked to him as if the day had been too much for her and she couldn’t wait to get it over with and go to sleep. Someone at the table must have talked her into joining them for a light meal.

It was the enemy camp, all right. Every gaze except for Zoë’s was trained on his face. These were the people who had stood by her, who had stayed with her when she’d made the break from the television company run by her ex-husband. That much he’d learned from the Internet. These were the people who had put their livelihoods on the line for Zoë Chapman.

He waited by the door, and she half stood. But the girl sitting next to her put a hand on Zoë’s arm.

‘You don’t have to go, Zo.’

‘No, no… I’ll be all right.’ She pushed her chair back from the table and looked at him. ‘I have to get this sorted out.’

He went outside, and she followed him. ‘Will you come with me?’ He glanced towards the Jeep.

‘I’m not dressed.’

If that was the only reason, he’d solve the problem for her. Striding quickly back into the castle, he plucked a shawl down from a peg. As he came out again he threw it round her shoulders. ‘You’ll be warm enough now.’

‘It’s not that, Rico. I’m not sure I want to come with you.’

She took a step away from him. Folding the shawl carefully, she hung it over her arm, as if she wanted time to put her thoughts back in order.

‘Please.’ He wasn’t good at this, Rico realised. He could negotiate his way in or out of anything to do with business. But feelings—needs—they were foreign to him, an emotional bank accessed by other people. He was a man of purpose, not dreams—but quite suddenly he realised that purpose and dreams had become hopelessly intertwined. ‘Just give me an hour of your time. Please, Zoë. That’s all I ask.’

‘Will you wait in the Jeep while I get changed?’

He would have waited at the gateway to hell if she had asked him to.

Rico’s knuckles were white with tension by the time Zoë emerged from the castle. She hadn’t kept him waiting long, and now he drank her in like a thirsty man at a watering hole in the desert. She was wearing her uniform of choice: jeans and a plain top. She looked great. She was so fresh, so clean, and so lovely, with her red-gold hair caught up high on the top of her head in a band so that the thick fall brushed her shoulders as she walked towards him.

‘Are you sure we can’t talk here—or in the garden?’

‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her.

After a moment’s hesitation she climbed in. He felt as if he had just closed the biggest business deal of his life. Only this was better—much, much better.

‘What a fabulous place,’ she said, when they turned in the gates at the beach house. ‘Whose is it?’

Her voice tailed off at the end of the question, and he knew she had already guessed. Sweeping through the towering gates, Rico slowed as they approached the mansion. Even he could see it was stunning now he saw it through Zoë’s eyes.

‘It’s all very beautiful,’ Zoë said, when they were inside.

He watched her trail her fingers lightly over the creamy soft furnishings as they walked through the main reception room. Everything looked better to him too now she was here. He could see how well the cream walls looked, with smoky blue highlights provided by cushions and rugs, and the occasional touch of tobacco-brown. The walls had been left plain to show off his modern art collection.

‘Chagall?’ She turned to him in amazement.

He felt ashamed that he took such things for granted. Not for him the colourful poster prints that had adorned his mother’s home and made it so cheerful. He liked the real thing, and he could afford it now—Hockney and Chagall were just two of his favourites. He envied the expression on Zoë’s face. He wanted to recapture that feeling. He wanted to remember how it had felt to attend his first fine art auction sale, where he had vowed one day he would be bidding.

Zoë turned back to the picture again. She had never seen anything like it outside a museum. The picture showed a handsome man embracing a woman with long titian hair. They were both suspended in an azure sky, with the head of a good-natured horse sketched into the background. A happy sun shone out of the canvas, turning the land beneath it to gold.

‘It’s genuine, isn’t it? This isn’t a print?’

‘That’s right.’ He felt shame again. Such things were meant to be shared. When was the last time he had brought anyone into his home?

‘I saw a Chagall in Las Vegas—a man and woman, head to head—’ Zoë stopped talking, realising they were standing head to head too, and that Rico was smiling down at her.

‘You know what I mean.’ She waved her hand and moved away, going to stand by an open window. ‘Rico, why am I here?’ she said, still with her back turned to him.

‘I know everything about you.’

‘Oh, do you?’ she said, managing to sound as unconcerned as if they had been discussing a new style of drapes.

‘Zoë, please, can’t we talk about it?’

‘Why should we? What purpose would it serve?’ She turned round to stare at him.

‘Will you come with me?’ he said.

Something in his expression made her walk towards him.

This must be his study, Zoë realised. It was a pleasant, airy room, but small on the scale of other rooms in the mansion. It was cosy, even a little cluttered. This was the hub around which the rest of his life revolved, she guessed.

‘Please sit down,’ he said, holding out a chair for her across from his own at the desk.

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘Please.’

She didn’t want to make a fuss.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Rico said, sitting across from her.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That all that nonsense in the newspaper was a pack of lies?’

‘Because I don’t feel the need to defend myself.’

‘Nor should you.’

Glancing down at the desk, Zoë realised that all the papers she had thought were Rico’s were, in fact, her own history in print. ‘So now you know.’

‘I only wish I’d known about it sooner. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it’s none of your business. And because I don’t want, or need, anyone’s misplaced sympathy.’

‘Misplaced?’ Rico sprang to his feet and planted his fists on the desk, leaning so far over it their faces were almost touching. ‘A man who is supposed to love you beats you up, and you call my sympathy misplaced? You build a whole new life for yourself, and a successful career, only to have that—that—’ Rico stopped, the words jamming in his brain as he searched for something to properly describe what he thought of Zoë’s ex-husband.

‘I finally left him when he tried to sell me to someone he owed money to.’

All the emotion was gone from her voice. He wanted her to rail against her fate, to show some emotion.

‘It was just a night of sex, to pay off the debt…’

‘Just! Zoë, Zoë—’ Rico passed his hand across his eyes, as if it would help him to make some sense of what she was telling him. Walking around the desk, he drew her to her feet. ‘Come with me.’ He took her to the open window. ‘Look out there. Tell me what you see.’

‘It’s night-time—’

‘It’s nature, Zoë—pure, harsh, and lovely. Here at my beach house, and at the castle in Cazulas, I escape from the world when I need to. That’s why I was so protective of my privacy when you arrived. Why I still am so protective—but now I want you to have the same. I don’t want you to live with a nightmare stuck in the back of your mind. I can’t bear to think of you trapped like that, in the past.’

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Zoë inhaled deeply, and then turned away from the window to face him. ‘I got away, in case you’re interested. I could see the man’s heart wasn’t in it. False bravado brought him to me after a few drinks with my ex-husband. I just explained it was a bad time for me—that there had to be some mistake. He didn’t lose face. There was no unpleasantness. I think I handled it well.’

Handled it well? The words tumbled around Rico’s head as if someone was knocking them in with a hammer. He wanted to drag her into his arms right then, tell her it would be all right from now on, that he would be there for her, to protect her from harm. He wanted to promise her that she would never have to face such a monstrous situation in her life again—but she was already walking towards the door.

‘Will you take me back to the castle now?’

‘I’ll do anything you want me to.’

She smiled faintly at him, as if to acknowledge his understanding without necessarily accepting that it helped or changed anything for her.

The call came when Zoë had just climbed into bed, and for the second time that night she rushed to pull on her jeans. This time she tugged a sweater over the top of her tee shirt. She didn’t know how long she would be, or what might be involved. She just knew she had to be prepared. A phone call from Maria in hospital was serious. Snatching up her bag and some money, along with her car keys, she hurried downstairs.

Zoë felt as if there was a tight band around her chest until the moment she reached the small private room and saw Maria sitting up in a chair beside the bed with a rug over her knees. ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ she said, crouching down at her side. ‘Is it serious?’ She reached for Maria’s hand. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Will it affect your dancing?’

Maria lifted her other arm from beneath the blanket, revealing strapping. ‘Thankfully just a sprain—nothing more. The X-rays have confirmed it. I’m sorry if I frightened you, Zoë. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being here all night, and I have such a thing about taxis—’

‘No. You were absolutely right to call me. I’m so relieved. I don’t know why, but I thought you might have injured your leg.’

‘My fault. I should have explained, instead of just saying I had fallen. I can see now that my legs would be the first thing you thought of.’

‘Has anyone told Rico? If he hears you are in hospital he’ll be very worried.’

‘I tried him first,’ Maria told her. ‘But he wasn’t at home.’

No, he was taking me home, Zoë thought, feeling doubly guilty knowing Maria had probably rung Rico to take her to the hospital. And she had been so lost in her own thoughts on the way back to the castle she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

‘The main thing is that no permanent harm has been done,’ Zoë said, returning to practical matters. ‘Can you leave now, or must we wait for a doctor?’

‘The doctor has to formally discharge me before he goes off duty for the night. But we can talk until then.’ Maria stopped and viewed Zoë with concern. ‘You look exhausted, Zoë, is something wrong?’

‘No.’ Zoë forced a bright note into her voice. ‘Nothing.’ Nothing apart from the fact that Rico knew the whole sordid truth about her now and she would probably never see him again. He’d been sympathetic enough, but, remembering how he had deceived her about his identity, she couldn’t help wondering if his sympathy had just been an act too.

She refocused as Maria started to speak again.

‘Are you sure that son of mine hasn’t said something to upset you?’

‘Your son?’

‘Rico?’ Maria prompted.

‘Rico!’

Zoë turned away. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Why hadn’t she seen it before? Rico’s defensive attitude towards Maria when she had first wanted to approach her… She had thought it pride on his part that she, a stranger, had dared to expect such an artist to put her talent on show for commercial gain. And the attention he paid Maria, his obvious pride in his mother’s cultural heritage. All this should have told her. But how could it be? He was not Rico Cortes, local flamenco enthusiast, but El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, a grandee of Spain.

‘I don’t understand.’ She turned back to Maria.

‘It is very simple—’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘I’m not ashamed of what I did. Rico’s father was the local landowner. His wife was dead, and we loved each other. We never married, but I gave him a son.’ She smiled.

‘But how did Rico inherit the title and the castle?’

‘There were no other heirs. His father insisted the title must be passed to Rico. They were very close. It was just the title— his money went to the village.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I was proud—maybe too proud.’

‘But Rico was a success?’

‘A huge success,’ Maria agreed with a wry laugh. ‘Rico has always supported me, and eventually he made enough money to buy back the castle. As his father suspected, Rico didn’t need his money—he was quite capable of making his own fortune.’

‘You must be very proud of him.’

‘I am,’ Maria assured her. ‘And now Rico cares for the village just as his father used to do.’

Maria’s glance darted to the door. She was growing anxious, Zoë realised. ‘I’ll go and find the doctor, and see if I can hurry him up.’ Another thought struck her. ‘Did you try Rico on his mobile?’

‘Yes,’ Maria said, her dark eyes brightening as she looked towards the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HAD Maria planned this? Zoë wondered. She couldn’t see how that was possible—unless Rico had said something to his mother, and then Maria had put in a call to both of them, using her misfortune as a mechanism to bring them together.

Her heart was hammering louder than Maria’s shoes had ever thundered on a floor as Rico moved past her to draw his mother into his arms. Pulling back, he spoke to her quickly in Spanish. Having received the answer he hoped for, he smiled and kissed her cheek before turning to Zoë.

‘Thank you for coming, Zoë.’

How could I not? Zoë wondered. ‘I was only too pleased I could help. But now you’re here I’ll leave you with your mother—’

‘No.’ Rico touched her arm. ‘It’s late, Zoë. You should not be driving home alone.’

‘I’ll go and find the doctor before I leave, and send him in to you.’

‘No.’ This time he closed the door. ‘I’m taking you back with us, and that’s final. You’ve had a shock too, and the roads can be dangerous at night.’

No more dangerous than they had ever been, Zoë thought. But Rico’s expression was set, and she didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Maria.

They settled Maria into her cosy home in the centre of the village, and then got back in the Jeep.

‘It really was good of you to go to the hospital for Maria,’ Rico said as they moved off again.

‘I’d do anything for her,’ Zoë said honestly, resting back against the seat.

‘I can see you’re tired. I’ll take you straight back.’

‘Thank you.’

So much for Maria’s machinations. If it had been a plan at all, nothing was going to come of it. And of course she was relieved…

Clambering into bed and switching off the light, Zoë sank into the pillows, shot through with exhaustion. It had been quite a day. Her body was wiped out, but her mind refused to shut down. Turning on the light again, she thought about Rico, and about Rico and Maria being mother and son. And then she ran through everything Maria had told her about Rico.

Swinging her legs out of bed, she poured herself a glass of water. Rico had set out on a mission to reclaim his inheritance, to preserve everything he believed in, just as she had. They had both succeeded. They were both proud and defensive—you had to be when you’d fought so hard for something. She always felt as if everything she had achieved might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

Zoë’s glance grazed the telephone sitting next to her on the bedside table. She had to decide whether to call him or not. Of course she didn’t have to do anything—she could just let him slip away into the past…

Zoë was surprised when the operator found the number so easily. She had imagined Rico would have a number that would be withheld from the public. Instead a cultured voice answered her in Spanish right away. It wasn’t Rico’s voice, it was some other man—his butler, perhaps. She gave her name, and he asked her to wait and he would see whether it was convenient for Señor Alarico to take her call.

It felt like for ever before Rico came on the line, and then he sounded as if he had been exercising. It was a big house, Zoë reminded herself, with acres of floor space. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘It is no trouble. What can I do for you?’

‘Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping?’

‘Sleeping? No. I was in the pool—they had to come and get me.’

‘I see. I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘Don’t be.’

The line went quiet as if he was waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t change her mind now. ‘We didn’t finish our conversation earlier.’

Now it was Zoë’s turn to wait, not daring to breathe in case she missed his reply.

‘I’ll come over tomorrow.’

It was less than she had hoped for, but more in some ways. They were speaking at least.

‘Or would you prefer to come here?’

Space from the film crew would be good. They were so defensive on her behalf. She loved them for it, but it made any private discussion with Rico impossible. ‘I’m going to see Maria—your mother—in the morning.’ She was thinking aloud, planning her day.

‘Then I’ll pick you up around nine. We’ll go and see her together. You can come back here for lunch afterwards…if you like?’

‘I would like that.’ She smiled. ‘Nine o’clock, then.’

‘See you tomorrow, Zoë.’

The line was cut before she could reply.

Maria couldn’t have made it more obvious that she was pleased to see them. She was already up and about, and insisted on making coffee.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ she told Rico, brushing off his offer to help. ‘And before you say a word, I am returning to teaching today.’

‘I forbid it—’

‘Oh, you do? Do I dance on my hands, Rico? I still have one good hand with which to direct proceedings. And,’ she said, refusing to listen to his argument, ‘I am to be collected in half an hour. Before I leave, I have something for you, Zoë—to make sure you never stop dancing.’

‘I can’t possibly take that!’ Zoë looked at the lilac dress Maria was holding up. The one she had worn for her first flamenco lesson. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

‘It’s worth far more than that,’ Maria assured her as she pressed it into Zoë’s hands. ‘And I want you to have it.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Zoë said, resting her face against it.

‘Yes, it is—and if you ever need a boost, Zoë, you just look at it and think of us.’

‘I’ll only need to think of you, Maria,’ Zoë said, smiling as she hugged Rico’s mother.

It was fortunate Zoë couldn’t see his mother’s imperative drawing together of her upswept black brows, or the fierce command in her eyes, Rico realised as he took the cue to go, and take Zoë with him. ‘We’d better leave you now so that you can get ready for your class, Mother.’

‘Yes,’ Maria said firmly, clearly relieved that her silent message had been understood. ‘But before you go, Rico, you can do one more thing for me.’

‘What’s that?’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door.

‘Take this with you,’ she said, handing him a camera. ‘I want a photograph of Zoë in that dress—to hang in the mountain lodge at the flamenco camp,’ she explained to Zoë. ‘Then I will be able to see the dress and you, Zoë, any time I want.’

Alongside Beba? Immediately Zoë regretted the thought. Maria just wasn’t like that. ‘I’m sure you don’t want reminding of my pathetic efforts—’

‘I most certainly do. You were very good—full of genuine passion,’ Maria said firmly. ‘Now, take this girl to lunch, Rico. She looks half starved. And don’t forget my photograph.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised, sweeping her into his arms for a parting embrace.

Zoë had her hand stuck up her back when she emerged from Rico’s dressing-room. He was sitting on the shady veranda at his beach house, where they had been having lunch. He stood as she approached.

‘I can’t seem to get the dress right—can you help me?’ Maria had been on hand the last time to finish off the fastenings for her.

The setting was superb. There was an archway coated in cerise bougainvillea where she would stand for Maria’s photograph, with the sea behind her and some flamenco music playing softly to put her in the mood.

Giving up on the dress, Zoë straightened up. ‘Help?’ she prompted softly.

‘Yes, of course.’

Lunch had been a neutral, emotion-free affair, with delicious food served at a leisurely pace, prepared for them by one of Rico’s excellent chefs. Zoë knew they were starting again. They were taking it slowly—each of them feeling their way, each of them strangers to love, each of them determined to put at least a toe in the water.

Rico couldn’t have planned anything better than this, Zoë thought as she waited for him to finish fastening her dress. It was a treat just to eat food someone else had prepared. Before she met Rico, she had always taken charge of things in the kitchen. He was right: it was good to kick back and relax from time to time.

‘Te gusta el flamenco, señorita?’

‘‘Sí, señor, I like flamenco very much,’ Zoë whispered, trying not to respond to the closeness of his body or the tone of his voice as he reached around her waist to secure the fastenings. Then he murmured, ‘Turn around,’ and it was impossible, because the warmth of his breath was making every tiny hair on the back of her neck stand erect.

‘There—that’s done,’ he said.

She must have turned too quickly. One silk shoulder strap slipped from her shoulder, and as she went to pull it up again their fingers tangled.

‘I’m sorry.’ Zoë quickly removed her hand.

‘Sorry? What are you sorry for, Zoë?’

His voice was neutral, but his eyes… They were very, very close. His hands were still resting lightly on her waist. ‘I didn’t give you the chance to explain anything. I just poured out all my own troubles.’

‘Stop.’ Rico’s voice was low, but firm. ‘You make it sound as if what happened to you was normal. It wasn’t normal, Zoë—and you must never think of it that way or you will come to accept it as normal. You were brutalised—your mind, your body—’

‘But I’m all right now.’

‘And I’m going to make sure you stay that way.’

‘You—’

Rico didn’t plan on long explanations. He kissed her so tenderly he made her cry, and he had to catch the tears on her cheeks with his fingertips.

‘I feel such a fool.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he assured her. ‘You feel wonderful to me.’ And, sweeping her into his arms, he walked back into the house.

‘What a shame we must take this dress off again,’ he said when they reached his bedroom, ‘when you have only just put it on.’

He was already halfway down the fastenings as she lay in his arms on the bed. ‘Maria’s photograph—’ Zoë tensed as the last one came free.

‘Later.’ Rico kissed her shoulder, moving on to nudge her hair aside and kiss her neck.

‘But it will be dark later.’

‘You will look beautiful by moonlight.’

And then the silk dress was hanging off, and, feeling self-conscious, she wriggled out of it.

Picking it up, Rico tossed it onto a chair by the side of the bed. She wore little underneath it—just a flimsy scrap of a lace thong, not even a bra. There was support built in to the bodice of the dress.

Rico planted kisses as he freed the buttons on his shirt. That followed the dress, and when he kissed her again, and she felt his warm, hard body against her own, Zoë whimpered; she couldn’t help herself.

He rested her back against silk and satin, and the linen sheets beneath the covers were scented with lavender. Everything was contrived to please the senses—and it was so easy to slide a little deeper into pleasure beneath his touch.

As Rico looked at the small, pale hands clutching his shoulders, and heard Zoë call his name, he knew she was everything he wanted. Her breasts were so lush, so provocative, the taut nipples reaching out to him, pink and damp where he had tormented her. Her legs moved rhythmically over the bed as she groaned out her need, and now there was just the scrap of lace dissecting the golden tan of her thighs between them.

His gaze swooped up again, lingering on the dark shadow of her cleavage, so deep and lovely. He longed to lose himself in it, to bury his tongue and more besides in its warm, clinging silkiness. But it wasn’t just her beauty that bewitched him. He needed her. He had never needed anyone in his life before—he’d made sure of it. But Zoë was different—he was different when he was with her, and perhaps that was the most important thing of all.

He watched as she freed the tiny thong and inched it down over her thighs. Had he ever been so aroused? Clamouring sensations gnawed at his control, but he held back. Her trust was too hard won to risk now. How could anyone have abused her? Her skin was as soft and as fragile as the silk upon which she lay. Her eyes were darkening with growing confidence and her lips were parted in invitation. As their eyes locked and she reaffirmed her faith in him, he knew he would defend her with his life.

‘Rico…’

As she breathed his name he remembered wryly that foreplay was intended to be an aphrodisiac, not a torture.

He went to pull off the rest of his clothes, but she stopped him. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. He would stop even now if she asked him to.

Scrambling into a sitting position, she touched the belt buckle on his trousers. ‘You’ll have to help me—my hands are shaking.’

Taking both her hands in his, he kissed each one of her fingertips in turn and then, turning her hands over, planted a tender kiss on each palm.

When Rico finally stood naked before her, Zoë’s breath caught in her throat. He was totally unabashed, his dark gaze steady on her face. A lasso of moonlight fell across him, showing the power in his forearms and the wide spread of shoulders. She saw now that his broad chest was shaded with dark hair that tapered down to a hard belly, below which…

She stared into his face, waiting for him to come to her.

Her perfume was intoxicating, drawing him towards her. He stretched his length against her on the bed, not touching her, still holding back. Inhaling deeply, he stroked her thick, silky hair, sifting it through his fingers and enjoying the texture. He loved the way she quivered beneath his touch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her breathing nothing more than whispery puffs.

‘Rico—’

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘Kiss me properly.’

‘Properly? What do you mean?’ His restraint was making her bloom beneath him like a flower that had been too long out of the sun. Her breasts, two perfect globes, were thrust towards him, and her nipples, cruelly neglected, were almost painfully erect. The soft swell of her belly led his gaze down to where she was aching for his attention. Cupping her breasts, he made her gasp. And that gasp soon turned to a whimper as he began to chafe each perfect nipple with his firm thumb pads.

The pleasure was so intense it was almost a pain. He had forgotten how exquisite she was, how sweetly scented, how tender she felt beneath his lips. As he suckled and tugged, and heard her cry out his name, he knew that all he wanted in the world was to keep her safe and love her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT WAS so pleasurable, so seductive and intoxicating, fear never entered her head. Zoë wanted to beg Rico to hurry when his firm touch reached her thighs. She had never been so aroused. She cried out with pleasure when his searching fingers finally moved between her legs, and then she begged him not to stop.

Reaching for him, she found she needed two hands to properly encompass him, and he groaned softly beneath her questing fingers until at last she was forced to lift her hands away. Dropping a kiss on her lips, he probed deeply with his tongue, and she pressed against him, searching for the firmer contact she needed so badly.

‘Not yet—be patient, querida…’

Lifting Zoë’s arms above her head, Rico drew her underneath him. As one powerful thigh moved between her legs she shuddered with desire.

‘Open your eyes, and look at me, Zoë.’

It was the most exquisite pleasure Zoë had ever known, and the warm, insistent pressure took her to a place where she could only breathe and feel. And then he caught the tip inside her, and it was she who swarmed down the bed to take him deeper. It was so easy, so right, there wasn’t a moment of fear or the hint of a painful spasm to wipe out that pleasure.

The pain she had always felt before had been caused by fear, Zoë realised. She wasn’t frigid at all. She was just a normal woman who had been waiting for a normal man. And all she wanted now was that Rico took full possession of her body and filled her completely.

She loved this new sensation, the stretching, filling, pulsing. They started moving together, oblivious to the hungry sounds that escaped their lips, moving firmly until Zoë’s fingers bit into the firm flesh of Rico’s shoulders and she gave herself up completely to pleasure.

He held her in his arms, stroking her until she was quiet again, and then turned her so that now she was on top of him, straddling him, her legs widely parted. Sweeping the curve of her buttocks with a feathery touch, he tantalised her until she squirmed with delight and longed for him to drag her to him, plunge his tongue deep into the warm secret places of her mouth. But he had more skill than that, and made her wait until she was intoxicated by the raw power burning beneath her.

Feeling the insistent pressure of Rico’s erection, Zoë took him deep inside her until she was completely filled. Then she began to move slowly, backwards and forwards, until she felt him take over. Throwing back her head, she closed her eyes, losing herself in sensation while he claimed her breasts, agitating her nipples between thumb and finger until she groaned out her pleasure and begged him for more. He turned her again, bringing her beneath him and using a few firm thrusts to bring on an electrifying climax that went on endlessly until she fell back panting on the bed.

Every part of her was glowing pink in the stunning aftermath of pleasure, Zoë realised, laughing softly with happiness. She had not thought it possible that a man could give himself to a woman so unselfishly. The expression on Rico’s face was a fierce mix of passion and tenderness. It made her want him more than ever. She wanted to be the only woman who could put that expression on his face. She wanted his warmth and his strength curled around her for ever. She wanted everything.

As she murmured his name and reached out to him he dragged her close. His drugging kisses, the seductive touch of his hard body was more tantalising than anything she had ever imagined. He knew how to play her, to gently tease her and build her confidence. It was as if they had all the time in the world, and he meant to devote every moment of that time to pleasing her.

His hands were skilled, the look in his eyes commanding. He could order her to new heights of pleasure and she would obey at once. As she enjoyed his warm musky scent, laced with cinnamon and juniper, she felt as if her bones had turned to molten liquid. Her legs moved restlessly on the bed, seeking a cool place and then wrapping around him so he could be in no doubt as to what she wanted.

A great pulse was throbbing between her legs, and yet still he toyed with her, teasing and tempting until she could think of nothing but his firm touch. He must thrust inside her again to the hilt, stretching her wide— ‘Please, Rico!’

‘So you have not had enough yet?’ He sounded pleased.

‘Not nearly enough.’ She didn’t care what he thought of her; all she knew was her need for him. ‘Please.’

Rico looked at Zoë, writhing beneath him. More pleasure could be gained by testing themselves to the limit. She must wait. He moved now with an agonising lack of speed, holding away from her until at last he consented to catch just inside her.

Her eyes shot open. ‘How can you tease me now?’

‘Easily.’ He smiled. When she gasped with delight, he slowly brushed the velvet tip against her. ‘Is this what you want, Zoë?’ He slipped one controlling hand beneath her buttocks.

‘You know it is.’

‘More than anything?’ But she didn’t hear him now. Her mind was closed to anything as demanding as speech. She only wanted to feel, and be lost in his arms.

It was late by the time Rico took Zoë back to the castle. He still had work to do, and so did she. The sat in the Jeep like two teenagers who had just discovered each other. They kissed and touched as if every moment might be their last.

Parting from Rico was the hardest thing she had ever had to do, Zoë realised as she climbed out of the Jeep and shut the door. She stood motionless in the courtyard until he had driven away, disappeared from sight, and she couldn’t even hear the noise of the engine.

But as she turned she felt as if she was walking six feet off the ground. It was as if the world around her had suddenly come into sharp focus and she had only been viewing it through a veil before. So this is what happiness feels like, she thought as she turned her face up to the sky.

Hurrying inside, Zoë couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She didn’t try. She didn’t care if the whole world knew about her and Rico. This was love.

There were five Louis Vuitton suitcases lined up neatly at the end of her bed. Frowning as she dipped down to read the labels, Zoë pulled her hand away as the door swung open behind her.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice was young and supercilious. High-pitched. The slight accent suggested she was Spanish.

And very beautiful, Zoë discovered when she turned around. Dressed all in red, the young woman was slender, and shorter than Zoë. The tailoring was Chanel, Zoë guessed from the buttons on her suit jacket, and her glossy black hair was arranged high on her head in an immaculate chignon.

She made Zoë felt scruffy in comparison—scruffy and apprehensive. Her heart was thudding heavily in her chest as she tried not to let her imagination get the better of her. She hadn’t a clue who the woman could be. They certainly didn’t know each other. This was Rico’s castle, yet she seemed perfectly at home. Her mouth was pursed with disapproval, and she was doing a good job of making Zoë feel like the intruder. Zoë was conscious of her own tangled hair, still damp from Rico’s shower. Her face had to be glowing from the aftermath of so much lovemaking, and she knew she was under close inspection.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I always stay here,’ the young woman said confidently. Crossing to the window, she threw it wide open. She fanned herself theatrically and inhaled deeply, as if its previous occupant had somehow polluted the room.

‘I’m sorry—have we met?’ Walking up to her, Zoë extended a hand in greeting.

‘I’m sure we haven’t.’

Dark, cold eyes bored into Zoë’s. Fingertips were proffered reluctantly. They were cold too.

‘Beba Longoria.’

Zoë couldn’t have been more shocked, but she hid it as best she could. The Beba? This woman looked nothing like the voluptuous young girl in the poster at the mountain hut. Success had stripped away her bloom, replacing it with an edgy tension. Maybe that was a result of having to defend her position against a constant stream of younger rivals. Yet Maria had remained unchanged…

Zoë pulled herself round with difficulty. ‘I’m Zoë Chapman.’

‘Ah, so you are Zoë Chapman. I hardly recognised you. You look quite different from the way you appear on television—much older.’

Touché, Zoë thought grimly. She tensed as Beba tossed her handbag onto the bed. The sight of the shiny red pouch clipping the edge of her pillows was the last straw. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had all your things brought in here—someone should have told you I’m using this room. But don’t worry. I’ll have them transferred.’

‘Transferred? What are you talking about?’

‘To one of the spare rooms.’ Zoë smiled helpfully.

‘You clearly don’t know who I am.’

‘I’ve seen your poster at the mountain hut—’

‘Then Rico must have told you.’

‘Rico?’ Zoë’s confident expression faltered. Inwardly she was in crisis. But she had to try not to jump to conclusions. Rico had brothers and sisters. Beba might be one of them. Longoria could be her married name.

‘Alarico Cortes? You do know who I’m talking about?’

‘Of course I know him.’

‘I see.’ One perfectly groomed brow lifted as Beba stared at Zoë thoughtfully, and Zoë realised her hasty response had given away too much. She was on the back foot, cheeks blazing, when it should have been Beba feeling the heat.

‘There’s an understanding between us.’ Beba’s voice had dropped to a confidential level, as if she was trying to drop a bomb lightly on Zoë’s head. ‘Rico and I have been together since we were children. I’m surprised he didn’t mention you to me—but then I suppose he can’t be expected to remember every woman he meets.’

Turning away, she checked her hair in the dressing-table mirror, picking up Zoë’s hand mirror to look at the back.

Zoë could feel the hostile black eyes spying on her through the mirror. But she was determined to hold herself together. ‘There’s obviously been a mistake.’ She shrugged, and kept it pleasant. ‘You see, I have taken a lease on the castle, and I’m using this suite of rooms during my tenancy. As you haven’t unpacked yet, I’ll just call down and have one of the crew come up and help you move to another room—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience.’ Zoë’s anger propelled her into action. She was already freeing the handle on the top of one of Beba’s suitcases when she spoke again. ‘So of course you are welcome to stay at the castle until you find alternative accommodation.’

‘Rico will hear about this!’

‘I’m afraid he has no legal rights over the castle until my lease expires. I doubt he can help you.’

‘Alarico Cortes wields more power than you could ever understand.’ Beba’s face was twisted in an ugly mask as she snatched up her handbag from the bed. ‘When he hears that I have been insulted—’

‘He’ll what?’

‘Throw you onto the street!’

As Beba swept out of the room Zoë sank down on the bed. Her heart was thundering, but her mind was mercifully empty. She was numb with shock. All she was aware of was the click-clack of heels rattling away down the landing towards the main staircase.

When it was silent again, Zoë found she was shuddering uncontrollably. Burying her face in her hands, she drew her feet up on the bed and curled herself into a tight, defensive ball. Had Rico known about this when they were in bed together? Would Beba have dared to march into the castle and throw her weight around unless they were an item, as she said? Rico had never mentioned another woman. But a man like Rico Cortes with no woman in his life? She really had been living in a dream world!

Was she the type of companion El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon would take to the court of the King of Spain? Or would he take Beba—glamorous flamenco star? It was a stark choice between a cook with red hands and wild hair, or someone perfectly groomed, someone fragrant and dainty, with long, manicured fingernails and a musical laugh. She was quite certain Beba had a musical laugh.

Zoë reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. Rico’s butler told her Señor Cortes was still out on business. No, he didn’t know when he would be back. When pressed, the man admitted Señor Cortes was expected to return before a dinner appointment out, later that evening.

Later that evening! She couldn’t wait until later that evening. She had to see him now—speak to him right away—resolve all this. There had to be an explanation.

Rico hadn’t mentioned any plans for them, Zoë realised as she cut the line. It had never crossed her mind to ask when they would see each other again—she had taken it for granted. She felt sick, faint. She wanted this to be a nightmare. Because if it wasn’t, she was on her way to making a fool of herself for the second time in her life.

She couldn’t do anything yet, and it was far better to be busy than to brood, Zoë thought, wheeling the last of Beba’s suitcases out of her room. She was hot all over again with the effort of lugging five overweight suitcases into position. She had showered and changed into fresh clothes right after Beba left, and now she would have to shower again, and dry and brush her hair until it shone. She had no intention of wearing her heartbreak on her sleeve. Life went on, with or without Rico Cortes. She was just glad to have a job to pour her energies into, as well as people who relied on her to take the helm.

This time when Zoë left her room she locked the door—something she hadn’t felt the need to do since she’d moved into the castle. Hurrying downstairs, she found the team busy working on something in the Great Hall.

Philip swung round when he heard her.

‘What’s going on?’ Zoë could see he was in one of his excitable moods. ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’ she said, smiling at him as she watched him picking his way over some camera cables.

‘Cazulas is one incredible place, Zoë. You won’t believe who has turned up now.’

Oh, yes, she would! ‘Try me.’

‘Only Beba! The best flamenco dancer in all of Spain.’

‘Maria is the best flamenco dancer in all of Spain.’

‘You know this Beba chick?’

‘I’ve heard of her.’

‘Well, you could sound a little more excited.’

‘We haven’t discussed another feature, Philip,’ Zoë said, frowning as she realised what he planned to do.

‘What about replacing that footage we didn’t like? It’s too good an opportunity to miss. Come on, Zoë. We could make this the last and best show of the series.’

He was right. ‘So what’s the angle? We already have the best flamenco dancer in Spain. That’s how we billed Maria.’

‘Beba appeals to the youngsters. She’s like a pop star in the Latin world. We’re talking glamour, we’re talking riches, we’re talking one sassy lady.’

‘Yes, thank you. I think I get the picture.’

‘But you haven’t heard it all yet. Our audience get Beba—and then you remind the viewers about Maria, the greatest flamenco dancer in Spain! She’s agreed to come for the filming, by the way—the old and the new, two for the price of one! What do you say, Zoë?’

‘I’d say if I was Maria I’d be pretty insulted.’

‘That’s where you come in to it. You write the script and make sure she isn’t insulted.’

‘I can see you’ve got it all worked out, Philip—but after I write the script what will I cook? You do remember this is a cookery series?’

‘Stop worrying, Zoë. I’ve got it all worked out. We’re going to have a café-style setting, with a fabulous selection of food.’

‘I see. And where are the ingredients coming from for this fabulous selection of food? And who is going to eat it all?’

‘There’s a vanload of produce arriving any time now. Come on, Zoë, don’t be difficult.’

The thought of having Beba under the same roof for a moment longer than necessary didn’t appeal—and Zoë wasn’t happy about casual arrangements for food she hadn’t picked out herself. But if she agreed she would be so frantically busy there would be no time to think about her personal problems…

‘The girls have been round the village already, and everyone is keen to come back and act as extras for the programme, so we have our audience.’

‘I do have some stock in the deep-freeze…’

‘Don’t get hung up on minor details, Zoë. This is going to be a sensational programme and you know it.’

‘Food is a pretty large ‘‘minor detail’’ on a cookery show,’ Zoë pointed out dryly. But it would prove to Beba—and Rico?—that she had bounced back without causing more than a ripple in her everyday schedule if she could pull it off. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’ And then something else occurred to her. ‘Was it you who installed Beba in my bedroom?’

‘No, of course not. I didn’t even know she had done that.’

His shock was genuine, Zoë realised. ‘Don’t worry, I moved her out. But you had better see she gets a nice suite of rooms if you want her happy for the programme.’

‘She’ll have the best.’

‘No—I’ve already got that,’ Zoë said, savouring her one small victory. She was starting to fire with enthusiasm. She always did for a new programme. ‘I’ll need some quiet time to work on the script, then I can get on to the food. When are we filming?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Tonight!’ Get over it, Zoë thought. True, it didn’t give her much time. But if they were filming, and Beba was dancing, Beba couldn’t be with Rico. That suited her. And if Beba could dance as well as everyone said, it would make great television…

Zoë worked on her script in the bedroom, where she knew she would be undisturbed. She had one call from Philip, to warn her that Beba had insisted on complete artistic control over her performance. Zoë was happy to give it to her. The film would be edited before it was shown. Philip also told her that Beba was now happily installed in one of the grandest suites at the castle. Zoë was relieved to hear she was keeping a low profile, and had been most co-operative. One less thing to worry about, she thought with relief, replacing the receiver.

By the time the food was ready Zoë had to admit the team had done a great job. The Great Hall looked magical. Jewel-coloured tapestries and Persian rugs glowed in the candlelight, and there were colourful floral displays everywhere.

The setting was that of an intimate cellar club, with café tables arranged in groups around a circular wooden stage. People from the village had started to arrive, and were already being shown to their places. Zoë smiled with anticipation. She couldn’t help it. This tense air of anticipation for the unexpected was what had drawn her to television in the first place.

But Rico was always there in her mind.

The worry, the uncertainty about him didn’t go away. There had still been no word from him. She had tried telling herself it didn’t matter, but that was a lie. All she wanted was for him to walk in now, walk up to her, take her in his arms and tell her she had nothing to worry about—that Beba meant nothing to him and never had.

There was no sign of Beba either.

People smiled, and she smiled back, but concern was nagging away at her. He should have been in contact by now. He drove too fast. Surely he hadn’t had an accident?

Zoë spun round as the door opened. ‘Maria! I’m so pleased you agreed to come.’

‘I wouldn’t miss this night for the world.’

‘Have you seen Rico?’

‘No.’ She looked at Zoë with concern.

‘I’m sorry, Maria, I’m sure he’ll be along later. How’s your arm?’

‘Sore, but mending. I don’t need the sling now, and I took the bandage off.’

‘That’s good.’ Zoë could see Maria felt her agitation. So much for not brandishing her private concerns in public! ‘You are dancing tonight? I’m sorry it’s such short notice…’

As Maria touched her arm she smiled warmly into Zoë’s eyes. ‘Maybe I will have the chance to dance with you, Zoë?’

I hope not—for the sake of the audience, Zoë thought wryly—though even that, whether she bodged it or not, would make good television. ‘Do you know Beba well?’ she said, returning to the subject uppermost in her mind.

‘Beba?’ Maria paused. ‘Yes, I know Beba.’

‘Was she always so friendly with Rico?’

‘You know about that?’

Zoë’s heart plummeted. Time to act her socks off. But they were standing very close, and Maria was very shrewd. ‘Yes, Rico told me all about it. They make a handsome couple.’

‘You do know that she used to be my pupil?’

‘Your pupil?’ Of course. It all made sense now. ‘I saw the poster at the mountain hut.’

‘My most celebrated pupil.’ There was an odd expression on Maria’s face.

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Maria assured her, patting Zoë’s cheek.

‘Is she with Rico now?’

‘It would not surprise me.’

Zoë couldn’t stop now. ‘Have you seen them together here at the castle—tonight?’

‘Stop worrying, Zoë,’ Maria said gently. ‘Rico will be here. He will not let you down.’

He already had, Zoë thought.

Her legs felt like lumps of lead as she showed Maria to her table at the front of the stage. She felt sick and light-headed; there were icy cramps in her stomach. She really had no idea how she was going to get through the rest of the evening. But then the floor manager beckoned to her urgently. She welcomed the distraction. Work had always proved a refuge. Quite soon Wardrobe and Make-up would want her too, and she still had to make a crucial addition to her script to explain that Beba had been Maria’s star pupil. The news couldn’t have come at a more useful time. As far as the show went, Zoë reflected dryly, it couldn’t have worked out any better.

Half an hour later the cameras were ready to roll. The main lights had been switched off, and apart from the necessary television lights the only illumination now came from candlelight. It was the most romantic setting imaginable. But as Zoë stood waiting for her cue to introduce Beba she was sure her heart had shrivelled to the size of a nutmeg.

Her sights were firmly fixed on the single spotlight trained on the main entrance. The guitarist was already seated on his stool, and at any moment Beba would appear.

She started when the tio from the village touched her arm. She didn’t want to offend him by pointing out that the red light would flash on at any second.

‘You look worried.’ He frowned.

‘Always am just before we start recording,’ Zoë explained in a whisper. ‘Maria’s saving you a seat at the front.’

Worried? Concern was eating her up inside. Was Rico with Beba? How could Rico be with Beba? The two thoughts were spinning in her mind until she thought she would go mad.

‘You must be looking forward to seeing Beba dance?’

‘She is a fine dancer.’

Zoë wondered at the tio’s lack of enthusiasm for the local star. Maria had taught Beba to dance, so surely Beba’s success reflected well on Cazulas as well as on her teacher?

A sudden sound made Zoë jump, and with another light touch to her arm the tio was gone. Preparing to do her voiceover, Zoë realised the sound she had heard was the rattle of castanets, played by an expert.

There was one more imperative tattoo, and then, wearing a scarlet dress so tight it might have been painted onto her naked body, Beba stepped into the spotlight—on the arm of Rico Cortes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHE couldn’t break down. Not here—not with everyone to see. Zoë forced her concentration on to the small performance area and cleared her mind of everything but the music—that and her commentary between the various dances.

Beba danced with such purpose, such certainty, it made Zoë shiver. It was as if the young flamenco dancer siphoned up energy from the music and spat it out again in furious movement. Her stabbing heels beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings, and there was such passion in her dance that inwardly Zoë recoiled from it. The swirling skirts of Beba’s tight scarlet dress shattered the air into smothering perfumed waves.

The dance ended on a crashing chord. The proud head tilted down and Beba’s fierce black stare found Zoë’s face. At the same moment Zoë knew Rico was making his way discreetly around the back of the hall towards her. After a brief moment of silence the thunderous applause came. She took the chance to move away, but someone caught hold of her arm.

‘Maria!’ Looking round, Zoë saw the tio was talking to Rico. They were trying to hold a conversation above the cheers, the shouts and the stamping feet—the tio had his hand cupped to his ear.

‘Do you hear that?’ Maria whispered in her ear.

How could she not? Zoë thought, forcing a smile. The noise was deafening.

‘Do you hear duende?’ Maria persisted.

‘No,’ Zoë admitted. She could hear, ‘Olé! Brava! Eso es!’

She really wanted to go. She couldn’t bear this any longer. What difference could one word make?

‘Now you will hear duende!’ Maria’s voice was commanding as she thrust the beautiful lilac dress she had been holding over her arm into Zoë’s hands.

‘Are you mad?’ Zoë looked down at it in amazement. ‘I could never follow that.’

‘I can.’ Maria’s eyes were twinkling again. ‘Let us go now, and change into our performance clothes.’

‘No!’

‘Would you let me down, Zoë? Would you?’ she said again, when Zoë remained silent. ‘I have told your director; he knows all about this. He says it will be the perfect final sequence for your series.’

Zoë shook her head, thinking of Rico and how he would view her dancing right after Beba’s spectacular display. She felt bad enough about the situation. How much humiliation could she take? ‘No, Maria. I don’t want to let you down, but I can’t do it.’

‘Yes, you can,’ Maria insisted fiercely. ‘Whatever happens on that stage, it will make good television.’

‘Maria, please—’

‘And I need you to help me into my dress. My arm, as I already told you, is still a little sore…’

Zoë made a sound of despair. She couldn’t refuse. And now the tio had finished talking to Rico, and he was making fast progress around the hall towards her. ‘All right,’ she agreed tensely. ‘I just hope you know what you are doing.’

‘Of course I do,’ Maria said firmly, pushing Zoë in front of her with her good arm.

Zoë would never know quite what happened on stage that night. She only knew that concern for Maria took her there, and the thought of how Rico had betrayed her supplied the passion.

Maria performed as she always did as if she had absorbed the emotional energy of every person in the audience and released it in breathtakingly fluid moves, and by the time the finale came Zoë hardly cared that Beba had joined them on stage.

‘Do you hear it now?’ Maria whispered in Zoë’s ear.

Zoë listened. She had been so absorbed in her dancing she was hardly aware that it had come to an end, and that now the three of them were standing side by side, acknowledging the gratitude of the audience.

The cries of ‘Duende!’ were coming from all around her, Zoë realised incredulously. She could hardly believe it, and then Rico was on stage too, and her mind was reeling as he seized her hands and raised them to his lips.

‘You did it, Zoë! You did it!’

He seemed pleased…even proud. And he looked so handsome, with his seductive mouth curving into a grin. She couldn’t bear it, and turned her face away. But he cupped her chin and brought her back so she had nowhere to look but into his eyes.

‘You have just earned the ultimate accolade in the world of flamenco, Señorita Chapman.’ Then he raised her arm and the crowd went wild.

Why didn’t you tell me about Beba? Why didn’t you warn me? Why did you make love to me when you knew she would be here? Was I just something to fill a gap in your schedule before you had to meet her?

All Zoë’s pleasure had drained away. She was like a rag doll, limp and unresponsive. Rico hadn’t noticed. He was already moving away from her to embrace his mother. Then finally he took Beba’s hand, and Zoë saw the way the dancer looked at him, her dark eyes shining with adoration as he raised her arm in a victory salute.

As another great roar went up Zoë felt her eyes fill with tears. She hated herself for the weakness and could think of nothing but getting away—out of the spotlight, out of Cazulas, and out of Spain. Everyone was happy to see Rico and Beba together again—of course they were. And she was a fool if she thought El Señor Alarico Cortes would choose a cook over his very beautiful, very gifted fiancée.

She could never stand by and see the man she loved with another woman at his side. She had built a new life, won back her self-respect. Making herself available whenever Rico had an itch to scratch was not for her. Smiling brightly at the cameras for the last time, Zoë seized the chance to slip away.

When the knocking started up on her bedroom door, Zoë clutched the sheet to her chest and stayed motionless, listening.

‘Zoë, it’s me,’ Rico called to reassure her. ‘Open the door.’

She tensed. Was Beba with him? No—even Rico would not go that far. But Maria was right; the Cortes family did move in sophisticated circles. Rico might think they could make love all day, and again at night, with Beba sandwiched in between. She would not open the door, no matter how much he knocked…

But he didn’t knock again. Zoë frowned. She couldn’t help but be disappointed that he had given up so fast.

She turned to the window. ‘Rico!’

‘You should lock these doors at night,’ he said, stepping into the room from the balcony.

‘I always do.’

‘Well, tonight you forgot.’

Instinct made her gaze past him, just to make sure he was alone.

‘Who are you expecting?’ he said quizzically.

‘I didn’t think Beba would want to be left alone.’

‘Beba is never alone.’ Rico laughed as he bent to switch on the light.

‘Do you mind? I’m asleep.’

‘No, you’re not—unless you talk in your sleep.’ He smiled as he sat down beside her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m taking my shoes off. I don’t usually wear them in bed.’

‘You’re not getting into bed with me!’

‘Why not?’

‘Rico. I can’t—’

‘You can’t what, Zoë?’ He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. ‘I thought we’d got past this.’

Even though every fibre of her being was filled with longing she pushed his hand away. ‘Please—don’t.’

‘What’s happened, Zoë?’

‘Beba happened.’

‘Beba?’

‘You went to her after you slept with me.’

‘She wanted to see me.’

‘You don’t even bother to deny it?’ Zoë stopped. She could hear the hysteria rising in her voice.

‘No. Why should I?’

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She had intended to be brisk and to the point, to confront him with facts, hear him out, and then tell him to go. But life was never that clear-cut, or that simple. She should have known. ‘I can’t do this, Rico—this is never going to work for me.’

‘What isn’t going to work for you, Zoë? Are you afraid of me? Is that why you’re pushing me away?’

She was afraid of him, but not in the way he thought. She didn’t have what it took to sustain a relationship. A career, yes—she had proved that—but for some reason it seemed she wasn’t meant to find happiness with a man. ‘I can’t believe you misled me again, Rico.’

‘About Beba?’ He stood up and looked down at her, the proud angles of his face harshly etched in the lamplight.

‘She told me—’

‘She told you what?’

‘That you and she were an item.’

‘Then she lied.’

‘You never cared for each other?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Zoë didn’t want to hear any more; she couldn’t bear to. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she mumbled. Swinging her legs over the opposite side of the bed, she hurried to the bathroom. She closed the door and leaned back against it. Everything she had rebuilt before coming to Spain was in danger of collapsing, thanks to Rico.

But when she had calmed down a little she knew the answer didn’t lie in hiding away from him. Grabbing her robe down from the back of the door, she threw it on, belting it tightly. She went into the bedroom again, and switched on the main light.

‘Sit down, Rico.’ She pointed to the elegant sofa positioned to take in the view from the balcony. ‘We really need to get everything out in the open.’

‘I’m all right—you sit down. You’ve had quite a night.’

She searched his face for irony; there was none. ‘You can’t have us both, Rico.’ Standing stiffly, facing him, Zoë raked her hair until it stood around her head like a wild golden-red nimbus.

Rico’s gaze never wavered. ‘I don’t want anyone but you, Zoë.’

How she wanted to believe him. How she wanted to close the small gap between them, throw her arms around his neck and tell him she would stay with him for ever, and under any circumstances. But that would only lead to bitterness and resentment in the end.

‘Is there an understanding between the two of you?’

‘There was.’

Spain was a traditional country; this was a very traditional part of Spain. Zoë couldn’t imagine such ‘understandings’ were embarked upon lightly.

‘I can see you must need an appropriate wife…’

Yes, he had thought that at one time, Rico remembered. When he was younger. When he’d made his first fortune he had been brim-full of arrogance—partly because he hadn’t been sure what was expected of a young aristocrat with a huge amount of money in the bank. Now he realised it didn’t matter how much money you had, or what your title was. The only thing that mattered was that you made your corner of the world a little better. His mother Maria had done that, without a fortune or a title, and she was his only benchmark for success.

‘I don’t need a wife at all. Do you want me to tell you what Beba’s doing at the castle?’

Suddenly she wasn’t sure that she did, Zoë realised. If she was going to leave Spain in one piece emotionally, she didn’t want to hear another word. In fact, this was the moment she should tell Rico to get lost.

He didn’t give her that option. In a couple of strides he had her arms in his grasp. ‘I listened to you, Zoë, and now it’s your turn to listen to me.’

Zoë tensed. Rico’s gaze was frightening in its intensity.

‘Or are you just too scared to risk your heart again?’

Scared? She was scared of nothing. She stopped fighting him and clenched her jaw.

‘You’ve built walls so high around you, Zoë, you can’t see what’s happening outside your own stockade.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Isn’t it? Oh, you’re safe enough in there, but you’re not going to have much of a life.’

‘Just tell me this—are you engaged to Beba?’

‘Beba was my fiancée.’

‘Was?’ Zoë made a short humourless sound. ‘She certainly didn’t give me the impression she was in the past tense. Oh, I’m glad you can smile about it!’

‘I can smile where Beba’s concerned—that’s just the point. She doesn’t change. That’s why we’re not together now—whatever she might think, or might have told you.’

‘So what is the position between you? Did she just turn up in Cazulas out of the blue—to help me make a television programme, perhaps?’

He ignored her sarcasm. ‘Beba? Helping others? That’s more in your line, Zoë. Beba was the star in my mother’s dance class. We became lovers around the same time I heard I was going to inherit my father’s title.’

‘Do you think that was a coincidence?’

‘I don’t think anything is a coincidence where Beba is concerned. I was young, and I thought we were in love. I thought we loved each other. Then Beba discovered that my inheritance was just a title and nothing more—no money, no castle. She hadn’t expected that. I explained that it was only a matter of time before I rebuilt the family fortune, but she couldn’t wait. I can’t blame her. She had talent. She could earn her own money. I was all fired up. It never occurred to me that Beba might not share my enthusiasm for the long years of poverty that lay ahead. She broke off our engagement and went to Madrid to seek her fortune.’

‘Which she found,’ Zoë murmured.

‘I never wanted to hold her back, and I’m delighted that she has been so successful. I was equally determined that I would earn the right to be called El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon.’

‘Which you did.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now Beba has returned to Cazulas for the one thing she doesn’t have yet, and that’s you.’

‘Another trophy to add to the others.’ Rico smiled wryly at her. ‘I would have explained all this to you if I’d known what Beba planned to do in advance, and if my business meeting hadn’t gone on for so long. When I arrived at the castle and found she was here it was already too late.’

‘But you met with her?’

‘I had to talk to her. I had to tell her how I feel about you.’

‘About me?’

There was no such thing as dipping your toe in the water with Rico. It was total immersion or nothing. It was the sort of commitment Zoë feared above anything else. Staying safe inside her stockade, as Rico put it, had kept her sane since her divorce. The closest she had ever come to letting go was with him, and she didn’t know if she had what it took to let go completely.

‘It was only right to escort Beba onto the stage when she asked me to,’ Rico went on. ‘I knew that playing the tragic heroine suited her purpose. That sort of thing always puts her in the right mood for the dance. But I have no ambition to become an emotional punch-bag. She’s just not my type of woman.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Didn’t you notice all that anger and aggression? It has to come from somewhere, Zoë. Beba uses people. She sucks them dry and spits them out—they’re just the fuel for her dance.’

‘You make her sound so callous.’

‘So lonely. That’s why she came here to find me—to see if there was any chance of us getting together again.’

‘And you refused her?’

‘Of course I refused her. Beba and I don’t love each other—we never did. I asked her to marry me because I thought I should, and she agreed to marry me—well, you know why. Circumstances pushed us together when we were too young to know any better, but we each had our own very different road to travel.’

‘And now those roads have crossed again?’

‘I want a wife who will travel the same road as me, Zoë. I don’t want a woman who is trawling the world in search of the next thrill.’

‘But if Beba had been different?’

Shaking his head, Rico gave a wry smile. ‘Beba couldn’t be different. Beba couldn’t be you.’

‘And Cazulas was too small to hold her?’

‘The world is too small to contain Beba. She’s only here now because she is in between tours. She feeds on drama. The stage, a new lover—it’s all the same to her. There is no doubt in my mind at all, Zoë. It’s you I want.’

Foreboding coloured everything Zoë was hearing—everything Rico was saying to her. El Señor Alarico Cortes would one day want a suitable wife—not one who travelled the world to pursue her own career. When that day arrived would she be expected to stand aside and spend the rest of her life in the shadows? Rico’s father had been a Spanish grandee too. He’d given Maria the flamenco dancer a son, but hadn’t married her. Was that par for the course? Was his proud, complex son now offering her his love along with the promise of future pain? Was that what she wanted? Passion with all the heat of flamenco that would burn itself out until it only existed in her memory like a few fast-fading chords?

‘Won’t you come downstairs to join the party?’ Rico pressed, relaxing now he believed he had set everything straight. ‘Maria and the tio are waiting to see you—to congratulate you on your success.’

It was the end of an intensive stretch of work for the crew. It was churlish of her to stay in her room. Rico didn’t need to know that her mind was made up: she was leaving Cazulas for good.

Zoë actually flinched as the thought hovering in her mind became reality. Just outing it gave it clarity, gave it purpose, set it in stone. It was easier than she had imagined. She was leaving Cazulas for good. And not because she didn’t believe Rico about Beba, but because she did. He really loved her, he really wanted her; she could see that now. But she had nothing to offer him in return. She didn’t have anything left inside her. She didn’t have the courage it took to risk her heart again, to risk the pain he could cause her. She had been safe feeling nothing…

‘Zoë, look at me—don’t shut me out.’

The look in Rico’s eyes was so intense she felt dizzy, bewildered, disorientated. And then he took her hand and she felt the power he wielded, the force of his will, his strength, his passion flooding into her.

Escape for one more night. Physical pleasure so intense she could shut off the part of her that knew there must be consequences—Rico could offer her that. They could have one last night together, and then she would retreat inside that stockade he’d talked about—her stockade, where not even the memory of their affair would be able to reach her.

‘If I put on the lilac dress again, would you take that photograph for Maria?’

‘You know I will. Shall I wait outside while you change your clothes?’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Zoë watched Rico until he left the room. After all the intimacy they’d shared it seemed bizarre to have such reserve spring up between them now. He respected her, and if she had been content to be his mistress without having to give her love she had no doubt he would have protected her. But it wasn’t nearly enough.

When she was ready, Rico escorted Zoë downstairs again.

‘I’m wearing the dress so Rico can take that photograph you wanted,’ she said when they found Maria.

‘You make it sound as if you’re leaving us, Zoë.’

There was an expression in Maria’s eyes that made Zoë look away. She could lie to herself—she had perfected the art. But she could never lie to Maria.

‘Rico.’ Beba came over the moment she spotted him. ‘We were all wondering where you had got to.’

Her cold dark gaze lingered on Zoë’s face, and Zoë was glad when Rico drew her arm through his own.

‘I had some important business to attend to,’ he said.

‘So I see. Well, if you will excuse me…’ She turned away, then swung back again. Seizing Zoë’s hand, she clasped it in her own. ‘I wish you luck.’ She slanted a hostile glance at Rico. ‘You’re going to need it.’

Sour grapes? Zoë wondered. Or sound advice?

She could see the crew already starting to clear up some of the equipment. The hall was emptying fast. Once the series was in the can no one hung around; they had all been away from home too long as it was. She knew they would work through the night if necessary, just to be able to catch the first flight back. She would leave the castle shortly after them, though Rico didn’t need to know that.

The arrival of Beba had shaken her. Rico had reassured her where Beba was concerned, but what happened when he wanted a wife? She couldn’t give up the independence she had won at so high a price to become a rich man’s mistress… But she could have one more night.

‘Rico?’

Something in her voice told him what she wanted, and his eyes darkened with desire. ‘Are you ready to go to bed now?’

‘If you still want me.’

They said their goodnights quickly. And as their fingers intertwined Zoë could think of nothing but the next few hours as Rico led her towards the stairs.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ZOË’S lips slipped open beneath the gentle pressure of Rico’s mouth. Deepening the kiss, he stripped off the lilac dress while his tongue sought out the dark, secret places in her mouth.

It was as if they had never made love before, her hunger for him was so great. He was inside her before they reached the bed with her legs locked around his waist and her arms secured round his neck, her fingers meshed through his hair. He supported her easily, with his strong hands beneath her buttocks, and the reassurance of feeling him hard and deep inside her was almost unbearably good.

She had to remember this moment for a lifetime, Zoë thought, as Rico lowered her onto the edge of the mattress.

They made love there, with no preliminaries and with no thought of seeking the luxury of the well-sprung bed. Zoë cried out her encouragement as Rico tipped her at an angle, resting her legs over his shoulders to increase satisfaction for them both. And all the time he moved inside her he murmured her name, and told her how much he loved her, and how he wanted to be with her for ever…

This was for ever, Zoë thought. For her, at least.

Zoë stopped waving as the last van disappeared out of sight. She could feel her colleagues’ hugs still imprinted on her skin, and hear their words of encouragement and good wishes ringing in her ears. None of them knew how she felt inside. They would never know.

Rico had left her at dawn. It really couldn’t have worked out any better. He had some business to attend to back at the beach house, and so she had been spared a painful parting.

She had slept fitfully in his arms all night, dreading the morning, dreading the moment when she would tell him she couldn’t stay in Cazulas. Her idea of sleeping with him one last time, making love with him half the night in the hope of keeping the memory alive, had been a terrible mistake. Instead of leaving her with tender memories to carry forward when she left Spain for good, it had left her with guilt and unbearable loss.

She had learned nothing from the past. She was betraying Rico just as she had been betrayed. Her ex-husband had won the final battle now she had completed the circle of violence. There was no physical violence, of course, but she was violating Rico’s trust. She had taken his love and was letting it slip through her fingers because she didn’t have the guts to hang on to it. She was still scared of commitment, still scared to risk her heart. She was brave enough to take the pleasure now—just not brave enough to take the consequences.

The best thing for Rico, the best thing all round, would be if she left without a fuss. Her suitcases were already packed, and she intended to drive to the station around noon.

It was strange being alone in the castle. Even Beba had packed up and gone, and it was a quiet, lonely place now. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her friends in the village, but she didn’t belong in Cazulas any more than Beba. Her life revolved around a television programme, and it was time to return to reality.

Back in the kitchen, Zoë could hardly bring herself to look at the collection of local pottery on the table. She was taking all of it back to England. She was quite sure Rico wouldn’t want any reminders of her visit. The crew had left some empty packing cases for her, and a removal van was due to arrive before she left for the station. All the heavy equipment for the show that wouldn’t fit into the vans had to be shipped back to the UK, and the pottery would be delivered to her London home at the same time.

She had been packing and wrapping for some time when she heard the music. Leaving the kitchen, she hurried into the hall.

‘Good morning, Zoë.’

‘Rico!’

He was sitting cross-legged on a stool in the centre of the floor, one hand caressing the neck of his guitar, the other hovering over the strings. She had thought it would be possible to get used to the idea of living without him, but in that instant Zoë knew she was wrong.

Turning back to his guitar, he started to play again, as if she wasn’t there. The music held her transfixed. He stopped playing quite suddenly. His slap on the side of the guitar echoed around the empty hall. Laying the guitar down carefully on the floor, he stood, reminding her how tall he was, how commanding.

‘When were you going to tell me you were leaving?’

Zoë stared at him. There was nothing she could say to justify her actions.

‘Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘You’re sorry?’ he said incredulously.

‘I need my work—’

‘And?’

Zoë’s voice was barely above a whisper. It was as if she was talking to herself, trying to convince herself and not him. ‘I can’t let anyone take over my life again.’

‘Take over your life? What the hell are you talking about, Zoë?’ He made no attempt to close the distance between them.

‘It’s all I’ve got. It’s what I do.’

‘It’s all you had,’ he said fiercely.

‘You don’t understand, Rico. I just can’t be there for you.’

He turned away, but not before she saw the hurt in his eyes. ‘That’s different.’

His voice was hoarse, and he didn’t look at her when he spoke. They might have been standing on separate ice floes, drifting steadily apart. But this was what she wanted, wasn’t it—this final break between them? She just hadn’t imagined doing it face to face. In her usual cowardly way she had been going to bury her head in the sand somewhere far away from Spain.

‘You can’t be there for me?’ he repeated bitterly. ‘So what was I, Zoë? Some type of experiment? Just a random male you could use to exorcise your ghosts?’

‘Don’t say that, Rico.’

‘Why not? Because it’s true?’ He laughed, and it was a hard, ugly sound. ‘You should be happy.’

‘Happy?’ Zoë could hear incredulity approaching hysteria in her voice.

‘At least you know you’re not frigid now.’

‘Stop it!’ She covered her ears.

‘No, you stop it!’ Rico said with an angry gesture. ‘You come here to Cazulas. You seek help for your show, which I give to you freely. We make love—at least I did. Yes, I love you, Zoë,’ he confirmed fiercely. ‘But you just used me. You’re no better than Beba!’

‘Rico!’ Through her shock, Zoë knew what he was saying was true. She reached out to him. ‘Rico—don’t go yet. Can’t we talk?’

‘Why shouldn’t I go? The only reason I can think of for you wanting me to stay is that you need some more reassurance in bed. And frankly, Zoë, I’m not in the mood.’

The stool was kicked over as he snatched up his guitar, and then he went to the door. Halting with his hand on the heavy iron handle, he turned to her. ‘You might as well have this.’

Zoë started towards him, but she was too late.

Putting an envelope on the table by the door, he walked out.

The castle was like a deserted shell. There was no life, no sound, nothing. Zoë’s footsteps echoed on the stone-flagged floors as she completed her final check. Even the towering walls seemed to have grown cold and unfriendly. She was glad when she finally closed the heavy oak door behind her; an empty castle was a lonely place.

The removal van had taken the last of her things away, and the few bits and pieces she had found now could be loaded into the car. There was nothing for her to stay for. But before she left Cazulas for good there was one more stop she had to make.

Maria ushered her into the cottage. ‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ Zoë said.

‘Rico told me you were leaving.’

‘Now I’m here, I don’t know where to begin…’

‘At the beginning?’ Maria suggested gently. ‘But first you must sit down. You look worn out.’

‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Rico’s face flashed into her mind, and then the contents of the envelope he had left behind. She bit her lip. ‘Truthfully, Maria, I’m not fine.’

‘I can see that. Come and sit here with me at the fireside. You take this chair across from mine.’

The overhead fan was whirring. It was almost midday. The shutters were closed and it was hot in the small room. But the fireside was a symbol to Zoë—a symbol of Maria’s happy, well-ordered life.

And as she talked things through with Maria it was as if Zoë saw everything clearly for the first time. She saw how she was pushing Rico away each time he got close, grabbing at excuses to justify her actions. She understood the bewilderment she had felt at discovering that having the most wonderful sex with him hadn’t been enough to exorcise her demons, after all. She had to stop holding back before that could happen, but she was still terrified of risking herself in a relationship again—so terrified she hadn’t even paused to consider how Rico might feel.

And now she was ashamed. She was particularly ashamed in front of Maria, who had given so much of herself so generously—to Rico, to his father, and to the village of Cazulas. If Maria hadn’t prompted her so gently, encouraged her so warmly, Zoë knew she would never have had the confidence to pour her heart out as she did.

When she had finished, she gave Maria the envelope Rico had left at the castle.

Maria hesitated, holding it in her hands.

‘Please read what’s inside,’ Zoë prompted.

Maria read the papers, and then put them carefully back into the envelope.

‘My son must love you very much. Did you doubt him?’

‘Before I met Rico I couldn’t see beyond what had happened to me in the past.’

‘And after you met him?’

Zoë turned away, unable to meet Maria’s candid stare.

‘Since he inherited his father’s title Rico has been prey to fortune hunters and the press. You have a mutual enemy in the paparazzi, Zoë.’

‘Yes, I can see that now.’

‘Rico was furious when he returned from his travels to discover that his land agent had leased Castillo Cazulas to a television company. But then he fell in love with you—’

‘And made me a gift of the castle.’

‘Don’t look so surprised. He wanted you to have a Spanish headquarters; the castle is perfect. It is far too big for a family home. Imagine what a film set it will make. Rico must have been on the point of asking you to marry him.’

‘Marry him? No, you’re wrong about that, Maria.’

‘Why else would he have done this? The castle was your wedding present.’

‘He would never marry me.’ Zoë tried to reason it out. She wanted nothing more than to accept that what Maria had said was true, made sense—but her mind just wouldn’t accept it. Deep down she still believed she wasn’t good enough. ‘I could never—’ She stopped, remembering Maria’s history.

‘Be his mistress?’ Maria finished for her. ‘As I was to his father? No, don’t look so embarrassed, Zoë. You haven’t offended me. I made my choice, and now you must make yours. But I can assure you Rico isn’t looking for a mistress. He saw how unhappy it made his father. Yes.’ She put her hand up when Zoë started to interrupt. ‘Rico’s father always wanted to marry me. He insisted my fears about our differing backgrounds were unfounded. He was ahead of his time; I was not. I know Rico loves you, Zoë. He wants you with him. He must have known how you would feel about such a life-change. He wanted you to keep your independence, your company—even your own accommodation, if that was what would make you happy.’

‘A castle?’ Zoë said wryly.

Maria sighed. ‘Rico never does things by halves—and, after what you have told me today about your past, I think he wanted to protect you from uncertainty, do everything he could to reassure you. I think he loves you very much.’ Maria’s soft brown eyes bathed Zoë’s face in compassion. ‘And now you think it is too late. That is why you have come to me. You think you need my help.’

As their gazes locked, Zoë realised she had never needed anyone’s help as much as she needed Maria’s. ‘I don’t know what I can do to put things right,’ she admitted huskily, ‘or if it’s possible to put things right.’

‘You are strong enough to know what is right. You just can’t see it yet. You don’t need me or your television company to cling to. You’re a survivor, like me, Zoë. You know what you have to do.’

Zoë found Rico walking barefoot at the water’s edge in front of the beach house. His jeans were rolled up and a soft breeze was lifting his blue-black hair as he faced the wind with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets.

She didn’t have to see his face to know how much he was hurting—how much she had hurt him. There could be no more hiding inside the stockade. No more hiding, full stop. Reaching out, putting her heart on the same line as his, was exactly what she wanted to do.

‘Zoë?’ Rico whirled round with surprise. ‘I thought you would have left for the airport by now.’

‘Rico.’ Zoë’s heart lurched when she saw the weariness in his eyes. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Why not?’ Opening his arms, he gestured around. ‘There are only seabirds to hear us.’

Digging into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the envelope. ‘You didn’t expect me to walk away after you left this at the castle?’

He didn’t answer. He just folded his arms and stared at her.

‘I’ve come to give it back to you.’

‘That’s a pity.’ He looked at the envelope and turned it over in his hands. ‘I grew up believing it was my destiny to own Castillo Cazulas. But when I brought it back into the family again I discovered it was just a large, empty building.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought when I locked it up just now.’

‘When you were there the whole place was transformed.’ Holding her gaze, Rico shook his head and smiled a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. ‘Your programme, your team—you brought it back to life, Zoë. It was exactly what the old place needed.’

‘Chaos?’

This time they both smiled.

Straightening the envelope he had tightly clenched in his fist, Rico held it out. ‘When Castillo Cazulas was first built a whole community thrived there, not just one family. I want the castle to live again through you. Take it, Zoë. Castillo Cazulas is nothing without you. I’ll probably sell it.’

‘You can’t give me a castle,’ Zoë said incredulously. ‘Rico, that’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’ He shrugged as he thrust the envelope into her hands.

Zoë shook her head. The only sound was the wind, and the sea pounding on the shore at their feet. ‘I couldn’t be in Cazulas, knowing I might see you, bump into you.’

‘I don’t want Castillo Cazulas for the very same reason,’ Rico admitted. ‘I could never see the castle now without thinking of you.’

‘I’m sorry—this was a mistake. I should never have come.’

Turning, Zoë began walking quickly back across the sand towards the road, where she had left the car.

‘Zoë—’

Rico’s voice wavered on the wind, and then sank beneath the noise of the surf. Was this what she really wanted? Zoë wondered, her steps faltering. A lifetime of wondering, What if? A lifetime of running away from the past? A life without Rico in it? Hadn’t the time come to stop running—to face up to life—to face him?

They both turned at the same moment.

Zoë didn’t know who took the first step. She only knew that she was running with the wind at her back, and then Rico tasted of salt and sunshine, and when his arms closed around her she knew it was the only reassurance she would ever need.

The lease for Castillo Cazulas lay forgotten on the sand, and then the breeze picked it up and carried it away out to sea.

‘You can’t leave Cazulas, Zoë,’ Rico said, pulling away from her at last. ‘We need you here. I need you. The village needs you. You’re good for all of us. We love you. I love you. Please tell me you’ll stay.’

‘How can you ask me that when I’ve been so selfish—when I’ve hurt you so badly?’

‘You haven’t been selfish,’ Rico assured her. Bringing her hands to his lips, he kissed them passionately. ‘You were knocked down to the ground, Zoë. It takes time to grow straight again, to grow tall. But I’ll wait for you for ever, if that’s what it takes.’

Zoë was touched, dazed—even shamed by Rico’s declaration. He saw so much where she had been blind. But her eyes were wide open now. This proud, passionate man was every bit as vulnerable when it came to love as she was.

Reaching up, she traced his cheek with her hand. ‘I love you with all my heart, Rico. You’ve shown me what love should be, and I’ll never leave you.’ And she never would, Zoë realised; with or without his ring.

‘I’m not asking you to give up anything, as long as you promise to leave some space in your life for me.’

‘You’ve got it,’ Zoë assured him. ‘But it’s a rather big space, if that’s all right with you?’

‘That’s just perfect.’ He dragged her close. ‘Now, who shall we have to cater for the wedding?’

‘The wedding?’ Zoë stared incredulously into Rico’s face as he heaved a mock sigh.

‘I suppose you should have the night off on your wedding day.’

‘Rico, what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying the caterers will have quite a lot to live up to—’

‘Rico!’

‘Did I forget something?’

‘You know you did!’

‘Will you marry me, Zoë?’ he said, growing suddenly serious. And when she just stared at him he knelt down in the wet sand and reached for her hand.

‘You’ll ruin your jeans—’

‘Then say yes quickly, or I’ll have to take them off.’

‘Then it will take me a very long time indeed to accept your proposal.’ Kneeling in front of him, Zoë put her hands in his. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, Rico. And I’ll love and honour and cherish you for ever—’

‘There’s just one condition for the wedding,’ he cut in, drawing her close.

‘Oh?’ Zoë murmured against his mouth. ‘What’s that?’

‘No cameras, mi amor.’

Melanie Milburne, Diana Hamilton and Susan Stephens

MEDITERRANEAN MEN BUNDLE

CONTENTS

Melanie Milburne

THE GREEK’S BRIDAL BARGAIN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Diana Hamilton

THE ITALIAN’S PRICE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Susan Stephens

THE SPANISH BILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Authors

Melanie Milburne

Diana Hamilton

Susan Stephens

Coming Next Month

Melanie Milburne,
Diana Hamilton
and Susan Stephens

THE SPANISH
BILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS