The Balfour Legacy

MIA’S SCANDAL – Michelle Reid
KAT’S PRIDE – Sharon Kendrick
EMILY’S INNOCENCE – India Grey
SOPHIE’S SEDUCTION – Kim Lawrence
ZOE’S LESSON – Kate Hewitt
ANNIE’S SECRET – Carole Mortimer
BELLA’S DISGRACE – Sarah Morgan
OLIVIA’S AWAKENING – Margaret Way

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Right Sisters, Right Scandalously Seductive Stories

Scandal on the night of the world-famous one hundredth Balfour Charity Ball has left the Balfour family in disarray! Proud patriarch Oscar Balfour knows that something must be done. His only option is to cut his daughters off from their lavish lifestyles and send them out into the real world to stand on their own two feet. So he dusts off the Balfour family rules and uses his powerful contacts to place each girl in a situation that will challenge her particular personality. He is determined that each of his daughters should learn that money will not buy happiness—integrity, decorum, strength, trust…and love are everything!

Each month Mills & Boon is delighted to bring you an exciting new instalment from The Balfour Legacy.

You won’t want to miss out!

Mia’s Scandal

Michelle Reid

Michelle Reid grew up on the southern edges of Manchester, the youngest in a family of five lively children. Now she lives in the beautiful county of Cheshire, with her busy executive husband and two grown-up daughters. She loves reading, the ballet and playing tennis when she gets the chance. She hates cooking, cleaning and despises ironing! Sleep she can do without and produces some of her best written work during the early hours of the morning.

For Imelda, my wonderful mother, who is currently enjoying her ninety-ninth year.

Thanks, Mum, for gifting me with my love of reading and encouraging me to dare to write.

Prologue

MIA stood poised between two great stone gateposts on top of which stood a matching pair of fierce golden griffins perched as if ready to swoop.

A fine shiver ran down her taut backbone. She had to drag her eyes away from their watchful presence in case they glared her into losing her nerve. Part eagle, part lion, she recognised the two fearsome creatures from the Balfour family crest she’d seen emblazoned on the Balfour website along with the family motto Validus, Superbus quod Fidelis…

Powerful, Proud and Loyal…

‘Dio,’ she breathed in a soft shaken whisper, so intimidated by the sheer opulent grandeur of the stately entrance that the butterflies already playing havoc in her stomach went wild.

Behind her, the sound of the taxicab that had brought her here from the airport was slowly fading into the distance, leaving her alone in the weak February sunlight filtering down through the bare branches of the overhanging trees.

It felt strange to think that only one short week ago she had been living her life with her aunt in rural Tuscany, completely unaware that there was a rich and glamorous English family called Balfour, never mind that she could be connected to the glorious name.

She would still be unaware of it if that coldly distant person who was supposed to be her mother had not ignored her pleas to let her come and visit her, making Tia Giulia decide it was time to reveal a dark secret she had been keeping to herself for twenty long years.

Now here she stood on the very brink of meeting Oscar Balfour. Proud head of the house of Balfour. Powerful businessman and billionaire. Husband to three very different wives and father to seven—seven—beautiful daughters.

Eight daughters, Mia adjusted, and it made her tummy flip over.

Would a man who had already been blessed with seven daughters want another one?

It was the question she had come all this way to ask him. She needed to face Oscar Balfour and take his reaction to her existence square on her vulnerable chin. If he refused to acknowledge her, then what had she lost but a little bit more of her heart? The cold rejection of her mother had clawed out another huge chunk of it, so his rejection could not be any more hurtful, could it?

And anyway, there was that chance that he might be prepared to welcome her.

Biting down on her full soft trembling lip, Mia reached down to grasp the handle of her suitcase, then straightened. Setting her narrow shoulders inside her soft woven jacket she tipped the case onto its wheels. Her heart was going pitter-patter, she noticed, feeling a tightening across her chest that made it almost impossible for her to breathe. As she stepped out and placed her weight on her leading foot, tiny pinpricks of tension tingled up her leg to her spine. For a second she felt slightly dizzy. For a second she had to close her eyes.

When she opened them again she found she was staring down a long stretch of driveway lined either side by an avenue of old trees. She could not see the house from here because of a dip in the land ahead, but she knew it was out there defending its privacy in its own secluded valley, because it had said so on the Balfour website.

Now all she had to do was walk between those two lines of trees towards it, she told herself, aware as she made herself start walking that her insides were truly quailing with dread at what she was doing, and yet also aware of a quivering, tumbling sense of excitement that danced like fire in her blood.

Nikos Theakis was not a man who suffered emotional excesses. In fact, he prided himself on his cold, calm businesslike approach to most facets of his life. But as he drove away from his breakfast meeting with Oscar that morning, there was nothing calm or businesslike about what he was taking away with him.

He was in shock. The whole Balfour family was in shock, the only one of them seemingly managing to cope being Lillian Balfour herself.

A soft curse broke free from his throat as the pale frail image of Oscar’s beautiful wife swam up in front of him, smiling bravely as she’d bid him a painfully final farewell.

Emotion swooped down through his body, sending his foot down hard on the accelerator as if the angry burst of speed would take the alien feeling away. The powerful car leapt forward, up and out of the valley, taking him beneath the canopy of tangling bare branches that lined his route away from the Balfour estate.

But he wasn’t concentrating. Nikos knew that even as he saw her standing there, directly in his way. For a few chilling seconds he was so sure he was seeing some ghostly apparition dressed all in black that he forgot to slam his foot on the brakes.

He had never experienced anything like it. In those few stark, stunning split seconds it took him to connect with his wits, his shocked gaze had absorbed every long luscious inch of her, from her glossy black hair framing an exquisite heart-shaped face to the lush shape of her body enclosed inside a fitted jacket and a skirt that followed every long sinuous line of her curving hips, long slender thighs and shapely calves. And she was wearing boots, he noticed for some crazy reason. Little black leather ankle boots with heels like lethal spikes.

Then reality hit like a stinging shot of electricity to his wits and biting out a string of thick curses he slammed his foot down hard on the brakes.

Mia stood frozen as the low silver monster hurtled towards her, filling the air with a tire-burning, ear-piercing screech as the long silver bonnet came closer and closer until finally it slithered to a grit-spitting halt two tiny centimetres from her shins.

The engine hissed; the silver bonnet shuddered—silence returned like a numbing blow to the head. Pushing back into his seat, Nikos stared out at her with his heart pounding like a hammer and his fingers still clamped to the wheel. He had not believed he was going to stop in time. He wasn’t even sure that he had. He continued to sit in a state of near-total shutdown, waiting for her to give him a clue by making some kind of movement—by stepping back to show he hadn’t hit her or to drop down to the ground in a smashed heap!

Theos, she’s beautiful, his stupefied brain fed to him, then compounded the observation by feeding a rush of hot blood down his front. It gathered in his loins like a neat shot of testosterone. Reacting to it with an explosive force of anger he thrust open the car door and threw himself out.

‘What the hell do you think you are playing at!’ he raked out in full blistering fury. ‘Do you have a death wish or something? Why the hell didn’t you move out of my way—?’

It took every bit of Mia’s numbed strength just to breathe in and out. Her eyelashes finally gave a flutter of life and she managed to raise her eyes up from the car to focus on him instead. It came as a second shock to find she was staring at the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life.

And he was striding towards her like a gladiator going to war. Only this gladiator had a black overcoat hanging from his impressive wide shoulders and wore a frighteningly elegant steelgrey three-piece suit beneath. His shirt was white, his tie a silky slither of smoke down his front.

Reaching the corner of the car he stopped to rake a downward glance at how close he had come to her fragile legs. Fire lit his eyes just before he reached out, clamped his hands around her waist and bodily plucked her off the ground. He was so intent on what he was doing he didn’t seem to hear her sharp gasp of shock, or the heavy thud as her suitcase dropped from her taut fingers and hit the ground. The next thing Mia knew she was up close and staring directly into a pair of deep dark polished-mahogany eyes beneath startlingly straight thick eyebrows as black as the hair on his head.

‘You stupid fool,’ he roughed out, skin the same rich gold tones as ripening olives stripped so pale it accentuated his strong jaw set as hard as a clenched fist. ‘Say something, for God’s sake. Are you all right?’

Like a plastic doll jerked by hidden strings, Mia gave a shaky nod of her head. ‘You—you almost killed me,’ she whispered.

‘I avoided trying to kill you,’ he corrected. ‘You should be thanking me for my fast reactions and skill.’

‘You think it is skilful to drive like a lunatic, signor?’

‘You think it is clever to stand stockstill in the middle of a private driveway while a car hurtles towards you, signorina?’ he shot right back.

As if only just realising he had hold of her, he muttered something, then twisted around before dumping her back on solid ground away from the lethal bumper of his car. The sheer unexpectedness of the whole shocking incident jolted Mia’s paralysed reflexes into action by forcing her to make a grab at his arms to steady herself when she almost toppled off the high heels of her boots. He braced his arms. Mia stared down at the amount of solid muscle and mighty male strength her fingers were clutching at and snatched them away again.

Feeling her legs go strangely hollow she turned away from him, saw her suitcase lying like a battered victim on the ground a few feet away from them and went to straighten it up.

Pushing his hands into the pockets in his overcoat, Nikos watched her stoop to catch hold of the handle in her trembling fingers and could not stop his eyes from surveying the attractive shape of her derrière moulded to the fabric of her skirt.

Nice, he thought, then frowned darkly as another rush of heat shot down his front. Spinning away, Nikos took a frowning glance at his wristwatch. He was late, he saw. He had a plane to catch. He had just come away from one of the worst situations he had ever had to deal with, and he was standing around here admiring the rear view of the woman he’d almost just flattened into the ground with his car!

A sound of self-disgust escaped him. ‘Try walking down the side of the drive from here,’ he said loftily, then strode back the length of his car. ‘And just for the record,’ he added as he opened the door. ‘If you’re the new housekeeper they’re all anxiously awaiting at the house, I think I should warn you you’ve gone over the top with the get-up.’

Straightening up from dusting off her suitcase, Mia blinked. Housekeeper…Get-up…Over the top…? She needed time to translate what he’d said so it would make some sense to her.

Then it did make sense. He thought she had come here to Balfour Manor dressed like this to take up the position of housekeeper.

Hurt gathered like a tight ball in her stomach. In all her life she had never felt hit so hard or so low. With the chilling cast of wounded dignity freezing her composure, she turned and walked herself and her suitcase around the bonnet of his fancy over-the-top supercar without bothering to offer him a single glance.

Housekeeper…Mia pushed out a strained bitter laugh. She’d learnt to speak English while housekeeping for an ancient English professor who’d owned a villa not far from her home. He had paid her to keep his house clean and cook for him, and he had let her use his library and his computer so long as she typed up the pages of his endlessly long and boring tome. The English language course had been thrown in free of charge. Then she would walk the two kilometres back home and work on her school studies before spending the evening assisting Tia Giulia with the sewing she took in to help subsidise the meagre income Tia made growing cut flowers to sell in the nearest market town.

She usually wore sensible flat shoes and faded old jeans or one of the couple of dresses she had for the hot Tuscan summers. For the first time in her life she was wearing something new, not handmade out of a cheap bit of fabric she’d bought from a market stall. And that horrid man in his elegant silver car and his elegant silver suit and his elegant grooming which put him right at home here on the Balfour estate shattered her hard-worked-for self-confidence with just a few words.

Nikos narrowed his eyes as he watched her walk off down the driveway—hogging the middle of it like a defiance aimed exclusively at him. His lips gave a wry twitch. Instead of getting in his car and driving off, he stood and watched her for a few more seconds, drawn to do so by the graceful movement of her long curving figure, and her spark of spirit and the lingering echo of her throaty accent—Italian by the fire in it, he mused.

And young, he tagged on.

As in too young to be anyone’s housekeeper?

The first seeds of doubt began to scratch at his conscience. Had he got it wrong and just insulted one of Oscar’s daughter’s friends?

Then it hit him what he was doing, and his frown came back as he climbed into his car and drove off down the drive. Whoever she was, he hoped she knew what she was walking into at Balfour Manor or she was in for one hell of a shock when she arrived.

Mia was already in shock because she’d just caught her first glimpse of Balfour Manor.

Nothing she’d read or seen on the Internet had prepared her for the sheer beauty of what she was looking at. Nestling in its own shallow valley, the stone-built house was at least ten times bigger than she had envisioned it to be, with row upon row of long casement windows glinting in the pale sunlight.

Trepidation began to fizz through the fine layers of her skin as she followed the driveway down into the valley and around the side of a pretty lake sheened like frosted glass. The closer she came to the house, the more intimidated she felt by it. It was huge. A grand stately home with tall palladium columns supporting a circular-shaped entrance, which dwarfed her courage along with her height as she walked between them and set her suitcase aside by a wall by the door.

Well, it was now or never, she told herself, and felt real trepidation clutch at her chest as she stepped in front of the heavy oak door.

Was she really certain she wanted to do this?

No, she wasn’t any longer, but to turn away now, she knew she would regret it for the rest of her life because she would never find the courage to do this a second time.

On that stark piece of counselling, Mia reached out and gripped the old-fashioned bell pull and gave it a wary tug, her fingers lowering to her side again where they curled into her palms as she waited for someone to answer the door.

Nothing in her entire life had ever felt as frightening as this did.

Nothing had ever been as important to her as this.

Tense, trembling, eyes wide and wary as she watched the door start to open, the very last person she expected to see appear in its aperture was Oscar Balfour himself.

Taller and so much more dauntingly striking than she had envisaged him with his snow-white hair and neat goatee beard. When he frowned down he looked so terribly grim and austere she almost turned and ran. If he asked her if she was the new housekeeper she would run—she would, she decided.

But he didn’t say it. He said, ‘Hello, young lady,’ and offered her a smile.

It was a nice smile, a kind smile which reached deep into the blue of his eyes.

Eyes the same colour blue as her own.

Eyes to which Mia clung. ‘Bon…bon giorno, s-signor…’ Too nervous to stop herself from greeting him in Italian, she gulped and switched to stammering English. ‘I don’t know if y-you know about m-me but my name is Mia Bianchi? I have been told that you are my father…’

Chapter One

FOR the first time in three long hard-travelled months, Nikos Theakis strode in through the doors belonging to his London offices and instantly claimed the full attention of every person present in the slick modern granite-and-glass foyer.

Tall and dark, blessed with the kind of lean, hard, powerful body of a peak trained athlete, the air around him positively vibrated with excess energy as he moved, bringing forth a flurry of, ‘Good morning, Nikos,’ that sounded breathless and charged.

That he had the same effect everywhere he went said a lot about the man’s personality. He was sharp, smooth, determined and driven. Working for him was like catching a ride on a rocket ship to the stars. Exciting, breathtaking, teeth-chatteringly scary sometimes because he took major risks others shied right away from. He was committed and focused and famously never, ever wrong.

Today he was frowning, the two straight black bars of his eyebrows drawn together across the bridge of his arrogantly straight nose. The lean golden cut of his classical Greek features locked in concentration on the conversation he was involved in via his mobile telephone. His acknowledgement to the greetings therefore consisted of a series of distracted nods of his glossy dark head as his long stride took him across the foyer and into one of the waiting lifts.

‘In the name of Theos, Oscar,’ he swore softly, ‘What kind of game are you trying to set me up with here?’

‘No game,’ Oscar Balfour insisted. ‘I’ve thought this through carefully, now I am asking you for your support.’

‘Asking?’ Nikos pounced on the word with lethal satire.

‘Unless you’re too big and important now to help out an old friend…’

Stabbing a long finger at the top-floor button, Nikos shrugged back the brilliant white shirt cuff so he could check the time on his wafer-thin multifunction platinum watch, then bit back the desire to curse. He had been back in the country for less than an hour after spending weeks flying around the world like a damn satellite, putting together a rescue package for a crisis-embattled multiconglomerate which did not deserve to go under because its international investors had turned chicken and pulled the plug on their loans. He was tired, hungry and seriously jet-lagged but upstairs in his boardroom awaited a group of anxious people desperate to hear the final results of his toils.

‘Stop trying to pull my strings,’ he flicked out impatiently.

‘I’m flattered that you think I still can,’ Oscar drawled.

‘And stick to the point,’ he added, well aware that Oscar was the ruthless, cunning cut-throat king of manipulation so using that kind of invert flattery on him was wasted. ‘Instead, tell me what in hell’s name you expect me to do with one of your spoiled-to-death daughters?’

‘Not bed her anyway.’

About to stride out of the lift into the hushed luxury of the top-floor corridor, that short cool evenly delivered statement froze Nikos to the spot for a second, the acid-bite affront hoisting up his proud dark head.

‘That was not even remotely funny,’ he denounced with icy cold dignity. ‘I have never rested so much as a suggestive finger on any one of your daughters. It would be—’

‘Disrespectful to me—?’

‘Yes!’ Nikos incised, for no one knew better than Nikos himself how much he owed to Oscar for turning him into the person he was today. Maintaining a respectful distance between himself and Oscar’s beautiful daughters was a simple matter of paying honour to that debt.

‘Thank you,’ Oscar murmured.

‘I don’t want your thanks,’ Nikos dismissed, and started moving again, covering the length of the corridor with the elegant grace of his long restless stride. ‘And neither do I want one of your decorative daughters cluttering up my offices pretending to be a proficient PA just to please you,’ he tagged on. ‘Why this sudden decision to put them to work anyway?’ he asked curiously as he pushed open the door to his own suite of offices.

His secretary, Fiona, glanced up from her computer screen and beamed him a welcome-back smile. Indicating to his mobile, Nikos gave a series of instructions via a long-fingered hand which the experienced Fiona showed she understood with a nod of her curly blonde head, leaving him free to shut himself inside his own office knowing the group of people waiting for him in the boardroom would be informed of his delay.

It was only as he shut the door behind him that he picked up the silence hanging heavy on the phone. It made him frown again because Oscar Balfour possessed a brain which functioned at the speed of light so silences of any nature were unusual enough to cause Nikos a pang of concern.

‘Are you all right, Oscar?’ he questioned cautiously.

The older man released a sigh, ‘Actually, I feel like hell,’ he admitted. ‘I have started to wonder what the past thirty years of my life have been about.’

Picturing this big tough larger-than-life investment tycoon with his snow-white hair and neat goatee beard and the pride of his long aristocratic heritage stamped onto every facet of him—

‘You’re missing Lillian,’ Nikos murmured.

‘Every minute of every hour of every day,’ Oscar confirmed. ‘I go to sleep thinking about her and spend the night dreaming about her, and I wake up in the morning searching for her warm body next to mine in the bed.’

‘I’m—sorry.’ It was a grossly inadequate response to offer, Nikos knew that, for Oscar Balfour was still grieving the recent loss of his wife. ‘It’s been a tough time for all of you…’

‘With one death and two raging scandals following hard on the back of a world financial crisis which threatened to turn us all into beggars?’ Oscar let out a dry laugh. ‘Tough doesn’t cover it.’

Since Lillian Balfour’s swift and untimely death three months ago, the great Balfour name had been rocked by scandal after scandal. From the moment Oscar took it upon himself to announce that he had a twenty-year-old daughter no one previously knew about, anyone with an axe to grind on a Balfour had come creeping out of the woodwork to air any grievance they might have. In short, Nikos mused, for the past few months the Balfours had been featuring in their very own no-holds-barred fly-on-the-wall documentary. It might not have been by consent but it had been scandalously spicy.

‘You survived the crisis pretty well intact,’ Nikos went for a positive note.

‘So I did,’ agreed Oscar. ‘As you did.’

About to walk to his desk, Nikos found himself diverting across the room to go and stand in front of the large framed photograph of his home city he had mounted on the wall. If he narrowed his eyes he could just make out the murky dark spot down in the bottom corner, which represented the slum area of Athens where he’d spent the first twenty years of his life living by his wits from hand to mouth.

A nerve twitched along his hard jaw line, the rich colour of his eyes shadowing with his thoughts. Being street poor was as good an incentive he could come up with for working like a dog to ensure he would never be poor again, he pondered bleakly. And without the good fortune of an accidental meeting with Oscar, he would probably still be down there, living that same hand-to-mouth existence—with the odd spell in prison thrown in for good measure, he tagged on with a stark honesty that made him grimace.

This one man, this brilliant and shrewd, cunning-as-a-wily-fox Englishman had seen something in the arrogant young fool he had been back then, gone with his instincts and given him the chance to pull himself free of that life.

Made suddenly aware of the fine silk expense of his Italian suiting and his handmade shirt and shoes, Nikos turned to walk over to the plate of glass which gave his spacious top-floor office its famous London city views. He owned several other office buildings just like this one in the major capitals, along with the homes to complement his high-status lifestyle. He had the private yacht, the private plane, the personal investment portfolio to rival any out there…

The poor boy done good, Nikos quoted silently from a recent article an Athens newspaper had written about him.

Shame, he thought, about the scars he kept so deeply hidden inside even Oscar knew nothing about them.

‘However, my daughters did not have a clue that there even was a world banking crisis,’ Oscar’s voice arrived in his ear once again. ‘You’re right, Nikos, I’ve spoiled them. I indulged their pampered princess lifestyles to a point of parental abandonment, and now I’m reaping the rewards for my neglect. I intend to put that right.’

‘By cutting them off from your money and sending them out into the big bad world to sink or swim on their own—?’ Despite the gravity in the conversation Nikos released a dry laugh. ‘Trust me, Oscar, that’s overkill.’

‘Are you questioning my judgement?’

Yes, Nikos thought. ‘No,’ he deferred to the deep respect he held for this man, ‘of course not.’

‘Good,’ Oscar said. ‘Because I want you to take Mia under your wing and teach her everything she needs to know to survive as a Balfour.’

‘Mia—?’ Nikos repeated, needing a moment to connect with the unfamiliar name. ‘Is she the—’ He bit his teeth together, but too late.

‘Is Mia—what?’ Oscar demanded.

‘The—new one,’ Nikos described with what he thought was credible diplomacy considering the sensational way she had been outed as a Balfour.

‘You can use the term illegitimate without offending me, Nikos,’ drawled Oscar. ‘Though I cannot be certain that Mia will feel the same way. She’s—different than my other daughters…To put it bluntly,’ Oscar sighed out, ‘Mia just is not coping well as a Balfour. I think living in London and working alongside you will be good for her—teach her some self-confidence and toughen her up.’

‘No way, my friend,’ Nikos refused coolly.

‘You can escort her to a few functions,’ Oscar continued as if Nikos had not spoken. ‘Show her how to play the social scene.’

‘If she isn’t coping within the safety of Balfour Manor, then what you’re suggesting is the same thing as throwing her to the wolves,’ Nikos pointed out. ‘Take my advice and send her to one of the many matronly widows you know in London and let them teach her how to cope as a Balfour. I am a lone wolf, Oscar,’ Nikos stressed. ‘I always work alone and I eat the vulnerable.’

Another short silence sang down the phone line, only this one did not carry the heavy weight of grief like the last one had done. This one carried the stark chilling coldness of Oscar’s sudden change of mood.

‘I thought,’ he said, ‘we had already established that you don’t eat my daughters.’

‘I was not referring to—’

‘Don’t make me remind you that you owe me this, Nikos,’ Oscar interrupted. ‘Now I’m calling in the debt.’

Recognising the outright challenge which effectively pinned him to the floor with lead weights, Nikos tried for a last-ditch appeal. ‘Oscar…’

‘Are you going to refuse to do this favour for me?’ Oscar cut in.

‘No,’ Nikos sighed out in heavy surrender. ‘Of course I’m not refusing you.’

As Oscar had pointed out, he owed him—big time.

‘Good. Then it’s settled.’ Oscar sounded warm again. ‘And I thought that since you don’t like live-in staff invading your private space, she could use the staff apartment attached to your London penthouse.’

Like a cornered animal Nikos thundered out, ‘You mean you want me to babysit her as well as give her a job?’

‘She will be with you tomorrow—be nice.’

Be nice, Nikos mocked as he tossed his mobile phone down on the top of his desk with more violence than the essential piece of equipment deserved, then turned to sink his lean hips onto the desk’s polished edge.

In the act of honouring a moral debt he owed to Oscar, he had just agreed to compromise his own business values. A growl of bubbling frustration vibrated against his chest at the same moment a knock at his door heralded Fiona’s appearance as she stepped into the room.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she murmured quickly, seeing the glowering frown pushing his flat black eyebrows together. ‘But one of the Miss Balfours is down in reception asking to see you…She mentioned something about needing a spare set of keys to your apartment—?’

Nikos froze, as for the first time in his adult life he felt the rising tide of a hot blush try to destroy his legendary cool. What Fiona was really saying was that Oscar’s new, shy, not-coping-very-well cuckoo had just strolled into his reception and made an announcement which effectively placed them in an intimate relationship!

She was not even supposed to arrive here until tomorrow. He had not even met her yet! Now the foolish woman had just set this whole damn building alive with hot and spicy speculation about the two of them!

Miss damn Balfour wasn’t just foolish, she was outright dangerous!

Nikos leapt upright. To hell with being nice, he thought furiously as he strode right past the very curious Fiona and back down the corridor. In his experience you were not nice to a dangerous substance. What you did was treat it with cold hard respect while you carefully disposed of it.

Mia was standing by the reception desk already locked tautly into regret for blurting out what she had said in the way she had said it, when she saw the doors to one of the lifts slide open and a tall, dark, screamingly familiar man stride out.

Surprise closed her brain down for a second. She actually trembled on a moment of pure skin-tingling shock. His height, his colouring, his long hard body locked inside a crushingly elegant designer-cut business suit—it was the man who had almost run her over on the driveway of Balfour Manor on the day she had first arrived. Even the way he was coming towards her like a man on the war path screamed shocked recognition at her and filled her with the cowardly urge to start backing off.

‘Oh, Dio,’ she was unable to stop herself from gasping when he came to a stop an arm’s length from her. ‘It’s you.’

His sentiments exactly, Nikos thought grimly. For he was suffering from the same stark shattering shock of recognition he could see written on her face, though he possessed the self-control to keep his shock under wraps. Still, he did not seem able to prevent his eyes from making a thorough sweep of her tumbling-loose glossy-black hair and her simple white T-shirt with a short pale blue skirt. And she was wearing flat shoes, he noticed without wanting to. A pair of soft gold leather pumps which reduced her in height but did nothing to spoil the length of her fabulously long golden legs.

With barely a flicker of a silky black eyelash to say he’d understood what her shaken gasp represented, he questioned, ‘Miss Balfour?’ with clear cool polite formality. ‘Since we have not met before, I am Nikos Theakis. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’

He offered up a long-fingered hand for Mia to take. Skin-peelingly aware of the listening receptionist and all the other people in the foyer who were standing curiously about, Mia got the cold message his greeting conveyed to her and wanted to curl up and die where she stood. For someone who shied away from being placed in the spotlight, like a bat needed the cover of darkness just to live, she could not believe that she had made such a stupid error as to speak her reason for being here in a public domain like this.

Be brave had been the last words of encouragement her father had offered her just before his car had swept her away, she remembered. But being brave had absolutely nothing to do with what she was feeling right now as she forced her hand to lift up and settle warily against his.

‘Bon—bon giorno,’ she managed to respond while her eyes anxiously tried to convey an apology to him.

If he saw it he did not acknowledge it. If anything his lean hard-boned expression froze up all the more. ‘I was not expecting you here until tomorrow,’ he announced. ‘However, I believe you have a domestic problem we need to sort out?’

‘I…Yes,’ Mia breathed in response.

Trying to ignore the sudden shot of electricity that stung through his palm when their hands touched, Nikos reclaimed his hand and took a quick glance at his watch. ‘I have a meeting to attend,’ he informed her briskly, ‘but if you come with me, my secretary will deal with any problems you have.’

With that he turned and strode back across the foyer, with his thoroughly subdued new charge trailing in his wake. Throughout the whole thing he had not acknowledged the interested throng loitering in his foyer but his razor-sharp instincts were telling him he had successfully killed any juicy speculation as to why Mia Balfour was here.

Grimly pleased with himself for achieving that, at least, it was the only thing he was pleased about as he strode into the lift, then waited for her to join him.

‘I am truly sorry!’ she burst into anxious speech the moment the doors shut them in.

‘You are a damn fool.’ Nikos was not in the least bit impressed with her apology. ‘If you’re going to work with me, Miss Balfour, I suggest you learn the art of discretion quickly or you are not going to last a day.’

‘I just did not think! Oscar told me to—’

‘Let’s leave your father out of this.’ His dark eyes flashed her a look of contempt. ‘When Oscar persuaded me to do this favour for him, I am convinced he would have established your agreement beforehand, which makes you responsible for your own actions, Miss Balfour. So, rule number one…you had better learn fast—don’t ever embarrass me like that again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mia breathed for a second time, declining to try and add that it was Oscar who’d sent her here with the instruction to ask at reception for the keys to her new apartment. ‘But a courier is due to arrive at your—m-my new address with my things and I n-need to be able to get in.’

‘Try using a phone next time.’

Mia decided right there and then that she disliked Nikos Theakis.

‘And to make a point, in case you have not yet realised it,’ he continued with bite, ‘you are here under sufferance. I don’t work with fools. You will rise or fall on your own merits and if you don’t pull your weight you’re out. Got that?’

Beginning to feel just a bit annoyed now by his icy form of censure, Mia felt an unexpected urge to snap back at him. She had not deliberately set out to embarrass him after all. Why would she want to?

Tossing her head back, she looked at him standing there tall and erect with his contempt wafting over her in waves. He looked like what he was, a cold hard angry businessman, a thoroughly gorgeous, frighteningly successful arrogant Greek tycoon.

‘And let’s get one more thing straight before we leave this lift,’ he went on. ‘I am not into nepotism. I believe that everyone must work as hard as the next person to earn their place in the world.’ One of the reasons Nikos knew he commanded so much respect from his employees was because he encouraged each one of them to explore their own potential no matter where they stood in the employment ranks. ‘So you will pull your weight around here or you’re out, got that?’ he iced out.

‘You think I am a useless freeloader,’ Mia realised.

‘Is a freeloader one step up from a housekeeper or one step down?’ he threw back quick as a flash.

An angry flush bloomed in her cheeks. ‘The housekeeper assumption was your mistake, not mine.’

‘To which you took offence and flounced off like a fully fledged prima donna,’ he threw back. ‘I find it really curious to discover, three months later, that the day we met you were on your way to throw the whole Balfour family into a flat spin—as if they did not have enough to contend with at the time.’

Her moment of defiance crushed by that reminder, Mia pulled her guilty eyes away from his. He was referring to Oscar’s poor wife, Lillian, Mia realised, and the way her unexpected arrival had caused so much trouble the after-effects were still rippling throughout the whole family today.

‘I did not know that Lillian was ill,’ she murmured defensively.

‘But if I had known what you were up to that morning, I would have stopped you from going anywhere near them. Think about it,’ he advised. ‘If you’d lost the flounce and tried offering up an explanation to me, your arrival at Balfour Manor would not have been so badly timed because I could have stopped it from taking place, and the ensuing rush of shocks and scandals could possibly have been avoided.’

Could it really have been that simple? Mia wondered bleakly. Could a split-second decision made at a highly charged and very tense moment redirect the hand of fate as easily as that?

Ripples on a pond, she likened as the lift doors slid open and Nikos Theakis strode out, leaving her standing there feeling as if he’d just used her to wipe the floor with.

‘I s-suppose you think it would have been better for everyone if you had just run me over.’ She threaded after him.

Nikos paused five strides down the corridor, and turned around on the heels of his shoes. She was standing framed by the open lift doors with her hair flowing free around her shoulders and her beautiful face washed pale.

Young, he heard himself reiterate an observation he’d first made on the Balfour driveway. Guilty, vulnerable, hurt. In his anger he had just dumped full responsibility for the actions of the whole Balfour family upon her tense shoulders. Did he feel good about doing that?

No, he didn’t. His punishment did not fit her crime.

And there was another element of this he had been trying hard not to focus on but he did so now by allowing his eyes to make a sweeping scan of her body and was instantly rewarded by a rush of heat down his front. It was the same rush of heat he’d experienced the first time he had seen her—the same one he’d been suffering every time he’d let his mind take him back to that moment on the Balfour’s drive.

He was attracted to her. He’d been thinking about her on and off ever since. If he had been able to get back to the UK in the past months he would have been travelling down to Balfour Manor to try and find out who she was.

Now he knew.

She was a Balfour, which put her so out of bounds it effectively slammed shut the door to his attraction in his face.

So it went without saying that he did not want her invading his work place. He did not want her anywhere near him at all, threatening to mess up his nice calm business environment with her long lush figure and her soft sensual mouth and the promise of hot passion he could see gleaming behind the hurt blue of her eyes.

He took the cruel option and did not bother to answer her remark but instead turned away and strode on. He was behaving like a cold ruthless bastard and he knew it but it was the only way to protect himself.

He was about to give her one week—two, at most—before his cold hard critical assault on her vulnerable self-confidence sent her running back to Oscar in Buckinghamshire, Nikos told himself as he left Mia Balfour in the care of Fiona and went to chair his delayed meeting.

Chapter Two

TWO long hard stubborn weeks later, Mia stood a good four paces back from the desk and sizzled inside with grim defiant patience while she waited for Nikos to acknowledge her presence.

She was wearing a simple-cut cream linen dress today, cinched in at her waist by a mustard-yellow leather belt, and on her feet she wore a pair of matching shoes. The whole outfit would have cost her full annual salary to buy new but as hand-me-downs went, Mia did not complain.

Would not dream of complaining. She was more horrified by the exorbitant price tags her half-sisters thought nothing of paying for the wear-once-and-discard clothes they crammed into the closets back at Balfour Manor. Hanging from a dress rail in the spare bedroom in her little apartment was a whole range of fabulous hand-me-downs just waiting for her eager fingers to unstitch and rework.

But this particular outfit had been picked off the rail with only one purpose in mind—to challenge Nikos Theakis to find anything objectionable about it.

He could frame a thousand criticisms with one sweeping glance from his cold dark eyes. And yesterday’s objection had been aimed at the short pearl-grey skirt she had worn with a delicious plum-coloured silk georgette blouse. His sweeping glance of disapproval had taken in the length of leg she had on show and glittered with ice at the see-through fabric of the blouse even though she wore a matching camisole underneath it. So today she’d covered up in a dress with a hem that finished primly two inches below her knees. And she’d scraped back her hair into such a tight bun the skin framing her face felt tight, because yesterday he’d also snapped at her when she had to keep pushing the heavy weight of glossy black waves away from her face each time she’d looked down at her work.

And she was absolutely certain that he was deliberately making her wait like this to string out the tension by keeping his chair swung facing the window so all she could see of him was the top of his dark head.

It was all part of the war of attrition he was waging against her, because he hated having her working here as much as she hated having to be here. He was never going to forgive her for walking into a job she had not worked hard to earn, and she was not going to give up and run away from it because, for Oscar’s sake and only Oscar’s sake, she was determined to stick this thing out and learn to be the person her father wanted her to be even if it killed her in the process.

Or she killed Nikos Theakis.

Nikos was wondering if she had a single clue that he could read her thoughts through the back of his head. The trouble with Mia Balfour was that she was too young to have learnt the art of masking her feelings, and too Italian to want to do so if she could.

Murmuring a response to Petros, his Athens-based second in command, Nikos kept his brooding dark gaze fixed on the plate of tinted glass set between him and the view of London beyond, though he did not see the view. His attention was focused on the smoked glass itself, onto which Mia’s image was stamped like a poorly exposed photograph, visible but misted by the daylight filtering in from outside.

There but not there, he likened. He preferred her like that, out of focus and out of reach so he could pretend that whatever else kept on charging up between them wasn’t there either.

His call to Petros concluded, Nikos shut down his mobile phone, took in a deep mental breath, then swung his chair around. An instant surge of testosterone-charged heat took a leap down his front to gather like a flaming knife in his groin.

The provocative witch, he thought, letting his eyes shutter out the telling gleam he felt spark to life in them while, at the same time, taking in every smooth sleek inch. The dress was a classy work of formal modesty, the pulled-back hair an insult to its fabulous long and waving length. Everything, even the length of her skirt, was telling him she’d corrected each criticism he’d aimed at her—spoken or unspoken.

His jaw line flexed. She missed damn well nothing.

Mia read the flexing tension as yet another display of criticism which threatened to crucify her self-confidence as much as it made her blood start to burn. She wished she could adopt the same physical indifference to him that he dealt out to her but she’d tried and she couldn’t. Even though she hated him she could not stop herself from responding—inwardly, at least—to the pure male animal magnetism that poured out of him in such hot sinful waves. He made her feel breathless and snarled up by self-awareness she neither understood, nor could control.

‘So, what have you got there for me?’ he broke the silence, and even the rich deep tones of his voice made her insides quiver as she walked forward to place the file she was holding down on his desk.

‘The information you wanted on Lassiter-Brunel,’ she supplied.

Nikos glanced down at the bulky file, then back to Mia again, his lengthy black eyelashes flickering in surprise. ‘That was quick.’ Reaching forward he slid the file towards him. ‘Did you stay up all night?’

‘You said you wanted it by this morning,’ Mia reminded him.

‘So I did.’ Lowering his gaze again, Nikos experienced a pang of guilt as he scanned through the sheets of information she’d compiled. He had a whole department of experts employed specifically to compile information like this which, he accepted uncomfortably, had made the work she had clearly put in here a complete waste of her time.

Then something unusual caught his attention. Sliding a slip of paper out from the rest he relaxed back in his chair to read.

Recognising what that something was made Mia tense, ready to be told that reading an old press piece she’d unearthed on the Internet describing Anton Brunel’s less-than-nice reputation with the opposite sex was not what he expected to see in a business report.

One of his sleek black eyebrows rose upwards. ‘You think this is appropriate information to include in here?’ he made the predicted enquiry.

‘It says he paid a lot of money to silence a female work colleague he had been—seeing.’ Mia couldn’t quite bring herself to say the descriptive words the article used.

‘It alleges he paid hush money,’ Nikos corrected.

‘Sí.’ Mia nodded to accept the correction. ‘As you can see though, the lady in question filed sexual harassment charges which were then quickly dropped. If you look at the next document, you will find that on checking her out I discovered she had a child eight months later, a boy she named Anthony.’

‘And your point?’

Mia tried not to pull in a deep breath. ‘If a man is willing to abuse his position of power by seducing an employee, then pay her to keep silent about it, he is not reputable.’

‘In your opinion,’ Nikos pointed out.

‘In my opinion,’ Mia allowed.

‘And if the—affair had been a mutual and amicable agreement, would that alter your opinion?’ her interrogator enquired.

‘He is married with children—’

‘That was not my question.’

Mia shifted restively. ‘The article says—’

‘Alleges…’

‘Alleges,’ she echoed with the barest hint of a snap. ‘She was quite distressed at the time she made the charges and she wore bruises on her arms and her face…There are photographs.’ Mia pointed towards the file.

Allowing the lush curve of his eyelashes to droop again, Nikos looked at the photographs, the twist of his mouth showing his distaste before he used long fingers to slide the images aside.

‘This article says that Brunel denied all knowledge as to how the lady acquired her bruises. He claims she set him up.’

‘For what purpose would she do that?’ Mia stared at him in bafflement.

‘For the purpose of receiving the nice hefty pay-off she eventually got?’

‘What about the baby?’

‘Could be anyone’s baby,’ Nikos said with an indifferent shrug.

‘But that is such a cynical way to view the situation,’ Mia immediately flared up. ‘You cannot know that for a fact, and—’

‘You cannot know for a fact that Brunel’s version isn’t the truth,’ Nikos cut in with incisive logic. ‘I suspect the truth probably sits somewhere in the middle of both story versions, but since it was never proven either way I suppose we will never know.’ Casting the sheet of paper aside he looked up at her. ‘So tell me again why you included this in your report?’

Mia shifted from one foot to the other, not really wanting to answer that question. ‘I—I don’t like him,’ she finally contrived to push out.

This time both sleek eyebrows rose upwards. ‘But you’ve only met him once, the other day over lunch.’

‘He has an—uncomfortable manner…’

Nikos suddenly lurched forward, his calm demeanour gone in a single sharp blink of his eyes. ‘Explain that,’ he commanded.

‘I…No.’ Feeling her cheeks start to heat, Mia lowered her gaze.

‘You damn well will, Mia,’ he countered harshly. ‘And you will do it right now!’

‘Why are you angry with me?’ she queried hotly. ‘You instructed me to find out everything I could about Lassiter-Brunel. I found these articles. You prefer that I pretended I did not?’

She was trying to divert the subject, Nikos recognised, narrowing his eyes as he swung his mind back to the working lunch they’d shared earlier this week with John Lassiter and Anton Brunel. The two men were good-looking, arrogantly confident cut-throat businessmen—nothing wrong with any of those characteristics in people that strove for success.

However, his PA had been wearing a sexy red summer dress that fitted tightly beneath the voluptuous thrust of her breasts. The little black shrug thing she’d worn with it helped to cover nothing which mattered, and her hair had been drawn loosely back from her face in a big red clip. She’d looked like an exotic flower in a room packed with staid dark suits. Each time she let her big blue eyes drift across the lunch table the other two men lost the plot as to what they were talking about. Lush red lipstick, Nikos remembered. The warm and throaty tones of her Italian accent whenever she found the courage to speak.

Something he did not want to feel brought him to his feet with the smooth graceful movement of a leaping big cat. ‘I want to know why you’ve decided you don’t like Anton Brunel,’ he insisted. ‘Did he say something to offend you?’ he quizzed sharply. ‘Did he make a pass?’

Wishing now that she had not started this by including that article, Mia shifted uncomfortably. ‘No—’

‘What then—?’ he shot at her.

‘It was n-nothing!’ Her eyes widened in alarm when he came striding around the side of the desk and pulled to a stop only when he towered right over her. Intimidated by the whole macho physicality of his stance, Mia took a wary step back. ‘W-what is the matter with you?’ she husked out.

‘Just answer the question.’ Nikos stepped in close again, halting her next backward step by catching hold of her arms to make her stay where she was.

Feeling the pressure of his fingers slither a streak of heat over her shoulders, Mia hurriedly tried to bury the sensation in a rush of speech. ‘He—he said something I took offence to when—when we were leaving and you were talking to John Lassiter.’

‘What did he say? And look at me when you talk to me,’ Nikos rasped in annoyance. ‘It infuriates me when you hide your eyes from me like that.’

Pulling in a tense breath, Mia did as he bade her, found herself clashing with a pair of polished-mahogany eyes, a flame in their depths she had never seen there before. For a second she forgot what they were talking about while she absorbed this fascinating new discovery and—

‘Speak,’ Nikos commanded.

Mia blinked, elaborately long soot-black eyelashes a trembling framework around the startling rich blue of her eyes. ‘He—he claimed I was m-making the big eyes at him, then made a—a personal remark about you and me,’ she enlightened. ‘It’s your own fault, Nikos!’ she then flared up before he could react. ‘You make me follow you about like a pet dog on a leash! You glare at me if I move. You glare at me if I smile. You touch my hair, my arm, my fingers if I rest them on the table. You slide your hand around my waist when we walk! Look at you now,’ Mia charged up heatedly. ‘You are holding me here in front of you as if you have some special right to do so! That horrible man must have misread the signals you were giving, and dared to tell me he would like to enjoy a little slice of what y-you were getting from me!’

Nikos snapped his fingers from her arms as if she’d burned him. Mia almost staggered off the heels of her shoes in shock. The stunned expression on his face made her wring out a little laugh. ‘You don’t know you do it, do you?’ she choked out unsteadily. ‘You have no clue at all that you do any of the things I said! Well, you do, and he assumed from your behaviour towards me that we are—intimate.’ The word struggled to leave her throat. ‘And—and he asked me if I would like to meet with him one afternoon when you were unavailable.’

Nikos turned to stone in front of her. Shaken up by what she had just said to him, Mia tried to tug in a strained breath. In the two weeks she’d been working with him, Nikos had been treating her more like his lowly slave than his personal assistant. He’d dragged her out to every business luncheon he had attended. He’d brought her tumbling out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning to accompany him to working breakfasts too. If she spoke he didn’t like it; if she smiled he didn’t like it. If she let her attention drift to take in her surroundings he touched her hand to bring her gaze back to him, then frowned at her as if she had committed a mortal sin. Then he dumped her back at her apartment in the evenings and left her there alone—to recover, she presumed, while he went out and—did whatever it was he did in the evenings with whoever it was he did it with!

‘So we drop the Lassiter-Brunel deal.’

Tuning in too late to catch what he’d said, Mia saw that he’d moved back round his desk and lowered himself back into his chair again.

‘See to it,’ he instructed, pushing the now-closed folder back across the desk.

‘S-see to wh-what?’ she stammered out warily.

He lifted eyes to look at her. It was like being pinned to the wall by shards of black glass. Whatever it was that had exploded inside of him was gone now and the cold hard ruthlessly controlled animal was back.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she felt compelled to apologise. ‘But I did not catch w-what you s-said to me.’

‘My command of the English language is that poor?’ he mocked.

‘N-no.’ She hated him. ‘I 1-lost concentration f-for a m-moment…’

Nikos wondered what she’d do if he asked her to use that delightfully husky stammer she’d just developed, tonight while lying naked beneath him in his bed?

Theos! The silent curse burned its way around his head in protest for letting his imagination go in that direction. Two damn long weeks of this and she was still here driving him crazy.

Did he really do all of those things she had listed or was she just out to pull his strings—?

A curse locked in his throat. His new PA might not like him, but she lusted after him with a fever she was too inept to keep hidden, though he was equally certain that she was not aware that she was so transparent.

And that was the reason Anton Brunel had picked up on the sexual vibrations at the lunch table, he determined. Her fault, not his fault. And as for all that touching stuff she’d accused him of—it only happened inside her overimag-inative head.

She made him think of a living, breathing sexual grenade with the pin dangling halfway out—half precocious woman, half infuriating child—and she might heat him up like no women had ever done, but he did not want her in his bed!

Oscar would never forgive him.

On that final sense-cooling reminder, Nikos made a grab at the thread of this discussion. ‘Call John Lassiter,’ he instructed. ‘Tell him I’m no longer interested in doing business with them.’

‘Me—?’ Mia gasped. ‘But I don’t want—’

‘And bring me some coffee,’ he cut over her scared protest and sat forward to pick up his pen.

If this didn’t teach her to keep her provocative ways in check, then nothing would. The Lassiter-Brunel deal was worth several million on paper. The innately frugal Mia Bianchi-Balfour was going to gag at the loss of such a lucrative deal. ‘And remind Fiona I will be out for two hours at lunch.’

‘But…Nikos please,’ Mia murmured painfully. ‘I don’t know how to do what you said!’

‘Make coffee?’ he incised with a cruelty he actually enjoyed inflicting.

‘Tell somebody a deal is to be broken!’

‘Then you are about to ride yet another steep learning curve,’ he relayed without a hint of care. ‘And just for the record, I don’t approve of office affairs, romances or even friendships. So stop taking swipes at me by the way you dress, or the way you look at me, or the way you put that Lassiter-Brunel file in front of me, expecting me to find that article and question your motives so you could tell me what Brunel presumed about us. It was irritating and juvenile. There is no us. The rest of what you said lives only in your head. Now I have some calls to make.’

Dismissed, appalled, devastated—whipped by his cold assassination—Mia spun away and walked across his office on legs that shook.

Irritating and juvenile….

‘I hate him,’ Mia whispered once she was on the other side of the door.

‘Did you say something?’ Fiona glanced up from her work.

Wishing she was dead or at least far, far away from this place, Mia stumbled across the room to sink down in the chair behind her desk before her trembling legs crumbled altogether. ‘He’s in a very bad mood today and I hate him.’

‘Don’t we all, darlin’,’ Fiona responded dryly. ‘Our gorgeous boss is pure sex on legs but as cold as ice. It’s such a waste of good male flesh.’ Sitting back from her computer console, Fiona’s floppy blonde curls bounced on her head as she gave Mia’s pale face the once-over. ‘Bit your head off, did he?’

More than just my head, Mia thought tragically. ‘I don’t know how you have put up with him for as long as you have.’

‘I’m immune.’ Fiona waggled her left hand at Mia, showing off the three sparkling rings she wore on her marriage finger. ‘I’ve got my own sexy brute to go home to each evening, and he’s never cold.’

‘He wants me to cancel the Lassiter-Brunel deal’.

Fiona went still. ‘So you told him.’

Mia pressed her trembling lips together and nodded. ‘He didn’t believe me.’

‘Then why is he pulling out of the deal?’ the secretary quizzed with a frown.

‘To—to punish me,’ Mia answered. ‘He knows I don’t know how to do such a thing so he’s making me do it to teach me a lesson about the consequences of making up stories.’

‘Nikos Theakis is throwing away a lucrative deal just to teach you a lesson?’ Fiona laughed. ‘I don’t believe it. There has to be more to his reasoning than that.’

There was, Mia thought bleakly. She had told him some other things he had not wanted to hear about. ‘And he’s not taking me with him to his lunch today…’

And that harsh rebuff was striking her as hard as everything else. It was like being cut off from the main lifeline which kept her functioning. She might hate him but she revelled in being around him.

Why had she told him he constantly touched her? Why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut?

‘Perhaps that’s a good thing,’ Fiona said gently.

Blinking her ridiculously long eyelashes Mia brought her gaze into focus on the other woman, read her sympathetic expression and went hot.

‘He wants coffee.’ Looking away she stood and walked across the office to the coffee machine to prepare a small tray, then on impulse she begged Fiona, ‘Will you take it in? I don’t think I can stand another visit in there right now.’

‘Sure…’ Always relaxed, always sunny, Fiona came to take the tray from her, then paused. ‘Mia…’ she posed gently, ‘take a bit of advice from someone older and wiser than you are…get yourself a man.’

Glancing up, she groaned, ‘Oh, Dio. Am I so obvious?’

Fiona’s sympathetic smile said it all. ‘You know, when you first arrived here everyone in the building was more than ready to dislike you for who you are and how you came by this job. It took you just a week to win us all over. You’re hard-working, sweet and nice, but he isn’t nice—to women.’

Mia started despising herself for bringing this lecture on.

‘He uses them, Mia,’ Fiona pressed on her. ‘He does not respect them.’

‘As they use him.’ She felt some crazy need to defend Nikos Theakis even though he did not deserve it.

‘Yes.’ Fiona couldn’t argue with that. ‘Especially Miss Supermodel Lucy Clayton who received her farewell gift by special messenger last week. By next week another woman just like her will have been put in her place. It’s the way he works. The way he likes to keep it,’ Fiona stressed. ‘He’s an amazing risk taker in the business arena. An absolute financial genius everybody admires and respects, and he’s com-mendably honest and committed to any promises he makes—in business—but in his personal life?’ Fiona shook her head. ‘He’s a smooth, cool, bone-meltingly gorgeous sexual predator. He does not connect sex with his emotions—if he has any—the jury is still out on that. So take my advice and don’t go there. Don’t even want to go there because if he decides to take you he will spoil you for ever. So get yourself a man,’ she repeated, ‘and wean yourself off him while you still can.’

‘Where is my coffee?’ the sexual predator demanded.

Chapter Three

BOTH women jumped guiltily and turned to see Nikos Theakis standing in his office doorway. By his closed expression there was no way they could tell if he’d overheard them talking about him, but for the first time since she’d started working here, Mia saw two hot coins of guilt hit Fiona’s creamy cheekbones and knew her own cheeks wore the same hot sting.

Good, Nikos thought, tamping down hard on his anger for the second time this morning as he strode across the room to take the tray from his blushing secretary, then strode back into his office with it without uttering another word.

Get yourself a man…His lips compressed into a tight line as he set down the tray. Why had he not thought of offering his PA the same piece of advice?

The answer to that question was not a nice one. But then, as his secretary had just pointed out to Mia, he wasn’t nice.

It rankled—the not-nice part and the man part.

Throwing himself down in his chair Nikos swung it around to face the window. So I don’t respect women. A flash of irritation shot across his face. He did respect them or why the hell did he restrict himself to the kind that preferred to play the game the way he liked to play it? He wasn’t looking for love. He was not looking for marriage, so he steered well clear of the kind of women looking for either or both.

And that was respecting them, he determined. It would have been nice if Fiona had recognised that.

Vaguely surprised that there was a dose of hurt rolling round inside him, Nikos frowned. He was good to his staff, fair—generous, as Fiona had pointed out. He’d believed he had their respect. His secretary had shocked him with her view of him. It angered him that she’d felt it necessary to warn Mia off.

He rested a long forefinger along the line of his mouth where the smooth skin covering his lips felt tightly stretched, his eyes narrowed by an unwanted feeling of distaste at the idea of Mia turning all of that untapped passion on for some other man.

What if she took Fiona’s advice—?

‘Damn,’ he muttered, not liking what was rattling around inside him. Where was the guy who focused purely on business? The guy who barely noticed a woman unless she was stretched out naked on a bed?

Perhaps that was it. He needed a woman. Sex, he named it. A long night of seething hot passion with the kind of woman who could appreciate what he could do for her without expecting the whole heavy emotional bit by return. He was not possessive. He was not even mildly demonstrative like Mia had dared to suggest. If he touched her like she said he did, it was done with attention to polite good manners and respect. She was the one who’d misread the signals.

John Lassiter was at first stunned by Nikos Theakis’s decision to pull out of negotiations, then he grew increasingly more angry by Mia’s apologetic inability to give him answers as to why they were being dumped. Within minutes of her finally managing to put the phone down on the uncomfortable conversation, Fiona’s telephone was ringing and Anton Brunel was demanding to speak to Nikos.

With a telling glance at each other, Fiona put the call through to their boss. Ten minutes later he was striding out of his office with his too-handsome face locked into an iron-hard mask of contempt. He did not speak as he crossed their office; he did not cast them a glance. The dismissive tension he left behind him cloyed on Mia.

In the end, she couldn’t stand it, and she took herself off to the café around the corner to buy herself some lunch. While she sat at one of the small tables trying to eat a sandwich her tense throat did not want to swallow, a man from the accounts department came in to the café. Seeing her sitting on her own he brought his sandwich to her table and joined her.

After a shy start to her unexpected company Mia surprised herself by warming to his easygoing brand of friendly humour and began to relax and enjoy herself. They walked back to the office building together and lingered to finish their conversation in the foyer for a minute or two. It was all warm and nice and friendly and fun.

Striding into his plush grey-and-black marble foyer, Nikos caught sight of his PA standing there, talking with someone from his accounts team.

Shock almost brought him to a halt.

She looked young and beautiful and relaxed and alive. Something hard and hot grabbed hold of his chest and hung on. Without knowing he was about to do it, he parted his grim lips to snap out her name, only to clamp them shut again when her ‘pet dog on a leash’ accusation leapt into his head.

He kept himself moving towards the bank of lifts and refused to look at the cosy duo again. Once he’d gained the privacy of his luxurious office, he went straight on the offensive and took out his mobile phone to start flicking through his address book. Five minutes later he had arranged dinner for that evening with the beautiful and very eager Lois Mansell and was feeling much better about himself. Lois was just what he needed. She was a cool smooth banking executive practiced in the art of sex just for sex. Young and irritatingly naive brunettes with more than a hint of Italian fire in their bellies, and with virgin territory stamped all over them, did not and never would do it for him.

Get yourself a man…Mia considered this as she sat alone in her flat that same evening, reworking a designer suit to look less high fashion and more office friendly so she could wear it to work next week.

Weaning herself off Nikos Theakis was making good sense the more she thought about it. He did not want her. Dio, he had gone into great detail to make it clear how much he did not want her!

Irritating and juvenile…

Putting her sewing aside she stood with a tense jerk and paced restlessly over to the window to look out. It was dark outside, the London night skyline twinkling with lights. It was Friday night and most people of her age would be out there enjoying themselves, but here was she alone in her flat with her hair stuck in a ponytail, wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old top, and no plans to go anywhere, or anyone to call upon if she did want to go out!

Right now she would kill to have a man ring her doorbell, or to be getting ready to go out to meet with him.

Fiona was right. It was time she weaned herself off this infatuation she suffered for Nikos Theakis. It was time for her to throw off the shy little country girl and make good use of the opportunity her father had given her to grow into herself.

A man…a man…How did one go about attracting a man?

Well, not by standing alone here in her flat, that was certain. Could she have enticed the man she’d shared lunch with today to ask her out, if she’d put her mind to it?

Her isolated life in Tuscany had not taught her anything about being a young independent woman living on her own in a big city. She’d lived all of her life with her aunt on a small hill farm five kilometres from the nearest village. She’d attended a tiny convent school for girls, and money had been so tight that even meeting her school friends in the nearest town on a Saturday to go shopping together had been beyond her meagre cash reserves.

In her life to date, she’d had just two abiding influences. A wonderfully caring but ageing aunt she adored, and an even older man she kept house and cooked for who lived very much in a world of his own. And the worst part was that no matter how hard Oscar and his daughters had tried to bring her out of herself, she was still that quiet, shy and isolated country girl on the inside.

She sighed, turning to face the room again with its bland walls and bland modern furniture and its television playing softly in the corner for company.

I’m going to go out.

The decision sparked out of nothing. It just hit her like a fever in her head and, before she knew it, Mia was striding out of the sitting room and into the bedroom. Ten minutes later she returned, dressed in a short dusky-lilac silk dress with a dipping neckline and tiny lace-cap sleeves. A hunt along the rail of hand-me-downs had uncovered a fashionably complicated fitted black satin jacket she pulled on over the dress as she walked.

And most important of all, her resolve to just get out there and do something was burning like a fire in her blood. Gathering up her purse she let herself out of her flat and crossed the plush creamy oval-shaped foyer to press the button to call the lift up to the top floor.

She was going to find a restaurant and eat out for a change. Lots of cool independent people in London dined alone. She’d seen them doing it at the lunches Nikos had taken her to so why not go and do it herself?

Brave Mia, she mocked, feeling tense tingles play havoc with her insides in direct opposition to the adventure she was about to embark upon. Because she wasn’t brave. Never had been. And if the lift didn’t arrive soon she was going to—

The sound of a door opening behind her had her spinning about. Instantly her tingling insides crashed to a fizzing burn when she found herself staring at Nikos.

It just was not fair that he had to pick this moment to leave his apartment, she decided as she stared at him in dismayed shock.

He was wearing a formal black dinner suit that sat smoothly on his long powerful frame. A black silk bow tie sat perfectly symmetrical across the butterfly collar of his dress shirt. And his hair was still damp, as if he’d dressed quickly after showering now the hint of curls lay black and thick and glossy on the top of his well-shaped head. Every single inch of him looked strong and sleek and formidably exclusive. Her mouth ran dry and her heart started beating too fast as she flickered her gaze up to stare at his recently shaved jaw, then the sensual shape of his unsmiling mouth. And finally—finally she made contact with his eyes.

He was looking back at her as if this accidental meeting had disconcerted him as much as it had done to her. Defensive tension stiffened her stance.

‘On your way out?’ he spoke first, smooth and cool and, Mia suspected, carefully pleasant.

‘Sí,’ she managed, unaware that her hands had clenched into fists on the ends of her arms held straight like sticks at her sides.

He nodded, the floating veil of his eyelashes sweeping downwards before he turned to pull the door to his apartment shut.

Fortunately the lift arrived then, giving Mia a good reason to drag her eyes away from him, though it made little difference, she realised a few seconds later, when the lift’s mirrored walls allowed her to watch him stride across the lobby and join her inside. The small space instantly grew even smaller, crammed by his superior height and that overpowering sense of presence he always carried around with him.

But then, the mirrors were giving her two or three or even four different views of him. That was a lot of Nikos Theakis to contend with in a confined space. Her breath caught again when he leant across her to hit the button to take them down to the ground floor. The subtle tangy scent of him assailed her nostrils. As his sleeve brushed against her arm she took a step back. So did he, straightening to his full formidable height.

‘Anywhere nice?’ he enquired casually.

Keeping her eyes glued to her own reflection, Mia nodded and watched her hair move against the black satin jacket. ‘Dinner,’ she said, watching her lightly glossed lips part to form the response.

When she looked into her eyes she had no choice but to acknowledge the lurking darkness of deep uncertainty at her impulsive decision to go out like this. Was she mad? Was she stupid? What did she know about surviving in this huge metropolis? She didn’t even know whether to turn to the left or to the right when she reached the street. The left led downtown where the more refined restaurants were situated. The right led to the local high street with its trendy bistros and café bars she passed on the occasions she caught the tube home and walked the rest of the way back here.

Left or right? Refined or trendy?

‘You?’ she asked because she felt she should do.

‘Same.’

She looked up—not wanting to—and wished she had not when she found him checking out the set of his black bow tie in one of the mirrors, chin thrust upwards, beautifully black-framed eyes as dark as night. Sensation sprinkled like static between fine layers of her skin and she looked away again quickly, back to the stranger she saw herself as, dressed in a dusky-lilac shift dress and a black satin jacket, with a lot of long leg showing and her ankles elevated by the four-inch heels on her shoes.

Irritating and juvenile…

Was he on his way to meet the new replacement for Lucy Clayton as Fiona had predicted? Was she tall and blonde and heart-stoppingly beautiful and screamingly intelligent and sophisticated? Was he planning to bring her back here to his apartment to make wildly passionate love with her while Mia lay alone in her bed next door and—

‘Where—?’

Her small chin jerked up and their eyes clashed in a mirror; tiny prickles of attraction attacked her flesh. ‘Scusi?’ she murmured blankly.

‘I was asking where you are going for dinner,’ Nikos enlightened dryly—in English.

‘Oh. I don’t know,’ Mia let slip before she could think about it, watched his eyebrows arch, felt a deep inner niggle at the slip, then thankfully her pride came to her rescue with what she thought was a truly inspirational lie. ‘I am meeting someone,’ she claimed. ‘I don’t know where he is taking me to eat.’

Fortunately the lift stopped and the doors slid open then, giving her the opportunity to escape. Her shiny black heels tapped on cream marble as she crossed the ground-floor lobby in her urgency to get away as fast as she could.

Nikos still reached the door in time to open it for her, then offered a cool nod in acknowledgement of her muffled murmur of thanks.

It must have been raining. Outside the ground was covered in a shiny layer of wet. Striding out across the private car park, Mia was aware that he had diverted over to where his silver car was parked.

What she did not know was the way Nikos stood watching her pause uncertainly once she’d hit the street, as if she was unsure which way to go next.

Dinner with a man…

Something hard gave him a kick in his gut.

Was she meeting the tall blond clean-cut guy from accounts he had seen her with today?

If she was, the damn jerk needed to learn some manners. What kind of man let a young and beautiful stranger to this city find her own way to their chosen venue?

She looked lost already. And the weirdest kind of tingling sensation was skittering down his torso and legs.

She struck off to the right, disappearing out of his sight in seconds. Nikos held his stance for a few seconds longer, then he muttered, ‘Damn it,’ giving in to what the tingling represented and slid his hand into his pocket to exchange his car keys for his mobile phone.

Ten minutes later, Mia was hovering outside one of the bistros. She was pretending to read the menu list stuck on the window but really she was checking out the busy interior, and the bravado that had brought her this far was now lying dead at her feet.

She could not go in there. She did not know why she had ever come up with the crazy idea that she could! And the evening was chilly, the black satin jacket doing nothing to keep the chill at bay and—

‘Been stood up…?’

Hearing that deeply accented, mildly sardonic and crushingly familiar voice arrive from somewhere behind her caused a sudden burn of weak tears to flood her eyes. It took every bit of self-control she had to blink the tears away again, then lift up her chin and turn to look at him.

He was standing across the busy pavement, leaning against the side of his silver supercar with his hands resting inside his trouser pockets, his jacket pushed back from his bright white shirt. Tall, dark and so very sexily sophisticated, Mia observed helplessly. The overhead lights shining amber onto the wet pavement also honeyed the skin of his too-perfect face. It was no wonder most of the women passing across the gap between them stared at him, Mia thought as a whole clutch of them went by with their eyes glued to his long, lean, supremely elegant stance.

If he noticed he did not show it. He did not take his eyes from her face. His mouth was wearing a kind of half-mocking smile that stung her pride and made her wish that some other tall, dark, handsome man would just walk up to her and pull her into his embrace.

Irritating and juvenile…

‘No,’ she answered his question. ‘He’s just a few minutes late.’

With the ease of a man used to doing everything with grace, she watched him tilt his dark head down and, without removing his hand from his pocket, twist his wrist, shrug back his shirt cuff and somehow manage to display his watch.

‘This is not the kind of place a man keeps a woman waiting out on the pavement, cara,’ he said when he looked back at her again.

‘Well, you should know since you seem to be doing the same thing to your date,’ Mia fired back.

‘I pick my dates up at their door.’

‘Then please go and do so,’ she invited and turned back to the bistro window.

The seconds ticked by. Her ears pricked and her senses went on the alert for the sound of his car driving away. She found the space around her suddenly swamped by a group of people who wanted to check out the menu too. By the time they’d moved on she was wishing she’d had the foresight to tag on to them.

Because he was still there. She could feel his silent presence like some dark force trying to drag her back round to face him. After another second or two she heard him sigh, then the sound of his footsteps bringing him close. Tension zinged down her backbone and remained there stinging like an electric charge. A second later he was standing right behind her—she could feel his body heat along her back.

‘Will you go away,’ she snapped. ‘You are making me feel stupid!’

‘Once your date arrives,’ he agreed. ‘Who is he anyway?’

Keeping her eyes fixed rigidly on the bistro window, she said, ‘That is none of your business.’

‘No?’ A hand moved against her spine like a finely brushed admonishment. ‘I’m the guy who’s been placed in charge of your care, so that makes it my business.’

‘I do not need a babysitter.’

‘Nor do you need a man who plans to sit you down to dine in a place like this. It’s a bog standard pizza place, Mia, with a cheap and fast turnaround.’

Was it—? Mia stared at the menu, still none the wiser having never eaten at such an establishment. Until Nikos had taken her with him to his working lunches she had never eaten in a restaurant at all!

‘You will be outside again before you know you’ve eaten,’ he predicted. ‘What happens, then? An hour or so in one of the pubs dotted down the street to soften you up with a couple of glasses of cheap wine, or will he be expecting to go straight back to your place to finish off the evening in the comfort of your bed?’

‘Well, you should know since you are fabled for your fast turnaround,’ she swung round to fling at him and was very pleased to see that likening his dating skills to a fast pizza restaurant made his chiselled jaw clench.

‘That was not what I—’

‘Grazie, for your wise advice,’ Mia cut him off midsentence. ‘When my date arrives I will be certain to ask him what his intentions are.’

‘Or I will’.

Sparking up like a firework she gasped out, ‘No you will not!’

‘And he’s not only unforgivably late he’s unfit to date a Balfour.’

Half unwilling to believe they were even having this conversation, Mia stared up at him. ‘And you believe you have the right to make that judgement?’

‘In your father’s place—yes.’

In other words she was a duty he felt compelled to oversee! ‘Well, you are not my father—or my idea of what a father figure should be! And in case you have forgotten,’ she added stiffly. ‘You went out of your way to tell me to back off from irritating you, so now I am telling you to do the same thing for me, Nikos, and just go away!’

With that she turned to walk off down the high street. His long fingers curling around one of her shoulders held her still.

‘Mia, this is stupid,’ he sighed out heavily.

Or irritating and juvenile…Why was that cutting remark still stinging her as badly as this? Mia asked herself.

She did not know. She did not understand what she was feeling or even what she was doing any more.

‘Please let go of me…’ She tried to move away from him.

His fingers tightened gently. ‘No,’ he refused. ‘Look…’ he said, ‘I’m—sorry if I sounded…insensitive to your feelings but—’

‘Sounded it?’ she threw out.

‘Was insensitive, then,’ he altered, the chiselled line of his jaw clenching. ‘But it does not change the fact that your so-called date has either stood you up or is only too happy to leave you to stand around here like a fool!’

‘And that is your sensitive side talking?’ So close to tears now, she had to push a hand up between them so she could cover her trembling mouth.

A soft curse rattled from him. I will take you to dinner,’ he offered, sounding so driven to say it that Mia almost snapped the hand up higher to slap his face!

But she didn’t because it would be irritating and juvenile of her to do it! ‘I can provide my own dinner,’ she told him stiffly. ‘And you already have a date.’

‘I did have a date until—’ Nikos stopped, compressing his lips, then dealt her a glinting glimmer of a look ‘—until I was stood up too,’ he finished dryly.

‘You—?’ It was like discovering he had a chink in his impenetrable armour. Mia was so intrigued by the phenomenon she stopped fighting his grip to stare up at him instead.

‘It happens to the best of us,’ Nikos compounded on his quick-thinking masterpiece of deception. ‘So shall we find somewhere quieter than this to—commiserate with each other while we eat?’

Like a lamb to the slaughter, he mocked, feeling his conscience pinch him when his beautiful PA dealt him a sympathetic look.

But at least the deal was done.

Chapter Four

TWENTY minutes later they were being shown to a table in a very exclusive restaurant and the waiter was taking away her jacket while Mia glanced around.

If this was the kind of place Nikos tended to frequent, then she was willing to be impressed by its softly lit ambience.

‘Have I been here before?’ she asked.

‘Not to my knowledge.’

Surprising him with a sudden grin she told him, ‘If you have not brought me here for one of your business lunches, Nikos, then I have not been here. These kinds of places all have a similar look to them, don’t they?’

‘Do they?’ He glanced around their plush, hushed award-winning surroundings. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Mia nodded. ‘They probably look different in the daylight when they are filled with sharp-suited men and women looking serious and intelligent instead of…’ Her voice trailed off, even white teeth pressing down into her lower lip to halt the potentially provocative word she had been going to use.

‘Intimate.’ Nikos was not so sensitive. ‘It’s called good business sense,’ he enlightened. ‘Not the people but the restaurants,’ he explained what he’d meant. ‘They change their mood with the mood of the city. By day they provide the sharp suits like me with a place to work while we eat.’ A dryness entered his voice. ‘By night they soften their appearance to provide a more relaxed ambience for their more sociable clientele. I love the dress…’

‘Oh.’ Startled by the sudden and totally unexpected compliment Mia blushed as she glanced down at the lilac silk dress. ‘It used to belong to my sister Bella.’ Critical fingers plucked at the dress’s dipping cleavage. ‘There used to be a strip of lace here but I unpicked it because I thought it looked less fussy without it.’

‘Oscar has not provided you with your own wardrobe?’

His eyes were slow to rise to catch her brief shrug. ‘He offered. But I did not see the need to buy more new clothes when the closets at Balfour were stuffed full of things no one else wanted to wear.’

A young waiter arrived to offer them menus then. Mia winged him a warm smile and when she realised he was Italian she fell into conversation with him. Veiling his eyes Nikos observed the change in her as she talked. Her voice had taken on a warm and earthy vibrancy Nikos had not heard before. The young waiter fell in love with her as Nikos watched. She had no idea of the power she was wielding, had not even noticed the waiter’s darkened eyes and the raised colour in his face. When her slender hands joined in the conversation the waiter was hooked, his eyes fixed on the creamy cleavage on show behind the expressive fingers.

And Nikos felt a sudden blistering urge to punch the young fool! Perhaps he moved, he wasn’t sure, but something made the waiter glance his way. The next second he was rushing out an apology and moving away at lightning speed.

‘He comes from San Marcello,’ Mia enlightened him as if his Italian was not good enough to follow their conversation, and with no clue at all what had made the waiter take flight as if someone had set fire to his heels.

Nikos knew. He could still feel the trails of it lingering behind his veiling eyelids. ‘A neighbour, then,’ he murmured.

‘Sí, by a hilltop or two.’ Settling back into her seat she shook the silky fall of her hair back from her face, then picked up her menu.

When he continued to sit there doing and saying nothing she glanced up at him and frowned, then followed it up with a sigh. ‘OK, what have I done to annoy you this time?’ she demanded. ‘Have I broken some very important rule of dining that is likely to earn me a plate of cold food?’

‘Brunel would call it breaking the rules anyway,’ he responded impassively.

‘Brunel…? What has he got to do with…’

Enlightenment dawned. Mia flicked a look across the restaurant to where the friendly waiter now stood to attention, striving to keep his eyes away from this corner of the room.

‘You are accusing me of flirting,’ she said in a hushed breath of stunned disbelief.

Nikos picked up his menu and opened it. ‘You tied him in knots. For a few interesting seconds I thought he was going to pull out a chair and join us.’

‘We were just talking about Italy!’ Mia impressed upon him in self-defence.

‘I got this really bad feeling that I was about to be sidelined. Not good for my ego at all.’ Nikos smiled. ‘Lesson one in the use of social skills, cara, concentrate solely on the man you are dining with.’

Not quite sure if she was supposed to laugh at the ridiculous image Nikos had constructed of the waiter muscling in on him, he diverted her with, ‘What would you like to eat?’

Mia dutifully buried her attention on the menu. A different waiter arrived to take their order. Nikos delivered it in the clipped cool tone that did not encourage the waiter to linger.

‘Talk to me,’ he said abruptly once they were alone again.

Lifting up her face she asked, ‘What about?’

‘Anything—the wine.’ He indicated to her glass.

Dutifully picking up her wine glass Mia sipped. ‘Nice,’ she said.

‘Is that it?’

‘Is this another lesson in social dining?’ she dared.

‘No.’ He almost let a smile catch hold of his mouth. ‘It is simply a request for you to extend your answer. You are Italian. I cannot believe you don’t have a better opinion about wine than just nice.’

Be interesting, in other words. Well, OK, she could try to do that, Mia decided, relaxing back into her seat. ‘Tia Giulia and I make our own wine from our own grapes,’ she announced. ‘It’s just a hobby really, but our wine tastes easily as good as this very expensive wine…’ she said with a wave of her glass. ‘We pick and tread the grapes in the traditional manner with our skirts held up like so—’ she gestured, unaware how entirely she had captured her audience ‘—and we laugh a lot—it is supposed to be good for the taste. If it is a good year, our neighbours will come to exchange other produce for bottles of our wine. Tia has some really wonderful old oak barrels in the cellar…’

Their first course arrived and Mia kept talking through it, taking a small forkful of sea bass laced with a delicious sauce she had never tasted before.

‘Your life in Tuscany was very different from the one you’re living now,’ Nikos observed when she paused for a breath.

Mia nodded, eyes shadowing as she sat forward to pick up her glass. ‘Do you miss Greece when you are away from it?’

‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘I fly in and out of Athens too often to miss it.’

‘Family, then,’ she probed.

‘None.’ The way he carefully veiled his eyes made Mia frown because she was almost certain she’d just hit a raw nerve. ‘Tell me why you left it so long to contact Oscar.’ As neatly as that he turned the conversation away from him and back on to her.

‘Because I only discovered I had a father this year—on my twenty-first birthday to be exact…’

She went on to explain about discovering Oscar, in between savouring forkfuls of food. She didn’t notice that Nikos barely touched the food on his plate, or that he rarely removed his dark eyes from her face. She was not aware that he kept filling up her wine glass or that her tongue was loosening the more that she drank. By the time their dessert arrived she was feeling so mellow she even reached across the table to spoon up a sample of his untouched dessert and teased him with her laughing eyes as she placed the stolen morsel in her mouth.

‘I have a sweet tooth.’

‘Among other things,’ he murmured oddly.

About to ask him what he meant by that—

‘Do you want coffee?’ he got in before her.

‘And spoil the taste of the wine? Grazie, no,’ she refused.

‘Then if you’ve finished do you mind if we leave now?’

‘Oh…’ Mia tensed, her slender spine arching up on the sudden realisation that she’d talked his socks off all the way through the meal! It was no wonder he was wearing that blank expression on his face. ‘I had lost track of how long we have been here…’

‘And the restaurant has emptied,’ Nikos pointed out dryly. ‘We’re the last ones here…’

Flickering a surprised glance around the empty tables she noticed the restaurant staff standing around, trying hard not to look impatient for them to leave. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’ she whispered from the depths of a sinking embarrassment.

‘You were enjoying your meal. There was no need to rush.’ With the merest glance in the waiter’s direction he brought him rushing to his side. ‘My companion’s jacket,’ he instructed, handing over a credit card. ‘You have time to finish your wine,’ he indicated smoothly to Mia, as if she would dare to take another sip!

‘No.’ She stood. ‘I think I’ve had enough.’ A flush of hot colour was burning her cheeks.

She wanted to die where she stood—deflate like a balloon and disappear altogether. She almost snatched her jacket from the waiter when he arrived with it, so eager to remove herself from here now that she could barely stop herself from doing it at a run.

The waiter was handing Nikos his credit card. Mia fumbled in her urgency to drag her jacket on and missed slotting her arm in the sleeve.

‘Allow me…’

She froze as Nikos took the garment from her and politely held it open, ready for her to slip it on. Her hair became trapped inside the black satin and she used the need to release it as an excuse to keep her head lowered so no one could see how hot her face had gone.

Outside the cool night air hit her like an icy slap in the face and she shivered. Nikos placed a hand against her lower back to walk her towards his waiting car. A beep sounded as the locks sprang free and his hand guided her into her seat.

The car growled into life. It moved away from the curb with the sleek prowling grace of a hunting panther. As her gaze was drawn downwards to watch as his long fingers moved the car through its gears, she saw something that caught her breath in her throat.

‘What—?’ Nikos asked, so sharp he obviously did not miss anything.

‘Nothing.’ Dragging her eyes away from the black-and-gold insignia she’d spied on the dash, she tried to pretend that she had not seen it. Then, without any warning at all, she choked, ‘I feel sick.’

The stunned silence which followed her announcement held for a second or two, then the car ground to a jerking halt. Nikos was out of it and striding round to yank her door open before Mia could do it for herself. Out in the night air again, she began to shiver so badly he must have felt compelled to offer a supporting arm around her shaking shoulders while she stood fighting a battle with nausea that had nothing to do with the amount of wine she had drunk.

Nikos did not know that though. He was cursing himself. He wished the hell he knew what he had been playing at back there, feeding her wine by the glassful to draw her out of her shell. What had he hoped to gain from it? An insight into what made his PA tick, or had his motives been fixed somewhere else?

‘It’s usually better to throw up and get it over with than to fight it,’ he advised, trying to recall the last time he’d deliberately set out to get a woman drunk.

There had never been another time. He had never sunk this low before. She got to him and he didn’t like it. She made him think, do and want things he did not want to think, do or want.

‘I’m all r-right.’ Making an effort to pull herself together, Mia stepped away from his supporting arm to stand by herself.

Letting his arm drop to his side he sighed, ‘I’m—sorry.’

He was sorry? ‘What for?’

‘I should not have let you drink all that wine.’

‘I can take my wine, Nikos Theakis,’ Mia threw back. ‘I am Italian. I grew up drinking wine. It was your car that made me feel sick. I hate it. I will walk the rest of the way—’

‘What do you mean, my car made you sick?’ Grabbing her arm as she went to walk away from him he pulled her to a halt.

Mia shivered. ‘It is a Mario Mattea production car.’

‘A limited edition,’ Nikos confirmed. ‘Only twenty of them were built. Most people would—’

‘One for each year Mario Mattea has been married to my mother,’ Mia whispered, then had to press her lips together as the nausea threatened to come back.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the world-famous insignia before now! The two stylishly entwined gold letter M’s appeared on a million luxury products—on Mario Mattea’s main claim to fame—his world-championship-class formula-one racing cars!

A glance at the low silver bonnet and a thick laugh broke from her throat. Wouldn’t Mario just love it if he knew that one of his cars had almost ploughed her into the ground a few months ago!

Pushing off Nikos’s hand, she started walking, needing to get as far away from that car as fast as she could. The nausea was churning up her stomach and her arms had wrapped themselves tight around her ribs. She’d lived twenty-one years in Italy and not once seen a Mattea car. Then she arrives in England, and on the very first day she’d almost had one toss her over its bonnet without realising the insult she would have been paying to herself!

‘Explain.’ Nikos caught up with her.

‘Oscar slept with my mother, Gabriella, the night before he married Lillian,’ she supplied in a cold, clipped voice. ‘She returned to Italy—to her fiancé Mario Mattea and eventually married him.’

Nikos breathed what Mia assumed was the Greek way of expressing shock. ‘So your mother is Gabriella Mattea…’

‘Don’t bother to fixate on it,’ Mia sparked out. ‘I do not recognise her as my mother. We do not communicate.’

‘Slow down before you twist off those ridiculous high shoes,’ he instructed impatiently, curling a set of long fingers around her arm.

‘You have forgotten your car,’ she muttered in the hopes that he would take the hint and leave her to walk home alone.

‘And you’ve forgotten the rules of dating again,’ Nikos responded coolly. ‘I see mine to their door.’

‘We did not have a date,’ Mia denied. ‘You hijacked me in the street.’

‘Same rules apply.’ Still holding on to her, his attention had diverted to the two streams of traffic moving up and down the street. He spotted a gap. His fingers tightened. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s cross while we can.’

Finding herself being hustled across the road, Mia was instinctively drawn to glancing both ways to check out the pace of the traffic for herself. Her eyes rested on his silver car standing abandoned against the curb a hundred metres away and she shivered, dragging her eyes away from it again. She hated the long, sleek, glossy power statement it made—the whole high-profile sparkle of the Mattea name. In Italy it meant glittering celebrity and untold wealth—much like the Balfour name did here, she likened, suddenly hating all of it.

‘I’m surprised the press here hasn’t picked up who your mother is,’ Nikos murmured once they were safely on the opposite pavement.

‘Oscar has been careful not to make the connection,’ she revealed. ‘Gabriella was still a Bianchi when he—knew her.’ Bianchi being the only name Gabriella had ever allowed Mia to own. Did she care? No, she told herself. It was bad enough that everyone knew she was the result of a sordid one-night stand of one decadent parent, Oscar Balfour, without being linked to her other notoriously decadent parent, Gabriella Mattea, as well. ‘Bianchi is a common name in Italy.’

They turned into the street on which their apartment block was situated. Once again Nikos slowed their pace. ‘Why aren’t you a Mattea?’

He just couldn’t leave it alone! ‘Why the sudden interest in my sleazy past?’

‘It’s not your sleaze, Mia, it’s theirs,’ Nikos pointed out.

Only slightly mollified by that response, Mia pulled in a tense breath. ‘When Gabriella found out she was pregnant with me she tried to pass me off as Mario’s child but she badly miscalculated,’ she explained. ‘Mario cannot have children apparently, and he certainly did not want some other man’s child cluttering up his life, so he set her an ultimatum. She kept me and lost him, or she gave me up and kept him. You know the rest,’ she concluded, tightening her grip on her ribcage as if trying to hug her bitter feelings in.

‘The isolated farm in Tuscany,’ Nikos confirmed, ‘an aunt barely scratching out a living for you both, while your filthy-rich parents live their lavish lives…It has all the ingredients for a seventeenth-century costume drama about the underbelly of two glittering royal houses,’ he described.

Mia pulled to a stop and swung on him. ‘You would make a really good member of the paparazzi to listen to you,’ she fired at him hotly, ‘and you would probably enjoy it!’

To her rising fury his mouth twitched out the beginnings of a smile.

‘You think my life is amusing?’

‘I think it’s priceless.’ The smile became a full white-toothed grin. ‘So should you.’

Tossing her hair back, Mia glared up at him. His lean dark face was so disgustingly gorgeous she—‘I don’t want to talk any more about it.’ She swung away again, hating the hot sexual tension she could feel working away at her insides.

She set off walking. Nikos kept pace at her side. ‘If you want my opinion, Mia…’

‘I do not,’ she clipped out.

‘You should talk about it more often,’ he continued anyway. ‘You take yourself too seriously—and stop this!’ He sighed, turning her back round to face him, then grimly prizing her arms away from her ribs and down to her sides, where her hands clenched into white-knuckle fists.

Nikos viewed them with exasperation. ‘Body language is worth a thousand words,’ he sighed out. ‘Has it not occurred to you that if you don’t care where you came from, then no one else will care?’

‘Be brazen about it, you mean?’

‘It’s got to be better than clutching it to you like a grudge. Wake up and smell reality, Mia. Stop pitying yourself. You have a colourful past. So what? Without it you would not be here at all!’

Pitying herself? She wanted to say—how do you know what it feels like to be me? But that would be self-pitying so she pressed her lips together and said nothing and simmered a furious glare at him instead. His eyes were almost black in the darkness, flamed by the gold from the pooling street light. The same with the warm olive skin covering the taut beauty of his cheekbones, his nose, the darker shaded contours of his smooth, wide sensual mouth.

Something new charged up the atmosphere. It began with a small flicker of his long eyelashes as he dropped his gaze to her mouth. He wanted to kiss her. Mia knew it with an instinct older than time itself. Her heart stopped beating, then started up again at a faster pace because—Dio, she wanted him too—so much.

He knew he was going to do it. He knew he just couldn’t hold back. She was beautiful, a warm, soft, achingly desirable creature with passion in her eyes and on her softly pulsing mouth.

Sliding his fingers into her hair, he stroked a fingertip along the smoothness of her extended throat. The blue of her eyes deepened to purple and her lips parted. He felt the growing rush of her blood flow into his own. She swayed even closer, a willing recipient of what was about to happen. Feeling like a man controlled by a magnet, Nikos kept totally still as she brought her mouth closer and closer to his.

A car drove past them sounding its horn noisily and they sprang apart like two tightly coiled springs breaking free from their restraints.

Dizzied by the pressure that had built up inside her, Mia stumbled backward a few steps at the same time that Nikos broke the grip he still held on one of her arms. Staring at him, feeling a sinking sense of confusion assail her, it all suddenly changed to a sense-crawling horror when she realised that she had been the one about to kiss him.

She spun away in a shaken, horrified need to escape what she’d almost done. The apartment’s car park was only a few metres away. Walking across it, she was so anxious to punch in her security PIN so she could get inside before he could reach the doors that she keyed the numbers in the wrong order and had to cancel to begin the sequence again. His arm reaching across her shoulder to do the job for her drew sparks from her muscles as they pulled taut.

The door swung open. They stepped inside the lobby. Neither said another word to each other as the lift took them up to the top floor. Refusing to look into the mirrors, Mia glued her eyes to the lift’s marble floor. She could feel his presence though, like a fierce wave of energy battering into her and her insides were fizzing so badly she could not even breathe.

The moment the doors opened she darted out of the lift to escape. ‘Wait a minute, Mia.’ His quiet voice pulled her to a stop halfway across the lobby. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’

Narrow shoulders snapping with tension, she did not want to turn around but stiff pride made her do it. He was standing near the lift, his broad-shouldered posture somehow deceptively passive because, even with her nonexistent experience, Mia was able to detect the prowling sexual pulse beat emanating from him. Wild butterflies were beating their wings in her stomach. Without being aware she was doing it, she brought her fingers together across her front in an anxious defensive pleat.

‘What?’ she prompted warily, and not for the life of her could she look at his face…

Nikos wondered how she would react if he offered to finish what they had started down in the street. She looked so damn beautiful standing there, trying hard not to show she was upset. And her innocence pounded at him like a bloody great barrier. It made him want to crash through it and just—

Just what?

Desire was one hell of an aphrodisiac when someone else was feeling it for you, he thought heavily. One unguarded look, the tempting thought of those anxious fingers touching his body, the sensual promise her lush parted mouth had offered him down in the car park…All it would take was a loosening of his self-control and the conflagration would happen and they might both gain some relief.

Shame Oscar stopped him from carrying through.

‘Your manners,’ he responded finally. ‘It is usual to thank the guy that bought you dinner.’

It was like he’d reached out and cut her throat. So cool, so sardonic, he was even still in lecture mode. Mia drew her eyes shut as the whole wretched agony of the way he was treating her exploded like a firework of needle-hot sparks which turned to ice as they embedded themselves in her flesh.

‘Thank you,’ she delivered with stiff obedience, ‘for such—a pleasant evening, signor.’

‘My pleasure, signorina,’ he returned, and even the supercontrolled Nikos Theakis could not stop the rueful twitch that took hold of his mouth.

He caught a glimpse of some of Oscar’s arrogance in the way she nodded her head at him before she spun away on the heels of her ridiculously high shoes. Her chin was high, her shoulders back, her hair a glossy black stream of loose waves down her taut back. Not a single tremor showed in her body as she walked up to her door, keyed in her security code, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The door shut with an impressively controlled soft thud behind her. As if it was a sign that he could drop his guard—or whatever it was that was holding him—Nikos let his shoulders fall back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes.

Mia Bianchi was fast becoming the kind of recreational drug he never indulged in. The kind you only took on if you were looking for total loss of control of your life.

He needed a woman, Nikos decided grimly. He should not have blown off the one he could have been seeing tonight, in favour of chasing after the one he could not have.

Opening his eyes on that lowering confession, mouth turned down at the corners as he dragged himself free of the wall, he speared a final glance at her closed door, then turned to stride back into the lift and stabbed a long finger at the button which would take him back to the ground floor.

Mia watched from her bedroom window as Nikos crossed the car park with the long loose-limbed stride of a man eager to depart. Duty done, she thought miserably. Annoying responsibility returned safely home, now he was going out to catch up on his real life. And he had his mobile phone clamped to his ear to find out where that life happened to be situated right now.

A woman?

Of course a woman, she told herself, reaching out to snap the blind shut so she could not see him any more.

Chapter Five

THE sound of her mobile chiming out its jingle brought Mia swimming up from the dark depths of the heavy sleep she had eventually tumbled into after tossing about restlessly for half of the night.

Stretching out a hand and groping the bedside table to make contact with the flat black contraption, she tucked her arm back beneath the duvet and pushed the phone to her ear before mumbling, ‘Ciao.’

‘It’s Nikos,’ he announced with his usual impatience. ‘I have to go down to Hampshire and you’re coming with me.’

Sitting up with a jolt, her sleepy eyes opened wide as saucers. ‘Hampshire?’ Mia echoed. ‘W-what is in Hampshire—?’

‘Work,’ came the sardonic answer. ‘Of the socialising kind.’

Still trying to cast off the heavy mists of sleep, Mia pushed the tumble of ebony curls off her face. ‘But it’s Saturday,’ she remembered. ‘I am supposed to be meeting—’

‘I don’t recall promising you would get your weekends free when you came to work for me,’ Nikos rode roughshod over what she had been about to say. ‘So whatever it is you have planned get out of it. I have to go out for a few hours but when I get back I will expect you to be ready to leave. You will need a dress—something formal.’

‘Formal,’ Mia repeated, stunned by the way he had just discarded her plans. ‘H-how formal?’

‘Bella-at-her-red-carpet-best formal,’ he delivered dryly, referring to her wildly beautiful and glamorous supermodel half-sister. ‘Do you have something like that to wear?’ he then thought to ask.

Dragging herself to the edge of the bed and standing, Mia sent her mind’s eye sweeping down the packed dress rail in the other bedroom. ‘Sí, I think so,’ she mumbled. ‘But—Nikos, I am not very good at these formal occasions,’ she threw in anxiously. ‘I don’t think—’

‘This is at Oscar’s command, not mine,’ he informed her with the cool thrust of a murderer plunging a knife into her chest. ‘He wants you there to represent the family because no one else is available to attend. Do you want to call and tell him you’re not up to taking on the responsibility—?’

Dio. ‘No,’ Mia surrendered heavily. ‘I will come.’

‘Good,’ he approved. ‘Pack an overnight bag because we will be staying. See you at one o’clock.’

He cut the connection before she could find the necessary brain cells to ask any questions. Sinking heavily back onto the bed, her fuzzy brain listed: Hampshire, a formal evening dress, an overnight bag. Be ready to go by one o’clock…

Then she was suddenly lurching into panic mode and using her mobile phone to ring her half-sister Sophie.

‘What is happening this evening in Hampshire?’ she wrung out urgently.

‘Hampshire?’ Sophie Balfour repeated. ‘Oh, my…’

‘What does this oh my mean?’ Mia demanded, already feeling the chill of alarm skate down her spine.

‘Is Nikos taking you there?’

‘Sí.’

‘Then take a brave pill before you go, sweetie,’ her half-sister advised her. ‘If you thought attending the Balfour Charity Ball was major-nervous-breakdown stuff, then you’re in for a shock because Hampshire is huge.’

‘Huge…’ Mia whispered, grappling with the complicated idiosyncrasies of the English language when spoken with sarcasm like this. ‘You will have to explain this huge to me too,’ she begged.

‘Ever heard of the D’Lassio brothers?’

‘No.’ Mia frowned. ‘Should I have heard of them?’

‘What kind of Italian are you that you’ve never heard of the two sexiest Italian tycoons out there?’ Sophie sounded shocked. ‘Santino D’Lassio is married to the absolutely gorgeous Nina Francis and works out of London. Alessandro D’Lassio is so single it’s mind-boggling and works out of Milan. Each year they stage a cross-continent charity event to top all charity events. One takes place on their fabulous country estate in Hampshire, the other at their magnificent ancestry pile situated on the banks of Lake Como. The two events will be linked by satellite. Television stations and the paparazzi will be out in force. Pop stars, royalty, the megarich and the superfamous will be attending—you’re going to love it like a bullet in the head,’ Sophie predicted. ‘And I bet Lois Mansell is pretty miffed that Nikos is taking you instead of her,’ Sophie said.

As if someone had thrust an icy rod down her backbone, Mia tensed up. ‘Who—who is Lois Mansell?’

‘Check out this morning’s paper,’ her half-sister advised. ‘She’s the fabulous blonde captured wrapped around Nikos as they left a nightclub together last night.’

At one o’clock to the absolute second, Mia presented herself in the top-floor oval lobby with her weekend bag as per instructions, and the dress she had decided to wear this evening draped over her arm in a cream silk dress bag. She was wearing faded designer denims, a thigh-hugging black Vive La Rock T-shirt and fiercely high black designer shoes. She’d confined her hair loosely to her nape with a big shiny black clip and her make-up was light.

For casual, cool and in strict control of her emotions were the absolute keys to her standing here at all. Indeed she’d been a breath away from using the flu bug excuse right up until the moment she’d stepped out of her apartment door.

His apartment door opened and her heart gave a single heavy little thump as Nikos stepped out. He was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen him, in pale chinos and a dove-grey V-neck sweater worn over a pale blue-and-grey-checked shirt. Big, lean, dark and classy, Mia listed, and had to bite back a bitter grimace when her head gave her another image of him, dressed in a black dinner suit leaving a famous nightclub with a leggy blonde clinging like a blood-sucking limpet to his side.

Their eyes met for a second. Her throat felt so thick Mia found she needed to swallow but wouldn’t allow herself the relief. Their murmured greetings crossed over each other. She was the one to break the eye contact, lowering her eyelashes and feeling like the ice woman inside.

‘Here, let me take your bag…’

As he stooped to lift her canvas holdall from where it sat at her feet, Mia found herself staring at the top of his head where the black silky thickness of his hair was glossed by the hint of curls.

Curls Lois Mansell had no doubt enjoyed running her long limpet fingers through last night, Mia tormented herself with the image she’d evoked.

‘Do you want me to take your dress bag…?’

‘No—thank you,’ she managed politely.

The lift arrived and, determined to maintain a professional detachment if it killed her to do it, Mia walked into it, then stood with her chin tilted down so she did not have to look at him as they travelled to the ground floor.

The tabloid newspaper which printed the photograph had headlined it with:

Is this the new blonde Greek billionaire Nikos Theakis has chosen to replace Lucy Clayton?

As for the rest of the article, which highlighted his penchant for leggy blondes and his low attention threshold, it had said it all as far as Mia was concerned. She’d finally acknowledged that it was time for her to learn to get over him, and if that meant not looking at him, then she was not going to look at him.

‘Something wrong?’ his deep voice drawled.

‘Nothing,’ she responded.

‘If you’re worrying about tonight, then—’

‘I am not worrying about anything.’ She walked out of the lift before he could say anything else.

It was only as he forged ahead of her to open the door that she noticed he carried no weekend bag for himself. Presuming he must have already put it in his car, Mia walked past him and out into the bright sunlight…only to go still when she saw a brand-new shiny red sports car—that only a total hermit would not recognise for what it was—waiting in the place of his silver Mattea.

Her icy cool started to falter. ‘Y-you’ve changed your car.’

‘I prefer not to put my passengers through mental torture,’ he relayed drily.

As Mia walked up to the door he was holding open for her she caught a gleam in his eyes which told her he was waiting for her to make some kind of positive response because he had gone to this much trouble exclusively for her.

When she said nothing, he grimaced. ‘You can thank me later,’ he murmured, ‘once you’ve recovered from your sulk because I spoiled your plans for today.’

It took Mia a minute to grasp that he was referring to her plans to meet with Sophie. They’d planned to go shopping and take in a movie but Nikos had not given her a chance to tell him that during his phone call this morning. Opening her mouth to tell him, she snapped it shut again. Let him think what the heck he liked. What she did with her free time was none of his business—as his was not any of hers.

‘Seat belt,’ he issued as he climbed in next to her, and the pleasant tone had disappeared from his voice, Mia noticed.

A few minutes later they were driving across the river towards Battersea. Mia tried not to watch the way he controlled his new car as if he had been driving it for years. It must be in his blood to know instinctively what to do in any given situation. She’d seen him at work too often not to be impressed with the way he could control most things with an ease that was so breathtakingly natural even those he was controlling did not notice he was doing it.

It was no wonder he was arrogant sometimes, a bit of a bully when he felt he needed to be. Incisive, decisive, he was used to being right so why not expect other people to just fall in line to his bidding?

After attempting to kick-start several conversation subjects to which she replied in crushing monotones, he issued a driven sigh. ‘Quit the chilly sulk, Mia,’ he told her, ‘or I will turn this car around and take you back home again.’

Mia straightened in her seat. ‘I am not sulking.’

‘No?’ Stopping at a set of traffic lights he turned to look at her—deep brown eyes, feathered with flashes of glinting gold, spun nerve ends alive across her taut profile. ‘You remind me of a feral cat I once tried to befriend as a kid. One minute she was soft and coquettish and brushing her sleek body up against me, the next minute she had her claws in my neck and was spitting at me.’

‘I have never brushed up against you!’ she denied, then felt her cheeks flame when she recalled the way she’d moved towards him last night. ‘Nor have I drawn my claws,’ she added as a quick cover-up. ‘And if I remind you of your friend the feral cat, then you remind me of our donkey,’ she threw back, sparked into defending herself.

‘Your—what?’ he raked out.

‘Tulio, our donkey,’ she supplied. ‘One minute he is beautifully relaxed and amenable, the next he acts as if he does not occupy the same planet as everyone else.’

‘You’re accusing me of being moody?’ Nikos delivered across the gap separating them.

Mia fixed her gaze on the traffic lights. ‘I cannot predict how you are going to speak to me from one minute to another. Tulio is the same. Only he does not speak—he just gives me the evil eye to say I don’t feel like being nice to you any longer, and so he isn’t.’ She added a self-explanatory shrug. ‘The lights have changed colour,’ she pointed out.

‘A donkey,’ he breathed, steering the car into a right turn, then accelerating up the street. ‘Grazie, cara,’ he said with grim sarcasm, and swung the car off the street into a small car park by the banks of the river, killed the car engine and climbed out.

Mia hugged a pleased smile to herself as she watched him stride around the car bonnet with his golden good looks pronounced by the savage look on his face.

So she’d just insulted him and ruined his day.

Good, she thought, because he had ruined hers too with his nocturnal activities splashed all over the papers!

Did she have the right to be angry about that?

She did not care if she had no right—she just did!

She hated him. She hoped Lois Mansell was the worst lover he had ever bothered to bed. And she was not jealous! she told herself furiously, she was just—

He pulled open her door for her with more angry strength than the beautifully designed piece of equipment required. As she carefully manoeuvred her high-heeled shoes over the sill of the car, his grim impatience with her transferred to the long fingers he clamped around her arm to help straighten her up. Arriving in front of him with more impulse than was necessary, she ended up almost flattened against him, which shocked her enough into glancing up.

Their eyes clashed—his slightly narrowed and glinting golden warning shots for her to take care what she did or said next, hers sparking with bright blue defiance which dared him to make one of his cold, cutting comments gauged to knock her back down to size.

But he went for a different kind of attack. He relaxed the corners of his hard, clipped mouth, slid a hand around her exposed nape, then lowered his head and captured her mouth with a hard, hot, plundering kiss!

Astonishment thrilled through Mia. It was so shockingly unexpected and so shockingly intimate she was unable to do anything but just let him explore the contours of her mouth with a sensual fluency that glued her to the spot.

Knocked completely for six she staggered dizzily when he lifted his head again. Breathless and shaking and unable to focus on anything, she just stared up at him through a thick misty glaze.

‘Different mood, cara,’ he purred down at her like his very own feral cat. ‘I sincerely hope that Tulio is not so adventurous.’

His meaning shocked a gasp from Mia. As if he felt he deserved her reaction Nikos nodded his dark head, then let go of her and turned abruptly to glare at the young man who had approached them without her being aware of it.

‘Get the bags out of the boot and give them to my pilot, then take the car back,’ he instructed, tossing the keys at the other man.

Still much too stunned to take in the bit about his pilot, Mia slung a swift glance at whoever it was Nikos was talking to, saw it was the man from accounts she had lunched with yesterday and also saw that his eyes were standing out in shock.

Heat poured into her face like a scorching flame. It was bright sunny daylight, and Nikos Theakis had just kissed her full on her mouth in front of another member of his staff!

‘You—you did that on purpose!’ she hissed at him shakenly.

Nikos claimed one of her hands and walked her away from the car. ‘He needed showing where he stands with you.’

‘Stands with me?’ Mia gasped out. ‘I don’t understand this stands with me,’ she told him, having to hurry to keep up with his long stride.

‘He was the date that stood you up last night.’

‘He was not my date!’

‘He was your date,’ he insisted. ‘And I have just made my point.’

‘Will you please explain what it is you are talking about?’ Tugging hard on her captured hand she pulled them both to a stubborn standstill in front of a white building with glass entrance doors. Hot, mortified, her kissed lips burning and feeling shockingly pumped up, still she made herself glare up at him.

He looked down at her, as cold and haughty-looking as she had ever seen him. And his lips were not burning! ‘I saw you talking with him in my foyer yesterday at lunch,’ Nikos confessed. ‘By the time he comes out of his shock far enough to read the message I’ve just given him, he will understand that you are out of bounds from now on if he wants to keep his job.’

Sent totally, utterly breathless by the ruthless steel trap his mind must be, Mia could not get another single word out. She twisted her head to look towards the red sports car where, sure enough, the man from accounts was still standing next to as if in shock.

Her insides shuddered. ‘You—you set me up for that kiss in front of him,’ she whispered, finally beginning to catch on as to why that particular employee of his had been roped in to deal with his car.

‘No, Tulio did that. Until Tulio put in an appearance I’d decided that merely seeing you going off to spend a weekend with me was going to be enough to put him off thinking he could try coming on to you again. Tulio upped the ante.’

Tugging her into motion again he sent the glass doors swinging open and walked them into the building, then kept her anchored to his side as he spoke to a receptionist standing behind the desk. Fizzing with fury Mia wanted so badly to deny what he’d assumed, but she knew that she could not do that without exposing the real reason why she had gone out last night, and nothing was ever going to make her admit the truth to him now!

So she stood simmering beside him with her eyes on a level with his wide muscular shoulder, and only began to take notice of her surroundings when she happened to focus through a window and saw the helicopter glinting in the bright sunlight on what looked like a concrete jetty jutting out into the Thames.

Her fingernails bit tense crescents into Nikos’s palm. She had never travelled in a helicopter before, and she was not sure she wanted to travel in one now.

Nikos tried not to wince as her fingernails bit into his flesh as he signed the necessary documents and felt alive for the first time in two long miserable weeks. A fire was burning deep down in his abdomen. He didn’t know how she had managed to do this to him, this black-haired, long-legged, curvy fiery witch, but she did do it to him. If he had been standing in the middle of a wilderness he would be howling now like a mating wolf.

He’d warned Oscar. He’d warned Mia. He’d even warned himself. But it had taken a donkey named Tulio to set his natural hunting instinct free from the restraints he had placed around them. Turning back to the glass doors he trailed his captive outside again. His new sports car was nowhere to be seen now. Grimacing at the delight he could imagine its young driver was enjoying—the young fool’s damn consolation prize—Nikos turned them towards the jetty on which his helicopter was awaiting them.

Mia was forced to endure his help as he helped her up the steps into the plush cream leather interior, with the bristling impatience of a man who believed he had the right to hustle her around.

The impression stung like acid through the layers of her skin as she chose a seat on the other side of the cabin and sat down. She refused to look at him as he folded his long frame into the seat farthest away from her. If two people wished to announce they were at war, then their seating choices flagged the battle line.

The door slid shut. Rotor blades began to move. The angry butterflies playing havoc with her insides altered to anxious tingles as she felt the contraption lift off the ground. As her heart dipped alarmingly she watched with wide eyes and, in what felt like only seconds, she found herself staring down at the river which looked like a silver ribbon glinting in the sun.

He did not speak. She did not speak. But she could feel the fierce heat of his mood reaching out towards her across the empty gap.

And her lips were still burning so hotly from the kiss she found she just had to try to cool them with the moist tip of her tongue. Her mouth suddenly came alive with the taste of him. Shocked that a kiss could leave such an intimate residue behind, she slammed her tongue against the back of her teeth and refused to let it move again.

‘Drink—?’

Mia forced herself to look at him, only to feel a strange heavy weight descend across her chest. He looked different again—as in dangerously different. His lounging posture in the corner of the plush leather seat, with his long legs stretched out in front of him, yelled cool, calm arrogance at her, yet his half-narrowed eyes and the glint emitting from them warned of something new lurking around inside him, as if he’d flung on yet another change of mood.

Passion-desire, she named it, without knowing how she recognised either thing. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, his wide sensual mouth. Could he taste her as she could still taste him—?

Mia shook her head and turned to look at the horizon where the built-up city had begun to thin out and the earth below them was slowly turned into a thousand shades of green as they flew over countryside.

Across the cabin, Nikos was talking on his mobile phone. In front of her, hidden behind a bulkhead, some invisible person was flying them to—she knew not where because she had forgotten to ask where they were staying.

A short while later they began to sink downwards. Mia saw a series of slated rooftops forming the shape of a large country house standing in the centre of sweeping clipped green lawns sloping down to a tiny lake.

As they settled on the grass a short walk away from the creamy painted walls of the house, she assumed that it must be a hotel. And only realised her mistake when Nikos led the way in through the front door and she heard him greet a smartly dressed man with thick greying hair, before strolling over to a side table to begin sifting through the small pile of letters she could see waiting there.

‘This is a house,’ she murmured, pausing to look around the light and airy hallway.

Nikos threw her a glance. ‘What did you think it was?’

‘A hotel.’

His smile was more of a grimace. ‘This is my home—or the one I use at weekends if I’m in England.’

‘Sophie did not mention it.’

‘Why would she?’

Eyelashes flickering away from the sturdy staircase built of rich golden oak which took up central position, Mia looked at him, then away again.

‘No reason,’ she said, except that Sophie always seemed to know everything, so the fact that she did not know Nikos had a country house in Hampshire seemed—odd. ‘How many homes do you have?’ she asked curiously.

‘Too many, probably,’ he mocked. ‘I don’t like hotels,’ he explained. ‘I prefer my own space.’

There was something in the way that he’d said that, which made Mia frown as she studied his face. It told her nothing, and he appeared completely relaxed, yet—

Someone came in through the open front door then, making her turn about. It was the man Nikos had greeted as they’d arrived here and he was carrying her holdall and dress bag.

‘This is Lukas.’ Nikos made the introductions. ‘Lukas keeps the house running smoothly. If you need anything while you’re here, Lukas can usually provide it. Miss Balfour, Lukas,’ he said.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Balfour,’ Lukas greeted her politely. ‘I will take your things up to your room, then organise some refreshment.’

He strode off towards the stairs, leaving Mia chewing her bottom lip as she watched him go. It was all very easy, very polite. Very much as she’d become used to at Balfour Manor, yet it was contrarily nothing like that estate. Balfour Manor was vast in comparison to this house, with masses of heavy panelling, and long galleried walkways steeped in priceless works of art and stunning antiques. This place had soft cream walls and a gentle, more classical feel to it.

She liked it.

‘Take a look around while I finish reading through these,’ Nikos invited, his attention back on his stack of mail.

Wandering off, Mia discovered that all the doors stood open already as if in invitation for her to step into each room. The first one she chose turned out to be a beautiful living room with squashy gold velvet sofas and chairs. A grand piano stood in front of a pair of French windows situated at one end of the room.

‘Do you play?’ she asked Nikos as she walked out of the room again.

‘I used to. I don’t have much time these days.’

Wondering why he sounded so indifferent to possessing such a wonderful gift, she crossed the hall to the other side and discovered a creamy book-lined study with a large desk filling the window and olive-green furnishings.

Stepping out again she saw that Nikos had finished with his letters and was now studying her. A frisson ran down through her body. Conscious suddenly that they appeared to be alone here apart from Lukas, Mia wasn’t sure if she was comfortable with the arrangement, though she tried not to show it.

‘How—how far are we away from the D’Lassios’ place?’ she asked him.

‘Five minutes by helicopter, twenty minutes by car. Do you want to see the rest of the house or are you ready for something to eat and drink?’

She didn’t know what she wanted to do. Her fingers were restlessly pleating together and unpleating again, and for some reason she felt very unsure of her ground where his mood was concerned right now. He was relaxed, yes. He was being very pleasant. But there was something different about him that made her want to—

What—?

Back off? Run?

He was not offering to show her to her room, which was usually the first thing people did with a guest who was staying overnight. Not that she wanted him to show her to her room, Mia told herself quickly. But—

But what?

Exasperated with herself, she decided her best choice while she was feeling so unsettled was, ‘I think I would like to look around some more.’

With a nod of his dark head he led the way towards the back of the house. Half an hour later she’d been shown an all-purpose gym and an indoor swimming pool, a very elegant dining room, two more less formal sitting rooms and a huge rear garden that was a blaze of colour from the early summer flowering bulbs. Not once did Nikos rest so much as a hand on her, yet she quivered inwardly all the time as if he was threatening to do it.

It was the fault of the kiss, she told herself. The knowledge that he had come at her out of nowhere with it and so could easily come at her out of nowhere with something else.

He was volatile—unpredictable. The kind of man who was a law to himself. He fascinated and unnerved her in equal measures, and her awareness of his close proximity played like a bow across the taut string of her nerves, which in turn kept every sense she possessed honed on him.

‘It’s a very big house for just Lukas to look after,’ she remarked eventually. ‘You have no other staff?’ She hadn’t seen a single other person.

‘Plenty, but they know not to be around when I’m here,’ Nikos said.

Because, as he’d already said, he liked his own space—which should not surprise her since she was able to live in the service flat at his London apartment because he usually kept it empty.

His mobile phone rang then and, after taking the call, he murmured, ‘Excuse me, I have to deal with this,’ and strode off towards his study, talking in Greek.

It was like being let off for good behaviour. Mia felt herself almost deflate with relief. Working closely with him was taxing. Fighting with him was taxing! But being treated to a whole hour of his graciously polite side had worn her out!

How did he manage to switch his moods on and off like a light switch? How did he go from impatient boss to hot, angry kisser with serious possessive tendencies that made her insides flip over to amiable companion?

Passionate, pre-calculating, domineering and dangerous, she listed, quivering despite not wanting to react at all.

What mood was he going to treat her to next? The urban sophisticate wearing his social mask while a Balfour hung on his arm?

He was tying her emotions in knots with his quick-change mood swings. She needed something to do to take her mind off him.

Fortunately Lukas appeared as if by magic to offer her the promised refreshment. ‘It’s such a beautiful day, perhaps you would enjoy sitting out on the terrace? I’m sure Mr Nikos will not be long.’

Mr Nikos could take as long as he liked, Mia thought as she followed Lukas across one of the rear sitting rooms and outside. The moment she relaxed into a cushioned chair and the warmth of the sun touched her face, she felt homesick for Tuscany and Tia Giulia’s peeling pink farmhouse and the rickety wooden furniture they used like an extension of the old-fashioned kitchen throughout the long summer months.

Lukas unfurled a huge canvas umbrella, suddenly dousing her in shade. She knew he’d meant well but she’d been happier to close her eyes and bake for a little while, something she had not had the opportunity to do since she’d arrived in England.

Just something else she missed about Tuscany.

‘Something cool to drink or would you prefer coffee or tea?’ enquired Lukas.

A sudden imp inside her made her want to demand a large shot of vodka, just to see how Lukas would react. She had never, ever tasted vodka but the house, Lukas and all of this polite care and attention did not fit with the cool, tough, impersonal if-I-can-do-it-myself-I-will nature of Nikos Theakis.

‘Something cool,’ she said meekly, smiling wryly to herself.

‘Coffee for me, Lukas,’ a third voice instructed.

Nikos strode out of the house and into the sunshine, then paused for second, lifting up his face as if he’d missed the sun too. His sweater had gone and he’d rolled back the sleeves of his checked shirt, revealing strong muscled forearms smattered lightly with fine black hair that made his skin look deeply tanned.

For a timeless moment Mia was held transfixed by his sheer bronzed beauty. A telling little flame flickered into life low down.

Then he tilted his chin down again and she dragged her eyes from him, feeling shaken inside and momentarily defenceless against these surges of attraction she kept on experiencing.

‘They’re going to slap a no-fly zone over the D’Lassio estate for the evening to stop the uninvited press from flying overhead,’ he was telling Lukas, ‘so can you make sure my pilot knows we need to leave to arrive before seven o’clock?’

With a nod Lukas left them alone on the terrace. Mia fixed her eyes on the garden where an elegant Greek goddess stood gently pouring water from an urn into a circular pond. So tranquil, she thought, when there was nothing tranquil about the man who must have had the pool and the goddess positioned there.

‘So, what do you think?’ He came to take the seat beside her, lazed back and stretched out his long legs.

‘About the house? You must already know that it’s very beautiful.’

‘I purchased it last year from a business acquaintance, who needed some heavy cash fast,’ he imparted casually. ‘The idea was to sell it on but the current housing market made me decide to hang on to it for a while.’

‘That explains it, then,’ Mia murmured.

He turned his head to look at her. ‘Explains what?’

‘Did Lukas come with the house?’ she responded with a question of her own.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, and she nodded her head.

‘The decor and the furnishings?’

His eyes started to narrow, and Mia felt that needling spark of electricity filter into the air. She had to moisten her lips with the tip of her tongue before she could go on. ‘Your—stamp is not visible here.’

‘Stamp,’ he prompted.

‘This is a—how do you say it…quintessential—? Sí, this is a quintessential model of an Englishman’s country home.’

‘What do you know about quintessential Englishmen?’ Nikos laughed. ‘You’re a Tuscan farm girl with a donkey called Tulio for a best friend.’

‘I have half-English blood,’ Mia defended that comment.

‘For all you know I might have half-English blood too,’ Nikos tossed back.

Widening her blue eyes, she asked, ‘Do you—?’

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘But you couldn’t know that. You’re making assumptions about me without being in possession of all the facts. That’s dangerous around me, cara.’

And Mia knew he was right. Then again, everything felt as if it had a dangerous element to it since she’d woken up this morning.

And when she could not manage to break eye contact with him, Mia knew it was getting worse.

Chapter Six

MIA turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror and felt the now almost-permanent quiver going on low in her stomach quicken like mad.

The dress had once belonged to Bella. She’d spent half the morning shortening the long flow of its near-sheer iced-blue silk skirt. But it was the rest of the dress that made her senses quicken. The strapless style of the bodice draped lovingly around the thrusting shape of her breasts, then went on to hug each slender curve of her body with band after band of exquisitely intricate pleating all the way down to her thighs before the sheer silk flowed to her feet, elevated by the daintiest pair of crystal-studded high-heeled mules.

‘Oh, my,’ she breathed, stealing the expression Sophie had used on the phone that morning because it suddenly made a whole lot of sense.

Sparkling crystal droplets danced amongst the tight pleating, accentuating the shape of her body when she moved or even as she breathed. She’d coiled her hair into a loose pleat at her nape and her skin glowed smooth gold against the pale blue of the gown. A fabulous teardrop diamond necklace, given to her by Oscar, rested on its fine gold chain just above the sloping fullness of her breasts, and matching earrings sparkled at her ears. She had hoped to look elegant and sleek and sophisticated but what she’d seemed to have achieved was—alluringly sensual. She even felt sensual, in places she did not dare think about in case she made herself blush.

But she was chewing on her rose-coloured lip gloss and frowning uncertainly because she was just discovering that it was one thing to imagine herself dressing like this to impress a certain man, but it was quite a different sensation to realise she was seriously shocking herself.

Nikos was standing in the hall talking into his mobile phone when Mia appeared at the top of the staircase. As he glanced up and caught sight of her, the deep base tones of his voice stopped midsentence and he froze, his dark eyes flaring momentarily before he hooded them over with his long eyelashes, his gaze running in a slow sweep that allowed him to take in every sleek curvaceous inch.

Theos, I’m in trouble, was the only thought he was able to register as a familiar heat flared low in his groin and somehow managed to mess with his breathing at the same time.

Then he became aware that he still held his phone to his ear and he turned his back on her while he finished the call and, at the same time, grabbed a tight mental grip on his rampaging libido.

This weekend is about work, he reminded himself.

Yeah, tell that to the kiss you can still taste.

Just watching the way he’d shut down his expression and how his strong jaw had clenched before he turned away was enough to tighten the knot of anxiety toying with Mia’s stomach. He’d done it again, and beaten her up with his silent criticism. She didn’t know whether to get angry or to weep.

She’d reached the last step before he turned around again, wearing his cool urban face. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Something urgent Petros needed to discuss with me before we left.’

He was walking towards her as he spoke, the absolute epitome of gorgeous handsome man about town in a formal dinner suit again.

‘You look fabulous,’ he delivered lightly. ‘Love the dress.’

Mia managed a small tense smile in response.

‘Do you have no coat, a shawl or something?’

Offering a shake of her head, she answered, ‘The evening is quite warm.’

In truth, she had forgotten to bring anything like a shawl with her, but she was not going to admit that to this man who was floating a final glance over her before he gave a curt nod of his sleek dark head.

‘Let’s get going, then.’

Brisk, businesslike, firing on all pistons, Mia described as she walked beside him towards the front door. He did not need to say it out loud to remind her that this was all about work. Networking the social scene while pretending to enjoy themselves. Putting the Theakis name out there where it would be remembered, and remembering people he thought might be useful to him at some future date.

She wanted to ask him if she got paid overtime rates, but decided against setting the evening with a sarcasm that was bound to annoy him.

As they circled down over the D’Lassio estate, Mia was genuinely stunned by its palatial splendour, even with Balfour Manor to use for comparison. Balfour was built on more traditional lines with the patina of age to soften its sturdy grey stone walls, whereas this house was designed to look more like a Roman villa with a central courtyard and formal gardens fanning out from three sides of the house. The front of the house was mainly rolling green parkland split by a long sweeping drive. A makeshift car park to one side of the drive was already glinting due to the dying sun on the lines of cars.

Mia counted six helicopters parked up on the other side of the driveway and, as they swooped lower, she caught sight of two swimming pools, one outdoors and one contained beneath a dome of glass. Two television crews, and what felt like a thousand photographers, waited to record their arrival. The moment she saw them her heart started beating way too fast.

‘Switch the Balfour smile on, glikia mou,’ Nikos instructed softly as he helped her down the helicopter steps.

Obediently Mia switched on her smile. Camera shutters began clicking wildly and flashbulbs lit up the fading light. Nikos maintained his grip on one of her hands as they walked the media gauntlet on a thoughtfully laid carpet of artificial grass. Behind them the helicopter set its rotor blades moving again. A flurry of questions were being called out and a microphone was pushed into her face.

‘Good evening, Miss Balfour, would you tell us which designer made your gown?’

Surprised to find herself staring directly into the lens of a television camera, Mia answered without thinking until it was too late to wonder if the world-famous Italian designer wanted his name given to this particular gown since it was at least twelve months old.

‘Buona sera, signorina.’ The sound of her native tongue calling out to her sent Mia’s head swinging the other way, directly into a second television camera. ‘Signor Valencia knows how to make the most out of a sensational figure, heh?’ The interviewer had already picked up the dress designer’s name. ‘Will you take a moment to tell Italy what it is like for a Tuscan farm girl to discover she is the daughter of such a wealthy Englishman?’

The question came without warning. The camera zoned close on her face. Her fingers tensed, stretched, then pleated tightly in between Nikos’s long fingers, and a warm flush of self-consciousness spread across her face while he just stood there beside her, smiling coolly, waiting for her to give a response.

It was a test, yet another lesson for her that he was letting her learn how to handle. Tutor and pupil at work in the classroom of life.

‘Sì…Grazie…Buona sera, Italia…’ Somehow she managed to keep her smile in place and come up with a reasonably intelligent comment about the differences between her old life and her new life.

‘Love your voice, Mia!’ someone else tossed at her in English. ‘Very sexy. I could listen to you all night! What do you think, Nikos?’

Nikos just smiled and started them moving, thinking sexy did not begin to describe those dark throaty earth tones she used whenever she conversed in her natural language.

Dipping his dark head he murmured, ‘You handled that well. Now let’s see if we can get you through the rest of the evening without you making a bolt for the kitchens.’

‘Non capisco,’ Mia responded coolly, refusing to acknowledge the taunt about her well-documented bolt into the bowels of the kitchens the night of the Balfour Charity Ball.

Nikos gave a soft laugh and swapped his grip on her hand for an arm strapped across her back so he could hustle her in front of him into the house.

The next half an hour passed by in a whirl of first-time introductions that more camera crews recorded moment by moment. By the time she was given a chance to draw in a proper breath again, Mia was feeling dazed.

‘You could have warned me,’ she complained to Nikos.

‘Forewarned, there was a chance you might do a runner,’ he said, catching up two glasses of champagne and handing one to her.

‘This place is amazing,’ she changed the subject, glancing up at a high vaulted ceiling around which a cantilevered glass walkway seemed to stay up there by will alone.

‘Santino likes to impress us with his structural engineering skills,’ Nikos murmured dryly.

‘I thought the D’Lassios were media moguls.’ Mia frowned.

‘Been doing your homework?’

Lifting her chin, she said, ‘To improve my education is the reason why I am here with you, is it not?’

The direct challenge. Nikos arched an eyebrow because he had not expected her to make it. Like a fool playing a very dangerous game he held on to her deep blue eyes and piled the pressure on the constant tug of sexual awareness that was always present between them now.

She looked away first.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s move on to where the real action is.’

The work angle of action, Mia saw the moment they stepped inside a vast reception room already crammed with high-end glittering people. The networking started almost straight away. Nikos kept her at his side as he walked the room, rarely needing to make an effort to gain attention because people were more eager to meet him. It was the quality of the man and his billionaire kudos, his entrepreneurial brilliance, his stunning good looks and his casually presented charm. He handled people with a low-key edginess that made them work all the harder to earn themselves an impressed glance or an approving smile.

Smooth, Mia described as she soaked him in like the rest of them.

Then he ruined it for her when he turned to her and said, ‘OK, this is where I leave you on your own for a while.’

Like a kick in the gut she instantly turned as white as parchment. Nikos released a sigh, catching her by the shoulders and turning her to face him.

‘All you have to do is circulate and listen. If you know what they’re talking about, join in. If you don’t know what they’re talking about, then ask questions,’ he relayed as if it was really that simple. ‘People don’t mind being asked questions. In fact, they like to show off their knowledge. What they don’t like is someone pretending to know what they’re talking about when they don’t. OK?’

Pressing the tremor out of her lips Mia nodded.

‘And you’re a Balfour,’ he reminded her. ‘The people here know you are a Balfour and they’re going to just love to welcome you into their group on the strength of your name alone. In fact it’s going to be them hoping to impress you so you will remember them to Oscar.’

‘Not to you?’

‘To me too,’ Nikos agreed. ‘If they ask you anything too personal shoot them down the way you like to do to me,’ he went on. ‘You have spirit, Mia, use it to your advantage. Always be polite. Always be aware of how much you’re drinking. I will come and find you in, say, half an hour when we are due to go into dinner.’

Glancing down at the fine silver watch circling her wrist which Tia Giulia had bought her for her last birthday, she said, ‘OK,’ with only a tiny scared tremor showing in her voice.

Nikos heard it though and released a sigh.

‘It’s OK—really,’ she said and straightened her shoulders. ‘This is work—yes? I have to treat it that way.’

Still he hesitated, giving her the impression he wanted to say something else, and for some reason Mia found herself holding her breath.

Then he instructed, ‘Don’t bolt,’ and walked away.

For the next half-hour Mia braved the sharp jaws of socialising. Like Nikos had said, it was easier than she expected because people did recognise her instantly and it tended to be them drawing her into their conversation rather than her needing to butt in.

Nikos wished he’d found it easy to walk away from her but he hadn’t. He felt as if he’d abandoned a puppy on the fast lane of a motorway. But he needed to speak to some people about Lassiter-Brunel. During Mia’s research exercise she had—admittedly unwittingly—exposed some business issues that were bothering him. OK, he reasoned, so he had pulled out of the deal they were trying to broker, but he’d done that for personal reasons. It was only this morning when he had gone back to the office to look through Mia’s file that he had picked up on other things that troubled him.

She was good at ferreting, he acknowledged with an inner smile. But other colleagues in the same business might not have a ferret that looked so beautiful Brunel would let his professional guard slip to the point anyone would question whether he was as reputable as he made out.

Hearing himself using Mia’s choice of word made Nikos grimace at the same moment that a set of slender long fingers coiled around his arm. ‘So you’ve been landed with Oscar’s little cuckoo,’ a mocking voice purred.

Glancing down Nikos found a smile for the beautiful but dangerous socialite-cum-gossip-columnist Diana Fischer who’d sidled up against him.

‘Who would have believed Oscar could be such a deliciously secretive dark horse,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps it’s as well that the scandal broke after poor Lillian departed to the afterlife. Imagine her horror if she’d been here to discover that the man she had been married to for twenty years had still been busy sowing his wild oats right up to and beyond their marriage.’

She was fishing for knowledge, timing details, that Nikos was not going to reveal. Setting his teeth together behind the relaxed line of his mouth, he drawled, ‘Still enjoying playing the heartless bitch, Diana?’

‘I’m heartless?’ Her lovely green eyes opened wide. ‘Tell me, Nikos, how many hearts have you broken since you became sexually active?’

‘I was referring to your lack of respect for the dead.’

‘I adored Lillian,’ Diana declared. ‘Everybody did. I thought I was being sympathetic towards her.’ She pouted up at him. ‘After all, who would want to find out that her husband had been laying into another woman?’

‘Remind me,’ Nikos murmured, ‘why is Lance in the process of divorcing you?’

‘Oh.’ The luscious pout became pronounced. ‘That was so below the belt, Nikos.’

Nikos released a dry laugh. Diana was a bitch and a brazen one but at least she never pretended to be anything else. He liked that about her—so long as she kept her barbs out of Oscar and his daughters.

Or one particular daughter, he amended, unable to stop himself from glancing across the room to hunt her down. He caught sight of her dark head in amongst a group of younger people and wasn’t sure he liked the odd stinging sensation that ran down his front.

‘The cuckoo is different from the other seven, isn’t she,’ Diana prodded lightly, following his gaze. ‘She’s so shy and reserved—just look at the way she’s blushing at whatever Joel Symons is saying to her…’

Nikos was looking.

‘She doesn’t have a clue how to deal with people like us.’

‘Like us?’ Nikos was curious enough to pick up on the comment.

‘Well, we’ve already established that I’m a heartless bitch and you’re a ruthless heart-breaker. And there is a room full of both those types here tonight. Elegant, bored, social spinners,’ she extended candidly. ‘Men with their egos in their wallets and their pants, and women with theirs in the exact same two places—and I meant in the men’s,’ she made clear. ‘The cuckoo stares at us all as if we are aliens and I don’t really blame her. Think what it must have been like for her to be launched like a bomb into Balfour society after spending all of her life halfway up a mountain, growing plants.’

‘And perhaps she recognises that she’s sauce for tongues like yours,’ Nikos offered up.

And realised suddenly that he was right. Mia was not overwhelmed by the greatness of the elevated company her new life had thrown her into the midst of; she was overwhelmed by her own notoriety as Oscar Balfour’s shockingly exposed illegitimate child.

‘Do me a favour, Diana,’ he said quietly. ‘Keep your barbs out of Mia.’

‘And you will do what for me?’ she shot back.

Leaning down Nikos brushed a light kiss to one of her smooth cheeks. ‘Respect you,’ he murmured and walked away.

Mia saw the kiss and wondered what the name of that particular blonde was. He had beautiful blondes coming out of his pockets, she decided acidly, thinking of Lois Mansell, who he had been with just last night.

She pitied the one he’d just kissed and walked away from, she decided as she turned and strode off in the opposite direction. For there was one lesson Nikos had already taught her which stopped her short of being jealous of the new blonde and the kiss—he left with the woman he arrived with and saw her safely back to her own front door.

Or her bedroom door in her case tonight.

Or inside the bedroom door if it was anyone else.

A hand caught her wrist as she was about to continue through the open doors onto the pool terrace. For a brief second she thought it was Nikos and a wry smile curved her mouth as she turned her head with the intention of telling him the half an hour was not yet up.

But the smile died along with her sinking heart when she found herself staring into the cold silver eyes of Anton Brunel.

‘I want words with you,’ he informed her thinly.

‘I don’t think so.’ Trying to pull free from his grip, her wrist hurt when he tightened his hold on it. ‘Let go of me!’ She frowned at him in contemptuous surprise.

‘Not until I get some answers from you.’

Pulling her away from the doorway, he swung her into a corner of the room behind a giant palm plant. ‘Right,’ he said, pushing his handsome face up close to hers. ‘You owe me a bloody explanation as to what the hell you think you’re playing at, telling lies about me to Theakis!’

‘I did not lie about you,’ Mia denied, wincing when his hard fingers crunched the tender bones in her wrist.

‘You spent that whole lunch turning me on with your sexy-eyed promises, then you told him it was me coming on to you!’

‘You live in a strange place in your head, signor, if you truly believe what you just said,’ Mia retorted scornfully, still trying to get away from him and glancing over the top of his blocking shoulder to see if anyone had noticed the way he’d cornered her like this.

It came as a shock to realise that he’d chosen his spot carefully because the palm plant virtually sealed them off from view.

Then she gasped when he pushed in on her, his body pressing her back against the wall. ‘Listen to me,’ he rasped. ‘I want you to tell that jealous bastard the truth! You came on to me! You offered yourself up over the damn lunch table, and if I took the bait, he only has you to blame. I don’t see why I should take the flack and lose the best investment deal I had going for my company because you like to play sex games across a table!’

His face was so close to hers that she was breathing in the alcohol from his angry breath.

‘I would not play sex games across anything with you,’ Mia whipped back, shuddering with distaste. ‘And if you don’t release me from this corner I will start shouting for help!’

‘No, you won’t,’ he jeered. ‘You’re a Balfour, and too damn scared of making a scene here. Theakis won’t like it. Darling daddy won’t like it.’

‘But I am not making the scene—you are! Now—let—me—go!’

With an angry tug she managed to yank her wrist free. As he went to grab hold of her again, she pushed at his body with her two clenched fists and enough angry strength to make him stagger back a small step, giving her just enough space to slither around him and get away.

Shaking inside with anger and reaction, she hurried out onto the pool terrace. Scared that he might be following her but determined not to look back and check, she made for the first group of people she saw standing by the swimming pool, and with a deep breath to calm her unsteady breathing, she ventured close enough for them to notice her, and smiled gratefully when they widened the circle to invite her to join in.

Did she do the things Anton Brunel had accused her of doing? Her eyes glazed with the agonised knowledge that she might have done without knowing she was even doing it. But did not knowing make her any less guilty? Hadn’t Nikos accused her of doing the same thing to the waiter at the restaurant last night?

What was she, some kind of unwitting man-teaser?

And her wrist was hurting, she noticed, carefully rubbing the place where Anton Brunel had dug into her bones. Someone offered her a glass of champagne. She smiled as she took it, and hoped the thoughtful person could not see the strain in her eyes.

She did not want to be a man-teaser. She did not like what it meant.

She thought about taking a sip from her glass but she knew she would not be able to swallow. Her throat felt thick and her nerves were still jangling like mad. It was dark outside now and the air was cooler than it had been earlier. Soft lighting had been switched on to light the way to the marquee set up in the garden and the pool glittered a soft aqua blue.

She caught the smooth deep tones of Nikos’s voice and turned to watch him appear in the doorway leading back into the main reception room. He was flanked either side by Santino D’Lassio and Nina, his beautiful flame-haired wife. All three of them were smiling, relaxed—friends by their easy manner with one another.

Someone called out, ‘Hey, Nina! When are you going to feed us?’

And Nina D’Lassio’s light laughter filled the terrace, making Mia find a small smile too because the laughter was contagious. Then a hand arrived in the centre of her back and pushed, propelling her forward. For a moment she teetered like a ballerina on the tips of her toes, fighting the momentum trying to pitch her forwards, her eyes wide as she stared into the lit blue depths of the swimming pool.

Then she lost the battle and the next thing she knew she was falling, her sharp cry of shock the last thing she remembered before she sank beneath the depths of the cool blue waters.

Nikos was grabbing her arms even as she broke through the surface again, winded and gasping for breath. It was his fiercely clenched face she first focused on, his blazing black eyes, as he hauled her up and out of the water like a quivering, shivering, dripping wet rag.

Camera bulbs flashed in the stunning silence that hung over the pool terrace. Still too shocked to care right now, her fingers clutched at the bunched muscles in Nikos’s forearms in an effort to remain standing upright. Her legs had turned to jelly and she’d lost her shoes in the tumble. Her hair had come loose and now it was dripping all over her face, and stinging hot tears were hurting her eyes.

‘What happened?’ Nikos roughed out harshly.

‘I would swear someone gave her a push,’ a disembodied voice claimed, and hearing someone say it out loud like that sent the air choking from her lungs on a broken sob.

Cursing softly Nikos tried to fold her into the shelter of his arms but she held back. ‘I will wet you.’

‘Do you think I care about that?’

A large warm towel arrived around her shoulders and she huddled into it gratefully, shivering badly now as the cool evening air struck deep into her wet skin.

‘Are you all right, Mia—?’ It was only when she heard Nina D’Lassio’s anxious question that she realised it must be her hostess who’d been so quick to produce the towel she was huddling into. ‘Are you hurt anywhere?’

With a shake of her head Mia made an effort to pull herself together, found the strength to push her wet hair from her face and discovered that her wrist was still hurting.

‘I’m OK,’ she shivered out, fighting to slow the pounding pump of her heartbeat. She managed to let out a small shrill laugh. ‘I don’t know how that h-happened but I will not be offended if you believe I am drunk!’

An appreciative ripple of laughter ran around the terrace. After that, people began to relax and talk again, giving her a chance to try and take stock of what she must look like. Staring down she saw that her dress was ruined, her bare toes curling into the cold white tiling in between the solid plant of Nikos’s black shoes.

‘Let me take care of her, Nikos,’ their hostess said quietly. ‘She needs to get out of those wet clothes.’

It was only then that Mia became aware of the way he was still holding her and of the fierce tension gripping him. Lifting her face up to look at him she discovered that without her shoes she had a long way to look up. Tall, dark, heart-shakingly gorgeous, it was like looking at the gladiator she’d first seen on the driveway of Balfour Manor, the flashing eyes, the fiercely clenched angular jaw, the tightly flattened mouth.

Feeling her looking at him, his black eyelashes flickering, he tilted his dark head to look down at her with a simmering shot of barely suppressed fury that made her suck in an unsteady breath.

‘I’m—OK,’ she said again, feeling the strangest need to reassure him. ‘It was just such a sh-shock to hit the water like that.’

‘Were you pushed?’ Quiet though his voice sounded Mia still recognised the danger it attempted to suppress.

A careful glance to her left and to her right told her that some people were still standing around staring at them. The odd flashbulb reminded her that the whole incident had probably been caught on camera a hundred times over. Nina and Santino D’Lassio stood close by, and like Nikos they too were waiting to hear her response.

Moistening her trembling lips, she lowered her eyes while she tried to decide how to answer. Did she lie and say she did not know how it happened, or did she tell the truth and admit she suspected that Anton Brunel had pushed her into the pool?

‘Perhaps I slipped.’ She went for the least sensational option, then frowned in confusion as Nikos increased the tension in the grip he still held her in.

‘Come on, Mia.’ Nina D’Lassio sounded relieved though, as her arm came to rest across her shivering shoulders. ‘Let’s get you dry and find you something to wear…’

‘I’ll call for the helicopter,’ Nikos said.

‘No, you will not!’ Mia reacted hotly. ‘I have no wish for people to think that I am a wimp as well as Oscar’s guilty mistake! Madre di Dio,’ she breathed fiercely, unaware that their host and hostess were staring in surprise at her hot, hushed flare of temper. ‘I am wet and bedraggled and I saw the camera bulbs flashing. Tomorrow I will be plastered all over the papers looking like this, and you wish to turn me into a bigger joke by hauling me away?’

‘Santino will deal with the press, Mia,’ Nina assured her quickly. ‘Oh, do let go of her, Nikos, she is not going to fall apart if you do!’

The fact that both Mia and Nina had snapped at him seemed to wake Nikos up from wherever he had gone off to since he’d pulled her out of the pool. With a final flexing of impressive clenched muscles he dropped his arms away and took a step back, allowing Nina to lead her away.

‘My security people are checking film footage to find out what happened,’ Santino D’Lassio informed him quietly. ‘Fortunately we have a five-minute delay on what’s transmitted on television, so the incident will not go up on the screens.’

‘So you think she was pushed,’ Nikos said grimly.

‘You saw the way she went in there, Nikos,’ Santino responded. ‘She either jumped or she was pushed. Which do you think it was?’

Santino moved away, then began ushering his guests down to the marquee, leaving Nikos to mull over his sardonic question with his angry eyes shuttered while he replayed the moment in his head. The crush around the pool had been heavy but he’d picked Mia out of the crowd the moment he stepped outside. She’d been looking at him; he could see the way her anxious blue eyes lit up the moment they connected with his. He could feel them doing it, followed by the sudden jerk of her body and the look of horror and shock before she began to topple over into the pool.

What he could not see was who had been standing close enough to her to propel her into the damn pool because his full attention had been fixed exclusively on her.

‘So the cuckoo almost drowned and I missed it,’ a disappointed voice drawled beside him. ‘What a shame.’

In no mood for Diana’s Fischer’s twisted kind of humour Nikos intoned flatly, ‘You lead a sad life, Diana,’ then walked away, over to the almost deserted pool bar and ordered a drink while he awaited Mia’s return.

By the time the two women walked out of the house again he was the only person left on the terrace. As a foil for each other Mia’s darkness next to Nina’s flame was pretty much as good as it could get, Nikos observed. Then his full attention had welded on Mia’s transformation from wet and bedraggled to long and curvaceous, a seriously slinky siren which almost blew his edgy control to bits.

She was wearing a figure-hugging strapless black tube of a dress that was nothing short of mind-stopping. For a few seconds he was thrown back to the moment he’d first seen her on the Balfour Manor driveway.

Heat poured into his body. Desire so fierce he did not know how he kept it from showing on his face. Her wet hair had been slicked back and her makeup barely there except for a fresh touch of gloss to her soft full mouth. Her natural beauty just shone out of her, warm, dark—exotic—exquisite.

But as they came closer he saw she looked deathly pale and he knew somehow—instinct—that she was more shaken up by the incident than she was trying to let on. Then he noticed the way she was holding her right wrist in the palm of her other hand and his raging libido altered to raging anger that stung like a blister trying to burn a hole in his gut.

Mia was responding with a smile to something Nina was saying when she saw Nikos slowly straighten his leaning posture from the bar. Her footsteps faltered and her eyes just clung.

‘See, delivered back to you all in one piece,’ Nina said teasingly. ‘All you have to do, Nikos, is stop glaring like an angry bear and perhaps we can join the others and get something to eat!’

And he was glaring, Mia noticed—glaring directly at her! If he said one small word, offered up one single criticism about how she looked, she thought fiercely, then he would be the next one to land in the pool!

‘Why are you holding your wrist like that—?’ he launched at her.

Chapter Seven

SLANCING down, Mia was surprised to discover that she was indeed cupping her wrist in the palm of her other hand, ‘I—I think I hurt it as I fell into the water,’ she lied.

Nina let out a surprised gasp. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Too many other things to think about,’ Mia said ruefully. ‘And it does not hurt as much as I am obviously making it look!’

She dropped the wrist to her side to prove her claim. Nina did not look convinced and neither did Nikos. He was still glowering at her, the tension in his jaw enough to crush rocks in his teeth. Mia frowned at him, transmitting a message that had his lush black eyelashes veiling his anger and his lips pressing together over whatever he had been about to say.

‘I’m starving,’ Mia said brightly in an attempt to divert attention. In truth she knew she was going to struggle to eat a single thing, and her wrist was really throbbing where it hung limp fingered at her side.

The three of them walked together down the path and into the marquee. People clapped when they saw them arrive, making Mia blush as she offered up a shy smile.

A quick murmured thanks to her hostess and Nina was rushing off to join her husband. Nikos’s hand arriving against her lower back made her arch it slightly at the electric shock contact. If he noticed her reaction he said nothing, guiding her between a series of large round tables towards their allotted table. And he maintained that disturbing contact with her back right up until he had seen her into her seat.

Tension zipped back and forth between them, though Mia did not quite follow why it did. Whatever the reason, it made her respond over-brightly to the curiosity and interest which flipped backwards and forwards across the table because people were eager to know what had happened to her. She made light of their questions while Nikos lounged in the chair beside her with a polite smile strapped to his lips and his dark eyes hidden beneath his lowered eyelids.

When she could not contain a wince as she picked up her wine glass he did not know how he stopped himself from reaching out and taking the glass from her. A curse rattled around inside him because he recognised that his self-control where she was concerned was on a hair trigger. He wanted to catch hold of her injured wrist so he could inspect the damage. He wanted to brush that stray lock of damp hair from her pale cheek. He remembered what she’d said about him always touching her and the stinging tension of grim acceptance to that charge held him trapped like a prisoner, because he was becoming more and more aware of just how much and how often he wanted to touch her.

Giving his restless fingers something to do he picked up his own glass and gulped down a large slug of the rich ruby wine. She was driving him to drink, he mused bleakly.

She was driving him to many places, he extended on that, not even hearing that someone had just spoken to him. It was Mia who brought his attention back to where it should be by lightly touching his jacket sleeve. A tight sting of awareness shot up his arm and, lifting his eyelids, he looked directly into her eyes. For a second—a finely split millisecond—he visualised leaning forward to lay claim to her mouth with a soft, hot kiss.

Her eyelashes trembled and she looked away from him. She knew what he had been thinking, and the tension inside him mushroomed while he forced himself to take note of the people sharing their table. Forced himself to join in.

She was playing this out a hell of a lot better than he was, he conceded as the infernal meal dragged on and on. She only picked at the dishes set in front of her. So did he. Eventually Santino stood to give a witty speech of thanks to everyone for attending, but Nikos found it difficult to raise a smile.

And he watched Mia dip her head a little, exposing the vulnerable length of her slender nape. Tension gripped him, sexual tension. When she lifted a hand to rub at her brow, he watched her fingers tremble, saw as she lowered the hand again that her pallor seemed ten times more pronounced.

And he’d had enough. The decision came to him that quickly. People were starting to stand and move around the room now, so he used the moment to rise to his feet.

Mia was startled when he cupped her elbow and drew her to her feet but she did not protest when he just turned with her and headed out of the marquee without saying a word to anyone. There was a charity auction to follow the banquet, then music and dancing and a cabaret show put on by attending celebrities, which was to be transmitted to the Lake Como party by satellite link.

He did not seem to give a damn. He ignored the clicking rush of camera shutters and the TV cameras recording their departure, his long loose stride tempered to suit her smaller steps in Nina’s borrowed shoes, and his hand was in possession of the curving indent of her waist.

They walked the path up to the house in taut trammelling silence. As they passed by the pool Mia could not control a small shiver and he reacted to it by drawing her in closer to his side. He was using his mobile to speak to his pilot as they stepped into the house. By the time they stepped out of it again by the front door she could see the helicopter coming in to settle on the same patch of lawn it had dropped them off on when they arrived.

A few minutes later and she subsided gratefully into her seat. Her wrist was aching and a tension headache was tugging at the backs of her eyes.

‘OK,’ he said the moment they were airborne. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Casting a glance in his direction, Mia saw that his mood did not look good at all. He was sitting with his long legs stretched out in front of him and a black-suited elbow rested on the window’s narrow ledge. A set of long fingers supported the golden jut of his jaw while one finger lay across the thin stretch of his mouth.

And his dark eyes glittered.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ she answered, keeping to her decision to play the whole incident down.

‘If you’re lying to me I will find out,’ he warned her quietly. ‘Santino’s staff is checking film footage as we speak. I saw you fall, and I believe you were pushed. I want to know who you think did that to you and why you believe that they did.’

‘It could just have been an accident,’ Mia sighed out. ‘I don’t understand why you are obsessing on it.’

For an answer he dipped his hand into his pocket and drew out his mobile. She knew without having to ask that he was going to call Santino and get the information he wanted from him.

‘You are such a bully—put your phone away,’ she snapped, adding another sigh of weary surrender this time when he continued to hold the phone at the ready, eyes fixed like stubborn black lasers on her pale face.

‘I think it was Anton Brunel that pushed me,’ she admitted.

‘Brunel?’ Nikos fired a sharp frown at her. ‘He was there tonight?’

Moistening her taut lips Mia nodded. ‘He—approached me as I was about to go outside…’ Her eyes darkened with anger when she recalled the way he had grabbed her and hustled her into that corner. ‘He caught hold of me and began throwing all kinds of wild accusations at me. He—he claimed I had lied to you. That I had been flirting with him.’ She just could not bring herself to use Anton Brunel’s shameful term.

‘And were you—flirting with him?’

‘How dare you say that? How dare you ask me that?’ Mia turned on him furiously. ‘We have had this conversation before and I was not pleased with your attitude then!’ she heaved out in an offended rush.

‘You used him to pull my strings with that dossier and your description of what happened between the two of you that day.’ Nikos tossed out a broad-shouldered shrug. ‘How do I know you did not start your string-pulling campaign with a bit of flirtation across the lunch table with him?’

‘So I am a dreadful flirt and a cunning manipulator—is that what you’re saying?’ Mia was stunned by the level of both men’s conceit! But most of all she was horrified that they might be right! ‘I suppose you also think I deserved all I got when I landed in the pool!’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you implied it!’ So upset now, she pushed up her chin and looked away from him, fighting the tears trying to burn in her eyes. ‘He bruised my wrist too but I suppose I should apologise for not allowing him to throttle me at the same time!’ she shook out thickly. ‘Perhaps you could—W-what are you doing—?’ she broke off to choke out.

He’d undone his seat belt and arrived across the gap separating them with the speed of an attacking snake! Now he was picking up her bruised wrist and inspecting it, the curses that flooded from him in several different languages should have turned the dark night air bright blue.

‘I will kill him,’ he rasped, going pale with fury when he saw the livid purple fingerprints marking her delicate skin.

Mia snatched her wrist back, hurting it in the bargain, but she just did not care. ‘You…men—you are all the same, ready to parade your macho strength when you feel like it,’ she shook out in burning contempt. ‘Yet you are quick to play the victims when a woman so much as looks at you! No, don’t touch me.’ She jerked away when he tried to capture her bruised wrist again. ‘I am angry with you!’

‘I can see that,’ Nikos said quietly.

Her face flushed, the tears daring to press against the muscles in her throat now. ‘I behaved myself tonight—for your benefit! I did not do anything to earn your contempt! It was not my f-fault that a nasty p-person like Anton Brunel wished to push me in the pool—and you are not my hero just because you happened to pull me out of it!’

The helicopter had come to a standstill without either of them noticing. Mia undid her seat belt and stepped over Nikos, just needing to get out of there before she did something really stupid like bursting into a flood of hot tears!

She was already halfway to the house by the time Nikos had stepped onto the darkened lawn. With a growl of frustration he strode after her and entered the house in time to watch her fly up the stairs. And even in flight the sensual flow of her lush black-clad figure reacted on him with all the gut-grinding promise of a—

‘Theos,’ he breathed.

He wanted her.

His hand snaked up to grab hold of the back of his neck.

He was not her hero, but he had this angry desire to charge up those damn stairs after her and at least be her lover!

He remained standing like that for the next thirty control-clutching seconds—until he heard her bedroom door close with a thud. Then with a violent swing of his body he strode off towards the back of the house, discarding his clothes as he went. By the time he reached the door which led into his all-purpose gym he was almost naked but for a pair of black cotton undergarments that moulded his fiercest problem with no conscience at all.

He used the gym as if it was his own personal war zone, pounding his body through a series of physical drills that did nothing to ease what was really driving him. Giving up on that form of torture he slammed through another door and dived into the glistening blue waters of his indoor swimming pool. Fifty hard laps later and he was climbing out again and heading back through the house, grimly gathering up his discarded clothes as he went.

The moment he reached his bedroom he headed for the bathroom. The heat of the shower made his glistening skin sweat and his chest was heaving from his recent exertions, but one part of him still dominated everything else. Cursing he switched the shower to cold and punished himself by letting the icy water dowse his entire frame. By the time he came out of the bathroom covered by a white towelling robe he thought he was finally beginning to get a grip.

Then a soft knock sounded on his bedroom door and he knew, even as he walked barefoot across the room, that no matter how hard he’d worked at it, he’d controlled nothing at all. For there was only one person in this house who could be knocking on his door and she was naive enough and blind enough not to know what she was tempting by doing it.

And there she stood in a short ivory silk robe with her recently shampooed hair a pagan swathe of glossy damp waves around her beautiful face. Her blue eyes looked anxious. A set of even white teeth were pressing into her full bottom lip.

‘I’m s-sorry to disturb you,’ she stammered out, ‘but I n-need…’

The stammer did it; the big blue eyes staring up at him did it, the pearly white teeth worrying her lip. She’d been disturbing him for too many frustrating hours and days and weeks, and he just reached for her and pulled her into his arms, then drove his hungry mouth down onto hers.

And the hell of it was, she let him. Next thing he knew he was stepping back with her trapped against him and kicking the door shut so he could press her back against it to indulge in the kind of hot sensual embrace that said goodbye to his self-control.

Mia fell into the kiss like a starving woman. It was so much what she wanted there wasn’t a single second when she thought to pull free. Her arms had already wrapped around his neck to fasten tightly and she was kissing him back so deep and hotly she did not recognise herself. The feel of his strong hard masculine body pressing against her felt glorious, the flood tide of pleasure that went rushing through her made her gasp and groan and quiver feverishly as he explored her mouth with a deep hot knowing intimacy which had her lips open wider in search for more.

Her reward was a lusty masculine growl that excited her dreadfully. Tightening his arms around her he lifted her up against him and fed her legs around his waist, then just stood there with her clamped against him, their parted mouths fused together and the intimacy taking place with their tongues a shattering mimic of something else he was doing to her.

His hands were splayed across her silk-covered buttocks, the fiercely bold evidence of how he was feeling shocked and excited her in equal amounts. When she moved voluptuously against him she felt his shudder that blew the last of his common sense to bits.

Turning to walk with her over to the bed, as they landed on the mattress in a tangle of clinging limbs, he pulled his head back. ‘What did you come here for?’ he rasped out.

Having to fight to try and understand the question, Mia opened her eyes and just stared blankly up at him. His mouth was barely an inch away, his warm breath scoring her face. She could feel the pounding pump of his heart against her tightening breasts as he waited for her to give him a response. To tell him she had come here to ask for a couple of headache pills was just not going to leave her warm moist swollen tongue. This was more important. She no longer even had a headache!

When she didn’t say anything, with a softly grated curse he repeated the question, watched her blink slowly, watched her teeth press down into that hot plump lower lip—and lost patience.

‘Well, I’m in no mood to stop now,’ he groaned thickly. ‘So if you decide that you do want to stop you’re going to have to say it loud and clear.’

But Mia did not want to stop. And she proved it by running her fingers into his thick black wet silken curls on his head and drew his mouth back to hers. She could not explain it, did not want to try and explain it. All she knew was that, tough as he was, and hard and cold and dangerous as he was, Nikos Theakis had grabbed something from her that day on Oscar’s driveway and deposited this terrible need for more of him in its place.

The kiss drove out any need for more talking; it was hungry and it was deep. And he was so practiced at this she barely felt his weight on top of her or the deft way that he undid her robe belt. The burning pleasure when she felt their naked bodies come together was just about the most overwhelming sensation she had ever felt.

He knew what he was doing, so she just hung on and followed where he led, revelling in each new and exciting experience. He knew just where to touch her, knew just when to break their mouths apart so he could drive her frantic with slow moist kisses down the length of her body. He splayed long fingers around one firm tender breast and teased its shy sensitive bud to flower and tighten, then caught his prize in his mouth.

Wild pleasure took her over, her body arching and her thighs trembling as she gasped out his name. His fingers stroked her ribcage, trailing a path of fire down to her stomach and, finally, shocking her into complete stillness when he made that first sweep between the thighs.

Her breathless stillness brought his head up, eyes drugged and blackened by passion honing on to her face. Her hair flowed across the pillow; her hands still held his head. Her eyes were closed, her soft lips parted, and she was quivering—flesh, muscles, bones all vibrating in unison at the first exploratory caress he made. She did not seem to have any control over what she was feeling. Control, Nikos realised, belonged exclusively to him.

When her restless fingers trailed his nape, then slithered down his burning chest, he groaned as his body responded violently.

She shaped the bunched muscles in his wide shoulders as her slender hips arched into his. She held nothing back, and he felt so intoxicated by her he sunk them both down—down into the dark heat of passion until it was all she could do to cling to him and let him dictate the rest.

It was like being lost, floating on a rocky sea of building pleasure, Mia likened hazily. When he reared back from her to remove his towel, her heavy eyes drank in the powerful beauty of his body—coveted it, reached out and touched the whirl of dark hair between his bulging pectoral muscles and made him shudder as she scored him with her fingernails.

He came back to her on a hiss of hunger, lay over her, letting her feel the glorious heat of his naked flesh against her own once again. It was power versus weakness, hard versus soft. He nibbled at the corner of her mouth until she twisted her head and anxiously demanded the full onslaught of his mouth.

Passion, desire, overrode everything. He made love to her slowly and erotically and intensely, his sensual caresses moving her closer and closer to a place she had never been before. Her fingers plucked restlessly at his flesh, her teeth fastened on to his throat. He was hot, a film of salty male sweat tasting on her tongue. She could not keep still and she could feel the tense state of his erection pushing against her thigh.

‘Nikos,’ she whimpered over and over for some dizzyingly important reason she could not understand.

He understood though.

She felt her first spark of self-consciousness when she suddenly remembered that she was nothing like the long slender blondes he was used to looking at like this. She had curves. She had a waist and hips and full real breasts, not fakes. As if he was thinking along similar lines an odd twist of a smile curved his lips as his gaze flickered down to that other difference she was suddenly acutely aware of, the triangle of ebony curls nestling at the juncture with her thighs.

Then he bent down and kissed her navel; it was so shockingly unexpected, her muscles jerked violently in response. One of his hands stretched out, grabbing hold of her hand as it went instinctively to push him away from her, long fingers closing around her fingers as he repeated the kiss with a slow and sensual glide of his tongue lower and lower.

‘Nikos, no,’ she groaned out.

He ignored her protest and was so ruthless about his intentions that she surrendered to the silky waves of pleasure he was making her feel, her eyelids folding downwards as he traced each moist, hot, swollen part of her. Within seconds he was carrying her way beyond sense, drugging her with the newness of one sensation laid on top of another. The way he used his tongue to pleasure her, the way he continued to clasp her hand. The way her limbs had gone boneless and restless, the way there was a slow languorous drag of her breathing. He knew exactly what he was doing to her as he moved up her body to the flat of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the tight tender peaks of her breasts and finally, with a hungry moulding of his lips, to her mouth.

And with a single lithe move he arrived on top of her, his narrow hips pressing between her trembling thighs and at last she experienced the sense-spinning intimacy of his bold erection sliding into her like hot smooth silk.

‘Madre di Dio,’ she breathed, ‘non posso più,’ as she shot right over the pleasure threshold.

And still he held one of her hands captive, still he ravaged her mouth. She was wild, she was scared, she could not keep her legs still. Her free hand was clawing at his bronzed damp flesh, the breath leaving her in short tense little bursts. Pleasure was lighting her up from the inside, bright hot shimmering pleasure she had no control over as it built and built. And he was hot—burning, murmuring things to her she could not understand, though some instinct inside her recognised that he was urging her on and on.

‘Non posso più,’ she whispered a second time.

‘Sì, you can stand it,’ he responded thickly. ‘Hold on to me, Mia. There’s a lot more to come.’

And he was right, there was so much more of it and on so many levels she just couldn’t keep up. Her dizzy world went misty, she was held enthralled by how acutely she could feel every centimetre of him as he slowly filled her up.

He was hot and trembling, so lost in the sheer power of what he was generating between them he forgot just what kind of creature it was he was holding in his arms. He was only aware of the desire, the hunger, the passion, raging through both of them. He felt it, fed it and eventually surrendered to it, and with a heavy groan drove home with a final deep stabbing thrust.

Mia had forgotten to expect it. So the sharp spasm of pain locked her muscles in shock. She could not breathe, she could not think. Nikos had frozen on top of her, his eyes like black caverns blazing down into her stark staring blue eyes already swimming with tears.

He started cursing and she started sobbing, hitting out at him with her tightly clenched fists. He eased back a little, cursing all over again, his eyes closing as her tense muscles unwittingly clung to him sending waves of pleasure rippling his powerful frame.

‘It’s OK.’ He tried to look for sanity, his hands gently capturing her two clenched fists. ‘It’s OK, agape mou,’ he repeated, though he knew nothing had ever been less OK, because he was already hungrily moulding her lips to his. He managed to hold the pressure back. He managed to control his rampant needy senses long enough to give her chance to adjust.

And she felt wonderful, narrow and tight and so deliciously hot. His breathing was hectic, hers was the same, the two of them fighting for breath in panting urgency around the clinging darting heat of the tongue. He felt her clenched fists relax their tension, then her taut slender body slowly ease from its crucifying arch. Their hearts were beating like crazy hammers, sending tremor after tremor rippling across their flesh. Slowly, carefully, he released her fingers and groaned in relief when she instantly ran them into his hair. He fed his hands beneath her to support her and with the flickering passion of his tongue against her tongue, he just lost it altogether and let his hips surge forward, thrusting him deep.

It was as if a whole tidal wave of pleasure rushed through her, hot as lava and sweet as melting honey. Caught in its thrall Mia raised her hips to take him in farther and sent a thick moaning cry into his mouth. Dragging her pulsing lips free she whispered, ‘Again,’ and felt him draw back, then thrust again. It was the sweet—sweet—sweetest torment. ‘Oh, again,’ she gasped out.

Feeling drunk on her greedy pleasure, Nikos caught her mouth and ravished its soft swollen fullness and set the deep and fluid motion of loving with a rampant erotic thoroughness that emptied his head of all else but her and this and what he could feel was building between them. Never in his long sexual experience had he ever felt anything so intensely as this. She moved with him with an innate sensuality born of instinct. She clung to him with her arms and her legs. When the final madness began to accelerate them towards their climaxes, he could feel that she was with him every blindingly glorious step of the way.

And it went on and on, like time never ending. Mouths separate now, Mia felt every single sense she possessed sing to a pleasure that just grew and grew.

‘Nikos,’ she whispered, floating up her heavy eyelids to look at him. Her eyes clung to his eyes where the sheer power of his feelings burned, naked and exposed. The first jolt of blinding pleasure brought forth a sharp cry from her throat, followed by another one, and he plunged deeper, catching her up to him in his strong arms and holding her, the rasping race of his breathing something she only understood when he joined her in the exquisite pleasure of hot drowning release.

Afterwards was almost as good as the climax to this first loving Mia had ever experienced. The slow sensual reactionary quivers that brought her downwards slowly, the awareness of his hot skin against hers. The size and weight of him, the strength and the power of his wonderful masculine magnificence crushing her down into the bed.

And the way he still held her, close, so close. ‘Bello—bello,’ she breathed on a fragile wisp of a murmur.

Easing her of his weight, Nikos slid onto his side, taking her with him. Content to remain lost in the hazy aftermath of sweet pleasure, it was all she could do to curl against the man who had just made her first experience so wildly beautiful and gloriously passionate.

While Mia floated, Nikos felt as if he’d just come down to earth with a thud after enjoying one of the most exciting releases of his life. Payback, he named it, staring over the top of her tumbled raven locks into the stark face of what he had just done.

He had just broken his own cardinal rule and taken an innocent, and what’s more she was a Balfour innocent. He could already hear the wedding bells ringing, could feel the noose closing around his throat. As the chilling face of reality spread its icy fingers out across his flesh he sensed her drifting into sleep. She was curled lovingly against him, warm and soft and so damn trusting with her cheek resting against the unsteady thump of his heartbeat and her fingers gently stroking the whorls of damp dark hair on his chest.

But she didn’t know him. Even Oscar, who knew him better than anyone, did not know who the real Nikos Theakis was. It was safer not to know him, safer to keep himself crushed so deep inside he would never rear his head. If that meant he had to crush the more human emotions at the same time, then that was the way it had to be.

People looked at him and saw the smooth billionaire entrepreneur, ruthlessly focused on his career. They saw the cool sophisticated male who turned out for elite functions like the one they’d attended this evening, or the good-looking guy with a trail of beautiful well-satisfied women drifting behind him in his wake.

They did not know that he needed to shower four times a day—more often if he had the opportunity, or that there were no locks on any doors in any of his homes except for the locks on main entrances.

They did not know that he always—always—slept alone. That this beautiful creature sleeping curled around him now was actually receiving a twisted kind of honour, because he had not already shaken her awake and sent her packing back to her own room to sleep.

As if she could sense what he was thinking she moved against him, a soft sigh escaping her parted lips as she stretched, then relaxed again, the movement so fluid and naturally sensual Nikos had to clench his body to stop it from responding to it. One of her long silken legs lay warm across his, her fingers lay buried in the whorls of dark hair on his chest.

She murmured something—ti’amo, he thought she said, and felt its emotive impact like a violent crash to his chest. Ti’amo, I love you. Ti’amo, I so belong to you now it’s a done deal, he translated with harsh mocking bitterness.

And like a man making a dangerous bid for escape, he eased himself free of her clinging shape and gave her a pillow to hug instead of him. She curled around it like some beautiful dark sensual siren clinging on to her latest victim, and with no idea that the cold ruthless side to his nature was busily rearing its awesome head.

Chapter Eight

A SOUND awoke Mia as the quiet light of dawn was drifting in through the window. She continued to lie there for a few seconds, grappling to make sense of her unfamiliar surroundings, then she remembered and her heart gave a thump. Twisting her head on the pillow she saw that the place beside her in the bed was empty, and she sat up with a jerk, a hand going up to push her tumbled hair from her face. The sound came again and she focused on Nikos, who was standing with his back to her on the other side of the room.

He was already dressed in one of the dark business suits he favoured, and was snapping his paper-thin watch to his wrist. He looked so breathtakingly handsome that tender muscles deep in her abdomen responded with a pulse of awareness at the same moment she picked up the clean male scents permeating the room which told her he had recently showered.

The sheer novel intimacy in their situation suddenly engulfed her in a rosy hue of shyness. Realising she was also very naked beneath the thin sheet had her clutching at its fine linen edge and drawing it up to her chin before she could fight a drowning wash of self-consciousness to speak.

‘What—what time is it?’ she asked huskily.

The way his wide shoulders tensed at the sound of her voice sent her teeth biting down into her soft lower lip. Perhaps he was not quite comfortable with their new situation yet either, she allowed.

‘Five o’clock,’ he answered without turning. ‘Go back to sleep—it’s too early for you to get up.’

‘You are up,’ Mia pointed out to him.

He said nothing, his long fingers reaching out to pick up his mobile phone, which he placed in his jacket pocket, followed by some other bits and pieces Mia followed without really registering what they were. Beginning to frown now, it was slowly dawning on her that he did not want to look at her. That the tension gripping his wide shoulders also repeated itself in the sharp movements of his fingers, and from the small amount of his profile she could see, the muscle that angled his strong jaw was clenched.

‘I am about to leave,’ he announced suddenly, making Mia blink slowly. ‘I have business to attend to in Rome. My plane is on standby. Enjoy the rest of your day here if you wish. When you are ready to go back to London, let Lukas know and he will have my helicopter come and collect you.’

Every word, every cool flat businesslike word, arriving like the cold tip of a knife’s blade forced Mia to recognise what he was doing. He had taken her to his bed; now he was distancing himself. In true Nikos Theakis tried-and-tested tradition he was letting her know without needing to say the words that this—this soulless departure in the pale hours of the morning marked the end of what they had shared!

Beginning to tremble, Mia shut her eyes, struggling with a nauseating sense of hurt that made her burst forth with the shaken words, ‘Don’t do this to me, Nikos.’

He moved, twisting the long length of his body to lance her a brief shuttered glance. ‘Don’t beg, Mia. It’s unbecoming.’

Beg—? Her eyes flicked open in time to watch him turn away again, every lean hard elegant inch of him so contained she began to feel dizzy now as well as sick.

‘I am not begging,’ she denied on a wounded choke. ‘We—we just slept together!’

‘A—mistake. It should not have happened.’

‘But it did happen.’

‘True.’ He seemed to be inordinately interested in what was inside his wallet now. ‘However, it will not be happening again.’

‘Just like that?’ Beginning to squirm with self-loathing for even trying to discuss this with him, Mia folded her arms around her knees and crushed them to her chest. ‘You—you make love to me, then just—just throw me aside as if my feelings do not count?’

‘Theos! We did not make love, we had sex!’ He spun on her angrily. ‘We had wild hot amazing sex—Mia!’ he repeated harshly. ‘Where was the love in what we did in that bed last night? I did not bring it there! And if you did, then you were—’

His nostrils flared as he snapped his lips together, drawing back from what he had been about to say next. His dark eyes blazed at her frozen expression of horror, then with a muttered curse he turned his back to her again.

‘I was w-what?’ she prompted sickly, feeling like someone living a nightmare she could not wake up from. She found she could not let him stop there even if the rest was going to break her in two. ‘Naive? Stupid? Ready for it? Begging you for it?’

His lean profile clenched. ‘I was not going to say any of that.’

‘Then what were you going to say!’ she fired out.

‘Nothing.’

The liar, the cruel wicked liar!

‘I hate you so much now I will never forgive you for doing this to me,’ she whispered. ‘No doubt you are relieved and pleased to hear me say it!’

‘Actually, I’m not—’ his voice remained cool ‘—I…care about you, Mia. But I’m a loner. I always have been. I don’t do the kind of relationship you are going to expect. You will not believe this right now but I’m doing you a big favour calling a halt now—’

‘As you do with all the other women who have shared this bed with you?’ she flung out. ‘Take w-what you want from them, then toss them to one side like yesterday’s rubbish?’

‘Exactly like that,’ he confirmed.

Stunned that he had dared to admit it as coolly at he had, Mia stared at him for a second, then pushed her face into her knees and hugged self-loathing to her like it was her closest friend. She’d never felt so cheap, so used and discarded. And whatever it was he had tried not to say, the real truth crucifying her right now was she had been asking for it—begging him for it—for weeks before he gave in!

Now here she sat in the middle of his rumpled bed consigned to the low ranks of a one-night stand.

Which was probably her just deserts for being such an easy tramp!

‘Why don’t you just go,’ she whispered when she sensed him still hovering.

‘I…need to know you are going to be all right.’

So he wanted reassurance now? ‘I’m all right.’ She gave it to him with the taste of bitterness in her mouth.

And still he hovered! Why—? Was he going to ask for a litre or two of her blood next?

‘Look…’ he said heavily. ‘I’m—sorry I let this happen.’ He actually sounded it too. ‘It was all my fault. I should not have given in to what was happening between us. You’re young and inexperienced in these things but I am not, and I should have…’

‘Say anything else m-more disgusting to me and I will be sick!’ Mia wrenched out.

‘It was wrong!’ he lashed out suddenly. ‘I dishonoured you and I dishonoured your father—’

That brought her head flying upwards. ‘Don’t you dare bring Oscar into this!’ she lashed back, dizzy at the unexpected hot flare of awareness she experienced when she looked at him. ‘How dare you stand there and speak his name to me as if you have some right to hold him up against me!’

His taut profile paled. ‘I did not mean—’

‘I do not care what you did not mean! I do not care that you feel guilty now that you’ve had Oscar’s daughter in this bed! I gave myself to you willingly and freely. It is you who finds this a shameful thing, not me!’

Standing rigid with shock, he looked as if he’d been turned into rock, and Mia decided she’d had taken enough of this. With an infuriatingly uncontrollable sob, she coiled her fingers around the sheet and snaked off the bed, dragging the sheet with her as she went.

‘Mia…’

‘No,’ she husked out. ‘Don’t speak another word to me. I hate you. I will hate you for ever.’

Those black feelings vented, she ran into his bathroom and slammed the door shut, then just sank in a puddle of white linen to the floor.

Go away and learn to honour yourself, Oscar had said to her. Well, she had shot that ideal in the foot, for where had her sense of honour been when she had lusted after Nikos Theakis? Where was it in recognising that she had just turned into the one person she had always vowed she would never turn into—her high-class whoring mother!

And she would never forgive Nikos for making her aware that this was what she had done to herself.

She heard the telltale sound of the helicopter lifting off the ground as she still sat in her huddle on the bathroom floor.

He’d gone. Her aching heart turned over. He had not bothered to hang around for a second longer than he absolutely had to and she hated him for doing that too.

A few minutes after she had been delivered back to her apartment via helicopter, then a chauffeured limousine, which left her feeling cynically unimpressed, Sophie called her.

‘Have you seen the papers today? Someone had an interesting time last night,’ she teased. ‘Did you go skinny dipping in the D’Lassios’ pool because you were hot?’

Mia sank into the nearest chair and closed her weary eyes. So, despite assurances from Santino, her trip into the pool had found its way into the press.

‘Explain this skinny dipping,’ she requested.

‘Self-explicit turn of phrase,’ Sophie said. ‘OK, so you had all your clothes on,’ she conceded, ‘but the photo of the great and gorgeous Nikos hauling you out of the pool without so much as splashing himself looks impressive, while you looked kind of—wet and helpless and cute.’

Cute. Mia pressed her lips together because they wanted to tremble.

‘What happened?’

‘I—slipped in the crush,’ she lied. ‘Is there anything else in the papers I should know about?’ she then asked.

‘Only this amazing picture of you leaving later wearing the sexiest dress I’ve ever seen on you. Was it Nina’s?’

‘Sì.’

‘She has fabulous taste,’ Sophie gushed. ‘You went from fairy princess in floating blue silk chiffon to wet and helpless to dramatically slinky all in one evening. I wish I could wear a dress like that,’ she sighed out wistfully.

‘You could if you only stopped trying to hide your lovely figure under metres of fabric,’ Mia murmured impatiently.

‘Oh, come on, Mia. I’m five foot three inches high to your five-eight,’ Sophie pointed out. ‘Long and slinky I am not and never will be. Besides the unplanned dip, did you enjoy the rest of the evening or did you need to take the courage pill halfway through?’

Just like that her half-sister guided the subject away from herself as she always did, Mia noticed. Then she felt her insides curl up and sink because the rest of the evening did not bear thinking about.

‘The rest of the evening was—OK,’ she mumbled.

‘You’re distinctly unimpressed, then, that Nikos spent a cool half-million at the auction on a diamond bracelet.’

He did? Mia blinked. They had left before the auction had even started! He must have placed his bid before they left, she decided, murmuring out loud and cynically, ‘Perhaps he collects them to give out to his one-night stands as they leave.’

‘Oh, wow,’ Sophie murmured. ‘Now that sounded bitter.’

Mia was glad to hear it confirmed. She hoped to build on the bitterness she felt towards Nikos Theakis until it had successfully wiped out these other feelings of hopeless, useless love and hate and hard, crushing hurt.

Pride alone made her turn in for work on Monday morning to find herself the sinecure for a battery of wary glances and terribly reserved smiles. It was only then that she remembered the bruising kiss in a sunny car park which she discovered was now the property of every employer in the building and had effectively wiped out all the natural friendliness she had been gifted with in the preceding weeks.

‘What did you expect?’ Fiona asked her. ‘You can’t indulge in a relationship with the boss and expect everyone to continue to treat you like one of them. You’re a Balfour. He’s a billionaire. You’ve confirmed their original expectations of you and now they feel duped.’

What could she say in her own defence? That the kiss had been a form of punishment because she’d likened him to a donkey called Tulio? Or that he’d used the kiss to warn off the guy from accounts because Nikos believed he’d stood her up on a date? The first was really stupid and unbelievable in the cold light of a new day. And the second excuse exposed her own lie to Nikos in the first place.

By the end of the week she’d closed herself off inside a steel case of protection so that nothing else could threaten her very shaky composure. Nikos had not returned to London and she had stopped eating. In truth she felt too wounded and raw to eat. Fiona was constantly sending her worried glances. Even her aunt noticed the difference in her voice when they talked on the phone.

‘Is something wrong, Mia?’ she asked her.

‘I’m missing you,’ she said, and it was the truth. She was missing Tia and Tuscany, and the quiet calm simplicity of the life she’d led there.

‘But otherwise you are happy with your exciting new life?’

Tia Giulia wanted her to say yes. She needed to be reassured that she had not made a big mistake telling Mia about Oscar. So Mia gave her that assurance and tried after that to sound much brighter when she phoned.

On Saturday, she bumped into one of Kat Balfour’s friends in the street. Bethany was a bright, beautiful, lively creature much like her half-sister Kat. They chatted about the D’Lassio party for a while, which Bethany had been unable to attend for some reason Mia could not recall two minutes after she’d had it explained to her. Her mind was like that right now, unable to sustain any thoughts that did not contain the name Nikos Theakis in them. Bethany invited her to join her and a few other friends for a drink that night and Mia thought emptily, why not?

When she arrived at the Chelsea wine bar the place was so crowded she almost chickened out and went away again, but Bethany saw her and waved her over. Bathany’s group of friends were lively and noisy and Mia was surprised an hour later to discover that she was almost—almost—enjoying herself. Most of them were going on to dinner, then a nightclub, but the thought of eating anything made her stomach go queasy so she declined with a smile and some excuse that was something else she could not recall minutes afterwards.

The following Wednesday, she climbed out of bed and immediately had to run to the bathroom where she was sick. When the same thing happened the next few mornings, she decided it was time to start eating proper, regular meals again.

Monday, she still felt so nauseous Fiona noticed her sickly pallor.

‘I think I’ve caught a bug,’ she confessed and explained that she’d been sick on and off for days.

Fiona sent her home. Not wanting to go because being stuck in her apartment all day was only marginally worse than being stuck here waiting for Nikos to put in an appearance. He called daily but he only spoke to Fiona. In the time he had been away he’d called from Rome, Athens, New York and Busan. Understanding just where Busan was put him a long, long way away, which suited her, Mia told herself.

It did.

Wednesday, Fiona showed her an article from the financial pages of a broadsheet. It was about Lassiter-Brunel. Apparently the company had a new anonymous backer to bail them out of trouble. Good, she thought. Perhaps Anton Brunel will stop being angry with her for ruining his deal with Nikos.

Thursday she stood up from her desk too quickly and went so dizzy she almost passed out. Angry and concerned, Fiona insisted she go to see a doctor because the stomach bug was lingering too long. Having never needed to consult a doctor in her entire life before, she had no idea how to find one in London. So she had to call Sophie, who wanted to know what was wrong. After explaining, her half-sister directed her to the family physician. She took a taxi there. The moment she stepped into his private rooms, she knew she did not want to be there. Something—instinct maybe—filled her with a stark feeling of dread. Half an hour later she walked out again, so shocked and dazed she almost walked straight under the wheels of a car. She did not go back to the office. She did not go back to her apartment. She just walked and walked and walked, until eventually thirst and exhaustion forced her to hail a taxi and go home.

The mirrored walls in the lift showed her deathly colour. A trembling weakness in her legs had forced her to lean into the corner of the car.

‘Incinta…’ She watched her lips form a word that was still refusing to make proper sense to her.

She even tried mouthing the same thing in English but could not seem to remember the translation and her eyes looked like two sunken dark pools in her wan face. A fresh clutch of nausea was building, drying up her mouth and flattening her hands to her stomach in an effort to stop it from getting any worse.

The lift stopped and the doors slid open. Reeling her way out of it like a dizzy drunk she almost cannoned right into the big man himself. Dressed in a dark grey suit with a gold tie knotted against his bright white shirt, he looked staggeringly elegant, shatteringly attractive and felt so solidly real that Mia just lost it completely, and every shocked, scared, raw emotion she had been struggling with throughout the afternoon just exploded from her in a fit of helpless rage.

She hit out at him, managing to land a salvo of blows on his chest before he caught firm hold of her fists to hold them still. Stopped from venting her feelings that way and panting in her fury she went for the jugular with the only other weapon left.

‘What are you doing here?’ She speared up at his surprised, disgustingly healthy-looking handsome dark face. ‘You should be feeling too ashamed to show your face!’

‘Mia—’

‘Don’t you dare say my name to me!’ she choked, yanking like a crazy woman at her imprisoned fists. ‘You turned me into my mother and I hate you for it! I will hate you for doing that to me for the rest of my life!’

With a final tug he let go of her, and the moment he did so she slithered round him, too engrossed in her own raw feelings to notice that, other than capturing her fists, he had been totally still throughout her attack.

Her legs felt wobbly when she tried to walk on them; the queasy feeling in her stomach had now reached her throat. She wasn’t really surprised that when she tried to focus on her apartment door, the oval-shaped walls of the lobby began to sway in and out. Reaching out for the nearest solid thing in an effort to steady herself, her trembling fingers closed around the hard-muscled strength of a silk-suited arm instead.

Mia tilted her head back, glazed blue eyes darkened by confusion staring at his fiercely frowning expression. She had not heard him move. Perhaps he had not moved at all and it was just an optical illusion like the moving walls and the swaying floor beneath her feet.

Then it all began to close in on her. ‘Nikos,’ she whispered just before she began to sink.

When she came around she was lying on a long soft leather sofa. Nikos was squatting down beside it, lancing Greek into his mobile phone while he held one of her hands trapped inside a tightly clenched grip.

He looked clenched all over, Mia observed dimly, gliding an unwilling glance over his taut profile and the fierce set of his shoulders inside his jacket. Nor did he look as elegantly turned out as he had done. He’d dragged the knot to his tie loose and undone two buttons of his shirt. Those two buttons looked as if they’d been yanked open to reveal a triangle of brown skin. There was tension in his strong neck muscles and his clenched jaw line. And as he bit out another line of Greek she noticed his blanched pallor and the lines of stress spoiling the shape of his wide sensual lips.

How long had she been out? Frowning, it took her several seconds to recall the full drama she had enacted before she’d swooned away at his feet. She’d attacked him like a madwoman. She had not even given him a chance to speak. She recalled his stunned frozen face when she’d vented her anger on him.

Then she remembered why she had reacted like that and a tiny sob escaped her lips.

His conversation stopped. He swung his dark head around to look at her. Fierce dark eyes that glittered with the oddest expression settled on hers and the fingers he had closed around her fingers tightened their grip.

‘You fainted,’ he told her as if she was too dense to work it out for herself.

Mia said nothing. Looking at him should be hurting by now and she was waiting for the pain to kick in.

‘You are in my apartment,’ he added after making a wary foray of her pale unresponsive countenance. ‘I carried you in here. You—scared me.’

Scared him? He did not know the meaning of scared, Mia thought dismally. Scared was what had made her attack him the way that she did.

As he was going to find out soon enough when she broke the news to him.

If she told him.

‘So I’ve called in a doctor.’

Mia snaked her fingers free. ‘That was not necessary.’

‘It was to me.’

Sitting up carefully in case she set off her fragile stomach again, she made a move with her legs that gave him no choice but to stand if he did not want her to unbalance him. Her head was still swimming and, pushing a set of fingers up to her brow, she was forced to remain sitting on his sofa when really she would have loved to just get up and walk out without speaking another word to him.

Pregnant…

At last the English translation had come to her. For some incomprehensible reason it had more impact in English. A hard word, abrupt—pregnant—no softness or sentimentality in it at all, unlike the so-much-gentler incinta…

‘You’ve lost weight.’

Lowering her hand she looked up and found he was standing several feet away, tall as a tree and blocking out most of the light from the window behind him, placing his face in shadow so she could not read his expression.

But she did not need light to feel the tension emanating from him.

‘You might as well call the doctor back and tell him not to bother because I will not see him,’ she said, looking away again because she could feel the first quivering beginning of hurt kicking in.

‘I am not ill.’ To prove it she made herself stand. ‘I am simply hungry because I forgot to eat today.’

‘And the day before that and the day before that,’ Nikos threw in. ‘There is hardly anything left of you and you are swaying where you stand. If you try to take a step you will probably hit the floor again—unless I catch you as I did before, of course, which is up for question right now because I am bloody angry with you, Mia. So angry I could give you a shake.’

‘You are angry—with me?’ Lifting up her chin her eyes sparked incredulous blue. ‘What do you think gives you the right to be anything where I am concerned?’

Ignoring that he said, ‘I’ve spoken to Fiona. You have been feeling unwell all week—’

Only for a week? Mia almost laughed at the understatement.

‘And you’ve been—going out drinking.’

Starting to wonder if she really had fainted again and not come around yet, Mia stared at his stiff censorious stance and waited to find out what her delirious imagination was going to make him say next!

‘With friends of Kat’s,’ he provided.

‘Fiona told you all of this?’ Even in her imagination she could not envisage his secretary would have offered up this kind of information about her.

‘No.’ He made a tense move with one broad shoulder. ‘I had—other sources.’

Other sources…‘What other sources?’

‘I think you should sit down—’

‘I don’t want to sit down!’ Mia exploded. ‘I want to know what business it is of yours what I’ve been doing! And why you believe you can stand there like a disapproving father, censuring me!’

The moment she finished screeching at him she ruined it all by swaying when her dizzy head protested at the pressure she’d placed on it.

‘Sit down!’ he barked at her.

‘No!’ she fired back.

Only to release a groan that turned into a frustrated whimper when her stomach began to heave. Her hand went to cover it, her other hand lifting to hold her dizzy head. She heard Nikos mutter something not very polite about stubborn females, then felt his hands cup her elbows and she was being forcibly guided back down onto the sofa.

Then the doorbell went.

‘Stay right there,’ Nikos instructed—as if she was in a fit state to go anywhere!—and strode off.

Two minutes later he was back again, walking into the room with a middle-aged man carrying a doctor’s bag following in his wake, and Mia was back on her feet again, trying her best to look as if she was bursting with robust health.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Balfour,’ the doctor greeted briskly. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I really don’t—’

‘She is suffering from nausea and extreme spells of dizziness,’ Nikos took over with smooth, grim efficiency, then added with all the gracious cool of someone happy to toss a fizzing bomb down at her feet, ‘She is also in the early stages of pregnancy.’

Chapter Nine

SHE should have fainted again, Mia thought later. It would have been the easiest way to get out of what took place next.

But she didn’t faint.

Instead she was forced to endure a second consultation in one day, plus a gentle lecture on consuming the right healthy diet and taking the right kind of rest, exercise and sleep.

Having presented his bomb, Nikos had withdrawn to the window again. Long back presented to the room, jacket shoved back, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. He stood like that, signalling his retreat from proceedings, and Mia could not drag her eyes away from him, the shock he had so neatly delivered on her was so great.

The doctor began a speech about the variances of early pregnancy, though she barely heard a word that he said. And even he was feeling the strain in the atmosphere because it was so suffocatingly tense. He kept on glancing at Nikos, then back to Mia’s frozen profile while she stared at Nikos too. It had to be obvious that they were not a joyously expecting couple, overexcited and overanxious about becoming parents.

As he prepared to leave, he expressed one final message. ‘The nurturing of a new life is a precious gift that should be cherished. Anything less is an offence to the child itself.’

By then even Nikos was showing cracks in his unyielding demeanour when he turned round and moved to show the doctor out.

And he did not come back.

Mia continued to sit on the sofa, still too stunned to do more than take in the fact that Nikos had somehow managed to grab complete control of the situation before she’d even had a chance to grasp it for herself.

He knew she was pregnant. His other sources had been reporting her every move back to him, and by the amount he’d already indicated she had not taken a single step anywhere during the past two weeks without it being carefully tracked.

What was she supposed to make of that?

Suddenly wondering why she was still sitting here like some cowed fool waiting for him to deign to put in an appearance, Mia shot to her feet. Her mouth felt unnaturally dry and her stomach was still not happy but she discovered that she could walk without making the walls and floor move about.

Stepping out of the living room she discovered that the apartment was a lot bigger than she’d expected it to be. A wide central hallway fed right down its middle, with doors leading off from either side of it, most of them thrown open like the doors in his house in Hampshire.

Shivering she turned in the direction of the only closed door—the door out of here. She was going to escape while she had the chance. She needed to use the loo and she desperately needed a drink of something long and cool and thirst quenching. She did not need—

‘Don’t even think about it,’ his deep voice arrived with a quiet, seriously threatening undertone to it.

Pulses leaping like mad, Mia pressed her dry lips together and closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again and, folding her arms across her front, turned to look at him.

He was poised half in, half out of a room farther down the hallway. Her guarded blue eyes connected briefly with the narrowed glint reflecting from his, then dropped almost of their own volition down the length of his long lean stance.

He’d removed his suit jacket and his shirtsleeves had been folded up his forearms. He held what looked like a tea towel in one long-fingered hand. It came to her that she was seeing yet another side to this complicated man, this one being his domesticated side.

Did it distract from the raw sexual male she’d been so fascinated by for so long? No, she admitted helplessly as her tummy flipped for a different reason. Without knowing she was doing it she covered it with a hand.

Lowering his gaze to watch the revealing gesture, Nikos had to fight not to grind his teeth together as anger erupted inside. She was barely managing to stand upright. She looked the colour of paste. She’d lost weight—too much weight going by the way her pale blue cotton dress was hanging on her. And she looked so beautiful and fragile and vulnerable he wanted to leap on her and carry her off to the nearest bed!

Where the hell had he got the idea he could just brush her off like the others?

The clue was in the question, Nikos told himself grimly. She wasn’t like the others.

She was open, emotional, temperamental and feisty, he listed. Extraordinarily beautiful and soul-destroyingly sexy without knowing that she was. Even now while she stood there trying to maintain an upright position, all he could think about was stripping off that sack of a dress so he could see how much damage two weeks of barely eating had done to her fabulous shape.

And she was pregnant with his child, he tagged on finally. What the hell was sexy about knowing she was pregnant with his child? He had never wanted children. The knowledge of one nestling somewhere inside her should be bringing him out in a cold sweat, but it wasn’t.

He had to veil his eyes so she would not see how the powerful stuff pounding around inside him was almost knocking him over while he stood here trying to play it cool.

‘I’m preparing something to eat as per doctor’s orders,’ he relayed evenly. ‘If you can walk this far without collapsing, come and join me.’

For a second, for a pin-piercing, nerve-tripping second, he thought she was going to launch a second verbal attack on him. She drew in a breath, her chin shot up, her fabulous blue eyes sparked, her gorgeously soft, full, vulnerable mouth parted and the scent for the fight filled his body with a sizzling hot charge that would have only one outlet.

And that was the reason why he must have been mad to believe he could brush her off like the others. She fired him up even when he did not want firing up. She fired him up without even knowing she was doing it! She challenged him, fascinated him—annoyed the hell out of him.

‘I need to use a bathroom,’ she said.

It was like coming down from a drug-induced high. Long fingers gripping the tea towel like it was some kind of lethal weapon, he waved it at a door to her right. ‘Second door down,’ he indicated.

With that he stepped back into the kitchen and vented some of what was gripping him by tossing the tea towel across the room the moment he knew she couldn’t see him do it.

Mia collapsed against the closed bathroom door. She had absolutely no idea what had been going on just now but she felt as if she’d just survived an attack from invisible aliens. Every nerve end she possessed was standing on end and tingling with alarm. He had not moved. He had not said anything particularly contentious. He had not been anything but absolutely casual and cool.

It was her, she told herself. She was so uptight about these other sources she was sensing things about him that just were not there. Trying to pull herself together she turned to lock the door, only to frown when she discovered there wasn’t a lock there. Since when did multimil-lion-pound apartments come with no locks on the bathroom doors?

She was washing her hands when she recalled that the bathroom attached to her bedroom in Hampshire had no lock and neither had the bedroom door. And all of the doors there had been standing wide open, as if the sheer pace of restless energy Nikos always generated meant he needed to move around his homes without the irritating restriction of having to pause to fling open doors.

And that was it, Mia recognised suddenly. All those strange sensations she had been picking up on out there just now had been the sparking trails of his restless energy screaming around the walls, trying to get out, because he had to be feeling so constrained by the appalling discovery that she was carrying his child.

He was slicing a knife through a fresh crisp salad sandwich when she presented herself in the doorway. Her unpredictable stomach immediately reacted to the delicious smell with a hungry growl.

Glimpsing her hovering there Nikos indicated with the knife to one of the high stools set by a marble-topped eating bar. ‘Sit down,’ he invited.

Reluctant to move any closer to him but too hungry to stay where she was, Mia hitched herself onto the stool.

‘Drink,’ he said, setting a tall glass of sparkling fresh orange down in front of her. Half the sandwich arrived while she was drinking thirstily from the glass.

‘I don’t know what you like so I’ve piled everything in there. Just take out what you don’t want to eat.’

In other words, eating nothing was not an option, Mia interpreted. Not that she was thinking of causing a fight about it. She was too hungry.

‘I thought you were in Busan,’ she said as she set down her glass.

‘I flew back overnight.’ Lifting up a boiling kettle he poured the water into a stainless-steel cafetière, infusing the room with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee.

About to pick up the sandwich, her fingers stilled. ‘Because you found out I was pregnant,’ she prompted.

‘Even I cannot see into the future, agape mou. You only found out during your visit to your GP this morning.’ He sent her a wry glance. ‘Though I will admit I suspected it might be the reason for your stomach bug when Fiona relayed her concerns to me about it.’

Mia stared at him. ‘Why would you come up with such a suspicion?’ She had not thought of it so why should he?

He offered up a shrug. ‘I did not use anything.’

Did not use anything? ‘Explain this—did not use anything,’ she demanded.

To her surprise he let out a short dry laugh. ‘Innocent to the last skin cell,’ he mocked, turning around to send her a sardonic glance. ‘Protection,’ he delivered, accentuating each syllable like he was talking to an idiot. ‘Contraception,’ he added in the same mocking way. ‘The protective use of a condom, if you need me to spell it out clearer for you.’

‘I do not.’ Cheeks heating because she could not believe she had walked herself into that totally embarrassing explanation, she fired at him, ‘Why did you not use anything? Or do you treat all your one-night stands as cavalierly as you did me?’

‘No.’ Veiling his eyes, his answer was that short and gruff.

‘Then why take such liberties with my body?’

For some reason his mouth moved into a rueful twist. ‘Freudian slip,’ he said, as if that should make sense to her.

Well, it didn’t. ‘Grazie, then, for the care you took with me!’

Nikos said nothing, he just turned back to what he was doing, leaving her anger to bounce off his back. Mia sizzled where she sat for a few seconds longer, unable to absorb that a man like him could take such irresponsible risks! Then she recalled the powerful grip of their mutual passion, and she shifted restlessly on her seat. She had been too busy enjoying herself to give a thought to protection either. She could not pile the entire blame on to him.

‘The smell of that coffee is upsetting my stomach,’ she announced, and enjoyed watching his disconcerted start before he leapt to snap on an air-extractor fan, then proceeded to flush his preferred beverage down the sink.

Mia bit into her sandwich with relish, having paid him back for his crucifying explanation for not using anything. He was always way too arrogantly sure of himself. Discovering he had faults to pick at made her feel much better.

Pouring chilled water into a glass from a bottle he’d removed from the fridge, he came to sit down on the stool next to hers. That brought him too close. Tensing her spine Mia put down the sandwich.

‘So who are the other sources you referred to?’

‘Security team.’ Reaching across to pick up the discarded sandwich, he almost threatened to feed it to her until she took it from his long stubborn fingers. ‘You’ve been under discreet surveillance since the Anton Brunel incident,’ he enlightened. ‘A precaution both Oscar and I decided was necessary to your—’

‘Oscar—?’ She swung a horrified blue stare at him. ‘You have told Oscar what happened to me?’

‘I’m responsible for your safety—’

‘Sì.’ Mia heaved in taut breath. ‘I am the duty you took on at Oscar’s request. You do not have to spell that part out.’

‘Why are you angry? We were working in your best interests—’

‘By spying on me without telling me you were doing it—and I did not even notice, did I?’

‘If you had noticed, then the security team would not have been doing their job properly,’ Nikos drawled smoothly.

‘Have you been reporting back to Oscar about everything I say and do?’ Mia speared at him suddenly. ‘Do you have a special tick list for when I perform up to Balfour standards and another one for crosses when I fail to reach the required level of your expectations?’

His brown eyes cooled. ‘That wasn’t funny, Mia.’

She so agreed with him there! Had he been colluding with Oscar over every step that she took? She hoped not, thinking about the intimacy they shared that had put her in the situation she was in now.

She felt like a curiosity in a zoo, watched and discussed and picked over. ‘I wish I had never come to England now,’ she breathed, a tremor of hurt tensing her mouth. ‘I wish I had never met you.’

‘Too late for both wishes,’ Nikos said, then let out a short sigh. ‘Before you spin me into the manipulative villain here, Oscar called me. Santino D’Lassio succeeded in keeping your unplanned dip off the television screens but he was not so successful with the press. Oscar read about it and called me.’

As Sophie had called her, Mia remembered, simmering down a little.

‘Together we decided that Brunel could become—a nuisance to you, so I employed a team to watch over you in case the nasty piece of work decided to try something again—and that was all Oscar and I discussed.’

‘Oh,’ she quivered. ‘I…th-thank you.’

‘I don’t need thanking,’ Nikos discarded with frowning annoyance. ‘It was deemed necessary to your safety so it was done. Of course, I did not expect to find out you were living it up until all hours with Kat Balfour’s crazy friends!’

‘They are not crazy, and it was only one night!’ Mia fired up all over again. ‘And what business of yours is it who I see or what I do with my free time? You blew me off. You told me I was a very big mistake!’

‘For your own good.’

‘It is a very big shame it did not run to contraception too!’ Mia threw out with simmering sarcasm.

He straightened his broad shoulders. ‘Fair point,’ he acknowledged.

Mia wanted to get up and hit him! Instead she heaved in a deep breath, let it out again slowly, then put down the sandwich. ‘I can’t eat this now,’ she sighed.

‘My fault again?’ He sighed too. ‘But at least try to eat it. I promise I won’t say another word while you do…doctor’s orders,’ he reminded her.

Doctor’s orders…Because of the baby, he meant. Reluctantly she picked up the sandwich. True to his word, he did not utter another word while she ate. When she’d finished he pushed her glass towards her in a silent command for her to finish that too.

‘Tulio has nothing on you,’ she sniped, snatching up the glass.

To her surprise he husked out a soft laugh. ‘I’m beginning to like Tulio,’ he confided. ‘He sounds like my kind of guy. I’ll look forward to meeting him when we go to visit your aunt…’

Mia looked at him, deeply suspicious as to where he was leading her with that cool statement. The moment she made contact with his rich dark eyes and saw a golden light burning there, it made her shift tensely on the stool.

What was he up to—what was he thinking? Why was she reading the glint as the burn of promised complete and total possession in those eyes—so much so that she began to feel threatened?

Mia moistened her lips and felt them tingle when he lowered his eyes to watch the careful little gesture.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You are not going anywhere near Tia Giulia.’

He took his time bringing his eyes back up to hers. ‘Why not?’ he asked softly.

A sizzling fizz of heat began to fire deep down in her body. That there was something else going on here as well as the conversation they were involved in, made her flicker a wary scan of his face. He was leading her somewhere and she did not want to look at where that might be.

How did a man so famous for his cool self-control manage to transmit so much sexual tension without seeming to try—?

‘I would be too ashamed to present you to her,’ she said.

And hit a raw nerve. Mia watched that warm possessive golden light turn off like a switch. He leant back on the stool. It was like watching a dangerous animal take a serious blow it had not been prepared for, and she suddenly felt really bad for saying what she did.

‘Tia is going to be ashamed of me too,’ she added in what was a huskily spoken soother to the wounded beast. ‘And—and anyway, there is no reason why the two of you should m-meet.’

‘No,’ she thought she heard him utter from the deep dark recesses of his taut throat.

The atmosphere in the kitchen had suddenly gone somewhere Mia knew she did not want to follow. In fact, she decided without rhyme or reason as to why it hit her at this particular moment, she just knew she did not want to be here with him any longer.

Her slender fingers gripping the glass, she downed the rest of her orange, then put the glass down and slid off the stool. Nikos still was not moving and she was feeling distinctly threatened as she took a wary step towards the kitchen door.

‘Going somewhere?’ his deep voice questioned.

‘T-to my own apartment…’ She took another step.

‘We still have a lot to talk about,’ Nikos drawled.

Not if she could avoid it. ‘I’m—too tired to talk to you any more today,’ she said coolly. ‘We—we can talk again tomorrow.’

‘Too late then. We have plans to make before tomorrow.’

Mia nipped in a taut breath, then spun around. He’d recovered quickly enough from his wounds, was the first observation that leapt out at her, though he did still look strained around his mouth.

‘I don’t know what is the matter with you,’ she said, adding a flick of a hand to convey her helpless bewilderment. ‘What is the planning you speak about? We don’t have to plan anything! And you should be drowning your sorrows somewhere in a bottle of whisky instead of playing this silly game with me!’

‘No game,’ he denied.

‘Then where exactly do you think you are going with this?’ she burst out, asking the question she had been trying to run away from.

‘I know exactly where I’m going with it, cara,’ Nikos responded grimly. ‘Even with the crushing knock-back,’ he added with a twist of his taut mouth, ‘I am simply waiting for you to catch up with me.’

He was still seated on the stool with his long legs stretched out in front of him, looking for the world now like he was set to stay there like that for the rest of the day. But it was all just a big deception. Mia could still see that telling gleam in his eyes, a burn which reminded her of—

She took a step backwards. ‘S-stop looking at me like that—’

He arched one of his flat black eyebrows. ‘Like what?’

‘Like you…’ Running out of words she dragged in a tense breath of air and looked away.

‘Like I’m considering—other options to help you to catch up with me?’

He was thinking sex, Mia saw, though she did not want to. In the space of a few short minutes he’d gone from domestic animal to wounded animal, and now he was displaying the sexual animal.

‘This is an—improper conversation to be having in—in the middle of a crisis,’ Mia said primly.

‘I’m having improper urges,’ he came back quick as a flash.

Shocked by it, Mia gasped, her eyes widening and her pulse accelerating as he came to his feet.

‘Don’t you dare to come near me!’ She took another jerky step backwards and her spine made painful contact with the corner of the door frame. ‘Ouch,’ she jerked out.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Nikos murmured, walking forward to reach out to draw her towards him while Mia made a weak flailing attempt to ward him off. ‘You’re so fevered and flustered you hurt yourself. Much safer here,’ he said, folding her in against his warm hard frame.

A single night of passion with him had not prepared her for the shockingly patent physical evidence of his aroused state pressing against her. Surprised by the inner surge of heat which poured from her towards that contact, she swayed her hips away from him in sheer self-defence.

He used the flat of his hand to bring her back to him again, and smiled at her stifled gasp. ‘At last you’ve caught me up.’

‘N-no,’ she denied it.

He bent his dark head and touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of her trembling mouth. It was Mia who turned that teasing touch into a full-on kiss. It was she who pressed the already stinging tips of her breasts into his chest and floated her arms up around his neck.

His arms banded her to him. He prized her mouth open and ruthlessly deepened the kiss. If she had a single ounce of pride she would be fighting him like crazy, but hectic little whimpers of pleasure were rolling from her instead.

‘I am not going to bed with you!’ she shrilled up at him during a moment of separation when he reached up to drag her hair free of its clip.

‘The floor will do for me, amore mia,’ he countered huskily, helping her hair to tumble over his fingers. ‘The wall, the sofa, the kitchen table, even the door behind you.’

‘And stop talking to me in Italian,’ she shook out, shocked by his cool declaration and terribly excited by it at the same time.

‘You understand Italian better when you’re out of your head with pleasure,’ he confided, flaming her a hot mocking look. ‘I spent several very passionate hours loving you in Italian and you did not notice my testing efforts, did you? Shame on you, Mia. This time I will make love to you in Greek and you will wish by the time I have finished that you had bothered to learn my language!’

‘You’re mad. W-we can’t do this—’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m s-sick—’

‘With pining for me,’ he agreed. ‘Well, you’re pining is over, agapita.’ Something soft hit the backs of her knees and she collapsed onto a bed. She did not know how they’d even got here! Her arms jerked up around his shoulders on a startled shriek. ‘That’s right,’ he encouraged. ‘Cling to me, you are going to need me to keep you this close to stop from drowning.’

Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Why are you doing this?’

Lifting his dark head, Nikos looked down at her, eyes as black as midnight in his taut face. ‘Because you’ve got me, cara, even if you’re ashamed of me. Now I’m going to love you senseless before I take you somewhere and marry you.’

Marriage—did he say marriage—? ‘I’m not marrying you!’ she cried out shockingly. ‘No way!’

He took her lips with a hot driving hunger that devoured her ability to protest any more. Mia tried to hang on to her sanity but he robbed her of it as he explored her mouth with the sensuous force of a ruthless raider. She felt as if she was being consumed by his desire. She should be fighting him. She knew she should be fighting him, but the only urge flowing through her was the urge to rake her fingers through his hair and to apply pressure to his head to stop him from breaking the hot deep hungry kiss.

She didn’t even know where it had all come from. One minute they were fighting, the next minute eating, the next they were here on his bed making love with the kind of fever that should be shocking her stupid, but instead she was revelling in it. For days now she had walked around like a car accident, stunned by the way he’d enthralled her with his passion, then dumped her without a single qualm. Now here she lay being enthralled again as if all the hurt and rejection meant nothing at all!

He skimmed a restless hand down her body and located a silken slender thigh exposed because her dress had ridden up to her waist. The feather-light brush of his caress set her squirming against him and he muttered something hard and impatient, used his other hand to lift her up towards him, then without breaking the passionate seal of their lips, he ran down the zip of her dress. Cool air hit her skin and she shivered. In the next second she was breaking her mouth free on a cry of protest as he wrenched the pale blue cotton downwards, forcing her to let go of him so he could free it from her slender arms as it was trailed away.

Her lacy white bra drew the heat of his attention, and with breathtaking economy it sprang free and it too was being trailed away, revealing the firm fullness of her breasts with their twin tight peaks posing like shameless provocateurs.

‘Oh,’ Mia groaned and closed her eyes as he lowered his dark head and took one straining tip into his mouth, her fingers clawing at his shoulders when she just went wild.

As if her clutching fingers reminded him he was still wearing his clothes, he muttered something and reared back, wrenching impatiently at his shirt. Buttons flew in all directions. Opening her eyes she was shocked to see the amount of angry hot furious tension clenched in the muscles in his face.

‘Why are you so angry?’ she whispered.

‘I messed up with you,’ he answered harshly. ‘I don’t mess up.’

Rolling off the bed he stood so he could rid himself of the rest of his clothes.

‘Marriage was not on my agenda, nor were children,’ he muttered, raking his trousers off his body to display the astonishing beauty of his long tanned physique presented in its fully aroused state.

Mia touched the trembling tip of her tongue to her upper lip in sheer siren hunger. ‘I have not placed marriage on your agenda, Nikos.’

‘If I’m stuck with it, then you’re stuck with it. Theos,’ he groaned, coming back down to her. ‘I’ve been aching to do this again.’

It was like being handed a gift she had not been expecting, so Mia rewarded him with a passionate kiss. He’d wanted her. He’d flown around the world and ached for her. She was so exhilarated by that confession she forgot to continue the other subject.

The marriage subject.

Instead she let him sink her down into a deep dark well shored up with pure sensation. His touch was sheer tormenting pleasure. Clever and light, so sensually expert at driving her towards that screaming-pitch peak.

She raked his back with her fingernails. He set her sobbing with his mouth on her breasts. He made her touch him. He fed her hand down the length of his long body in a stirring trail that followed the virile line of dark curls to the velvet hard shock of his erection. He taught her how to send shudders of pleasure raking through him. When he made that first silken thrust inside her she felt the leash he had placed on himself shake his entire frame. He was hot, his skin moist with sweat, his lips trembling against hers and she clung to him, clung like she was in danger of drowning if she ever let go.

Now what? Mia wondered as she lay curled on her side, watching him move about the room. Another ruthless slap down in case she got romantic ideas about his feelings? Another grim demand for marriage she neither wanted nor was about to accept?

He had already showered but had not yet bothered to dress. A small towel rested low on his waist, hiding his tight narrow buttocks and clashing wonderfully with his deep bronzed skin.

‘When you’ve rested, you need to go and pack a bag,’ he said, lifting clean underwear out of a drawer.

‘Why,’ she asked warily. ‘Where am I going?’

‘Athens,’ he answered. ‘It’s time you saw how we run things from my main base.’

And that was it? No—go and buy a wedding dress? No return to the marriage subject at all? Curving a hand beneath her cheek, Mia said nothing, her eyelashes resting low across her eyes as she watched him move to a bank of wardrobes.

‘And it’s time you met the guy whose job you filched,’ he continued evenly, pulling a striped blue-and-white shirt on over his fabulous torso and making Mia pull a disappointed face. ‘Fortunately for Petros, he’s enjoyed staying behind in Athens, taking my place while I’ve been elsewhere.’

‘So he is not likely to want to beat me up.’

Fastening the top button on the shirt, he turned a glance on her. Belissimo, Mia thought. Sexy, she thought. Those lazy satiated love-darkened eyes should be censored—or kept right here in the bedroom with me.

‘You look like a long sleek golden cat lying there.’ He smiled at her.

Her heart tippled over, then gave a soft squeeze because he was not being cold with her, and the way he had not been looking at her while he talked had made her expect his cool detachment.

‘My hair is black,’ she pointed out.

‘I wasn’t referring to your hair, agape mou.’

Mia did not know she could blush all the way from her toes, but that was what she did. Nikos saw it and laughed as he strode across the room to the bed. He leant over her, smelling clean of soap and Nikos, and his slow intimate kiss tasted of mint.

‘No,’ he husked when she reached for him as he went to straighten again. ‘We haven’t got time for what you want us to do, little cat.’ Bending down he picked up her dress and dropped it on her. ‘You have an hour to get ready before we have to leave.’

Ignoring her disappointed pout he strode back to the wardrobes to select the pants to a navy suit. As he drew them up his legs and Mia sat up with all the reluctance of someone who did not want to go anywhere, he murmured, ‘And you will need to give me your birth certificate. Do you have it with you here?’

‘Yes, with my passport, but—’ she frowned ‘—I don’t understand why you need it.’

‘Marriage licence,’ he responded as cool as anything. ‘We will be married in Athens next week. Petros is already seeing to the arrangements.’

Chapter Ten

‘DON’T sulk,’ her tormentor chided coolly.

Mia unclenched her tightly clenched teeth. ‘I have told you before, I do not sulk,’ she denied stiffly.

‘Then look at me.’

Twisting her face around, Mia did as he commanded, only to feel the unwanted pull of his sexual magnetism descend on her like a stifling hot weight. He was just so—bello, she thought helplessly, his luxurious black hair, his liquid dark eyes, his firm sensually moulded mouth. The barely leashed power of his fiercely masculine physique clothed in a sense-stirringly casual iron-grey silk lounge suit and gorgeously body-moulding black T-shirt.

How was she supposed to continue to fight with him when even his long lounging posture in the plush leather limo seat next to her wound up her sexual cravings for him to the extent she hardly dare breathe in case she gave herself away.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I am looking. Say what it is you want to say so I can look away again.’

His sensual mouth moved to a slow mocking tilt. ‘Why, when you love looking at me?’

The pounding throb of her stubborn refusal to take up that goading remark sparked from her blue eyes like electricity. She’d maintained the same stance since they left London. Now they were driving across Athens on their way to dinner at some fancy restaurant when she would much rather have locked herself away in her bedroom.

Only Nikos’s Athens apartment had no locks on the bedroom doors, did it? Mia thought as she seethed.

They’d maintained an armed truce while they’d dressed to go out again—she shut away in her allotted bedroom, Nikos shut away in his. And that arrangement in itself made a complete laughing mockery of what it was they were warring about.

The marriage thing, being the bone of contention. He refused to take no for an answer and she refused to say yes.

‘Will you just explain to me why you are being so stubborn about this,’ he demanded heavily.

Mia had at least a dozen reasons why, but the only one she was prepared to give him right now needed just two words. ‘Lois Mansell,’ she said, and waited for him to squirm.

But he did not squirm. He did not do anything other than to sustain steady eye contact with her like a smooth rat caught in a trap who arrogantly did not believe he had anything to squirm about!

‘Lois has nothing to do with us,’ he dismissed that line of argument.

‘The newspapers told it differently.’

‘You know all about newspapers, cara. They lie—or at the very least they tamper with the truth.’

‘You left that nightclub with her clinging to you like a limpet.’ Mia was unimpressed by his line of defence.

‘I delivered her home. I did not sleep with her.’

‘The way I see it, Nikos, you don’t sleep with any of your women.’

As a stab at their current sleeping arrangements Mia knew she’d hit her mark when his dark eyes shuttered and his mouth went tight.

‘No response?’ she sniped at him. ‘No smart comeback aimed to put me in my place?’

‘No,’ he murmured, looking away from her altogether.

‘Well, there you are, then.’ She looked away too. ‘You and I do not have the same view as to what marriage is supposed to be about.’

‘You’re pregnant with my child,’ he clipped out. ‘Such an event does not require mutual insight, it requires damage control.’

‘Damage control—?’ So hurt by that comment, she could not hold in her choked gasp. ‘And you wonder why I won’t say yes to you when you can come out with a cold statement like that?’

‘I’m trying to be practical—’

‘As you have been with our sleeping arrangements?’ She could not resist saying it, then yanked in a tight breath. ‘You get me pregnant. You expect me to marry you. But you don’t want to sleep in the same bed as me,’ she shook out. ‘I suppose you will also expect to continue to live your life as you have always done while I sit at home alone getting fat!’

‘So what do you want?’ he angled back at her.

A man who wants to marry me because he cannot live without me! Mia screamed inside her head. ‘Not a man who thinks of marriage as damage control,’ she muttered. ‘I would rather return to Italy and bring my child up alone than throw my life away on a man like that.’

‘Our child,’ he gritted out. ‘And you are going nowhere with or without the marriage. I will bring up my own child, Mia,’ he stated very grimly. ‘I will not let your silly stubborn truculence push me out of the frame over some—crazy issues you have about the quality of my commitment.’

The problem was there was no quality about it! Hurt tears clogged her throat. ‘Can we go back?’ she husked. ‘I don’t think I can eat anything.’

His growling sigh was driven. ‘You are such damn high maintenance—!’ he raked out.

Mia widened her blue eyes in simmering astonishment. ‘I don’t believe that you dared to say that!’ she choked. ‘I have cost you nothing! Not even the price of accommodation since the flat I used in London was yours anyway and was already standing vacant!’

‘I did not mean—’

‘Shut up!’ she heaved out. ‘You know what you are, Nikos?’ she hit back at him shakily. ‘You are an arrogant, selfish—cheapskate!’ Almost tumbling over the word because she was not certain she had said it correctly, she knew she’d hit the word exactly right when he tensed like a board and pushed up his aggressive chin.

‘So I f-fancied you—big deal,’ she railed on an angry high now. ‘So you condescended to take what I was putting on offer—Great, thank you, grazie tanto, amore mia—not! For what did it cost you? A reasonably priced dinner and a few hours of listening to me bore you to death, followed by a posh party and a swift bit of pleasure in your bed before you turned on me like an ice man and threw me out! If that makes me high maintenance, then may God forgive you for what you usually shower on to your women! No wonder they say beware of Greeks bearing gifts!’

‘Have you finished?’ the ice man delivered from between his clenched white teeth. ‘If so, then may I finish what I was about to say before you blew my head off? Yes? Sì? Ne?’ His sarcasm ripped like a razor through Mia’s trembling flesh. ‘I was about to add emotionally,’ he incised with deliberate precision. ‘High maintenance emotionally,’ he repeated. ‘And a bloody irritating pain in the neck!’

‘Don’t forget juvenile!’ Mia tagged on for herself.

The car came to a standstill. Without uttering another word Nikos opened his door and threw himself out. Mia continued to sit, simmering in silence, while she waited for him to come around and open her door. She could have got out under her own steam but she did not want to. If she had been given a choice—and he had allowed her very few choices over the past twelve hours—she would be staying right where she was!

‘Leave the temper in the car,’ he rasped as she arrived in front of him.

Refusing to give such a command mind space, Mia tossed her hair back from her face with an icy defiance that made Nikos grit his teeth.

Women were an absolute blast, he thought angrily as they walked together across the pavement towards one of the most exclusive eating establishments in town. They did not know when to behave themselves—or when a man had taken enough of their unbelievably volatile and inconsistent nonsense! She had not been so argumentative when he’d brought her down to straddle him during the flight over here and kissed her snappy mouth.

And, Theos, this was not the time to be recalling what they’d done next, when she was already firing him up again, because she looked nothing short of dazzling in full angry flow! Her eyes were alight, her mouth pumped and pouting because he’d cornered her just before they left his apartment and tried to kiss her out of her stubbornness. The kiss had been yet another ground-shaking experience—without the satisfying follow-up because her stubborn shell remained fixed in place.

But her sensational mouth still wore his kiss on it in defiance—and he wanted to kiss it again, right now!

‘Take care,’ he husked, taking hold of her arm as she went to negotiate the shallow step in front of the restaurant entrance.

She was wearing the usual lethal high heels and he made a silent promise to himself that he was going to chuck them all out the first opportunity he got! She was pregnant, for God’s sake. Carrying his baby. One accidental stumble off those ridiculous heels and it could all be over—

Something shockingly like panic struck down through his body, pulling him to a shuddering halt. Mia glanced up at him in frowning surprise and his heart made a weird kind of dive down to his toes.

‘What?’ she asked, glaring at him as if she was expecting yet another row to erupt.

‘Nothing,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘I just remembered something I should have done before we left,’ he lied, feeling strangely light-headed as he reached around her to open the restaurant door.

She walked ahead of him into the foyer with a curvaceous glide of purple satin, short and fitted and fashionably edgy, her fabulous hair a silken stream of black waves that brushed her tense narrow back.

Purple for poison or purple for passion, he mused grimly. Tonight she was both.

The owner of the restaurant came hurrying up to greet him. He had to pull on his social face when he did not want to, smiling pleasantly while Mia stood beside him, thankfully donning her social smile too. So he’d taught her something, Nikos thought with bleak satire.

They were about to move on through to the restaurant proper when the door flew open and a group of newcomers came in. It was instinct that made him turn to send them a fleeting glance.

Nikos froze as an icy shaft of instant recognition locked up his muscles. No, he thought, this cannot be happening. He tried to deflect Mia’s attention when she turned to see where he was looking, but he was too late and she froze too.

‘We will leave,’ he husked, already reaching out to draw her protectively towards him.

‘No.’ Feeling as if the ground beneath her feet was trembling, Mia let him hold her for a moment.

But it wasn’t the ground, it was she who was trembling, shivery chills of shock tingling up and down her spine.

Gabriella.

Gabriella was right here in this place, in this city, standing a short metre away from her. Her mother, looking so agonizingly familiar to her because she saw that face in the mirror each time she looked at herself.

Her heart began to thump out of kilter. She felt Nikos trying his best to block her view with the long length of his body and his wide shoulders. And she knew he was doing it because she must have turned the colour of milk.

‘I’m going to speak to her,’ she whispered. The decision came without her even knowing she wanted to do such a thing.

‘No—Mia, don’t,’ Nikos advised gruffly. ‘You—’

But she was already stepping round him on legs that did not feel like they belonged to her any more. Mario Mattea glanced at her and he knew—that quickly he knew who it was he was looking at.

Tall and lean, strikingly attractive for a man in his sixtieth year, he touched his wife’s arm to gain her attention. ‘Gabriella,’ he murmured in a low warning voice.

Gabriella Mattea turned her luxurious dark head and looked into the pale face of the daughter she had not set eyes on in ten long years.

Silence poured into the gap between them. Mia felt her heart take on a thick pounding beat in her ears. Somewhere in the hazy distance she was aware of Nikos’s tension and of Mario’s. There were other people around them but they were invisible; she only saw her mother’s face.

Feeling as vulnerable as the small child she had been when she last stood this close to her mother, she whispered tremulously, ‘Ciao, M-Mama.’

Eyes like black glass looked her over. Mia watched the beautiful face in front of her freeze. ‘For goodness’ sake, will someone get this person away from me?’ Gabriella drawled out in cold Italian. ‘Is it impossible to eat out without being set upon by strangers these days?’

A stunning silence fell around the foyer. In the middle of it Mia slowly died. Then Nikos’s arm was a fierce brace across her shoulders. And Mario was bursting into speech.

‘Nikos,’ he greeted tensely. ‘I did not expect to see you—’

‘Excuse us,’ Nikos cut in coldly and walked them to the door.

The restaurant owner leapt to open it for them, murmuring apologies in a shocked anxious voice. They made it onto the pavement. So coldly furious he could hit something, Nikos speared a glance up the street, looking for where his driver had parked.

Turning his shaking frozen package towards him he wrapped her in one supporting arm, pressing her close against his body, while he located his mobile phone. Keeping his anger in check cost him control of his voice as he ordered his driver to come and get them.

‘Nikos, please.’ Mario appeared on the pavement beside them. ‘Let me explain to you why that unfortunate scene happened,’ he begged urgently. ‘My wife—’

‘An explanation is not required,’ Nikos sliced through the other man, his arm banding Mia all the tighter to him. ‘It happened because you gave Gabriella a choice and she chose you, your wealth and your lifestyle over her own child.’ As Nikos spoke, Mia quivered in fresh hurt as he outlined the stark cold truth of it. ‘It happened,’ he continued, ‘because you and your wife are soulless, with a soulless marriage, which in my view makes you well suited. Mia might not appreciate this right now but she has been better off without knowing either of you.’

‘Because she has Balfour to turn to now?’ Mario’s sudden harsh derision cut into Mia like a knife.

‘No,’ Nikos countered. ‘Because she has me.’

The car swept to a stop beside them, and Nikos reached out to open the rear door. There was a new atmosphere rocking the silence which hung in the warm evening, but Mia was too upset to work out why it was there. She let Nikos guide her into the limousine, and tried very hard to get a grip on herself. In truth she should not be feeling this bad, she told herself. After all, she was the one at fault for thinking she could approach a woman who had never shown the slightest hint that she cared about her.

The two men were still standing on the pavement. From the low grind of their voices Mia could tell their conversation was not nice. A quick glance showed her that Nikos’s whole body was rigid with aggression and icy as hell. Mario seemed to be pressing some urgent point and looked very pale, though she did not know the wealthy formula-one mogul to know he did not always look that shade.

She looked away again, down at her trembling fingers where they lay locked together on her lap. Nikos was right—who needed a mother like that? she told herself dimly, and felt tears press hard at the back of her throat.

Nikos climbed into the car and tapped on the partition glass to tell their driver to go. As he sank back into the seat he did not glance at Mia. He couldn’t right now. He was too busy grappling with something he’d said to Mario in his initial volley of contempt that was still knocking him almost senseless.

Soulless marriage…

Isn’t that what he had been offering Mia? A soulless marriage with great sex and separate bedrooms afterwards?

Nikos shuddered in disgust. She possessed more integrity than her lousy mother by refusing what he was fast accepting had been a filthy insult of an offer. If Gabriella had held out against Mario Mattea, would she have won her man and kept her child—?

And even the thought was insultingly arrogant. For what would Mia be winning by getting him? Nothing more than he had been prepared to give her, which turned out to be nothing in the cold light of his new insight.

He should be getting down on his knees and thanking her for loving this cold and soulless bastard—

Love…Nikos backtracked, experiencing a fresh numbing clench of shock. She loved him. How long had he known that without allowing himself to acknowledge it? Desire, obsession, infatuation—he’d named it any other word he could grab. But she did—love him. And he did not deserve such an honour.

‘You know him,’ the silent figure beside him broke into the shattering train of his thoughts.

‘Sorry?’ he turned a questioning look on her and took the full weight of her importance to him like a blow to his gut.

‘You know Mario Mattea,’ she repeated, her blue eyes dull and dark in her pale face. ‘Why have you never said?’

Shot down but still functioning, Nikos recognised ruefully as her question pushed him out of one stark blinding revelation straight into the horror of another one. Did he tell her the truth or did he try to pass it off with a flippant comment. Lie, in other words.

He veiled his eyes and went for the halftruth. ‘I know a lot of business people,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Have you met my—Gabriella before?’

‘No.’ And that was honest, Nikos mocked grimly. If he had met Gabriella Mattea before he would have recognised the cold bitch in her and perhaps been able to save Mia from what just took place. As it was, Nikos knew, right down to his seething twisting gut, he was in trouble here.

‘He’s here in Athens to set up a series of meetings with high-end financiers.’ He chickened out of telling the full truth. ‘The credit crunch has bitten hard into the car industry. Mario is desperate for someone to finance his business and his formula-one team before both sink without a trace.’

‘You mean he’s here for a series of meetings with you, don’t you?’

Nikos let his tense mouth stretch into a brief rueful smile. ‘I’m—one of his best bets to cough up the money.’

‘Are you going to?’

He sent her a glinting look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Because of me?’

‘Yes, because of you.’ And that was the full damn truth.

‘But you can’t do that!’ Surprising him by turning an aghast stare on him, she said, ‘They will know you turned away from them because of what happened tonight and they will blame me for it!’

His grim face toughened. ‘They should have considered that angle when they humiliated my future wife.’

‘I am not going to be your wife!’

‘What are you planning to be, then,’ he struck back, ‘the next Balfour scandal?’

Chapter Eleven

WRONG thing to say. Nikos knew it the moment the smart shot left his mouth.

‘I am not a Balfour,’ Mia denied, hating him for saying that—hating everyone. ‘For why would I want to be a Bianchi or a Balfour?’

‘Then don’t be,’ he persisted. ‘Be a Theakis instead.’

‘So that you can treat me like an unwelcome interloper into your life too?’

‘You would not be an unwelcome interloper.’

Mia released a soft bitter laugh. ‘I am a figure of pity to you right now. Tomorrow I will be a chain tied around your neck. Do you think I don’t know the way that it goes? Gabriella handed me over to my aunt, then walked away from me. She visited once a year for the first ten years of my life. She stopped visiting me when I asked her if she only came to give Tia money for my keep. You wish to hear her answer?’

‘No,’ Nikos muttered.

‘She admitted to my face it was so, then left. Tia’s money came by post from then on.’

A soft curse raked Nikos’s throat. ‘She is a selfish bitch with—’

‘Sì,’ Mia cut in on him quickly because she did not need him to tell her what her own mother was. ‘Oscar was more subtle. He allowed me to stay so long as I hid in the kitchen and played his housekeeper.’

‘He was protecting Lillian—’

‘You think I don’t know and appreciate that?’ she choked out. ‘Do you think I resented him protecting his poor wife’s feelings over mine? Do you think I did not understand when his other daughters must resent and blame me for the scandals which erupted later—or that I do not blame myself for those same events? But did he appreciate how I was feeling?’ she delivered with a hurt that until now she had kept buried deep inside. ‘Did my feelings stop him from sending me away again as quickly as he could?’

‘Oscar wanted you to learn to—’

‘He wanted me to act like a Balfour or stay away,’ she wrenched out. ‘Well, I have no wish any longer to be a Balfour.’ And she meant it—she really meant it! ‘They are not my kind of people. You are not my kind of people.’ It was a life-changing moment to realise that and it grew like a balloon inside. ‘Oscar said he wanted me to learn integrity…’ And suddenly she understood what integrity meant to her. It meant being true to herself. To the person she wanted to be not the one everyone else wanted to mould her into! ‘Well, I don’t want his integrity if it means dressing up in fine clothes and wearing false smiles. I don’t want to be married to you because I have conceived your baby and you are worried about what Oscar might think. That is for your integrity to deal with, Nikos. Mine is telling me it is time to walk away and just be myself.’

‘I do not give a damn what Oscar thinks!’ Nikos protested.

‘Liar,’ she shook out. ‘You have already said it with your damage-control quip.’

It was like being hit from behind. Nikos had not expected it. He had no ready defence.

The car drew up outside his apartment, and Mia threw his sternly handsome face a single glance, then unlocked her seat belt and scrambled out of the car, leaving Nikos sitting there, knowing he was in danger of missing probably the only opportunity he was going to get to put right something he should never have said in the first place.

Throwing open his door he climbed out of the car and followed her into the building. If she wanted him to feel like the worst man alive, then she was succeeding, he accepted as he stood beside her trembling figure while they rode the lift to the top floor.

No oval lobby here, just direct access to his apartment proper.

‘Mia…’ he started to say huskily.

She strode off towards the bedrooms with her taut slender spine telling him she did not want to listen to anything else he had to say.

He watched her go, watched his chance to put this right walk away from him on those foolish high heels, winced when her bedroom door slammed shut in her wake.

‘Damn,’ he cursed, then added a few more rich words, and on a ferocious act of burning frustration aimed directly at himself and his own insecurities, he swung around and flung a clenched fist at the nearest wall.

Kicking off her shoes, Mia sent them skidding across the bedroom floor, then spun to glare at the bed for a tear-stinging second before she threw herself face down on it. She hated him—again, she told herself fiercely, pressing her face into the pillow and trembling with anger and a million different layers of hurt.

He was hard and cold and he did not deserve any of this aching love she was suffering on his behalf! He did not deserve her at all!

Damage control…What kind of man was he that he could describe a marriage proposal as—

Her door suddenly burst open. ‘All right, so the damage-control quip was a lousy, cruel, rotten cover-up!’ Nikos launched at her. ‘You are driving me crazy. You make me say things I don’t mean to say! I think I might be madly in love with you—does that make a difference?’

Mia froze, and then twisted over to look at him. He was standing just inside the door, looking like a man who’d been subjected to torture to make him say that. Every bone, every muscle, every beautifully toned golden skin cell, flexed to its limits, and his eyes were firing fury at her as if she had been the one to inflict the torture!

Had it been that painful for him to say it?

‘Explain this might be,’ she demanded. ‘You think it impresses me?’

‘No,’ he muttered, and did a strange thing then—he dropped the tension out of his shoulders and lifted a fist up to his mouth, wincing as if he was in pain. ‘Having never experienced any kind of love before, I can only offer a might be,’ he said.

Dropping the hand out of its fist he flexed the long fingers. ‘You like to believe you are the only one to get a lousy deal in the parental stakes, agape mou,’ he imparted heavily, ‘but you don’t have a clue how bad it can get. My mother was a prostitute and my father was her pimp. Try comparing that coupling with your own less-than-perfect parents.’

‘But I thought you were—’

‘Born with a silver spoon in my mouth?’ he offered, skimming her a skin-peeling cynical glance. ‘Living in a one-bedroom cockroach-infested apartment deep in the heart of an Athens slum is not silver-spoon stuff, I promise you. It’s the same as living in hell. I need a drink,’ he said suddenly and turned back to the door.

‘Don’t you dare walk out of here after saying all of that!’ Mia shrieked. ‘I want to know what it is you’re talking about!’

His wide shoulders clenched. Nikos bit out a curse, then spun to walk over to the window and stood there, glaring out at the view.

‘Down there,’ he husked, bringing Mia sliding off the bed to go and stand beside him, ‘beyond the bright lights where everything turns murky and dark.’

Mia looked without seeing because seeing was not as important to her as what he was saying to her. She moved closer to him and was surprised when he let her, even shifting a tense arm to draw her in.

‘For the first six years of my life I believed it was normal to sleep in a bedroom cupboard,’ he provided gruffly. ‘They, my so-called parents, locked me in there so I would not embarrass my mother’s—clients when she brought them back to—ply her services. If I made a sound I was beaten.’

‘Oh, Nikos, no,’ Mia whispered in dismay.

‘They were heroin addicts,’ he delivered flatly. ‘Sometimes they would be so out of their heads they would forget about me for days. I still have nightmares about that filthy cupboard,’ he breathed grittily, then vented a short hard laugh. ‘Try sleeping a whole night in the same bed with me, cara, and you will know what it is I’m talking about. I cannot stand to be in small enclosed places, and locks and bolts give me the creeps. And don’t weep,’ he rasped when a sob of understanding broke free from her. ‘I will not be responsible if you start weeping. I have told no one this. So just stand here and listen. When I was nine, a—client discovered me. He decided it would be good to have a bit of fun at my expense…’

He went so silent then that Mia worried what it was he was remembering that he could not bring himself to reveal. After a minute of it she could not stand still any longer and turned herself fully into his front, then hugged him tightly with her arms locked around his taut body.

He ripped out a sigh and wrapped his arms around her too.

‘I ran away,’ he went on. ‘The police found me and I was delivered into the hands of the social services. I was never so glad about anything,’ he admitted. ‘For the first time in my life I had a real bed to sleep in and three meals a day, and most importantly, I felt safe. I was a model inmate because I was so scared they would send me back to my parents. I excelled at school and was willing to take on any chore if it earned me a smile of approval. I would have begged and crawled to remain where I was.’

‘Nikos—’

‘No, don’t say anything,’ he cut across her. ‘When I was thirteen I was accused of stealing provisions from the kitchens. It wasn’t me, I was stitched up, but since I couldn’t prove that, I was—punished. I vowed it would be the last time that anyone would lay a strap to my back and I ran away again. I spent the next six months living on the streets, sleeping in alleyways and surviving on meagre handouts. But I missed school. I had a desperate need to learn so I gave myself up to the authorities. From then on I was labelled a problem child and was sent to a home full of problem children…’

He paused once again to take a minute to smooth out the roughened tone of his voice. And Mia took her chance, and brushed a soft trembling kiss to one of his taut cheeks.

‘I endured the life there,’ he continued, easing her closer to him. ‘I cannot be charitable and call it anything more than an endurance, but I had to stay if I wanted to attend school…The worst part was surrendering to my vow and allowing someone else to beat me,’ he roughed out. ‘On my sixteenth birthday I walked out of there and never went back.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘I am not after your sympathy,’ he lanced out. ‘I am merely trying to explain to you why I cannot tell if I love you or not.’ Since Mia was sure that nothing less than the desperation of love would have dragged any of this out of him, she just lifted her face from his chest and smiled up at him. ‘Well, I know I love you. So we can work on that.’

Allowing himself to look down at her, Nikos quirked a flat black eyebrow. ‘Just like that?’

‘Sì.’ She nodded. ‘What happened to your parents?’ she then prompted softly.

He cleared his throat. ‘They died when I was fourteen, from a lethal batch of heroin.’

‘And—and Oscar, how did you come to meet him?’

This time he husked out a small laugh. ‘I was a real hustler by then. Good-looking, sharp-witted and too damn cocksure of myself for my own good. Waiting on tables of the rich was a good place to learn about business scams. I had become pretty successful at scamming others by the time Oscar wandered into my life. I tried a hustle on him,’ he admitted. ‘Oscar listened to my pitch, fed my ego with smooth questions I was able to answer without so much as a blink. He agreed to the deal, handed me a cheque for an astonishing amount of money, then he proceeded to hustle me with an offer of a stake in some irresistible venture of his own if I could come up with the required cash, which was, of course, double what he had given me. I handed him back his cheque plus every penny I had in the world and the scammer had been beautifully scammed by an expert at it.’

Mia laughed. ‘You mean there was no irresistible venture?’

‘No.’ Nikos smiled to himself, recalling what Oscar must have seen when he’d stared thoughtfully across the desk at the twenty-year-old hustler he had been back then. ‘Oscar fleeced me cold with a relaxed smoothness that can still make me squirm to recall it,’ he confessed.

Yet, for all of it, Oscar Balfour had seen something in him that he’d liked.

‘Instead of slinging me out, humiliated and penniless, he offered to show me how to play the hustle from the right side of the law,’ he went on softly. ‘He was my saviour from a life of crime and probably regular imprisonment. Everything I am today I owe to him. He’s—special. Never underestimate him, agape mou, for Oscar never puts any plan into action unless he has a very sure idea what the outcome will be.’

‘You’re talking about you and me now, aren’t you?’ Mia frowned up at him.

‘Right down to the Brunel incident,’ he drawled sardonically.

Mia widened her eyes. ‘No,’ she denied.

‘Brunel went overboard with his brief when he tipped you into that pool, and Oscar was angry. But it was Santino D’Lassio’s security people who tracked Brunel down and—urged the truth out of him. Oscar does not know that I know,’ he added. ‘I am keeping that piece of information to myself for a while longer.’

‘Don’t you dare hurt my father!’ Mia flared up instantly.

Looking down at her, Nikos prompted dryly, ‘Not hating him so much now?’

Mia shifted restlessly against him. ‘I don’t hate Oscar,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t even hate my mother…’ Her blue eyes shadowed over on the hollow ache she experienced. ‘I was hurting when I said all of those things in the car. Oscar has been good to me—kind, even when my arrival caused him so much trouble.’

‘Trouble you had a right to cause, Mia.’

‘That’s what he said to me,’ she whispered, feeling guilty now that she had maligned the man who’d tried his very best to make her feel welcome and wanted. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what was Oscar planning for you and me?’

‘Oh, the full works, I should imagine.’ Nikos smiled ruefully. ‘Throw you in my way every damn day. Wind me up with some macho protectiveness and jealousy to aim me in the direction he wanted me to go.’

‘Which was where?’

‘White lace and wedding bells,’ he enlightened. ‘But without the premature baby conception…I will have let him down there.’

‘You did not do so on your own,’ Mia pointed out. ‘I helped—a lot.’

At last she made his strained mouth stretch into a real proper grin. Reaching up she traced that wide warm mouth with a finger. ‘You know what you need,’ she ventured softly, long black eyelashes hiding away the sparkle in her blue eyes. ‘You need a trial run sleeping with me in a bed for a whole night or two. I can live with no locks on the doors but I refuse to marry a man who insists on separate bedrooms because he thinks I will scare him into nightmares…’

The way she put the last part froze Nikos for a second or two before he threw back his dark head and laughed. Then with a groan he crushed her up against him, and claimed the pouting invitation of her lush mouth.

‘Trial run coming up,’ he muttered a while later. ‘We will call Oscar tomorrow,’ he planned as he drew towards her bed. ‘If he doesn’t threaten to kill me for seducing his daughter, he can give you away at our wedding.’

‘And if he does threaten to kill you?’ Mia ran a possessive hand down the front of his body and watched him shudder.

‘I will warn him he will be making his daughter a widow because I’m still marrying you.’

It was gruff and strong and very possessive, and Mia curved her body in even closer. ‘I love you, Nikos Theakis,’ she told him.

‘Well, keep on loving me, agape mou,’ he responded unsteadily. ‘I am about to risk dropping every protective guard I have in favour of loving you back by return.’

He had said it—almost said it. Mia laughed in delight. Then, with more strength than she gave credence to, she twisted him around and tumbled them both down on the bed.

‘Show me, then,’ she invited.

Nikos did not need telling twice.

Two wonderful months later, Nikos strode into the bedroom he’d had refurbished to accommodate his wife’s hobby, as she liked to call it. Every one of their homes now had similar rooms, laid out like a fashion designer’s studio with all the time-saving gadgets known to the trade.

‘You’re supposed to be dressed by now—’ he frowned at Mia ‘—Santino and Nina D’Lassio will be here in half an hour and Tia Giulia is already downstairs with Oscar.’

‘Is it that late?’ Looking up from what she was doing, Mia felt the usual crash and burn take place inside her because he looked so deliciously gorgeous in a dinner suit—and, she tagged on possessively, every single bit of him belonged to her.

‘You are not wearing that,’ he said, his frown deepening as he spied the dress she had left hanging on an otherwise empty rail.

‘Oh, you don’t like it,’ Mia murmured in disappointment.

‘Are you joking?’ Striding over to the bright red slip of silk and plucking up the hanger so he could view it more thoroughly, he said, ‘It’s a Jessica Rabbit dress.’

‘Jessica who?’ Mia asked innocently.

‘Jessica Rabbit—the cartoon sex bomb and fantasy lover of every man with a healthy sex drive.’

Pleased by that remark, Mia stood to reveal the gold silk under the slip she was wearing. ‘That’s OK, then,’ she said with relief.

‘You’re still not wearing it, Mia,’ Nikos said firmly. ‘Not in front of anyone but me anyway…’

‘But you just said it was every man’s fantasy!’ Taking it from him she placed the hanger back on the rail again. Then, because she knew he was trying to work out how the heck he was going to stop her when she usually ended up doing as she pleased anyway, she turned to send him a grin.

‘It’s for Sophie,’ she confided.

‘Sophie—?’ Nikos almost choked on the shock.

‘She asked me to make her a really sexy dress,’ she explained. ‘And you have just made my day by telling me I have achieved the ultimate.’

‘But—agape mou, you can’t put Sophie in a dress like that! She’s—’

‘Don’t you dare finish what you were about to say!’ Mia flared up in heated defence of her half-sister. ‘She is beautiful and nice!’

‘I was not about to—’

‘And she owns the most exquisite pocket Venus figure underneath those dreadful concealing garments she prefers to wear,’ Mia cut in furiously. ‘So she does not parade her figure as she should do, but that doesn’t mean she cannot be encouraged.’

Absolutely not believing her but willing to accept he had just deeply offended his new wife on Sophie Balfour’s behalf, Nikos went for the diversion. ‘You’re so sexy when you’re sparked up and angry,’ he murmured, reaching out to draw her into his embrace.

‘Mmm, and you are one amazing kisser, signor,’ she sighed out when he finally let her up for air.

‘You’ve got no one else to compare me with,’ Nikos pointed out.

‘And you like to feel smug about that?’

‘Sì, signora.’ He grinned. ‘I love it that you love me, and that I am the only man to kiss you, and that this hiding in here—’ he moulded his hand to her still-flat stomach ‘—bears the fruits of my kisses and—other things.’

‘That is just so—so old-fashioned and possessively Greek!’ Mia frowned at him.

‘But you love me to be old-fashioned and possessive.’

‘I also think you should know that over there—’ she pointed to another rail packed with clothes ‘—is another Jessica Rabbit dress, as you call it, just waiting for me to put on if you don’t watch your step!’

Caught like a rat in a trap, Mia watched his smile disappear and his eyes narrow to scan the indicated rail. ‘I will burn it.’

‘Before or after you see me wearing it?’

He took a minute to think about that, then he responded with a lusty growl, ‘Afterwards. Private viewing.’ He captured her already kiss-blushed lips.

‘So what are you planning to wear?’ he demanded long minutes later.

‘You,’ Mia whispered. ‘Later,’ she added in a soft invitation. ‘In our bed, where it is my solemn duty to keep scaring your nightmares away.’

Nikos could have taken objection to her remarking on the nightmares, but he no longer hid anything from this beautiful creature he had won as his wife. It was healthier to keep everything—good or bad—right out there in the open.

‘You know, I believed my life was all mapped out,’ he confided softly. ‘No U-turns, no diversions, just me in absolute control of me. Then I met you,’ he husked. ‘I did not want love. I did not want commitment. I did not want to pass on my family genes to another generation. Or to watch my children’s disappointment in me grow each time I did not come up to scratch as a father. Now I want it all.’ His fingers framed her upturned face, his eyes so dark Mia smiled because she just loved to drown in them. ‘I want the marriage, the commitment and the children. I want you to love me. I need you to love me. It’s crazy, frightening.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Mia promised. Then, to lighten the sudden intense atmosphere, she begged, ‘Just one more tiny kiss before I go and dress.’

Flat black eyebrows rose in disdain. ‘I don’t do tiny,’ Nikos drawled arrogantly.

Kat’s Pride

Sharon Kendrick

Sharon Kendrick started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl!

Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester, where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tip-toe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating – and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

To my Uncle Aidan – a great thinker, wit and musician – who could charm the birds from the trees. A great man all round. Miss you.

Chapter One

EVEN the brilliant Mediterranean sunshine couldn’t lighten her mood.

With a stab of frustration, Kat pushed the spill of dark hair away from her eyes and leaned back against the soft leather seat of the limousine. A week had passed, but the memories of that night were still vivid. A night when accusations—and counter-accusations—had spun through the air like the blade of a helicopter. And another guilty family secret had reared its ugly head.

If only…

If only it hadn’t happened at the glittering Balfour Charity Ball—where half the world’s press had been camped outside, waiting for an almighty scoop. Briefly, Kat closed her eyes. Bet they couldn’t believe their luck.

Last year’s ball had been bad enough—when she had made a humiliating fool of herself in front of the arrogant Spaniard, Carlos Guerrero—but at least nobody except her father had witnessed it. This time had been worse—with her twin sisters announcing the news that their beloved sister Zoe had been sired by another man and was not a true Balfour after all.

Scenting blood—the paparazzi had been baying around the fabulous family mansion for days—and once again the Balfour name had been splashed all over the papers. Those words Kat had become so used to, whenever her family’s name was mentioned, were once again the hot topic of the day. Words that still had the power to wound, no matter how many times she’d heard them.

Scandal.

Shame.

Secrets.

And the truth was that, yes, the Balfours were brimming with all of those things—and more. But just because they were rich, didn’t mean they were impervious to pain or hurt. Prick them, and they bled—just like everybody else. Nobody saw that, of course, and nobody ever would—well, certainly not in Kat’s case. She allowed herself a grim smile. Because the moment you showed hurt, you made yourself vulnerable—and vulnerability was the most dangerous thing of all. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?

She stared out of the car window, reminding herself how she’d coped with the latest indignity. The same way that she always coped. She’d cut loose and run from the family estate. Not far, it was true—only as far as London—where she had booked into a hotel, using a fake name and a vast pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Until her father had rung her yesterday morning offering her an ‘opportunity.’

Why had she felt a momentary wave of suspicion? Was it because that although Oscar was her true blood father, he had never been close to her heart in the same way as her beloved stepfather, Victor? Kat blinked back the tears which sprang to her eyes and replaced them with the defiant expression she had perfected. She wasn’t going to think about her stepfather, or the past. She just wasn’t. Because that way lay madness and regret and all those other painful emotions which she fought like crazy to keep at bay.

Nonetheless, her voice had been wary as she’d replied, ‘What kind of opportunity, Daddy?’

There had been a pause. Had she imagined the unfamiliar steely quality which had entered his voice? ‘The kind of opportunity which should be seized,’ he said flatly. ‘Didn’t you tell me at the ball the other night that you were bored with your life, Kat?’

Had she said that? In a moment of weakness, had she been stupid enough to let on to the patriarch of the Balfour clan that a stream of loneliness as deep as a river seemed to be coursing through her veins?

‘Did I?’

‘Indeed you did. So why not grab at the opportunity for a change of scene and a change of air. How does a boat trip round the Mediterranean sound?’

It sounded exactly what she needed. Some good sea air and the chance to escape. And even though her father had tantalisingly refused to give her any more details, Kat knew it would be a treat. Because despite the impatience Oscar occasionally felt towards his daughters, deep down he loved nothing more than to lavish life’s extravagances on them.

Which was why she was now reclining in the back of a luxury limousine, heading for the glamorous port of Antibes, while outside the brilliant Provençal sun beat down on all the wealthy holidaymakers. The glittering sea was shaded brilliant colours of cobalt and azure and the port was crammed with the biggest motor yachts you would find anywhere in the world. But that was the south of France for you—all glamour and glitz and buckets of money.

With a slickness perfected by years of practice, Kat pushed away her troubled thoughts as the limo slid to a halt next to a line of beautiful, bobbing yachts.

‘There it is, miss,’ said the driver, pointing to the biggest boat of all—where a couple of white-uniformed crew members were moving purposefully around the deck.

Suddenly, her mood was forgotten as Kat stared up at the most amazing-looking yacht she’d ever seen. With its long, aerodynamic shape and pointed prow, it rose up out of the water like some dazzling seabird. She could see a polished wooden deck and the turquoise glimmer of a swimming pool—as well as the ultimate convenience of a helicopter pad.

‘Oh, wow,’ she said, lips softening into a smile. Since babyhood, she had mixed in exalted and rich circles and knew that superyachts cost a fortune to own and maintain—but this magnificent vessel really was in a league of its own. It was…spectacular. Tourists were standing taking photographs of it and briefly Kat wondered who the owner could possibly be—and why her father had tantalisingly refused to tell her.

The name gave few clues. Painted in dark, curving letters along the side were the words Corazón Frío. Behind her dark glasses, Kat’s eyes narrowed. Meaning what, precisely?

She was certainly no linguist—but even she could recognise that the language was Spanish. Her heart skipped an erratic beat. As was the only man who had ever slapped her down and humiliated her in public.

And who had haunted her dreams ever since. A man with a hard, lean body and wild black hair and the coldest eyes she had ever seen.

Shaking away a memory even more unsettling than the uproar at last week’s ball, Kat stepped out onto the quayside and couldn’t help noticing that people had stopped to look at her.

But then, people always did. If you dazzled them with the externals, then they never really looked beyond to see the real person underneath. Clothes could be the armour that shielded you—that stopped people from getting too close. And it was better that way. Much better.

She was wearing a teeny pair of shorn-off denim shorts and a shrunken white T-shirt which gave the occasional glimpse of a flat midriff tanned the colour of pale caramel. Shiny black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and all the way down her back—and her Balfour blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of enormous shades. She knew exactly what kind of uniform to wear on this kind of rich and privileged yachting trip—and she had abided to it by the letter. You dressed down, but you wore as many status symbols as possible.

‘Bring my bags, will you?’ Kat said to the driver, before making her way towards the gangplank. Teetering a little on a pair of the season’s most fashionable espadrilles, she saw a fair-haired man in uniform approaching her and she smiled.

‘Hello. You’re probably expecting me. I’m Kat Balfour,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ The man nodded, squinting his pale blue eyes at her, a small diamond glinting at his ear lobe. ‘I thought you must be.’

Kat looked around. ‘Any of the other guests here yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘And my…host?’ How crazy it sounded not to even know him—or her—by name! Why hadn’t she insisted her father tell her? Because you were too busy trying to ingratiate yourself with him, whispered the candidly cruel voice of her conscience. Knowing that he was in an odd sort of mood and terrified that he might put a stop to your allowance—and then where would you be? She could see the man looking at her quizzically and realised it would look faintly ridiculous if she had to ask him who his employer was! ‘Has my host arrived yet?’

The man shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to take my luggage?’ she suggested pointedly.

‘Or you could do it yourself?’

Kat stared at him in disbelief. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m the engineer,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not a baggage handler.’

Somehow she kept her smile fixed to her face. No point in getting into an argument with a deck-hand but she would certainly speak to his boss about his attitude. He would learn soon enough that nobody spoke to a Balfour like that. ‘Then perhaps you could show me to my cabin,’ she said coolly.

‘My pleasure.’ The man smiled. ‘Follow me.’

Kat hadn’t carried her own bags since she’d been expelled from her last school. These were heavy and they were cumbersome—and on the too-high shoes she was wearing, it wasn’t the easiest task in the world to walk across the gleaming deck with any degree of grace.

If that was bad, then it suddenly began to get worse because just then they arrived at her cabin—and Kat looked around in disbelief. It had been ages since she’d stayed on a yacht, but in the past she had always been given the best and most prestigious accommodation available. Something near the deck, where you could climb out of bed and wander straight outside in the morning and be confronted by the ever-moving splendour of the sea. Or somewhere a little farther down towards the centre of the vessel—which meant that you were in the most stable part of the boat and buffeted from the possibility of too much movement.

But this.

Kat looked around. It was tiny. A cramped little bunk and barely any wardrobe space. No pictures on the walls and, even worse, no porthole! And someone had actually left a drab-looking piece of clothing hanging on the back of the door! She dropped her bags to the ground and turned to the man. ‘Listen—’

‘The name’s Mike,’ he interrupted. ‘Mike Price.’

She wanted to tell him that his name was of no interest to her and that by the time the day was out he would be looking for a new job, but right then there were more pressing matters on her mind than the man’s crass inefficiency and overinflated sense of his own importance. Kat took in a deep breath. ‘I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ she said crisply.

‘How come?’

‘This cabin is much too small.’

‘It’s the one you’ve been assigned.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Better take it up with the boss.’

Kat gritted her teeth. If only she knew who the boss was! But by now she knew she couldn’t possibly lose face by asking this unhelpful man. ‘I don’t think you understand—’

‘No, I don’t think you understand,’ interrupted the engineer brusquely. ‘The boss likes his staff to put up and shut up—that’s why he pays them so well.’

‘But I’m not a member of staff,’ she protested. ‘I’m a guest here.’

The man’s eyes narrowed and then he laughed—as if she’d made some weird kind of joke. ‘I don’t think so. Or at least, that’s not what I’ve been told.’

Kat felt the first tremor of apprehension. ‘What are you talking about?’

Jerking his head in the direction of the garment which had caught her attention when she’d first walked in, Mike reached out and plucked it from the hook before handing it to her.

Kat looked at it blankly. ‘What’s this?’

‘What’s it look like?’

It took her a moment to realise—since it wasn’t an item of clothing she was familiar with. ‘An…an apron?’ Momentarily, Kat’s fingers tightened around the heavy fabric before she pushed it back at him, her heart beating wildly. ‘What the hell is going on?’

Mike frowned. ‘I think you’d better follow me.’

What could she do, other than what he suggested? Start unpacking all her expensive clothes and attempt to start storing them away in that rabbit’s hutch of a room? Or maybe she should do what her gut instinct was telling her—which was to get off the wretched boat and forget about the whole idea of a holiday at sea.

She began to follow him through a maze of wood-lined corridors until at last he threw open a set of double doors and Kat quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Now this was more like it.

The room in which she now stood was the polar opposite of the poky cabin she’d just been shown. This had the enormous dimensions she was used to—a grand dining salon set out on almost palatial lines. Inlaid lights twinkled from the ceiling, but these were eclipsed by the blaze of natural light which flooded in through sliding French windows which opened up on to the deck itself.

There was a dining table which would have comfortably seated twelve people—though Kat noticed that only two places had been laid and used. Various open bottles were lined along the gleaming surface and candle wax had dripped all over a bone-china plate. At its centre was a beautiful blue-glass platter of exotic fruits and next to it sat a crystal goblet of flat champagne along with a carelessly abandoned chocolate wrapper.

Kat’s lips pursed into a disapproving circle—wondering why on earth a member of staff hadn’t bothered to clear it away. ‘What a disgusting mess,’ she observed quietly.

‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Mike, laughing. ‘The boss sure likes to party when he parties!’

So at least she now knew that the ‘boss’ was a man. And an untidy man, by the look of things. With a sudden smooth purring of powerful engines, the boat began to move—and Kat’s eyes widened in surprise. But before she could register her inexplicable panic that they were setting sail so soon, something happened to wipe every thought clean from her mind.

The first was the sight of a bikini top—a flimsy little excuse for a garment in a shimmering gold material which was lying in a discarded heap on the polished oak floor. It was a blatant symbol of decadence and sex and, for a couple of seconds, the blood rushed hotly into her cheeks before she allowed herself to concentrate on the second.

Because the second was a photo of a man.

Kat’s heart thundered as she stared at it—recognition hit her like a short sharp slap to the face.

The man in the photo must have been barely out of his teens, yet already his face was sombre and hardened by experience. Black eyes stared defiantly straight into the lens of the camera, and his sensual lips curved an expression which was undeniably formidable.

He was wearing a lavishly embroidered glittering jacket, skintight trousers and some kind of dark and formal hat. It was an image which was unfamiliar and yet instantly recognisable—and it took a few moments for Kat to realise that this was the traditional garb of the bullfighter. But that realisation seemed barely relevant in the light of the horror which was slowly beginning to dawn on her.

That she was staring at a likeness of the young Carlos Guerrero.

Trying to conceal the shaking of her hands, she turned to Mike.

‘Whose boat is this?’ she croaked.

Mike’s blond head was jerked in the direction of the photo, and he smiled. ‘His.’

‘C-Carlos?’ Even saying his name sent shivers down her spine—just as the memory of his harsh words lancing through her still had the power to wound. ‘Carlos Guerrero?’

‘Sure. Who else?’ Mike’s expression grew even more curious. ‘You didn’t know?’

Of course she didn’t know! If she had known, then she would never have set foot on the damned vessel—why, she wouldn’t have gone within a million miles of it! But there was no way she was going to enlighten this smirking engineer about her misgivings, or the reason for them. She needed to assert her authority and get onto dry land again.

‘I think there’s been some kind of mix-up,’ she said, her smooth tone belying the fast beating of her heart and sudden sense of urgency. ‘And I’d like to go ashore. Please.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

Kat’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, Carlos told me that a new domestic was arriving—and that her name was Kat Balfour.’

One word reverberated around the room and she repeated it, just in case she had misheard it. ‘Domestic?’ she repeated incredulously.

‘Sure. You’re Kat Balfour and there’s six hungry crew on board.’ He smiled. ‘And we need someone to clean up after us and make our meals, don’t we?’

It was so outrageous a statement to make that for a moment Kat thought he must be having some kind of—extremely unfunny—joke at her expense. As if she was some kind of lowly deck-hand who was about to wait on a load of crew members! But one look at his face told her he was deadly serious. What the hell was going on?

‘Get me off this wretched boat!’ she said, as a sudden wave of panic washed over her. ‘And I mean immediately!’

Again, he shrugged. ‘Sorry, no can do. You’ll have to take that up with the boss—I don’t have the authority to clear it and we’ve left shore now. But I wouldn’t advise you to try asking him any favours without clearing up this mess first. He’ll be here later.’

Carlos Guerrero was coming here? Well, of course he was—if it was his boat. Kat blinked, feeling as if she had fallen into the middle of a raging sea, without any way of keeping herself afloat. And then another—equally shocking—thought occurred to her. Her father had arranged this trip for her. And if so—then why? Nothing seemed to make sense.

Yet none of that mattered—not now. She could take that up with him some other time. The most important thing was to get away. To run. To escape before…

Before the man who had made her senses scream with longing put in an appearance.

Staring out of the windows to see that the port of Antibes was now just an array of glittering masts and boats in the distance, Kat realised she was trapped. Well and truly trapped—unless she could make this man Mike free her.

‘Now listen to me, Mike,’ she said, emphasising a cut-crystal accent which usually got her exactly what she wanted. ‘Are you going to let me go, or not?’

‘Sorry, love. No can do. More than my job’s worth.’

‘Right. Well, then, let me tell you something—and you’d better listen carefully. I am not your domestic and I am not going to cook or clean up for you and your fellow crew members. And what is more, I am certainly not going to clean up the mess left behind by your slob of a boss and his…his…girlfriend. Do you understand?’

Mike shrugged. ‘Loud and clear. Do what you like—I sure wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when you tell Carlos that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to the captain. I’ll leave you to calm down, and then you can come and find me and I’ll show you the galley.’

And without another word, he turned and left, leaving Kat staring after him—shocked and stunned—her heart now racing with a fear which she hadn’t felt in a long time. The one which she shoved deep down inside her, whenever it reared its dark and threatening head. That terrible tearing sensation of a hostile situation taking over and rendering her helpless…

Well, she wasn’t helpless. And neither was she going to ‘calm down’ and acquaint herself with a galley she had no intention of ever using! Presumably she was stuck here until Carlos and the owner of the gold bikini top returned. A hot little curl of something which felt like jealousy began to unfurl inside her and Kat willed it to go away. She wasn’t jealous of any poor unfortunate woman whose bikini top must have been removed by the arrogant Spaniard. Why, she…she pitied her—and what was more, she would have him arrested for kidnap when he finally did show his haughty face!

Pulling her cellphone from her bag, she desperately tried to get a connection—but for some reason, it refused to work. Even angrier now, and unable to bear the thought of just sitting there, Kat decided to explore the boat. And it didn’t take her long to discover that her first impressions had been spot on. It wasn’t just big, it was absolutely vast—and no expense had been spared during its outlay.

There was a cinema, a library and a well-stocked wine cellar—as well as an enormous sitting room which spread out onto the deck area. And she counted five luxury guest suites which even had their own elevator to connect them to the decks. This was wealth on a scale that far outweighed even her father’s and briefly Kat found herself wondering how the Spaniard had made his money. Surely not through bullfighting?

By now she was feeling very hungry. It seemed a long time since her flight into France this morning and she never ate the disgusting food they served on scheduled flights. She needed to eat something, but was loath to go down into the galley in case she bumped into any of the other crew. Because wouldn’t that seem like some silent admission of defeat?

Instead, she went back into the dining room and looked around to see what was left from the remains of the meal on the table. Not a lot. She ate a banana, two pomegranates and some rich, dark chocolate. And then, more out of defiance than desire, opened a bottle of wine whose label she recognised as being one of the world’s finest and poured herself a large glassful.

Never a big drinker, the bouquet and depth of the claret was wasted on her, but at least the wine made her feel better. And more than a little rebellious. Her feelings of disbelief that this should actually be happening to her began increasingly to be replaced with a sense of fury. Just you wait, Carlos Guerrero, she vowed silently as she finished off the glass of costly wine and poured herself a second, before flopping down on a wide, squashy sofa which was heaped with cushions and staring out of the windows.

Watching the frilly white tips of the waves as the yacht powered its way over the sapphire sea, Kat was almost halfway through the bottle when she heard a sound which made her heart miss a beat. And then begin to accelerate with excitement.

It was the sound of a rich man’s toy. The distinctive whirr-whirr chopping sound from overhead which could mean only one thing—a helicopter! And whoever was flying it would surely take pity on her and whisk her away from this luxurious prison.

Slamming the glass down on the table, Kat lurched to her feet. She would throw herself on the pilot’s mercy. Inform him—or her—that she was being held here against her will and that she wished to be taken to the nearest police station.

But her rush to reach the deck and the helicopter pad seemed blighted—probably due to the amount of alcohol she’d drunk and her high-heeled espadrilles. To her horror, Kat slithered on the wooden floor and ended up sitting slam on her bottom. And by the time she had scrambled to her feet and got her bearings and worked out which of the many doors would give her access to the helicopter pad, she heard the heartbreaking sound of accelerating propellers. Which could only mean one thing. Please, please don’t leave without me catching you, she prayed, even as she heard the loud rush of air which indicated that the craft was indeed now heading skywards.

With a small whimper she flung open one of the doors and hurled herself through it—only to be brought up short by a solid object as she cannoned into it.

A very solid object indeed.

‘Buenas tardes, querida,’ came a deeply accented voice which trickled over her senses like thick, dark honey.

And to her horror, Kat found herself staring up into the forbidding features of Carlos Guerrero.

Chapter Two

KAT stared up into icy black eyes which were skating over her with undisguised disapproval. ‘You!’ she accused, though her knees had turned to jelly and her heart was thundering so loudly that she felt quite faint. But what woman in the world wouldn’t feel the same if confronted with that spectacular physique, clad in close-fitting black jeans and a soft white silk shirt—even if his handsome face was so cold that it might have been sculpted from some glittering piece of dark marble? ‘Carlos Guerrero!’ she breathed.

‘Who were you expecting?’ challenged Carlos silkily. ‘It is my boat after all.’

Trying like mad to control the writhing tumult of her feelings, Kat glared at him. ‘I thought…I thought I was in the middle of a nightmare, but it turns out it’s true.’

‘You mean you don’t want to be here?’ he mocked, his black eyes piercing into her like twin lasers.

Instinctively she stepped away. Away from the raw, masculine scent of him, and the heat which emanated from his powerful body. Away from the dangerous sizzle of sexuality which surrounded him like a dark and sensual aura and made her want to run her fingers through his riotous black curls.

‘I’d rather be anywhere but here—with you,’ she said. And yet didn’t her words carry a hollow ring to them, because how could she protest at his presence when already she could sense his irresistible magnetism? The kind that made women—and her especially—make complete fools of themselves. Well, not this time—that was for sure. ‘Anywhere,’ she finished bitterly.

‘I can assure you that the feeling is entirely mutual, querida.’

‘Then let me go,’ she breathed. ‘Send for the helicopter and let it take me away.’

‘No,’ he negated harshly. ‘I cannot and I will not.’

Kat looked at him in alarm. ‘But you can’t keep me here against my will!’

‘Can’t I?’ A slow and mocking smile curved the edges of his lips. ‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about why you’re here—or did you think I was just longing for a little of your exclusive company?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘Any more than I’m longing for yours!’

‘Good. Because, believe me—you were never going to be my number-one choice of sailing companion.’

Eyes narrowing, Carlos began to study her. She was beautiful, he conceded reluctantly. Even more beautiful than he remembered. Black hair tumbled like wild, dark silk over her shoulders, and her eyes were the most astonishing shade of blue he’d ever seen, framed by outrageously long, curling black lashes. Her lips were as pink as crushed rose petals—and her body was positively sinful.

Unfashionably curvy, she had the kind of legs which seemed to go on for ever—a fact emphasised by the tiny pair of denim shorts she wore, along with a pair of high-heeled espadrilles which showcased her painted toenails. Luscious-looking breasts were thrusting towards him as if crying out for him to cup them in the palms of his hands—their fullness set off perfectly by the simple white T-shirt which stretched tightly over them. So that they looked like two ripe peaches which had been smothered in cream…

But she left him cold. Completely cold. Her type always did. She was a predatory type of modern woman who flagrantly used her sexuality like a bitch in heat. Who saw what she wanted and then just went right out and took it. His mind took him back to the extravagant ball her family had thrown last year—when she had approached him with all the subtlety of a cheap prostituta, and his mouth hardened with remembered contempt.

¡Maldición! It was a pity he was forced to accommodate such a woman as this on the sanctuary of his beloved yacht—but he owed her father. Owed him more than he could ever say. And perhaps it would be amusing to snap this spoiled little madam from out of the privileged bubble in which she seemed to exist.

‘Have you qu-quite finished?’ questioned Kat in a voice which was shaking with rage and humiliation—for she had never been stared at like that before. She attracted attention, yes—but no man had ever had the temerity to study her as if she was being slowly stripped naked by a pair of contemptuous eyes. And aren’t you shaking for another reason? questioned a taunting voice in her head. Aren’t you shaking because you actually like him looking at you like that? Aren’t your breasts tingling after his insolent scrutiny—and isn’t there a kind of soft, aching pool where the denim is rubbing against the fork of your thighs?

‘Finished?’ echoed Carlos. ‘Why, querida—I haven’t even started.’

Kat’s heart thumped, but she was damned if she would show even a trace of nerves. This man was nothing to her. Nothing. Fearlessly, she lifted her chin and iced him a look. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

Black eyes regarded her. ‘You don’t know anything?’

‘Would I be asking if I did?’ But then Kat remembered her father’s strange reticence to disclose any details about her proposed boat trip, and now as she stared into the hard, cold face of the Spaniard her misgivings began to grow. ‘This is something…something which has been cooked up between you and my father, isn’t it?’

‘Bravo,’ he mocked softly, curious to see how she would react.

Kat’s hands curled into two fists by the sides of her bare thighs. ‘Well, I want to speak to him. Now!’

‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say please?’

‘I don’t really think that you’re in a position to give me a lesson in manners when you’re the one keeping me prisoner! I want some sort of explanation about why I’ve been…kidnapped by some wretched brute of a man like you!’

Carlos saw the icy blue fire of defiance spitting from her eyes and he felt a sudden rush of blood heating his veins. Oh, but he was going to enjoy taming her. To teach her that she could not just waltz through life, relying on her blindingly beautiful looks and her limitless bank account, taking exactly what she wanted, without a thought as to what the consequences might be.

‘Just lose the hysteria—’

‘But I—’

‘I said lose it,’ he snapped. ‘And come with me.’ He walked straight past her into the still-untidy cabin, his eyes narrowing with anger as he registered that she hadn’t lifted a finger to clear anything away as he had expressly instructed she do. But he would deal with that. Later. Turning to face her, he pulled a cream envelope from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. ‘From your father,’ he said.

Snatching the envelope from him, Kat was trembling as she ripped it open and withdrew a large sheet of paper, her eyes scanning over it quickly as she recognised her father’s handwriting. My dearest Kat, it began.

It was the most bizarre document she had ever seen. Words flew off the page as if determined to grab her attention and she read them in rapidly mounting disbelief.

Words such as powerful, proud and loyal—and they were written in Latin too. Validus, Superbus quod Fidelis.

Kat’s head was spinning as she read on.

These are the words of our family motto, which for many years used to guide the Balfours. But something else used to guide us too—a set of principles which were known in the family as the rules.

Kat’s frown deepened. What on earth was her father going on about? The letter continued.

Of late, these principles have become wilfully neglected and our name has become a laughing stock—both at home and abroad. In many ways, I blame myself. The example I have set to my children over the years has been a poor one, but I am determined that my daughters will not replicate my chequered lifestyle.

Then came the paragraph which made Kat’s blood run cold.

Which is why I am cutting off your allowance, Kat, and forcing you to earn your keep for the first time in your life. It will also ensure that you embrace the concept of the word commitment—which is rule 6: run away from your problems once and you will run for ever.

You have spent your whole life running from your problems, Kat, but it is time that you learned to look them in the face. By facing problems, you defeat them. Running away is what cowards do, not Balfours. You need to figure out a direction for your life, instead of just drifting aimlessly. A little hard work might help focus your mind.

This is why I have arranged for you to work your passage on the yacht of Carlos Guerrero. He is a man I know and trust to set you on the right path. He is the only man I have ever seen stand up to you, and you cannot run away while you are at sea! Forgive me for what must seem like an extreme measure, my dearest Kat, but I am confident that one day you will be grateful that I took it.

Your loving father, Oscar

Kat’s manicured nails dug into the expensive cream velour paper and it took a moment or two for her to compose herself enough to risk looking Carlos in the face. And when she did, it only increased her ire, for his black eyes were glittering with what looked like pleasure, and a smile of satisfaction was curving his lips.

‘You knew about this!’ she accused.

‘Of course I did.’

‘Rules? Rules,’ she spluttered. ‘It’s outrageous.’

‘I quite agree,’ he said unexpectedly, and then his accented voice grew harsh. ‘Completely outrageous that a woman of twenty-two has never done an honest day’s work in her life!’

Kat swallowed. ‘That’s none of your business!’

‘Oh, but it is, querida. Your father has made it my business by electing me as the poor unfortunate who has been forced to employ you—because I doubt that anyone else would!’

‘I can’t believe that Daddy would willingly subject me to…’

The black eyes challenged her. ‘To what, exactamente?’

‘To be holed up with a man who’s world famous for his womanising!’

For a moment, Carlos didn’t respond. The slur was an oft-repeated one which infuriated the hell out of him, and it was made by the press and the public at large simply because women had a terrible tendency to fall in love with him. And then to talk about it to whoever would listen—the way women always loved to talk when their hearts were smitten. But if he could have a euro for every woman he was supposed to have slept with, then his already-generous bank accounts would be overflowing.

He stared at the stunning brunette—almost marvelling at her gall and wondering how she, of all people, had the nerve to level such an accusation at him.

‘But I’m extremely picky where women are concerned—you of all people should know that,’ he drawled. ‘After all, I turned you down, didn’t I, querida? Even though you were pretty much begging me to make love to you.’

Kat flushed. Of all the most hateful…hateful things he could have said.

But it was true, wasn’t it? That was the painful reality of it. She had thrown herself at him. Behaved in a way which had been completely foreign to her. Because despite her worldly appearance and air of sophistication, Kat was a disaster where men were concerned.

Sometimes her sisters teased her about her lack of boyfriends and Kat had often wondered if she would ever experience the kind of overwhelming emotional and sexual desire which other women spoke of. And yet she wasn’t even sure she wanted to—because getting close to people meant that you could get hurt.

So she hid behind her outrageous outfits, presenting a fashionable, brittle exterior to the world—terrified that somebody would find her out and see through to the gaping insecurities inside. And it had always been easy, because she had never really felt stirred by a man. Not until last year’s ball…

The dress she had worn had been pretty daring—even by her standards. Carefully constructed in scarlet satin, the low-cut bodice had left her breasts half bare and the thigh-high slashes of the skirt showed off her long legs as she walked. Precious gems had sparkled in her hair—with the famous Balfour Brilliant winking in a provocative diamond teardrop between her breasts.

Kat remembered descending the stairs into the grand ballroom, aware that all eyes had turned to watch her, but she had felt oblivious to their interest…as if she was half asleep, like a person in a dream.

And then she had seen him. Standing out among the hundreds of other guests like a bright planet in a clear night sky. Her heart had begun to thunder powerfully with some kind of ancient recognition and in that single moment she had understood what all the fuss was about. Why women fell in love at first sight. And why it could happen without reason, or warning.

Carlos Guerrero.

He had been wearing a formal suit—the stark black clothes exquisitely tailored to emphasise every hard sinew of his impressive physique and his long, lean legs and narrow hips. His black hair had been longer than the other men’s in the ballroom—and wilder too. Yes, that was the best way to describe what Carlos Guerrero had looked like that night—there was a sense that beneath the immaculate exterior, he was untamed. Proud, dangerous and sexy—he seemed more alive than anyone else she’d ever set eyes on, and just looking at him sparked a longing as old as time.

The only problem was that he was with a woman—a serene-looking woman who barely wore a scrap of make-up—but then, she didn’t really need to. Not when you were as naturally beautiful as that. Kat remembered her dismay as she’d stared at his partner’s soft, even features and the elegant chignon of her hair. Her gown was a fluid fall of cream, quietly emphasising a stunning figure, and two luminous pearl studs gleaming at her ears were her only adornment.

Kat had suddenly felt like an overdressed Christmas tree in comparison—yet that didn’t stop her wanting the man with a hunger which made her feel positively weak.

But he had refused to play ball—his black eyes had been cold, his manner dismissive, when she was introduced to him. Carlos Guerrero was his name, and she remembered thinking that it was the most gorgeous name in the world.

Kat did everything to get him to notice her—but because she’d never had to try with a man before, she tried too hard. Much too hard. Every time she thought he was watching her, she had played up to it like mad. Tipping her head back and giggling. Letting her eyes close in dreamy surrender. Yet she might as well have been trying to get a reaction from a stone for all the good it did. Until at last, when his lovely partner had disappeared in the direction of the cloakrooms, Kat had spotted him going out onto the terrace. And shamelessly she had followed him.

The moon had been full, the night thick with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and there was an air of promise bubbling within her—a sense that, in that moment, anything was possible if only she had the courage to reach out and take it. Overladen with unfamiliar longing, Kat had walked towards him.

‘Hello,’ she said softly.

His black eyes had narrowed and he had nodded his head in a kind of resigned recognition. ‘You’re the woman who’s been flirting with me so outrageously all evening,’ he said slowly.

‘H-have I?’ Thankfully, the darkness had hidden her sudden rise in colour. But hadn’t her sisters told her that it was an equal world now and that women could approach men these days, if they really wanted to? ‘I wondered, would you…would you like to dance?’ she had asked, her careless tone disguising the fierce pounding of her heart but she could feel the tightening of her breasts as she moved a little closer.

She would remember the look on his face for as long as she lived. Something which looked uncomfortably like anger and which quickly grew into cold contempt as he briefly stared down at the large diamond which glittered between the scrap of scarlet satin straining over her bust.

‘Do you always behave like such a tramp, querida?’ he bit out with soft derision. ‘So that you flaunt your wares like a trader in the marketplace? Or do you only want a man when he is with someone else?’

Cringing beneath the icy disdain in the Spaniard’s eyes, Kat barely noticed the figure who had now appeared in the doorway and who stood watching them.

‘B-but—’

Putting his mouth to her ear so that only she could hear, she would never forget his contemptuous words.

‘You are dressed like a hooker and you are behaving like a hooker!’ he had hissed. ‘So why don’t you go and cover yourself up, and then take the time to learn a few lessons on the correct way to conduct yourself in public.’

After this blistering attack, he had sauntered back into the ballroom—past her father, who had silently been observing them—and returned to the beautiful woman in cream. Where, according to her sisters, he had tenderly wrapped her in a soft shawl and had taken her off into the night—leaving Kat alone with her shame and her disbelief that she could have behaved in such a way. That she could have been so predatory.

Her sisters had also taken great delight in informing her that not only was the man a famous ex-bullfighter, but that he could have his pick of the most gorgeous women in the world. Which had only made her feel worse.

And that had been the last time she’d seen Carlos Guerrero.

Until now.

Painful memories cleared and Kat realised that the Spaniard was watching her and that she was still holding the letter from her father which had put her in this man’s power.

So forget the terrible way you behaved and the cruel way he rebuffed you. That’s all in the past now. Why not appeal to his sense of logic instead? Forcing a smile, she turned to him. ‘Look, Carlos, you can’t want this any more than I do,’ she urged.

Carlos considered her words. When her father had asked him to employ her, his first instinct had been to bat the suggestion away. Because he wasn’t into playing mentor. Particularly not to spoiled little rich girls who lived their lives like greedy children let loose in a candy store.

So why the hell hadn’t he refused this challenge?

Because Oscar Balfour had been good to him, had helped him set up the property business which had made him a very wealthy man indeed. For there had been a time when nobody wanted to know the angry young Spaniard battling to make a new life for himself. When Carlos had been nothing but an ex-matador who had spent every penny he’d earned, Oscar had taken a risk by giving him a sizeable loan. Had trusted him at a time when few others had—and a man never forgot something like that.

No, he could not have turned down Oscar’s request—no matter how unwanted the suggestion had been.

‘Since you ask—no, I don’t want this at all. I have much better things to do with my time than playing nursemaid to a spoiled brat,’ he said coolly. ‘Butmy wishes are irrelevant. Your father asked for my help, and so I’m giving it. I owe him.’ He shrugged. ‘And it wasn’t exactly onerous to employ you on my boat. I’m always looking for an extra pair of hands.’

Kat shook her head. ‘You want money?’ she questioned desperately. ‘I can write you a cheque if you set me free.’

For a moment Carlos shook his head, appalled by the sheer impudence of her offer. Did she think that he could be bought, or that money could buy her out of any tight corner? He guessed she did—for hadn’t it been lavished on her during all her life? Suddenly, he found himself remembering the unalloyed poverty of his early years. Of the way his mother had spent every waking hour cleaning for the rich—her careworn hands red and cracked, her eyes dark from lack of sleep. And Carlos felt another wave of contempt for this girl who had always had things so easy.

‘You forget that buying your way out is no longer an option since your father has cut off your allowance,’ he drawled.

‘But I have money I can access!’ she declared. ‘Jewels I can sell!’

‘Just not when you’re in the middle of the Mediterranean, hmm?’ he countered sarcastically

.

And suddenly the reality of the situation hit her. Him. And her—stuck in a boat whose dimensions seemed to be diminishing by the second. ‘I’m…I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement,’ she said wildly.

‘I don’t think so.’ The black eyes narrowed and he glanced over to the tight, white T-shirt and the tops of her bare brown thighs which were so graphically showcased in the tiny pair of shorts. ‘Unless you’re offering payment in kind, of course?’ he added insultingly, his voice soft. ‘You’re certainly dressed as if you are.’

It took Kat a moment for his words to register, and when she realised exactly what he meant she felt a strange, burning fury—and a renewed sense of rebellion.

How could she bear to be trapped on board with such a powerfully attractive man as this—especially when he had made his contempt for her so apparent? Expected to cook and clear up after him like a servant! Heart now pounding with anticipation of what she was about to do, Kat gave him one final glare of defiance.

‘Maybe you’re used to paying for sex!’ she retorted, and had the brief satisfaction of seeing his lips tighten in anger. ‘And maybe you’re used to calling all the shots. But not this time. I won’t be kept prisoner here by you, Señor Guerrero!’

Without warning, she ran across the salon and out onto the deck, tearing off her espadrilles before scrambling up the side of the guard-rail. At least it was as wide as a small ledge. Wide enough to dive from.

For a few seconds, Kat experienced a moment of wild exhilaration as she stared down into the dark sapphire of the sea, before taking a deep, deep breath. And then, with the sound of Carlos Guerrero’s furious shouts ringing in her ears, she plunged into the blue water beneath.

Chapter Three

THE shock of impact and the cold temporarily winded her, but Kat was a good swimmer—when she’d lived in Sri Lanka, she’d spent so much time in the water that they used to call her Little Fish. But the trouble was that swimming in pools or striking out from a beach was quite different to swimming in deep sea like this, and it took only minutes for the enormity of what she’d done to sink in. Her limbs felt heavy and weighted—the denim shorts seeming to weigh a ton—and it occurred to her that she had drunk two glasses of wine and that her judgement may have been blunted. But still she kept striking out—and it seemed more as if she was lashing out against life, and fate. Hot tears of fury mingled with the salt of the sea on her face, until she realised that she was in danger of getting completely exhausted, and so she began to tread water.

Turning on her back, she could see that the Corazón Frío had stopped, and that a little boat had been lowered and was heading her way—but before it could reach her, something else did. Or rather, someone. A streamlined body which was powering its way through the water towards her and which suddenly emerged from the depths like some golden-wet colossus.

Sleek black hair plastered to his skull, Carlos reached out and caught hold of her, his face contorted with fury. But the relief he felt at having located her was overwhelming and it washed over him in a great wave. The little fool. The stupid little fool.

‘Let me—’ uselessly, Kat wriggled against the formidable strength of his body ‘—go!’

His mouth was close to her wet ear as he trod water, her breasts flattened against his chest as his hands tightened around her waist and held her closer. ‘You are not going anywhere, querida,’ he gasped. ‘You will stay right here until the tender reaches us—or you’ll have us both damned well drowned!’

The awful thing was that for the first time in her life Kat felt safe. Truly and properly safe. His arms were so strong and powerful and his hold on her so firm that she felt as if nothing or no one could hurt her just as long as this man was holding her. And how crazy was that—in view of the circumstances? If she could place her trust and her confidence in a man who clearly despised her, then surely that really did mean her judgement was terminally flawed.

‘Damn you,’ she whispered shakily.

‘No, damn you,’ he shot back furiously. ‘I was warned that you liked running away—but nobody told me you’d be a liability!’

The boat reached them, with Mike at the helm, and Kat was helped aboard—acutely aware that the flat of Carlos’s palm was shoving firmly on one sodden denim-covered buttock from behind. Then he levered himself up and into the boat and helped to sit her down. His feet were bare, the black jeans were soaking and the white silk shirt now clung to his chest like a second skin—the fabric so fine that she could see the whorls of black hair through it. Suddenly, Kat felt quite weak as he crouched down beside her, placing one hand at the small of her back to help support her.

A pair of stony black eyes were levelled at her. ‘Don’t ever try pulling a stunt like that again,’ he warned softly. ‘Understand?’

Kat was aware that Mike had his back to them as he steered the little boat towards the yacht. Was he diplomatically pretending not to listen, or would it even make any difference if he was? If she started screaming hysterically like one of those women in an old black-and-white movie, was it likely that Mike would turn round to the ‘boss’ he clearly revered and demand that he return her to shore immediately? No, it was not.

Which meant she was stuck here. Stuck with the only man she’d ever felt a physical connection towards—and still did, if she was honest. Even when she was physically and mentally exhausted.

‘Understand?’ repeated Carlos.

Staring into eyes which were as emotionless as rock itself, Kat swallowed down the salt taste of the sea. ‘Do I have any choice?’ she questioned bitterly.

‘No, querida, you do not—other than to work your way on this voyage and prove that you can do it. To stand on your own two feet for once…if you think you can.’ Black eyes challenged her. ‘After that, you can walk away and we need never set eyes on each other again.’

The aftermath of all the emotion suddenly hit her like a roller coaster, along with a dull aching which had now begun to gather at the front of her forehead, and Kat began to shiver uncontrollably.

Carlos frowned, but the arm which was still at her slender back tightened by a fraction. Her face was white—almost translucent—and her lips were turning a faintly blue colour. Y por Dios—but she suddenly looked fragile. Like a little doll who might snap in two.

‘Hurry up!’ he snapped at Mike as the small craft moved alongside the larger vessel. ‘She’s freezing!’

Kat was vaguely aware of being lifted onto the deck of the Corazón Frío and aware too that Carlos had curtly dismissed Mike and the rest of the crew who had appeared to help.

And then, to her astonishment, he picked her up as if he picked up full-grown women every day of the week, and carried her along one of the wood-lined corridors to some sort of cabin. But it wasn’t the same poky little cabin which Mike had taken her to earlier.

Dazed by shock and the sensation of being held within his strong arms, she looked around at the unfamiliar luxurious surroundings. ‘Ththis isn’t m-my c-cabin,’ she protested, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as he set her down. Her eyes widened as her heart began an erratic pounding. ‘It’s n-not yours, is it?’

‘Mine?’ Carlos gave a forbidding smile as he set her back down on her feet. ‘Please don’t overestimate your appeal, querida. I don’t take idle little rich girls to my bed.’

His cruel words should have hurt but Kat was now feeling so numb that she could barely move, let alone protest at his rudeness. Disconcertingly, he had started tugging at her top and she could feel the sudden heat of his hand against her frozen skin.

‘W-what do you think you’re doing?’ she breathed.

‘What the hell does it look like?’ he demanded, but his voice sounded distorted and he hated the sudden urgent escalation of his heart. Damn her, he thought—and damn her sleek and inviting body! ‘I’m getting you out of these wet clothes before I have to cable ashore for a doctor.’

Kat expelled a shallow breath because even through her icy confusion she liked the feel of his skin against her skin. She liked it a lot. She felt faint as he peeled off the sodden T-shirt and saw his body tense as he tossed it aside, a look of grim determination etched on his face. Next, he began undoing her bra with lightning-fast dexterity, until that was also cast unceremoniously to the floor. Then, pushing her down on the bed with a touch which was more gentle than she would ever have expected, he tossed a blanket over her. A blanket so warm and so soft that it felt as if she had been enveloped in a cloud. Teeth still chattering, Kat clutched at it with convulsive fingers.

‘That’s b-bliss,’ she stumbled, her eyelids feeling weighted as the temptation to sleep began to steal over her.

‘Take off those damned shorts,’ he demanded on a snarl, but either she wasn’t listening or she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe she was in shock. He remembered the scent of wine on her breath and his mouth hardened. Or drunk.

Carlos had been the greatest bullfighter of his generation and the adroitness of his wrist action had caused ecstatic crowds to sigh in admiration. Yet such skilfulness had bizarrely deserted him when it came to removing a tiny pair of soaking denim shorts from the delectable bottom of Miss Kat Balfour. His only saving grace was that she seemed scarcely aware of the exquisite torture she was unknowingly inflicting upon him.

Only when a tiny thong had been tugged down over her goose-bumpy thighs, and she was completely naked beneath the blanket, did he step away—and then very gingerly, for he was more aroused than he had been in a long time. ¡Maldición!

Picking up another of the cashmere throws, he floated that down over her for good measure and heard her sigh before she snuggled down into its soft folds. Her eyelids had fluttered to a close and rested on her pale cheeks in two dark feathery arcs. Her lips—now restored to a rose-petal hue—were parted and she gave a soft sigh and snuggled into the pillow while he watched her. With her damp hair fanned over the pillow, she looked pure—almost innocent.

But appearances could be deceptive, he reminded himself acidly, forcing himself to remember all the reasons why he disliked her. Predatory, unscrupulous and spoiled—she was antithesis of all the qualities he admired in a woman. Carlos admired hard work and humility far more than privilege, or position.

He had appeared at her family ball with a woman on his arm, but Kat Balfour hadn’t cared about that, had she? No. She hadn’t cared about a thing except homing in on him like a sex-seeking missile. Why, even when she was half drowned she was somehow managing to send out the instinctive message of the siren.

And just for a moment back then, he had responded, hadn’t he? Responded big time. Carlos’s mouth hardened with fury at his own susceptibility. He should have demanded that her father pay him danger money to have taken on this task. Better still, he should have told Oscar Balfour to find someone else. But it was too late to back out now. And surely this snip of an Englishwoman—no matter how flighty or petulant—could never be compared to the challenges he had faced in the bullring?

Her arm had moved back to lie above her head and he stared down at the diamond-encrusted wristwatch which dangled from her fragile wrist—an expensive-looking piece which looked as if it was completely wrecked by sea water. He saw the outline of her luscious curves beneath the fine cashmere and knew he did not dare risk removing the watch. Not unless he planned to wake her up in a way which he could—suddenly and inexplicably—imagine all too vividly…

His throat thickening, Carlos walked over to the door and snapped out the light, knowing that he had to get the hell out of there.

Chapter Four

KAT awoke to an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar feeling.

Eyelids fluttering open, she gazed around in confusion as she registered the strange rocking sensation, trying to work out where she was and how she’d got here. The room was luxurious, lined with gleaming wood and Venetian mirrors. Persian rugs lay strewn on the floor and she could see her two bags standing next to the wardrobe. And hanging on the back of the door was that damned apron. She was on Carlos Guerrero’s luxury yacht!

Groaning, she propped herself up on the bank of soft pillows. She was lying on top of a huge bed, covered by two enormous cashmere throws. And…Kat froze as the palms of her hands skated down over her body as if to verify her initial fears. Because beneath the blankets she was completely naked.

That would explain the unfamiliar feeling. She always slept covered up. Always. Cosy, warm pyjamas in winter and a lightweight cotton-lawn version during the warmer weather. It dated back to childhood—a habit she’d never quite got out of, a habit more deeply engrained by never quite knowing what the night might throw at you…

With a start, she sat up, her eyes automatically straying to her wristwatch and blinking in confusion to see that it was shiny with droplets of water—and that it had stopped completely.

Haphazardly events came flooding back in a disconcerting stream. Being tricked onto the yacht and told that she was to be some sort of servant to Carlos Guerrero. And then…Kat bit her lip as she remembered trying to flee. Diving overboard into the Mediterranean and Carlos coming after her and bringing her back. Had she really done something that crazy?

Hanging over the back of the chair were her little denim shorts, T-shirt, her bra and tiny thong—and with a heated rush of blood to her cheeks, Kat recalled Carlos peeling the garments from her body. And the way that had made her feel.

Locking the door and picking up one of her bags, she stumbled into the bathroom, shocked at the sight of her white face and the mess of black hair. But a hot shower and an intense toothbrushing session soon had her feeling almost normal as she riffled through her bags for something to wear. But what? The clothes she’d brought had been chosen for the purpose of not doing very much at all—other than lazing around on deck and relaxing in the sun.

Yet since she had been duped into coming here, why should she care that many of the outfits at her disposal were completely inappropriate for her lowly new post? Especially when there was no way she was going to take that post on—no matter what her father said!

Defiantly, Kat pulled a slithery silk slip-dress over her head. It was made by that season’s hottest new designer and it had sold out weeks before it had even hit the shelves. Only the favoured few had managed to get their hands on it—and Kat had been among them. Falling to mid-thigh, it showed off the even caramel tan of her legs and was an extremely flattering fit—so why shouldn’t she wear it?

But her heart was pounding with something which felt like trepidation, as she went off to find Carlos Guerrero.

Guided by the strong aroma of coffee which was drifting in from the direction of one of the decks, she stepped out into brilliant light, blinking a little and wondering if she should go back for a hat. Sunlight was dancing in a frenzied light show on the sapphire sea, and the sky was a piercingly clear shade of azure. At any other time and in any other place, Kat might have sighed and simply appreciated the scenic splendour—but now her attention was elsewhere. Diverted to the infinitely more human splendour which was lying just a few short feet away…

Carlos was sprawled on some sort of huge chaise longue—tapping away at some sleek-looking computer, wearing a pair of low-slung white jeans, an open white shirt and a pair of dark shades. Nearby, was a large table on which stood a steaming coffee pot and a basket of different breads. But despite the sudden gnawing hunger at her stomach, Kat paid the food no attention.

For a moment she simply stood there and observed the man whose blue-black hair glinted in the sunlight. Powerful and lean, his body looked indolent and relaxed—the way you sometimes saw those black pumas in wildlife programmes looking when they’d just been fed. Kat’s stomach flipped as she registered the broad shoulders, the narrow jut of his hips and the long legs which seemed to go on for ever. And yet coupled with her undeniable attraction towards him was a faint sense of wariness and the reluctant acknowledgement that this was the kind of man whose will could never be bent to the wishes of a woman…

Carlos glanced up as Kat walked out on deck towards him and felt his body tense. He wondered if she realised that the powerful sun was angling on her tiny sundress and outlining her body in eye-popping detail, making it appear as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all.

Of course she realised, he told himself cynically. Women like her used their clothes to showcase their sexuality. A sexuality which she seemed to have no qualms about putting out at every opportunity and which he was just going to have to ignore. His mouth hardened as he averted his eyes from her magnificent breasts.

‘So you have decided to grace us with your presence at last,’ he observed coolly.

And stupidly, despite his disparaging tone, Kat’s heart began beating furiously. ‘Wh-what time is it?’

‘Eleven.’

‘In the morning?’

He glanced around at the gold-dappled splendour of the deck. ‘We don’t usually have sunshine at eleven in the evening,’ he answered sardonically. ‘Even in the Mediterranean.’

‘Eleven!’ she exclaimed, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘You mean I’ve slept for…for…’

‘Hours,’ he agreed tightly. ‘Too much burning the candle at both ends, no doubt. Either that or the wine you drank made you sleep.’ He lifted the dark shades away from .’his eyes and stared directly into her face, fixing her with a glittering black gaze. ‘And I see that you opened the Pétrus

Kat remembered the anger she had felt at being trapped and told she was to work on the Spaniard’s yacht. Remembered too the discarded gold bikini top—and once again a stab of something which felt uncomfortably like jealousy unsettled her. So what if she had drunk half a bottle of his very expensive wine? ‘Sorry. I just couldn’t resist it,’ she said guilelessly. ‘Was it very expensive?’

There was a pause. ‘Very.’

‘Oh.’ She opened her eyes very wide. Maybe if she annoyed him enough he might drive her to the nearest shore himself. ‘And did you mind?’

Mind? What he minded more than anything was her careless attitude and the way those bright blue eyes sparked at him so defiantly. She wanted him to mind, he realised, and would have liked to have shown his displeasure in a very primitive way indeed. By upending her on his lap and slapping the palm of his hand against her delectable bottom. ‘You have very good taste in wine, querida,’ he observed.

Kat stared at him suspiciously. This was not the reaction she was expecting. ‘I…I have?’

‘Sí. Absolutamente. There will, of course, have to be some adjustment to your wages as a consequence.’ He shrugged as he saw her perfect lips part in a disbelieving circle. ‘Though naturally, it will simply be a token gesture, since no galley-hand could ever afford to pay the full price for such a bottle of wine.’

Suspicion turned to frustration. ‘You’re not still maintaining this fiction about me working on your boat, are you?’ she demanded.

Carlos pushed his laptop into a shady corner beneath the lounger and rose effortlessly to his feet. ‘I can assure you that it is not a fiction, Kat. It is a done deal and I have given my word to your father that I will employ you—despite the fact that you do not seem to have a single useful qualification to your name.’

‘That’s none of your business—’

‘I’m afraid it is. I have agreed to take you on—and one of the first things you’d better learn is that as a member of my crew you will be expected to be punctual at all times.’

‘But I’m not—’

‘I am not interested in your objections.’ Once again, his clipped words sliced through her stumbled responses. ‘All I know is that you’ve made an appalling start.’ His gaze flicked over the mutinous tremble of her lips and he felt an undeniable beat of pleasure. ‘However, in view of the .’ His eyes mocked her. ‘You’ll make a light lunch for everyone and a rather more elaborate meal for the evening. And you’ll be expected to keep the decks and cabins clean, though obviously not the crew’s. Understand?’exceptional circumstances, I’ll let you off this time—just don’t try it again. In future I want you on deck by seven. The crew can fix themselves breakfast, but I expect you to attend to what I like. Good coffee, a little fruit and some bread. My needs are very simple

There was a moment of disbelieving silence while Kat looked at him with shock and dislike as he shot out his list of outrageous demands. ‘No, I don’t think you understand,’ she answered furiously. ‘You’ve had your little joke, Carlos, but it’s gone on for long enough. I don’t want to stay here and I don’t want to work for you. I…I want to go back to shore.’ There was a pause while he looked at her expectantly and she forced herself to say it, even though the word felt as if it might choke her. ‘Please.’

Carlos clapped his hands in mock applause. ‘¡Bravo!’ he said silkily. ‘We make progress! The spoiled Englishwoman—she learns what it is to be polite!’

Kat looked at him hopefully. ‘So you’ll take me?’

‘I cannot,’ he snapped. ‘Surely your attention span isn’t so short that you’ve already forgotten the letter from your father which you read last night?’

She thought back to that ridiculous set of rules her father had set out—the one Carlos had presented her with when he’d arrived on board. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten, but my father has clearly taken leave of his senses!’

‘Wrong again.’ Carlos’s lips flattened into an uncompromising line. ‘In fact, I think his intervention is long overdue and it’s time you stopped acting like a spoilt little princess. One who snaps her fingers and thinks the world owes her a living. An overindulged rich girl who sees just what she wants and then takes it. I cannot believe that nobody has ever accused you of it before. Princesa.’

Kat stood as he taunted her with the word, but now her heart had begun to thunder erratically as ice-cold tentacles of fear began to tiptoe down her spine, in spite of the warmth of the morning sun. Fear that she usually kept battened down, hidden away like a dark secret. Didn’t he realise that she, of all people, couldn’t cope with the idea of being trapped? That she had witnessed enough violence and horror to last a lifetime—and that sometimes she needed to run from those memories. Quite literally, to run.

Like a dark and acrid poison, reminders of that time rose up in her mind, but she blocked them. The way she’d been blocking them ever since her world had been turned upside down by the death of her stepfather and nothing had ever been the same again. She never talked about it with anyone. Anyone. Not all the counsellors or psychologists they’d paid for over the years. Not her mother or her father. Nobody. And she certainly wasn’t going to start with this arrogant beast of a man who seemed to bring out the very worst in her.

‘I am not going to stay here slaving away for an arrogant man who insults me,’ she blurted out. ‘And what is more, you can’t force me to!’

‘Oh, but I can. And I will,’ he returned implacably as he rose from the table. ‘One day you may even thank me for it.’

‘The hell I will!’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, but I can see that you are in urgent need of subduing, Princesa. And if you’re planning any more theatrical displays like diving in and swimming to shore, then forget it. I might not be so inclined to jump in and save you next time.’

He saw her bright blue gaze moving distractedly round the deck, as if searching there for some other kind of getaway. ‘What’s more, if you’re thinking you might spirit yourself away on one of my motor-boats, I’d better warn you that I’ll be keeping all the ignition keys close to me. And the rest of the crew have instructions not to take you ashore, no matter how beguilingly you decide to ask them.’ His black eyes glittered a stark warning. ‘So don’t bother wasting your time trying to escape.’

Kat stared at him. If being trapped with him wasn’t bad enough, his cavalier and patronising attitude made it a hundred times worse.

And suddenly, all her feelings of hurt and rage and frustration welled up into an urgent need to make him realise that she meant what she said.

‘Let me off this boat at once, you…you…overbearing…beast!’ she half sobbed, launching herself towards him before she stopped to think about the wisdom of her actions, drumming her fists furiously against the rock-solid wall of his chest. ‘Just let me go!’

For a moment, Carlos didn’t react to the warm intoxication of her proximity and the realisation that the soft curve of her hips was only a thrust away. He was known for his restraint, for a steely self-control which had seen him turn down more women than most men would dream of.

And yet now he could feel the first stealthy silken tug of sexual awakening as the coldly analytical side of his brain fought against the escalating clamour of his senses.

His mouth hardened. He didn’t even like Kat Balfour. So why was his body hardening with unbearable tension, its demands beginning to wash over him in hot, sweet waves?

‘Let me go!’ she repeated, as the drumming of her fists increased.

‘No,’ he grated, staring down into her bright blue eyes with dislike. ‘What a little hypocrite you are, Kat. Women who want men to let them go don’t start pressing themselves against them and flaunting their bodies in such a way that shows they’re just begging to be kissed. Do they?’

She opened her mouth to deny it but as she stared up into his face she could see that his eyes were no longer like stone. In fact, they blazed like ebony fire as they raked over her. And despite the condemnation in his tone, Kat’s words died on her lips as, with a growl of desire and fury, Carlos lowered his head towards hers and began to kiss her.

She swayed as she felt the hard pressure of his mouth driving down on hers, clutching at the silken-clad expanse of his shoulders, her thoughts swirling as their flesh met and melded. This was bliss, she thought distractedly, as she clung to him, heart beginning to pound as she felt the first flick of his tongue. Wasn’t this how a kiss was supposed to feel? What she’d been holding out for all her life? ‘Oh,’ she moaned helplessly, as the pressure of his lips increased. ‘Oh!’

¡Dios!

Carlos felt her instant capitulation, as sweet and responsive as he had guessed she might be. As he deepened the kiss, he could feel her breasts peaking against him. Sweet, neat breasts—like tender peaches just waiting to be bitten into. He wanted to take one into his hand, to rub his thumb against its ripe nub. And then to delve his fingers beneath the soft silk of her sinful little dress, to discover if she was wearing proper panties this time. Or another of those X-rated G-strings…

For several agonisingly tempting moments, he imagined plunging into her, imagined her hungry little cries as she urged him on. And then, just as suddenly as the kiss had started, he tore his lips away from hers, stepping back as if she was contaminated, his furious gaze raking over her flushed cheeks and darkened eyes.

Frustrated desire found an outlet in heated accusation as he willed the frantic thudding of his heart to lessen and the fierce aching at his groin to stop throbbing and tormenting him. ‘Do you always act like this—like a sex-starved tramp?’ he demanded unevenly. ‘Are you one of these women who are ruled by the hunger of their bodies, perhaps—who grab at the nearest man whenever he happens to be available?’

The harsh words hurt, but presumably that had been his intention. ‘C-can’t the same be said about you?’ she shot back, stung, because he was so wrong in his character assessment of her that it would have been almost laughable had it not been quite so insulting. Clamping her arms around her still-tender breasts she hid her arousal and confusion behind a shield of sarcasm. ‘I mean, obviously you have a fantastic technique—’

‘That was never in any doubt, Princes a.’

‘I’m just appalled at my own reaction to an uncaring brute like you,’ she choked. ‘Especially since you had another woman in your arms only yesterday!’

Carlos found his gaze drawn irresistibly to the rapid rise and fall of her breasts which she was trying and failing to hide. ‘I had another woman in my arms only yesterday,’ he repeated slowly.

‘The woman in the gold bikini!’ she accused, hating the shaft of pure jealousy which shot through her.

‘The woman in the gold bikini?’

‘Will you stop repeating everything I say?’

‘Then would you mind explaining what the hell you’re talking about?’

‘The gold bikini top,’ elaborated Kat bitterly. ‘The one I found along with the remains of the meal in the dining room!’

‘Ah, yes!’ A slow and glittering smile of comprehension began to curve at Carlos’s lips as he remembered. ‘Tania Stephens…I had forgotten all about that.’

Kat felt sick, appalled at her own behaviour. She had been…been…Well, if she were being absolutely honest, hadn’t she been like the softest putty in his hands? Wouldn’t she still be writhing pleasurably beneath his practised caresses if he hadn’t put a stop to it so abruptly? And yet he’d been doing the same thing to another woman only yesterday and had forgotten all about it! Didn’t that speak volumes about his attitude to women in general and her in particular? What a lucky escape she had had!

‘You make love to a woman and less than twenty-four hours later you’ve “forgotten all about it”?’ she breathed in disbelief.

‘I did not make love to her.’

Kat’s heart pounded. ‘So a woman’s gold bikini top just happens to be lying discarded on the floor of your dining room, along with evidence of some intimate little meal à deux—and yet you claim to know nothing about it?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ he snapped. ‘I said that I didn’t make love to her.’

‘But…but she wanted to?’

There was a pause. ‘Of course she did,’ he agreed softly. ‘All women want me to make love to them. Didn’t you demonstrate that yourself only moments ago?’

Kat flinched at the accusation, but she couldn’t deny it, could she? ‘So who was she?’ she questioned.

‘A journalist.’ Carlos allowed himself a brief, hard smile. ‘Who I heard was doing a feature on me—and so I invited her here to find out what angle she was taking, and whether or not I needed to persuade her to adopt a different one.’

‘Why would anyone want to do a feature on you?’

Black eyes challenged her. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Because you’re rich? Or because you’re unbearable?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Wealth is hardly an achievement in its own right. You of all people should know that, Princes a.’

And then she remembered the photo. That startling photo. The young Carlos wearing the richly ornate jacket of the bullfighter—his face just as proud and as beautiful as it was now, but without the cynicism which time had etched onto the features of his older self.

‘Bullfighting,’ she said slowly. ‘She wanted to talk to you about bullfighting.’

There was the beat of a pause. ‘Of course she did,’ he said slowly. ‘They always want to talk about bullfighting.’

‘But why?’ Kat stared at him. ‘Because it’s exciting—or because hardly anyone does it as a career choice?’

‘Both those things, but it is a little more complex than that.’ He met the question in her eyes. ‘It’s fifteen years since I left the ring, and she’s just digging around because she wants to know why.’

‘And why did you leave?’

‘You think I want to talk about it with someone like you?’ he queried softly. ‘A woman whose definition of a hard day’s work is painting her own nails because the manicurist happens to be off sick?’

He saw her flinch but Carlos didn’t care. Couldn’t she take the truth about the kind of woman she was? He had vowed never to talk of those days, to relive the pain and the torture which had raged inside him during his tumultuous years in the ring. A pain which had little to do with the noble bullfight itself, and more to do with the cruel father who had made his life such a torment.

The journalist had tried every trick in the book to get him to talk, and a couple more besides. She had certainly been enterprising, he would say that for her. The editor had probably selected her for her beauty and her sheer ruthlessness. So that when the lunchtime interview had not been progressing as she’d wished, she had suggested sunbathing. And then laughingly stripped off her bikini top as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.

He had been aroused, yes—of course he had. The woman’s breasts had been full and pale and her glossy lips had parted as if to demonstrate that she was very accomplished with her mouth. But sex offered to him on a plate had never been his thing.

He looked down into the blue eyes of the Balfour girl. Maybe he should tell her that and have done with it—because, in effect, wasn’t she doing exactly the same? Trying to twist him round her little finger with her come-to-bed eyes and pouting lips. Perhaps he should tell her that no matter how much she tried to tempt him, she was here to do a job and nothing more. He had given his word to her father that he would teach her something in the way of commitment, and Carlos always kept his word.

So why had he kissed her? And why was the memory of that kiss making him grow hard even now? So hard that he would have liked to have taken hold of her aristocratic hips and thrust right into her.

‘You’d better have some breakfast,’ he said harshly. ‘And then start by clearing away the mess in the dining room.’

Kat met the stony black gaze. ‘And if I don’t?’

He thought how beautiful she looked when she defied him. ‘If you don’t? Then, Princesa, I will quickly lose patience with you, and I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ he answered. ‘You might do well to remember that the sooner you start fulfilling your obligations, the sooner you can leave—and free us both from this infernal incarceration.’

Shaken, Kat stood watching as he walked away from her, her eyes drawn to the graceful movement of his white-jeaned physique and the way the silk shirt billowed slightly in the breeze. Unthinkingly, she touched her fingertips to her lips—to where the tender flesh still tingled with the heat of his passionate kiss—and she felt the corresponding thunder of her heart as she remembered it. But the kiss meant nothing, she reminded herself—and Carlos couldn’t have made that clearer.

She wondered if he’d gone off to work in one of the warren of luxurious rooms which lay below the deck, but it wasn’t until a few minutes later when she heard the throaty roar of a powerful engine that she realised that he’d gone. Properly gone.

Racing over to the side of the yacht, she saw a flash of silver as a powerful little motorboat cut through the sapphire waters. The wind streamed through the wild black curls of the man who stood at the helm and the sun had illuminated his olive skin into dark gold. He looked, she thought, like some powerful and formidable god of a man.

For one split second, their eyes met—and Kat registered the implacable coldness in his gaze, with barely a flicker of recognition or acknowledgement on his stony features. Was he demonstrating the fact that he was free to come and go as she was not? Or was he silently laughing at her and her lowly predicament?

She turned away and looked around the deck. Either way, she was trapped here—with a list of menial chores to do for a sexy tyrant of a man, and no means by which she could escape.

Chapter Five

AFTER Carlos had gone, Kat was left with the stinging realisation that she’d never had to clean up after anyone.

At all the different schools she’d attended—before being kicked out of most of them—there had always been someone else to make the beds and do the laundry for the privileged schoolgirls. Even at home, she’d managed to wriggle out of helping with domestic chores—maybe because her kindly and efficient mother had been a bit of a pushover.

When her mother had divorced Oscar and married Victor, it had been a fairly amicable arrangement for all concerned. But even so, Tilly Balfour had been so racked with guilt over the inevitable disruption it had caused that she’d tried to cushion her three daughters against any emotional fallout by spoiling them just a little. And Kat, being the youngest, had been very easy to spoil.

And then when Tilly’s new husband had been posted to Sri Lanka, there had been servants galore to run around after the whole family. Until…

Kat blinked back the tears which could still catch her by surprise, even all these years later. But for once the thought was stubbornly refusing to be blocked.

When Victor had been killed—murdered—nobody in their right mind was going to ask Kat to do anything she didn’t want to do. And if they did, then she usually turned her back on it and ran away.

But now suddenly that had all changed. Because for the first time in her life—quite literally—there was nowhere for her to run. And she was faced with a man she could not twist around her little finger. A man she still desired, no matter how much she tried to deny it.

She felt the acrid rise of panic in her throat—but with an effort she forced herself to crush it because what good would panicking do? It would paralyse her as much as stubborn defiance, and she could afford to do neither. Because even though she hated to admit it, she could see that if she wanted to get off this boat she was going to have to make some kind of an effort. To co-operate with Carlos Guerrero, even though every fibre of her being screamed out in protest.

Kat set off to explore the galley, where she found a cupboard containing an army of brushes, buckets and cloths as well as a confusing array of cleaning products, and she carried a selection of these down into the dining salon and set to work.

The first thing she did was to dispose of the gold bikini top, gingerly picking it up as if it was contaminated and chucking it into a black bin-liner. With a smile of satisfaction on her lips, she threw all the left-over food on top of it and watched the gleaming fabric sink beneath the weight of a banana skin. After that, she piled up all the crockery and china onto a tray and carried the whole lot down into the galley, and left it by the side of the sink before going back upstairs.

With the table now clear, she gave the place a quick wipe and sprayed some furniture polish in the air for added effect because she remembered reading somewhere that this would make the room smell clean. And then, her tasks completed and with no sign of Carlos returning from his boat trip, she slipped into a bikini of her own, found a magazine and went to lie by the swimming pool.

It should have been heaven basking there—with the warmth of the sun stealing over her skin and the sound of the waves swishing rhythmically against the boat. But in truth, Kat felt jittery and couldn’t concentrate on any of the iconic fashion images which usually held her attention—because a face with glittering black eyes and a mocking stare kept breaking into her thoughts and unsettling her.

She did her best to enjoy the hours which drifted by and eventually fell into a fitful sleep—only jumping into half wakefulness by the sound of a distant drone and then by the certainty that someone was watching her. Her eyes fluttered open to see that her thoughts had become reality and a shadow had fallen over her—its hard, dark outline making her heart leap into an annoyingly dizzy and familiar beat. Kat felt her throat dry. Carlos!

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ came a low and disbelieving voice.

She’d tidied up his salon, hadn’t she? Put on that stupid apron and buzzed around like Mrs Mop? Yanking the straps of her bikini back up, she sat up and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘What does it look like?’

‘It looks,’ he gritted out, trying very hard not to let his gaze linger on the miniscule bikini she was wearing, ‘as if you’re just indulging in a little more of the same of your idle, jet-set lifestyle.’

‘I’ve done what you asked me to do!’

‘Oh, really?’ he questioned dangerously.

‘Yes, really,’ she defended. ‘I’ve tidied up the mess left by you and your tame journalist—’

‘You think so? Then I must beg to differ, Princesa. You’ve left it only half done,’ he corrected coldly. ‘The salon is not properly clean and I understand you haven’t even bothered to wash up.’

‘So?’

‘So, you’d better get it into that little air-brain head of yours that I am used to perfection from my staff and you have fallen way short of that. And what about the crew’s lunch?’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s almost three o’clock. Didn’t it occur to you that they might be hungry?’

Three o’ clock? Kat stared at him blankly. ‘Is it really that time?’ she queried. ‘I had no idea—and as you know, my watch is broken—’

‘Get up when you’re talking to me!’ he roared, and then when, to his surprise, she shrugged and began effortlessly to rise like some graceful Venus emerging from a shell, he instantly regretted his suggestion.

Because if he’d thought that the little sundress she’d been sashaying around in earlier was sinful, then this bikini was positively X-rated. ¡Madre de Dios! Two tiny scraps of turquoise material which had been sewn with exquisite care to make a garment which was only this side of decent. Or maybe it was just the way she wore it. Her breasts seemed to be spilling over a woefully inadequate top and the bikini bottoms taunted him with two tantalising bows on either side of her hips. Bows which could be undone with a single tug of a silken piece of fabric…

Bad enough that her kiss had awoken in him an inconvenient hunger he had no intention of satisfying, but to add fuel to the fire which still smouldered within him, he was now forced to confront the stuff of fantasy.

‘And for pity’s sake, cover yourself up!’ he snapped. ‘Instead of draping yourself around the deck like some kind of latter-day Mata Hari!’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he retorted impatiently, tossing her a filmy sarong. ‘Put this on?’

With a scowl, Kat folded and weaved the piece of material around herself, pushing her feet into a pair of glittery flip-flops. ‘So what do you want me to do now?’ she questioned insolently.

To his fury Carlos felt the sudden hot rush of blood to his groin. Thinking that if she’d asked any other man such a question in such circumstances as these, she might find herself being pushed back on that sun lounger and having the turquoise bikini peeled away from her body. And this time he just might not have the self-control to stop…

Carlos swallowed down the dryness in his throat. ‘Just go and get dressed,’ he ordered tersely. ‘And then come back here.’

Infuriated by his peremptory tone, Kat was tempted to disobey him just for the hell of it, but the rebellion had left her by the time she reached her cabin. Because hadn’t she already decided that there was no point in fighting him—other than an enduring battle of wills which Carlos would surely win, simply because he was in the dominant position of power? No. Better to co-operate. To make an attempt to do the wretched man’s bidding and pray that time passed quickly.

Peeling off her bikini, she changed into a pair of linen trousers and T-shirt. She even twisted the thick fall of her dark hair into a practical knot and pulled on the dreaded apron, regarding her reflection in the mirror with a grimace. Why, she was scarcely recognisable as herself!

He was waiting where she’d left him, talking into a cellphone, his dark features shuttered as he finished his conversation.

‘Buy,’ he was saying softly. ‘But don’t go any higher than forty. No. No. De eso ni hablar. Sí.’

He glanced up as Kat approached, his black eyes narrowing as he terminated the connection, surprised to see that she had fallen in completely with his wishes and had covered up. The turquoise bikini had been consigned to fevered memory, but although almost every centimetre of her flesh was no longer visible, her outfit did little to deter the heated progression of his thoughts.

She should have looked demure, but somehow she failed on every level because now he knew only too well what lay beneath. He could picture her creamy-caramel flesh beautifully naked, with all its enticing shadows which beckoned a man to the places where nature had intended for him to linger. The firm curve of buttock and breast, and the delicious honey-sweet destination between her thighs.

‘Is that better?’ asked Kat.

‘Marginally better,’ he conceded thickly.

‘What were you buying on the phone just now?’

‘Property.’

‘Is that what you do, then?’

‘Some of what I do. And stop trying to change the subject. Just go back down to the galley and wash up all the dishes which I’m told you left dumped on the side. And after that, you can make a start on dinner. Do you think you can manage that?’

The fact that he obviously didn’t think she could rankled, and a long-forgotten streak of pride made Kat nod her head. How difficult could it be to knock up a meal? ‘Of course I can manage,’ she said haughtily.

But once she’d made her way downstairs, Kat found herself wondering just what she had agreed to. What the hell could she cook for seven hungry men, including one she knew would be exacting and waiting to take her to task if she made the slightest mistake? Especially as she’d never cooked a meal for anyone in her life.

She thought back to all the different restaurants she’d eaten in over the years. Surely one of those could give her a bit of inspiration? What about that amazing, award-winning place in the centre of Paris, where they’d served a whole duck smothered with a delicious, creamy sauce and everyone around the table had sighed in delight? Couldn’t she do the same sort of thing with the giant fish which was currently wrapped in newspaper at the back of the fridge and which, according to Mike, had been bought from a passing fishing boat that very morning? Perhaps with some sort of salad to start, leaving room for the elaborate kind of pudding which all men seemed to love?

But events seemed to be conspiring against her, even though she attempted to use the remaining hours as constructively as possible. The oven took some getting used to—and in between all the juggling of ingredients and familiarizing herself with an astonishingly large store cupboard, there was still the table to lay.

‘Where does Carlos usually eat?’ she asked Mike distractedly.

‘It varies,’ answered Mike, snapping open a can of cold cola and then swallowing half of it. ‘Sometimes with us, sometimes up on deck. Depends if he’s working—usually he has some big deal on and rarely comes up for air, and it’s best to leave him be. He’s…well, he’s a bit of a loner.’ The engineer shrugged, and smiled. ‘But when he eats with the crew—well, he’s pretty laid-back.’

Kat didn’t respond to that. Personally, she found Carlos Guerrero about as laid-back as a piranha fish. but she was not going to let her own feelings ruin what she was determined was going to be a fantastic meal.

‘He seems to want breakfast at the crack of dawn—and my watch is broken,’ she said slowly.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mike. ‘I can lend you an alarm clock if it helps. He’s dead hot on punctuality.’

Kat grimaced. ‘So I gather.’

The evening didn’t start very promisingly. All her timings were out so that the fish was cooked before the starter was even ready, the sauce she’d cobbled together had started to curdle and she forgot all about the accompanying vegetables until the last minute. With a grimace she lifted up the lid of the boiling potatoes—only for a cloud of steam to hit her in the face and make her feel as if she’d been thrown into a sauna.

There wasn’t even enough time for her to touch up her make-up and brush her hair before the hungry crew arrived. They crowded in a cluster around the table outside, onto which she’d just piled a haphazard collection of crockery and glasses.

And then Carlos appeared, looking infuriatingly cool and sexy. He had clearly found time to shower and change because the thick black hair was still damp and Kat thought she could detect the raw clean tang of sandalwood.

For a moment he just stood there, surveying the general air of disarray—and his mouth twisted.

‘Has someone trashed the boat while I’ve been showering, or are you trying to sabotage the meal in order to prove a point, Princesa?’

An image of Carlos in the shower was the last thing Kat needed to add to her already-shot nerves, and a renewed waft of sandalwood as he waved a disparaging arm around didn’t help. She gritted her teeth in a grim replica of a smile. ‘Would…would you like to sit down?’

‘Where?’ he questioned pointedly.

Kat leant over and cleared a space at the table. ‘Right there. Dinner is about to be served.’

‘I can hardly wait.’

Horrible, sarcastic tyrant! I’ll show him, vowed Kat silently, as she went back into the cramped galley to prod at a boiling potato which unfortunately still had the consistency of a rock. She tipped salad onto eight plates and drizzled on some of the dressing she’d made, trying desperately to remember what was supposed to go in it, but afraid to ask for fear of looking stupid.

But she knew the moment that everyone had started eating that something was wrong.

‘Is every thing…okay?’ she questioned.

There was a brief but loaded silence.

‘Salad dressing which tastes of washing-up liquid is an interesting innovation, querida, but perhaps it’s easy to see why it hasn’t yet come to dominate the market,’ came Carlos’s sarcastic assessment, and Kat felt like hurling a dish at his arrogant face as the rest of the crew burst into relieved laughter and pushed their barely touched plates away.

The main course was no better. The fish was stone-cold, the potatoes still rock-hard and the overambitious sauce had congealed into a horrible mess around the plate. As Carlos pointed out, it was a waste of a perfectly good fish, and once again Kat ended up scraping most of it into the garbage.

She felt hot from the heat of the kitchen when she appeared on deck again after crushing amaretto biscuits and cooking some mixed berries which now resembled roadkill. They looked up at her expectantly. Seven faces in all, but Kat could see only one. It swam before her line of vision with cold ebony eyes that mocked her which made her aware that her face must be flushed and her hair falling down.

‘Everyone ready for pudding?’

‘What kind of pudding?’ questioned Mike.

‘I’m calling it “Berry Surprise”,’ said Kat brightly.

Carlos took a mouthful of wine and put his glass down, a sardonic smile curving the edges of his lips. ‘Please, no more surprises—not tonight—I don’t think I could take it.’ There was an answering peal of laughter from the other men before he fixed her with a cool stare. ‘I don’t really think you’re up to it—at least, not tonight. Perhaps you could bring some cheese and fruit upstairs and I’ll eat there instead.’

She wanted to tell him to get it himself. That she wasn’t his slave. But in a way, that’s exactly what she was. And if she threw some sort of tantrum about her treatment, wouldn’t that only increase his glaring contempt for her?

And stupidly, his assessment hurt. Really hurt. I don’t really think you’re up to it. With those few wounding words he had made her feel so…so inferior. And the trouble was that he had been right. Was he a man who enjoyed wounding, she wondered bitterly, and was that why he had been such a success as a bullfighter?

Determined to salvage something of the evening, Kat put a ridiculous amount of care into arranging a dish for him, washing and drying all the fruit and arranging it in an artful rainbow display. Placing two pieces of cheese at the dish’s centre, she added bread and crackers and took it upstairs, to a deck that was washed with moonlight and empty save for a tall figure which dominated the skyline.

Carlos was leaning over the rail, looking out to sea—and there was something so silent and imposing about his frozen stance that, for a moment, Kat just stood in the shadows silently watching him. Seemingly lost in thought, she’d never seen anyone looking quite so alone before—nor quite so comfortable with his own sense of solitude.

And despite his wounding words, she found herself realising that she knew little of the man who was now effectively her employer. Not even how old he was. Midthirties, perhaps—maybe more, for his handsome face was hard and lined with experience and he carried with him a habitual and faint air of cynicism. Why hadn’t he settled down with a wife and a family, she wondered, when women must have been beating a path to his door for most of his adult life? Was it because, as Mike had said, he was a true loner?

He must have heard her, or sensed her presence, because he turned round and Kat forced herself to stir into life, to step out of the shadows and into his private circle of silver moonlight.

‘I’ll…I’ll put this over here,’ she said, holding the platter up, her voice suddenly faltering and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Thanks.’

He watched as she bent over the table, the dark hair falling in untidy strands around her face and the linen she wore now looking crumpled. And yet she looked…delicious—more womanly than at any other time he’d seen her, and curiously accessible without her ridiculous high-fashion status symbols and dripping with jewels. Her face was flushed with heat and the effects of probably the only honest day’s work she’d ever done.

How ironic that this sexy creature was as unlike the real Kat Balfour as it was possible to imagine.

Kat straightened up to find the ebony eyes fixed on her and, as she stared into the shadowed and shuttered features, her heart began a strange, rhythmical pounding. Nervously, her tongue flicked over her lips as she looked up into the impenetrable black eyes. ‘Will…will there be anything else?’

Oh, what a question, he thought wryly. Innocent or deliberately provocative? Was she doing her best to slip into her role as domestic, or simply acknowledging the silent hunger which was sizzling between them? He felt the thud of his heart. As if sexy Kat Balfour would ever do innocence! ‘No. Nothing else.’ He shook his head as he read the silent yearning on her face—was she mirroring something of his own, he wondered frustratedly.

She went to walk past him but something made him stop her. Something in the gleam of moonlight which glanced off the thick abundance of her dark hair and arrested his attention as much as the pure lines of her perfect profile and the parted promise of her soft lips.

He stayed her with a touch of his hand to her bare forearm and she looked down at it and then up at him and he could feel her shiver beneath him. Could feel an answering tremor in his own body—the familiar tightening, like a bow being stretched by the sharp point of the arrow.

‘Kat,’ he murmured, barely aware that he had said her name.

All Kat was aware of was the wild black buccaneer curls which framed the shuttered face. The way that the moonlight cast indigo shadows on the golden-olive skin. The powerful physique and the long, long legs. She swallowed. It was as if he had cast some dark and silken net over her, rendering her incapable of sensible thought and feeling. Making her world telescope down and focus on the vibrant allure of the Spaniard. He had done it unconsciously on the night of the Balfour Ball but now she was certain that he was doing it deliberately. Why? Why? Was he simply playing with her—as a cat played with a foolish mouse before it moved in for the careless kill?

‘Stop it,’ she whispered, hardly realising what she was saying.

‘Stop what?’ he echoed.

‘Making me…’ Embarrassed now, her words tailed off—for how could she possibly admit to him what she didn’t even want to acknowledge to herself?

Yet it seemed that Carlos had no such similar qualms, for he gave her a mocking smile.

‘Stop making you want me?’ he taunted softly. ‘But I’m not. You’re doing that all by yourself. You just can’t help yourself, can you, Kat?’

She shook her head, rooted to the spot as if he had turned her into a statue. Where was the wisecracking Kat now? The woman who was left cold by members of the opposite sex? ‘Yes, I can,’ she whispered, but even to her own ears the denial sounded phony.

‘Liar.’ His voice dipped to become a verbal caress. ‘I can read your desire for me in your eyes—it’s so obvious that you might as well be carrying a banner saying so. And I can see it in your lips too—their beautiful pout forgotten. Everything forgotten, in fact—because there’s only one thing on your mind and we both know what that is.’

‘Please!’ Her protest came out like a squeak—and now she even sounded like a mouse. Was that because she couldn’t bring herself to inject the word with any real conviction? Because despite Carlos’s clear disdain for her on so many levels, she stupidly wanted him just as much as she’d always wanted him?

‘You’re longing for me to kiss you, aren’t you, Kat?’ he mused. ‘To kiss you—only this time, not to stop. To lie you down and part your silken thighs and to thrust into you long and hard and deep until you cry out your pleasure.’

Kat’s knees buckled and for a very real moment she was afraid that she might faint, because the graphic words were only increasing her desire. And how shameful was that? Tell him no. Tell him no and then push past him and go back down to the galley. He might be a practised seducer with a cruel tongue which could lash out at her, but she doubted that he would actually pull her into his arms and take her by force. Hating herself for the shiver of longing which accompanied this dark fantasy, Kat stayed mute.

‘Aren’t you?’ he prompted silkily.

Her desire became intolerable. Unbearable. She fought and fought it but in the end it was no good. ‘Yes!’ she burst out at last. ‘Yes, I am!’

Carlos nodded, recognising what it must have cost her to admit it. ‘Well, that makes two of us,’ he said unsteadily, and leaned forward to kiss her unprotesting lips.

She had expected urgency. A rapid escalation into full-blown desire. An unashamed seduction. But Kat was wrong. Instead, he slowly pushed the fallen strands of hair away from her face as if he had all the time in the world, studying it like a scientist looking through a microscope for some rogue cell. He let his gaze drift from her brow to her eyes, then slowly down until it focused entirely upon her lips, and she felt them automatically part beneath his scrutiny.

‘Flawless,’ he said slowly, shaking his head a little. ‘Absolutely flawless.’

The kiss, when it came, was nothing like she expected. More of a graze than a kiss—a quicksilver brush of his lips against hers. And then again. Back and forth his mouth teased her, light as a butterfly and as tantalising as the first warmth of the morning sun. His breath was warm and she could smell his own particular raw, clean scent. It was a kiss which managed to be both innocent and sensual all at the same time. Nothing more than that, but enough to make Kat sway and weaken.

‘Oh!’ she breathed, and hungrily she reached for him.

But, using an expertise which he’d employed more than most men—often to literally save his own skin in the bullring—Carlos neatly sidestepped the movement. Putting out his hand he caught and steadied her, though he kept his body at an untouchable distance from hers, his face tight with tension. Because this was, in a way, the ultimate demonstration of his formidable control over his body.

‘No. No.’ There was a moment while he steadied his breath, and when he spoke he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to her. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said flatly.

Incredulity made her voice falter even while her body screamed out for the closeness of his. ‘C-can’t?’

Carlos narrowed his eyes. Did the little witch think he was incapable of giving her what she wanted? ‘Forgive me if I have not made myself clear, Princes a. Sometimes when I speak in English, the subtleties of your language escape me. What I should have said is that I won’t make love to you.’ Her bright blue eyes continued to stare at him in puzzled query. Maldición, but she was persistent. And shameless, he reminded himself. For a woman like this was used to getting exactly what she wanted—and she wanted him. Too bad. ‘It would be an abuse of my role as your employer,’ he finished softly.

The rejection hurt more than it should have done and the telltale pricking of her eyes warned her that she might be about to do something intolerable, like burst into tears. And that Mr Ego might think she was crying over him. As if she would ever shed a tear over a man as unfeeling as Carlos Guerrero!

But Kat knew she needed to get away from here—and quickly—before he inflicted any more emotional damage on her.

As she lifted her head with a proud gesture, she was grateful at that moment for all the poise which her years as a Balfour had taught her. All the showy affairs where she had learnt to put on a careless expression.

‘You’re probably right,’ she said, and the surprised narrowing of his eyes gave her the courage to continue, even though her voice was threatening to tremble. ‘Affairs in the work place are never a good idea, or so they tell me. So if you’ve got everything you want, I’ll go downstairs and start clearing up.’

Just let him try to stop me, she thought fiercely, as she brushed past him. Just let him try.

But he didn’t try. Although his shuttered black eyes were watchful, he let her go without a further word.

And frustration only increased her bitter sense of rejection, as Kat half ran from the deck and back downstairs to the galley with tears blinding her eyes.

Chapter Six

THE alarm clock shrilled out like a fire alarm and Kat woke with a start. Fumblingly, she switched it off and made herself get straight out of bed before she fell asleep again, surprised at how deeply she’d slept. And surprised that the restless night she’d anticipated hadn’t materialised—despite the fact that Carlos had rejected her for a second time. Maybe because it had been past midnight when she’d finally crept to bed after clearing away the remains of the disastrous meal—and she’d been too tired to do anything but fall into a dreamless sleep.

Quickly, she showered, dressed and was on deck soon after six, determined to salvage something of her pride. She was not going to think of Carlos—or his teasing and provocative kisses and the fact that he seemed to like playing with her. As if it gave him some sort of kick to demonstrate his power over her. Kat stared out to sea, her lips set in a line of grim determination. What had happened couldn’t be reversed, and this morning she was damned well going to show Señor Guerrero that she was worth something.

And despite the bizarre circumstances in which she found herself and her trepidation of what the day might bring, Kat couldn’t deny the beauty of her surroundings as she stood quietly for a moment. The light was soft and milky, the sky tinged with rose and tangerine and the dark blue sea stretched towards the horizon as far as the eye could see.

Even the oven in the galley seemed like an old friend this morning so that she was able to warm the half-baked bread without mishap and assemble it on a tray with fruit and a pot of strong, dark coffee which she carried up just before seven, just as Carlos appeared, laptop under his arm.

Dressed in jeans and a soft silk shirt, his face was shuttered as he walked out onto the sun-washed deck—but the way he carried himself was so full of grace that just for a moment Kat was dazzled. How easily she could imagine him in the bullring—his head held proud and his narrow hips encased in those dark, tight breeches as he weaved a mystifying dance around a huge, quivering bull. Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Stop fantasising about him.

Hadn’t she told herself that from now on she was going to remain immune to his dark beauty? That he had little respect for her as a person and had rejected her as a woman. So why was it that she seemed to be powerless over the thunder of her heart as she carried the tray towards the table?

‘Good morning!’ she said.

Carlos watched her approach and his eyes narrowed. There was something different about her this morning and he couldn’t quite work out what it was. ‘No me lo creo,’ he observed, his voice silky. ‘I don’t believe it. The princesa is up and working—and what is more…she’s on time.’

Kat put the tray down. ‘You said breakfast at seven and here it is—I’m simply following your orders, Carlos.’

‘But I am impressed, Princesa. I was expecting sulky acquiescence.’ And hadn’t he thought that she might be a touch coquettish this morning, her body silently imploring him to carry on with what he’d so foolishly begun last night? Perhaps he had. But her attitude towards him was merely businesslike as she poured out a cup of coffee. He had been the one to suffer an agitated night spent trying to banish the memory of her soft kiss and eager body—and yet here she was, looking infuriatingly calm and rested. ‘Not such an air of docile servility,’ he finished softly.

‘Docile servility wasn’t what I was aiming for,’ Kat returned. ‘I’m just trying to do my job to the best of my ability since I seem to be stuck with it.’

‘So what’s the catch?’ he questioned softly.

‘Catch? No catch, Carlos. I’ve decided to accept my fate and do what’s required of me.’ She pushed the coffee across the table towards him. ‘But I wanted to ask you a favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

Kat shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t possibly provide meals for the crew when I don’t really know how to cook.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’ he drawled. ‘That I fly out a trained chef to teach you how to boil an egg?’

‘I think that even I could manage an egg. Actually, I was thinking of something a little simpler.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, access to the Internet would help. I assume you have it on board?’

‘Oh, come on.’ His hard smile became edged with mockery. ‘And have you sending out SOS messages to all the admiring men in your life, asking them to come and rescue you?’

Kat shook her head. The only man she could imagine masterminding some sort of high-seas rescue mission was sitting right in front of her and he was far from admiring. ‘I’m not planning to escape. I already told you that. All I want is to find some simple recipes with simple instructions. Recipes that I might actually be able to use—and prevent some sort of mutiny from the crew.’

Carlos studied her thoughtfully. She had a point. There was no way he wanted a repeat of the fiasco they’d been forced to endure last evening. The question was—could he trust her? Should he even try? Staring down into her brilliant blue eyes, he dipped his voice. ‘But if I let you, I don’t want you wasting time.’

‘Of course not.’

‘No emails. No browsing unrelated websites.’

What a tyrant he was! ‘Maybe you’d like to stand over me and police it?’ she challenged.

He met the challenge in her eyes with one of his own. ‘Maybe I will.’ Or maybe it would be a little crazy to put temptation in his way when he was finding it harder and harder to remain immune to her aristocratic appeal.

Sipping his coffee, he studied her. This morning she’d tied the thick black hair back into a single plump plait which gave her a particularly youthful appearance—emphasised by the simple shorts, T-shirt and deck shoes she wore. But it was something else. Something other than a more casual look than she usually favoured. He frowned. ‘You’re not wearing any make-up,’ he observed slowly.

With something of a shock, Kat lifted her fingertips to her face as she realised that he was right—and that she hadn’t even noticed. She who had worn make-up every day since she’d been fifteen years old! ‘There wasn’t time this morning. To be honest I didn’t even think about it. I…I must look a fright.’

A fright? He felt the sudden beating of a pulse at his temple and the flickering throb of awareness as their eyes met. ‘On the contrary—I think it suits you,’ he said obliquely, pleased when his cellphone began to ring and he could turn his back on the crushed-petal perfection of her lips. ‘Speak to Mike about the Internet—tell him I’ve given you permission to have limited access. And I mean limited, Princesa.’

He really was a control freak, Kat thought, as she heard him begin to speak rapidly in Spanish, and she hurried down to the galley to make herself a cup of coffee.

But the tiny freedom Carlos had granted her by allowing her access to the Internet somehow shifted the balance of power, if only slightly. Very subtly it changed her attitude towards her enforced captivity. By giving her an element of responsibility, she now felt that she had something to prove to him—and she was determined to do it.

She was allocated use of the desktop computer in Carlos’s study which apparently he used mainly in winter or when the weather was inclement. His desk was bare and uncluttered—without a single family photo and barely a keepsake which might have given a clue about the identity of its owner. Only a single oil painting gave some sort of idea about what kind of life Carlos Guerrero might live when he wasn’t at sea—and it was not what Kat would have expected. Instead of some sophisticated modern canvas, the painting was of a lovely and rather old-fashioned house set in a beautiful landscape of lemon trees and distant mountains, bounded by a sky which was vast and magnificent.

Kat found herself staring at it more than once and wondering where it was—and if it had been anyone else she might have asked them. But not Carlos. Carlos didn’t really invite small talk—and hadn’t he made it crystal clear that any kind of personal interaction between the two of them was strictly off the menu?

She found a website for beginner cooks called ‘Can’t Boil An Egg?’ which was reader-friendly and took her through all the basics. And Kat soon realised that the number-one rule about successful cooking was to keep it simple. Fancy sauces and hundreds of clashing ingredients were passé—fresh and seasonal was the way to go.

She soon found that the stronger she made the coffee, the more everyone liked it—Carlos especially. And that the crew adored warm bread served with every meal, and were just as happy with cheese as a pudding afterwards.

That wasn’t to say that there were no more disasters, though none quite as bad as on that first night. She quickly learnt that it was a mistake to make ice cream unless you were a lot more experienced than she was. And Kat soon noticed a direct correlation between hard work and personal satisfaction. That if the crew—and Carlos—were happy with the meals she prepared, then she was too…

Happy? Well, that might not be the best word to choose to describe her feelings, not when she felt a sense of aching awareness every time she saw him. The memory of his kiss lingered just as potently in her mind as it ever had and reminded her how it felt to be held close to that powerful, hard body. And she’d have been a liar if she’d denied her desire to have him pull her into his arms again—only this time, not to stop. To carry on plundering her lips with that hard and hungry kiss…

She was just writing down a recipe for a green sauce to accompany some free-range chickens she’d defrosted when a shadow fell over the desk and she looked up to find Carlos standing there staring down at her, his expression inscrutable.

‘How diligently you work, Princesa,’ he said softly.

Hating herself for noticing that the top three buttons of his shirt were revealing a tantalising triangle of silken olive-gold flesh, Kat attempted an expression of cool efficiency. Not easy when her heart was pounding so loudly beneath her breast that she was surprised he hadn’t heard it.

‘Is that supposed to be a criticism?’

‘Actually, it was supposed to be a compliment.’

‘In that case…thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he mocked.

Walking over to a line of leather-bound books, he ran his forefinger over the ornate gold script of an atlas, trying to analyse why he found Kat Balfour’s presence here so unsettling. Maybe because a boat was such a confined space and he was not used to being in such close proximity to a woman—not 24/7. It was too close to something Carlos didn’t do—and that something was intimacy.

Because Carlos compartmentalised his women, in the same way that he compartmentalised the rest of his life. Work came first—which was why he now owned real estate in most of the major capital cities in Europe. He rarely took a holiday—even his luxury yacht doubled as a temporary office when he was on board. Enforced relaxation made him restless—it always had.

Women were for bedding and occasionally providing a little light relief in his high-powered competitive world. The occasional dinner or breakfast with them he could tolerate, mainly because he knew that was the price you paid for sex. But the moment they started yearning for the impossible—some kind of commitment—then that was the time to kiss them goodbye. With a costly bauble which would cushion some of the pain they felt on parting.

But having Kat here…

He wondered if she knew just how different she looked from the pouting beauty who’d arrived. The absence of make-up seemed to have become a daily habit, just as she’d taken to wearing her clothes looking like she wanted to leave them on, instead of stripping them off to the sound of sultry music. Even her hair was now worn in a functional plait which fell over one shoulder.

The look should have been the antithesis of sexy, and yet ironically it was the very opposite. She looked very sexy indeed. Cinderella in reverse, Carlos thought wryly. And as she peeled off all the different layers of artifice, he thought he could catch a glimpse of the woman beneath.

‘We were thinking of taking a couple of boats over to Capraia tonight,’ he said suddenly.

‘Capraia?’ She blinked up at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘A beautiful little island where you can eat fish which has been caught about an hour previously. Want to come? We’re all going.’

Kat nodded, not wanting to appear too eager. She told herself it was nothing but a careless query and yet she felt an unmistakable fizz of excitement. Dinner—with Carlos! Okay, the rest of the crew would be there too, but who cared? Automatically, she tugged at the thick plait which dangled over her shoulder. ‘What time?’

‘We’ll leave at seven.’ Black eyes flicked over her as he thought about all the unsuitable little outfits she might choose to send the other diners’ blood pressure soaring. And his own. ‘Oh, and don’t bother getting dressed up and making some sort of fashion statement,’ he said curtly. ‘It’s a casual little place.’

Kat heard the unmistakable censure in his voice as he walked out of the study, leaving her staring blankly at the computer screen, wondering what on earth would win such an exacting man’s approval. Then she tried telling herself that she was dressing for herself—and not for anybody else.

But more than anything she wanted to fit in. To just be part of the gang—the way she’d never been before. Later that afternoon, she washed her hair and knotted it into a French plait, then changed into a simple white linen shift dress and a pair of brown leather gladiator sandals. Her face was naturally tanned, glowing from hard work and plenty of sleep and, she realised, didn’t actually need any make-up.

She was aware of Carlos’s eyes on her as she walked out on deck—and of his piercing black scrutiny as she stepped into the first boat. This was crazy, she thought faintly—they were surrounded by Mike and the others and yet she felt as self-conscious as if she were alone on a deserted beach with him.

The tiny island was a stunning pearl of a place, studded into a sea of matchless blue. Lots of different little boats bobbed around in the small harbour and the air was scented with sweet local herbs which perfumed the air the moment they stepped ashore.

Kat found herself praying that she would be seated somewhere—anywhere—as long as it was away from Carlos and his watchful black eyes. Then felt the thrill of unalloyed pleasure when he slid his long-legged form onto the narrow bench opposite her.

‘Like it?’ he questioned idly.

Drinking in the beauty of his rugged face, Kat smiled. ‘What’s not to like?’ she said softly.

Hidden by the darkness of his sunglasses, Carlos ran his eyes over her, thinking that he had never seen her looking quite so relaxed or so carefree before. The simple dress suited her—it showed off the sleek lines of her limbs. His gaze drifted to her lips, wondering how, without any gloss or colour, they still managed to symbolise a kind of wanton wildness. Especially when they parted like that…

‘Let’s have some wine,’ he said unevenly.

The waitress brought jugs of cold, red local wine to accompany the fish which they ate with rice flavoured with lentisk—an aromatic herb which Carlos told her grew prolifically on the island.

Kat put her fork down. ‘My mother would probably have heard of it.’

Black eyes narrowed. ‘Because?’

‘Well, that’s her job. She’s a cook.’

He put his fork down. ‘Your mother is a professional cook?’

‘Yes, Carlos, my mother is a cook—she runs a small bakery business. You sound surprised.’

‘Maybe that’s because I am, Princesa.’

‘You thought I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth?’

Thinking about her mouth again was a distraction he didn’t need. ‘Something like that.’ Carlos frowned—because, yes, he’d imagined her to have been descended from a long line of aristocrats on both sides of her family. ‘Your mother was Oscar’s third wife, right?’

‘Second,’ said Kat drily. ‘He’s a much-married man, my father.’

He drank a mouthful of wine. ‘And she was a cook when they met?’

‘Well, not exactly. My mother was the family nanny. She worked for my father and his first wife, Alexandra, and looked after their three daughters. Then, when Alexandra died, he…well, it was hard for a man in his position to cope with a young family, especially in those days. He decided that he needed to get married again—and quickly. And since my mother already got on so well with his three girls—and with him—it seemed convenient for them to get married.’

‘Convenient?’ echoed Carlos sardonically as he speared a piece of fish and ate it.

Kat nodded. It wasn’t a romantic way to describe a marriage, but her parents’ union had never been a love match—and they had never pretended it had been. Inevitably, the relationship had become a self-fulfilling prophesy which had resulted in divorce. But at least the marital breakdown had been amicable—more amicable than anyone else’s she knew. ‘And they went on to have three daughters of their own. I’m one of them,’ she added helpfully, because people always got thoroughly confused by Oscar’s complicated love life.

‘But no son?’

‘No, no son.’ She saw the look in his eyes. ‘I suppose you think it’s a tragedy not to have an heir?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, yes. I would want an heir,’ he said simply.

That didn’t surprise her. But then, none of his outrageously macho behaviour really surprised her. Kat ate some fish, but the evening was much too balmy to produce an appetite. Plus, she wasn’t finding it very easy to concentrate on food, not when Carlos was sitting there with the light breeze billowing at his silk shirt and hinting at the hard torso beneath. She pushed her plate away.

‘Not hungry?’ he questioned softly.

‘Not really, no. It’s too hot.’

‘Sí.’ Carlos leaned back in his chair. It was much too hot, and she was much too distracting. The sun was dipping now—its magnificent light gilding the deep sapphire of the sea, while the faint pinprick of stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. He could hear the slick lick of water as it slapped against the sides of the boats which were moored in the tiny port, and his eyes drank in the distant green hues of the island’s mountains. It looked like paradise—and in truth, at that moment, it felt like paradise. Good food. Good wine—and a beautiful woman who wanted him. And if it were any other beautiful woman than Kat, he would be sailing urgently back to his yacht to make love to her.

His thoughts were rewarded with the sharp stab of desire and he cursed himself for his stupidity in dwelling on such thoughts. Because this was the real world, he reminded himself—not some soft-focus ad man’s version of it.

Okay, so she’d embraced a little domesticity these past few days at sea, had shown that she wasn’t completely spoiled. But she was still trouble. Still the kind of idle, rich woman for whom he had no time. The fact that he wanted her was just nature’s idea of a joke—and nature could be cruel. Carlos’s mouth hardened. Didn’t he know that better than anyone?

He hadn’t had sex in almost a year, although offers spoken and unspoken came his way pretty much every day of the week. But he was discerning—and increasingly so as time went by. Although creamy, firm flesh still appealed to him on a very base level, his boredom tolerance was at an all-time low. And sometime last year he had decided he couldn’t face any more early morning pillow talk with beauties who turned out to be total airheads with nothing but marriage in mind.

Sooner or later he would carefully select for himself a bride with all the qualities he admired in a woman. Qualities such as humility and compassion. And she would possess a quiet, soft beauty—not the hard-edged glamour of this Balfour heiress.

So get away from her before the moon rises and the wine blurs your senses any more.

‘Has everyone finished?’ questioned Carlos, pulling a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

Deliberately, he sailed back in a different boat to Kat in an attempt to limit temptation to a manageable degree, though the two vessels were close enough for him to see her face as they cut through the indigo waters.

From the distant shore, he heard the crack-crack of some small explosion—was it fireworks?—and his attention was drawn to the small sound of alarm she made in response. Saw the sudden blanching of her face beneath her tan. Was she frightened of fireworks? he wondered.

But Kat Balfour’s neuroses were as meaningless to him as was fantasising about her body.

She was there to work, Carlos thought grimly, as he turned his back to the other boat. Not to tempt him into doing something he would bitterly regret.

Chapter Seven

‘No!’

The piercing and blood-curdling scream echoed through the night and Carlos woke instantly. Staring into the pitch darkness, his senses were on instant alert as the reality hit him that it was a woman’s scream—and there was only one woman on board. He frowned. Kat? Screaming? What the hell was she playing at?

Leaping naked from his bed, he dragged on a pair of jeans and headed for her cabin, his heart pounding frantically in his chest as he pushed open the door.

‘No!’

Once more he heard the terrified word torn from her throat as he burst inside—but it was not directed at him, nor at anyone else. For the cabin was empty save for Kat sitting bolt upright in bed. Through the moonlight which flooded in from the porthole he could see that her face was ashen with terror, her eyes glazed as they stared unseeingly in front of her. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost and was clearly having some kind of nightmare.

His movements were soft and stealthy as he moved towards her—remembering reading somewhere that if you startled someone from a nightmare, it could cause them a serious shock to the system.

‘No, no, no!’ she screamed again, now shaking her head wildly from side to side.

Carlos reached the bed and, brushing aside the silken spill of her hair, placed his hands on her shoulders, his voice as soothing as if he were calming down a fractious horse. He could feel the heat of her skin and see the frantic movement of a pulse at her temple. ‘Kat,’ he urged softly. ‘Kat. Wake up. Come on, wake up, Princesa—you’re having a bad dream.’

‘No, please,’ she whimpered. ‘Please don’t. Don’t…’

He found her helpless whisper curiously affecting and a rush of unwilling protectiveness flared through him. Had someone attacked her in the past? Made her…

‘Kat,’ he said again, his voice firmer now. ‘It’s okay. You’re here. Nothing’s happened. Wake up. You’re safe.’

Safe…The single word filtered into her consciousness as Kat awoke, memories which she kept buried deep and out of sight now staining her mind like a dark poison. Convulsively, she shivered as graphic images danced in her mind and sheer horror racked through her body.

But someone was holding her in their arms—and it was the warmest and most comfortable place she had ever been. So that, yes, for a moment, the word had the ring of truth to it and she really did feel safe. Safe and protected.

Until past and present merged with horrifying clarity. It was no nightmare. It had happened. Victor was dead. Her beloved stepfather gone.

‘No,’ she whimpered.

‘Kat,’ came a whisper as strong hands now shook her with surprising gentleness and her eyelids fluttered open. ‘Wake up. Come on, wake up, Princes a.’

Her vision cleared and her heart missed a beat. Because the man holding her was none other than Carlos—sitting in her cabin and on her bed and wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.

The same man who had made it very clear he didn’t want her was holding her in his arms—and Kat knew she should have torn herself away from his embrace and told him to go. What had she told herself about pride and not letting him see her vulnerable again? But she was still scared enough from the aftermath of the dream to want to stay exactly where she was. Here, where she could feel the powerful pound of his heart.

Carlos stroked the silken tumble of her hair, knowing that the rhythmical movement would soothe her, in the same way that frightened animals were always soothed by rhythm. He was aware of her sweetly scented femininity—but at least she wasn’t distractingly naked. In fact, he was slightly taken aback by her choice of night attire, because a pair of cotton pyjamas was not what he might have expected the sexy Kat Balfour to sleep in.

‘You were having a bad dream,’ he stated softly.

Briefly closing her eyes, she shuddered. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, you’re awake now, so forget it. Come on. Let it go. Nightmares don’t happen in real life.’

Was it reaction to the shock of having the reoccurring dream that made her want to contradict him? Or was it because, with Carlos holding her like that, she felt as if nothing or no one could ever hurt her again?

‘It’s…it’s n-not a n-nightmare.’ Her voice was shaking with fear as she spoke against the silken warmth of his bare shoulder. ‘It’s t-true.’

Carlos knew about fear. After all, that was one of the simple lures of bullfighting. That’s what the spectators paid huge amounts of money to witness. Why poor men would happily forgo half a week’s wages to watch the ancient battle between man and bull. It had been a long time since he had encountered real fear outside the ring, but he could sense it now in the slender frame of this woman in his arms, and he stilled. ‘What are you talking about?’

Lifting her cheek away from his shoulder, she looked up at him, her heart pounding as she met the gleam of his eyes which was as bright as the light of the moon. ‘I told you,’ she whispered. ‘It’s true—all of it!’

Suddenly, she looked vulnerable, dangerously vulnerable. He stared down into the pale blur of her face and saw the way she was biting her lip—no trace of the confident Kat Balfour now, he thought in surprise. ‘What’s true, Kat?’ he questioned softly. ‘Tell me what is frightening you so much.’

Kat trembled. It was the first time he had ever really spoken to her as an equal. The first time he’d shown her kindness, or consideration. It shouldn’t have mattered but somehow it did—it mattered much more than it should have done. She tried telling herself that she shouldn’t trust him—but somehow she couldn’t help herself. Was it the protective warmth of his embrace which suddenly loosened her tongue—or the inexplicable understanding in his deep, accented voice which made her want to pour it all out?

‘They killed him,’ she whispered. ‘They killed him and I couldn’t stop them.’

‘Who did?’ he commanded urgently. ‘Tell me, Princes a.’

‘I don’t know where to start,’ she whispered.

‘Start at the beginning,’ he said simply.

And then words really started tumbling out—like feathers falling from a pillow which had been ripped wide open by a particularly sharp knife. Words she’d never spoken before. Words which her father had paid counsellors a small fortune to try to extricate from her and which instead she now found herself telling a cold-hearted Spaniard on a luxury yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean.

‘I told you my parents didn’t marry for love—but for c-convenience,’ she stumbled. ‘But then my mother met someone else—someone she knew could be special to her. My father felt it was only fair to let her go, and so they divorced, and she married Victor. He was a major in the army and he was lovely. Really lovely. And a good stepfather to me and my sisters.’

For a moment she allowed herself to remember the happy times. Her mother being truly in love with a man for the first time in her life. The sense of being a proper family. The real bond which had existed between her and Victor. She had been the youngest girl and he’d spoiled her, treated her just like his own daughter. She remembered the joy of his promotion and the sense of excitement they all felt at the prospect of an exciting new country to live in. ‘When he got posted to Sri Lanka, we all went with him,’ she said slowly.

Carlos nodded and continued to stroke her hair, careful not to say anything in case he halted her flow.

‘We were happy there. And then my mother had to take my sisters back to England, back to boarding school, the way she always did. And one night…’ Her voice began to shake again. ‘One night, while I was asleep…b-burglars b-broke into the house. There was nothing much to steal, but Victor challenged them. There was…there was a fight. I woke up and heard voices shouting, and then…then…’

This time he did prompt her even though he could feel the frozen fear in her body. ‘Then?’

‘I heard a gun go off!’ she blurted out. ‘I was so frightened that I just lay there. I was terrified that they were going to come upstairs and shoot me.’ For a moment she said nothing, her breathing shallow and rapid as she relived that night of violence.

‘That’s why you don’t like fireworks,’ said Carlos slowly, as he remembered her brief moment of fear in the boat.

Kat nodded.

‘So what happened next?’ he questioned softly.

She swallowed. ‘I crept downstairs—to see the burglars fleeing. And that’s when I found Victor. He’d been shot…’ She swallowed, trying and failing to quell the pain of that awful memory. ‘There was blood…everywhere.’

Carlos stilled. ‘And?’

‘He…he died.’ She sucked in a shuddering breath. ‘He died right there, in my arms.’

The hand which was at her back stilled, and instinctively he pulled her closer. Her hair brushed against him and he was fleetingly aware of its softness. ‘He died?’

‘Yes!’ she sobbed.

‘How old were you?’

‘Ten.’

Ten. A child. An innocent, sheltered child. Beneath his breath, Carlos let free a flow of some of the more colourful curses he had learnt during his own chequered upbringing. He felt rage. More than rage—a sudden and unwanted sense of identification with her, because hadn’t the trust of his own childhood been destroyed by the greed and violence of adults?

‘A long time ago,’ he said.

‘Thirteen years.’

Was she really twenty-two? Hadn’t he somehow thought that she was a couple of years younger than that? And hadn’t it suited him to think that? To add her relative youth to the list of reasons why he shouldn’t want her? But now that was forgotten as he found himself wanting to comfort her—she, a woman he had never imagined would need anything as basic as comfort.

‘How often do you get this nightmare?’ he demanded.

‘Depends. When I hear fireworks. Sometimes a film can spark it off. Sometimes often, sometimes not.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s random.’

Carlos nodded, and something about her listless body language made him want to reach out and take something of her pain away. ‘You know, we’re all products of our past, Princes a,’ he said softly. ‘And yours has been more tainted than most. But there are parts of it you have to let go. You have to, if you’re going to live any kind of meaningful life.’

People had said it to her before, many times—but she had stubbornly refused to believe it. Yet when Carlos said it, the oddest sensation began to creep over her and Kat started to think that maybe he was right. That it was true. Was that because he’d never spoken anything to her but the stark truth, no matter how painful that could sometimes be? Or just because he seemed so confident and brash about life, so strong and powerful?

‘I know I do,’ she answered. ‘It’s just easier said than done.’ She forced a note of lightness into her voice, wanting to dispel the heavy mood which seemed to have settled over them. She looked up at him. ‘Any tips on how to go about it?’

He wished that the light scent she was wearing would not invade his senses with quite such unerring provocation. Or that her hair didn’t feel like liquid silk spilling over his fingers. ‘You have to tell yourself that you’re more than a product of what happened to you,’ he told her fiercely. ‘Otherwise, it’s like letting the perpetrators of the crime win. Like allowing them to claim two victims, instead of only one. And you have to start believing that, as of now. Right now.’ With the tip of one finger he tilted her chin upwards and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Do you think you can do that?’

Kat thought how astonishing it was that he could quickly turn from sexy tyrant into a man of rare understanding—and yet didn’t that make her want him even more? ‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

But despite her tentative word of resolution, he could still feel the faint trembling of her body. Clearly, she was in some kind of reactive shock to the bad dream and had then relived it by telling him about it. And she was still locked in his embrace too. Carlos shifted slightly. It felt almost comfortable to have her leaning on him like that. A little too comfortable.

Suddenly, he let her go, pushing her back gently against the pillows, hardening his heart against the startled question in her eyes even as his body instinctively hardened to the soft promise in hers. ‘Get back underneath the blankets,’ he informed her tersely. ‘You need to sleep.’

Sleep? It seemed as distant a possibility as dry land at that moment. And he had left behind an aching void. All Kat knew was that, without him, she felt cold and frightened again. Once more she bit her lip as a faint memory of the nightmare whispered over her skin and her eyes locked with his in terrified question. ‘Where are you going?’

Where the hell did she think he was going? ‘Back to bed.’

‘Don’t…’ She swallowed, hardly daring to formulate the question, not wanting to open herself up to rejection once again. But Kat was not asking him to make love to her—she just wanted his presence to reassure her. To stay until the dream became a distant memory. ‘Please don’t go,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet. I’m…’

‘What?’

‘Scared.’

Carlos swallowed. Her slender limbs were splayed like a colt’s and the ebony fall of her hair was spilling onto the pillow like dark satin. Reaching out, he clicked on the bedside lamp in the hope that extra light might dispel some of the unbearable intimacy of the setting. But it was a vain hope, because now she was bathed in a soft, apricot light which made her skin look completely edible.

How could he resist such a heartfelt plea—but what the hell was she asking of him? That he endure a temptation which was fast becoming unendurable? Staying close to the enticement of her body when his own was crying out to touch it?

Yet hadn’t he always been the master of control in so many areas of his life before now? And surely this could be just another opportunity to prove his own inner strength and determination.

‘Okay,’ he bit out, and lay down beside her as gingerly as a man might lie beside a snake. ‘I will stay, but only for a while. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

Instinct told him that it was pointless to leave her trembling on the other side of the big bed, and he intended the arm he reluctantly put round her shoulder to be nothing more than comforting as he pulled her close. A cuddle—even though, as a rule, he didn’t do cuddling.

And he soon saw why. He had been a damn fool to minimise the sensual impact of her slender body, despite the fact that it was covered with those rather prudish pyjamas. Or maybe that was what added to her allure. He’d never been to bed with a woman wearing pyjamas before. Come to think of it, he’d never been to bed with a woman and just lain there with a chaste arm around her shoulder either.

Kat snuggled against him, loving the way his fingers were now idly playing with her hair. Loving the solid reassurance of his powerful physique and the warmth of his nearness. ‘That’s nice,’ she breathed.

He knew that. Too nice. Carlos didn’t know how long he lay there for but it was long enough for his growing desire to stab like a heavy arrow at his groin. And if he didn’t do something soon, she was going to pick up on it.

‘Better?’ he questioned thickly, wondering how soon he could make his escape, even while he silently mocked himself for his own hypocrisy. Because you don’t want to go anywhere, do you, Carlos?

‘Sort of,’ she replied softly.

He rolled over, glad to be able to shift his position and to fractionally ease some of the terrible aching. ‘Only sort of?’

‘Well, like a big weight’s been lifted, only I…’ Suddenly, Kat felt awkward and wondered how she could ever have bared her soul like that. Especially to . The man who was only tolerating her because he had to. Because he owed her father a favour. ‘Listen, Carlos, maybe I shouldn’t have unburdened myself—’him—of all people

‘Forget it,’ he said curtly.

‘It was crazy to have bottled it up for so long,’ she said, half to herself. ‘And in a funny sort of way, it feels so much better now that I’ve said it.’

In the soft glow of the apricot light, his eyes narrowed as he took in the full implication of her words. ‘You mean you’ve never talked about it before? Not to anyone?’

‘Never. I’m not really into counsellors—and it’s not the greatest subject to bring up at parties, is it?’

‘I can’t believe that your father didn’t tell me any of this himself,’ he said, his voice growing bitter.

She stared at him. ‘He didn’t?’

‘Of course he didn’t! Madre de Dios, Kat! Do you really think I’d have brought you on board like this if I’d had any idea of the kind of trauma you’d suffered in the past?’

Actually, up until about half an hour ago, if someone had told her that Carlos Guerrero had a tiny pair of diabolical horns growing amidst the tumble of his dark curls, she would have believed them. But as she stared at his angry and shifting features, Kat realised that her feelings for him were undergoing a rapid change. Her physical attraction to him had never been in any doubt, but his surprising protectiveness towards her was forging an even more indelible mark than desire.

She shrugged, trying hard to focus on something else. To protect something of her family’s reputation. And in so doing, surely to protect herself. ‘Daddy’s just a bit insensitive, that’s all.’

‘Please don’t defend the indefensible!’ And then something else occurred to him. ‘Come to think of it, you must have known that I wouldn’t have kept you here if I’d realised what had happened to you as a child. So why the hell didn’t you tell me, Kat?’

Why indeed? She gave a brief smile. ‘Because I can be stubborn,’ she admitted. ‘And proud’.

‘Sí, I can imagine,’ he commented drily, thinking how that tentative smile lit her face up. And how the apricot light of the lamp threw beguiling shadows over the pristine white of her top, emphasising the soft blue shadows which fell beneath the pert swell of her breasts.

‘You know this changes everything?’ he said suddenly.

She blinked up at him. ‘What does?’

‘After what you’ve told me, there’s no way I can keep you on board. Not now.’

Kat stilled. She had rebelled against the lowly duties entrusted to her and being incarcerated on Carlos’s luxury yacht, and she had wanted more than anything to escape. But while it was perfectly acceptable for her to object to staying, it was quite another for him to tell her she couldn’t! She had always rebelled against authority, and she found herself protesting now. ‘Why not?’

He wanted to say, You know damned well why not. But he didn’t. Because once you openly acknowledged sexual attraction, it became almost impossible to resist. He wanted to tell her to stop looking at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in those luscious lips of hers—because he knew that was simply an illusion. Yet their soft petal shape was putting him in danger, making him forget the conflict of interests raging within him.

‘Because maybe you’ve learned a lesson after all,’ he said. ‘That you have to confront your demons in order to get rid of them, and that running away doesn’t solve anything.’

Reality hit her with a harsh jerk. ‘You’re thinking about those rules,’ she said slowly.

‘Sí. The rules—and your father’s wish that you learn the importance of commitment. I hope you have.’ His voice hardened as he told himself that she was no longer his responsibility. ‘But that is up to you, Kat. If you want to spend your life running away, then so be it, but I am no longer willing to be your enforcer. Not any more. I will order the crew to set sail for shore and as soon as we reach dry land in the morning—I can arrange to have you flown back to London.’ His eyes narrowed in question. ‘Unless there’s somewhere else you’d prefer to go? France, maybe? Or perhaps the States?’

Kat swallowed. He was giving her back her liberty—but never had freedom seemed to mock her quite so much. She thought about how nomadic and pointless he made her life seem. The little rich girl with no real place to go—who could just choose where she wanted to flit around the globe, like someone idly stabbing a pin into a map.

She looked into those cold black eyes of his and suddenly a wave of longing washed over her—because didn’t the cloak of darkness liberate her from convention? She didn’t want to go and she didn’t want to leave him—it was as simple as that. At least, not before she had sampled some of his magic. A taste of the sensual promise which radiated like an aura from his powerful frame, and which had ensnared her from the beginning.

She knew it was probably wrong and almost certainly foolish—because what if he pushed her away yet again? But Kat couldn’t help herself. He had ignited a flame in her and she wanted Carlos Guerrero with a hunger she’d never experienced before. And maybe never would again.

She found herself wondering if a woman could just come out and tell a man that she wanted him. And wasn’t it crazy that at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she didn’t have a clue?

‘Let’s not talk about it now,’ she whispered, and snuggled into the warmth of his bare torso.

Uncomfortably, Carlos shifted again—because now her appeal was growing by the minute, and acquiring all kinds of different dimensions on the way. Like a neglected kitten that had been brought inside and given food and shelter, she was looking up at him with something in her eyes which looked uncomfortably like trust.

He wanted to tell her not to trust him, that he never gave enough of himself to a woman to warrant such trust. But he knew from experience that even opening up a topic like that made women brighten. It made them think they were getting close to you. And there was only one way he wanted to get close to Kat Balfour…and no way was he going to give into it…

So why was his hand drifting down from her shoulder to her slender waist, the slick movement of his wrist bringing her soft body even closer? Like a drowning man he fought for control—a steely control and self-will which had always come as naturally to him as breathing. And to his fury and despair, he felt it slipping away from him.

‘Kat…’

‘Mmm?’ All she was doing was whispering her lips against the line of his jaw and there wasn’t anything so very wrong in that, was there? Not when he felt and smelt so warm and so vital.

‘Kat.’ Carlos swallowed, because the ability to speak coherently seemed suddenly to have deserted him. He felt his body tense with a sudden sense of urgency. ‘If I don’t get off this damn bed in a minute, I’m going to do something…something I’ll regret.’

‘Something like what?’

Just then she lifted her face to his, and the moment he felt her warm breath against his skin, Carlos knew that it was too late. ‘Something like…this.’

Feeling the last of his self-control desert him, he pulled her against his hard and hungry body. And with a small, angry curse, he began to plunder her lips with a hunger which now seemed unstoppable.

Chapter Eight

‘OH!’ KAT squirmed with pleasure as every fantasy she’d ever had about Carlos began to come true. She was in bed with the black-eyed Spaniard and he was kissing her—kissing her with the kind of passion she had somehow known existed, even if she’d never experienced it before. And somehow it didn’t surprise her a bit to realise that she’d found it, with him.

‘Oh!’ Moaning softly, her body jerked in disbelieving reaction as he captured her breast, his fingers playing with one pert nipple which peaked against her cotton pyjama top. Sharp sensations of pleasure shot across its tightened bud and she could feel it begin to flower beneath his expert caress. Words slipped straight from her mouth and into his. ‘Oh. That’s…gorgeous.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ he growled.

Now the hand had slipped beneath the thin cotton top and made contact with the naked flesh there and she shuddered at that first intimate contact with her skin. ‘C-Carlos!’ she gasped.

‘You want more?’

Breath drying in her throat, she nodded.

‘How much more?’

‘I—’

‘This much?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

Trailing his hand down, he let it skate over the warmth of her belly and down beyond that to the faint fuzz of hair to where she was warmer still. Slicking his fingertips with soft precision to delve into her honeyed heat, he felt her buck beneath his touch.

‘Carlos!’ she gasped again.

Oh, but she was responsive—instantly and gratifyingly so—yet Carlos was a little taken aback by her unashamed hunger. Hadn’t he expected her appetite to be jaded, as befitted a woman who must have enjoyed sex time and time and again? But instead she seemed almost wondrous…with a sense of near awe in her bright eyes as she cupped his face and kissed him back so passionately. Who would have thought it?

With the sleight of wrist which had made him so masterful in the ring, Carlos skimmed the little top up over her head and tossed it to the floor. Then he tugged at the matching bottoms, peeling them down over her hips before sliding them off completely. And, oh, she was beautiful—her body a creamy cascade of inviting curves and enticing shadows. ‘Mía bella,’ he ground out unsteadily, as he caught hold of her fingers.

Her breath gasped against his neck as he guided her hand to the hard ridge at his groin, clearly discernable even through the thick denim of his jeans. ‘C-Carlos,’ she stumbled, her cheeks growing hot at this very physical evidence of how much he wanted her.

‘I think I’m a little overdressed, don’t you, Princesa?’ he questioned unsteadily.

‘Y-yes.’ She should have been scared, but strangely enough fear was the last thing she was feeling as she heard the sound of his zip rasping down.

He moved away from her to remove the jeans from his aching flesh—and then he was naked and so was she, and Carlos could never remember feeling so hard and hot and hungry before. Because this was forbidden? he wondered fleetingly as he stroked his fingertips over her silken skin. He didn’t know—and right then, he didn’t care.

With one sure, swift movement, he moved on top of her and thought how light and how slender her body felt beneath his. ‘Now,’ he said huskily. ‘Where shall I begin, mía princesa?’

‘Anywhere,’ she whispered, praying that he wouldn’t expect her to take some sort of lead. To perform any kind of erotic act with him. The kind she’d heard her more experienced friends talk about. ‘Anywhere you like.’

His mouth was at her throat as his hand moved down to the silken surface of her thighs, feeling them part beneath the soft insistence of his touch. He kissed her for an age, tempering his own hunger as he felt her melt into ever more willing compliancy. He touched her in places which made her moan, until he felt the restless urging of her body—and only then did he allow his own hunger to spiral up inside him. Technique and restraint were forgotten as he found himself compelled by a primitive urge to fill this woman, and for a moment he tensed, before driving into her body with what felt like the most powerful thrust of his life.

‘Ah!’

A small sound was torn from her lips. A sound he’d never heard before. Feeling her flinch beneath that first exquisite thrust, Carlos lifted his head to see the briefest twist of discomfort cross her beautiful features. He stilled, his heart wrenching as he wrestled to take in the unbelievable implications of her reaction. ‘Kat?’ he questioned in disbelief.

Her eyes snapped open but she could read nothing in the dark, shuttered features, and suddenly Kat didn’t want him to say the words out loud. Didn’t want questions or explanations. Didn’t want him to do anything but to carry on. The pain had passed now and she wanted it—she wanted him—just the way she’d always wanted him.

‘Please,’ she whispered, her voice slurred with the pleasure of feeling him inside her—and a thought flew into her mind before she could stop it. That this was what her body had been made for. To have Carlos Guerrero’s joined so intimately with hers. That this was exactly where she was supposed to be—and her heart turned over with longing. ‘Make love to me.’

If Carlos hadn’t been deep inside her, he might have objected to her choice of words—for what did this have to do with love? If her tight, virginal hotness hadn’t been clamped around him in the most delicious way he could ever recall, he might even have had the strength to pull away from her.

But it was too late for that. Her innocence had been taken—unwittingly—by him. He couldn’t undo what had already been done, so why not make the most of it?

His own hunger now put on hold, Carlos proceeded to employ every pleasurable technique he had ever learnt in the arms of a woman. And there were plenty of those. He knew that virgins notoriously had a disappointing introduction to sex and rarely orgasmed. Well, not this one. Oh, no. Miss Kat Balfour may have sprung on him the biggest surprise of all, but she would leave his bed knowing real pleasure.

He teased her and played with her. Withdrawing from her so that she gasped aloud with instinctive alarm that he wasn’t going to continue. As if he would stop now! First tantalising her with the tip of his manhood as she gave breathless little moans of pleasure, he then drove deep inside her, so that the moans became gasps of pure joy.

He did it to her slow. Then fast. And just about every variation in between. And when he felt her pleasure begin to build to an unstoppable peak, he watched her. Felt her. Enjoyed the exquisite sensation as she spasmed around him. Saw her lips part and her back arch—and the corresponding rosy flush which bloomed all over her breasts. Heard the way she gasped his name.

Only then did he let go, allowing his own orgasm to wash over him with bittersweet waves which had never seemed quite so intense nor so long-lasting.

His body was still shuddering as he withdrew from her, taking a moment to steady his breath before turning to look at her, where she was lying back against the bank of pillows, her body looking completely relaxed and satiated but her eyes wary, and watchful. But not nearly as wary as him.

Because Kat Balfour had just detonated his image of her as a sexually experienced party animal and blown it clean out of the water. It had thrown him off balance—unsettled him—and Carlos didn’t do unsettled. After sex he was used to turning over and going to sleep—not lying there as feelings of disbelief and anger began to build up inside him. Propping himself up on one elbow, he surveyed her flushed face and kiss-bruised lips.

‘So,’ he drawled. ‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’

There was an odd, fraught silence as his question echoed round the cabin and Kat found herself feeling lost, the dying waves of her first-ever orgasm now muddied by the mocking tone of his words. A sudden chill iced her skin. His beautiful golden-olive body was sprawled naked amid the rumpled bedclothes and it should have felt perfect. But the expression on his face drove home the cold-blooded nature of his question, leaving her wondering what she could possibly say in response. Because wouldn’t a lie or an evasion only sound hollow?

Play it as cool as he is, she told herself, even though her heart felt as raw as her newly awoken senses.

‘Flattered?’ she answered softly. ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

Black eyes iced into her. ‘But that’s precisely the point, isn’t it? If there was any telling to be done, then it should have been you. Telling me.’ He gave a short and disbelieving laugh, saying the words aloud in some vain hope that she might deny them. ‘That you’d never had sex with a man before.’

Kat swallowed. He made her virtue sound like a moral offence! But still she was determined to keep calm. She tried for her best light, cocktail-party tone. ‘Is that how it’s usually done, then—some kind of confession from the woman before it all begins?’

His face darkened. ‘I wouldn’t know, since you’re the first virgin I’ve ever had.’

She tried to be flip. ‘And did you like it?’

‘Of course I liked it!’ he bit out. ‘It just might have been better if you’d warned me.’

Warned him? You warned people about ice on the road or about high winds at sea, but surely it was the wrong word to use when talking about the fact that a woman was completely innocent of men. Suddenly, faced by the censure which blazed from his eyes, Kat found the shaming words slipping from her lips, as if trying to offer him some kind of explanation. ‘I thought…I thought it might spoil the mood.’

There was a pause. ‘Damn right it would have done.’ In fact, it would have spoilt the mood so completely that he would have dragged himself from her cabin—no matter how hot and how aching he’d been—and spent a night in bed alone with his frustration.

But instead…Instead, he had taken the sweet, curvaceous body she had offered him so willingly. Had entered her with a fierce hunger of his own and discovered that he was thrusting into hot virgin tightness. Carlos winced, for he was macho enough and old-fashioned enough to acknowledge virginity as sacred territory. And somehow he felt as if she’d tricked him into taking her. The protectiveness he had been feeling towards her after her nightmare had somehow been warped by what had just happened. As if she had cast some dark net over him and dragged him forcibly into her inner life—a place he had no desire to be.

And now…What the hell did he do now?

‘Madre de Dios, I can scarcely believe it,’ he exclaimed softly. ‘You always look like you…’

Kat’s heart missed a beat. ‘Like I what, Carlos?’

He shrugged but didn’t falter. ‘Well, let’s face it—you hardly dress or act like an innocent, do you?’

It hurt—and yet it was true, wasn’t it? Apart from these past few days, she always dressed in haute couture—and sometimes those clothes were very provocative. Kat now saw that she might be guilty of sending out the wrong message entirely. And coupled with the way she’d come onto him at last year’s Balfour Ball, who could blame him for thinking that she was a woman of the world, with many lovers in her past?

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ she said quietly.

So could women, he thought bitterly. ‘You should have told me.’

‘And if I had?’

‘I would never have done it, Princesa’.

‘Maybe that’s why I didn’t.’

‘So why?’ His words were soft now. ‘I mean, why me?’

She wanted to laugh. Was he serious? Possible explanations buzzed around in her head. She could tell him the truth. That he had enchanted her from the moment she’d laid eyes on him—and that on some subliminal level she’d always wanted him. Or would that inflate his already swollen ego? Fill him with fear that she might now demand some kind of commitment from him? Of course it would! Women always wanted Carlos—he had told her that himself—and she was no different from any of the others who had shared his bed. Just because she’d willingly given him her virginity wouldn’t—and shouldn’t—make a difference.

So she must show him. Show that she wasn’t going to become needy or dependent. Wasn’t going to fall in love with him. She wasn’t.

Raking her hand back through her tousled hair, she shrugged, as if she’d given the question some thought. ‘Well, you do have a bit of a reputation, Carlos.’

‘Really?’ he questioned silkily. ‘Pray, enlighten me, querida. What kind of a reputation is that?’

‘You’re known in certain circles as a lover par excellence. And let’s just say that I decided that it was time to lose my innocence.’ Deliberately, she injected a nonchalant note into her voice. ‘Virginity can become such a burden after a while. I wanted a lover and I wanted the best—and you, it seems, fitted the bill very nicely.’

He had never heard anything so outrageous in his life—and for a moment her sheer audacity took his breath away. But then the truth behind her words began to nag at him, like a rogue grain of sand which rubbed insistently at the skin. Because this was a scenario with which he was all too familiar. When he’d been a young matador, born on the wrong side of the tracks, rich and predatory women had made no secret of their desire to be possessed by his hard, powerful body.

And yet, hadn’t she now made it easy for him? Easy for him to just give her one more taste of pleasure and then tell her that it wasn’t going to happen again.

‘Like a common stud, you mean?’ he demanded hotly. ‘A little bit of rough for the princesa?’

The accusation was angry and harsh, and completely at odds with what his hands were doing—for one was cupping her breast and feeling the nipple spring to instant life again beneath his questing fingers. While the other…

Kat gasped.

The other hand was inching its way down over her body once more and this felt like pleasure and punishment all in one. It was lingering provocatively on the swell of her belly and now it was skating down to the soft fuzz and the fork at her thighs—which instantly parted as if she were a puppet and he was jerking her strings. His fingers danced briefly on the warm cushions of her thighs and Kat held her breath…wanting him to touch her—not there, but there…where she ached so much that she began to squirm restlessly.

Waiting for an objection which never came, Carlos gave a low and savage laugh as a feather-light fingertip alighted with unerring precision at the hot, hard nub of her femininity. Felt her buck as pleasurable sensations rocketed through her.

‘Oh!’ she breathed.

‘Oh, indeed.’ Carlos groaned as he began to rub her sensitised flesh, watching her with almost clinical detachment as he brought her closer and closer to orgasm. He knew that she wanted him again—and he wanted it too—indeed he was hard enough to explode. But something stopped him from entering her body a second time. Something which niggled at the back of his mind and filled him with disquiet. But he carried on with what he was doing as he leaned to whisper in her ear.

‘You know that this should never have happened?’ he demanded. ‘We’re too different—we come from different worlds. Do you understand?’

‘I…don’t…care!’ she gasped, greedy for him now. Wanting that amazing feeling to wash over her body once more and wanting the hard pressure of his kiss.

His finger still applying its remorseless rhythm, Carlos leaned over her and kissed her at the very moment of her orgasm. His lips quietened her soft squeal of delight and briefly he closed his eyes as she clung to him—her moment of vulnerable trust making him want to melt right into her. But he extricated himself from her arms as soon as it was decently possible. ‘Go to sleep now,’ he said roughly.

Pulling the sheet over the distraction of her naked body, he hardened his heart to the confusion in her blue eyes and the temptation of her embrace. More out of duty than passion, he lay down beside her, but he did not take her in his arms. Just lay there, listening to the sound of her breathing. At last, its rhythmical heaviness told him that she had drifted off, and his mind was able to focus on the unbelievable truth.

That for the first time in his life, he had neglected to protect himself while making love to a woman.

Chapter Nine

IN THE morning, of course, Carlos was gone. It came as no surprise to Kat to discover that there was nothing but an empty space beside her among the tangle of bedclothes. For hadn’t he begun to distance himself from the moment he’d…She bit her lip and blushed with the memory. The moment his big body had shuddered inside hers and he had moaned something soft and fervent in his native tongue.

His very scent seemed to be in the air around her and it clung to her skin like a sensual perfume. Like a starving person who had enjoyed the most delicious meal, Kat found herself reliving every glorious moment in Carlos’s arms. He had touched her everywhere. She found herself glancing down at her naked body, somehow expecting it to look different after what had happened. But it didn’t. It just felt different. Or rather, she did. All soft and glowing and aching. Kat swallowed as she got out of bed and stared in the full-length mirror at the bright-eyed and tousled-haired woman who gazed back at her.

She had lost her virginity to Carlos Guerrero—and despite the fact that it had been a rapturous experience for her, on his part he had seemed furious. Maybe it was just a myth that men liked virgins, or maybe Carlos was just a rule to himself. But she still had to face him—and she would not crumple with any kind of shame in front of him. She would not.

Showering her newly sensitised skin, Kat dressed and went up on deck, though her heart was beating nervously as she walked out into the golden Mediterranean morning and prepared to face her lover.

But as she busied around fixing breakfast, she heard no sound to indicate that Carlos might be awake and ready to start work at the unearthly hour he always chose. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen—and for one awful moment Kat experienced a sensation of panic. What if…?

What if he’d simply gone off on his little motorboat like he had the other day? Left without saying goodbye, feeling unable or unwilling to face her in the cold light of day? Maybe regretting that the seduction had ever happened and trying to work out the most diplomatic way of extricating himself.

Kat cast her mind back to the previous night, remembering that after she’d told him all about her stepfather’s death, he’d announced he intended to sail back to shore. And that he would no longer be keeping her on board, against her will. He’d told her, quite kindly, that he would send her on her way, without forcing her to work for him any more.

But that had been before he had taken her virginity, she reminded herself—before bringing herself up short. Because Carlos didn’t take anything. She had given it to him—and what was more, she had given it to him eagerly.

And things had changed. She didn’t feel as if she was on board against her will. She wanted to be here. But there was a reason for that, and Carlos was that reason.

She felt her stomach flip as he walked out on deck at that precise moment, carrying a file of papers in one hand and his laptop in the other. The dark glasses he wore hid his eyes but his face was as enigmatic as it always was. Her heart began to race erratically as her gaze ran over him, trying to conceal the hunger she felt, and the warm aching awareness she felt in his presence.

Was it normal for a woman to feel like this when she had just made love for the first time? she wondered. To experience strong feelings of emotional attachment towards the man who had shown you what real pleasure was? To feel all fluttery in his presence—and for your breath to catch in your throat, making breathing quite a feat?

‘Buenos días,’ he said, putting the papers and laptop down on the table. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘I…well, yes,’ she answered awkwardly, wondering what the protocol was—whether he would come over and take her in his arms and start to kiss her.

He didn’t. He simply sat down at the table and began to pour a cup of the coffee she’d just made. ‘Like some?’ he questioned.

Kat swallowed down her disappointment, pride making her nod her head and force a smile as if the thought of a cup of coffee pleased her more than anything else. But inside she was hurting as the absence of a kiss or a hug told her as clearly as words that he regretted what had happened last night.

She took the cup he slid towards her. In a way, she might have preferred it if he was being angry—at least anger might have indicated that he felt something towards her. But this…this cool air of near impartiality was making her feel as if she had no substance at all. As if she hadn’t gasped out her pleasure while his powerful body had filled her. And surely such cool indifference meant that he couldn’t wait to be rid of her? So tell him you want to leave before you have the indignity of him asking you to go.

‘So,’ she said, careful to keep her voice steady. ‘What time do you estimate we’ll reach shore?’

Carlos’s eyes narrowed—because this was not the reaction he had been anticipating. Women always clung to him like vines the day after he’d made love to them, pressing their bodies against him and urging him back between their soft thighs. Sometimes he succumbed and sometimes he didn’t. But he always expected a come-on.

So why were Kat Balfour’s bright blue eyes shuttered by the long sweep of her ebony lashes, and the lady herself doing a very good impersonation of an ice queen? And why was she talking to him in that cool and careful way, as if she was a completely different person from the one who had cried out her pleasure in his arms last night? Unexpectedly, he felt irritated.

‘What are you talking about?’ he questioned.

‘You said that we would be sailing for shore today. You offered to fly me back to England—even America. Remember?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ he said slowly. ‘But that was then. Things have changed now, Kat—you must realise that.’

Trying to keep the hope from her voice, Kat quickly put her cup down before she slopped hot coffee all over her lap. ‘They have?’

‘Of course.’ For the first time, he recognised that the reality which had deprived him of sleep for much of the night had not even occurred to her. But then, why would it? This was a whole new territory for her. She was probably still getting used to the way her body felt and had given no thought to the potential bombshell it might now be concealing. He now had to think about the best way to put this. Only there was no best way, he realised. Just the bald, blunt truth. He stared at her. ‘You do realise you could be pregnant?’

Kat’s world stopped as the word spun. Round and round in her head it went. ‘Pregnant?’ she repeated blankly, as if it was something he had plucked at random from the dictionary.

Carlos’s voice roughened. ‘That is one of the consequences of having unprotected sex,’ he said, and saw her mouth open in distress. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa!’ he exclaimed bitterly, and slammed his fist on the table so that his cup half jumped out of its saucer. ‘I blame myself! I was the experienced one. I was the one who should have used something. Who should not have been so overcome by lust that I failed to protect myself. Better still, I should have walked away.’

He was still trying to come to terms with what he had done. That of all the people in the world, it should have been this blue-eyed heiress who had succeeded in making his legendary control dissolve. The kind of woman who epitomised everything he despised. And he had taken her virginity. Her purity lost on the bonfire of his lust. Contrition didn’t come easily to a man who rarely considered himself to be in the wrong, but for once in his life Carlos recognised that contrition was due. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, I feel exactly the same,’ said Kat quickly, but inside her heart lurched with pain. Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d waited years and years to have sex—and every fairy-tale hope she’d attached to it was being systematically smashed by the Spaniard.

Oh, the physical expectations had easily been met—in fact, they’d surpassed her wildest dreams. It was this grim aftermath which was threatening to erode that ecstatic recall. She didn’t want apologies and regrets that it had ever happened—she longed for him to take her into his arms and comfort her. And maybe kiss her too. Tell her that he adored her, leaving her free to admit that he was already occupying a sizeable place in her heart, despite all her determination not to let him.

Well, it’s your own stupid fault, tormented the voice of her conscience which she had been failing to quieten all morning. It was you who was hell-bent on having this man to be your lover. And he made it clear that you were the kind of woman he despised, so you have only yourself to blame for the consequences.

Carlos looked at her, thinking how pale and pinched her face looked this morning. And suddenly, his imagination conjured up an image of his seed—one of the many seeds he had planted in her last night—growing into a baby. A baby. Beside his coffee cup, one hand balled into a tight fist as a strange, nameless emotion caught in his throat. ‘Our feelings on the subject are irrelevant,’ he said unevenly. ‘What we have to decide is what to do next.’

‘Well, I want to get off this boat as soon as possible,’ she put in, determined to beat her own retreat before she was evicted. ‘Just the way we’d planned.’

Carlos narrowed his eyes. You and me both, Princesa, he thought. And not just because the idea of her working on his yacht now seemed intolerable after everything that had happened. Last night had been a spur of the moment thing—a gesture of comfort which had escalated into something else. Being cooped up on board with her—having once tasted the pleasure of her delicious body—would stretch his resolve to breaking point. But it wasn’t going to happen. Not again. It wouldn’t be fair. Certainly not to her. And in the meantime…

‘When will you know?’ he demanded.

She stared at him blankly. ‘Know?’

His black eyes were fixed on her face. Didn’t her rich-girl’s education provide basic classes in biology? he wondered bitterly. ‘Whether or not you’re carrying my child.’

Colour flooded into Kat’s cheeks, because this question seemed almost as intimate as what they had done together last night. And bizarrely, the thought of a tiny, black-haired baby with golden-olive skin—a miniature Carlos—did not fill her with the dread and fear she would have expected. Instead, she felt an unbearable sense of longing wash over her and she shook her head in slight disbelief. How crazy was that? Letting her mind do a few swift calculations, she stared at him. ‘In about two weeks.’

Carlos didn’t react, and neither did he point out the obvious. That they had chosen her most fertile time to make love. ‘In that case, I think you should stay here, with me,’ he stated flatly.

Kat stared at him, trying desperately to keep the naked hope from her eyes. ‘Why?’

He took off his shades then and, for the first time, Kat noticed the dark shadows beneath his ebony eyes and the undeniable strain around his sensual lips. As if he hadn’t slept a wink.

‘Where else are you going to go?’ he questioned.

Had he intended to make her sound like some piece of unwanted luggage which had turned up on his doorstep? Twisting her fingers in her lap, Kat thought about her options. ‘My family own a couple of apartments in central London. Or there’s always…home…’

But as she thought of her mother’s gatehouse or of the magnificent Balfour Manor itself, her voice trailed off unconvincingly. Was that because nowhere ever really felt like home and never had, except for that halcyon period in Sri Lanka, before Victor died? She’d never experienced that real sense of belonging which other people seemed to take for granted. Of knowing her place in the world, and where she fitted in. But if sleeping with Carlos had succeeded in making her feel even more alienated, she was certainly not going to let him know that. Kat lifted a defiant chin. ‘I can always go there.’

‘No, you can’t go there,’ he contradicted firmly. He had noticed the unmistakable tremble of vulnerability on her lips—and it suddenly occurred to him that maybe Kat Balfour was not the woman he had thought her to be. ‘Not with this preying on your mind. People will notice that you are pale and distracted and they will want to know why.’

‘And of course I won’t be able to tell them, will I?’ she demanded hotly. ‘Because that might just compromise the mighty Carlos Guerrero’s integrity!’

He flinched, unable to deny her angry accusation. ‘It might just create a whole host of unwanted problems for you as well, Princesa,’ he answered quietly. ‘Particularly if it isn’t true.’

‘And if it is true?’ she questioned, her voice rising a little. ‘What, then? Won’t that pose even more problems?’

There was a long pause as he tried to imagine Kat Balfour giving birth to his baby, and when he spoke his voice sounded empty. ‘Of course it will, but nothing that can’t be worked out. And in the meantime…’

Hesitation was not something she associated with him, and Kat looked at him with a sudden nervous trepidation. ‘What?’

Black eyes regarded her and Kat thought how suddenly cold they had become.

‘I think it would be better for both of us if we viewed what happened last night as a one-off,’ he said softly.

Suddenly, despite the blazing heat of the Mediterranean sun, she found herself shivering. Better for both of us, he had said—but that was surely a lie. It was better for him, that was all. He was obviously the kind of man who could swat away memories of a woman once he’d bedded her. Whereas she…why, she was in terrible danger of concocting fantasies about her Spanish lover, if she wasn’t careful. But somehow she nodded, even managed to conjure up a faint smile. Sometimes she had seen her sense of pride as a burden, but now she saw it as her saviour.

‘Much better,’ she agreed calmly. Two weeks of waiting and wondering if there was a baby on the way—and all the while she and Carlos would be like polite strangers. Could she go through with it? Or would the effort of maintaining such a pretence drive her mad?

Yet the alternative was far more daunting. Stuck in Balfour Manor or one of the London apartments with such a massive secret eating away at her.

‘Why not just regard the next couple of weeks as a kind of holiday while you wait to find out?’ he continued coolly. ‘The kind of holiday you first envisaged when you were brought here. You can lie around on deck, doing nothing more taxing than sunning yourself by the pool, and reading magazines. I’m sure you can find enough to amuse you.’

The words hung in the air and mocked her. He made her sound like some spoilt little girl who needed to be entertained. But that was how he saw her, wasn’t it—even now? How he’d always seen her. Some vacuous little airhead.

Well, damn Carlos Guerrero. She would go crazy if she had to mooch around on deck acting as if there wasn’t this great time bomb waiting to go off.

‘I don’t want to lie by the pool reading magazines, Carlos,’ she said slowly.

His eyes narrowed with surprise as he stared at her. ‘You don’t?’

‘No. I’d like to carry on cooking for the crew. That is what I’m supposed to be here for.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Entirely serious. I was just starting to get into it—and there are plenty more things left for me to learn. So if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on with the preparations for today’s meals.’ The decision which had clearly surprised him now empowered her enough to give him a serene smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll let you know when lunch is ready.’

Carlos stared at her, his eyes narrowing with frustration. What the hell was the matter with her? She hadn’t flirted or pouted—and now she was proposing to carry on working!

He felt the sudden leap of desire as she picked up her coffee cup, and he lifted his hand in a silent gesture of command, dampening down the voice of reason which was demanding to be heard.

‘I want you eating your lunch up here with me today,’ he informed her silkily. ‘Understand?’

Kat stared into the shuttered black eyes, convinced that his autocratic statement had more to do with possession than because he actually enjoyed her company. Wasn’t it just a demonstration of his power over her—and could she possibly maintain this air of nonchalance if she had long periods of being alone with him?

‘As you wish,’ she said carelessly. ‘You’re the boss after all.’ And she headed off towards the galley.

Carlos was left looking at the empty space she left behind with a feeling of disbelief, and it was several minutes before he was able to lose himself in his work.

But he wasn’t deaf to the sounds of laughter which occasionally drifted upwards from the galley, and as the morning wore on, he found that his mood was growing increasingly sour. So that by the time Kat appeared, bearing a bowl of salad and some sort of pasta dish, his nerves were frayed and he felt the slow and relentless beat of frustration.

‘Hungry?’ she questioned with a smile which sent his pulse rate soaring.

‘I can always eat, Princesa.’

Sitting down opposite him, Kat wondered if he knew that her heart was racing erratically or that the desire to touch him felt almost like a physical pain. What on earth were they going to talk about, when all she could think of was how it felt to have his warm skin next to hers. Especially when he was behaving as if she was completely invisible. Pretend you’re at some tedious social function and have just been sat next to the guest of honour.

‘Why don’t you tell me how you got into bullfighting in the first place?’ she enquired politely, doling out a spoonful of pasta onto one of the plates.

There was a pause. ‘I thought I told you I don’t like talking about it?’ he snapped.

‘Did you? Okay. Then let’s try something else.’ She picked up a dish of salad and held it towards him with a polite smile. ‘Tell me about your business interests instead, Carlos. How you got started, how you made the jump from bullfighter to international tycoon—that must be quite some story.’

Black eyes were narrowed at her in disbelief. She sounded like one of those women he occasionally ran into at diplomatic parties—the kind who had been schooled in making polite small talk to a variety of guests. And Kat would have grown up learning how to do that too, he recognised. ‘I don’t want to talk about my damned business either.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, we’ve got to talk about something over the next couple of weeks, haven’t we? Otherwise what else are we going to do?’

Carlos stared at the blue-black gleam of her ebony hair and felt all his good intentions dissolving by the second. Her blue-eyed beauty and breezy attitude were shattering his equilibrium and making a mockery of his determination not to touch her—but when he stopped to think about it, why had he insisted on her joining him for lunch unless it was to do precisely that?

‘Put the dish down, Kat,’ he said slowly.

‘What did you think I was going to…?’ But her bravado suddenly deserted her as she saw something written on his face—a look which pierced her heart and her body like an erotic arrow. It was desire—raw, undisguised and urgent. ‘C-Carlos?’ she questioned, her voice and her hand shaking as she put the pasta down. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

He was on his feet now, moving with the lithe grace of some dark panther as he stalked towards her, as if he were the predator and she his prey. Almost roughly, he pulled her into his arms and Kat stared up at him in confusion.

‘But you said…’ she whispered in confusion.

‘To hell with what I said—I’ve already broken every rule in the book for you, Kat Balfour, so why not break one more and have done with it?’ he demanded, as his mouth came down hungrily on hers.

The kiss was hot, breathless. Two mouths meeting and mingling with urgent greed. Kat shuddered as her hands flew to his shoulders while his own snaked possessively around her waist. She tried telling herself that his stark declaration of desire hadn’t contained a single word of affection, and surely she shouldn’t settle for that. But as his lips continued to sweetly plunder hers, all her doubts just melted away. Sucked into the powerful vortex of newly awoken desire, she found herself wondering just where all this was going to lead. Up here, on deck…surely he wasn’t planning to…to…

But abruptly, he terminated the kiss and, catching hold of her hand, wordlessly led her towards his cabin.

Kat hadn’t been in Carlos’s bedroom since she’d taken that rather resentful tour of the yacht on the day she’d arrived, before he had flown in by helicopter. It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet she could count off the days on one hand. A few days and your life could change for ever…

‘Carlos—’

‘Do you know what we’re going to do for the next two weeks?’ he questioned silkily. ‘I am going to take you to heaven and back, Princesa. I am going to show you a hundred different ways to make love.’ His voice dipped. ‘And then a hundred more.’

‘I…I—’

‘Sssh. Just kiss me,’ he commanded unsteadily.

An unmistakable note of hunger had now deepened his voice and it was strong enough to make her forget her fears. Strong enough to make her feel his equal again—her, the woefully inexperienced Kat Balfour feeling the equal of this worldly wise and powerful Spaniard. How crazy was that? But she did. In that hot and breathless moment she did. ‘Oh, Carlos,’ she whispered helplessly, as she drifted her mouth against his.

Inexplicably, Carlos’s hands were trembling, and for the first time in his life he had difficulty yanking down the zip on a pair of woman’s jeans. But Kat proved bold. She slid his silk shirt off as if she had just been taught the most erotic way to remove an article of clothing—and where she laid his flesh bare, her lips followed, anointing tiny butterfly kisses on his skin.

Her soft, sweet seduction almost took his breath away, and Carlos tumbled her down onto the silken counterpane which covered his vast bed, his hands reacquainting themselves with all her soft curves and secret places as if it had been months since he’d last touched her body, instead of hours. Burying his head between the lush warm globes of her breasts, he could feel her squirm with excitement beneath the flickering path of his tongue. His mouth drifted to one rose-peaked nipple and he heard her gasp as it puckered in his mouth.

‘Carlos!’

‘Sí, Princesa—qué pasa?’

Kat’s fingers tangled in his black curls as waves of pure pleasure washed over her. ‘K-kiss me.’

‘Oh, I will kiss you,’ he murmured, with a low growling laugh. ‘Don’t you worry your beautiful head about that.’

Kat had meant a kiss—a proper kiss—but now his dark head was drifting down towards her belly. And his tongue was sliding into the faint dip there and flicking at her so playfully that she felt quite faint. He was certainly kissing her, but…kissing her there? She shuddered as a wave of pleasure racked through her body, accompanied by another wave of disbelief and wonderment. ‘C-Carlos.’

‘Mmm?’ Now his lips were brushing over the soft fuzz of hair between her thighs, hearing her tiny gasp as he parted her legs and began to lick at her honeyed sweetness.

Kat couldn’t talk. Couldn’t think. She was aware that she was trembling as tiny shimmerings of pure excitement began to build inside her, promising the same pleasure as he’d bestowed on her during the night. Just as she was aware of the sensation of Carlos’s mouth kissing her at the focal point of her femininity. It felt almost unbearably intimate and yet—bizarrely—it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The shimmerings now became little peaks—a whole range of sensations which began to hum and throb deep inside her, like a heavily laden honeybee about to topple from a flower.

‘Oh!’ she breathed—and then she clutched his broad shoulders. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

Inhaling the distinctive scent of her arousal, Carlos sucked deeply on her throbbing flesh while she orgasmed against his mouth, her sighs of satisfaction sounding like tiny gasps of disbelief.

He moved back up to lie over her, brushing her tousled black hair away from her flushed face. ‘You liked that?’ he asked eventually, a finger moving to trace the trembling outline of her lips.

Liked it? Kat was so overawed by what had just happened to her—so seduced by the subsequent gentling of his tone—that she couldn’t hold back on the way she was feeling. Lifting her hand to one olive cheek, she let it trail deliciously over the dark rasp of his jaw. ‘It was…it was wonderful.’

‘Then let’s make it even more wonderful, shall we?’ But this time he reached for the condom he’d laid in readiness by the bedside and he saw her watching him from between slitted blue eyes as he carefully ripped open the wrapping. ‘Better not make the same mistake again,’ he declared, as he took her into his arms once more, softening her with kiss after kiss until she was ready for that first sweet thrust.

And afterwards, Kat lay there, curled against his hard body, watching the sunlight which was shafting in from the portholes while one word danced around in her mind. Mistake, he had said, as he had slid on the protection and moved over her with dark intent in his eyes.

Carefully, she turned her head to look at him, but his eyes were closed—the harsh lines of strain on his face now dissolved by the recuperative power of sleep. In repose, his face seemed softer, but no less formidable for that. The strong line of his jaw and the proud slash of his cheekbones still spoke of a certain arrogance, and strength.

His was the face and the body of the hunter—strong and powerful—with the finest genes and an unmistakable air of dominance. The kind of man that nature had conditioned women to desire. Instinctively, Kat let her hand flutter down to lie on her belly. How flat it felt—and yet, even now, his child might be growing there. Layer upon layer of tiny cells building by the minute, the hour. How big would it be by the end of the week? By the end of two?

Her heart gave a leap of something which felt uncomfortably close to excitement and, with an effort, she forced the thought away. But then, she’d had a lot of practice at pushing away disturbing memories. And it was pointless getting worked up by a pregnancy which probably didn’t exist outside her imagination.

What if it did? What if she was carrying the Spaniard’s child?

How had Carlos described it? Kat bit her lip, remembering the sudden tightening of his hard features and the words he had used.

Carlos had not viewed the prospect with anything other than a dark foreboding—hadn’t he made that clear with the very word he’d used?

A mistake, he had said.

Chapter Ten

‘SO HOW exactly did you get into bullfighting?’

Carlos slid the cork from the bottle of wine and slanted her a look of irritation as he poured some into her glass. ‘Infierno, Kat—why won’t you give up on that?’

‘Because I’m curious, that’s all. You know pretty much everything there is to know about me, Carlos, but you always get so tight-lipped about your own past.’

Staring at him across the table, which tonight—like most nights—she’d laid on deck beneath the stars, Kat didn’t bother pointing out that they had to talk about something. They couldn’t spend every spare minute having glorious sex and revelling in its lazy aftermath, as the luxury yacht skimmed the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean and they waited to find out if she was having his baby. It was the elephant in the room. The subject they never touched on.

Yet it was funny how life sometimes adapted to the strangest situations. Or maybe that was the enduring wonder of the human spirit—that you always got on and made the best of things. And with Carlos conducting business deals and Kat cooking up increasingly ambitious meals, sometimes it felt like playing house. Even if deep down she knew that all they were doing was a form of displacement therapy, while they tried to ignore the great question mark which hovered over them.

Sometimes it frightened her—the ease with which she had been able to push the burning issue far from her mind and to concentrate instead on the proud, dark allure of her Spanish lover. Even if she knew that she was storing up danger for the future—because she had started to care for him in a way which would never be reciprocated.

She had become his eager and responsive lover—though time after time she had told herself it was crazy to become emotionally involved with a man whose heart was famously as cold as ice. Why, hadn’t he warned her of that himself when he’d recounted with amusement just why his yacht had been given its unusual name of Corazón Frío? A Spanish newspaper had nicknamed him ‘Cold Heart’ because of a particularly ruthless takeover bid he had executed—which had coincided with a starlet selling her story of their doomed relationship. And Carlos had shown complete contempt for the article by adopting the name for his superyacht.

As the days ticked by, Kat found herself in a terrible dilemma—knowing that she should be praying that there was no baby. Because Carlos didn’t want a baby—he had made that quite clear.

‘If you are pregnant, then we will cope,’ he had stated in a flat voice which she had found especially chilling. ‘And our child will never want for anything.’

Except two parents who loved each other, Kat realised miserably.

Her troubled thoughts cleared and Kat found Carlos staring at her across the table, his expression curious as he pushed away his plate.

‘You were miles away, Princesa,’ he observed softly.

Grateful for the candle-light which disguised a multitude of emotions, Kat shrugged. ‘Well, there’s a lot to think about.’

‘And it makes you frown?’ he prompted.

‘Sometimes.’ She met the question in his eyes. ‘Well, it’s not exactly…ideal—this situation we find ourselves in,’ she said carefully. ‘Is it?’

There was a pause and Carlos gave a ragged sigh, knowing that evasion would be kinder. But ultimately, what could he say—other than the truth? ‘No, of course it isn’t. But there’s no point in discussing it until we know one way or the other, is there? I thought we’d already decided that.’

‘Which is why I was asking you about bullfighting.’ Kat’s voice lowered defensively. ‘I’m certainly not trying to invade your precious privacy, Carlos—just trying to make conversation.’

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Was he really the tyrant she sometimes hinted at? And if she was expecting his child, then did she not have the right to know something of his past?

But where to begin? He stared at her across the flickering candle-light. ‘We were poor,’ he said simply. ‘And I mean dirt poor. My mother used to work around the clock to provide for us—in fact, I hardly saw her when I was growing up.’

Kat remembered some of the remarks he’d made about spoilt, wealthy women. Was that why he had sounded so caustic—because his own mother had had nothing? ‘And…your father? What about him?’

‘My father?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, my father was too busy chasing his dreams of being Spain’s best matador to care about anything or anyone.’

‘So he was a bullfighter too?’

He drank a little more wine. ‘He was, until a horrific accident in the ring led to the loss of his arm—and the even greater loss of his dreams. For a while he was a broken man, until he realised that he might be able to live out those ambitions through his son. And that is what he set about doing.’

There was an odd, brooding kind of silence. ‘So?’ she prompted softly.

His mouth twisted. ‘So he sat me on my first bull at three.’

‘Three?’ Kat echoed in horror.

‘At five he armed me with my first sword,’ continued Carlos implacably. ‘And because Spanish law decrees that novice bullfighters must be at least sixteen, at ten he uprooted us all to Central America—where the rules are more…relaxed.’

He shrugged and there was another odd kind of silence while Kat watched a series of conflicting emotions chasing across the hard, handsome face of her Spanish lover. ‘And did you like it?’ she whispered. ‘Bullfighting, I mean.’

‘I loved it,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘And I was good at it.’ There was a pause, before he gave a brief, hard smile. ‘Too good.’

‘How can you be too good at something?’

‘Because it makes it difficult to walk away, even when you know it’s the right thing to do. I left the ring when I was barely twenty—when I was on the brink of a glittering career.’ His voice lowered as his mind took him back to that hot and dusty day—remembering the heat and the dust, the strong smell of death. ‘I made the kill, dropped my cloak and, as the crowd grew silent, walked away without a backward glance.’

There was a moment as Kat registered the sheer drama of his words. ‘But why?’ she whispered.

Carlos looked at her, knowing that, like her, he had secrets which at times had proved unbearable—and like her, he had buried them deep. How could a man admit to the humiliation of having been forced to endure cruelty in his own home? The fierce beatings he had suffered at the hands of his father. Because hadn’t that cruelty made him the man he was today?

‘Because my father beat me,’ he said slowly. ‘In fact, he spent most of my childhood beating me. It was all about control. To show me who was boss. To get me to do what he wanted—which was to be the greatest bullfighter in the world. And then, when I was a teenager and old enough to stand up for myself, he stopped.’ He paused, and his eyes glittered. ‘Because by then there was no longer any need to threaten me with physical violence since I stood on the brink of a career he had coveted all his life. Success and riches and fame were all there for the taking.’

Kat stared at him. ‘And that’s why you walked away from it,’ she breathed. ‘You took back control of your life—and, in doing so, you were punishing him for all the hardships you’d endured at his hands.’

Carlos nodded, her perception surprising him, even though he found it slightly unnerving. ‘Exactly.’

Kat nodded. It made more sense now—or rather, he did. He had known brutality and hardship on a scale which few others would identify with—and not only because he had been beaten by his father. Fancy putting a little boy of three on a bull and then two years later presenting him with a real sword. No wonder they called him Cold Heart!

She rose to her feet. The expression on his face expressly told her that he did not want any sympathy. In fact, there was only one thing which she was in a position to give him—and maybe not for much longer. Because if she wasn’t pregnant, what then? She tried to push the unwelcome thoughts from her mind—but one in particular kept coming back to taunt her. That if he hadn’t taken her virginity, then he would have put her on a plane back to London days ago and it would all be over. She was only here because she had to be.

But still she went over to him and put her arms around his neck, tenderly nuzzling her lips in the thick dark curls which grew around its nape. And, as if sensing her thoughts, he lifted his head to look at her, but his eyes were shuttered.

‘Any day now, you should know?’

‘Yes.’ The question took her by surprise and she found herself resenting it for all kinds of reasons. It made her feel like some hen sitting on top of an egg, waiting to see if it was going to hatch. Suddenly, she saw the vivid image of her body as a cage, its contents having the potential to trap them both with a baby they’d never planned. And Kat shuddered—for how on earth could she bear to trap a man like Carlos, a man who had spent his childhood trapped by his father’s ambition?

In the muted light of stars and candles, Carlos observed her tense reaction to his question and narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t want to be pregnant, do you?’ he bit out harshly.

She walked away from him, distractedly shaking her head to halt words which seemed intrusive—afraid that she might give herself away, because how could she possibly explain to him all her mixed emotions? Especially when he’d never made any secret of the fact that he didn’t want a baby. He hadn’t even wanted an affair with her, had he? We are too different, he’d said.

But Kat knew that she couldn’t dwell on Carlos’s lack of feelings for her. She had to be strong. She would cope with whatever hand fate had dealt her. And if she was pregnant, then she would love his baby with a fierce love, but she would not hold Carlos Guerrero ransom to fate. It would not be fair, not after all that he had told her. She shook her head. ‘Not now, Carlos,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. In fact, I’m…I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

His mouth hardened—angry with himself for having broken a lifetime rule of non-disclosure. Why the hell had he poured out all that poison about his childhood? And angry too at the way his rashness—his lust—had the potential to complicate Kat Balfour’s life in a way she’d never envisaged. Nor deserved. ‘So go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m not stopping you.’

She did—but for once he didn’t follow her, though she waited and waited with breathless expectation, until she realised that her wait was in vain. Eventually, she must have fallen asleep because when she awoke in the cold, grey hours of dawn, Carlos was not beside her—and a chill feeling of dread stole over her heart. Creeping from her cabin, she went to look for him, half hoping he might still be out on deck, perhaps having fallen asleep where he sat.

But the deck was empty and, for once, the light there was gloomy, the stars fading into insignificance in the pearly light and the first blush of sunrise not yet visible. In the distance she could see the faint twinkling of lights and Kat blinked her eyes in surprise. Land. Funny how it could just loom up and surprise you—when all you’d seen for days were just different variations of a stunning sea. Yet, all the time, the yacht was moving—taking them back towards France from where they’d started. And Kat realised that Carlos had cleverly timed it to coincide with her finding out whether or not she was pregnant.

Barefooted, she tiptoed to his cabin, and when the door swung quietly open it was to see his sleeping form sprawled on the bed. He had flung the bedclothes away and was lying there—gloriously naked—outlined like a golden statue against the pristine whiteness of the sheet.

His black hair was ruffled and she found herself gazing lovingly at his face—the proud lips and the haughty slash of cheekbones. She remembered what he had told her about his heartbreaking childhood—about his cruel father and a mother who sounded weak and put-upon. Was that why she had not been able to put a stop to her son’s beatings? she wondered sadly—and Kat’s heart turned over with a love she knew he was not seeking.

As she stood there silently watching him, his dark eyes fluttered open.

‘Kat?’ But he said it with all the emotion of someone saying window or door, and for a moment, their gazes locked—until she realised that he seemed to be gazing right through her. As if he hadn’t really seen her. Or hadn’t really wanted to. And then he turned over and went right back to sleep.

A dull kind of pain cloaked her heart as she crept back to her own cabin—but during the night came a different and very familiar kind of pain. Snapping on the bedside light, she found herself staring down at the crimson flowering of blood with eyes which were inexplicably filled with tears.

And it was a white-faced and trembling Kat who was already dressed and on deck the following morning when Carlos emerged.

‘You’re up early,’ he observed.

‘You didn’t come to bed last night,’ she accused, wondering if she was hiding the trembling hurt in her voice.

Dark eyebrows rose in arrogant query. ‘Are you nagging me, Kat?’

‘I’m just asking a question.’

He remembered the way she had shuddered when the subject of pregnancy had come up. Her avowal that she had no desire to have a baby. And even though her words made complete sense, something in her statement had filled him with distaste. So that he had been glad to spend the night apart from her—yes, glad. For what man would want to make love to a woman when she’d just told him something like that? ‘You said you were tired,’ he said coldly.

Was that the only reason? Kat wondered—as she registered the sudden iciness in his voice. Or was he regretting everything he’d told her about his tortured childhood? Had he wanted to distance himself after the confidences he’d shared—or simply decided that the affair had now run its course?

Well, in that case, his wish was about to come true. Biting her lip, she looked up into his hard and handsome face, trying to tell herself that this was all for the best, even if it felt as if her heart was breaking in two. ‘Well, anyway—all that’s irrelevant now. I’ve…well, it’s good news really,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘I think…’ She swallowed down the terrible feeling of loss which had washed over her and presented him with a resolute face instead. ‘I’d like someone take me ashore please, Carlos.’ She met the cool question in his eyes but she didn’t flinch, even though the unbearable intimacy of what she was about to say made her cheeks turn hot. ‘That is unless you happen to carry sanitary protection on board.’

Chapter Eleven

AN ATMOSPHERE like a heavy blanket greeted her announcement and Kat insisted on being ferried ashore as quickly as possible. She just wanted to get away from the yacht—and away from the cool indifference with which Carlos had greeted the news that there wasn’t going to be a baby.

‘I’ll take you,’ he told her, as she appeared back on deck after packing her bags, her face set and her mouth composed in a thin line.

But Kat shook her head. And have her breaking down and making a complete fool of herself in front of all the jet set milling around the port at Antibes? Risk telling him how empty her life was going to feel without him—or even worse, beg him to let her stay?

‘No,’ she said, and wobbled him an attempt at a smile. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. ‘It’s better this way, Carlos. We’re both relieved at the outcome, you know we are.’ So why did her heart feel as if someone had taken a dagger to it and driven a gaping great wound into its centre?

‘Sí,’ he said slowly. ‘You are right. It is better this way.’

Her voice was determinedly bright. ‘Well, then, there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

He let his eyes drift over her, taking in the soft skin and the beautiful lips—and the eyes which were as blue as a Mediterranean sky. ‘Except that it was a pretty amazing affair while it lasted,’ he observed softly.

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’ Was this what he usually said—his farewell line? A whole script prepared to ease the pain of the parting, cleverly couched to sound almost tender, but cautious enough not to whip up any false hope. And suddenly Kat knew she couldn’t face anything which masqueraded as tenderness, because that would just make this parting even more unbearable. Her fingers clenching into a fist over the handle of her bag, she stared up at him. ‘But it’s over now.’

Carlos had never been left quite so swiftly nor so efficiently by a woman before. Come to think of it, it was always him that did the leaving. Hadn’t he wondered whether Kat might try and drag it out a bit longer, digging in her delectable heels and intimating that she had no desire for their affair to end? Well, she hadn’t—and once again she had confounded all his expectations. His eyes narrowed. And maybe she was right. Maybe it really was better this way.

Leaning over, he planted the briefest of kisses on her trembling lips just as Mike appeared from the galley.

‘Look after her,’ said Carlos abruptly, and turned and walked away.

Kat’s heart sank as she watched his retreating back, but what had she expected? That he might stand there watching her wave a dinky little hanky as the speedboat put more and more distance between them? Why, he was probably heaving a huge sigh of relief—like a man who had just been relieved of a mighty burden.

She felt slightly ill as she stepped ashore, where Carlos had a car waiting for her, and was startled by a sudden blue flash.

‘I think somebody just took my photo,’ she said in confusion.

‘Oh, there’s always paparazzi hanging around here,’ said Mike with a shrug, as he hauled out her bags and put them on the quayside. And then, to her surprise, he enveloped her in a brief bear hug. ‘We’re going to miss you,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve done good.’

The farewell only added to her highly emotional state and, once Mike had gone, she clambered into the back of the car, directing it to stop at a pharmacie. And afterwards she was whisked to a nearby airstrip, where Carlos had arranged for a jet to fly her to London.

As soon as she’d touched down, her cellphone started ringing, with her father on the other end of the line.

‘Kat,’ he said gruffly. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m…fine,’ she answered warily. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve just had Carlos Guerrero on the phone.’

For a moment she froze as the Spaniard’s dark and golden features danced provocatively in her mind. ‘What…what did he say?’

‘Just that he was very pleased with you.’

‘He…he did?’

‘He certainly did. Said that you seemed to have been cured of your tendency to run away from problems, that you seemed to have learned the meaning of the word commitment, and that I should be very pleased with you. Oh, and he also advised me to let you have use of the London flat and start paying your allowance again.’

The breath which she only just realised she had been holding escaped from Kat’s lips with a sigh. But really, what had she expected? That Carlos would tell her father that he’d become incredibly close to her during the voyage? Or that he’d realised he didn’t want to live without her? As if it was some old-fashioned scenario and he was ringing to ask her father for permission to carry on seeing her!

When the reality was that all Carlos cared about were the stupid rules—which were what the two men had colluded about in the first place. And didn’t her father’s words reinforce the fact that the Spaniard may have taken her to his bed, but inside he still regarded her as a spoilt little girl who needed her allowance to be doled out?

‘Are you still there, Kat?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ she said resignedly. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I just want to say…well done, darling. I’m very proud of you. The flat’s all ready and you can access your bank account immediately,’ he announced, and then his voice softened. ‘And you can treat yourself to something nice, because I’m increasing your allowance!’

It felt a little like being offered a poisoned chalice, and the drive from the airfield left Kat feeling dejected and slightly sick.

Installed in the vast Balfour apartment which overlooked Kensington Gardens, she was soon confronted with a reality which she didn’t quite understand. And at first she couldn’t quite believe. Because all the signs had been there…

She’d been…

She’d felt…

She’d thought…

It was only after more reasoned consideration and a glance at the calendar that her skin began to ice, as the mixed messages which her body was sending out caused her mind to scream with confusion.

Scanning the phone book for a list of physicians, she made an appointment with a doctor and managed to get someone to see her that afternoon.

Pushing her way past the man who seemed to have been hanging around outside her apartment all week, Kat flagged down a taxi which took her straight to Harley Street and a middle-aged gynaecologist who looked at her with a frown.

‘I’m not sure I understand exactly what it is you’re asking me, Miss Balfour.’

‘I thought I might be pregnant,’ she summarised quickly. ‘And then my period started. Or, at least, I thought it did. Only it hasn’t, not really, not like normal. I’m not sure what’s going on.’

‘Let’s do a couple of tests, shall we?’ he questioned.

Twenty minutes later, she was in another cab heading back for the apartment, where—physically and emotionally drained—she fell into a fitful doze, and woke soon after dawn, unable to get back to sleep. She forced herself to shower and dress and spent long minutes putting on her make-up, realising how long it had been since she’d worn it. But grateful now for the mask it provided. The familiar old mask which was now back in place—something for her to hide behind. Because new and scary territory had opened up before her and she was going to have to face it. Alone.

She’d just finished dressing when the silence was broken by the loud jangling of the telephone. It was her sister Sophie, who wasn’t usually given to making early morning phone calls.

‘Hello, Sophie,’ said Kat, trying to sound like her ‘normal’ self, even though she seemed to have forgotten what that felt like. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Have you seen the papers?’ her sister demanded.

‘No. I’ve only just got back from…’ Suddenly, Kat registered the urgency in her sister’s voice. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘There’s a picture of you on page three of the Daily View. Coming out of a doctor’s surgery in Harley Street.’ Sophie’s voice dropped to a worried whisper. ‘Kat, are you okay?’

What would her shy, artistic sister say if she told her the truth? ‘I’m fine,’ lied Kat, as the doorbell began peeling with a loud and imperious bell. ‘Listen, someone’s at the door. I’d better go, Soph. I’ll ring you.’

Flicking her hair away from her face, she ran to the door, peering at the CCTV image of the man who stood outside the apartment block and then freezing in disbelief.

Carlos!

Kat’s knees buckled and she swayed. Thoughts which were already confused now began to go into overdrive.

Carlos?

The doorbell rang again—and it seemed that this time he must have jammed his thumb on the bell and left it there so that she was forced to click on the intercom without giving herself a chance to compose herself. Though maybe that would have been asking too much of anyone.

‘Y-yes?’

‘Let me in.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

On the doorstep, Carlos failed to make the obvious response; his mood was too black for that. ‘I said…let me in.’

Trembling, she pressed the button, dashing into the bathroom to check her appearance—but there was barely any time to brush her teeth before a loud thumping on the door announced his presence. He must have run up the stairs, she found herself thinking inconsequentially, because the ancient elevator took ages.

Opening the door to him, she could see that her assumption had been correct—since he was slightly out of breath and his colour was raised—but most of all she noticed the rage which sparked in dark flames from his ebony eyes. He was carrying a newspaper in one hand and he looked furious. Pushing past her, he slammed the door shut behind him and then turned on her.

‘Perra,’ he whispered, his face contorted into a dark mask of anger which automatically made Kat’s heart begin a frantic racing. ‘You lying little cheat.’ He took a deep breath and pushed his face a little closer to hers—but a wave of minty toothpaste hit him and this, with the glossy fall of hair and the carefully made-up face, was enough to make him recoil as if he’d just been bitten by a snake. He stared at the tight, white jeans she wore and the cute silk T-shirt—which was exactly the same colour as the costly aquamarines which glittered at her throat. He found himself looking at the sleek and pampered little rich girl and it was as if the past few weeks simply hadn’t happened.

‘And there was me thinking that you’d changed,’ he raged. ‘That you were no longer the girl who ran away at the first opportunity. Who had learned to deal with life and look it in the face. But, no, I was wrong. Very, very wrong. First you lie to me, and then you run—just the way you’ve always run! Commitment?’ he bit out. ‘You wouldn’t know the word commitment if it jumped out and shook you!’

Kat was trembling as the force of his words compounded her own growing sense of realisation, and fear. And with it came the sinking sensation that he was all too eager to think the worst of her. ‘You’ve seen the paper?’ she questioned.

Carlos looked as if he was about to explode. ‘So you know about the paper? Of course I’ve seen the damned paper!’ And then his face darkened with suspicion. ‘Is this some kind of elaborate set-up?’ he demanded. ‘A teaser for some newspaper deal you’re setting up? Have you perhaps succeeded where every other journalist has failed in “getting to know” the real Carlos Guerrero and are about to do an exposé on me?’

Kat felt sick. How could she have ever believed he felt for her anything other than contempt? The fact that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her while she’d been on board his yacht meant nothing. Nothing, she reminded herself bitterly.

‘We can’t have this conversation here,’ she said dully—for she was afraid that if she didn’t sit down she might do something unforgivable. Like faint. Or be sick—a fear which now felt very real indeed.

Without waiting for his reply she began walking towards the sitting room, aware that he was following her. She turned around as he came into the room, wondering how a man could possibly dwarf a room as huge as the main drawing room of the Balfour apartment—but somehow Carlos managed it quite effortlessly. In his dark suit and snowy shirt, he looked the epitome of crisp elegance. And a complete stranger.

‘I haven’t seen the paper,’ she said.

His eyes narrowed. ‘But you knew about it?’

‘My sister rang.’

‘How convenient.’

‘May I see it, please?’

He half threw it onto the coffee table and Kat knelt down and opened it up with hands which were shaking. And there, on page three, was the article Sophie had alerted her to.

It wasn’t the first time she had been featured in a national newspaper but it was the first time she had been visibly shocked by what she saw. The Kat who had been photographed leaving the doctor’s rooms in Harley Street was barely recognisable as herself. Her face looked bleached, her eyes huge and a pashmina shawl hugged around her shoulders seemed to envelope her.

But it was the headline—and the subsequent article which disturbed her far more.

Guerrero’s Society Babe Visits Baby Doc.

Swallowing down her disbelief, Kat read on.

Famous ex-bullfighter Carlos Guerrero is used to playing cloak-and-dagger—and the latest beauty in his life seems to be following in his footsteps. Fresh from a Mediterranean trip on the Spanish billionaire’s luxury yacht, stunning Kat Balfour was tight-lipped as she left Dr. Steve Smith’s Harley Street surgery. Dr. Smith is best known for his delivery of last year’s Royal Princess and his spokesperson refused to comment on rumours that one of the notorious Balfour Babes is pregnant.

Kat Balfour hails from one of the richest and most scandal-ridden families in the land, but her new beau is more than a match for their colourful history. Playboy tycoon Guerrero was once tipped to be Spain’s finest bullfighter before dramatically withdrawing from the ring, fifteen years ago.

Who knows? With capricious Kat Balfour at his side, the man tagged ‘Cold Heart’ by the Spanish tabloids may have taken on his biggest challenge yet!

Dazed, Kat sat back on her heels and stared up at the forbidding mask of Carlos’s face.

‘But they didn’t ask me to comment!’ she protested. ‘I didn’t even know they had a snapper there!’

Carlos clenched his fists in fury. ‘Is that all you care about?’ he demanded. ‘The fact that you didn’t know you were being photographed? Why, would you have applied a little more gloss to those lying lips of yours?’

Her heart began to race as she registered the venom in his voice. ‘How dare you speak to me like this?’

‘Quite easily,’ he snapped. ‘And before you start to offer any half-hearted defence, surely the fundamental flaw in your argument is that you lied to me, Kat. But we could spend the whole morning railing against each other and none of it is relevant. In fact, only one thing is.’ He fixed her in the piercing spotlight of his ebony eyes. ‘Just tell me one thing. Are you or are you not…pregnant?’

There was a horrible pause and the only sound which Kat could register was the uncomfortable irregularity of her own breathing. ‘I…’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes! Yes!’

He let out a hiss, like the sound of a pressure cooker which has just had its lid removed after many hours of being on the boil. ‘So you did lie,’ he said in a voice which sounded suddenly flat.

Kat shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’

Cold black eyes were turned on her. ‘Not exactly? How many variations of the truth are there? Perhaps you’d care to explain, or did I dream up the fact that you told me you needed to find a chemist because your period had come?’

‘I thought…’ Stupidly, she was blushing now. ‘I got a pain during the night and I started bleeding.’ The night he hadn’t been there—when his absence had seemed to emphasise that there was nothing between them but an enforced captivity while they waited to discover whether or not they were going to be parents. ‘I thought it was my period. It was only when I’d been home for a couple of days that I realised that it wasn’t.’

‘But you weren’t going to bother to tell me about it?’

‘Of course I was! I just needed it to be confirmed first.’

‘Or was it something more than that?’ he demanded, his heart beating now with a slow and steady kind of dread. ‘Did you go to the doctor for something other than confirmation?’

It took a moment or two for his meaning to register and, when it did, Kat thought she really might be sick. Swallowing down the bile which had risen in her throat, she stared at him. ‘How…how dare you suggest such a disgusting thing?’ she spat out, trying now to rise from her subordinate position on her knees. But her rage was so intense that she half stumbled and Carlos automatically put out his hand to support her. ‘Get away from me!’ she flared.

He took no notice, just made sure that she was steady once more and then strode over to the window, looking out at the manicured beauty which was Kensington Gardens—seeing the glitter of the Round Pool in the distance, trying desperately to assemble his thoughts into some kind of order.

It was several moments before he had composed himself enough to turn round and, when he did, it was to see that Kat was sitting in the centre of a huge, overstuffed sofa, looking impossibly fragile. And in that moment, he could have kicked himself for the whiplash quality of his words. What kind of a brute was he, he wondered disgustedly, to harangue a woman who was newly pregnant?

‘Can I get you something?’ he questioned in a hollow voice. ‘Something to drink?’

‘I feel sick.’

Quickly, he found a bathroom at the end of one of the long corridors and tipped out a pile of rose petals which had been cluttering up a porcelain bowl and then took it to Kat. On further exploration of the apartment, he discovered a high-tech kitchen, where he made a pot of ginger-and-lemon tea, because he remembered reading somewhere that ginger was good for nausea.

She was still sitting where he’d left her, the towel on her lap, the porcelain bowl empty at her side. And suddenly he looked beyond her painted face and saw the vulnerability in her huge eyes.

‘I’ve made you tea,’ he said quickly, as he put the tray down.

She looked up, telling herself again that she must be strong. Carlos hadn’t broken any promises. He’d never claimed to feel anything for her. She certainly couldn’t demand love from him because she was carrying his baby. And she must close the floodgates on her love for him. He mustn’t know about it. It wouldn’t be fair—because then, wouldn’t she be burdening him with unnecessary guilt as well as a baby he’d never planned?

‘I didn’t run away,’ she told him tiredly. ‘I honestly thought my period had come, so there was no reason to stay. We’d already decided that.’ And he had done nothing to stop her leaving, had he? That had been the bottom line. Even now, he was only here because he had to be—not because he wanted to. ‘But I’d just had some kind of bleeding—apparently, it’s not unusual in the early stages of pregnancy.’

‘But you’re okay?’ he demanded urgently.

‘I’m okay.’

‘And…the baby? The baby is okay?’

‘The doctor tells me that everything’s fine.’

‘Thank God,’ he breathed.

And for the first time, Carlos began to take in the enormity of what she had just told him. A single fact that had the power to change his life for ever. He was going to be a father. Placing a delicate mug of steaming tea into her unprotesting hand, he realised that his baby was growing beneath her heart even now—deep in her belly.

He wanted to reach out and touch her—to place the palm of his hand on her still-flat belly, as if to reassure himself that his child really was in there. But he felt as if he had forfeited the right to do any such thing, his bitter accusations driving a wedge between the two of them. And he wondered now if his father had bequeathed him something of his own cruelty—whether or not he was fit to be a father to her child.

He flinched. ‘You know that there were photographers hanging around outside when I arrived and that it’s only going to get worse?’

‘But why?’ she wailed, letting her hormones get the better of her. ‘Why can’t they just leave me alone?’

His body tensed. ‘It is the joint legacy we share, Princesa. One which is bread and meat to the ever-hungry media,’ he said bitterly. ‘The ex-matador and his scandalous heiress.’

At that moment the telephone began to shrill and, putting her tea down on the table, Kat leaned over and picked it up. It was her father.

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on, Kat?’ he began ominously.

Kat opened her mouth to start explaining when it suddenly hit her that she didn’t have to. She didn’t have to do anything. Not any more. Maybe in the past she had run away from her responsibilities—and maybe her father’s set of Rules had helped her see her life in a different light. Or maybe Carlos had. But she wasn’t running now. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—running was no longer an option. She was going to be a mother. She was going to have Carlos’s baby and she was going to have to learn to stand on her own two feet. And that meant that the rest of the Balfours were really going to have to butt out and leave her to get on with it.

Without thinking about it, her fingers of one hand drifted to her stomach and she let them rest there—almost protectively—looking up to see a sudden flare of light in the ebony eyes which were fixed on her.

She turned her lips back to the mouthpiece. ‘Actually, I don’t really want to talk to anyone at the moment, Daddy,’ she said steadily.

‘But—’

‘No buts. I’m fine.’ She listened to her father for a minute, acutely aware of Carlos’s intense scrutiny. ‘Yes, he’s here. With me. No, Daddy. No. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Yes. I promise.’

Slowly, she replaced the receiver and Carlos saw the wariness in her eyes as she regarded him—as if expecting him to start interrogating her again. His mouth hardened. And maybe she had good reason to think that.

The phone began to ring once more and, seeing her eyes close wearily this time, Carlos snatched up the receiver, his eyes narrowing as he listened. ‘Yes?’

‘Carlos! It’s Tania Stephens here,’ came the throaty voice of a woman. ‘I’m the one who left my bikini on your yacht and wondered if you’d just like to—’

‘No comment,’ he snarled, slamming it down again, and when it began to ring again almost immediately he took it off the hook. Was this what it was going to be like? he wondered. With the phone ringing and the press clamouring and Kat getting bigger. Living out her pregnancy in the middle of the city, with that cold and unapproachable air about her while the media-hungry world closed in.

There was a solution to the problem which lay before them, he realised slowly. But only if Kat would agree to it—and that was by no means certain. ‘I can find you somewhere safe to stay,’ he said slowly. ‘Somewhere the press won’t bother you.’

She looked up. ‘Where?’

‘That’s up to you, Princesa. I can give you several options. I have places pretty much all over the world you can choose from.’

‘With you, you mean? You’ll be coming with me?’ she questioned in a cool voice, as if she didn’t care one way or the other. Because the last thing she wanted or needed to feel right now was disappointment when he told her that, no, he’d be leaving her alone to face the coming months.

Carlos expelled a breath. ‘Well, that depends,’ he said slowly. ‘On whether or not you want me there.’

There was a pause while the question hung in the air.

Don’t make yourself vulnerable, Kat told herself. Don’t open yourself up to yet more pain. ‘If you want,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I don’t really care either way.’

Carlos met the blue of her dazzling eyes which now seemed as cold as a winter sky. She had agreed to leave the spotlight of the city and he was going with her.

His mouth hardened. It may have felt a little like a victory, he thought, but it seemed a very hollow one.

Chapter Twelve

HE TOOK her to a house she recognised, though it took a moment or two for Kat to realise why.

‘It’s the house in the painting!’ she exclaimed, her heart lifting with an unexpected kind of delight. ‘The one in your study on the yacht.’ The one she used to gaze at when she was transcribing recipes during a time which now seemed like light years ago.

‘It is indeed. My hacienda,’ said Carlos softly.

Standing in the doorway of the lovingly cared-for old house, surrounded by a shaded veranda decked with flowers and foliage, Kat looked out at the stunning Andalusian countryside. Outside were orchards of Carlos’s very own oranges and lemons—which scented the soft, warm air. And in nearby pastures overlooking distant mountain peaks lived his beloved Andalusian horses which people came from all over the world to buy.

Despite her mixed emotions, Kat thought she had never seen any where more lovely in her life. It seemed so solid and real—so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. And it made her feel indescribably wistful for a life she had never known and probably never would. A life with deep roots and the promise of longevity.

‘So what do you think of my home?’ asked Carlos, as he came out of the house to find her standing there, perfectly still. They’d travelled down earlier that afternoon on the jet he’d hired, and Kat had just drunk tea and eaten from a dish of fruit which his housekeeper had served to them.

She turned to face him. ‘I think it’s beautiful.’

‘So why the troubled look?’

Was he completely dense, Kat wondered, or did he just have the ability to completely switch off? Maybe with men it was different—or maybe it was just different for Carlos. Beneath her outwardly calm exterior she could feel the riot of emotions which were as tangled as an old ball of string, but presumably he suffered no similar disquiet as he contemplated their uncertain future.

‘Oh, it’s all been a lot to take in,’ she said evasively. ‘The news about the baby, the journey here—wondering just what we’re going to tell people.’ She bit her lip. Plus the mind-boggling adjustment of having to redefine herself as a single mother. ‘And when.’

Staring down into her bright blue eyes, Carlos saw the unmistakable strain which shadowed them. And wondered whether the brittleness she seemed to have acquired might melt away again. So that once again she became that soft, smiling Kat who used to tease him. The woman who used to welcome him into her arms and into her bed every night.

‘We’re not going to do anything until you’ve relaxed,’ he said softly. ‘That was one of my reasons for bringing you here.’

Not quite daring to ask him what any of the others were, Kat returned his stare. ‘And what about you, Carlos—what will you be doing? Relaxing—or tapping away on your damned computer as usual?’

He heard something which sounded close to accusation in her voice and Carlos nodded. ‘I think I might try a little relaxation therapy myself,’ he agreed softly. ‘There happens to be a pool here which I haven’t swum in this year.’

There was indeed a pool—and Kat blinked with disbelief when she first saw it. A vast infinity pool overlooking an enormous mountain range, the clear blue waters seeming to go on for ever.

After breakfast the following morning, he suggested she change into a swimsuit and meet him there. And although it was a sensible enough suggestion for such a sunny day it seemed a curiously intimate thing to say. Lazing by a swimming pool was the sort of thing which couples did and they were most definitely not a couple—a state of affairs which had been reinforced by the fact that they’d spent their first night at the hacienda sleeping in separate rooms.

Well, of course they had. Carlos wasn’t interested in her any more, was he? Not in that way.

Because he hadn’t touched her. Not once. Not a tight, comforting hug when she’d told him about the baby. Not a squeeze of her fingers during the flight over here, nor even a protective hand held at the small of her back as he guided her through the doors of his beloved hacienda for the first time.

Nothing.

And didn’t that send out the clearest message of all—that the sexual side of their relationship was over? That really, everything between them was over—other than the mechanics of working out how to manage their shared parenthood. She guessed that at some point they were going to have to sit down and discuss what the future was going to bring, but she knew without him having to tell her that it was not going to include coupledom.

Kat went to her room and changed into a bikini which seemed too skimpy for comfort—though, logically, she knew that her body had not yet begun to alter. Just that now it felt more vulnerable than it used to. More exposed. Just like she did. Pulling on a silken robe and carrying a book she had little enthusiasm for, she went downstairs to find Carlos was already by the pool.

He looked up as she approached, and frowned. ‘You need a hat.’

‘I haven’t brought one with me.’

‘Well, there are plenty around the place. Here. Have this.’

Fishing out a battered old panama from underneath one of the loungers, he tossed it to her, and she caught it.

‘Thanks.’ Her throat was dry as she slipped off her silken robe and lay down beside him. It was still early and the air was fresh and sweet. Unknown birds were making distant calls and she could smell the heavy fragrance of jasmine.

For a while she felt brittle, unsure of what to do or say to the man whose golden-olive body was so near—and yet which might as well have been on a distant planet for all the closeness which existed between them. There were a million things she felt she should ask him, but she was too weary to begin, and the sun sinking into her skin was so very distracting…and gradually it made her relax a little. She drank some cool water and picked up her book. Put it down again, and dozed.

Deep, accented words floated into her dreamless state and she looked up to find that Carlos was leaning over her, his black eyes gleaming with concern. ‘You’ll burn if you’re not careful,’ he said softly. ‘Want me to rub some cream on for you?’

‘I…’ What could she say? That she was afraid if he touched her she might not be able to control her emotions, or her body’s response to him? She would risk burning her skin because she was so vulnerable around him? How pathetic was that? Kat nodded, tongue flicking out over suddenly bone-dry lips. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Mind? Carlos’s mouth hardened. ‘Turn over.’ He squeezed lotion onto the firm flesh between her shoulder blades and then began to rub it in, expelling a slow rush of air as he felt the silken texture of her skin beneath his fingers. How long had it been since he had touched her like this? Pushing aside the straps of her bikini he began to massage her tight muscles, feeling some of the tension begin to melt beneath his questing fingers.

‘Carlos…’

‘Is that good, Princesa?’

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Kat couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted to laugh or cry. ‘Well, yes…yes, it’s good.’ Of course it was good.

‘Then lie back and enjoy it.’

Was he mad? Didn’t he realise that, with his hands edging down to the wide band of flesh which lay above her bikini bottom, she just wanted to wriggle and squirm and pull him down against her rapidly warming body? Against her and into her. To feel his hard flesh united with hers once again. Kat swallowed. Now his fingers were kneading at the tops of her thighs—and this was really dangerous territory because what else would account for her almost strangled little gulp and the terrible sexual hunger which had begun to bubble up inside her?

‘Carlos!’ she said urgently.

‘What? What is it, Princesa?’

‘I…I…’

And suddenly Carlos couldn’t bear it for a second longer, knowing that he was about to fall into a snare of his own making. Knowing full well that he could seduce her in an instant, exactly where she was. He wouldn’t even have to meet the expression in her cold, hurt eyes. Could thrust into her from behind for a wordless and blissful coupling, knowing that they would both gasp out their relieved fulfilment and then it would be over. Their frustration forgotten and their bodies satisfied. And suddenly registering the certainty that it was no longer enough. Not nearly enough. Not any more.

Yes, it would be as easy as breathing to take her, but where would that leave them? Hadn’t he used the power of his sexual expertise to shield him from life for too long, seeking the heady power of sex as a substitute for emotion, time after time? And didn’t he owe this woman the truth, no matter how hard it was for him to admit it?

Turning her over, he stared down into her face—at the dark dilation of her blue eyes and the flare of colour which washed across her cheekbones—and felt a strange rush of something like pain in his heart. He had faced death and danger many times during his life, but he had never known such a feeling of trepidation. How was it possible to face the mighty wrath of a thirteen-hundred-pound animal in the bullring with a degree of steadfastness and resolve…and yet be rendered weak by the blaze in a woman’s beautiful blue eyes?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply.

Kat frowned. What was he saying—that he’d changed his mind about making love to her when it had obviously been on his mind only seconds ago? ‘Sorry?’ she echoed. ‘What for?’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘How long have you got? For doubting you. For being a victim of my own prejudice. For not realising that the woman I saw on my boat was the real you, not the poor little rich girl I was determined to see. That once you’d peeled away the layers you’d used to protect yourself from the tough blows that life had dealt you, I caught a glimpse of the woman you really were. The real Kat. That beneath all the finery was something much more precious.’ For a moment his voice sounded shaken. ‘And that something was you.’

Kat stared at him, confusion tempered with the frantic clamour of her mind telling her not to raise her hopes. Not to let him hurt her. Not any more. ‘Are you saying all this because I’m having a baby?’ she whispered.

He shook his head. ‘I’m saying it because I mean it. Because I’ve been a fool, Kat. A stupid fool.’ Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to admit why. ‘Resenting you for the fact that, for the first time in my life, I lost control when I was around you. Without realising that sometimes a man needs to lose control, because that is what makes him human. What enables him to grab at the things which make life worth living.’

Suddenly, Kat could see how Carlos’s steely self-will had protected him in exactly the same way as the armoury of her clothes and rebellious attitude had protected her. The two of them had a lot more in common than she’d ever realised. They’d both witnessed violence and pain. Had both deployed their own methods of coping with them.

And now?

They could, she realised, put all their demons in the past—but only if he wanted to. Because she realised something else too. That time after time she had given herself to Carlos, only to have him push her away. She understood why he had done it—but she couldn’t keep on doing it. Giving was a two-way street—or there could be no true equality. No real relationship. Her voice was gentle. ‘Carlos, what exactly are you saying?’

He was intelligent enough to know that this was one of life’s big questions, the sort that your entire future would depend on. And even as she asked it, the answer came to him instantly, with a kind of blinding certainty he’d never before realised he was capable of.

He stared straight into her face. ‘That I love you,’ he said simply.

They were words she never thought she’d hear—never from Carlos—but it didn’t occur to Kat to doubt them. Not for a minute. Perhaps because she sensed how much it had taken for him to say them—and because although his words could sometimes wound, they were always truthful. And perhaps because she knew that he had missed out on love for so much of his life, it didn’t occur to her to hesitate. Nor to hold back in any way. In fact, she couldn’t have done—for the joy in her heart was too insistent to be silenced.

‘Oh, Carlos. My sweet, darling Carlos. I love you too,’ she whispered. ‘So much.’

He took her face in his hands, cupping its heart shape between both palms. ‘I want to marry you, Kat,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I want us to make a life for ourselves together. A new life. A proper life.’

And now she did hesitate. For Kat hadn’t grown up with the best role models in the world where marriage was concerned. Her family was littered with divorces and their complicated consequences.

‘And I want to be a good father,’ he continued fiercely, before she had spoken. ‘The best father in the world to our child. He—or she—will have their own destiny and never will I try to live my life through them.’

She heard the resolve which had deepened his voice and knew that Carlos was determined never to replicate the cruelty practised by his father. And that determination of his spurred her on. Because wasn’t marriage a leap of faith for everyone? In a way, she and Carlos were lucky. They had witnessed the mistakes that other people could make with their lives—and they could do their best to ensure they didn’t repeat them.’

She drew back a little as she looked up into his face. ‘Oh, Carlos—of course I’ll marry you. I want to marry you more than anything else on earth.’

He nodded, and for a moment there was a lump in his throat so big that he had difficulty in speaking. ‘Then seal it with a kiss, Princesa,’ he commanded at last.

Something in his eyes made her tremble and something in the sweet restorative power of his lips made her tremble even more. She sighed when he lifted her off the sunbed and carried her to the nearby cabana, where he peeled off her little lemon bikini with a quiet and urgent hunger which was underpinned with an unmistakable sense of awe.

A shaft of pure love shot through her as he positioned his powerful naked body over hers and when he filled her with one slick, long thrust, she cried out her pleasure. As sunlight and birdsong drifted in to mingle with the sound of their muffled moans of pleasure, Kat thought she had never known happiness like it.

Please make it last, she prayed silently, as she held him, both still shuddering from the sweet onslaught of their passion. But somehow she knew that they would make it last. The two of them—and then, one day in the coming months, three. They would do everything in their power to ensure that life would be good.

Snuggling against him, Kat felt the slowing of his heart and she nuzzled against his neck, wanting to shower him with tiny kisses which demonstrated all the love she was bursting to give him.

Funny, really—her father had sent her away to learn commitment and she had found it. It had been a tough lesson but she knuckled down to it—and Carlos had helped show her how. So really, it made sense for him to reap the benefits.

For wasn’t marriage the biggest and most wonderful commitment of all?

Emily’s Innocence

India Grey

A self-confessed romance junkie, India Grey was just thirteen years old when she first sent off for the Mills&Boon® Writers’ Guidelines. She can still recall the thrill of getting the large brown envelope with its distinctive logo through the letterbox and subsequently whiled away many a dull school day staring out of the window and dreaming of the perfect hero. She kept those guidelines with her for the next ten years, tucking them carefully inside the cover of each new diary in January and beginning every list of New Year’s Resolutions with the words Start Novel. In the meantime she gained a degree in English Literature and Language from Manchester University and, in a stroke of genius on the part of the gods of Romance, met her gorgeous future husband on the very last night of their three years there. The last fifteen years have been spent blissfully buried in domesticity and heaps of pink washing generated by three small daughters, but she has never really stopped daydreaming about romance. She’s just profoundly grateful to have finally got an excuse to do it legitimately!

For the Elmhurst Olympics crowd, and for Louise in particular, much-loved keeper of the family flame. xx

Prologue

‘CALL me when you grow up!’

As Emily ducked beneath the ghostly, blossom-shrouded trees and emerged onto the twilit lawn his voice followed her: mocking, amused and, with its faintly exotic accent, horribly sexy.

She quickened her pace, thinking only of putting as much distance as possible between herself and the man in the shadows. Head bent, oblivious to the curious stares of the guests scattered across the velvet lawns of Balfour Manor, she hurried towards the house, pressing her teeth down into a lip that still tingled and throbbed from where he had kissed her.

The 99th Balfour Charity Ball was in full swing and the sound of laughter, conversation and clinking glasses drifted above the music coming from the marquee. Ahead of her the majestic house shimmered with light from every window, its honey-coloured stone glowing in the dusk like old gold. Behind her the darkness of the garden pressed at her back, spreading goose bumps over her skin. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it all through her body, a rapid, throbbing pulse that intensified as she ran lightly up the shallow stone steps to the house.

He had ruined everything.

She’d looked forward to this party for so long—all those years at boarding school, when she’d been reduced to picking over the edited details of the annual Balfour Ball in celebrity magazines and piecing together snatches of gossip from her older sisters. This year, with ballet school all but finished, her time had finally come.

She blinked as she stepped into the brightness of the hallway. Heading straight for the stairs she gathered up the long skirt of her dress, trying not to think of the excitement with which she’d put it on only a couple of hours earlier. She had felt so grown up and sophisticated…

Until the moment those knowing, gold-flecked eyes had wandered lazily over her, and then she had felt something different altogether.

Reaching her bedroom she slammed the door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard. The room was filled with violet shadows which blurred the edges of everything, making the familiar objects seem suddenly strange and unrecognizable. She didn’t turn on the light though. Instead she found herself drawn towards the window.

Spread out before her the garden glittered with tiny lights. It was like a picture from a child’s storybook—an enchanted kingdom, the butterfly ball. And that’s what she’d wanted, she thought with a sob, leaning her burning forehead against the pane. She’d wanted it to be like a fairy tale, with the handsome prince just waiting to fall in love with her.

Her eyes were drawn beyond the delicate strings of fairy lights and the glittering crystal chandeliers that stood on the tables across the lawn; deeper, into the darkness itself, where inky shadows moved beneath the trees.

That’s where he was.

Emily pressed her hands to the glass, suddenly pierced by a shaft of longing so pure and painful that she couldn’t breathe. His cool, clean taste was still on her lips and she ran her tongue over them, remembering the moment when he had stepped out in front of her beneath the trees and pulled her to him—languidly, unhurriedly, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world…

And kissed her.

She had been too shocked to resist. It was as if some powerful tidal wave had been unleashed inside her and she was helpless to do anything as it sucked her down, into warm, secret whirlpools of unfathomable sensation, obliterating logic. His mouth moved over hers, slowly and expertly, and his fingers caressed the back of her neck, the hollow beneath her jaw, sending ripples of intense, shuddering pleasure down her spine, until she felt taut and fragile enough to shatter.

And then he lifted his head and in that moment she caught the gleam of his wicked gold eyes in the darkness. The spell was broken and she surfaced again, gasping and fighting for breath, speechless and horrified at her own unrecognisable behaviour. Terrified of the ease with which he had made her act like that.

Because Prince Luis Cordoba of Santosa was handsome, of that there was no doubt. But he wasn’t interested in love, and behind the designer suit and dazzling smile he was no harmless, fairy-tale Prince Charming.

Dangerous, compelling, beguiling…

He was the wolf.

Chapter One

One year later

BALFOUR MANOR—golden and majestic and glowing like topaz in a bed of emerald velvet. Every detail was as familiar to Emily as the back of her own hand. And yet it was the last thing she expected to see in the grimy, diesel-scented chill of the underground station.

It was rush hour. Carried along in the flow of harassed and preoccupied commuters, blinking in the sudden gloom after the brightness of the May evening outside, Emily’s first thought was that she was imagining it. That, after two months of self-imposed exile in a bedsit that added a whole new dimension to the word grim, her homesickness had finally got the better of her and she was hallucinating.

Behind her a man cannoned into her as she stopped in her tracks, and swore disgustedly. Muttering apologies Emily ducked her head and pushed against the stream of people, back in the direction of the news stand. She must have been mistaken. It was a picture of Buckingham Palace she’d seen—some story about a minor royal indiscretion or—

Illegitimacy Scandal Rocks Balfour Legacy

Light-headed with horror Emily snatched up a paper and scanned the column beneath the headline, her mind reeling. It bristled with exclamation marks and was dotted with sly ellipses, but the names jumped out at her: Olivia Balfour…Bella…Alexandra…Zoe…

Zoe?

‘Are you going to buy that paper? I’m not running a library here, you know.’

From an alternative reality the disgruntled voice of the newspaper-seller penetrated her consciousness. ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Of course,’ she said hastily, delving into the pocket of her cardigan for the five-pound tip given to her by a drunken businessman who had told her all about his wife and kids and then put his hand up her skirt. Mollified, the newspaper man gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Ow the other ‘arf live, eh? Beautiful houses in all the best spots across the world, cars, money, parties—but I ask you, is any one of them Balfours happy?’ Shaking his head, he gave an amused chuckle.

No, Emily thought numbly as she backed away, the paper clutched in her hands. I don’t think we are—not any more. She attempted to give him an answering smile, but her face was stiff, her eyes wide and unblinking as the words from the article swooped and swelled inside her head: shocking discovery…illicit affair…illegitimate…disgrace…scandal…

Just a year ago it had all been so different. As she rejoined the press of people the moment before the guests started to arrive and she had gone downstairs in her blue silk dress, feeling so grown-up.

But she hadn’t been grown up at all. Not then. She’d been stupidly, embarrassingly naive.

She rejoined the press of people crowding down into the airless tunnel, holding the newspaper with its lurid headline against her body as if that way she could keep its accusations and speculations secret from the rest of the world. As she waited on the platform she noticed with a stab of anguish that a woman to her left was holding a copy of the paper, her face bored and expressionless as she read the story beneath the headline, as if it was insignificant.

A rumble in the darkness indicated the arrival of the train. Pushing to the front of the crowd squeezing onto the train with uncharacteristic assertiveness, Emily slipped quickly into an empty seat, for the first time in her life without looking round to see if anyone else needed it. As the train jerked into the darkness of the tunnel she took a deep breath and unfolded the paper.

Exclusive! When Blue Blood Turns Bad

Last night there was only one place to see and be seen—at the Balfour Charity Ball! But despite the glitz and the glamour, all was not as it seemed.

Behind the scenes, Olivia Balfour and her scandalous twin Bella were locked in a battle over a shocking discovery—that their late mother, socialite Alexandra Balfour, had conceived their sister Zoe during an illicit affair!

Biting her lip against a whimper of distress Emily raised her head and stared blindly ahead of her as Zoe’s face swam into her mind. Beautiful, wild Zoe, with her dazzling green eyes that set her apart from her blue-eyed sisters.

She looked down at the paper again, scanning over the rest of the article as her mind whirred and her stomach churned. She was trembling, as if she was cold, and had to grip the paper tightly in both hands to hold it steady enough to read.

The Balfour name might be synonymous with glamour and style, but this is the second illegitimate family member to be outed in as many months. It seems this dynasty is rotten to its core…

Which was more or less the same accusation that she’d hurled at her father on the night of Mia’s untimely arrival at Balfour Manor. Emily stiffened as the memory of that appalling evening seized her in an icy grip. Poor Mia. She had come in search of a happy family and had instead had walked straight into a tragedy worthy of Chekhov.

The train jolted to a standstill in another station, bringing Emily roughly back to the present. She blinked, looking around her as another tide of people ebbed and flowed through the doors—anonymous faces with lives and interests and joys and heartaches she couldn’t begin to guess. And she was just another of them. Another anonymous face in the crowd. A girl on her way home from work, just like any other.

A void of loneliness opened up in front of her, and before she could do anything she felt herself hurtling into it. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a breath, momentarily dizzy and disorientated with homesickness. It happened from time to time; she was getting used to it. It was just a case of holding on and waiting for it to pass. The problem was, up until two months ago, her family and her dancing had been her whole life. And now she had neither.

She looked down at the newspaper, avid for any crumbs of information about the people she loved and had turned her back on so completely. At the bottom of the front page article she read: ‘For a full report and pictures of last night’s sparkling charity ball, see pages 12-13…’

With shaking fingers she turned the pages, smoothing the paper across her knees as she came to the colourful splash of photographs. Tears leapt into her eyes, but she blinked them away impatiently. Oh, God, there was Kat, looking gorgeous in a dress of scarlet satin, and Bella and Olivia standing together, their dazzling, practised smiles not quite hiding the tension in their eyes. ‘The calm before the cat-fight,’ read the caption beneath the picture. Looking into their familiar faces Emily realised that she was smiling, even though her heart felt like it was being prised open with a pickaxe, but her smile faded as her gaze moved to a picture of her father standing next to a familiar and distinguished English actress. She was a long-time friend of the family, but noticing the way Oscar’s hand was looped lightly round her waist Emily suddenly found herself wondering if she’d ever been more than that…

The shadows gathered at the corners of her mind, the dark shapes slipping through the trees.

Hating herself for her cynicism and suspicion, hating her father for planting it in her mind, she glanced quickly away, to the next photograph.

And froze.

She tried to tear her gaze away. Really, she did. She didn’t want to keep looking helplessly into the slanting golden eyes that stared straight out at her from the page, or remember how it had felt to have them looking back at her for real. Moving over her body. Glittering with amusement and delicious wickedness…

‘Prince Luis Cordoba of Santosa arrives at the party,’ said the text beneath the picture. ‘But will the newly reformed playboy prince be able to withstand the temptation of the wild and wayward Balfour girls?’

At that moment the train juddered to a halt and dazedly Emily realised she’d reached her stop. She sprang to her feet, bundling the paper up. For a split second she considered leaving it on the seat, but instead found herself tucking it under her arm as she got off the train.

Because she hated the thought of a stranger picking it up and poring over the sordid details of her family’s disgrace, she told herself as she walked briskly towards the stairs. Not because she wanted to read any more about Luis Cordoba, or gaze longer at the photograph of him looking brooding and beautiful in black tie, for goodness’ sake.

Of course not.

Why would she? He was dangerous, and Emily didn’t like danger. She had no interest in him whatsoever—a fact which she’d made perfectly clear at last year’s ball.

And just to prove it to herself again now, she dropped the paper into the first bin she passed at the entrance to the station. And she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as she walked purposefully away.

‘Where in hell’s name are we, exactly?’ Luis gazed moodily out of the blacked-out window as his car nosed its way slowly through the traffic-clogged outer reaches of London. At least he assumed they were still in London, though the dingy rows of scruffy houses bore little resemblance to the elegant city he was familiar with.

His private secretary consulted his clipboard. ‘I believe it’s a place called Larchfield Park, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s an area with a high proportion of unemployed residents, and significant problems with drug abuse, gang violence and gun and knife crime.’

‘How charming,’ Luis drawled, leaning back against the soft leather upholstery with a twisted smile. ‘Tomás, may I suggest that if you ever leave your job in the royal household you don’t apply for a position as a holiday rep. If I’d wanted to die I could have simply crashed my helicopter into the nearest cliff in Santosa.’

Tomás didn’t smile. ‘Sir, please let me reassure you that the car is fully armoured. You’re in no danger. Since the crown prince’s death we’ve increased security by—’

‘I know,’ Luis interrupted wearily. ‘I was joking. Forget it.’

He closed his eyes. His hangover, held at bay all day by a combination of strong painkillers and stronger coffee, was threatening to make a comeback, hammering at his temples with depressing persistence. He had only himself to blame, of course…

But then he was used to that.

Anyway, he thought bleakly, given that his behaviour for the past ten months had been completely exemplary, he could just about forgive himself one minor lapse at the Balfour Charity Ball. Especially since no high-profile models had been involved. No married women. No women at all, in fact. His vow to Rico was intact. It had just been him and a rather too plentiful supply of Oscar Balfour’s excellent champagne.

It was all so different from last year.

He looked out of the window, not seeing the evening sunlight slanting onto the graffiti-daubed walls, the litter-strewn streets, but a pair of blue eyes—Balfour blue, people called it—and remembering the way their clear, cornflower-coloured depths had darkened when he’d kissed her. With shock, and with desire perhaps, but also with…

Deus.

He felt a stab of self-disgust as he pushed the memory away. Perhaps it was just as well Oscar’s youngest daughter hadn’t been there last night. Emily Balfour had been every bit as beautiful as her older sisters—a fact which had initially distracted him from her quite astonishing lack of experience. If he’d known how green she was he would have taken it more slowly, taken more time to draw out the tremulous passion he had sensed beneath her rigidly polite veneer. But hindsight was a wonderful thing. Last year, if he’d known a lot of things that now seemed all too bloody obvious, his life would look very different.

‘We’re here, sir.’

Tomás’s voice interrupted his thoughts and Luis realised the car had pulled into a sort of compound surrounded by high wire-mesh fencing. It was now coming to a standstill outside a shabby-looking single-storey building that had clearly seen better days.

His security team had arrived ahead of them and were attempting to be discreet as they patrolled the perimeter of the compound, while a guard stood in the doorway and talked into a microphone headset. A small crowd of gangly youths in hooded sweatshirts had gathered on the other side of the fence.

Luis sighed inwardly.

‘Remind me what we’re here for again?’

‘Well, sir, it’s a dance group of—’

Luis groaned and held up his hands. ‘OK, you can stop right there, unless the next part of that sentence was going to be “eighteen-year-old exotic belly dancers”.’

‘No, sir.’ Tomás consulted his clipboard again. ‘It’s mixed programme. This is a local youth centre, which provides a number of different sports and dance classes for children aged from four to sixteen. Tonight we’re here to watch a performance of tap, jazz, street dance and ballet.’

‘Ballet?’ Luis repeated scathingly, ‘Meu Deus. I take it this is all part of the master plan to reinvent me as sincere, high-minded patron of the arts.’

‘The press office did think this kind of involvement with children’s community arts would be a useful way of highlighting a more sensitive side to your character, yes, sir.’

Despair and frustration closed in on Luis, surrounding him as palpably as the high wire fence against which the youths were gathering outside. ‘In that case you’d better nudge me when it’s time to clap,’ he said wearily. ‘And wake me up if I start to snore.’

Emily turned the corner from the tube station and hurried in the direction of the community centre. She was late. Across the road a cherry tree in full blossom was like a ghostly galleon in full sail in the gloom, and as she walked quickly past, a gust of sudden wind sent white petals swirling across the street, their scent for a moment overpowering the spicy smell of Indian and African food from the takeaway shops at the end of the street. Emily pulled her lumpy secondhand cardigan more tightly around her, bracing herself against another wave of homesickness as she remembered the Japanese cherry trees at the end of the rose walk at Balfour. Where Luis Cordoba had kissed her, a wicked little voice reminded her.

She quickened her pace, automatically lifting her hand to her mouth at the memory as if she could scrub it away, and along with it the disturbing, insistent feelings it aroused in her.

But the next moment all that was forgotten as she saw the crowd of hooded teenagers pressed against the fence of the community centre. As she got closer she could see what was drawing them: two black, official-looking cars with darkened windows were parked in front of the building.

Oh, God. Her heart plummeted and her footsteps faltered as fear seized her. What was it this time? Another stabbing? Or a shooting…

And then she was running, her heavy plait thudding against her back with every step, her eyes fixed on the scruffy building to which she had become so attached in the past two lonely months. Larchfield Youth Centre offered a refuge from the problems of the outside world and gave a new sense of purpose to the lives of hundreds of underprivileged, displaced and disillusioned young people.

And to one overprivileged, displaced and disillusioned heiress too.

A sinister-looking man was standing by the door, wearing a headset. She glanced at him nervously, half expecting him to try to stop her from going in, but he merely stared at her impassively which worried her even more somehow. Heart thudding uneasily, she hurried along the dingy corridor, breathing in the now-familiar smell of teenagers—hormones and hair gel, undercut with a faint trace of stale cigarettes—towards the girl’s changing room at the far end. As she opened the door she was instantly enveloped in chatter of fifty excited voices.

In the midst of the crush of Lycra-clad girls, Kiki Odiah, Larchfield’s youth worker, was spraying glittery hairspray over the head of a small girl in a silver leotard and tap shoes. Emily pushed her way over, shrugging off her bulky cardigan as she went.

‘Sorry I’m late. I haven’t had time to go home and change.’

Through a cloud of glitter Kiki threw her a glance of pure relief. ‘You’re here now, honey, that’s all that matters.’

‘What’s going on?’ Emily couldn’t keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘I saw the cars outside—is it immigration? They haven’t come for the Luambos, have they?’

Kiki shook her head so the beads in her hair gave a musical rattle. Her dark eyes glittered with suppressed excitement as she sprayed hairspray on the next small head. ‘You’ll never guess.’

‘Tell me, then!’

‘Royalty.’

‘What?’ Emily gasped, a chilly sensation of misgiving prickling at the base of her spine. Several of the minor royals were friends of Oscar and regular visitors to Balfour. ‘Who?’

Kiki shrugged. ‘Not British, that’s all I know.’ Luckily she was too absorbed in hairspraying to register Emily’s visible relief, shaking the can with a rattle as she continued. ‘But then I’m just a lowly youth worker. I only found out about all of this when a carload of men in suits arrived and started crawling over every inch of the place this afternoon. And now the whole of the council youth services department have showed up, and are suddenly taking an interest in what we do.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Which is what you might call ironic, seeing as we’ve only got enough money to keep us open for the next two months.’

‘Maybe that’s why they’re here, whoever they are, to give us the money to stay open?’ Emily suggested hopefully. The issue of funding hung over everything at Larchfield like a guillotine.

‘I don’t see why. I’m no expert, but it sounds to me like these guys are talking Spanish, and I can’t imagine why any Spanish royalty would be interested in giving money to Larchfield.’

Emily frowned. ‘I can’t imagine why Spanish royalty would be coming to watch our dance show either. I mean, the children have worked really hard, but it’s hardly Sadler’s Wells.’

‘Search me.’ Kiki looked over the children’s heads to the swarthy, olive-skinned guard who had just come into the room, and giggled. ‘In fact, I wish he would search me. I just can’t resist those dark Latin types, can you?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I can,’ said Emily a little too tartly, as the image of Luis Cordoba flashed, infuriatingly, into her head. ‘Especially at the moment, when we’ve got fifty children to get ready to go onstage in a little over fifteen minutes.’

‘OK, Miss Prim and Proper!’ Kiki grinned. ‘You go and organise your cygnets and I’ll practise my curtsy.’

And she grabbed the hands of the nearest little silver-clad tap dancer and whirled her round, singing, ‘One day my prince will come,’ and laughing.

All that was missing were the thumbscrews and a tuneless rendition of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, thought Luis as he surreptitiously slid back the starched cuff of his shirt and tried to check his watch.

Smothering a sigh he shifted position on the hard plastic chair that was way too small to accommodate his shoulders and the length of his legs. Actually, even without the thumbscrews it was a pretty effective torture. Beside him, Tomás was smiling benignly at the stage where numerous little girls dressed in silver leotards clattered chaotically through a tap routine. But, of course, Tomás had a little daughter of his own, which clearly gave him some sort of mystical insight into the whole thing. Parenthood did that: turned perfectly intelligent, discerning adults into misty-eyed fools.

Even his own brother—the eminently rational Rico—hadn’t been entirely immune, he thought with a stab of anguish. From the moment Luciana had been born her every yawn, every smile, had been scrutinized and analysed with an intense interest to which Luis had found it impossible to relate.

And still did.

Guilt lashed through him—familiar, but still painful enough to make him tense and catch his breath. Tomás threw him a curious glance and Luis forced a smile, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead while the blurry impression of Luciana’s small face swam into his mind’s eye.

He couldn’t even remember with any sort of clarity what she looked like. Or when he’d last seen her. How old was she now? Another whiplash of guilt struck him as he realised he didn’t know for sure. Five, was it? Or six? It had been ten months since Rico and Christiana had died, and Luciana had been five at the time—he knew that because the newspapers had focused so relentlessly on the tragedy of being orphaned at such a young age. Luis’s hands were curled into fists. Had she had a birthday since then?

The performance on the stage appeared to have ended, and the children curtsied with varying degrees of grace. Automatically Luis joined in the applause, taking advantage of the opportunity to lean over and say quietly to Tomás, ‘It is finished?’

‘Not quite, sir. I believe there’s one more item on the programme. Are you all right?’

‘Never better,’ Luis murmured blandly.

Part of the punishment was bearing the pain alone, in silence. He didn’t have the right to share its burden.

He settled uncomfortably back as a line of little girls in snowy white tutus filed onto the stage. These ones were younger than the last group, smaller and more intimidated by the presence of the audience. A collective ‘ahhh’ went up from the rows of people behind Luis as they shuffled into position, sucking their fingers and looking out beyond the stage lights with huge, solemn eyes.

The music began—Dance of the Little Swans. Luis wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the clichéd predictibility of it, or weep for the protracted torment. Instead he arranged his face into what he hoped was an expression of appreciation and watched as the children raised their arms and began to bend their knees in a series of careful pliés.

One little girl at the back stood still, frozen in anguish. The other children rose up onto their tiptoes and pirouetted shakily, but the only movement she made was that of her wide, terrified eyes which kept darting to the safety of the wings. The girl next to her was unimpressed by her failure to perform and nudged her heartily in the ribs.

Laughter rippled through the audience. At the front of the stage the other children were stolidly going through their routine, pointing toes, making sweeping movements of their arms and casting occasional furious glances at their classmate at the back. Luis watched her. Maybe it was because he’d just been thinking about his little niece, but something about the girl onstage reminded him of Luciana, even though she looked nothing like her. No doubt a psychiatrist would enjoy explaining that it was just another manifestation of guilt. The child before him had shrunk backwards a little so she was standing outside the spotlight’s glare, but other than that she hadn’t moved, and from his place of honour in the front row he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes and the tremble of her bottom lip.

And then it struck him. It wasn’t just his tormented mind playing tricks on him; it was her attitude of patient suffering, of dignified misery, that reminded him of Luciana. He had seen the same expression on the face of his little niece, sensed the same silent anguish in her in the little time he’d spent with her, and it had made him feel every bit as helpless as he did now.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

A movement in the wings caught his eye. Keeping to the shadows, an older girl ran lightly across the back of the stage and dropped to her knees beside her. For a moment Luis was too relieved to register properly the narrow, very straight back, the glossy dark plait that hung heavily between her shoulder blades, but then she stood again and it was impossible not to notice the length of her extremely shapely legs encased in thick black tights.

She was wearing a short black skirt and a fitted T-shirt, emblazoned across the back of which were the words Pink Flamingo.

Ten months ago he had made a vow to his brother and buried his appetite for women and excess alongside Rico in the family vault on Santosa. Now Luis felt his dormant interest flicker almost painfully back to life. Leaning over to Tomás he whispered, ‘Isn’t the Pink Flamingo a gentlemen’s club?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

No, of course not. But Luis did, and he was intrigued to know what a girl who worked in a lap-dancing club was doing helping out at a children’s ballet show. Bending down, still with her back to the audience, the Pink Flamingo girl took the little dancer’s hand and whispered something in her ear. Relief spread across the small, pinched face as the older girl turned around and began to join in the steps of the dance.

Deus, she was stunning. Towering above the tiny children on the stage she looked every bit the haughty, graceful swan amongst a gaggle of fluffy, ungainly cygnets. Beside her the little girl who had looked so lost a moment ago was now smiling tremulously, growing in confidence and stature by the second.

He watched the precise movements of her slender legs, the upright set of her shoulders and head, and felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck. Dragging his gaze upwards to her face he blinked, frowning suddenly and leaning forwards in astonishment and disbelief.

It was incredible…impossible…

It was Emily Balfour.

Chapter Two

‘EMILY—are you in there?’

Kiki’s voice echoed off the tiles in the gloomy ladies’ loo. Slumped against the door of the middle cubicle, Emily gritted her teeth to disguise their chattering and tried to sound normal as she answered.

‘Yes, I’m here. Won’t be a second.’

‘Well, make sure you’re not. You just got yourself a royal audience, honey. The prince is coming backstage and he’s specifically asked to meet you so you’d better get out here quick.’

Emily opened the door and looked at Kiki with huge, anguished eyes. ‘I can’t, Kiki. Really—I mean, I’m hardly dressed for meeting royalty and I’ve only worked here for a couple of months anyway so—’

‘Hey.’ Kiki’s kind face was creased with concern. ‘Forget about what you’re wearing. What’s wrong, baby? You look dreadful.’

A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror above the sink told Emily that Kiki was absolutely right. Her face, always pale, was now the eerie white of an extra in a vampire movie, a fact which was emphasized by the way her dark hair was held severely back in her plait. She attempted a wan smile. ‘Thanks. I’m fine. It was just being on stage…dancing in front of an audience, with the music and everything, and—’

Kiki made a sympathetic noise. ‘Nerves, eh?’

No, Emily was going to say. Not nerves. More an absence of nerves. An absence of anything. She was just going through the motions as if she’d been programmed—why couldn’t she feel it any more?

‘Anyway,’ Kiki continued a little breathlessly before she had a chance to speak, ‘the Prince was very impressed. He wants to meet you, and your dance group. I’ve got them all lined up on the stage, and they’re really excited so hurry up.’

‘OK, I’m coming.’ Emily ran her hands under the tap and splashed cold water on her face to try to bring some colour to her cheeks. ‘Which prince is it anyway?’ she said into the depths of the basin.

But it was too late. Kiki had already gone, and the only answer was the bang of the door behind her. Left alone, Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror, not seeing her pinched face but looking instead into the bleakness of a future without dancing. God, less than a year ago when she’d danced the part of Sleeping Beauty in the Royal Ballet School’s final production, no one would have been surprised at the idea of her meeting royalty backstage after a performance. But as a soloist at Covent Garden, not in the capacity of an unpaid teacher in a struggling community arts centre.

But that had been when she could dance. In the few brief, brilliant months when the technical skill she’d built over all those years of training had come together with something else—the indefinable, dangerous something Luis Cordoba had unlocked in her when his beautiful mouth had covered hers in the darkness beneath the trees.

She let out a long breath, turning away from the mirror and smoothing her T-shirt down. A lot had happened in a year.

She pulled open the door and went back to join the children. She’d kicked her shoes off when she went onto the stage and the rough parquet floor snagged at her tights as she hurried back along the corridor. Great, she thought despairingly. That was all she needed. She was so behind with the rent on her horrible bedsit that buying a loaf of bread felt like wanton extravagance at the moment. Tights were as beyond her budget these days as a designer ball gown.

She ran lightly up the steps to the back of the stage. Beyond the wings she could see her class of little dancers lined up and standing very straight, which, along with the deep rumble of male voices, told her that the royal party was already there. Ducking her head she slipped silently onto the stage and took her place at the end of the line, glancing along the row of children as she did so.

Emily’s heart stopped.

His head was bent as he talked to one of the little girls, the stage lights shining on his broad, perfectly muscled shoulders and picking out the gold strands in his deliciously untidy tawny hair. Her stomach dissolved with horror. Oh, God. It was him. It was really him. The royalty Kiki had been talking about was Luis Cordoba, Crown Prince of Santosa, and he was making his way quickly along the line towards her.

Too quickly. The little dancers bobbed curtsies as he passed them, but he barely glanced at them. Emily had the sensation of standing on the track in the path of a speeding train, knowing that the moment of impact was almost upon her. He wouldn’t recognize her, she reassured herself desperately. Why would he? They’d only met once—and then only for a couple of minutes in a situation which was a world away from this. He must meet thousands of women…kiss thousands of women…

Someone was speaking. Dimly, Emily registered that it was one of the council members who’d been round to look at the Larchfield premises in expectation of the youth centre’s closure. ‘This is one of the valuable volunteers who bring new experiences into the lives of our young people. Miss Jones is a graduate of the Royal Ballet School.…’

Like an automaton Emily bent her head and sank down in a curtsy. From an etiquette point of view it was the right thing to do, but more importantly it also gave her a great chance to avoid looking up at the man she’d last seen in the garden at Balfour, when he’d drawn her into the shadow of the trees and kissed her with an arrogance and an expertise which shocked and thrilled and horrified her.

Call me when you grow up…

She steeled herself, and looked up.

The express train hit. For a moment the breath was knocked out of her and it was like falling. Like skydiving into the sunset. And then realizing that you didn’t have a parachute.

Luis Cordoba raised one fine eyebrow a fraction. Beneath it his eyes were a hard, dull gold. ‘Really, Miss Jones?’

Oh, God. That sexy accent. Not Spanish—Kiki had been wrong about that. Portuguese. It almost distracted her from the slight emphasis he placed on her name. Or—correction—the random name she’d given when she started volunteering at Larchfield. There was a part of her that had hated the deception and felt that she was betraying the friends she had made by keeping her real identity secret, but the anonymity was like armour. It was her protection and she’d clung to it. And now she felt like she was standing there, naked and wrapped only in the skimpiest of towels, and that the man standing in front of her had hold of the corner and was ready to pull it off her. Just for fun.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered, looking up into that lean and perfect face, silently begging him not to give her away.

‘The Royal Ballet?’ he said softly. ‘And from there you’ve chosen to come here to teach these children instead of concentrating on your own dancing career? Impressively altruistic. Your family must be very proud of you.’

Only she could hear the hint of challenge in his low, velvety voice. So he did recognize her, and he clearly knew exactly where to insert the knife, how to inflict the deepest wound where it wouldn’t show. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room—the council officials, Kiki, the children getting restless now—on her, but all of them combined were nothing compared to his cool, metallic glare.

‘I’d like to think they would be,’ she said breathlessly, and instantly regretted it. The words if they knew hung in the air between them, and she waited for him to say them out loud. But Luis Cordoba didn’t play things the straightforward way.

He nodded, slowly, and for a long moment his eyes stayed locked with hers. And then his gaze flickered downwards to the Pink Flamingo logo on the front of her black T-shirt.

‘It’s good to know that you haven’t given up dancing altogether though,’ he said gravely. A brief smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. ‘Keep up the good work, Miss—?’

‘Jones,’ she croaked.

And then he was being ushered forwards by the council officials, who were no doubt keen to take him outside and show him the all-weather football pitch, a fraction of which had been paid for by a council grant. Out of the arc-light beam of his gaze Emily felt like a puppet that had suddenly had its strings cut. Around her the children relaxed into excited chatter, relieved at being released from the need to be on their best behaviour. Emily felt numb.

He’d got it all wrong. Bloody T-shirt. She wanted to run after him and grab his arm, force him to turn round so she could explain that she didn’t dance at the Pink Flamingo—she worked behind the bar. He might have awoken something in her when he’d kissed her, but he hadn’t changed her whole personality for God’s sake…

But he was gone, leaving nothing but a whisper of his masculine, expensive scent in the air. The lights seemed to dim and the shadows around her thicken. It was too late.

The wolf had slipped back into the forest, and she was safe.

So why didn’t she feel more relieved?

‘Stop the car.’

Tomás looked round sharply, surprised.

‘Sir?’ Luis stared straight ahead, his fingers drumming on the walnut inlay of the door. ‘We’ll wait here for a while, and then we’ll go back.’

‘Back, sir?’ Tomás looked alarmed. ‘Why? I thought you’d be keen to leave here as quickly as possible.’

‘I was. I am. But not without bringing “Miss Jones” with me.’

Alarm had turned to a mixture of panic and horror on Tomás’s open face now. ‘Sir…if I may say so, that’s not a good idea. The press office…The papers…The purpose of this trip was to put all those stories firmly in the past.’

‘They are firmly in the past,’ Luis said with quiet, emphatic bitterness. ‘When was the last time I picked up a girl for a one-night stand?’

‘The public have long memories, sir. And those photos of you falling out of nightclubs and groping women in the back of the car still get published regularly. If the newspapers get hold of this…this Miss Jones…’

Luis smiled. ‘You mean if she were to kiss and tell?’

‘Exactly, sir. She could profit handsomely from such a story.’

‘My night of passion with the playboy prince?’ Luis suggested mockingly, then shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

‘With respect, sir, you don’t know that for sure. Some of these girls have no concept of privacy…’

‘With respect, Tomás, I do know it for sure, because I also know that that girl has considerably more to hide than I do. I’m not going to seduce her—I’m going to find out what a nice girl like Emily Balfour is doing in a place like this.’

‘Emily Balfour, sir? But I thought her name was—’

‘Jones? No. That, Tomás, was Oscar’s youngest daughter. Or the one that used to be his youngest until a subsequent claimant to the position arrived on the doorstep.’ Looking out of the window Luis frowned slightly.

‘I’ll ask security to go in and get her, shall I, sir?’ Tomás asked, glancing nervously around. ‘This probably isn’t the best place to hang around.’

‘The car is fully bullet-proof,’ Luis reminded him drily. ‘We’re quite safe. And I don’t think she’ll respond well to being hauled out by security. As I recall from last year, Emily Balfour won’t be pushed into doing anything she doesn’t want to.’

‘Ah, here she is now, sir,’ Tomás said with evident relief. ‘I’ll just get—’

But Luis had already got out of the car. Tomás swore with uncharacteristic crudeness, whipping his mobile phone out of his pocket and speed-dialling the head of security in the other car. At times he found the Crown Prince’s lack of regard for protocol and formality refreshing, but mostly it was just a giant pain in the backside. He just hadn’t seemed to grasp that, since his brother and sister-in-law’s shocking deaths, he was the future of Santosa.

God help them.

Trying to prepare Luis to take the reins of his ailing father was like taking a tiger from the jungle and trying to teach it to jump through hoops. Difficult and dangerous. And, he thought gloomily, if anything went wrong he would be the one to get his head bitten off.

‘’Night, Kiki—see you tomorrow!’

Hastily, not waiting for a reply, Emily slipped out of the door and into the cool, blue evening, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her. Usually she waited while Kiki locked up and the two of them walked part of the way home together, but tonight she just wanted to get out of there and be alone.

‘Can I offer you a lift?’

She jumped, giving a little gasp of shock as a figure emerged from the twilight and stood in front of her, barring her way.

‘Sorry,’ said the same husky, amused drawl. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. But I think that just proves my point that it’s really not safe for you to be out on the streets on your own in the dark. It’s just as well I’m not some drug-crazed youth with a gun in his hand.’

‘I’ll take my chances, thank you,’ Emily muttered, attempting to slip past him. But he was too quick for her. She bit back another gasp as strong fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks and pulling her back round so she was facing him.

From the shadows beyond the car someone said something in rapid Portuguese. Luis didn’t turn his head, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t take his eyes from hers. ‘Sim, obrigado, Tomás.’ he said curtly. ‘This won’t take long.’

‘No, it won’t,’ she said shakily, ‘because I’m not going anywhere with you. Goodbye…’

It was said with more hope than conviction. Her heart was hammering out an uneven rhythm against her ribs, her whole body flooded with adrenaline. In the violet dusk his face was indistinct, but she could see the shadows beneath his aristocratic cheekbones and the glitter of his eyes.

‘What a disappointment. I saw that Pink Flamingo T-shirt and just assumed you’d grown up a bit since last time we met.’

‘I have.’ She spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Which is why I’m not getting into a car with you. Now, if you’ll let me go, it’s been a long day and I want to get home.’

He let her go without resistance. ‘Funny. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

The icy edge to his voice stopped her in her tracks and filled her with sudden misgiving. She turned back to him.

‘What?’

‘Home.’ He paused, his face impossible to read in the gloom. Emily felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Beyond the black car that waited behind him she could hear the sound of voices from the street, the distant wail of a siren. ‘I was at Balfour Manor last night.’

A door slammed inside the community centre. Emily darted an anxious glance over her shoulder, hoping Kiki hadn’t heard him. ‘Please…’ she implored.

In one smooth movement he turned and pulled open the car door. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to have this conversation in the car, before your cover is blown and your new friends find out that “Miss Jones” is really the daughter of a billionaire who could end all the financial problems of this extremely valuable community resource just by asking Daddy nicely.…’

Emily shrank back, as if the plush interior of the car was the mouth of a giant whale, waiting to swallow her up. Her voice was cracked and faint. ‘But I have nothing to say to you.’

‘That’s fine.’ His voice was cool as he placed a hand in the small of her back and brought her forward. ‘You can just listen.’

There was someone else in the car—a man in his thirties perhaps, in a dark suit. He smiled as Emily slid reluctantly onto the seat beside him, and she felt slightly reassured. At least she wouldn’t be alone with Luis.

On the downside, there wasn’t so much room. As Luis finished speaking to the driver and got in beside her, Emily found herself far closer than was comfortable to his long, hard thigh on the seat. The only alternative was to move more towards the silent, suited man on her other side. Forget ‘better the devil you know,’ she thought miserably. No one could be more dangerous than Luis Cordoba. She inched away, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

No such luck.

‘That’s Tomás, my private secretary,’ Luis said sardonically. ‘You can sit on his knee, if you like. He’s very good with children.’

Tomás smiled, with the indulgent air of someone who had seen all this before. ‘Take no notice of His Highness, Miss Balfour.’

‘Thank you, Tomás.’ Emily turned back to Luis. ‘I’m not a child, and you’re certainly not my father, so I don’t know why you think you can order me around.’

The car pulled out of the Larchfield compound and onto the road. ‘Thank goodness I’m not your father,’ Luis said laconically. ‘From what I saw of him yesterday Oscar isn’t a happy man.’

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Well, there’s all this for a start.’ He leaned forward and plucked a copy of the newspaper Emily had bought earlier from a pocket in the back of the driver’s seat.

Holding her head up very stiffly she glanced at it in distaste. ‘I know. I’ve seen it. Look, don’t you want to know where I live?’

‘No, not really,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘Not unless you’re going to insist on going back there to change.’

A dart of alarm shot through her. ‘Change? Into what?’

‘Anything that wasn’t hand knitted by medieval peasants from yak’s wool,’ he suggested disdainfully, his gaze travelling downwards from her cardigan to the cheap, flat shoes she’d bought for work. ‘As disguises go I must say you’ve chosen very well. Who would have thought one of the celebrated Balfour girls would go around dressed like a refugee from a hippy commune?’

Emily raised her chin, ignoring the jibe. ‘Why would I want to change? Where are we going?’ A horrible thought occurred to her. ‘Not home? Not back to Balfour, because I can’t. I—’

‘Relax.’ He cut through her mounting panic. ‘I’m taking you out to dinner.’

‘Isn’t it polite to ask first?’ Emily slumped back against the seat, folding her arms mutinously. Of course, the normal rules of courtesy didn’t apply to the Prince of Santosa. His title made him think he could do anything and have anything. Or anyone.

‘If I had asked would you have accepted?’ he said evenly.

She shook her head.

‘Exactly. Just think of it as being cruel to be kind.’

Emily gave a bark of harsh laughter. ‘The cruelty I can believe. Kindness? Not so much.’

‘When was the last time you ate properly?

Emily thought back to the bowl of cut-price breakfast cereal she’d had in her room before leaving for work earlier. The milk had been off, so she hadn’t felt like eating much. The rent she paid for her room in Mr Lukacs’s house was supposed to include use of the kitchen, but she found that whenever she ventured in there he would appear, finding some excuse to squeeze past her in the narrow space, or just watching her with his damp, beady eyes. She preferred to avoid it.

‘Why do you care? It’s got nothing to do with you.’

Despair made her uncharacteristically ungracious. Despair and the uncomfortable feeling that, having been hit by the express train, she had now been hauled aboard and was speeding away into unknown and dangerous territory.

‘You’re right, it’s not. Not in itself, and believe me I have plenty of other things to worry about. But given that your father looks like a dead man walking because he has no idea where you are, and I discover you living like…like…’ Lost for words, he gave a small exhalation of frustration. ‘It’s become my business whether I like it or not. So I’m going to feed you, and you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on.’

Something in his tone silenced the retort that had sprung to her lips. There was an edge there, a tension that she hadn’t noticed in him before. The Luis Cordoba she knew was laughing, insouciant, urbane—a playboy whose most serious decisions in life involved which party invitations to accept, and which women to seduce when he got there.

This man was different. Harder. Colder. And possibly even more dangerous than before.

The car had picked up speed now. The street lights stained the soft, early summer dusk a lurid shade of orange, and threw neon bars of light into the car as they sped along. They were heading out of the city, she realised with curious numbness. When he had said dinner she had imagined some exclusive West End restaurant, but the traffic was thinning as they left London behind them.

The events of the exhausting day seemed to pile up in the centre of Emily’s mind, blocking her ability to think properly. Instead she sat motionless between the dark-suited men, keeping herself very upright, her eyes fixed straight ahead of her.

A dead man walking.

The phrase echoed in her head. She longed to ask Luis what he meant, what Oscar had said, but couldn’t bring herself to do it in the presence of Tomás and the faceless driver. The damned newspaper still lay on the seat between them, its salacious headline seeming to emit some high-frequency signal into her brain, which made it impossible to quite ignore it. Her chest felt like there was an iron band across it as she thought of Zoe, and Olivia and Bella—what were they doing now, in the aftermath of the latest shocking news? And her father…

Suddenly she felt very tired, and knew that it wasn’t just from the events of the day. It was from the past two months of fighting to keep her head above water since she’d left home—of battling loneliness, the grimness of her surroundings, the shock of struggling to make ends meet for the first time in her life. It was from before that too—from the sheer, grinding misery of missing her mother, mourning her death and her father’s betrayal.

She tipped her head back against the cushioning leather and closed her eyes. In the darkness behind their lids she was even more aware of Luis beside her. He was lounging nonchalantly, but she could sense the restlessness that lurked beneath his outward show of calm, the strength and steely determination that infused his whole being.

And as her head drooped onto his shoulder and the soapy sweet scent of hawthorn drifted in on the warm May evening she forgot to be afraid of him.

She felt simply…safe.

Chapter Three

‘OSCAR, it’s Luis.’

At the other end of the line there was a slight pause. ‘Luis—how good of you to phone.’ The words were polite enough, but couldn’t quite disguise the weariness and disappointment in Oscar Balfour’s voice. ‘If it was just to say thank-you for last night’s party, I can assure you, there was no need.’

‘You credit me with rather more courtesy than I have, I’m afraid.’ Luis smiled, playing idly with the silken fringe on the overstuffed cushion beside him. ‘I wasn’t ringing to thank you, but to let you know that I’ve found Emily.’

‘Emily?’ Instantly Oscar was alert, and the rawness of the emotion in his voice almost made Luis flinch. ‘My God, Luis—where? Is she all right?’

‘Yes.’ He paused for a fraction of a second, thinking of the sharpness of her cheekbones, her bird-like fragility, the shadows beneath her eyes. ‘She’s fine. She’s teaching ballet to some inner-city kids in one of the charity projects I visited today.’ He thought it better not to mention the Pink Flamingo.

‘In town? Tell me where. I’ll get Fleming to bring the car and get there as soon as I can.’

‘No point.’ Getting up, Luis sloshed some whisky into a glass. ‘I’ve brought her down to my hotel for dinner. From what I gather in the papers you have enough on your plate today already. Let me talk to her, and I’ll update you tomorrow.’

Oscar hesitated, and when he spoke again he sounded old and uncertain—a million miles from the elegant patriarch of one of Britain’s most celebrated families, the powerful businessman at the helm of a billion-dollar empire. ‘All right. As you say, I have a few things to sort out here. You’ll probably handle her a lot better than I can anyway.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We had an argument, when Mia arrived, and afterwards she completely cut herself off from me. That’s what kills me, Luis—she just wouldn’t talk to me at all. I didn’t push it. Lillian was dying—’

His voice cracked, and Luis took a large swig of whisky while he waited for him to continue. ‘Nothing else seemed important. I thought that afterwards…when Lillian was gone I’d have time to talk to Emily, explain about Mia. But I didn’t get the chance. She left the day after the funeral.’

‘Did she give you any clue that she was going?’

Oscar gave a ragged, humourless laugh. ‘That was the hardest thing of all. Her leaving was so complete and so unexpected. No drama, no big scene. She just…did it—severed all her ties with us completely. She didn’t take anything with her—only her ballet things and the clothes she was wearing. She even left her mobile phone, which was a very obvious way of letting me know she didn’t want any further contact.’

Luis frowned. ‘She was serious about not being found, then.’

‘Oh, yes. But that’s Emily. She doesn’t do anything in half-measures. Never has. Whatever she does she does passionately, with her whole heart and soul. I’ve always admired her for that—I suppose it’s what made her do so well at dancing—but the trouble is she applies the same rigorous standards that she expects from herself to those around her. I’ve let her down—it’s as simple as that. She thought I was decent and honourable, and now she’s found out that I’m not.’

Luis let his eyelids flicker closed for a second. ‘None of us are,’ he said savagely.

‘Lillian was,’ Oscar said simply, ‘and Emily is so like her. She’s good, through and through. But strong too. She’d do anything for the people she loves.’

The memory of the little girl on stage earlier came back to Luis—the way Emily had taken her hand and danced alongside her, giving her the courage to carry on.

‘I’m sorry.’ Oscar’s rueful voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I’m boring you to death. Look, Luis, I’m so relieved that you’ve found her and that she’s all right. That’s the main thing, but if you could…’

The sentence trailed off. ‘Yes?’ Luis prompted. ‘What would you like me to do?’

Oscar laughed despairingly. ‘I was going to say, if you could make her understand…but of course that’s unreasonable.’

Meditatively, Luis swirled the dark amber liquid round in his glass and then drained it in one mouthful. ‘We’ll see, Oscar. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Luis. I’m grateful.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘You’ll be all right here, Miss Balfour?’

Standing blinking in the doorway, Emily looked around the opulent room in front of her, and then turned to look at Tomás in alarm. ‘I—I don’t understand…whose room is this?’

‘Yours, Miss.’ Tomás’s tone was soothing. ‘Since you’re so tired His Highness thought you might like a chance to freshen up before dinner. Maybe to have a bath and relax a little before eating?’

Emily regarded the elegant antique furnishings, the soft lighting, the vases of flowers, warily, wondering what the catch was.

‘Where is Lu—His Highness?’

‘The Prince has a suite on the floor above, Miss Balfour. He’s in there right now having a drink and making some phone calls. Would you like me to ask him to come down when he’s finished?’

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ Emily said hastily. ‘No, it’s fine. I’d love to have a bath.’

If only to put off the moment when she’d have to face Luis Cordoba over the dinner table, she thought, stepping forward and feeling her feet sink into the thick pile of the cream carpet. The room was huge, decorated in a classic English country house style which—apart from the addition of a Victorian-style bath standing on a raised platform in front of the huge French windows—was poignantly reminiscent of Lillian’s pretty bedroom at Balfour. Or at least how it had been before the paraphernalia of illness had crept in to spoil its carefully designed scheme.

‘Very good, Miss Balfour. Perhaps you could phone down to reception when you’re ready? One of our staff will be there to accept the message.’ Tomás left, quietly shutting the door behind him, and Emily wandered slowly over to the dressing table, running her fingers along its polished surface as if in a dream.

She leaned forward, looking into the mirror, where her own eyes stared back at her—smudged and dark with exhaustion. She was so tired, maybe it was a dream. Maybe she’d wake up any minute and find herself back in the narrow, lumpy bed in her bedsit, beneath sheets from which no amount of trips to the launderette could remove the smell of damp…

But then she remembered Luis Cordoba was waiting for her and felt her stomach clench with painful unease that left her in no doubt that she was wide awake. Compared to where she’d just come from this place might look and feel like paradise, but it certainly wasn’t without its serpents.

She straightened up quickly, tugging the band from the end of her plait and loosening her hair with shaking fingers.

She’d been stupid to let her guard down by falling asleep in the car, but just for a moment it had felt so wonderful not to have to think any more. She was so tired of thinking, and the relief of having someone come along and take over, tell her what was going to happen and what she had to do, was profound.

It’s just a shame that that someone was a shallow, untrustworthy playboy whose interest in women extended only as far as the bedroom, she thought, crossing the room to where the bath stood in decadent splendour. Although today he hadn’t actually shown so much as a flicker of interest in her, she reflected miserably as she turned on the taps and remembered the cool, dismissive way he’d looked her over.

She stripped off quickly, wincing as she pricked her finger on the safety pin that held up the black skirt she’d bought in a charity shop. She threw it onto the bed, where it looked more depressingly cheap and nasty than ever against the silk coverlet and the smooth Egyptian cotton sheets. Quickly she reached for the hotel bathrobe that was folded, fat as a cushion, on the end of the bed and put it on, wrapping its miraculous softness around her too-thin body.

She could hardly blame him for not being interested in her.

Even she was repelled by the jut of her hipbones, the hard ridges of her ribs beneath her skin, so she had no illusions about anyone else feeling differently. Especially not a connoisseur of the female form like Luis Cordoba. Call me when you grow up, he’d taunted. But she hadn’t just grown up in the past year. She’d grown old.

The bath was full. Turning the taps off Emily shrugged off the bathrobe and hastily slipped into the water, lying back so that it covered her body completely. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply, savouring the exotic, expensive fragrance of the designer bath oil and trying to refocus her thoughts. It was criminal to let anything spoil this moment of rare luxury. Sinking farther down in the deep water she exhaled again, feeling some of the tension that had taken up permanent residence in her shoulders lately ebb away, and with it a little of her iron-hard resolve.

God, she missed the physical comforts of her old life at Balfour. The day after Lillian’s funeral, when she’d walked out with nothing but a heart full of hurt and a head full of moral indignation, if she had known what she was letting herself in for she might have hesitated for a second before slamming that imposing door behind her. Her leaving was hardly planned, it was simply a logical response to what she’d come to consider an intolerable situation. She needed time and space to come to terms with what had happened, and she’d imagined going to London, getting a place in one of the major ballet companies there, and finding herself a pleasant, sunny flat in an area where popping out to buy a pint of milk wasn’t an extreme sport…

In other words, behaving like a grown-up.

How naive she’d been. Sheltered from reality by the Balfour wealth, she hadn’t even known how much a pint of milk cost.

She had easily got auditions with three ballet companies, but it seemed that the months of grief and turmoil had taken their toll in ways she couldn’t have begun to anticipate. Each audition passed in an excruciating embarrassment of clumsy footwork, mechanical arm movements and missed timing. It was as if she had lead weights inside her, pulling her down. As if she was trying to dance with a heart full of cement.

She had failed to win a place with any company.

After that nothing seemed to matter much. She had lost everything she cared about, and it simply became a matter of survival, which meant finding somewhere to live and a means of income. The advertisement for the job at the Pink Flamingo had caught her eye because it contained the word dancing.

It was only as she’d stepped into the beer-and-nicotine-scented gloom when she’d gone to see about the job that she realised what kind of dancing it was. Horrified, she had told the oily man into whose seedy office she was shown that she had made a mistake, but after running his eyes shrewdly over her he had offered her a job behind the bar.

Realising she had no choice but to accept it had been one of the lowest points of her life.

But she wasn’t going to think about that now. She had survived the past two months by using the self-discipline she had acquired during her years at ballet school to block out the bad stuff and focus on small pleasures and triumphs: sharing a coffee with Kiki in Larchfield’s shabby kitchen, seeing the pride on the faces of the little girls in her ballet class when they learned a new position. And now this…relaxing in a warm, scented bath as the twilight deepened beyond the windows and the scent of gardenia filled her senses. This was bliss. Heaven. In fact the pleasure of the moment was so exquisite that it almost made the past two miserable months worth it, just to feel this good.

She breathed in again, lifting her feet out of the water and resting them on the edge of the bath, flexing her toes and feeling the taut muscles in her insteps soften. The only sound was the trickling of the water, and the soft sigh of her own breathing, and she suddenly realised how much she’d missed silence. At Balfour she had taken that—like so much else—completely for granted. She simply hadn’t realised what a luxury it was to lie in bed and not be kept awake by cars revving their engines in the street below, by people shouting and the noises of fights and drunken laughter.

She closed her eyes, steadying the rhythm of her breathing, emptying her mind and consciously relaxing her body. Her chin sank beneath the water as the tension ebbed from her neck. She should probably get out, she thought distantly, but it felt too good just to lie there. She inhaled, exhaled, slipping farther down in the water, losing herself in the swirling darkness behind her closed eyes as warmth and peace enveloped her, and she finally felt safe enough to let go…

She came to the second her nose touched the water. Instinctively sucking in a breath she was suddenly choking on water, gasping and spluttering as her lungs filled, flailing wildly as she struggled to raise herself upright.

Someone was holding her, lifting her high out of the water. Angels? She waited for the moment when she would look down and see herself lying there in the bath, but her body felt all too present as she felt the iron-hard chest she was being held against, and the tawny tiger’s eyes that were looking down into her face were a far cry from angelic.

She wasn’t dead, then.

It was much worse than that.

She was lying in Luis Cordoba’s arms, and she was stark naked.

She wasn’t dead.

Seeing her like that—so still, her hair floating around her face like seaweed, and not a breath or a ripple disturbing the mirror-flat surface of the water—he had felt a moment of panic, along with the painful stirring of memories long buried.

Dropping her slippery, glistening body unceremoniously onto the bed he turned to pick up the bathrobe she’d dropped on the floor beside the bath.

‘Here. Put this on,’ he drawled acidly. ‘There’s little point in bothering to save you from drowning if you then catch your death of cold.’

Still coughing, she sat up, bringing her long legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around them. Grabbing the bathrobe from him she clutched it against her. ‘Don’t look,’ she croaked, ‘Please…’

With elaborate courtesy Luis turned and walked over to the large windows, staring out into the blue dusk, his heart still beating sickeningly hard. ‘Considering you work in a lap-dancing club, isn’t the modesty a bit misplaced?’

‘I don’t dance there—I work behind the bar,’ she said through chattering teeth. And then she added almost in an undertone, ‘I don’t dance anywhere any more.’

‘Can I turn round now?’ Why did he feel relieved?

‘Yes.’

She was sitting huddled up against the bed’s plump, padded headboard. Her damp hair was pushed back from her face, emphasising the sharpness of her cheekbones and the shadows beneath her eyes. Eyes that were looking at him as if she were expecting him to tie her up and ravish her at knifepoint.

‘I’m sure I wouldn’t have drowned,’ she said miserably. ‘I would definitely have woken up when—’

Luis cut her off with a sharp, impatient sound. ‘Forgive me for not testing that theory. Next time I’ll wait until you’ve been under the water for a few minutes before I haul you out.’

And have one more life on his conscience.

‘There won’t be a next time.’ She drew the robe more tightly around her, pulled her knees more closely to her body, her eyes sapphire pools of anguish. ‘There shouldn’t have been a this time. What were you doing watching me in the bath?’

‘You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I came in,’ he said coldly. ‘I half expected to find you’d escaped through the French windows and bolted into the night, but I wasn’t prepared for a suicide bid.’

‘It was not—’ she retorted hotly, and was about to argue more when there was a knock on the door.

‘That’ll be dinner,’

‘Dinner? But—’

She sprang to her feet as two pretty room-service staff brought in cumbersome trolleys laden with silver-domed dishes and, with much blushing and fluttering of eyelashes, asked Luis where he’d like them. He ignored the obvious double entendre that would have sprung from his lips without a second thought in his old life. ‘Obrigado. Just leave them there,’ he said, with the briefest of smiles before turning back to Emily. ‘You seemed too tired to want to go down to the restaurant. I thought you’d prefer to eat up here. Is that OK?’

Emily tried not to let the shock that ricocheted through her show on her face. She waited until the door had closed behind the pretty waitresses before turning to him, unable to keep the outrage from her voice. ‘No, it’s not OK! It’s impossible. I bet they think that we’re…’ She could feel a tide of colour wash into her cheeks. ‘That we’ve…’

Utterly unmoved by her discomfort Luis was already uncovering dishes and pouring wine. ‘Just had sex?’ he suggested.

‘Exactly!’

‘Frankly, querida, I doubt it.’ Coming towards the bed with a plate of smoked-salmon sandwiches and two glasses of wine Luis smiled lazily, but his eyes were cold. ‘If we had you wouldn’t be so bad tempered. Now, come and eat.’

She watched in alarm as he swung his long legs onto the bed and leaned back against the pile of pillows. ‘B-but I’m not dressed,’ she stammered.

‘Believe me, you look a lot more respectable like that than in that awful cardigan.’

She took a deep breath, determined to rise above his taunting. ‘Look, I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want—’

But Luis cut her off, his voice suddenly edged with steel. ‘The thing is, amada, right now I’m not overly bothered about what you want. This isn’t just about you, I’m afraid. It’s about your family. Your father. He’s just lost his wife—do you really think now was a good time for him to cope with losing a daughter too?’

Emily gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I think it was the perfect time, since he’d just gained another one to take my place.’

Luis speared her with his gold-flecked eyes and nodded slowly. ‘I thought as much. This is about Mia, isn’t it?’

‘No. No, it’s not about Mia at all,’ Emily said despairingly, sinking down onto the bed, as far away from him as possible, and taking a huge mouthful of wine. As its heat stole down inside her she could feel her defences slipping, melting away like snow in the glare of the sun. After two months of bottling it all up the urge to talk was suddenly overwhelming. ‘I have nothing against Mia herself—she seems very sweet. It’s hardly her fault.’

‘What’s not her fault?’

Pain knotted in Emily’s throat, making it difficult to swallow the mouthful of smoked-salmon sandwich. ‘That my father—sorry, our father—’ she corrected, her voice dripping with irony ‘—was so weak and stupid that he had a meaningless one-night stand with a woman he’d never met the night before his wedding and got her pregnant.’

She waited. Waited for his expression of surprise at this revelation about Oscar Balfour—irreproachable pillar of the establishment.

It didn’t come.

‘No,’ he agreed nonchalantly, taking another sandwich and devouring it in one bite. ‘Accidents happen. You certainly couldn’t blame Mia for the circumstances of her own conception. Anyway, what does it matter now? Oscar still married your mother and remained happily married to her for—what—twenty years?’

She frowned, staring down at the crust of bread between her fingers, crumbling it into tiny pieces. ‘But it was based on lies,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘A good relationship can only be based on trust and truth. Love means not having secrets from someone, not having to hide anything.’

‘Does it really?’ he said softly, and with infinite scorn, as if what she had said was utterly facile. ‘And what if there are things the other person would be better off not knowing?’

She lifted her head, forcing herself to look at him. ‘Better for them, or better for you?’

He looked back at her. His eyes were narrowed, but for a fraction of a second she thought she saw something in them that was almost like uncertainty. ‘Better for you both.’

‘You have to trust the person enough to forgive you,’ she said, emotion turning her voice husky. ‘You have to give them a chance.’

He turned his head away from her and looked down. A lock of hair fell down over his eyes, making him look suddenly strangely unguarded. Emily felt a painful lurching sensation in her chest.

‘And your father didn’t do that?’ he said tonelessly. ‘He didn’t tell her, even when Mia came?’

Emily shook her head, not wanting to remember those dark days after Mia had shown up. Days that slipped by like sand in a bottle. ‘My father told us all to make sure she didn’t suspect a thing.’ She gave a bleak smile. ‘Mia pretended to be the new housekeeper, which wasn’t a great start to her life as a Balfour, but Mum had such little time left by then.’

Luis shrugged, leaning over to pick up the wine bottle from the bedside table. ‘There you are, then. At least he spared her the pain of finding out.’

‘What? So you think that makes it OK?’ Angrily she snatched her glass away just as he was about to fill it, so that wine spilled onto her bare legs.

A muscle jumped beneath the bronzed skin of his cheek. The room suddenly seemed very still. ‘I think it doesn’t alter the fact that your parents had a good, happy marriage,’ he said slowly.

Emily gave a snort of low, cynical laughter. ‘Oh, right. Your definition of a happy marriage being one where you can screw around as often as you like and it doesn’t matter as long as the other person doesn’t find out? What a lucky woman the future Crown Princess of Santosa is.’

‘That’s different.’ As if in slow motion she watched him reach out and catch the drip of wine that was running down her shin with his thumb. ‘When I marry it’ll be a business arrangement. Love will have no part in it, and I expect the future Crown Princess of Santosa will fully understand that.’

Emily turned to stone beneath his touch, terrified by the fire that was crackling along her nerves, like the fuse of a bomb. ‘A business arrangement?’ she rasped. ‘The terms of which will make it perfectly OK for you to sleep with whoever you like. And will she be free to do the same?’

‘As long as she’s discreet,’ he said softly, following the wet trail of the wine down her leg and over her ankle. ‘Jealousy is a nasty disease to which, thankfully, I’m completely immune. I’m a realist. Marriage fulfils a lot of needs—in my case practical, in your father’s case emotional. He loved Lillian, and one last fling before his wedding doesn’t alter that. It meant nothing.’

‘That’s the bit I don’t get,’ Emily said, forcing her mind to stay focused on the subject, and not on the sparks of pleasure his touch had ignited beneath her skin. ‘Why do it, then? Why have sex with someone if it means nothing?’

In the soft lamp light his face was beautiful but impossible to read. Thoughtfully he slid his hand beneath her instep, turning her foot round and studying it. Emily felt it flex helplessly, her toes curling downwards as if they had a life of their own. All the nerves of her body seemed suddenly to be concentrated in that foot, making it tingle as if with pins and needles. Distantly she remembered the sensation she used to get in her feet before a performance, how it felt as if they were coming alive.

‘If you have to ask the question you probably wouldn’t understand the answer,’ Luis said dryly, his thumb massaging her high arch. ‘Sexual attraction isn’t something you can rationalize, or sometimes even control. It’s called being human. Oscar might be your father but he’s still just a human being.’

‘I know that.’ Her voice was quivering and breathless.

‘And yet it seems to me that you want to punish him for it.’ He ran his fingertips over the hard, shiny calluses at the base of her toes, adding softly, ‘You have the most extraordinary feet.’

Sharply she pulled her foot from his grasp and stood, pacing over to the fireplace, desperate to get far enough away from him to think clearly—focus on the conversation they were having, not the very separate line of communication her body suddenly seemed intent on pursuing. ‘It’s not like that. I’m not punishing him. I just feel…betrayed. Everything feels like it’s falling apart…with my mother and Mia and now Zoe and that…that…stuff in the paper today. It’s like the whole family is damned or something—like some awful fairy tale where the wishes that the good fairy has given to the princesses turn out to be curses. The money and the good looks—they’ve just brought temptations that it seems no one can resist.’

‘Except you.’ He had got up and followed her to where she stood. Her back was towards him but in the mirror above the fireplace their eyes met and she felt her blood heat as he smiled right into them. ‘As I recall, you resisted most forcefully last year.’

‘Yes.’ She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. ‘Because I want more than that.’

He dropped his gaze, and she felt a split second of relief. But then he slid his hand beneath her hair and she stiffened again, gripped by emotions and sensations she couldn’t identify or control. Or resist.

‘Than what?’ He said softly, gently stroking the back of her neck.

‘Than quick…meaningless…sex.’ She gasped.

‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’ In contrast to her own voice, his was as smooth and slow and rich as sun-warmed honey.

‘And what makes you think I haven’t?’

It was a desperate attempt at bravado, but in the mirror she caught a brief glimpse of the golden gleam in his eyes as he bent his head and brushed his lips against her ear. Instinctively she flinched violently away from the thousand-watt electric shock that his touch sparked through her whole body.

He laughed softly. ‘That.’

Trembling, breathing as heavily as if she’d just run a marathon, Emily faced him. Cheeks flaming, she pulled the collar of the robe up around her neck and raised her chin defiantly and attempted what she hoped was a scornful laugh. ‘Just because I’m not willing to fall into bed with you the moment you click your fingers.’

Luis caught hold of the tie belt of the robe and pulled her gently towards him. ‘I see,’ he said gravely, wickedness glittering in the depths of his eyes, ‘you expect foreplay too, do you? Something like this…’

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could make the words come out his lips had covered hers and darkness had exploded inside her head, obliterating everything but him: the heat and closeness of his body, the scent and taste of him. She was shocked rigid, shocked into helplessness, unable to think, to respond sensibly. She should be pulling away, but all she seemed to be capable of was standing as still and stiff as Joan of Arc at the stake with the flames licking up around her…

Devouring her.

She was trembling uncontrollably, parting her lips beneath the firm pressure of his, opening her mouth to the gentle probing of his tongue. A whispered, shuddering sigh escaped her as he moved his mouth from hers and began to kiss a path downwards to the angle of her jaw and her earlobe, and the hand that had been resting on her hip slid across her midriff, making her quiver and gasp as the feelings that had haunted her unsettled dreams since that night at Balfour zigzagged through her again.

He laughed softly, a warm breath that fanned her ear and spread goose bumps over her skin as he straightened up and took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to his so that she had no alternative but to look into his eyes.

It was as if the sun had gone out. They were as dark and cold and empty as a moonless midnight sky.

‘I thought as much,’ he murmured in a voice that sent shivers down her spine. ‘Beneath that prim exterior you’re human too, Miss Balfour.’

Emily jerked backwards, blinking dumbly, her head reeling as sense returned and she realised that she’d just walked right into the trap he’d sprung for her. ‘How could you?’ she whispered, shrinking away from him, pulling the robe around her as if it were a suit of armour. ‘You did that on purpose. You manipulated me. You made me—’

‘Made you? No. I merely showed you how easy it is to be led into temptation. Just remember that before you stand in judgement of others.’

He turned and walked across the room in the direction of the French doors. Emily ducked her head, gritting her teeth against the tears of shame and fury that burned like red-hot needles behind her eyes, just willing him to be gone and leave her alone with her humiliation and her hot, shameful longing.

‘I wouldn’t have slept with you,’ she hissed. ‘I wouldn’t have let you go that far.’

He reached the door to the terrace and Emily felt a chill blast of night air as he pulled it open, and caught the feral scent of damp earth and grass beneath the delicate perfume of lilacs. Pausing he looked back at her, and for a moment she caught something like despair on his face.

‘I wouldn’t have tried to,’ he said wearily, and then he was gone.

Chapter Four

IT WAS a spectacular sunrise.

Luis sat at the window of his suite watching the stars fade as a warm-pink blush crept tentatively into the sky from the east. He had given up on sleep and got up when it was still velvet dark, and in those dead hours it had seemed almost unimaginable that the cold and shadowed landscape before him would ever feel the sun’s warmth again.

But gradually, inch by inch, the sleeping garden was washed with the watery rose light of the new day, softened by pearly mist. Many people would probably see it as a beautiful symbol of hope, Luis thought acidly. To him it was just another reminder that there was no let-up. No escape. Life just continued, relentlessly, whether you wanted it to or not.

Whether you deserved it or not.

There was a discreet knock on the door, and Tomás came in bearing coffee and a selection of newspapers.

‘Morning, sir. I take it you slept well?’

Picking up yesterday’s paper from Santosa Luis kept his expression neutral and didn’t bother him with the truth. The night was over. Now he had to get through the day ahead.

‘Brilliantly, thank you, Tomás,’ he said blandly, scanning the headlines. ‘Now, what exciting engagements do we have to look forward to today?’

Tomás consulted the printed itinerary on the top of his ubiquitous clipboard. ‘Well, sir, there’s nothing planned for the morning, but this afternoon you’re scheduled to make brief visits to a mother-and-toddler group in South East London, a charity that provides sports opportunities for children in the care system, and a day-care centre for elderly people.’

‘What fun. Talking of which, how’s my father?’

Tomás shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I was just coming to that, sir. I spoke to his private secretary late last night and the news wasn’t terribly good, I’m afraid to say.’

Luis looked up from the paper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Nothing to bother you with, sir.’ Tomás’s words were intended to soothe, but the note of anxiety in his voice rather spoiled the effect. ‘The king was admitted to hospital last night because he had had a little difficulty in breathing, but his doctor assured me he was comfortable and sleeping peacefully by the time I called. But it did make me think that we should perhaps think about returning to Santosa earlier than planned. Josefina in the press office is delighted at the success of the trip and the level of positive publicity it’s generated, however—’ Tomás hesitated, pressing a finger to his lips thoughtfully before adding ‘—she feels now that it would be counter-productive for you to be away from Santosa when the His Majesty is clearly unwell.’

Luis took a swig of coffee and set his cup carefully down on its saucer before speaking. ‘Do the public know how ill my father is?’

‘No, sir. It’s been reported that he has spent some time in hospital, and the press office have made a vague statement about “tests” but no official announcement has been made to the effect that the king is…’

‘Dying.’

‘That’s right, sir.’ Tomás flinched at the brutality of the word. Or at the brutality of the way Luis spoke it. ‘Josefina feels that this isn’t the right time to make that kind of statement, what with the celebrations for His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee only a matter of weeks away and everything else so…unresolved.’ He trailed off, clearing his throat and ostentatiously leafing through the sheaf of papers on his clipboard.

Luis smiled sardonically, picking up the newspaper again and turning to the sports pages at the back. ‘Don’t worry, Tomás. I understand what you’re saying. If the public got wind of the fact that King Marcos Fernando was about to die and pass the crown on to the notorious black sheep of the Cordoba dynasty there would be revolution on the streets of Santosa. Is that it?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Tomás said, quickly and hugely unconvincingly. ‘It’s just that we need to do a little bit more work on your image before the public are ready to accept you as a successor to your father. As you know, your father is deeply loved by the people, and a twenty-five-year reign was always going to be a hard act to follow, even by…’

He stopped abruptly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Luis finished the sentence for him. ‘Even by Rico.’ His heavily ironic drawl was edged with a bitter edge of despair. Tossing the paper aside he got up and went to stand at the window, gazing out unseeingly over the exquisitely landscaped garden.

The sun was up now in a sky the same colour as the swimming pool that glittered beyond the beech hedge to his right. ‘But there we have the problem, don’t we?’ he went on bleakly. ‘If even my noble brother would find it hard to please the people of Santosa, what the hell chance do I have?’

‘Every chance, sir.’ Tomás came to stand beside him. ‘You’ve made a great start in changing the way the public sees you. Now we just have to capitalise on that and keep up the good work so that—when the time comes—the public will see you as a caring, responsible monarch.’

Luis laughed hollowly. ‘Great idea. And how do you propose we perform that little miracle?’

Tomás opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment their attention was simultaneously drawn by a movement below. Emily Balfour emerged onto the terrace and walked across to the stone balustrade that separated it from the lawn beyond. She was wearing the clothes she’d arrived in last night, minus the black tights, and Luis found his gaze drawn to her bare feet. An emotion he couldn’t quite identify stirred somewhere deep inside him.

‘Miss Balfour seems like a very sweet girl, sir,’ Tomás said quietly.

Luis glanced at him. ‘Is that just an idle observation, or does it have some relevance to the conversation we’re having?’

Tomás’s tone was carefully neutral. ‘I was just wondering, sir—and without wanting to pry—is there anything of a romantic nature between you? Security informed me that you were back in your room early last night…’

‘Nothing happened,’ Luis said tonelessly, watching as Emily leaned her elbows on the balustrade. The morning sun gleamed on her polished mahogany hair, and as she tilted her face up to it, he saw her expression of absolute seriousness. She looked as cool and remote as a Victorian angel, and he remembered the fragility of her body as he lifted her out of the bath. ‘As you say, Miss Balfour is very sweet, which makes her of limited interest to me.’

Her or anyone else, he thought blackly. Those days were over.

‘Good.’

Luis raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Tomás?’

‘What we need is someone to provide a diversion, sir. Someone to absorb some of the media scrutiny, if you like, in a way that would reflect positively on you. But it would be better if it was someone with whom you have no genuine romantic attachment, to avoid unnecessary upset.’

‘When she’s no longer needed, you mean?’ Luis said acidly.

‘Essentially, sir, yes,’ Tomás conceded. ‘When the time eventually comes for you to marry and we need to begin to introduce the future Queen of Santosa to the people. But until then—’

‘Remind me who’s in the running for that enviable position,’ Luis interrupted coldly.

‘Until recently there were two possibilities, the Duchess de Mesa and Lady Helena Maygrove-Carter. However, those photographs of Lady Helena dancing on the table in a nightclub have led to the feeling that she’s not a good choice.’

‘Funny. They made me feel exactly the opposite,’ Luis drawled, his eyes still on Emily Balfour. She had placed one foot on the top of the stone balustrade and was easing gently into a balletic stretch, lying along her extended leg in an impressive display of suppleness. ‘But in the meantime you’re saying I should take Emily Balfour back to Santosa with me?’

‘It’s certainly an idea.’

Luis tipped his head back for a moment, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and gritting his teeth against the curse that sprung to his lips at this intrusion of politics into his personal life. With every day that had passed in the ten months since his brother died he realised more forcefully what a charmed life he had lived beneath the radar as Santosa’s ‘spare’ to Rico’s ‘heir.’

He was paying for those carefree years now, and he would go on paying for the rest of his life. But even the price of his own freedom wasn’t high enough to make up for what he’d done.

‘What makes you think she’d come?’ he said hollowly. ‘What’s in it for her?’

‘She seems to be having a difficult time at the moment, personally speaking. I gather that she’s unwilling to return home to her family, but I can’t help but think that her present situation is far from ideal. However, she’s clearly someone who is motivated by a desire to help other people, so it’s possible that—’

‘She’d be willing to help me out by compromising herself to improve my tarnished image?’ Luis’s laugh was harsh in the still morning sunlight. ‘I think you may be overestimating her generosity there, Tomás.’

Tomás flashed him a brief smile but it died before it reached his eyes. ‘Sir, that wasn’t quite what I was getting at. I entirely agree that Miss Balfour would be uncomfortable with the idea of being part of any deliberate deception—however, with a little help from the press office, the media might be encouraged to make their own assumptions when they see you together.’ He paused, turning round and going back to the table to pour more coffee. ‘It was actually Princess Luciana I was thinking of.’

‘Luciana?’

‘She’s just lost her mother, as has Miss Balfour. It’s my observation that Miss Balfour is perhaps the kind of person who would take comfort in comforting others, and Luciana—in common with lots of girls her age—has a keen interest in ballet.’

The spoon made a musical sound against the china cup as Tomás stirred cream into his coffee, otherwise the room was very quiet. Standing at the window Luis looked down to where Emily had straightened up and was now changing legs, hitching her skirt up as she placed the heel of her other foot on top of the stone wall and leaned forward to hook her fingers around her instep.

‘Does she?’ Distantly he registered surprise, but it was overwhelmed by the greater surprise of how extremely tight and lush Emily Balfour’s behind looked from this angle. ‘Is your wife still Luciana’s nanny?’

‘Not at the moment. She went on maternity leave just after Prince Rico and Princess Christiana died, which was difficult for everyone. Valentina says that the replacement nanny, a Senhora Costa, has worked for some of the best families in Brazil and comes with superb references, but her approach is rather formal which seems to have made Princess Luciana withdraw into herself. My feeling is that Miss Balfour might be someone Luciana would open up to. She’s obviously very good with children.’

Tomás came to stand beside him again. Luis waved away the cup of coffee he held out. The way he felt right now it would probably choke him. ‘You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you?’

‘I spoke to Josefina in the press office at some length last night, sir.’ At least Tomás had the decency to look slightly sheepish. ‘She thinks that Miss Balfour could be an extremely valuable asset to Operation Chrysalis.’

‘Operation Chrysalis?’ Luis repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

‘The process of overhauling your public image, sir.’

‘Chrysalis. I see.’ Dear God. It was like some farfetched sci-fi film where they kidnapped a public figure and replaced him with a brainwashed clone. ‘And neither you nor Josefina see any problem with using Miss Balfour as a Santosan PR pawn?’

‘I prefer not to see it like that.’ Tomás gave him a determined smile. ‘I think that we’re offering Miss Balfour an opportunity that will be to her benefit as much as ours, Your Highness. As long as certain safeguards are put in place, to protect her welfare.’

Luis stepped closer to the window and put his hand against the pane. ‘And what would they be?’

‘Firstly that you don’t sleep with her, sir.’

His fingers curled up into a fist, as if he might be about to punch it through the glass. ‘I think I can just about manage to restrain myself,’ he said sardonically. After all, he’d resisted more tempting bodies than hers in the past ten months. ‘And secondly?’

A moment passed before Tomás answered the question. When he did his voice was oddly subdued. ‘We absolutely cannot put her in a position where she could be emotionally compromised. So you must be careful—very careful—not to let her fall in love with you.’

Luis gave a harsh, hollow laugh. ‘Given the way that she feels about me I don’t think that there’s any danger of that whatsoever. The main difficulty will be getting her to agree to come to Santosa with me. As you’ve got the rest of it all worked up, perhaps you could turn your brilliant mind to that, Tomás?’

‘That’s easy, sir. Just do what you do best.’

Luis gave a twisted smile. ‘But since seducing her is not an option—?’

‘I was talking about charm, sir. You’re a prince, remember? Be charming.’

Discipline. Focus. Control.

The words that had been her mantra all through the years at ballet school echoed through her head as Emily held the stretch and felt her muscles protest. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the clear, cool, lilac-scented morning and attempted to let go of the tension in her shoulders from a sleepless night.

Discipline. Focus. Control.

It’s a shame those words hadn’t been echoing through her head last night when Luis Cordoba had kissed her, she thought bleakly. It was a bit late now. In fact, the words stable door and horse were also echoing around in the wake of discipline, focus and control.

And also, come to think of it, ruthless, arrogant and bastard…

How dared he take liberties with her like that? she raged silently, swinging her leg down from the stone wall and lifting it again in a high extension, holding her foot above her head. Not only with her body, but also with her mind, playing some sadistic game to try to expose her as some kind of…of…

Hypocrite.

The word dropped into her consciousness like a pebble into a deep, still lake.

‘Bravo! If I had roses, I’d be throwing them at you now.’

With a yelp of horror, Emily let go of her foot and staggered upright, whirling round in the direction of that sardonic drawl. Talk of the devil. Luis was leaning over the parapet that surrounded the balcony jutting over the terrace in the centre of the house.

‘I was just doing some stretching,’ she muttered, wincing at the obviousness of the statement and turning her back so he couldn’t see how much she was blushing. ‘I didn’t know anyone was watching.’

‘Don’t let me interrupt. Please, carry on.’

As if. ‘I’m finished anyway.’

‘Good. Then I’ll join you for breakfast. I’ve asked for it to be brought to your room.’

She turned round, opening her mouth to tell him to get lost, but instead gave a gasp of alarm. In one fluid movement he had climbed over the stone parapet around the first-floor balcony and was lowering himself onto the narrow ledge on the other side.

‘What the hell are you—? For God’s sake, Luis, no!’

She clapped her hands to her mouth, stopping the anguished croak of her voice as she watched him slide down so that he was holding onto the edge of the balcony. For a moment his body hung suspended, swinging, his shirt rising to show an expanse of golden, well-muscled back before he dropped to the ground.

The breath whooshed out from Emily’s lungs. He turned round, brushing the dirt from his palms as he strode easily across the grass towards her.

‘Very impressive,’ she snapped as he came closer, folding her arms across her body, as if that would contain the frantic banging of her heart. ‘But couldn’t you have come the conventional way, like any normal person?’

‘I could, but I would have had to get Tomás to inform security and bring two personal-protection officers with me.’ He pulled a chair out from the table on the terrace and sat down, and in the honeyed morning light Emily noticed lines of tension around his beautiful mouth. ‘It makes spontaneity a little difficult.’

She frowned, suddenly taking great interest in her fingernails. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. She didn’t want to feel anything for him. ‘But presumably it’s necessary—for your own safety,’ she said crossly.

‘Is it? I think that if someone wants to kill me badly enough they’ll find a way.’

The sudden hollowness in his voice made her heart lurch and she realised he was thinking of his brother. The deaths of Prince Rico and the Crown Princess Christiana in a helicopter crash had shocked the entire world. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the hard lump in her throat. ‘Isn’t that all the more reason to be careful?’

Luis looked at her steadily, and gave a slow, twisted smile. ‘No.’

For a long moment their gazes held. She’d decided, at some point while she’d been twisting between the hot sheets last night, that if she saw him this morning she would be icily polite but utterly aloof. The words drifted weakly through her head as she looked helplessly into eyes that were dark with emotions she couldn’t begin to interpret. She opened her mouth to speak—to say something that would demonstrate her icy aloofness—but at that moment there was a knock on the door in the bedroom.

It broke the spell. Luis got to his feet. Dragging a hand through his hair he spoke with his habitual wryness. ‘That’ll be the trained assassin now.’

‘I’ll get it.’

Emily darted inside, glad of the excuse to escape, and the chance to recompose herself as the room-service stewards brought out trays laden with silver coffee pots and plates of croissants. She sat down and waited for them to withdraw again, before saying stiffly, ‘I was so sorry about the loss of your brother and his wife.’

‘Not as sorry as I was,’ Luis replied, helping himself to a croissant.

The shutters were down again, his sardonic mask back in place. Determined not to let him see how much his flippancy shocked her, Emily tried again. ‘You must miss him a lot.’

‘You could say that.’ Leaning back in his chair Luis tore the croissant open with long, ruthless fingers, exposing its soft inside. ‘I’d give anything to have him back—’ he glanced at Emily with a bitter smile ‘—so I could get on with my life as it was before.’

‘Of course.’ Frowning, she took a brioche. ‘You’re the heir now. I wasn’t thinking of it like that.’

‘Weren’t you?’ he said bitterly. ‘I wasn’t aware there was any other way to think of it.’

‘Er…well,’ she said with a small, artificial laugh. ‘How about in terms of personal bereavement? You lost your brother and your sister-in-law. Your father lost his son, and your little niece lost her parents.’

‘Thank you for reminding me.’

She shook her head, speechless for a second before stammering, ‘Sorry. I—I can’t even imagine what that must be like…’ She stopped again, looking down at her hands. ‘At least, I can—a bit. How old is she?’

Luis shrugged. ‘Five…maybe six.’

‘You don’t know?’ An image of her sister Annie’s little boy appeared in her mind, and Emily felt her throat close up with emotion. Three-year-old Oliver was the darling of the Balfour clan—doted on by everyone. His birthday was a red-letter day in everyone’s diary, an occasion of extravagant family celebration and an excuse for all the sisters to spoil him shamelessly.

‘I’m not great with little girls.’

‘No.’ Emily speared a curl of butter from the dish and put it on the side of her plate. ‘I imagine they’re completely irrelevant to you until they reach the age of consent.’

Luis looked across at her with dark, dead eyes. ‘You make it sound as if that’s a bad thing, whereas I’d suggest exactly the opposite.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It’s not that I don’t care about her. It’s more that I don’t know where to start. I don’t have anything in common with her. She likes…I don’t know, pink ponies, and ballet…’

‘Ballet?’ Emily stopped, the brioche halfway to her mouth.

‘According to Tomás. Valentina—his wife—is part of the nursery staff, or was until she left to have a baby. Apparently Luciana’s ballet mad.’

He was pouring more coffee, and Emily found herself unable to take her eyes off his hands. Against the delicate white china they looked very big, very tanned.

‘Does she do lessons?’

‘No. She’s always been ridiculously shy, but since the accident she hardly speaks at all. She wouldn’t have the confidence.’

‘But ballet would be good for her.’ Emily sat up, snapping out of the hypnotic grip his elegant, long-fingered hands had exerted over her a moment ago, suddenly alert. This was her area of expertise. Her passion. ‘Some of the children I’ve been teaching at Larchfield have really come out of themselves since they’ve been learning—like Niomi yesterday. She wouldn’t even lift her head and look anyone in the face when she started, but one of the first things you learn in ballet is to stand tall and hold your head up. Everything else follows from there. You should encourage Luciana to take lessons.’

Taking a mouthful of coffee he gave a swift, dismissive shake of his head. ‘Security nightmare. I might take risks with my own life but I wouldn’t put hers in danger. I owe her that much, at least.’

Emily frowned, not understanding. ‘But couldn’t you hire a teacher? Privately?’

He looked at her, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes a little before saying slowly, ‘It’s complicated. Recruiting people to work in the household is always a long and tedious process, especially where my niece is concerned. It would have to be someone pretty special, you see. Someone Luciana could relate to, who would understand the situation she’s in…’

He trailed off. For a long moment the only sound was the innocuous singing of the birds. His coffee cup was cradled between his hands, and she was horrified by the tremor of bliss that threatened to shake her as she remembered the way they’d held her foot last night, stroking and massaging. She was aware of a creeping heat in the pit of her stomach, a gathering tension between her thighs…But then in some tiny corner of her rational mind realization dawned.

‘No,’ she gasped, her eyes widening. ‘Oh, no—You want me—’ Words failed her. She got to her feet, shaking her head as she tried to clear it, tried to anchor herself to sanity and reason. ‘After what you did last night you’re actually asking me to come back to Santosa and work for you?’

He got up too, his gaze flicking scornfully over the writing on her T-shirt. ‘Wouldn’t it be better than working in a lap-dancing club?’

She laughed shakily. ‘No. No, I don’t think it would. Because at least the men there don’t bother to hide what they want.’ She threw her napkin down and slid out from her chair. ‘They don’t play games. At least there I feel a hell of a lot safer than I do when I’m around you!’

His head jerked backwards slightly, almost as if she’d hit him and for a moment the blaze of emotion in his gold eyes almost dazzled her. But then he looked away, dragging a hand over his face as if to blank it out again. When he spoke his voice was cool and faintly ironic.

‘Your honesty is startling. Now, perhaps I’d better take you back to London.’

Chapter Five

EMILY’S hand was shaking as she tried to get her key into the lock. Behind her she could hear the low, thrumming purr of the car engine.

Don’t look round, she told herself desperately, gritting her teeth. Just concentrate on opening the bloody door and getting inside where you can forget all about Luis Cordoba and his…his…proposition.

The door opened and she stumbled into the dingy hallway. Instantly she was assailed by the smell of damp, stale air and overboiled vegetables, and automatically held her breath as she tiptoed quickly past Mr Lukacs’s door towards the stairs.

‘Is that you, Miss Jones?’

She froze for a moment on the third step, her heart thudding. No, she thought despairingly. It’s not actually. I’m not Miss Jones, I’m Emily Balfour—what the hell am I doing here? The past twelve hours—the exquisite luxury of Luis’s hotel—only served to make her more cruelly aware of the filthy carpet, the black halo on the wallpaper around the light switch left by dirty, anonymous hands. With a shudder of disgust she raced as quietly as possible up the remaining stairs and along the corridor to her room.

She’d done the right thing, she told herself fiercely. Mr Lukacs’s house in Bedford Street might not be a palace, but at least she was living there on her own terms, without compromising herself or the values she’d already sacrificed so much to uphold. Teaching ballet to Princess Luciana sounded like a dream job on many levels, but it wouldn’t be that simple. Not with Luis Cordoba around. He did things to her head and turned her into a person she didn’t recognize and certainly didn’t want to be.

Turning the key in the lock she slipped inside and shut the door softly behind her, letting out her breath again. For preference she would have continued to hold it, as the damp, mildewy smell was almost as bad up here, but although she’d learned to do without many things she’d considered essential in her old life at Balfour, breathing wasn’t one of them. Suppressing a shudder, she tossed her keys onto the cheap bedside table and quickly crossed the horribly patterned carpet to the wardrobe.

She was late for work, which at least meant that there was no time to dwell on the clothes she had left behind at Balfour as she pulled a black dress off its metal coat hanger. Struggling out of her tights she was just about to take her top off when there was a knock at the door.

‘Miss Jones?’

Emily stiffened, her eyes darting nervously to the door. It was locked, thank goodness. From the other side she could hear Mr Lukacs’s heavy breathing as he bent to listen for sounds of life inside, and felt a fleeting moment of guilt. He was just a lonely, middle-aged man with no one to talk to, she knew that. It was just the way his small, damp eyes scuttled over her as he talked that unsettled her.

‘Miss Jones, are you there?’

Uneasiness crept up the back of Emily’s neck as, taking great care not to make a sound, she lifted her top over her head. Hopefully he’d give up and go away in a minute, she thought, tiptoeing over to the sagging chest of drawers and wondering how she was going to open them and get her underwear out without making any noise. The top drawer was broken so you had to wedge it shut in a certain way and then yank it out…

She stopped dead. The drawer was open a little way, its broken front gaping, some of the knickers and bras spilling out. Had she left it like that?

The scrape of a key in the lock made her blood run cold and answered her question. In slow motion she watched the door open, feeling as if icy, invisible hands were gripping her body and covering her mouth as a bulky, lumbering frame sidled into the room.

‘Mr Lukacs,’ she croaked grabbing the top she’d just discarded and clutching it against her, she shrank backwards. ‘What are you doing?’

For a moment she saw alarm flare in those tiny, furtive eyes. ‘Miss Jones…I…’ He held up the key. ‘I thought you were out.’

Her heart pumped adrenaline through her shaking body, returning sensation to her limbs and her numb, horrified brain. ‘Wh-what do you mean? If you thought I was out why are you letting yourself into my room?’ Her eyes flickered back to the underwear drawer, but she swallowed back hysteria and forced herself to keep her voice steady. ‘You have no right to come in here and look through my things.’

His black eyes slid away from hers. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that you’re very behind with your rent,’ he wheezed, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. ‘So you can’t very well talk to me about rights, Miss Jones.’

The apologetic note in his voice was horribly sinister. With his greying shirt straining across his dough-like stomach and his thin, greasy hair there was something pathetic about him, and Emily would almost have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t been so thoroughly unnerved.

‘No, well…’ She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry about that, but I’m on my way to work right now, so I can pay some of what I owe you…’

‘Some of it? Oh, dear.’ His beetle-like eyes had come to rest somewhere around Emily’s midriff. Surreptitiously she edged backwards as he ran his tongue over his lips before continuing. ‘However, I like to think that I’m a reasonable man, and in view of your…financial difficulties…maybe we could come to an arrangement. A friendly arrangement…’ His eyes flickered briefly up to meet hers, and there was a hungry look in them that made Emily feel sick.

‘No,’ she said in a small, strangled voice. The wardrobe was right behind her now—there was nowhere left to run. He was too big to fight off, so she took a gamble on the only option left open to her. Standing as straight as she could she spoke in the chillingly upper-crust voice of her headmistress at ballet school. ‘No. I’ll make sure you get the money. Now, please get out.’

For a moment Mr Lukacs’s face worked and she thought he was going to argue, but he seemed to think better of it and with one last malevolent glance he was gone. Emily managed to stay upright until the door had shut behind him, but then her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the sagging bed. In the mirrored door of the wardrobe she could see her face—a waxen oval with two dark smudges for eyes.

Shaking, she closed her eyes, dropping her head into her hands and holding her breath against a sudden rush of hideous, debilitating homesickness as she thought of her bedroom at Balfour. Vividly she could picture the sun pouring through the windows with their view out over the garden, the rose-patterned curtains, the bed with its little gold corona and white muslin drapes. Unconsciously she got to her feet, light-headed at the idea of walking out of this horrible house and going home. So what if she didn’t have enough money for the train fare? All she had to do was go and flag down the nearest taxi and Oscar would pay when they arrived at Balfour. For the taxi and the rent she owed to Mr Lukacs…

Call me when you grow up.

Luis Cordoba’s voice echoed in her head, just as if he’d been in the room and whispered the words tauntingly into her ear. She sank back down onto the bed with a moan of despair. Of course she couldn’t go running back to Daddy and get him to make everything all right. She had to do this on her own.

Whatever that meant and whatever it cost.

The moment the car door shut behind him, Luis’s smile disappeared as instantly as if it had been switched off and he slumped back against the seat.

According to Tomás it had been a successful afternoon. The visit to the mother-and-toddler group had passed off smoothly, apart from the moment when one particularly attractive young mother had handed him her baby to hold and he’d been so horrified he’d almost dropped it. Women thrusting babies at him had been a stock image from his worst nightmares for years, but luckily he’d managed to make a joke about it and hand it back quickly. The sports project had been better. Sport—the urge to compete and the natural compulsion to win—was something he understood. He’d been genuinely interested to watch the children. So much so that for a while he had almost been able to stop thinking about Emily Balfour.

Consciously anyway, although the little pulse of dissatisfaction, an uncomfortable sensation of having failed, still crouched in the back of his head like a migraine waiting to strike.

The car began to move, and with massive effort he raised his hand to wave to the small crowd of elderly people gathered outside the residential centre before pushing it wearily through his hair and exhaling through tight lips.

He’d failed Oscar. And now he’d seen where Emily was living he understood that he’d failed her too. Deus…the place where they’d dropped her off earlier was beyond belief. The only positive thing he could think of to say to Oscar about the house in which his daughter was renting a room was that it didn’t have its windows boarded up, like most of the others in the street.

Guilt—his familiar companion over the past ten months—settled on the leather seat beside him, enveloping him in its suffocating embrace as he thought back to this morning. When she had refused his offer there had been a part of him that had been relieved.

Because she was right about him. She seemed to be able to see through him, right into his hollow heart in a way that few other people could. What was it that Oscar Balfour had said? She’s good, through and through…She applies the same rigorous standards she expects from herself to those around her…

And that was what had stopped him trying to change her mind about coming to Santosa. He was already perfectly aware of the coldness of his own heart, the blackness of his own sins, without having Emily Balfour pointing them out.

But that was before he’d seen where she was living.

‘I think that went very well, sir,’ Tomás said brightly, settling back into his seat and shooting a sideways glance at Luis. ‘You certainly succeeded in charming the ladies. They were all eating out of your hand.’

‘Nice to know I haven’t completely lost the ability, then,’ Luis said, staring moodily out of the window.

‘Ah. You’re still thinking about Miss Balfour? Don’t worry, sir. We’ll think of something else to help your image. You did all you could.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

Luis sat up, a muscle flickering in his cheek. ‘We’re going back to the community centre where she works. Forget charm. This time we do it my way.’

‘Sir?’

Luis turned to Tomás with a grim smile. ‘This time we try blackmail.’

Compared with the other stains on his conscience, it would hardly cause a shadow.

‘No…!’

Kiki stopped, her custard cream halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. ‘He actually let himself into your room? While you were getting dressed?’

Emily nodded miserably, taking a mouthful of gritty instant coffee. ‘He has his own key apparently, and I have a nasty feeling it wasn’t the first time…’ She had a sudden image of the drawer containing her underwear, open slightly, its broken front gaping and the contents spilling out. She suppressed a shudder and took another hasty mouthful of coffee.

‘Pervert,’ Kiki said disgustedly. ‘Oh my God, that is so creepy. I know the room’s cheap, Emily, but really, you have to find somewhere else.’

They were standing in the kitchen at Larchfield. Or at least Emily was standing; Kiki was perched on the countertop, the packet of custard creams beside her.

‘I know,’ Emily said with quiet despair, gripping her coffee cup in both hands and staring unseeingly out of the window. ‘But it was the cheapest room I looked at by miles, and I’m already struggling to afford the rent. I just didn’t know…I never thought…’ She shook her head, struggling to explain without giving herself away how little idea she’d had about the realities of living on the minimum wage. ‘I had no idea how expensive living in London would be.’

Kiki regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I take it your move down here wasn’t exactly well-planned, then?’

she said, through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Were things at home difficult?’

Emily nodded. She’d come to regard Kiki as a close friend, but they’d never discussed anything personal. For obvious reasons. Like the fact that if they did, Kiki would realise that Emily had been deceiving her from the start.

‘I had a…disagreement with my dad. My mum was ill and I stayed until she died, but the day after her funeral…I…just couldn’t be there any more, knowing what he’d done.’

‘And what he’d done—’ Kiki probed gently ‘—makes going back out of the question?’

Emily’s hands tightened around her mug and she closed her eyes briefly. Cheating on her mother, fathering a child, lying to them all and expecting her to lie too…

‘Yes. It’s out of the question.’

Kiki sighed. ‘I wish I could help, but we just don’t have the budget to be able to pay you for what you do here. I would if I could.’

‘I wouldn’t do this for money,’ Emily said bleakly. ‘I do it because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.’

‘Well, that’s another reason to hope we stay open,’ said Kiki with a rueful smile. It faded quickly. ‘So what are you going to do? You can’t stay under the same roof as the weird sex pest, and if your wages won’t stretch to somewhere decent…’

‘There is one thing.’

Emily was looking out of the window again, a strange, blank expression on her face. Outside the day hadn’t lived up to the promise of this morning, and along the street she could see the cherry tree she’d passed yesterday. Since then its extravagant froth of silken blossom had been stripped by the wind, and now it looked forlorn and ragged.

‘Marry a millionaire?’ Kiki suggested in a weak attempt at humour.

A car was drawing up by the kerb on the other side of the wire fence of the community centre—a huge, black, shiny car with tinted windows. Emily watched it dispassionately. Around here expensive cars like that meant only one thing.

‘If you could find me one that isn’t a drug dealer I’ll consider it. Until then I have to be a bit more pragmatic.’ Ruthlessly she pushed away the memory of Luis Cordoba and his tempting, tantalizing, far-too-good-to-be-true offer and said dully, ‘My boss at the Pink Flamingo has offered me a dancing job.’

‘Dancing?’ Kiki’s face fell. ‘I take it you’re not talking about ballet. Oh, Emily—you couldn’t. You haven’t said yes, have you?’

Emily’s hands were shaking, making the surface of the cooling coffee in her mug quiver. ‘I said I’d think about it. But actually, I think it’s best not to.’ She attempted a laugh, but it turned into a kind of strangled sob. ‘After all, what choice do I have? The money would be twice, three times, what I earn behind the bar, and until Prince Charming comes riding up on his white charger—’

A loud knock on the door made them both jump. Kiki rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘What do you want?’ she yelled.

The door opened. Emily gasped.

Standing there, looking relaxed and golden and as out of place as a sunflower in Siberia, was Luis.

‘Coincidentally, I want Miss…Jones,’ he said, answering Kiki’s question, but looking directly, unnervingly, at Emily. He was dressed in charcoal-grey trousers and a very pale pink shirt, the collar of which was open, as if he’d just discarded his jacket and torn off his tie. Suddenly Emily felt like she’d stepped out of the freezer and into a heatwave. ‘I hoped I might find you here.’

‘Your Highness…’ Flustered, Kiki slid down from the countertop and executed a kind of awkward curtsy. ‘I’m sorry—I mean, I didn’t know…’

Luis ignored her. His eyes were still fixed on Emily. ‘What’s wrong?’

Emily took a hasty mouthful of coffee, aiming for a fraction of the nonchalance he conveyed so effortlessly. ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

He shifted his gaze to Kiki, saying coolly, ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain?’

Kiki looked from one to the other, clearly confused and hugely uncomfortable. Her grasp on royal etiquette was shaky, but she was obviously of the opinion that saying, ‘What business is it of yours?’ to a prince wasn’t really an option. Looking apologetically at Emily she said falteringly, ‘Emily’s having a bit of trouble with her landlord. He’s this really creepy guy—and he…he’s been letting himself into her room and—’

‘Kiki.’ Emily hissed. The pure, profound relief she had felt when she had first seen Luis standing there had lasted only a second, and now she had the feeling that she was in a small canoe on a fast-flowing river. His presence seemed to fill every corner of the tiny kitchen, his aura of effortless glamour and his dazzling good looks making it seem even smaller and shabbier than usual.

‘And what?’ he said, turning back to Emily.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ she said curtly. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘Looking for you,’ he replied, leaning against the door frame and smiling easily. He was back to being the laid-back playboy she remembered—all signs of the tension, the despair, she’d sensed in him earlier carefully erased.

Emily gritted her teeth. ‘Kiki, would you mind—’

‘No. I’d like Ms Odiah to stay,’ he interrupted smoothly. ‘What I have to say concerns her too and I believe there’s something you haven’t told her.’

She felt as if the ground had just moved slightly beneath her. The bastard. He was going to give her away. She was trying…she was trying so hard to survive on her own, away from her family and without her name, and he was going to turn the only friend she had against her. And why? As some kind of revenge for turning him down this morning? Or was this all about the fact that she’d turned him down before that? A year ago.

She dragged her tongue over dry lips and gave him a look that was filled with venom. ‘Luis…Your Highness…’

He raised his eyebrows and said reasonably, ‘About our conversation this morning.’ He turned to Kiki. ‘I’m very impressed with what you’re doing here, Miss Odiah. The performance last night was excellent, and it made me think of my little niece back home in Santosa. She’s very keen on ballet, but terribly shy, and as I watched last night it occurred to me how much she would benefit from Miss Jones’s tuition.’

Emily had never seen Kiki dumbfounded before. Working at Larchfield she was resolutely unfazed by violence, drugs, teenage pregnancy, self-harm and many of the more extreme aspects of youth culture. But she was clearly floundering now. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said in bewilderment. ‘You’ve asked Emily to go to Santosa and teach the princess ballet?’

Luis smiled. ‘That’s right.’

Kiki gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘But that’s—’

‘Out of the question,’ Emily cut in sharply. ‘I don’t want to leave here.’

‘What? You’re kidding, aren’t you? I don’t want to lose you but, Emily, this solves everything.’ A smile spread across Kiki’s face and she took hold of Emily’s arms, her silver bangles jingling as she shook her slightly, excitement shining in her eyes. ‘You can leave that horrible bedsit and tell your slimy boss to shove his revolting lap-dancing job up his—’ She stopped just in time, and cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, Your Highness.’

‘Lap dancing?’ Luis threw Emily a look of unconcealed disdain. She ducked her head.

‘I hadn’t said yes.’

‘But you were going to because you didn’t have a choice,’ Kiki said happily. ‘That’s what you said a moment ago, but now—’

Emily felt like the canoe was hurtling headlong towards the top of a huge waterfall. ‘But what about the children?’ she interrupted, looking imploringly at Kiki. ‘About Larchfield?’

‘I’ve thought about that.’ Levering himself gracefully away from the door frame, Luis reached into his pocket. ‘I know it will be a blow to lose such a valuable member of your team, Ms Odiah, so I want to make a donation to the centre. Perhaps then you could hire someone to continue Miss Jones’s classes…?’

Kiki’s eyes widened cartoonishly as she looked at the figure on the cheque he held out.

You had to hand it to him, Emily thought dully. She was utterly outclassed and outmanoeuvred. That little hesitation before he said ‘Jones’ wasn’t lost on her. He had her over a barrel and he knew it.

‘Aren’t you both forgetting something,’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t agreed to any of this yet.’

He smiled lazily, his eyes glittering with menace. ‘But I hope you will. You can think about it while we go back to your flat and pick up your belongings. I’m sure you won’t want to stay another night in that horrible bedsit. I’ll wait in the car, shall I?’

He went out and instantly the room seemed to darken. Emily slumped forward, the breath whooshing from her in a ragged sigh. Stepping forward, Kiki took hold of her arms again, bending so she could look into her face. Her eyes were still shining with excitement. ‘Hey—talk about Prince Charming! That’s all your problems solved at a single stroke, and…and…crikey, Emily, he’s absolutely gorgeous!’

Yes. He was.

And that was a whole new problem all on its own.

Chapter Six

SANTOSA is an archipelago of twelve islands in the Atlantic, some fifty kilometres from the coast of Brazil. With its crystal-clear waters, exquisite white-sanded beaches and excellently preserved sixteenth-century Portuguese colonial architecture, the biggest and only inhabited island is one of the most seductively beautiful places in the world.

Emily shut the guidebook that Kiki had bought her as a leaving present. Oh, well, she thought, looking out into the hazy blue infinity beyond the window of the plane, if you were going to be miserable and lonely, you might as well be miserable and lonely in one of the most seductively beautiful places in the world.

Stifling a yawn, she leaned back in her butter-soft leather seat and stretched out her legs, taking care not to touch Luis’s as she did so. As a Balfour she was used to luxury travel. Childhood holidays had been spent in either Klosters or on Oscar’s island in the Caribbean, and flying in one of Oscar’s private jets meant that queuing to get through security and waiting in crowded lounges for delayed flights were not part of the Balfour holiday experience.

And yet even Oscar’s no-expense-spared attitude to travel began to look a little low-rent when compared to flying with the Crown Prince of Santosa.

But despite the jaw-dropping luxury of the plane she still felt pent-up and on edge, her brand-new designer trouser outfit as hot and restrictive as a suit of armour. When Luis had driven her round to Bedford Street he had taken one shuddering glance into the broken wardrobe and forbidden her from taking a single item. The next day Tomás had taken her shopping on Luis’s orders, waiting in the shiny black car which was parked on double yellow lines outside the front door of Harvey Nichols. After the grim financial struggle of the past weeks, entering the gleaming, perfumed halls of London’s most exclusive department store should have felt like a return to paradise but, aware that every designer garment had an invisible price tag that was nothing to do with the one displayed in pounds sterling, Emily had kept her purchases to a few businesslike basics. Clothes for work, not for pleasure.

Nothing as vulgar as money changed hands, of course. Upstairs on the designer fashion floor, each item she tried on had been whisked away from her by invisible hands and returned to her when she emerged, shrouded in tissue in shiny carrier bags. Emily found herself unable to meet the curious glances of the shop assistants as they handed them over. Despite the soberness of the clothes she had chosen she knew that they thought she was the Prince of Santosa’s mistress.

Which was ironic, she thought with a stab of black humour. She must be the only woman in the world between the ages of eighteen and eighty that he was actively not interested in.

Almost reluctantly she glanced over to where Luis sat. He was completely absorbed in reading the sports pages of the Santosan newspaper, giving her the opportunity to look at him without having to endure the scrutiny of those golden brown eyes. He was obscenely good-looking, she thought, her lungs constricting painfully. Even unshaven, with his too-long hair untidy where he’d pushed his fingers through it as he read, he looked like a screen idol, relaxing between takes for some Hollywood blockbuster.

Restlessly she forced herself to look away, turning her body slightly so she was facing the window. She winced as pain shot down her arm from the tender spot where a Harley Street physician had given her last-minute injections. Yellow fever and typhoid, he’d explained smoothly as he’d jabbed the needle into her arm—nasty illnesses that could really knock her for six if she was unlucky enough to be affected.

Emily sighed, closing her eyes and shutting out the view of the ocean far below. There was something she was at far more risk of suffering from, and which had the potential to cause her much greater discomfort. But there probably wasn’t an immunisation against the lethal attraction of Luis Cordoba.

Luis read the same line of the match report from Santosa’s game against Santa Cruz for a fourth time. Somehow, completely unexpectedly, Santosa had won, two goals to one, but Luis had no idea how this miracle had come about because his attention kept wandering away from the page and in the direction of the sleeping girl opposite him.

Not that she looked much like a girl in that outfit, he thought acidly, giving up trying to read and tossing the paper down on the table. He’d sent her out shopping for clothes to replace the monstrosities in her wardrobe, and she’d come back with stuff that made her look like an off-duty nun.

His eyes travelled disdainfully over her sober black trouser suit. No one could say she wasn’t going to be a suitable role model for Princess Luciana, but would anyone with half a brain buy the fact that there was supposed to be something romantic between them? She was as far removed from the women he was usually linked with as it was possible to be. Thank goodness Tomás had alerted him to the fact that she’d come out of the shop with suspiciously few bags, so he’d been able to ring Harvey Nichols’s personal-shopping department and order some more suitable clothes in her size. The assistants had been delighted and slightly vindicated to be able to package up all the items Emily had flatly refused to try on first time round.

The smile faded, and he looked thoughtfully at her sleeping face. Her dark hair was drawn back from her forehead in a way that might have been intended to look sophisticated but which merely seemed to emphasise her vulnerability. With her wide-set eyes closed, that incredible Balfour blue hidden, her face was oddly bleached of colour, giving her the appearance of a girl in a Victorian sepia-tinted photograph. His gaze lingered curiously on her lips, which were about the only part of her you could describe as plump…

He looked quickly away, shifting irritably in his seat as razor blades of forbidden desire cut through him. Deus, this self-imposed celibacy was doing unpleasant things to his head, and his body.

But of course that, he thought bitterly, was entirely the point of any punishment. It made you focus on your crime and repent.

Tomás appeared beside him. ‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes, Your Highness. Welcome home.’

Luis nodded, taking a deep breath in as the usual feeling of claustrophobia descended on him. ‘Home,’ he echoed ironically. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be where you can relax and be yourself?’

Tomás threw him a rueful look. ‘Very funny, sir.’ He nodded in Emily’s direction. ‘Would you like me to wake Miss Balfour?’

‘No. I’ll do it.’

Tomás wasn’t the only one who was surprised by the sharpness of his reply. Anyone would think I want an excuse to touch her, Luis sneered inwardly, moving round the table so he was sitting beside her. Her head was tilted to one side, exposing the long sweep of her pale, delicate neck, and his gaze travelled along it, from the sculpted hollow at the angle of her jaw to the place where it disappeared beneath the stiff fabric of her jacket. However, his imagination didn’t stop there. Eagerly it filled his head with images of the supple, girlish body under the grown-up clothes. The small breasts that he’d seen when he’d lifted her from the bath…the concave midriff and narrow hips…

Tomás’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts. Fortunately.

‘I just had a call from Josefina in the press office, sir. She’s tipped off her contacts about your arrival, so we can expect a…select press presence.’ Tomás glanced meaningfully at Emily.

‘Let the circus begin.’ Luis kept his voice very low so as not to disturb Emily, but the bitterness in it was still all too audible. ‘So tomorrow morning Santosa will be waking up to front-page pictures of me getting off the plane with my new “love interest”?’

‘That’s what we’re hoping, sir,’ Tomás whispered. ‘A feel-good story, to divert attention away from the less happy news of His Majesty’s illness. So perhaps if you just bear that in mind as you walk to the car with Miss Balfour…?’

‘What, and ravish her on the tarmac, just to get the message across?’

‘Oh, no, sir.’ Straightening up, tugging his cuffs smartly into place beneath the sleeves of his jacket, Tomás’s tone was brisk. ‘We’re trying to reinvent your image, remember? This isn’t about sex, it’s about showing that you’ve put those days behind you. Presenting you as a sensitive, honourable, caring prince.’

Letting his head fall back against the seat, Luis laughed. It was a harsh, joyless sound. ‘Tell me, Tomás. Does any of this ever strike you as wrong?’

‘Wrong, sir? What could be wrong with that?’

‘That in order to appear decent I have to lie? In order to appear honourable I have to use people?’

‘It’s part of the job, sir,’ Tomás said simply, looking out of the window. ‘You’re doing it for the monarchy. For Santosa. Ah. We’ll be landing directly. You’d better wake up Miss Balfour.’

It was dark, and Emily was dancing.

It felt good as her body took the familiar positions—neat, tight, controlled—but something was wrong, and as she raised her leg in a passé she realised that instead of ballet shoes she was wearing high heels.

She faltered, teetering dangerously as the darkness around her was filled with a loud roaring sound, and she was suddenly sickeningly aware that she standing on a very small platform, high, high up. Someone was holding her, with strong hands that were making warmth spread through her muscles, melting them and turning her body boneless and languid. She stiffened against them, knowing that she had to keep dancing, had to keep her body taut and hold those rigid positions, because if she didn’t she would fall into the void, but it was no good. However much she tried to resist, the warmth was seeping through her, and she was melting, unable to stop herself, and falling, falling, falling…rushing downwards…hurtling through space…

There was a jolt. Emily’s eyes flew open.

Luis’s face swam in front of her, and for a moment the warmth washed through her again as she looked into the golden pools of his eyes. It was his hands on her shoulders, holding her, his thumbs gently massaging her collarbones.

She sat up. The plane had landed, she realised groggily. That explained the sensation of falling, although not why her stomach still had that feeling you get in a lift, speeding upwards.

‘We’re here,’ Luis said tonelessly, letting her go.

Emily blinked, trying to drag her unwilling brain back to consciousness. How typical that after two nights in the hotel where sleep had proved irritatingly elusive, it had claimed her now with such undignified thoroughness. God, she’d probably snored. Or had her mouth ridiculously open for the past two hours.

‘This is Santosa?’ she muttered, bowing her head as she fumbled with her seat belt.

‘Yes. There’s a car waiting to take us to the palace.’ Luis had got to his feet and he towered over her so that she felt dizzy just looking up at him. Instead she focused on his hand, hanging loosely at his side, which was right in line with her gaze. His skin was smooth and tanned to the colour of golden syrup and his fingers were long, but broad and unmistakably strong.

She shivered, the dream still vivid in her head, her body still tingling with sensations that were half remembered, half imagined.

Hastily she got to her feet as he stood back to let her go ahead of him into the aisle. At the door of the plane the damp heat hit her. It was like walking into the steam room in the pool complex at Balfour, and that combined with standing up so quickly after being deeply asleep made the blood rush from her head. She faltered on the stupid high heels she’d hoped would make her seem more grown-up, gripping the hand rail for support. And then Luis’s arm snaked round her waist.

‘All right?’

She nodded, not letting herself lean against him. ‘Stood up too quickly,’ she gasped. ‘And the heat…’

They reached the bottom of the steps, but he didn’t loosen his grip on her waist. Instead she felt his other hand move to the front of her jacket, his fingers working deftly at the buttons.

‘What are you doing?’ Looking up at him she made to pull away but he held her tighter, pulling her into his body as he freed the last button and threw open her jacket.

‘Cooling you down,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re way too hot.’

If the heat of the day had felt intense before, it was nothing compared to the molten lava of desire that erupted inside her, flowing through her veins so her whole body glowed with it. Oh, God, this was what she’d feared. This was the reason why she’d turned down this job, because she knew she didn’t have the sophistication or the defences to withstand his careless, arrogant flirting.

But he didn’t look arrogant now. His face bore none of that sardonic mockery she’d seen so often, and there was a stillness about him that made her stomach turn over. For a heartbeat neither of them moved. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses which disconcertingly mirrored Emily’s own face back at her, but she was barely aware of that because all she could focus on with any clarity was his mouth. The way his top lip rested on the fuller bottom one—the sharp indentation at its centre, and the slight sheen of sweat on his skin.

The sticky heat ebbed around them, giving the day a strange, slow-motion feel, like swimming through honey. Still drugged with sleep, Emily found herself remembering how it felt to be kissed by that mouth, unconsciously parting her lips and letting her tongue move over them as a breathy sigh escaped her…

He froze, and in the split second before his mouth came down on hers she glimpsed an expression on his face that was almost like pain. And then she was melting into him and he was kissing her with an urgency that was utterly at odds with his habitual insouciance. His arm was still around her waist, holding her up, and he slipped his other hand beneath her jacket, moving up over her ribs. Forked lightning zigzagged through her, nearly splitting her in two, as he brushed her breast, bare beneath the thin silk of her rose-pink camisole.

A tremor went through him, and for a moment the kiss went from urgent to almost savage. It was as if he was acting against his will, but was powerless to do anything to stop. And then he was pulling himself away, straightening up, setting her back on her feet again without his arms to hold her up.

Behind him, Tomás was coming down the steps of the plane, his expression thunderous.

‘Your Highness, the car is waiting.’

In the car it was cool again. Emily felt the air conditioning turn the sweat in the small of her back to ice water and bring some sense back into her feverish brain. They began to glide smoothly forward across the tarmac and she watched the plane that had brought them from London and familiarity getting smaller as they left it behind.

She didn’t dare look at Luis, slumped at the opposite side of the seat. Everything that she had been afraid of was happening already and she’d only got off the plane a few minutes ago, she thought despairingly. Her hands tightened around the guidebook she still held and she looked out of the window. They were driving along a road flanked by palm trees and a few low houses in shades straight from a child’s paintbox. Even the flowers in the window boxes were unfamiliar—exotic splashes of scarlet and magenta and egg-yolk yellow that she didn’t recognise as being like anything from home.

But that wasn’t surprising. Nothing here was like home. Even she was different.

‘I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.’

Startled, she looked round. Luis was watching her, his eyes hooded and his face grim.

The apology took her completely by surprise. She had expected the same cold lack of remorse as he’d shown in the hotel and had been ready with the convenient indignation, but the bleakness in his tone made it all dissolve into ashes.

‘No, please…it was my fault too. I—’ She broke off just in time, biting back the words that were in danger of tumbling out of her mouth. I wanted it. ‘I was still half asleep,’ she finished weakly.

He sighed. ‘Even so. It was…wrong.’

Was it? A cold, heavy sense of disappointment, of desolation, settled in the pit of her stomach and she turned to stare unseeingly out into the green, unfamiliar landscape. How could it be wrong when it felt so right? Impulsively she opened her mouth to say this, but one glance at his face made the words dry up and lodge in her throat.

In profile he looked as if he’d been carved from stone. Cold, hard, utterly emotionless—a tombstone effigy of the man who had kissed her with such violent passion only a few minutes ago.

But maybe he wasn’t kissing her, she thought as icicles dripped down her spine. She’d just been there.

The silence fell over them like a suffocating blanket. Gradually she became aware that she was gripping the guidebook on her knee so hard that her fingers had gone numb. She flexed them painfully back into life, and opened the book, desperate for some escape from the humiliating realization that Luis had kissed her because she was convenient, because she was a female pair of lips and he was bored and frustrated and because that was what he did. The history of Santosa was as good a diversion as any.

Portuguese explorers discovered Santosa by mistake when they were attempting to return home from their voyage around the new world. The ships, weighed down with cargoes of brazilwood, floundered on the rocky cliffs on the south-west point of the island and many sailors were lost. However, one of the survivors was Henrique Cordoba, Duke of Santosa—a flamboyant nobleman, notorious rake and favourite of the king, who had been sent on the voyage to escape gambling debts and a series of scandals involving the wives of other high-profile members of the court.

It must be a family trait. She turned the page, and felt the breath catch in her throat as she found herself looking straight into familiar, laughing golden eyes.

The Santosan royal family today, said the caption underneath. King Marcos Fernando and his sons, the Crown Prince Henrique and Prince Luis.

The photograph had been taken some years ago, she realised with a lurch of her heart. Luis’s face was younger, more open, with none of the hardness and cynicism that were etched into it today. His smile was wide and untainted by irony, and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother he looked heart-stoppingly handsome.

Her gaze shifted to Rico. His colouring was darker than Luis’s, his hair shorter. He looked quieter and, compared with Luis’s dazzling charisma, almost severe.

‘What are you reading?’

‘Nothing.’ She tried to shut the book, but he was too quick for her. Taking it from her he glanced at the cover, and then turned back to the page she’d been reading. His expression hardened as he saw the photograph, but she watched his lip curl as he read out a passage from beneath it. ‘The present monarch, King Marcos Fernando, enjoys a level of popularity amongst his people that is almost unique. His eldest son, Henrique, known as Rico, has been groomed all his life to one day take his father’s place on the throne, and is held in high regard and great affection by the Santosan people. Oh, dear,’ he said scathingly. ‘Not the most up to date edition, is it?’

‘It was a present from Kiki.’

‘Very thoughtful. Clearly she didn’t think I’d be much of a tour guide, but I’ll do my best. Look—here we are approaching the gates to the palace, home of what used to be one of the most popular royal families in the world.’

His tone was mocking but Emily felt her insides freeze as she saw the chips of ice in his eyes. Mutely she turned her head away, gazing out of the window at the imposing stone gateway that loomed up ahead of them.

The car slowed and the sun was blotted out as they passed beneath it. Guards stood aside, their faces blank beneath their helmets, guns braced across their chests. Glancing upwards Emily saw the savage teeth of a portcullis rearing above them.

‘It’s like a prison,’ she joked weakly.

Luis didn’t smile. ‘Welcome to the royal household.’

Chapter Seven

JOSEFINA placed the newspaper down on the table and gave a brittle laugh. ‘It wasn’t quite the image we were hoping for.’

‘Nice picture of Tomás,’ Luis said blandly, glancing at the huge front-page photograph of him kissing Emily Balfour at the foot of the plane steps beneath Tomás’s grim gaze. ‘Very statesman-like.’

‘Which, with respect Your Highness, is more than can be said for you.’ Tomás looked pained. ‘We talked about this. We’re trying to present you to the people of Santosa in a new light, as responsible and—’

‘Caring. I know. And there I am, being caring. Miss Balfour was far too hot and I was helping her to cool down.’

Tomás’s eyebrows shot up. ‘By undressing her on the tarmac?’

‘By taking off that awful jacket, yes. I’d say that was very caring of me,’ Luis said in a bored voice, turning the paper over and ostentatiously flicking through the back pages to the football scores. Despite his outward display of nonchalance a pulse was beating in his temple and he could feel knots of tension tightening in his shoulders.

‘But, sir,’ Tomás persisted, ‘I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t—’

Luis laid down the newspaper with exaggerated care. His patience hung by a thread. ‘It wasn’t planned, Tomás,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘It was just…’

What? a small voice in his head taunted. Unavoidable? Irresistible? Inevitable? Because that was how it had felt at the time. And if his own guilt and the ghosts of Rico and Christiana hadn’t been able to stop him, then Tomás and Josefina and the dictatorial demands of the bloody press office had no chance.

‘Sir.’ Josefina’s deliberately placating voice broke into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. Across the table she clasped her hands together, her long, shiny, scarlet nails reminding him of the bloodstained talons of some bird of prey. ‘Sir, I hate to discuss your private life like this, but—’

‘Really?’ Luis arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you loved discussing my private life. You’ve made a career out of it, in fact. You and many of the world’s gossip columnists, tabloid journalists, newspaper editors and the entire Santosan government.’

Her painted mouth shaped itself into an apologetic smile. ‘Well, sir, you must understand that it’s now a political matter rather than simply a personal one. Unless we can persuade the people of Santosa that you’ve left the mistresses and fast cars and wild parties behind you, the Royal House of Cordoba’s five hundred years of rule could be in serious jeopardy. The people want a king they can look up to, Your Highness. Someone…regal.’

‘Maybe we should advertise for the position.’ Luis idly coloured in the bikini pants of the winner of this year’s Miss Santosa contest, who was staring mistily out from page three in her tiara and a sash.

Josefina stood, pacing along the length of the polished table and giving him a great view of her lush curves, encased today in a tight emerald-green dress. ‘Sir, it’s not a job. It’s your heritage. Your birthright. Your destiny.’

Luis opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again, throwing down his pen and leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. What was the point? It didn’t matter what Josefina called it, or how she and the palace press team packaged it; it couldn’t alter the truth.

It had been Rico’s birthright. Rico’s destiny. It was Luis’s punishment. His prison term.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face and looked up at Josefina with a chilly smile. ‘Of course. Thank you for reminding me. So what do I need to do?’

‘“The time has come for you to be married,” the queen told the handsome young prince. “Tomorrow night, all the eligible young ladies from every high-born family in the kingdom will gather here for a ball, and you must choose your wife from amongst them.”’

Emily paused, holding out the book so that the little girl could see the picture. Luciana was sitting at the opposite end of the window seat, her dark eyes fixed warily on Emily’s face, but now she looked down at the book and edged a tiny bit closer. Encouraged, Emily pointed to the picture and said softly, ‘There’s the prince, in his smart clothes for the party. Isn’t he handsome?’

Solemnly Luciana nodded. ‘Like Uncle Luis,’ she said in a voice so quiet Emily had to lean right down to hear it. ‘Uncle Luis is the Prince of Santosa. He’s handsome.’

Straightening up abruptly, Emily cleared her throat. ‘Yes, yes, he is, isn’t he?’ she said brightly, picking up the book again and resisting the urge to hold it right up in front of her face so Luciana wouldn’t see her discomfort. ‘Anyway, let’s get back to Swan Lake. Where were we…? Oh, yes. Prince Siegfried was angry and frustrated. He didn’t like the idea of marrying a girl of his mother’s choosing, no matter how elegant her manners or how noble her birth. He wanted to marry for love. The queen looked sad. “You are a prince, my son, and a prince has many luxuries, but choice is not one of them. And neither, I’m afraid, is love. You must—”’

‘Stop whining and just enjoy the fast cars and the champagne,’ interrupted a familiar ironic voice from the doorway.

The book jerked violently in Emily’s hands and her throat closed instantly, stopping her midsentence. At least a dozen acerbic responses to his comment jumped into her head, but all of them died on her lips as she looked up and saw him coming towards them, his hands in his pockets.

‘Hello, Luciana, how are you? I haven’t seen you for ages.’

And Emily hadn’t seen him since yesterday, which had been enough time for her to play down his gor-geousness in her mind and have a good go at fooling herself that kissing him had been no big deal. Seeing him now, shockingly attractive in a soft, pale blue collarless shirt and faded jeans, was seriously unsettling.

Luciana quailed a little, as if she’d like to hide behind Emily, but dutifully she slid down from the window seat and bobbed a small, shy curtsy before shrinking back again. A bolt of shock and anger shot through Emily, but Luis’s bland smile didn’t falter.

‘Please, carry on with the story,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I’d quite like to know what happens.’

Emily kept her attention focused on Luciana. Someone had to, she thought stiffly. She’d barely met her, but it was obvious that the child was seriously troubled. No wonder. From what she’d seen so far it appeared that the royal method of dealing with an orphaned child’s grief seemed to be to hide it behind etiquette and protocol.

‘It’s fine,’ she said briskly. ‘We can finish it later. I’m sure you’d like to talk to your niece, as you haven’t seen her for a while.’

Just for a second she saw alarm flare in his eyes and felt a perverse sense of satisfaction. He could overlook her, and treat her as if she was insignificant, but she wasn’t going to let him do the same to Luciana.

‘What book is it?’ he asked politely, looking down at her.

‘Stories from famous ballets,’ Luciana whispered, twisting her fingers together. ‘Emily gave it to me.’

‘Well, it was from Uncle Luis, really,’ Emily said quickly. ‘And all the other things.’

‘Thank you, Uncle Luis.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Luis said, raising an eyebrow at Emily. ‘Other things?’

She lifted her chin and met his eye. ‘Ballet clothes. Leotards and tights and shoes.’

‘Proper ones, not just for dressing up,’ Luciana added, pride momentarily overcoming her shyness. ‘Ones that real dancers wear, like Emily.’

‘So I see.’ He looked briefly at Emily, taking in the soft grey footless tights she wore, the little plum-coloured wrap-around cardigan and short, fluid skirt. ‘So that’s what you bought instead of proper clothes when you went shopping.’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated awkwardly. ‘But the things you ordered were waiting for me in my room last night. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.’

He made a small sound of impatience. ‘Judging from the dreadful things I’ve seen you in so far, I’m afraid I’d have to disagree. Yesterday’s funeral suit should be burned, and you can’t go out to a restaurant wearing a leotard and tights.’

Emily got to her feet, not meeting his eye as adrenaline pumped through her. He kissed her when it suited him, and yet he could barely disguise his contempt when he spoke to her. ‘Well, since I’m here to teach ballet, not go out to restaurants, that shouldn’t be a problem,’ she said with exaggerated courtesy, ‘but thank you anyway. Come on, Luciana, shall we go down to the gym and get started on your first lesson?’

‘Wait.’

They were almost at the door but the word stopped her in her tracks. She noticed the way Luciana’s grip on her hand tightened when he spoke.

‘Yes?’

She tried to keep her tone neutral, but failed spectacularly. The word might only contain three letters but every one of them bristled with defiance.

‘Has someone shown you the gym?’ he asked, crossing the room towards her. ‘I understand from Tomás that a barre has been fitted for Luciana’s ballet lessons.’

‘Yes, thank you. It’s perfect.’

‘And your room? Is your room all right?’

She laughed, thinking of the suite she had been shown to last night with its own sitting room and little sunny balcony. ‘You saw where I was living before, so, yes, thank you. My lavish suite of rooms is perfectly acceptable. Now, if that’s all—’

‘It isn’t.’ He came to a standstill in front of her, leaning against the doorway, his expression offhand. ‘I came here to ask you to have dinner with me tonight.’

She raised her chin, trying to hide her shock. ‘Is that a request or a royal command?’

He smiled, a thin smile that didn’t reach his expressionless eyes. ‘Would it make a difference to your answer?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed, and suddenly he looked very tired ‘Then it’s whichever will make you agree.’

For a heartbeat she didn’t reply. She was aware of Luciana’s tight hold on her hand. But mostly she was aware of Luis—the now-familiar, perennially intoxicating smell of him, the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the stubble on his hard jaw. ‘OK, then.’ She spoke in a low reluctant voice, as if the words were being drawn from her against her will. ‘If you’re asking as a human being, then we’d like to, wouldn’t we, Luciana?’

Emily just had time to register the flare of surprise in Luis Cordoba’s topaz-coloured eyes before she tore her own gaze away and turned her attention to the little girl at her side. Luciana blinked, biting her lip, clearly unsure how to react, so Emily dropped down to her level, smoothing a strand of dark hair back from her face. ‘It would be fun. We’ll dress up in something nice, and Uncle Luis can take us out for dinner,’ she said softly, taking hold of Luciana’s hands. ‘We can have burgers and chips and a cola float. Do you know what one of those is?’ Luciana shook her head mutely. ‘It’s a fizzy drink with ice cream on the top, and it’s my absolute favourite. What do you think?’

‘It sounds…nice.’

Emily straightened up, letting her gaze skim over Luis’s long legs, his hard stomach, as she did so.

‘Thank you. We’ll be ready at six.’

‘Excelente.’ Once more his smile stopped short of his eyes and his voice was cool and tinged with irony. ‘It looks like I have a date with two beautiful girls. Even by my standards that’s quite a result.’

Chapter Eight

LUIS would have said that his knowledge of Santosa’s nightlife was pretty much second to none, but the Purple Parrot was one restaurant that wasn’t on his personal radar.

The manager, almost hyperventilating with excitement at having the patronage of the Crown Prince, had shown them to a table on the veranda over the beach as agreed earlier with palace security, and while Emily studied the menu with Luciana, Luis looked around. At this hour the restaurant was busy with families; highchairs were stationed at nearly every table and toddlers knelt up on chairs, eating with their fingers. Luis shuddered, grimacing slightly at the plastic palm trees that held up the raffia-fringed canopy above them, the soft-toy parrots and monkeys and snakes that hid in their branches. It wasn’t the kind of place he’d usually choose to bring a woman for a date.

Not that this was a date, he reminded himself acidly. It was another duty; a PR exercise, order of Josefina and the press office.

He looked across at Emily. She was wearing a short indigo-blue cotton dress, presumably one of the things selected by the girl in Harvey Nichols. It was loose, falling in soft pleats from a low neckline and, unlike any of the other stuff he’d seen her in, it suited her to perfection. She looked young and incredibly pretty as she sat beside Luciana, her head bent over the menu, her ponytail falling over her shoulder and exposing her delicate collarbone and the back of her neck. The rapier-sharp arrow of lust that skewered him caught him off guard and made his breath catch in his throat.

Emily straightened up and smiled warily across at him. If she knew what he was thinking she wouldn’t be smiling at all, he thought acidly.

‘Thank you for bringing us,’ she said with clipped English courtesy. ‘It’s a great place.’

‘I might have known you’d like it.’

The Balfour blue eyes held his for a moment, the darkening in their clear depths showing her anger, but then they were hidden by a sweep of her dark, thick lashes as she looked back down at Luciana.

‘Have you decided what you’d like to eat, sweetheart?’

Guilt came down on him like the night as he watched Luciana lean closer in to Emily’s side, pointing shyly at the menu. Guilt was his default emotion as far as his niece was concerned, and from the moment Emily had added the little twist to his dinner invitation earlier he’d known this wasn’t going to be a relaxing evening. But that comment about this being Emily’s kind of restaurant had been below the belt.

Unseeingly he looked out over the beach below, where the fierce heat had gone out of the sun and it was beginning to dip down towards the flat sea. The truth was the strength of his response to her unsettled him, and it was as though he had to make jokes about her being a child to distract him from the fact that his body was all too aware of. Emily Balfour might have been a naive kid last year, but now she was all grown up and ripe for the taking.

By someone, he reminded himself sourly. Certainly not by him.

‘…if that’s OK?’

Luis shook his head slightly, snapping back to reality. Emily was looking at him from the opposite side of the table, her expression cool and slightly challenging.

‘Sorry.’

‘I said, we thought it would be good to get one of the big dishes, for sharing, if that’s OK with you?’

‘Fine. Whatever.’

As he motioned to one of the half a dozen waitresses who were hovering, gawping in open admiration, Emily clamped her jaw together and tried to squash the fury that was billowing up inside her. Dinner had been his lousy idea, so now the least he could do was try to cover up how bored he was. As the prettiest waitress virtually sprinted towards the table and gave a breathless curtsy Emily turned her head in disgust, following the direction in which he’d been looking a moment ago.

Ah. So that explained his utter lack of interest in her and Luciana, she thought irritably, watching two lithe surfer girls splashing about in the sea. She didn’t expect him to be interested in her, not when there were so many gorgeous women around, desperate for the opportunity to be on the receiving end of Prince Luis’s meaningless charm, but at least he could show a bit more interest in his niece, for pity’s sake.

Determinedly blocking out Luis’s voice as he talked to the waitress in husky Portuguese that made it sound as if he was describing the plot of an erotic film, Emily mustered a smile and turned back to Luciana. Her heart turned over. The child was obviously not used to being out like this and was sitting very stiffly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast. She might have been taught everything in the royal rule book about manners but someone had clearly forgotten to initiate her into the art of enjoying herself.

‘Don’t look now,’ Emily whispered, ‘but I can see something looking down at us from that tree behind Uncle Luis.’

Instantly Luciana lifted her head and looked anxiously up into the plastic palm tree. Seeing the furry toy monkey peeping through the branches her face relaxed into a smile.

‘If I was an animal I’d love to be a monkey,’ Emily rattled on. Anything to avoid having to listen to Luis flirting with the waitress. ‘I bet they have loads of fun, swinging in the trees all day. What would you like to be?’

Luciana thought for a moment. ‘Leão.’ She bared her little white teeth and held out her hands like claws.

Emily clapped her hands in delight. ‘A lion!’ It seemed an unlikely choice for a child who was as timid as a tiny kitten. But that, she realised, was probably the point of the fantasy. ‘I can see you as a lion,’ she said, very seriously. ‘Especially as you have such beautiful, strong teeth. What do you think Uncle Luis would be?’

Male chauvinist pig is the obvious answer, she thought crossly as they both regarded him across the table. And then she remembered the night at Balfour when he’d stepped out in front of her from beneath the snowy blossom tress and pulled her into the shadows. A wolf. With his golden eyes glinting with wickedness he’d reminded her of the wolf in Red Riding Hood.

‘Do I get the impression that you two are talking about me?’ he asked dryly, as the waitress departed with a final coy curtsy.

Emily cleared her throat, which suddenly felt painfully dry. ‘We’re talking about if people were animals what animals they’d be,’ she said in a ridiculous, husky voice. ‘Luciana would be a lion.’

Luis’s elegant, arched eyebrows shot up, indicating that his reaction was the same as hers had been. As he opened his mouth to speak Emily shot him a warning look, and he turned to Luciana with a nod of approval. ‘Good choice. You’ve definitely picked the best animal to be. What about Emily? What would she be?’

Luciana pointed timidly up at the monkey.

Luis made a tutting sound. ‘Oh, dear, Emily,’ he said, looking straight at her in that direct, deadpan way that he had. The way that made you forget that there was anyone else in the room. In the world. Damn him. ‘I’m afraid you absolutely could never be a monkey. They’re far too undisciplined and uncouth. Sorry, but you’ll have to think again.’

‘I don’t know, then,’ she laughed nervously, trying to dispel the heat in her cheeks. ‘What do you think, Luciana?’

Luciana’s forehead creased into a frown again, but Emily was pleased that this time it was one of pure concentration, not of anxiety. Watching her, you could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she considered the matter. Finally she looked up at Luis and said something in quick, breathless Portuguese.

He nodded slowly, and replied in the same language. For a moment, listening to his velvety voice caressing the cadences of his native tongue Emily had to hold herself very rigid to suppress the shudder of helpless longing she could feel gathering inside. As the two of them carried on their conversation she battled to bring herself back under control, so it was a few moments before she realised that they were both looking at her. She glanced from one to the other in mock alarm.

‘What?’

There was a twinkle of merriment in Luciana’s huge, dark, chocolate-coloured eyes that Emily hadn’t seen before, but which gave her a little thrill of pleasure. A little thrill of a different kind of pleasure than she got from the dull gleam in Luis’s eyes as she looked across at him.

‘We’ve decided what animal you should be.’ He lounged back in his chair, his long fingers toying idly with the menu as he regarded her. ‘It wasn’t easy. Luciana suggested a gazelle, whereas I thought you’d make a rather good flamingo, with all those bizarre ballet contortions you do, but in the end we agreed that neither of those were quite right.’

A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, and Emily found herself unable to take her eyes off his lips. ‘Go on,’ she said slightly breathlessly.

‘Well, in the end, after much careful consideration and debate—’ he glanced at Luciana, who clasped her hands together shyly ‘—we came up with the answer. You tell her, Luciana.’

‘Cavalo! Cavalo!’

‘Cavalo?’ Emily looked uncertainly from one to the other. ‘I don’t know what that is, but I don’t like the sound of it.’

‘A horse.’

‘A horse?’ she repeated in mock outrage, turning to Luciana who had clapped her hands to her mouth and was giggling excitedly—a sound which made Emily’s heart sing. ‘You think I’m like a horse?’

Leaning across the table Luis took hold of her ponytail and ran his fingers through its length. His face bore that sardonic expression, but his eyes had darkened and gleamed like antique topaz. ‘Absolutely,’ he said gravely. ‘A young thoroughbred.’ She flinched as his he brought his hand to her face and stroked the backs of his fingers across her cheek ‘Delicate, nervy, but all taut muscles and quivering energy beneath that restrained surface…’

Emily was transfixed. It was as if the touch of his hand on her cheek had cast some spell over her, and she was powerless to move. Or think properly. She could do nothing but gaze helplessly into those eyes while he added in a voice that was little more than a low murmur, ‘Unbroken, of course…’

Adrenaline and indignation and stinging hot desire crashed through her and she felt her mouth open to protest at his audacity, but the waitress was coming back, balancing the tray of drinks expertly on one hand while she executed another neat curtsy, and Luis was pulling away, leaning back in his chair, his attention already somewhere else.

Discipline, focus, control. Gathering together the shreds of her equanimity, Emily forced herself to turn to Luciana, whose face lit up as the waitress placed in front of her an enormous drink with a cloudy head of ice cream frothing on the top.

‘What is it?’ Luciana whispered uncertainly.

‘A cola float, as described by Miss Balfour earlier,’ Luis replied with a faint smile. ‘And since she said it’s her favourite, I thought she might like one too.’ He reached over to the waitress’s tray. ‘There.’ He handed her a tall flute of golden liquid, topped with a scoop of ice cream. ‘A champagne float. The grown-up version. Now you can’t say I treat you like a child.’

Beyond the shade of their palm-tree canopy the sun had turned pear-drop pink in a sky the colour of parma violets, and the beach was almost empty. The tide was coming in, each successive wave wreaking further damage to a large and intricate sandcastle Emily had noticed earlier.

That’s what’s happening to me, she thought darkly, taking a sip of ice cream and champagne. Slowly, inexorably, her defences were being broken down, and although she knew what was happening there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Luciana touched her arm very tentatively, bringing her thoughts back to reality. ‘Emily? We didn’t think of an animal for Uncle Luis.’

‘No, we didn’t!’ She forced herself to look at him narrowly over the rim of her glass. It wasn’t easy. He was so heart-stoppingly handsome that looking at him directly was a bit like staring at the sun, and doing it now made her realise how much time she spent when she was with him trying to avoid it. ‘Do you think,’ she began slowly, ‘that since you and Uncle Luis are in the same family he could be a lion too? After all, the lion is supposed to be the king of all the animals.’

Luis took a mouthful of beer and put his glass down, shaking his head. Suddenly all traces of laughter had left his face. ‘Exactly,’ he said acidly. Then he looked down at Luciana and gave a twisted smile. ‘Luciana is Rico’s daughter. She’s a regal lion through and through. But me…’ His laugh had an edge of bitterness to it. ‘Not so much.’

There was a small silence.

‘A tiger,’ Luciana suggested. ‘Uncle Luis could be a tiger?’

Emily put her arm around her and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Good idea. Uncle Luis can be a big, sleek tiger.’

Watchful. Predatory. Beautiful. It suited him very well.

‘Here’s dinner,’ growled Luis. ‘Be careful or I’ll eat it all up. And you too.’

They ate deep-fried king prawns, garlicky chicken, acarajé fritters and succulent chunks of tender steak straight from huge heaped plates in the centre of the table, accompanied by lots of French fries. At first Luciana was stiff with horror at the idea of eating with her fingers, but bit by bit, under Emily’s gentle encouragement, she got used to the idea.

Luis was tempted to feign awkwardness himself, just so Emily would have to feed him little mouthfuls from her own fingers. But, he thought, staring moodily out over the darkening ocean, it would definitely test his promise to Rico if she did.

The pear-drop sun had fallen right into the sea now and the sky beyond the palm-tree canopy was a soft sherbet pink, dotted with the first tiny diamond stars. The beach was empty, the sea flat and mirror smooth.

A perfect evening.

Across the table, Emily sucked her fingers and leaned back in her seat. The pink light gave her skin a rosy glow, so that she looked like a poster girl for some miracle cosmetic cream. Some of his ex-girlfriends paid thousands to achieve the same effect, he thought, with a twist of wry amusement. Fruitlessly, of course.

‘That was gorgeous. I think I have to admit you were right about the horse thing. I’ve certainly eaten like one.’

‘The food was surprisingly good,’ he said. And the company too. All through dinner Emily had thought up further variations of the animal game, until they’d each decided what colour, plant and type of car they’d be, and in one short hour he’d come to find out more about Luciana than he’d learned in five years.

She was drooping with tiredness now, only just remembering at the last minute to put her hand politely over her mouth as she yawned, and looking at her he felt the same old tightening in his chest. Guilt, but something else too. For a while he’d also forgotten to see her as an object, a problem, a living, breathing reproach. She was a little girl, and he liked her. In her solemnity and cautiousness she reminded him of Rico.

‘I suppose we should get this little one back to her bed,’ Emily said reluctantly, putting her arm around Luciana.

A fragile sense of something shared had grown up between them over the course of the evening. Luciana had been at the centre of the conversation—Emily had made sure of that—but oddly that seemed to have added to the sense of intimacy between them. He found he didn’t want the evening to end.

‘Would you like some coffee?’

Emily glanced up at him in surprise, and then down at Luciana. She was almost asleep, her head lolling against Emily’s side. Gathering her up, Emily pulled her onto her knee and settled her there, safe and comfortable in the circle of her arms.

It wasn’t guilt Luis felt in that moment, it was pure envy, and it took him by surprise.

‘Well…’ Emily said uncertainly. ‘She’s had such a lovely time—it would be a shame to rush back.’ She looked up at him, and her blue eyes were full of questions. ‘And coffee would be lovely.’

Luis nodded in Luciana’s direction. ‘Do you think she’s all right?’

‘I’m sure she is.’ Emily’s voice had dropped to a low, breathy murmur. ‘Look, she’s pretty much asleep. She’ll be fine, although whether the fierce Senhora Costa in the nursery will be happy is another matter.’

Luis made a sharp, dismissive sound. ‘I don’t care what Senhora Costa thinks, and I’m not talking about tonight. I mean…’ He paused, feeling the words dry and swell painfully in his throat. ‘I mean, do you think she’s all right…generally?’

‘You mean, is she coping with losing her parents?’

‘That’s essentially what I’m asking, yes.’ In the soft evening the words sounded harsh and raw. Luis realised that he was looking into Emily Balfour’s clear blue eyes almost imploringly, and he turned away and stared out over the satiny ocean instead.

Oscar’s words came back to him like a whisper on the warm breeze. She’s good, through and through, and he felt them like a knife in the gut. He wanted her reassurance, he realised. He wanted her to say that Luciana was OK, because he wanted to feel better about what he’d done. He wanted her absolution.

‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was very soft, but her words twisted the knife. ‘She’s very shy, certainly, but I get the impression that her reserve is more than just shyness.’

The waitress had brought coffee, he noticed distantly. The glass coffee pot stood in the centre of the table now, but he didn’t bother to pour it. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, of course, I’ve only just met her, and I’m not exactly an expert on children—’ she looked up at him through her dark lashes and flashed him a brief smile ‘—even though you think I actually am one.’

Luis frowned, too focused on what she was saying to pick up on the joke. ‘But you think she’s…troubled?’

‘No more than any other child who’s lost her parents so young. Tell me…’ She paused, and Luis watched her gently twining a lock of Luciana’s dark hair round and round one slender finger. ‘How old were you when your mother died?’

Luis stiffened as a tiny bolt of shock shot through him at the question. Suddenly he was back in the hotel room in England, looking down on her as she floated in the bath, her hair floating around her pale, still face. With a sharp shake of his head he shoved the image back into the dark corner of his mind where it had spent the past half a lifetime. ‘Much older than Luciana,’ he said impatiently. ‘Fourteen.’

‘And how did you cope?’

He reached out and pushed the plunger down on the coffee pot in one vicious stabbing movement, making a little of the dark liquid spill out onto table. ‘I did a lot of sport and discovered girls.’ And along with girls, the amazing, anaesthetic qualities of sexual attraction, which temporarily blotted out unpleasant emotions, like sadness and loneliness and grief. Of course, now there was only guilt to blot out, but he had to do it without recourse to the old methods. ‘I don’t think either of those things are really an option for Luciana, so I don’t see how this is relevant.’

‘You didn’t talk to anyone about it?’

He exhaled sharply, a gust of incredulity. ‘Deus, no.’

Lifting her head she looked at him curiously. Hell, she was pretty. Talking to her was the last thing he felt like doing. He wanted to silence her mouth with his and drag her off to bed.

‘You make it sound like an outrageous idea.’

Suppressing a sigh of great weariness Luis splashed coffee into the two cups. The restaurant was quieter now; most of the families with young children had left, and now the tables were occupied by surfers who’d finished on the beach for the day and were relaxing with beers. Luis envied them.

‘In our family it is.’ He swiped away the coffee on the table with the side of his hand. ‘Being a Cordoba is about saying the correct thing, not the honest thing. You can’t change that. It’s part of the deal.’

‘Surely it doesn’t have to be?’ she persisted gently. ‘There are lots of things that are beyond your control—like what happened to Luciana’s parents—but you can influence how you handle those things. Help her to deal with it.’

Luis felt as if the world had stopped turning for a moment. There was a pounding in his head, a slow, relentless throb like the beat of a drum, or the toll of a funeral bell. Suddenly his mouth was filled with ash, so he took a gulp of his coffee.

‘How?’ he said tersely. ‘How can I help her to deal with it?’

‘You can talk to her about it—about them. And let her talk to you. I think that maybe the reason she doesn’t talk much at the moment is because she knows she’s not allowed to say the things that she’s thinking.’

Luis turned away, his lip curling in disdain. There was so much Emily Balfour didn’t know. So much he hoped she’d never find out. She was too good, too honest and straightforward, to understand that talking to Luciana about what happened was impossible. Unthinkable.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said flatly, and was about to try to explain when a movement on the beach below them caught his eye. Not a person quite, but the distinct shadow of one, flickering across the uneven sand, betraying the fact that there was someone lurking beneath the veranda. One with a camera and recording equipment, he had no doubt.

Across the table Emily regarded him steadily. ‘Try me.’

But already he was on his feet, pushing the hair back from his forehead, his eyes darting around the softly lit terrace beneath the canopy.

He’d lowered his guard. He’d completely forgotten Josefina and her bloody press contacts and for a moment he had just been himself. Deus, basic error. Maybe it was just as well the paparazzi had shown up or God knows what he would have ended up saying. Doing.

‘Time to go.’

In one swift movement he was by her side, gathering up Luciana from her knee and into his arms. As he bent to pick her up he caught the soft scent of Emily’s hair. She relinquished Luciana without protest, but glancing at her face he saw a dull flush of anger along her cheekbones.

There was no time to explain.

And what would he have said anyway? That the whole thing had been Josefina’s idea, a royal photo opportunity set up to make him look better than he was? That was hardly likely to make her look upon him any more favourably.

‘O carro, por favor, Raimiro.’

While they’d been eating his two bodyguards had been sitting discreetly at a table by the door to the main restaurant, but now they leapt to their feet. Raimiro was on the phone before he’d finished speaking, and with the speed and efficiency of long practice they were moving quietly through the restaurant to the door. Luciana felt warm and soft in his arms, and he felt a surge of fury and protectiveness as he held her head against his chest and wove his way quickly through the tables.

The car drew up as they emerged into the pastel-hued evening. He pulled open the door, shielding Luciana’s face as he stood aside to let Emily in before getting in beside her. It all took just a matter of seconds. Barely enough time for Josefina’s pet photographers to have picked up their cameras.

Emily’s face was stony, but leaning back in his seat, Luis allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He’d acted completely on instinct, and for once it hadn’t been for his own benefit.

It felt surprisingly good.

Chapter Nine

CONCERNS Grow for King’s Health…

The headline said it all really, but just in case anyone was left with any doubts about the king’s illness, the huge front-page photograph of a waxen-faced King Marcos Fernando slumped in the back of the car en route from the private clinic would have settled them once and for all.

Luis looked at the picture for a long time and, aware that Josefina was virtually combusting with the urge to speak, began very slowly to read the story too. He’d got as far as the bit about sources close to the king confirming that he’d attended the clinic for a series of tests when Josefina could hold herself back no longer.

‘It really is most unfortunate, sir.’

‘Absolutely,’ Luis said gravely, setting the paper aside. ‘Thank you for your concern. I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes to my father.’

At least she had the good grace to blush. ‘Of course. That would be most kind, and obviously—’

she stressed the word slightly, which ironically had the effect of making her sound even more insincere ‘—the King’s personal health is the most important thing in all this, but my job is to keep an eye on the long-term welfare of the monarchy. Really, sir, it’s very regrettable that the King’s illness has been given such prominence at this stage. We had hoped that by going out with Miss Balfour last night—’

‘Miss Balfour and Princess Luciana. It was hardly a romantic date.’

‘Even better!’ There was a clash of bangles as Josefina threw her hands up theatrically. ‘A completely new perspective on the Prince—the perfect way to keep the King’s health in the background and show the public your caring side! The photographers were strictly briefed to be respectful of the Princess’s age and her vulnerability, sir, but in the end you hardly gave them a chance to get a usable shot. Which is why—’ she didn’t bother to conceal her exasperation ‘—you’re relegated to one paragraph on the end of the story about the King.’

‘Am I? I missed that,’ Luis drawled. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. “One person who doesn’t seem overly worried about the King’s health is Crown Prince Luis. Instead of spending the evening at his ailing father’s bedside he chose to go out for a fun dinner with his niece, Princess Luciana. This is the first time the playboy Prince has been seen with the daughter of his late brother, although this sudden interest may have more to do with the Princess’s new dance teacher, Emily Balfour, with whom the Prince was spotted in a steamy clinch recently”.’ He put the paper down. ‘How cynical the press can be.’

‘They have a job to do, sir. Just like I do. And just like you do.’

‘The difference is they chose to be unscrupulous parasites and you chose to be an arch manipulator of the truth, whereas I…’ He was about to say that he’d had his role thrust upon him, but stopped. It would have been a lie. He’d brought it on himself. And whatever other facts about himself he might allow Josefina to spin and remodel, that one was unalterable.

He sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to have ruined the master plan. Do you have any other ideas to transform my tawdry image?’

A look of immense relief settled on Josefina’s expertly made-up face. ‘Well, the first thing is to go and see your father—’

‘I have,’ Luis interrupted wearily. ‘I spent an hour with him this morning.’ For much of that time King Marcos Fernando had been asleep, and Luis had simply sat by the bed, looking down at the parchment-pale face, trying to reconcile the reality of the frail old man in the bed with the myth of the strong, infallible monarch in which the people of Santosa were so desperate to believe.

‘A private visit is no good, sir.’ Josefina looked at him as if he was missing something obvious. ‘You need to let the press know that you’re going, alert photographers and a news crew, and be ready to give a comment to reassure the people that the king is doing well.’ She spoke quickly, ticking each point off on a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘Also, I think we need to start publicizing the jubilee event more aggressively. It’s only a matter of weeks away, and it will give people something to focus on and a reason to feel optimistic in these…uncertain times.’

Luis kept his eyes fixed on the potted palm behind Josefina. It reminded him of the restaurant last night and for a moment the memory of Emily Balfour’s face, the sinking sun turning her eyes to violet and her cheeks to rosy gold. He’d joked so many times about her being a child—and why? Because of that night a year ago when she’d refused to succumb to his meaningless, empty seduction. Evidence if ever it was needed that she was wise way beyond her years.

‘…but actually, I think that’s the key.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Luis brought his gaze back to Josefina, wondering how much of what she’d said he’d just missed. He’d been so lost in thought she could have just informed him that she’d arranged for him to be fed to a cage of lions as part of the jubilee entertainment for all he knew.

‘Princess Luciana. I think she’s going to be a massive asset. I respect your decision as the Princess’s legal guardian to keep her out of the public eye, but the jubilee would be the perfect opportunity to give her a more prominent role.’

‘No.’ Luis stood abruptly, disgust mixing with the same primeval instinct that he’d felt last night when the paparazzi had appeared. An asset. Deus. ‘Luciana’s too young, and far too vulnerable. She couldn’t deal with the press, and she shouldn’t have to.’

‘With respect, sir, she’s going to have to sometime. You can’t let her grow up like some princess in a fairy tale, kept in a tower.’

‘I’m not suggesting that,’ he snapped. Or was he? Was his guilt over what had happened to Rico and Christiana clouding his judgement? What would they do?

As if she’d read his thoughts, Josefina said, ‘Prince Rico was always most keen that she should grow up understanding the duties of her position. I know it’s difficult, but I genuinely believe that she would benefit from this greatly. She already seems to have bonded very firmly with Miss Balfour, and since she’s a trained ballet dancer…’

Luis shook his head, his mind was whirring. ‘Wait a minute—what exactly are you suggesting?’

‘The Brazilian National Ballet.’ Josefina looked at him with a trace of exasperation. ‘They’re lined up to perform as part of the jubilee celebrations. And I thought that maybe Princess Luciana and Miss Balfour could be part of the performance.’

No.

The word sprung to Luis’s lips, but got no further. What right did he have to dictate Emily’s life? She was a dancer, for God’s sake. He had brought her over here to use and manipulate her, and the least he could do was let her have the chance to do something she loved.

And as for Luciana…Hadn’t he already had far too much influence on her life already? Hadn’t his flawed judgement and shallow, selfish attitude affected her enough?

Down below in the courtyard the sunlight glinted off the polished buttons and gleaming rifles of the guards stationed at the inner gateway.

‘What if Miss Balfour doesn’t want to do it?’

‘I’m sure she will, sir. I took the liberty of contacting the principal of her ballet school in England, to find out whether she was up to a major role. Apparently she’s an extremely gifted dancer, sir—the star of her year. When she left last year her career as a prima ballerina looked assured, but her mother’s illness seems to have brought it to something of a halt. The principal was clearly of the opinion that this was a travesty.’

Luis closed his eyes, picturing Emily on the rickety stage in that dingy community centre in her Pink Flamingo T-shirt, and the fluid grace with which she’d moved.

‘The Brazilian ballet are doing Giselle on the mainland at the moment, and I’ve just managed to get tickets for you for Saturday night’s performance. Why don’t you take her, and ask her then?’

‘Oh, that was brilliant!’ Emily exclaimed, as she and Luciana finished going through the very simple routine she’d devised to introduce her to the basic ballet positions. ‘Do you know, I think you’re a natural ballerina!’

Luciana bowed her head shyly, but in the mirrored wall of the palace’s state-of-the-art gym Emily could see her smile of pride. What she said was true though. Perhaps because of her shyness Luciana naturally had the upright bearing that made much of the preliminary stuff unnecessary.

Emily held out her hand to her. ‘Let’s have a little rest, and then we’ll do some more work on those toes. If you’re not too tired, after last night?’

Taking her hand Luciana shook her head fiercely. ‘Oh, no. I’m not tired at all.’

Emily led her over to the bench along the wall and passed her a plastic bottle of water. ‘All dancers have to drink plenty of water when they’re practising.’

Luciana took a small sip. ‘I liked the drink from the restaurant better.’ The little frown line appeared between her eyebrows. ‘What was it called again?’

‘A cola float.’ Emily laughed. ‘But they’re strictly for special occasions only.’

There was a small pause, then Luciana said, ‘Last night was a special occasion, wasn’t it? I know it wasn’t my birthday or Christmas or my grandpa the King’s birthday, but it still felt like a special occasion.’

‘Yes, it did,’ Emily agreed quietly. It had felt like a special occasion to her too. The beach at sunset, the silly champagne float, the shared food and the game they had played had all made it feel special… And Luis. Luis had made her feel special. She remembered the feel of his fingers sifting through her hair and the peculiar intensity in his eyes as he’d asked her what she thought about Luciana.

And for once he hadn’t been cynical or mocking or taken the opportunity to tease her about being a child. She had had a kind of breathless, dizzying feeling that he was about to let her into a place that was as closely guarded as the inner sanctum of the palace. And then at the last minute he had withdrawn behind those thick stone walls and let down the portcullis, and the evening had been over.

She got abruptly to her feet, and strode over to the CD player. ‘Anyway,’ she said briskly, desperate to calm the sudden fizz and crackle of desire that had gripped her whole body. ‘Shall we carry on? Now you’ve got the hang of the positions we can do some more advanced moves.’

Ultimately she just hadn’t been special enough, she thought angrily, turning on the CD. Maybe the whole ‘deep and meaningful conversation’ routine was one of the many strategies in his seduction repertoire, and in the end he’d just decided she was too dull, too gauche, too unbroken, to be worth the effort.

Luciana had gone over to the barre and was standing there waiting, her body held very upright, her eyes fixed on Emily’s face. Seeing the anxiety in them Emily instantly felt awful. She hadn’t meant to sound so terse. Consciously forcing herself to relax she did a little pirouette and then swept down in a low bow.

‘Would Princess Luciana give me the honour of this dance?’

The music was a plodding polka, intended for exercise work, but Emily swept Luciana up in her arms and waltzed her around the room, swooping and hopping until they were both breathless and Luciana was giggling uncontrollably. Neither of them heard the door open, or were aware that they were being watched, until they whirled round and saw the solid figure in a starched nurse’s uniform standing squarely in the middle of the floor.

Emily staggered backwards, letting Luciana slide from her arms. The laughter on her lips instantly died as she saw the expression of supreme disapproval on Senhora Costa’s face, which didn’t alter as, with a rustle of starch, she curtsied to Luciana.

Emily felt her insides go cold.

‘It is time for Her Highness’s lunch and her afternoon nap,’ the nanny said stiffly, taking Luciana by the hand and marching towards the door. ‘In future, Senhora Balfour, I would ask that you could return the Princess to the nursery yourself at one o’clock sharp. The importance of routine cannot be underestimated.’

‘I—I’m sorry…’ Emily called after them, but as the door slammed in their wake she knew she wasn’t remotely sorry about lunch or naps or routine. She was sorry for Luciana.

Viciously she stabbed the off button, and the music ceased. Emily tugged off her ballet shoes and threw them back into her bag, where they landed on top of the pointe shoes she had brought with her.

She paused, her heart still beating out a hard, angry rhythm. And then lowering herself down onto the smooth, blond wood floor she took the satin slippers out of her bag.

They were old ones—one of the few things that she had brought with her from Balfour, and the toes were frayed and worn. Picking one up she ran the tattered satin ribbons through her fingers and flexed the shoe between her hands so it was folded almost in half, thinking about when she’d worn them, to dance Sleeping Beauty in her final year.

Her lucky shoes. That’s how she’d always thought of them. That’s why she’d brought them with her when she left home, but of course by then their luck seemed to have deserted them. She shoved her foot into the left shoe, pushing her toes down hard to the block at the end, feeling the pain. Pain was part of ballet; she’d never been afraid of that—of the blisters and the blood, and the ugly, raw calluses.

Behind her the door opened. She looked round, but the tingling sensation in her spine had already told her who she would see. Luis’s broad shoulders almost filled the door frame and the spotlights set into the ceiling of the studio shone on his bronze hair and turned it to gold.

‘I’m afraid you just missed Luciana,’ she said, turning away again and concentrating hard on tightening her pointe shoe. ‘Senhora Costa took her back to the nursery for lunch and her rest.’

‘It was you I wanted.’

His voice was perfectly neutral. So why did her heart feel like a rubber ball that had been bounced against her ribs? She took the ribbons of her shoe and crossed them tight across her ankle, winding round and pulling hard.

‘What for?’

Footsteps on the wooden floor, coming towards her. She kept her head bent over her foot, but the hairs on the back of her neck rose as he came to a standstill right behind her. ‘I just wanted to ask you…’ He paused, and she lifted her head and looked into the mirror in front of her. Their eyes met, and Emily experienced the same sensation as you got when you touched an electric fence. An electric fence around a huge, black chasm, warning her to keep away from the edge. ‘I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come—’

She looked swiftly down again. ‘I don’t think so.’

He came forward so he was standing in front of her, leaning against the barre. ‘You haven’t heard what I was going to say yet.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She finished tying the ribbon around her ankle and tucked the knot in, neatly, out of sight. ‘I just think that after last night it would be better—simpler—if we kept things on a professional basis. Could you please pass me the other shoe?’

It was lying on the top of her ballet bag. He bent and picked it up, but he didn’t hand it to her straight away. ‘This is professional,’ he said absently, turning it over in his hands, feeling the hardness of the pointe. ‘I was going to ask if you’d like to come with me to the ballet.’

Emily looked up, holding onto her bare foot. ‘The ballet?’

‘It’s the Brazilian National Ballet performing.’ He frowned, still looking at the shoe. ‘I assumed that ballet shoes would be soft, but this is rock hard. Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘Yes, but you get used to it. After a while you stop noticing. Which ballet is it?’

A shadow of some emotion she couldn’t read passed across his face. With a faint, twisted smile he handed her the shoe.

‘I think it had a girl’s name,’ he said tonelessly. ‘Beginning with G?’

‘Not Giselle?’ She couldn’t quite hide the wistfulness in her voice, and swallowed it back as she raised her knee and eased her foot into the satin shoe. It was still warm from being held between his hands, and her foot flexed and pointed almost of its own accord, as if it remembered how that felt. Suddenly she was right back in the hotel room, lying on the bed while he cradled her foot between his palms, massaging her instep with his thumb…

He was watching her, his eyes opaque and gold. Every inch of her body thrummed with awareness as he nodded slowly. ‘I think that was it. If so, is that a yes?’

The room was very quiet, and for a long moment the silence stretched and swelled as uncertainty and longing fought within her. She had told herself to stay away from him, to keep to the path and not stray into the woods, but after all this time the lure of the ballet was impossible to resist. She lowered her gaze, concentrating on tying the ribbons of her shoe. ‘Yes,’ she said in a low voice, as she stood and rose tentatively onto her pointes, bending each foot in turn and arching it hard against the floor. ‘Yes, please.’

He levered himself off the barre and began to walk towards the door, suddenly businesslike and offhand again. ‘Good. It’s a week on Saturday. Someone will come and see you about clothes, just to make sure you’ve got something suitable. I’ll see you then.’

A week on Saturday? Emily gripped the barre as a bolt of irrational panic shot through her, catching her completely off guard. ‘I won’t see you before then? Are you going away?’

He stopped in the doorway and turned round. He looked distant, controlled, perfect. ‘No. I’ll be here. But I think you’re right. It is better if we keep things on a professional footing. I look forward to hearing about Luciana’s progress a week on Saturday.’

And then he was gone.

Luis walked quickly away.

A week on Saturday. That was, what? Ten days? Eleven?

Eleven days to get his head together before he saw her again. To bury himself in work and make himself remember exactly why he had made this punishing, inhuman promise to Rico. And to wipe the memory of her extraordinary, erotic feet from his mind.

Or if that didn’t work, to drink himself into oblivion.

Chapter Ten

THE touch on her face was as light as the caress of a butterfly’s wing, but Emily couldn’t suppress the shiver that rippled through her.

For the past eleven days she had been looking forward to this, the excitement mounting as the days went by. And now, finally, it was Saturday and every inch of her body was tingling, trembling with nerves and anticipation, so that just sitting still while the girl did her make-up was a major challenge.

It was the excitement of going to the ballet again, after all this time, she told herself. It had been more than six months since she’d last been to Covent Garden, just before Christmas when she and her mother made their usual trip to London for shopping and The Nutcracker—a tradition they’d followed since she was a child.

That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Her eyes sprang open. The face that looked back at her, reflected from every angle by the triple mirror on the dressing table, was almost unrecognizable. Leaning forward she gave a little squeak of surprise and pleasure, batting her lashes and admiring the smoky-eyed effect that Eloisa, the make-up girl, had created with eyeliner and shadow.

‘Oh, you’re so clever! I look—’

‘Sexy.’ Eloisa spoke hardly any English, but she said this word with huge assurance, making Emily wonder fleetingly about the circumstances under which she’d picked it up.

‘I was going to say grown-up,’ she said ruefully, but Eloisa merely shrugged blankly and brandished a lipstick, making any further comment impossible.

Tipping her face up, Emily closed her eyes, and felt the butterflies rise up in her stomach once again as she parted her lips, and the darkness behind her lids was suddenly filled with images and memories. She almost gasped out loud as she felt the stroke of the brush against her quivering mouth, moving firmly, expertly over her lips…

‘OK. Pronto.’

Eloisa’s matter-of-fact voice brought Emily firmly back to reality and she opened her eyes, blinking guiltily and pressing her tingling lips together. Getting to her feet and going over to the full-length mirror she smoothed down the wine-red silk dress and raised a hand tentatively to touch the diamond comb that held her piled-up hair in place.

Gone was the wan, wide-eyed waif that Luis had brought with him to Santosa and in her place was a sophisticated dark-haired temptress. Thanks to the skill of the palace chef she had filled out, losing her previous gauntness so that her collarbones no longer stood out like coat hangers, and her pale breasts swelled slightly above the tight bodice of the red dress.

Standing behind her Eloisa sighed. ‘Bonita, senhora. Príncipe Luis e muito afortunado.’

Prince Luis.

Emily couldn’t be sure what the rest of the sentence meant, but those two words leaped out at her as if they’d been accompanied by a foot-high sign.

‘You go to the ballet?’ Eloisa asked now, briskly stowing her brushes and pencils and pots of powder back into an industrial-size silver tool box.

‘Yes.’ Emily reached for the crisp voile wrap that matched her dress. The ballet. That’s what she should be thinking of, focusing on. The ballet that she’d been looking forward to.

‘Ahh…fabuloso.’ Eloisa replied enviously. ‘Qual bale?’

Which ballet? Emily understood the question and opened her mouth to answer. And realised she couldn’t for the life of her remember.

Sitting at the desk in his private suite of rooms Luis tried to focus on the charity report in front of him, and not on the whisky decanter he could see from the corner of his eye.

He could really do with a drink. It had been a draining day, one of many in an exhausting, cheerless and seemingly endless week when he had visited his father numerous times—publicly, to appease Josefina—made several statements to the press, which had varied from the simply anodyne to the blatantly untruthful, and begun to look properly into the huge and horrifying implications of what would happen when the King inevitably died.

The night at the Purple Parrot seemed like a very long time ago indeed.

Sighing he forced his mind back onto the report, glancing once again at the name of the charity printed at the top of the page. The Santosan Preservation Trust, it said in gold embossed letters. Keeping Our Heritage Safe for the Future.

Luis grimaced. He was trying to go through the charities of which King Marcos Fernando was patron and decide which ones he would continue to support personally, but it was a massive undertaking. And one that carried a very real risk of death by boredom. We undertake to protect Santosa from the corrosive effects of the modern world, he read wearily, and preserve the values, traditions and environment which our ancestors worked so hard to establish.

Luis sighed deeply. There were few things more depressing than the thought of Santosa being locked for ever in some suffocating bubble, cut off from reality and the rest of the world, but a quick look at the names on the Santosan Preservation Trust’s board of governors—most of which made up the current government cabinet—told him that cutting royal ties with this particular charity might not be a popular decision. He put the paper on the growing pile of keepers and checked his watch.

She was exactly six minutes late. But since he’d practically been counting the hours until he would see her for the past eleven days, six minutes hardly mattered. Deus, it was ridiculous. He was like some hormonally unbalanced teenager. Impatiently he picked up the next report in the pile and opened it, hoping it was going to be something interesting enough to take his mind off the pull of desire low down in the pit of his stomach that had been with him almost constantly for more than a week.

It just confirmed how shallow and reprehensible he was, he thought bitterly. All the time he’d been sitting at his dying father’s bedside, or going through the complicated practical and constitutional issues associated with the king’s failing health and his own accession to the throne, all he could think about was Emily Balfour’s mouth, her slender, supple body, glistening with water from the bath, her feet…

Deus, her feet…

He gritted his teeth and frowned. The problem was he wasn’t used to wanting something—or someone—and not being able to have it. Since his mother had died his life had been about sublimating real emotions for sexual satisfaction, about instant gratification and taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, and the combination of his looks and his title had ensured no woman ever refused him.

Until he’d met Emily Balfour. Until he’d kissed her beneath the cherry blossom and she’d pulled away, and he had seen the fear in her wide blue eyes and realised what he had become.

There was a discreet knock at the door, and the duty footman appeared. ‘Senhora Balfour, Your Highness.’

She was wearing red. At first that was all Luis was aware of, other than that she was the most extraordinarily beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Woman, not girl, he corrected himself mentally, as his gaze moved slowly over her. The dress had a close-fitting bodice that showed off the narrowness of her frame and her small, perfect breasts, while the billowing full skirt that fell to just above her ankles emphasized her hips. And, he noticed with a pang, made it possible to see her feet.

Without realising it he had got up, and suddenly he was aware that he was standing by the desk, the pen still in his hand, staring at her. He threw the pen down and ran a finger round the collar of his evening shirt as he went towards her.

‘Sorry,’ he said curtly, leaning down to give her a perfunctory kiss on each cheek. ‘I’m just catching up on some paperwork. I was miles away.’

He pulled away from her quickly, as if she were red hot. Which she was, he thought darkly. Dangerously so, in every sense.

She lowered her eyes with a sweep of impossibly long black lashes, and Luis felt a moment of relief to be shielded from that direct blue gaze. ‘I’m sorry—if you’re busy I can always wait outside until you’re ready…?’

‘No.’ The word came out as an autocratic bark. Deus, Josefina would be thrilled at such uncharacteristic regality. ‘That won’t be necessary. Would you like a drink before we go?’

She looked up at him uncertainly. ‘Are you having one?’

‘I can’t.’ No matter how much he needed one. He nodded in the direction of one of the rows of windows which looked out over the circular sweep of lawn beyond the formal garden. The helicopter waited there, the setting sun glinting on the royal crest on the side. ‘I’m flying.’

Her eyes widened. ‘We’re going in that? Alone?’

‘Yes. It’s the quickest way to travel to the mainland. Not as comfortable as the jet, of course, but more direct. Is that a problem?’

‘No…no, of course not,’ she stammered, but not before he had seen the expression of alarm flicker across her face and knew that she was thinking of Rico.

‘Good,’ he said blandly, picking up his mobile phone and walking towards the door. He had been about to reassure her that it was quite safe, but that was an untruth too far. ‘Shall we go, then?’

The diaphanous wrap she wore brushed against the back of his hand as she walked past him through the door, and he caught a fleeting breath of the delicate scent of her skin. ‘You look beautiful, by the way.’

That much at least was true.

Being a Cordoba is about saying the correct thing, not the honest thing. Wasn’t that what he’d said that night at the restaurant? That’s the deal and you can’t change it.

No, well, he could at least have made it sound a little bit like he meant it when he said she looked beautiful.

Emily’s heels sank into the soft earth as she walked across the lawn to the waiting helicopter, hampering her efforts to keep pace with Luis’s swift stride. Not that she really felt like it now. She’d been looking forward to this evening for so long, and the moment she’d seen him of course she knew there was no point in trying to convince herself that her excitement had much to do with the ballet.

It was him.

The truly humiliating thing was he’d been right all along. She was the immature, inexperienced kid he had accused her of being, and she had a whopping great, embarrassing school-girl crush on him.

Ahead of her one of the uniformed personnel standing by the helicopter pulled open the door and Luis jumped lithely up into the cockpit, then turned round to hold out a hand to her. Emily faltered, unwilling to take it, unable to look at him in case he saw the longing in her eyes.

‘Thanks but it’s fine. I can manage,’ she muttered, gathering her skirt up and climbing inelegantly in beside him. Not that he noticed. Already he had turned away from her and was unhooking the headset that was suspended above the control panel, flicking switches, checking dials and signalling to the crew circling around them on the ground.

‘Put on your headset—we’re ready for take-off.’

Emily did as she was told, relieved at least that, both wearing headsets, they would be spared the need to make polite conversation. Not that Luis, given his obvious preoccupation, would have bothered anyway.

With a roar the rotor blades started up and the ground swayed and receded beneath them as they rose vertically into the sky.

It was a beautiful evening. Within moments they were suspended in a soft, forget-me-not blue sky with the palace spread out below them like some elaborate doll’s house belonging to a spoiled child. It was an incredible view, but Emily found herself more preoccupied with the sight of Luis’s strong, golden hands on the helicopter’s cyclic. The cockpit was small enough for her shoulder to be almost touching his, and the whole of the side of her body nearest him tingled and buzzed, as if tiny magnets beneath her skin were pulling her towards him.

It was going to be an uncomfortable journey.

They had left the palace behind now and were heading over the trees and flat, rolling grassland of the royal estate out towards the sea which glittered ahead of them, and the realization that she was cut off from the rest of the world with him sent a spasm of panicky longing ricocheting through her.

‘OK?’

She jumped as his voice came through her headset, caressing her ear with an intimacy that made her shiver. Glancing across at him she felt her stomach constrict. He was wearing the same aviator sunglasses he’d worn the day he’d kissed her on the tarmac at the airport, and combined with the exquisitely tailored dinner suit and black tie, the effect was nothing short of devastating.

‘Fine,’ she murmured faintly, forcing herself to look away. ‘Just admiring the scenery. What’s that down there?’

Luis followed her gaze to the slate-roofed building nestling in the trees beneath them. ‘La Guarita,’ he said in husky Portuguese, and Emily felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. ‘It was built by one of my more extravagant ancestors to be used as a hunting lodge.’

Emily nodded gravely. It could have been the local supermarket for all she cared, but the sensation of his voice in her ear was exquisite and she didn’t want it to stop. ‘A hunting lodge? It’s not very rustic. Tell me more about this ancestor of yours.’

Luis threw her a twisted smile. ‘On one condition. That afterwards you tell me the plot of this ballet we’re going to see.’

‘Done.’

A fat lot of good that had been, Luis thought savagely, staring at the stage in a welter of boredom a couple of hours later. Emily had done her best, but try as he might he just couldn’t reconcile the story she had told him about some peasant girl who had fallen in love—with a nobleman, or a huntsman?—with the ridiculous leaping and writhing that was happening on stage.

He slumped back in his seat and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Mind you, if he’d actually been listening properly to what she was saying rather than just enjoying the sweetness of her voice in his ear he might have understood a whole lot more. But he was finding that it was impossible to concentrate on anything much when she was around, and that was seriously beginning to bother him.

From the moment they’d stepped out of the car that had brought them from the helipad he had sensed the tautness in her body, and once again he was reminded of a racehorse—alert and quivering with nerves, but strong and true and courageous beneath the delicate exterior. Walking beside him up the wide marble steps to the opera house she had allowed him to take her arm, but he could feel the distance she placed between them like an invisible force field. At least the photographers were unaware of it as they snapped excitedly away. Finally it seemed Josefina would get what she wanted.

If only, he thought with cutting self-mockery, there was a chance that he would too.

His gaze shifted back to where she was sitting, leaning forward in her seat, her hands gripping the edge of the box as she looked down over the stage. There was nothing overtly sexy about the scarlet dress she wore—except perhaps the colour—but on her even the demurely high back that showed only a narrow crescent of creamy skin on her shoulders seemed to be excruciatingly provocative. It took all his willpower just to stop himself from reaching out and touching the single curl that spiralled down from the nape of her neck.

Despairingly he pulled his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and glared down at the screen. The next hour was going to be hell anyway, so he might as well pile on the torture and get through some emails as well. Boredom beat frustrated lust any day.

The huge full moon cast a soft luminescence over the stage. Emily kept her eyes fixed unblinkingly on it as the audience below rose from their red velvet seats. It had been a breathtaking, heartbreaking performance and the tumult of applause went on and on.

Only she sat frozen and still.

On the stage the dancers swept forward again to bow to the enchanted audience, the white dresses of the ballerinas billowing out as they made their deep, graceful curtsies, their faces uniformly composed in spite of the wrenching sadness of the dance they had just finished. For as long as she could remember Emily had wanted only to be like them—flawless and doll-like in white tulle and satin shoes. For years she had devoted her life to training her body, rigidly controlling and disciplining it to achieve that cool, remote perfection.

And she had. Only to realise—too late—that she’d missed the point all along. Being a dancer wasn’t just about precision or perfection or lucky shoes.

It was about emotion.

And that was something she’d deliberately, ruthlessly, shut out since the day her mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It was how she had got through Mia’s arrival and the realization that her father had betrayed and lied to them all. It was what had enabled her to calmly and quietly walk away from Balfour the day after her mother’s funeral.

But it was also what had taken away her ability to dance.

She stumbled to her feet. Groping behind her for her wrap she caught sight of Luis, and realised that she wasn’t the only one in the audience not clapping. Lounging back in his seat, he had his mobile phone in his hand and was tapping away at it. In the greenish light of the screen his face was a mask of boredom.

He looked up. She was caught in the dark vortex of his gaze, and in that moment she understood that the terrifying, uncontrollable emotions she had spent the past six exhausting months trying to run away from she hadn’t escaped at all, because they were inside her all along.

Slowly he unfolded his long, lithe body from the seat and stood in front of her, his face expressionless. At some point during the performance he had surreptitiously undone his top button and his black silk tie, which now hung loosely around his neck. He looked frighteningly beautiful.

‘Finally.’ His lips twitched into a crooked smile. ‘I thought it would never end. You don’t look like you enjoyed it much either.’

‘I loved it,’ she said, her voice hollow and fierce.

‘Really?’ His arched brows rose in surprise. ‘Well, that’s lucky, I suppose, because I have a proposition for you.’ He reached down and picked up her wrap, which was trailing over the back of the chair, and in one practised movement settled it lightly over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her skin for the merest fraction of a second.

Emily steeled herself against the shuddering awareness that gripped her, but then he was taking her hands and drawing her gently backwards so they were concealed behind the heavy velvet curtain that hung down at the side of the royal box and she felt herself go rigid with panic.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’ Her voice came out as a frozen whisper, and he dropped her hands immediately, his face curiously blank.

‘Relax,’ he said wearily, ‘I’m not trying to ravish you behind the curtains, but in case you hadn’t noticed the entire audience have now shifted their attention from the stage to us.’

Emily darted a glance over her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Below them the lights had gone up and the hum of conversation had resumed as people put back their opera glasses and gathered their evening bags. Several of them still had their faces turned up towards the royal box. Frowning, she turned back to Luis.

‘Please—can we go now?’

‘Wait.’ His face was shadowed by the fall of the curtain, but she could see the dull gleam of his eyes and the flicker of a muscle in his cheek. ‘I have something to ask you first.’

The shadows closed in on her a little and she took a small, gasping breath.

‘It’s my father’s Silver Jubilee this year and there’s going to be some kind of event to mark it,’ he said dully. ‘The Brazilian National Ballet are scheduled to perform there. We’d like you and Luciana to dance with them.’

She opened her mouth to laugh at the irony, but instead it came out as a sob. She shook her head, biting down on her bottom lip as her fragile shell of control threatened to crack.

‘Impossible,’ she said in a tight, cold voice. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t. Now please, can we just go?’

Two men in suits had appeared at the doorway to the box, their ubiquitous headsets clearly marking them out as palace bodyguards. Luis seemed to hesitate for a moment, his face as cool and blank as marble, but then he gave a curt nod and the security men opened the door and went ahead of them, down the dimly lit VIP staircase that led directly to the main foyer.

Emily was glad of the gloom. Surreptitiously she sniffed and pressed the palms of her hands to her cheeks, desperately trying to stem the tears that had started to slide down her face in a silent stream and keep herself from being sucked down into despair.

The door at the foot of the stairs opened, letting in a blast of noise from the hallway beyond and the clear evening light. Emily blinked, instinctively wanting to hide her tear-stained face, but it was too late. The guards stood aside, holding the door open and motioning them to go through, to the car that waited at the foot of the steps outside.

Luis glanced down at her and in that split second she saw a flare of some unfathomable emotion in the depths of his eyes. His reactions were as swift and devastating as lightning. Instantly his arm was around her shoulders, sheltering her against the protective wall of his body as he pulled her forwards. He raised his other hand to wave to the crowd, but Emily understood that it was also shielding her from the glittering camera flashes and the glare of onlookers.

As they went out into the still-warm evening and down the steps she kept her body rigid, every atom of her being resisting the urge to melt against him. But then his grip on her relaxed as they approached the waiting car and an arrow of desolation shot through her. She raised her head just at she same moment he looked down at her.

Afterwards she couldn’t have said how it happened, or who made the first move. All she knew was that one moment he was reaching out to open the door of the car for her and the next he had taken her upturned face between his strong hands and their mouths had come together in a hard, helpless kiss.

It lasted only seconds. And then she was in the car and he was beside her and they were pulling away from the screaming, ecstatic crowd.

Chapter Eleven

IT WAS a heartbreakingly beautiful evening. As they flew back to Santosa the sun was setting over the sea, streaking the clear turquoise water with ribbons of rose and gold, and turning the white sand of the many beaches fringing the islands of the archipelago to pink sherbet.

Was this how it was for Rico, flying home that night? Luis wondered bleakly. It was oddly comforting to think that his last moments on earth had been like this—a foretaste of the paradise in which he was assured a place.

Unlike Luis.

Beside him Emily sat, taut and silent. They had barely spoken since they left the opera house, and although he had tried to say ‘sorry’ she had batted his apologies straight back in a way that told him this time things were different. She seemed angry with him, which he couldn’t blame her for in the slightest, but hell, he thought savagely, she couldn’t be more angry than he was with himself.

He glanced across at her. The setting sun gilded her perfect profile, sprinkling gold dust on her long, luxuriant lashes, her delicate slightly upturned nose, and he had to crush another debilitating spasm of want. Deus, he raged silently, staring out into the apricot heavens, wasn’t it punishment enough that he’d given it all up, without this cruel temptation, this constant, tantalising reminder of the pleasures that he’d forsworn?

‘I’m sorry.’

Her subdued voice came through his headset. Luis felt his whole body tense and he smiled grimly.

‘I think that’s my line,’ he drawled. ‘What are you sorry for?’

She was very still, her head bent. ‘For being so ungrateful earlier. For turning down what was a very…generous offer.’

The dancing. She was talking about the dancing, he realised. Oddly enough he’d forgotten all about that, but suddenly his curiosity was aroused. Which made a change from other, baser parts of him. ‘Good point,’ he said tersely. ‘So why did you turn it down? I thought you’d be pleased.’

Beneath them the shadow of the helicopter skimmed serenely over the silken sea, giving absolutely no indication of the electrifying tension that crackled inside the small space inside.

‘Because it’s out of the question. I just…can’t.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Such was his awareness of her body beside him that he felt her startle at the harshness of his tone, but he didn’t seem to be able to soften it. ‘Naturally a suggestion like that wasn’t made without a bit of preliminary research, and according to the principal of your school you were the most talented dancer of your year.’

‘Was,’ she said bitterly. ‘Past tense.’

They were flying over a long stretch of innocuous-looking white sand, edged on one side by a clear sea that in the fiery light of the dying sun looked like pink champagne. It was here that the wreckage of Rico’s helicopter had been found, washed up at the base of the steep cliffs which cast their jagged shadows over the beach. Flying towards them Luis kept his voice carefully flat. ‘What changed?’

‘I did.’ She laughed, and the headset magnified the despair in it. ‘You were right—I was just a kid then, a silly, naive little girl. And then I grew up and the magic just…went. Like when you stop believing in fairy tales.’ Her head was turned away from him, but in her lap he could see that her hands were twisted together in a tight knot of anguish, almost as if she were trying to hold on to herself. ‘I can do the steps,’ she went on, in a low, toneless voice. ‘Go through the motions, and I can do it so perfectly that sometimes I can almost convince myself I might still be a dancer. But tonight…’ she faltered. ‘Tonight I realised how far from the truth that is. There’s no passion there. I just can’t feel it.’

Luis remembered what Oscar had said that night on the telephone. She doesn’t do anything in half-measures. Never has. Whatever she does she does passionately, with her whole heart and soul.

The cliffs were right in front of them now and suddenly from the benevolent golden sunshine of evening they plunged into cool gloom that only served to tighten the atmosphere in the confined space. Sharply Luis brought the helicopter upwards, and as he did so his arm brushed against hers. She gave a muffled cry and jerked away, as if he had burnt her.

It was like the first crack of thunder in a storm that had been brewing for hours. Swearing under his breath Luis steadied the helicopter and looked across at her, his heartbeat echoing loudly in his own ears.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t feel it,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not passionate because—’

‘I’m scared!’

The words seemed to be torn from somewhere inside her. Luis flinched, everything in him tensing as if against a blow. Adrenaline coursed through him so that it took all his skill and self-control to keep the helicopter flying straight. It was what he’d always known, since the night that he’d first met her. She’d seen through him, to the contemptible person beneath the veneer. ‘Of me?’ he said in a voice that dripped despair and self-disgust. ‘Deus, Emily—’

‘No. No.’ Emily splayed her hands out on her knees, staring down at them and speaking deliberately and carefully. She was aware of her heart beating, very hard, as if it was trying to break free of the restraints of the tight, red silk. ‘Not of you. Of me.’ She broke off with a ragged, self-mocking laugh. ‘There. That’s the reason I can’t do it. Because I’m scared of letting go. I’m scared of all the feelings inside me spilling out and…and…I don’t know, sucking me down, overwhelming me…’

The words faded in the tense, buzzing silence. Oh, God, what had she said? She didn’t dare look across at Luis, scared to see the mockery and contempt on his beautiful, cruel face. The helicopter was coming lower, she realised with a stab of despair. They were back at the palace and in a moment men in uniforms with blank faces would be opening the doors, forcing her out into the real world again. She would go back to her lavish, lonely suite and the silence and the emptiness, and he would walk away, thinking she was insane.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight like she used to do when she was a child and believed that you could get anything by wishing hard enough. They were descending quickly, and she waited for the slight thud of solid ground beneath them before she opened her eyes.

She blinked, expecting to see the wide lawn and the palace beyond, but here it was dark. Secret. She blinked again, looking round in disbelief. They were in a clearing, surrounded by trees.

‘Wh-where—? What—?’

Slowly Luis pulled off his headset and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a voice like broken glass. ‘I can’t fly like this. I’m not safe. Security will come over soon. You can fly back with them.’

‘No.’

He turned to look at her. His face—his high-cheek-boned face with its generous, sensual mouth—was set hard, as if he was silently enduring some private torment, but those narrow, golden eyes were as dark as treacle, burning with an emotion that made her gasp.

‘I don’t want to be safe,’ she whispered.

She was shaking. Trembling with fear and excitement and wild, urgent need. They weren’t touching at all, but their eyes were locked together.

‘Emily, do you know what you’re saying—?’

‘Yes,’ she said, so quietly it was little more than a shivering breath. ‘Oh, yes.’

The forest was deep and dark, and as Luis pulled her through the trees some ragged birds rose, flapping and shrieking into the faded sky. Emily jumped, her footsteps faltering, so that Luis turned back to look at her. In the velvet twilight his expression was tortured. ‘Do you want to go back?’

‘No.’

It was a low, primal moan. Hearing it seemed to release some instinct in him that he was trying to suppress and he stopped and took her face between his hands, crashing his mouth down on hers and kissing her as if he almost wanted to devour her. As his mouth crushed her lips and moved across her jaw, her throat, Emily felt her shaking legs buckle and collapsed against the trunk of a massive tree, surrendering to the waves of ecstasy that were battering her.

Suddenly Luis pulled away, and cold dread gripped her.

‘Don’t stop…please, Luis…’

‘Christo, I have to,’ he ground out through gritted teeth. ‘Otherwise I won’t be able to. In a few minutes the sky up there is going to be swarming with helicopters looking for us, and I wouldn’t like to corrupt the innocence of the security team by letting them see me making love to you on the forest floor.’

Emily laughed, but it came out as a desperate sob of need. Luis took her face in his hands again, stroking his thumbs across her cheeks, gazing into her eyes with a scorching intensity that made her feel like her whole body was on fire. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

Incoherent, frantic with longing, Emily could only nod, but the expression in her eyes must have told him all he needed to know because the next moment he was taking her hand. With a muffled curse that sounded like a plea for forgiveness he was pulling her onwards again so that she had to gather up her scarlet silk skirts and run to keep up. Slipping through the gloom beneath the trees she felt like Red Riding Hood, all grown up and not afraid of the wolf any more

Ahead of them a high wall reared up, blocking out the remainder of the dying light. Luis headed for a steel gate set into it, and dropped Emily’s hand long enough to press his finger onto a small electronic pad and then key in a number. A second later the gate swung heavily open.

‘It’s the house we saw from the helicopter,’ Emily murmured, as Luis seized her hand again and led her towards a low stone house with a steeply sloping gabled roof that made it look exactly like a picture from a child’s storybook.

At the door Luis went through the same process with the fingerprint and the security number. Emily’s heart was beating so hard it shook her entire body, sending jets of adrenaline through her with every racking thud. Her skin felt hypersensitive, so that the feel of his hand grazing the top of her bare arm as she went through the door he held open for her made her shiver and suck in a breath.

She jumped as the door closed behind them.

The large, open-plan room smelled of wood smoke and was full of dusk and shadows. Emily stood in its centre, unable to look around her or take anything in apart from Luis. After shutting the door he leaned back against it and for endless minutes neither of them moved. His dark gaze seared into her through the twilight, pinioning her to the spot in an agony of helpless longing. A pulse throbbed insistently at the apex of her thighs, each beat increasing the quivering, tingling tension. She was aware of a wetness inside her that both thrilled and horrified her.

‘I’m scared.’

The whispered words had left her lips before she could stop them, and the instant she had spoken she pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, wishing she could take them back. Slowly Luis levered himself away from the door and came towards her, his eyes never leaving hers.

‘You don’t have to be scared.’ Standing in front of her he seemed hugely tall, impossibly broad shouldered and strong. Head tipped slightly back, he took her hands in his and held them, hard. ‘You can stop all this now…any time you want.’

Wide-eyed, trembling, she looked up at him. ‘No. I want this. So much. But…’ She swallowed.

His grip on her hands tightened. ‘But what?’

‘I’m scared because I don’t know what to do. What if I can’t…? What if I’m no good—?’

With a moan he let go of her hands and stepped back, clenching his fists for a moment before pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘Deus, Emily. It’s all I can do to control myself right now, standing here in front of you in that dress.’

‘But you’ve had so many women. Beautiful women. Women who know how to p-pl-pleasure a man…what to do to t-turn you on.’

‘That’s all in the past,’ he said bleakly. ‘This is about now. About you, and you don’t have to do anything. You turn me on so much just by the way you move, the way you talk—Christo, just the way you breathe…’

Without knowing what she was doing Emily had brought her hands up to her mouth, pressing her fingers against her lips to silence the whimpers of longing that threatened to escape her as his rough, raw voice vibrated through her. Very gently now he took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands down, drawing her forward towards the stairs

‘Just you. As you are. No technicalities. No precise, practised steps, remember?’

The stairs led straight up into a single, large room under the eaves of the house. A window at one end looked straight out over the forest, and above the tops of the trees Emily could see the silver glimmer of a crescent moon in the blue velvet sky. She took a step towards it, expelling a shaky breath.

‘Close your eyes.’

Luis was standing behind her. She did as she was told, and a moment later felt his hand on her waist, while he very gently lifted her arm, trailing his fingers lingeringly along the sensitive skin on its underside. It was like a movement from the ballet—part of the grand adage, the slow and seductive courtship between the dancers. She felt her spine flexing, her pelvis tilting back towards him, her body coming to life in his hands.

Slowly, inch by inch, his fingers stroked their path of bliss over her shoulder and along the curve of her neck until finally they reached the zip fastening of her dress. Unhurriedly they lingered there, caressing a curl of hair that had escaped from its twist. She could feel his breath, warm on her neck, could feel the heat spreading inside her, the dampness seeping down between her trembling thighs, and she knew that she had to hold herself very still, very rigid, to ride the waves of deranging ecstasy that were swelling within her.

Her eyes were still tightly shut, the darkness magnifying every touch, every sensation. It was getting harder to stop the shivers of pleasure that were building inside of her, and as she felt him begin to ease the zip of her dress down she stiffened with the effort, biting down, hard, on her lip to keep herself from crying out.

He stopped. Her eyes flew open as, horrified, she thought he had had second thoughts, decided after all that she wasn’t sexy or exciting or seductive enough. But then she felt his mouth brush her nape, his breath caressing her, his tongue tracing silken circles around the vertebra at the base of her neck.

This time she couldn’t hold back the deep shudder of desire. His hands came up to grip her shoulders, holding her steady as she tipped back her head and gave a gasp of pleasure and anguish.

‘It’s OK…’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It’s OK to let go…’

‘I can’t…’

‘You can…querida, you can whenever you want to.’

He had eased the zip of her dress the rest of the way down now, right to her waist. Emily sucked her stomach in, her whole body tensing as his big, skilled, steady hands moved over her back, stroking the rigid angles of her shoulder blades, his thumbs finding the hollows above her hips as his fingers slipped beneath the gaping satin bodice to gently brush her waist. Emily crossed her arms over her chest, holding the dress against her bare breasts as her head fell heavily forward, her spine arching helplessly.

‘I want to see you.’

Her head snapped up and a protest sprang to her lips, but it was useless—Luis was already turning her around to face him. The dying light from the window behind her turned his skin to dull gold, and the reflection of the moon shone in eyes which were dark, fathomless pools.

Her arms were still locked across her chest. She half expected him to peel them away, but he made no move to do so. Instead he reached out and touched her mouth lightly with his fingertips.

‘You’re exquisite,’ he said simply.

And that one butterfly touch, combined with the intensity of his moon-drenched gaze, broke through the bonds which held her back. With his fingers still against her mouth she parted her lips, exhaling a ragged, needy breath and in an instant she was crushed against him as he kissed her with a wildness and an urgency that made everything that had come before seem like a childish game.

It was as if she had been locked in some dark, cramped place and he had released her. Just as he had opened the door to this secret house of shadows with one touch of his fingertip, so had he magically unlocked a secret, joyful part of her that wasn’t afraid and didn’t care about being perfect. There was nothing disciplined in the wantonness with which she kissed him back—her tongue tangling with his, her lips exploring, tasting, sucking, tearing—and nothing controlled in the way her shaking fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to touch his warm skin.

His hands were in her hair, working with considerably more finesse at the diamond comb and the pins which held it up, swiftly and expertly dispatching them until the elegant pleat uncoiled and fell about her shoulders. Pulling back from her he held her at arm’s length for a moment, giving a subdued moan as he raked his fingers through it, tousling it out of its sleekness. She had forgotten to hold the top of her dress up, and it fell down over her shoulders, half exposing her breasts.

‘I think it’s time to take this off,’ he said roughly, pushing it down completely and sliding it over her hips so it settled on the floor in a crimson pool.

She heard him breathe in, felt him recoil slightly, his whole body tensing as she stepped out of it. For a moment all her doubts returned, but as she glanced anxiously up at his face she saw that it was desire he was struggling to control, and a second later he had scooped her up into his arms and was carrying her across to the wide bed at the other end of the room.

The sheets were cool beneath her back and she spread herself across them. He bent over her, and she caught the dark gleam of his eyes, the clean musk scent of his skin as he lowered his head and took her tight nipple in his mouth. Ten thousand volts of bliss shot through her and she cried out, jerking convulsively as his hands held her steady, but he didn’t stop. Inch by quivering inch he covered her body with a thoroughness that felt like reverence, until Emily was floating, spaced out, incandescent.

She wasn’t aware of him taking off the rest of his clothes, but as she felt the hard warmth of his flesh against hers she registered his nakedness. For a second he pulled away from her, and she glimpsed the astonishing, magnificence of his erection as he deftly rolled on a condom, and she felt she was teetering on the edge of some dizzying precipice she hadn’t even known was there. Her legs twined helplessly around him, her supple body moulding against him as she opened herself up to his kisses. Dimly she was aware that he was holding her waist, lifting her on top of him so she was astride his hips, and she wasn’t sure whether the throbbing, tightness she could feel beneath her was her own body or his. Instinctively she raised herself up on her knees, arching backwards, sweeping her hair off her hot damp neck as she tilted her hips, hungry for him.

‘I want…more… All of you…’

In one fluid movement he had levered himself up and was holding her against him, taking her face between his hands, kissing her fiercely before rolling her over onto the bed and towering above her. His perfect face was cool and remote, his expression almost abstracted as with infinite tenderness he entered her.

She had expected it to hurt, had stiffened momentarily in anticipation, but there was nothing but an incredible feeling of relief—relief so strong she could have wept with it. But already another sensation was overtaking her, one so powerful and compelling that it made everything else slide out of focus—a sort of exquisite sweetness that gripped her body so tightly that it felt almost like pain.

She opened her eyes, gazing up at him in panic, as the fear of being overwhelmed…out of control came back. And then for a split second she saw the expression in his eyes, the intensity of his desire, before his eyelids flickered and closed and she knew that this strong, fearless man was surrendering too. His powerful body tensed, the hard muscles of his back bunching beneath her hands as he thrust inside her again.

It was too late. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t hold herself together any more, and she was falling, shattering, dissolving…

Except he was there, anchoring her and holding her safe, rocking her, and murmuring into her hair as the spasms of aching bliss gripped her body and then went on shuddering through her like the aftershocks of a massive earthquake.

Lying in the ruins she knew that nothing would ever look the same again.

‘I never dreamed I could feel like that.’

Emily’s head was on his chest, her fingers idly caressing his upper arm. Looking up into the high, sloping eaves, just as he had done so many times over the years when he’d brought women here, Luis smiled bleakly.

‘Neither did I.’

She raised herself up on her elbows, looking down into his face with a slight frown. It was almost completely dark outside now, but her blue eyes glowed with a luminescence that came from within her.

‘Was it OK?’

Was it OK. He didn’t know what to say. OK didn’t really begin to describe what had happened back there.

‘It was more than OK.’

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t do all the things for you that you did for me…’ Her blue eyes were suddenly hidden by a downward sweep of her lashes.

‘It was just as well you didn’t. I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes if you had.’ Watching her gradually let go, give herself up, lose control, had been the most intensely erotic experience of his life, but for that very reason it had also been one of the most challenging. To rein himself back and control his own devouring lust after so long had been agonising and exhausting and exhilarating…and ultimately profoundly satisfying. It made him realise that up until now he hadn’t known the meaning of making love. What he had been doing before with that long procession of anonymous women was like picking out a nursery rhyme tune with one finger on the piano. Joining dots. Colouring in a crude drawing with crayons. This had been a concert-standard, full rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth, a masterpiece in oils.

‘Next time,’ she said softly, her hand moving downwards.

From outside he could hear the drone of a helicopter. He got up abruptly, swearing in Portuguese as he reached for the clothes he had thrown on the floor.

‘We need to get dressed.’

‘Luis—’

‘We don’t have long before the royal security force smashes its way in here to see if we’ve been kidnapped by terrorists, so please…’ He picked up her dress and went over to the bed with it, trying not to breathe in the scent of her that clung to the red silk because he knew it would weaken his resolve.

Clutching the sheet to her she sat up and took it from him, her eyes huge with terrible emotion—dread, anguish, hurt.

‘You’re trying to tell me there won’t be a next time, aren’t you? This is it—’

He stopped in the middle of buttoning up his shirt and spun round to face her. ‘Deus, Emily, that’s not what I want.’ His hands, dropping to his sides, curled reflexively into fists. ‘But you deserve much more than I can give you.’

‘I’m not a child, Luis.’ She got to her feet, still holding the dress bundled up in her arms. Against the darkness of her hair and the scarlet silk her face was very white. ‘Not any more. I don’t want some neat and perfect fairy-tale happy ending. I want this.’ She came towards him, her strong bare feet making no sound on the wooden boards, her eyes as clear and unclouded as a summer sky. ‘It’s like all the things I’ve never quite understood suddenly make sense now, and after years of controlling and disciplining my body and forcing it to be perfect I finally know what it’s really for.’

She put her hand flat against his bare chest, over his heart. His muscles instantly tensed against the violent longing that leapt within him.

‘Meaningless sex?’ He had meant it to sound sardonic, a mocking reference to that night back in the hotel in England, but the bitterness in his voice cut through the soft shadows between them like razor blades.

She didn’t flinch. When she replied her voice was soft and thick, like velvet, and it wrapped around him. ‘Yes, if you want to put it like that. Meaningless sex.’

Outside the staccato whirr of the helicopters was getting louder. Luis looked towards the window, panic and despair welling within him.

Forgive me, Rico, he thought bleakly. Forgive me, but understand this…I haven’t broken my promise…

Standing over Rico’s coffin the night before the funeral he had made a vow to give up the casual meaningless sex with women whose names he barely knew.

And he had.

The thing that frightened him now was that this was something entirely different.

Chapter Twelve

EMILY wrote to Oscar.

She began by writing Dear Daddy, because that was how she and her sisters had always addressed him, but something about the childish term sounded odd now. Swallowing her misgivings she plunged on.

I know from Luis that you won’t be surprised by the address at the top of this page. He tells me that he has been in touch with you several times since I met him by chance in London. I’m grateful to him for that. At the time I thought I was managing everything perfectly well when actually I wasn’t thinking straight about anything at all, and I didn’t stop to think how worried you must have been.

She stopped here, the nib of her pen poised above the velvety surface of the palace notepaper. That wasn’t quite right either. She had realised how worried he would be, but the truth was she’d been too angry with him to care.

How selfish and childish that seemed now.

She continued, smiling a little as she wrote Luis’s name.

I’m grateful to Luis for so much. Amongst other things, he has enabled me to see how badly I behaved towards you after Mia arrived. Looking back now I’m ashamed of how judgemental I was, and how immature and naive. I hope that you’ll forgive me, and that Mia will too. I’ve written to her separately—is she still staying with you at Balfour?

Suddenly it struck her how long she’d been away. Not so very long in terms of weeks and months perhaps, but in terms of everything that had happened. When she’d left it had been winter, and her mother’s presence had still filled the house. If she went back now would she find that Lillian’s spirit, the gentle serenity she always brought to a place, would be gone too?

A tear fell onto the page and she quickly blotted it, starting to write again.

I’m here, as I’m sure you know, to teach ballet to Luis’s niece, Luciana, whose parents were so tragically killed in a helicopter crash last year—I’m sure you remember. At first she didn’t talk much at all—about that or anything else—but as I’ve got to know her better she’s opened up a lot more, and I now think that one of the saddest things about what’s happened is that she didn’t really feel close to her parents or loved by them. It has made me realise how lucky I was to have you and Mum and to be so loved and protected. So much so that in some ways I was unprepared for the real world, like the princess in the tower in the fairy story you used to read to me when I was little. I suppose I never thought about what would happen when the time came—as it inevitably must—to leave that tower and go out into the big bad world, and it’s been harder and more painful than I could have imagined. But it’s also been…

Here she stopped again, not knowing how to convey on paper, to her father, the bittersweet rapture of the past few weeks. Sweet because Luis had freed her from the fears of losing control, of not being perfect, of being overwhelmed by the forbidden desires she had always known lay just below the surface. He had, ironically, brought all of these fears to fruition, but in doing so had shown her that she didn’t have to be afraid or ashamed any more.

But the bitter edge came from knowing she couldn’t touch him in the same way that he touched her. That while she had opened herself up to him completely, there was still a part of him that he kept hidden from her. Hidden and locked and barred.

With a sigh she looked back down at the page in front of her:…wonderful, she finished, lamely. Biting her lip she began to write more quickly, suddenly wanting to get the letter finished and in the post to Oscar.

I’m also dancing properly again—another thing for which I have Luis to thank. I am taking part in King Marcos Fernando’s Silver Jubilee celebration, performing as a soloist with the Brazilian National Ballet. I’m doing a pas de deux from Giselle, and Luciana is doing a little dance from The Nutcracker. I was wondering if perhaps…

She frowned, her usually neat handwriting beginning to slope.

…you might think about coming over to watch it? I know that the King is an old friend of yours from way back and I gather that he’s not in the best of health so you shouldn’t put off coming if you want to see him again…

She looked at her watch. She had been longer than she’d thought and the car would be waiting to take her to Santosa’s Grande Teatro. Moistening her lips with her tongue she plunged on, not wanting to think too hard about what she was writing in case she lost her nerve.

Of course, what I’m really saying is that I want to see you, so badly. I’ve missed you so very much.

Hastily she finished, tears blurring her eyes as she signed off with her love and wrote the familiar address, just as she had done every Sunday night for all those years when she’d been away at ballet school. Then she scooped up the thick cream envelope, along with her bottle of water and towel for the rehearsal, and went down to leave it on the post table in the hall, before she could change her mind.

‘I’m worried about you.’

Luis eyed his father cynically. ‘Coming from a man in your condition, that is disturbing.’

King Marcos Fernando gave a snort of wheezing laughter that threatened to dislodge the oxygen tube beneath his nose. ‘That’s more like it,’ he huffed, when he’d recovered enough breath to speak again. ‘A spark of the old Luis. I haven’t seen enough of that these past few months.’

‘No, well it would hardly have been appropriate to be sitting here cracking jokes while you’re—’

‘On my deathbed? Why not? It might have taken my mind off things a bit. Far too much time to lie here and think. And worry. About you mainly.’

‘You and the rest of the royal household,’ Luis said levelly, looking out of the window of the private clinic onto a severely well-maintained garden filled with gaudy flowers. ‘Tomás and Josefina are on tran-quilisers at the thought of me taking the throne.’

‘Well, it was a role you were never supposed to have.’ Never the most tactful of men, illness and a sense of time running out had made King Marcos more blunt than ever. ‘You’re not made for it like Rico was. It won’t be easy for you like it would have been for him.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

The king ignored the undisguised sarcasm in his second son’s tone. ‘It’s an observation, not a criticism. Anyway,’ he said shortly, resting a blue-veined hand on a pile of newspapers on the table over the bed. ‘You seem to be doing everything right these days—taking an interest in the charities, sounding suitably concerned about your decrepit old father, managing to keep your sexual adventuring out of the papers…’ He looked across at Luis shrewdly. ‘Where’s the catch?’

Luis kept his tone and expression deliberately blank. ‘What do you mean?’

His father shifted in the bed, wincing momentarily as he knocked the tube that was dispensing colourless fluid into the back of his hand. ‘There’s always a catch with you,’ he said breathlessly. ‘When you were at school I worried most about you when your reports were good, because that always meant you were up to something and working extra hard to cover it up.’ He stopped to take a deep, wheezing breath, his eyes narrowing as he remembered. ‘Like the term you seduced the headmaster’s daughter. When he told me you were going round every night for extra Latin tutorials I knew that something wasn’t right.’

Luis smiled blandly. ‘It wasn’t his daughter, it was his wife. But anyway, you needn’t worry this time. I’m behaving impeccably.’

‘That’s why I’m worried.’ King Marcos Fernando picked up a paper from the top of the pile and unfolded it with shaking, frail fingers. Luis felt a tiny pulse of electricity shoot through him as he found himself looking at the picture of him kissing Emily beside the car at the opera house. ‘This was your most recent indiscretion, and it was three weeks ago,’ his father remarked gruffly, scowling down at the picture. ‘Virtually a lifetime by your standards. Oscar Balfour’s youngest, isn’t she?’

‘Emily. That’s right.’ With heroic effort Luis tore his gaze away from her upturned face in the picture, but it remained imprinted on his mind anyway. ‘She’s here teaching Luciana ballet.’

‘Good.’ His father eyed him suspiciously. ‘Well, take her out again. You look like you enjoyed it and the press loved it. You have to be careful all this charity work and hospital visiting doesn’t make you look too dull. The public won’t like that either.’

Luis got abruptly to his feet, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he strode over to the window and stared unseeingly out over the dispiritingly perfect garden. ‘Don’t you ever stop thinking of things in terms of how they look?’ he said with quiet resignation. ‘Or what people think?’

‘No. That’s our life. In our position that’s what counts.’ From the bed behind him his father’s tone was brisk, containing an echo of its old autocracy. Then he added, more thoughtfully, ‘This Emily…You’re not in love with her, are you?’

‘No, of course not.’

The response was instantaneous. Automatic. Meeting his own reflected eyes in the window Luis felt a hollow pang of self-disgust.

‘Thank God for that.’ King Marcos’s voice was breathless with relief, as if Luis had just denied being a serial killer. ‘Love is not for us, Luis. You have to marry, of course, and you have to produce an heir, but you look on that as a business deal. A merger, if you like. Love will only make you miserable.’

‘How romantic’

‘Romance?’ The king made a contemptuous noise. ‘Leave romance to Hollywood and fairy tales. The reality of being royal is accepting that you lead a double life. There is business. And there is pleasure. You work hard and you make sacrifices for the business, but you enjoy as much discreet pleasure as you can on the side. If you stick to the rules no one gets hurt.’

The sunny room suddenly felt unbearably hot. Luis could feel a pulse beating in his temples as he slowly turned round to face his father in the bed.

‘It’s not always that simple though, is it,’ he said quietly, leaning back against the windowsill. ‘You might want it to be, but it isn’t. My mother got hurt.’

As he said it he felt both surprised and oddly relieved. This was forbidden territory, but suddenly Luis knew he had to explore it. He had spent the past fourteen years trying not to think about what had happened, but as Emily had made him see, it had influenced his life and led him down paths he might not have taken if Cassia Cordoba hadn’t fallen asleep in the bath and never woken up.

Against the pillows his father’s ashen face was hard. ‘Yes, but not by me. She got hurt because she broke the rules.’

‘How?’

The small silence that followed was filled by the rasping wheeze of the king’s breathing. And then he said, ‘By falling in love.’

The pulse had increased to a drumbeat. Luis pressed his fingertips absently and fruitlessly against the side of his head, trying to quieten it. ‘With someone else?’

‘Yes.’ King Marcos sighed and looked at Luis with eyes full of regret. ‘She wasn’t really cut out for royal life—she was too emotional and sensitive—but she was beautiful and came from a good family, so…’ He let the sentence trail off with a shrug of his frail shoulders. ‘Anyway, things were fine for a while, but then she fell in love with a racing driver.’ Luis flinched. ‘Their affair went on for years, until he was killed in a race and…’

‘She killed herself.’ To his own ears his voice sounded hoarse and strange.

‘Effectively, yes.’ King Marcos’s sigh seemed to shake his once-magnificent body to its core, again placing the oxygen tube in jeopardy. ‘As you know the official story was that she banged her head in the bath. An accident.’

Luis had known that, but he had also understood without ever being told that his mother’s death was somehow inextricably linked to the small brown bottles of pills she carried with her at all times, sliding them from her bag and slipping them swiftly between her lips so often that it never seemed strange. That was how he remembered his mother—vague, distracted, unhappy. Absent even when she was there. The emotional, sensitive girl described by his father sounded like someone else altogether.

Like Emily.

‘No, no, no! Is too late!’

The music came to an abrupt halt, as the exasperated voice of the director echoed across the stage. Emily bent her head, her hands on her hips, breathing hard. It was the third time she had mistimed the leap, and she could hardly blame her partner or the director for beginning to lose patience.

‘Sorry,’ she said, looking at Adriano, who tossed his head and scowled. Tall, Byronically brooding and romantic, the Brazilian National Ballet’s principal male was the perfect stereotype of an arrogant danseur.

‘You maybe have—’ he broke off, scowling as he tried to find the right phrase ‘—overdo it?’

‘Yes, I probably have been overdoing it a bit.’ Emily bent down, ostentatiously massaging the tops of her legs to hide a sudden secret smile. Not in rehearsals though. Last night had been particularly exhausting, even by Luis’s standards, and the ache in her thighs had nothing to do with grands jetés and everything to do with grande passion. ‘Anyway, let’s do it again,’ she called to the director.

Adriano gave an imperious nod, and said something in incomprehensible Portuguese to Thiago, the diminutive director striding theatrically back towards them as the music started again.

Santosa’s Grande Teatro was a building of crumbling grandeur and inadequate air conditioning. Emily could feel the sweat running down her spine as she took her opening position for the pas de deux and stared out into the darkness of the auditorium beyond the hot lights. She felt edgy with nerves and the pressure of not screwing up again, and rising up onto her toes she felt the muscles in her inner thighs protest.

Suddenly the memory of wrapping her legs around Luis’s waist as he held her and entered her, standing up, came back to her. Oh, God, she thought weakly, trying to force her mind back to the present as her body was shot through with flame, how ironic that Luis had put the passion back into her interpretation, but perfection and precision seemed to have gone out of the window.

Discipline, focus, control. Arms, feet, spine. Ruthlessly she centred her attention, balancing herself for the leap. This time the timing was exact, and Adriano caught her, his hands spanning her midriff as he lowered her gently back onto her pointes.

They held the pose as the pas de deux came to an end, their chests rising and falling in unison. Pressed against the muscular arc of Adriano’s body, Emily felt light headed for a moment as she recalled the way she and Luis had eventually fallen onto the bed, breathless and exhilarated, her flushed cheek pressed against his damp skin, her whole body spreadeagled over him.

The music finished. ‘Perfeito!’ cried Thiago, springing forward with an expansive sweep of his arms, while from the auditorium behind him came the sound of clapping.

He whirled round in surprise and affront at having his rehearsal interrupted. Emily squinted out into the gloom and saw someone get up from a seat about halfway back and step into the aisle. Someone tall, and broad shouldered, with the arrogant, loping, predatory walk of a tiger.

Or a wolf.

Thiago’s outraged squawk ceased abruptly, and became apologetic and ingratiating as Prince Luis came forward into the lights. Adriano sprang away from her as if she were red hot, backing off and simultaneously bending into a deep bow. ‘Your Highness…’

Luis nodded curtly, his face oddly expressionless.

‘Forgive me for intruding on your rehearsal.’ His voice, even when speaking such bland courtesies, made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. ‘It’s coming together.’ His gaze flickered briefly in her direction and heat bloomed beneath her skin. ‘Sehora Balfour is doing well.’

‘Sim,’ Thiago agreed with a sigh, ‘plenty of—how you say it?—paixão.’

‘Passion,’ Luis translated neutrally. In the footlights his eyes gleamed gold, and a muscle twitched above his jaw.

Thiago planted his hands on his hips and looked at Emily appraisingly. ‘But only a week to performance, so we must take that passion and add to it precisão.’

‘Not today.’ Luis shot Adriano a cool glance. ‘I have to take Senhora Balfour away, I’m afraid. Important business.’

‘So what’s the problem? Is it Luciana?’

Across the table Emily’s blue eyes were clouded with anxiety, but Luis took a sip of coffee before answering. They were sitting in a tiny dark bar, in a little side street off Santosa’s main square. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but Luis had known the owner for many years and trusted him to keep the paparazzi out. At a table by the door his two bodyguards drank coffee and failed to look inconspicuous.

‘No, Luciana’s fine.’ He put the cup back on the saucer with a clatter and ran his hand over his unshaven jaw. He felt tense and edgy with unfamiliar emotions that he was sickeningly aware of but couldn’t bear to examine. The feeling reminded him of when he’d come off a motorbike a few years ago—those few moments of watching the blood seeping through his shirt, feeling the pain but not wanting to look at the wound. ‘I just came from visiting my father.’

‘Is he…getting worse?’

‘No. On the contrary, he was better than I’d seen him for a while. Certainly more talkative.’

Her eyes were full of compassion. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ he said tersely, picking up a sugar cube and crumbling it between his fingers. ‘But weird. As I told you, in our family we don’t go in for talking much.’ It was good that he knew, good that he finally understood the shadow that had hung over his childhood, but it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. That’s why he’d gone to find Emily. He wanted the reassurance of her normality and straightforwardness. Brushing the sugar from his fingers he leaned restlessly back in his seat. ‘So, how was the rehearsal?’

She shrugged, a shadow passing over her open face. ‘As you saw. I have the passion nailed and now I need to work on precision.’

‘You certainly do have the passion nailed,’ Luis drawled acidly. ‘What do you and Adriano do for an encore? Have sex in the middle of the stage?’

He had a sudden dizzying flashback to that night in England, when he’d so arrogantly, so bloody calculatingly begun to seduce her in the hotel. Jealousy is a nasty disease to which, thankfully, I’m completely immune. His cold, complacent words came back to him and he recognized the devastating justice of the situation he now found himself in. Turned inside out by jealousy for a dancer, for pity’s sake.

‘I have enough sex at the moment, thank you,’ she said softly, and for a moment her eyes met his across the table and he was gripped by a strong urge to pick her up and haul her back to his bed. I don’t, he wanted to say. It felt like he could never have enough of her.

‘Anyway—’ a flush of pink had spread across her cheekbones and she dropped her gaze ‘—I wanted to talk to you about Luciana. It’s her birthday next week.’

Luis was relieved at the change of subject. ‘Of course,’ he said tersely. And almost a year since Rico and Christiana died.

‘Well, since she doesn’t really have any friends her own age I wondered if we could do something with her, instead of a party. Something fun.’ She looked at him under her eyelashes. ‘Something normal.’

‘Do you have something in mind?’

‘I do, but you’re not going to like it…’ With a rueful smile she stooped down, reaching beneath the table and wincing slightly. ‘Sorry, my feet are killing me.’

Frowning, Luis glanced down. Under the table he could see that she had slipped her shoes off and was rubbing her toes. A bolt of pure, blinding lust shot through him. ‘Go on,’ he rasped.

‘Well, I thought…’ As she uncrossed her legs her bare foot brushed his knee and he caught hold of it under the table. She smiled, a slow, spreading smile that made the sun rise in her clear blue eyes and heated his blood. ‘I thought…’ she repeated, her voice throaty with undisguised desire as his fingers gently massaged her instep, ‘that we could…’

He raised his eyebrows, enjoying her unraveling. ‘Yes…’

She hesitated. ‘I don’t want you to say no,’ she whispered, sliding down in her chair a little, pushing back her loose, silken hair with her fingers, her eyes not leaving his. There was a wicked glitter in them, and suddenly he wasn’t holding her foot any more. She had twisted it neatly from his grasp with a flick of her ankle and slid it between his thighs.

He tensed, instantly rock hard as her strong, supple toes flexed against him.

‘Promise you won’t say no,’ she breathed, her eyes laughing, burning into his.

‘Atrevido,’ he murmured hoarsely. Light-headed with want he glanced across at the oblivious bodyguards who were sprawled at their table, chatting desultorily. He looked back at Emily. Her perfect heart-shaped face was composed and serene. Only her eyes, which had darkened to the colour of sapphires and were sparkling feverishly, gave her away. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said in a voice like honey and gravel, ‘saying no to anything you could suggest right now. So tell me.’

She smiled, wickedly and delightfully, and he swallowed back a groan as he felt her other foot slip between his thighs. ‘Camping. I want to take her camping. In a tent. On the beach.’

Chapter Thirteen

‘OK, NOW both of you, close your eyes.’

Emily and Luciana looked at each other, excitement shimmering between them on the soft late-afternoon heat. ‘Go on.’ Emily grinned. ‘You first, and then I will.’

Luciana screwed her eyes up very tightly as if she was afraid they might accidentally spring open. Emily glanced up at Luis.

‘You too, Miss Balfour,’ he said sternly, taking her face between his hands and brushing his thumbs down over her eyelids. ‘And keep them shut until I say so.’

The sand was soft beneath her feet as Luis took each of their hands and pulled them up the last steep bit of the dune. The incline levelled off as they reached the summit and Emily felt the breeze lift her hair and the sun warm her face, and she heard the sigh of the waves and breathed in the evocative salt and ozone scents of the sea.

‘Now,’ he said quietly. ‘Open.’

It was the Arabian Nights, or Camelot, laid out below them on the beach. A number of round white canvas tents were clustered together on the sand, pink pennants flying from their turrets, bunting and balloons strung between them. Luciana was standing transfixed, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes brilliant with tears of astonishment and delight.

Emily knew exactly how she felt.

‘Is it real?’ Luciana whispered. ‘Am I really sleeping there tonight?’

‘You bet,’ Luis said, and Emily’s throat constricted as she heard the note of gravelly emotion in his voice. ‘Because you’re the birthday girl. Go and look at your bedroom—you might find some people you know down there.’

And she was off, running down the slope of the dune in the little red shorts and striped T-shirt Emily had bought her as part of her birthday present, her hair flying out behind her. Only then did Emily turn to Luis, laughing as the sentimental tears that shimmered in her eyes spilled over. ‘It’s incredible. Absolutely perfect. Thank you.’

‘I’m glad it meets with your approval,’ he said drily.

‘Oh, it does. Very much.’

She rose up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth, but instantly he stepped away. A tiny beat of disappointment went through her. ‘Careful.’ He gestured down the beach with a nod of his head. ‘We have an audience.’

From out of the tents Tomás had emerged, looking almost unrecognisable out of his ubiquitous suit and tie. With him was a pretty, plump blonde woman who she assumed was Valentina holding a chubby baby on one hip, and Elena and Paloma, two of the junior nannies from the palace. Senhora Costa, mercifully, did not seem to be in evidence, but there were several young men in shorts and T-shirts whom Emily couldn’t place.

‘Inviting half of the security force was the only way I could get Tomás and the chief of security to agree to this,’ Luis said, following her gaze, and she realised that the tanned, relaxed boys down there were the bodyguards she was used to seeing in headsets and uniforms, opening doors for her and following Luis like shadows. Now, here in the fading afternoon sun as they went forward to greet Luciana they looked human for the first time.

‘Was it very difficult?’ she asked guiltily.

‘Put it this way, it’ll make any future diplomatic dealings I may have with fascist dictators and volatile despots look like schoolboy stuff.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Come on. Let me show you to your boudoir, your ladyship. And let’s get this party started.’

They played rounders and had piggyback races, with the pretty young nannies shrieking excitedly on the backs of the younger bodyguards. Emily stood on the finish line taking photographs as Luis charged across it with Luciana clinging to him like a little monkey, her face alight with happiness.

He had long since discarded his T-shirt and, wearing only faded surf shorts, his tawny hair glinting gold in the sun it was hard to imagine the responsibility that rested on his beautiful, butterscotch-brown shoulders. And yet, Emily thought with a wrench of visceral yearning, it was also impossible to forget that he was what he was. Royal. Special. Separate. It was in every powerful inch of him, every self-assured move and graceful gesture.

She thought back to the night in the restaurant, when they’d played that silly game about animals—the bitterness in his voice when he’d said he wasn’t regal enough to be a lion—but looking at him now in the low, syrupy sunlight, that was exactly what he reminded her of. The wolf had emerged from the shadows, and he was stronger, prouder and even more compelling.

After the games Tomás lit a fire and Valentina cooked sausages and steaks while Luciana played with baby Gracia. One of the tents had been set up as a bar and kitchen, and Matheus, Luciana’s favourite bodyguard, made her a cola float which he embellished with a tiny pink paper umbrella and presented to her with a flourish. He’d also brought an iPod, and as the sun changed from primrose yellow to deep blush pink music filled the warm evening and Luis opened champagne.

Instinctively Emily had kept a distance from him, but suddenly he was standing in front of her, holding out a slim glass. Their eyes locked as she took it from him, her stomach disappearing with longing as their fingers touched.

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you’, he said ironically. ‘This is all your idea.’

‘But this is more than I ever could have dreamed up…’ She waved her glass in an arc that took in the tents, the deserted beach, the rose-petal sun sliding down towards the glittering sea. ‘You’ve taken my idea and made it magical. Luciana’s having the time of her life.’

His face was very still, and very, very beautiful, as he looked out across the ocean. ‘I hope so,’ he said, and his voice was low and raw.

Behind them someone turned up the music and Luciana was calling her name. Reluctantly tearing her gaze from his she turned round.

‘Emily, listen!’ Luciana squealed, ‘Matheus has the music for our dance! Let’s do it! Let’s do it now!’

Sure enough the Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker, with its associations of home and Christmas, was floating incongruously over the tropical white sand. Smiling, Emily took a mouthful of champagne and then handed her glass back to Luis before knotting her faded checked shirt over her midriff and going to join Luciana.

Luciana’s face was set in a frown of concentration as she went through her carefully rehearsed routine, and Emily danced around her, the silken sand flying from her bare feet with each fouetté. At the end everyone clapped madly, and Luciana glowed with pride.

‘Now you,’ she begged Emily. ‘Do yours!’

‘No, no.’ Laughing, Emily dropped a kiss on her head and went back over to Luis to reclaim her champagne. ‘This is a party—we should all dance. Matheus, do you have any party music?’

‘Of course!’ A moment later the low pulsing beat of the samba filled the warm evening, and Matheus went back to Luciana and took both her hands. ‘I show Your Highness,’ he joked. ‘And then you can teach Senhora Balfour how we dance in Santosa.’

‘Uh-uh,’ said Luis, very close to her ear. ‘That’s definitely going to be my privilege.’

Elena and Paloma had been claimed by their bodyguards, and Tomás was drawing a laughing, protesting Valentina forwards. The music was insistent, infectious, and Emily couldn’t have resisted its persuasive beat, even if it hadn’t been for Luis’s hands on her waist.

He was, she discovered with a debilitating kick of desire, a brilliant dancer. Pushing his fingers into the back pockets of her tight denim shorts he pulled her hips close to his so that they were swaying and undulating in unison, their upper bodies almost motionless, their gazes locked smokily together. For a long time they danced like that as the sun flamed lower, a blood orange dripping into the sea, turning his bare chest to beaten bronze, his eyes to liquid gold.

‘You’re a natural samba dancer,’ Luis murmured, his voice warm and husky with approval.

‘Perhaps I’ve found my niche.’ She smiled straight into his eyes. ‘I’m rubbish at ballet these days. No precision. No control.’

‘I love your lack of control.’

Instantly her smile faded and her body turned fluid with desire.

‘Luis, I—’

‘Shhh.’ His eyes were hooded as he placed a finger on her lips. ‘Not here. Not now.’ Around them the party continued, and he let her go and took a step back. ‘I think I should go and dance with the birthday girl for a little while, don’t you?’

Emily nodded mutely, half relieved at the respite from the exhausting onslaught of desire, half desolate at his abrupt withdrawal. She should be used to it by now, she told herself despairingly, watching him go over to Luciana. She should be used to wanting him—all of him—and having him always elude her.

Because that was the great flaw in the centre of her joy. He had awoken her, introduced her to pleasure and excitement she had never even previously imagined, and she had opened herself up to him completely, heart and mind and body and soul. While he…he remained as distant and unknowable as the moon.

Luciana’s delighted laughter rose into the soft apricot evening as Luis picked her up and twirled her round, her hands small on his muscular shoulders. Emily swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to summon a smile, like everyone else. Even though she’d just realised she was in love with the Crown Prince of Santosa and there wasn’t a chance that he loved her back.

Meaningless sex, that’s all it was for him.

Gorgeous, mind-blowing, life altering. But not enough.

Later, after Luciana’s birthday candles and the orange glow of the sun had both been extinguished and the dancing had given way to stories around the campfire, a yawning Luciana was put to bed in her silken-draped tent. Ducking through the doorway, Luis went in to say goodnight to her. She was almost asleep, and as he bent down beside the little camp bed he was hit by a rush of emotion so powerful it made it hard to breathe for a second.

Guilt. Always guilt, but now so much more.

‘Thank you for a lovely party,’ she whispered, the soft glow of the lantern beside her reflected in her shining eyes.

He smiled. ‘It’s my pleasure. Did you have a nice birthday?’

‘The best,’ she said fiercely. ‘The best birthday ever.’

Her answer, and the emphasis with which she spoke, took him by surprise. ‘Good,’ he said quietly, straightening up. ‘I’m glad.’

For a moment he hovered, the pressure of things he wanted to say but didn’t know how swelling in his throat, and then there was a rustle of canvas as Emily came in. She looked at him. In the cool, clear pools of her eyes he felt all his troubles could be washed away, and as she came towards the bed she brushed his arm with her fingertips and his throat closed and words deserted him anyway.

With a last smile at Luciana he went out. Everyone was sitting around the campfire a little distance away from the tents, but Luis didn’t go over. Picking up a bottle of beer he headed instead in the other direction, towards the cliffs at the far end of the cove. Ever since they arrived he had been aware of their dark bulk and had tried to ignore it, but he knew now that he could put it off no longer. He had to go down there, today of all days. Luciana’s birthday.

Her best birthday ever, he thought with a fresh burst of surprise. He was ashamed to remember how in previous years the date hadn’t really meant much to him, but he’d assumed that Rico and Christiana would have done something to make it special. But then maybe he didn’t know his brother as well as he’d thought. He’d always been in awe of Rico for his absolute dedication to duty, but maybe that had been incompatible with being a hands-on, loving father.

Without thinking he had headed down to the water’s edge, walking along the hard sand with the lacy edges of the waves flapping gently over the tops of his feet. Ahead of him the cliffs rose up, huge and black and menacing. As he got closer to them the air got distinctly cooler, as if Rico’s restless spirit was lurking there.

Taking a mouthful of beer he turned away from the sea and headed up the beach, his feet sinking into the powdery sand as his eyes scanned the gloom for the huge mound of rock that he had privately marked out as Rico’s monument. Locating it he made his way towards it and lowered himself down onto the sand at its foot.

It was surprisingly warm against his bare back. He took another swig of beer from the bottle and looked back along the darkening beach. The glow of the campfire seemed a long, long way away, the figures around it just indistinguishable shapes, but inevitably he found himself automatically searching for Emily amongst them.

Emily. Just saying her name inside his head made his pulse quicken and his body harden. Deus, it was like being under some kind of spell. She had got inside him, and if he had found it hard to resist her before, now he had touched and tasted and possessed her it was almost impossible.

What had started as a relationship he had been ordered to fake for the sake of his public image had become something that was fundamental to the most private, personal part of himself. That was why he wanted to keep it secret, in some kind of attempt to protect it. And her. Because the moment anyone suspected that it was genuine, it would be over. As vividly as if she had been there, whispering it to him in the gathering gloom, he recalled Josefina’s comment about his private life It’s now a political matter rather than simply a personal one.

A movement a little distance away caught his eye. Someone was walking along the sand through the veils of milky twilight towards him, and he turned away facing out to sea, resentment and bitterness sweeping through him. It would be Tomás or one of the bodyguards, come to find him in their constant quest to protect him from bands of drug-crazed terrorists, rabid republicans, mentally unstable fanatics. What they couldn’t seem to grasp was that he wasn’t remotely bothered about any of those, but what terrified him was the very real danger of being locked into a lifetime of lies and emptiness.

‘Luis?’

Emily’s voice—soft, tentative and so sexy it hurt. He turned his head. She was standing a few yards away, her long bare legs in the tiny denim shorts silhouetted against the glow of the fire in the distance, her face indistinguishable in the shadows.

‘Yes, I’m here.’ His voice sounded rusty and cracked.

‘Do you want to be alone? I wondered where you were, but if you’d rather be—’

‘No.’ That’s exactly what he’d come down here for, what he thought he wanted, but now he knew he’d much rather be with her. Hell, what was happening to him lately? He didn’t even know himself any more.

‘Actually,’ he said sardonically, ‘I came down here to be with Rico. This is the place where his helicopter came down, almost exactly a year ago, so I thought I ought to come and have a drink with him.’

He raised his half-empty bottle. A second later another one clinked against it in the half-light and he realised that she was carrying one too. ‘Can I join you both?’ she asked quietly.

‘I’d like that.’

She sat down on the sand beside him, not close enough to be touching, but just her presence seemed to enfold him in an odd sense of calm. For a moment neither of them spoke, and the only sound was the rhythmic breaking of the waves, and beneath that the gentler sigh of their breathing. In and out. Together.

‘Tell me about him,’ she murmured after a while. ‘Tell me what Rico was like.’

‘What was he like?’ Luis echoed, his grip tightening around the bottle in his hand. ‘Nothing like me, is the short answer. He was…always the same.’ He spoke slowly and with difficulty, realizing that it was an odd way to describe his brother yet suddenly understanding that this was significant. ‘All the time, whoever he was with. There was no difference between the man he was in private and the persona he presented to the world. Everything about who he was came naturally to him.’

‘Who he was? You mean the heir?’

‘Yes, just like everything about being the spare came naturally to me…’ Acrid self-loathing rose up inside him, dripping from every word and almost choking him. ‘Taking the privilege without taking any responsibility, enjoying the deference of my title without doing anything to earn it. But Rico was the opposite.’

‘But you’re taking that responsibility now.’ It was a statement, not a question, and she made it with a serene certainty that was infinitely soothing. Until he remembered what he’d done and the doors of his private prison slammed shut again.

‘On the surface, yes. But everything in me rebels against it. I’ll never be able to do it wholeheartedly.’

Not like she would. Whatever she does she does passionately, with her whole heart and soul. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d had that conversation with Oscar, and yet every word was still etched indelibly onto his memory. Whether he wanted it there or not.

His stomach clenched with helpless desire as he watched her raise the beer bottle to her lips, close them around it and take a mouthful. ‘Do you have to do it at all, then?’ she asked softly. ‘Can’t you—’

‘Walk away?’ His short laugh rang with icy despair. ‘Not an option. I just have to accept the stage management and the manipulation of the truth and the blatant bloody lies the palace press office spin in the name of my “image”.’

‘But why?’ She had moved while he was talking, rising up so she was half kneeling beside his outstretched legs, facing him. She still had her shirt knotted beneath her breasts from when they’d danced earlier. ‘Why can’t you just be yourself?’

‘Because the real me isn’t up to the job, I’m afraid.’ With difficulty he wrenched his gaze away from her flat, smooth midriff and gave a twisted smile. ‘Being royal is essentially like being a character in a fairy tale—you only exist as long as people believe in you. So you have to make sure they believe, and in the age of mobile-phone cameras and the Internet that’s pretty impossible because there are people lurking round every corner waiting to show how human you are.’ He took a mouthful of beer, and added with a weary attempt at humour, ‘Let’s face it, even you had given up believing in fairy tales.’

‘Ah, but I believe again now,’ she said softly. ‘Thanks to you—the real you.’ Without getting up she shifted her position so that in one neat movement she was on her knees straddling his outstretched legs. ‘You’re wrong, you know, about not being up to it. You might not be the same kind of king as your father was and your brother would have been, but if you do it your way you’ll be brilliant. You’ll make everyone believe, like me.’

Luis stiffened, trying to suppress the lust that surged though him. He turned his head, away from her searchlight gaze, and gave a rueful, mocking laugh. ‘I can’t sleep with everyone.’

Her smile widened and she trailed a languid finger down his chest. ‘That’s not what you would have said when I first met you…’

‘No,’ he said tersely. ‘But everything’s changed since then. I’m not like that any more.’

‘Because you’re taking on the responsibility of—’

‘No.’ The word sounded like a curse in the velvet twilight. Heart hammering, adrenaline stinging through him, Luis pulled his legs from beneath her and got to his feet. ‘Because it was my fault,’ he ground out through gritted teeth, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘What happened was my fault, and that’s something I have to live with every day for the rest of my hollow sham of a double life.’

She had got up and was beside him, reaching out to him. ‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged her off. ‘I was supposed to go to the award ceremony that Rico and Christiana attended that night. It was in my schedule. My engagement. But so was judging the Miss Santosa contest earlier that day.’ Disgust rang through every word and he turned to face her, needing to see the reaction on her face. ‘The winner was exceptionally pretty and exceptionally grateful. I rang Rico from the Jacuzzi of the honeymoon suite and asked him to do the award ceremony in my place.’

‘Oh, Luis…’

It was a whisper on the still air, barely audible above the sigh of the sea.

‘No, please. Don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say, really. So, now you know. I killed my brother and his wife, and in doing so I not only destroyed their lives and Luciana’s life, but I pretty comprehensively screwed up my own too, which is only fair.’

‘You didn’t kill them.’

She had come to stand behind him now, and a violent tremor went through him as she laid her palms flat on his back, on his shoulder blades. ‘Not with my own hands,’ he said savagely. ‘But it amounts to the same thing.’ He broke off and gave a bitter laugh. ‘At least I’m sure that’s how Luciana will see it when she’s old enough to understand. That’s why I didn’t want to get close to her. Because then, when she finds out what I did to her parents, it’ll feel like even more of a betrayal.’

‘You haven’t betrayed her.’ Emily’s voice was low and firm, and as she spoke her hands moved across his shoulders so she was gripping him, hard. ‘And you’ve given her more warmth and affection in the past few weeks than she’s had in five years before that.’ Her grip tightened. ‘She loves you.’

‘No.’ The word was wrenched out of him. With a jerk of his shoulders he twisted free of her grasp and turned to face her, shaking his head. ‘Don’t say that. I don’t deserve it.’

Slowly, emphatically, she nodded, her eyes burning into his through the violet night. ‘Yes, you do. What happened was one of those random, appalling acts that none of us can control. The only thing we have any power over is how we respond, and you responded by becoming stronger, braver, more honourable. That’s how you won her love.’ She paused for a heartbeat. ‘And mine too.’

‘Emily, no…’ It was the ferocious growl of an animal in pain, but she didn’t flinch. She simply raised her hands in silent surrender.

‘Sorry. I know I’m breaking all the rules by saying it, but I’m no good at pretending or manipulating the truth. I love you.’

Before he could stop himself he had taken her by the shoulders. ‘Don’t,’ he rasped, shaking her so she stumbled against him. ‘Because if you do your life will be destroyed too, and I can’t…I don’t think I could stand that…’

But it was a mistake to have touched her. At the feel of her body against his bare skin reason deserted him and suddenly he wasn’t holding her away from him any more. His arms were around her, clutching him with the feverish desperation of a drowning man reaching for a raft. Her hands were cradling his face, her mouth hot against his, her miraculous body pressing against him until they were almost one. Almost…

He hauled himself away, leaving Emily gasping, reeling, frantic. ‘Luis—’

‘No.’ He staggered backwards, pressing his clenched fists against his temples. ‘Christo, I was wrong to do this to you. Nothing can come of it, you know that, don’t you? There’s no future in this.’

Emily’s heart was beating so hard it racked her whole body with every painful thud. ‘Of course,’ she said in a voice that shook with need. ‘Meaningless sex. We said it all along. And right now I don’t care about the future, I just care about now. Tonight, and however long this lasts.’

For a long moment he didn’t move. Bare chested and beautiful, in the dying light he looked like a tortured saint. Emily felt like Faust, signing his terrible deal with the devil, a short spell of earthly bliss at the expense of an eternity of torment.

But as Luis took her hand and led her silently up the dark beach she couldn’t be sorry. And as he laid her down amongst the layers of rugs and blankets in his tent and undressed her, holding her, stroking her with his hands, worshipping her with his mouth and his tongue, she felt like she was dancing with the angels.

Her dreams were hazy, suffused with rapture and the constant sigh of the sea. She awoke at first light, and before she opened her eyes she was aware of Luis’s body, warm and hard against her back, his arms tight around her, and she smiled. Outside she could hear voices, low and grave, and realised that must have been what woke her. And then the tent flap was parting to reveal a slice of colourless sky, and Tomás’s face. It too was drained of colour.

Behind her Luis sat up, letting her go.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Highness. I’m afraid it’s your father.’

Chapter Fourteen

THE machine that was keeping King Marcos Fernando alive was slowly and relentlessly driving Luis mad. It emitted a beeping sound at a pitch that seemed to be exactly calibrated to cause the most discomfort to the human ear as it measured each laboured breath.

The room was impossibly hot. Getting stiffly up from the plastic chair Luis felt the sweat cool in the small of his back as he went over to the window, parting the slats of the blind to look out. The sun was high in a hazy sky. How many hours had he been there now? he wondered bleakly. How many thousand times had he heard that bloody beep, and how long was it since he had woken up with his cheek against Emily’s hair and her body clasped against his?

He rested his head against the glass and closed eyes that felt gritty with exhaustion and wondered if he was going out of his mind.

‘Your Highness?’

Tomás stood in the doorway, glancing anxiously over to the still figure in the bed before turning back to Luis. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a break, sir—some coffee or something. I brought you a change of clothes.’

Luis looked down, realizing with a beat of surprise that he was still wearing yesterday’s surf shorts and T-shirt. ‘Does it really matter what I’m wearing?’ he asked wearily, looking at the suit carrier draped over Tomás’s arm. ‘At least this is cool.’ And a whisper of Emily’s perfume still clung to it.

‘The press, sir. Obviously they’re outside, and that…Well, it doesn’t quite give the right impression at a time like this.’

The right impression. Of course. Luis’s chest constricted with impotent fury as he followed Tomás out into the lobby of their private suite and into a small sitting room on the other side.

Tomás laid the suit carrier down on the sofa and set about filling the kettle on the countertop. Encased once more in tailored grey flannel it was impossible to connect him with the man who had danced on the beach with his barefoot wife a little over twelve hours ago.

‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Josefina and the King’s private secretary,’ he said. ‘We felt we had no alternative but to cancel tomorrow’s jubilee celebration.’

Luis nodded numbly, peeling the T-shirt off over his head. A light scattering of sand fell onto the carpet. The only thought that formed in his head with any clarity was the fact that he wouldn’t have to watch Emily dancing in the arms of another man.

‘I also spoke to the Duchess de Mesa, sir. She’s flying out as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’

Tomás turned and held out a mug of steaming black coffee. Luis didn’t take it.

Very carefully Tomás put it on the low table beside the sofa. ‘Josefina feels that in the difficult days ahead, it would be good to have her here. In the background, as your f—’

He faltered, unable to meet Luis’s eye.

‘My future wife.’ Luis almost spat the words. Prison doors seemed to be slamming behind him, shutting out the light, making it difficult to breathe. Suddenly choking on despair he leaned against the wall, bracing his arms against it as if he could push it back, give himself more air. In that moment he wanted Emily so much that he thought he might black out.

‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said, in a voice of infinite desolation. ‘It’s one relentless march now from my father’s funeral to my wedding.’ His business-merger marriage. And from there to his own funeral, whenever that might be. All of a sudden it hardly seemed to matter. The only thing that was certain was that there would be precious little happiness along the way.

‘It’s been planned that way for a long time, sir,’ Tomás said quietly. ‘You know that. It comes with the role.’

He flinched as Luis smashed his fist against the wall. ‘And what if I don’t want the role?’

Tomás blanched. ‘Then you would have to abdicate, sir. And Princess Luciana would take the throne.’

Utterly defeated, Luis slumped against the wall. He had a sudden image of Luciana’s dark curls bouncing, her little arms windmilling with joy as she ran down the sand dune yesterday. Something normal and fun, that’s what Emily had wanted to give her and she had adored every second. How much opportunity would she get to be normal if she was queen? How many chances to have fun?

From the direction of the King’s room across the lobby the electronic beep that had provided the steady background to their conversation suddenly intensified to a persistent whine. There was a flurry of activity and a surge of running feet outside, and without thinking Luis found himself rushing across the lobby towards his father’s room. The bed was surrounded by white-coated figures silently checking machinery and adjusting tubes, their faces as blank and grave as angels.

And as he leaned against the door frame watching them, he was suddenly reminded of the morning when his mother’s body was discovered—standing in the doorway of her bedroom and looking into the bathroom beyond as the paramedics lifted her from the water, checking for a pulse, trying to restart her heart. She wasn’t really cut out for royal life, his father had said. She was too emotional and sensitive. She had been dragged into a life of duty and it had killed her.

He couldn’t do that to Emily.

He turned and walked away, his jaw set like steel against the wave of total desolation that smashed through him. There was no escape.

Behind him the electronic noise that had filled his head and sliced through his thoughts for such a long time abruptly ceased, so that there was suddenly nothing. An absence of any sound, any feeling, any hope.

And then Tomás was beside him, pale and composed.

‘He’s gone.’ He bowed his head gravely. ‘I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.’

‘Would you like some tea and biscuits, Senhora Balfour?’

Emily blinked, dragging her gaze back from the bright square of sky beyond the window to the immaculately made-up face of the woman who stood behind the desk in the palace’s press office.

‘Oh. Yes,’ she stuttered dazedly. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be…good.’

The realization that she was hungry broke upon her with a flash of surprise. Since they left the beach at first light the day had taken on an odd, end-of-the-world feeling of silence and waiting, in which ordinary things like food and drink had had no place. Here, in the bright, efficient room, the feeling receded a little.

‘Thank you for coming, Senhora.’ The woman—Josefina something, she had introduced herself as—was smiling at Emily now, with glossy mulberry-coloured lips. Emily wasn’t sure how to reply. She hadn’t been aware of having a choice about obeying the summons to the press office.

‘No problem,’ she muttered, suddenly distinctly aware that she was still wearing yesterday’s frayed denim shorts and checked shirt. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

Josefina sat down, looking at Emily with an expression of intense pity. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that the King died a short time ago.’

Emily heard the words, but it took a moment for their weighty implications to sink in. As they did she found herself stumbling to her feet, her mouth opening and her head spinning. She had to find something acceptable to say to the woman opposite, something correct and respectful, but all she could think of was…

‘Luis. I need to see him.’

The words came out in a dry croak, and instantly she knew she had made a mistake. Josefina’s face hardened.

‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ she snapped, and then visibly reined back her impatience. ‘Please, sit down. Prince Luis is king now, and this is going to be a very difficult time for him. It needs to be handled very…sensitively and carefully.’

Emily sank back onto her chair, gripped by a growing sense of dread. ‘I don’t understand.’

Josefina sighed, folding her hands together on the desk. ‘King Marcos Fernando was enormously popular amongst the people, and his passing will cause genuine grief, especially coming so soon after Prince Rico’s death,’ she explained, as if she was talking to a small child. ‘For the past year, since he became the crown prince, we have been working extensively on Prince Luis’s public image, in anticipation of this. Opinion polls show that what we’ve achieved has been a little short of miraculous. The public now regard him almost as favourably as they did Prince Rico.’

She looked at Emily across the table, as if waiting for a response. Emily would have obliged had she had any clue as to what the correct one would be. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what this has to do with me…’

The mulberry lips widened into a patronising smile. ‘Well, of course, to a certain extent we have you to thank for it.’ Suddenly businesslike Josefina seized the computer mouse and clicked briskly, then swivelled the monitor screen around so Emily could see it. ‘Involving you in the PR campaign was a gamble, but one that has proved surprisingly successful.’

‘PR campaign?’ Emily whispered, through lips that were suddenly dry. A succession of images flashed up on the screen before her eyes—newspaper front pages, showing various pictures of her with Luis. Kissing by the steps of the plane when she’d arrived in Santosa. Side by side in the back of a car. Shot with a long lens getting into another car. With Luciana. Arriving at the opera house on the night of the ballet. Leaving later, Luis holding her face between his hands as he kissed her.

His words from last night came back to her, along with a clammy wave of nausea. I just have to accept the stage management and the manipulation of the truth and the blatant bloody lies the palace press office spin in the name of my ‘image.’ He’d been trying to tell her, she realised now. Trying to break it to her that everything that had happened between them was part of that stage management.

‘We needed someone who would provide a complete contrast with the kind of…lifestyle with which the Prince had formerly been associated, and you’ve been perfect.’ Josefina bestowed on Emily the smile of a headmistress handing out gold stars for good work. ‘Unfortunately now, things have changed again,’ she went on, the smile fading slightly as if she’d decided Emily’s performance hadn’t actually made the grade after all. ‘And now the Prince is to become the King, we need to start thinking long term. About his marriage.’

The door opened and a girl came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Emily’s stomach gave an ominous lurch.

‘Obrigado, Ana.’ Josefina dismissed the girl and turned her attention back to Emily. ‘Now is the time that we need to introduce—in a very low-key way, of course—the woman who will in due course become Queen of Santosa. We’d like her to be in the background, unobtrusively supporting the Prince through this difficult time.’

Everything was going way too fast. Suddenly drenched in sweat Emily clutched the arms of the chair, fighting faintness, unable to take in the fact that the woman in front of her with the black, spiky eyelashes and the painted mouth was talking about Luis. Luis, in whose arms she had woken up only a couple of hours ago, who now it seemed was virtually engaged to someone else.

‘Who is she?’ she said, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own.

‘The Duchess de Mesa comes from an old and very distinguished Portuguese family,’ Josefina explained smugly, pouring tea. ‘She’s been being groomed for this role for many years. She’s the ideal person to be at his side both now and in the future.’

Emily wished she hadn’t asked. With nerveless fingers she picked at the frayed edge of her shorts, trying to take it all in, but it was like looking at a mosaic with a magnifying glass, and she could only see one meaningless piece at a time. ‘What about me?’ she whispered. ‘What about the jubilee event?’

‘Regrettably it’s going to have to be cancelled. You’re welcome to stay in Santosa if you wish, but it might be slightly…awkward if you were to continue to remain at the palace after the Duchess arrives.’

Emily nodded. She felt a split second of ridiculous relief that she wouldn’t have to dance the pas de deux before horror descended on her, blanking out everything else. It’s over, she thought in disbelief. It’s over already. The period of grace she had bargained for had come to an end before she had even had a chance to catch her breath, and now the devil had come to take his payment.

‘I’m sorry, Senhora. It was not supposed to happen like this.’ Josefina spoke carefully, her words faintly tinged with guilt. ‘The prince was so sure we could keep all this…under control. Hurting you was the last thing we wanted.’

‘I understand,’ Emily whispered.

And she did. Luis had all but told her all this himself. I was wrong to do this to you, he’d said last night, his voice raw with remorse. He had never deceived her. She had known the risks and she had plunged in anyway. Into the wild woods.

Emily got to her feet, but as she did so she caught the scent of Luis on her skin and her legs almost gave way again beneath her. The door suddenly seemed a long way away and it was all she could do to get herself across the room and open it.

‘I am grateful to you for making it easier for him,’ Josefina said, as she reached it. ‘I had thought you might be difficult about going, but I can see I underestimated you. Thank you.’ For the first time she sounded completely sincere. Sincere and relieved. But when Emily looked back she had already moved on and was scribbling something on a piece of paper while reaching for the phone.

Out in the corridor with its rows of windows pouring sunlight onto the polished parquet Emily took a deep, tearing breath and had to lean against the wall to steady herself. Someone was walking towards her and she ducked her head. Her life might be over but she still had enough pride to feel self-conscious about falling apart in front of palace staff.

But through the blur of tears there was something about the approaching figure that made her heart stop. And then he spoke, and his voice was clipped, English and wrenchingly familiar.

‘Emily? My God…darling.’

She gave a whimper, her last shreds of self-control snapping as she ran forward into Oscar Balfour’s outstretched arms.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion.

‘Daddy,’ she sobbed, breathing in the familiar scent of cologne and Jermyn Street shaving soap. ‘You’re here—oh, thank God, you’re here. Please, Daddy—can I come home?’

Chapter Fifteen

AND in the end this was all there was, Luis thought numbly.

A narrow bed. A sheet folded neatly. A sense of things finished.

Or that’s how it was for his father. A life well lived. A job well done. A grieving public and an official period of mourning. A son who couldn’t feel much at all.

He dropped his head into his hands, and anyone passing the door would have thought that he was stricken with loss for his father, when the truth was he had barely known him. Marcos Fernando had been a King before he was a parent. He had been someone whose picture appeared on postage stamps rather than in family albums. Someone to bow to rather than hug.

Luis wanted so much more from life than that.

He straightened up, dragging a hand over his face with a rasp of stubble. There was no point in going down that particular well-worn track again, he told himself wearily. It was strewn with landmines and it led only to places that were locked and barred to him.

To Emily, in other words.

In the hour that had elapsed since his father’s body had been unhooked from its wires and tubes and the room had emptied of doctors and officials and palace staff, he had sat there alone, obsessively thinking over the possibilities like a prisoner exploring his cell for a means of escape.

There wasn’t one, of course, he’d known that all along. But he kept coming back to that thing she’d said last night on the beach, about him being king. Do it your way, she’d said. You’ll be brilliant. Emily, who did everything passionately, wholeheartedly. Who couldn’t pretend. Whom he loved and admired and trusted more than anyone else in the world.

He got to his feet, swaying slightly, his heart beating very hard. On the bed the figure of his father lay, already as cold and pale as an effigy on a tomb, but as if to prove a point, his own body fizzed and pulsed with energy and adrenaline. Quickly he took his father’s lifeless hand and held it for a moment, and then he walked to the door without looking back.

The guards outside jerked to attention as he passed, shooting each other uneasy glances as he headed straight for the lift. The doors slid open and he punched the button for the ground floor. At that moment Tomás appeared in the doorway of the room opposite, an expression of alarm on his face.

‘Your Highness! I mean…Your Majesty! Where are you—?’

The doors began to close. Realising that Luis had no intention of stopping them, Tomás made it into the lift just in time.

‘Sir, what are you doing?’

His tone was a mixture of incredulity and disapproval, laced with pure panic. By contrast Luis was icy calm.

‘Going back to the palace.’

‘B-but the press are out there, sir. They’re waiting for statements and photographs, and the suit I brought for you is still—’

Ruthlessly Luis cut through the details. ‘I need to speak to Emily.’

‘Ah.’ It was a swift, defeated exhalation, but immediately Tomás drew himself up, visibly preparing to deliver bad news. ‘I’m afraid Miss Balfour is returning to England, sir. I spoke to Josefina just a moment ago. She had a meeting with her this morning, after which it appears Miss Balfour’s father arrived, quite by coincidence. In view of everything that’s happened it seems that Miss Balfour has decided to go home.’

The lift came to a halt and Luis’s lip curled into a sneer of contempt. ‘Miss Balfour decided that, or Josefina did?’ he asked, moving towards the door.

‘Wait.’ With uncharacteristic vehemence Tomás pressed the button to close the doors, and kept his hand there. ‘It’s too late, sir,’ he said desperately. ‘The helicopter is being prepared for take-off right now. By the time you get through the crowd outside and back to the palace she’ll be gone. So why don’t you go back upstairs and change into the suit and—’

He didn’t get any further. The lift shook as, in one lightning-swift movement, Luis lunged at him grasping him by the collar and holding him up against the wall.

‘No.’ It was a low, savage growl. ‘I will not wait, and I will not go back and get changed because I don’t care about wearing the correct clothes or saying the correct thing. I never have, and if I’m going to do this thing…’ His voice cracked a little, but he gritted his teeth and carried on. ‘If I’m going to play this role for the rest of my life, I’ve got to do it my way. I’ve got to be myself—not my father or brother—and if people don’t like it that’s tough. But I can’t just go through the motions any more. And I can’t—’

He stopped, letting Tomás go and turning away.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t do it unless she’s with me too.’ Raising his arm Luis leaned briefly against the wall in an attitude of utter despair. ‘Do you understand?’

There was a long pause. Then, very tentatively, Tomás reached out and put his hand on Luis’s bunched, rigid shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he said so quietly it was almost a sigh. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Luis raised his head and for a moment their eyes met, but then the lift doors were opening and through the glass front of the building they could see the crowd of people that had gathered to wait for news—camera crews, reporters, paparazzi—all unusually subdued by the grimness of the situation. The reception area was filled with palace security, who looked surprised and flustered by the unexpected appearance of the new King. There was a flurry of uneasy bowing.

With just the barest of nods Luis walked through them all to the doors. Following him, Tomás’s face was drained of colour and covered in a sickly sheen of perspiration and he signalled a look of panic to the bodyguards.

Outside it took a moment for what was happening to filter through the crowd, and a ripple of feverish excitement disturbed the sombre mood as everyone pressed forward to get a glimpse of the new King—ashen with exhaustion, shirtless and in surf shorts. Security had gone into discreet overdrive and they held the crowd back as Luis went up to the small dais.

He hesitated for a moment, looking down and clearing his throat before speaking. ‘I’m sorry to have to announce the death of my father, King Marcos Fernando,’ he said slowly, pausing again as the gathered crowd gave a muted groan. ‘He suffered a stroke in the early hours of this morning, and never regained consciousness. He died very peacefully just after 2:00 p.m.’

There was a moment of dead calm, and then a forest of microphones went up and questions rose in a deafening crescendo. But Luis simply held up his hands and, shaking his head, turned away. Striding over to the cordon he looked over the heads of the reporters pressed against it, to the back where the paparazzi lurked on motorbikes waiting to tail his car. A moment later there was uproar and confusion as Luis slipped beneath the cordon and into the crowd.

Security guards surged forwards from nowhere, barking instructions while Tomás, almost passing out with panic, tried to follow. But the hardened, cynical reporters had parted to let their king through and then swallowed him up completely so it was impossible to reach him. In seconds Luis found himself at the back of the press pack, camera flashes exploding like fireworks as he headed straight to the paparazzi photographer on the biggest, most powerful motorbike.

‘How would you feel about being the first paparazzi in history to be decorated for services to the king?’

Finally fighting his way to the back of the crowd a few moments later Tomás was just in time to see Luis climb onto the bike. Swiftly, grimly, he shook hands with the photographer before starting the engine with a roar. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and as he accelerated away with a squeal of tyres there was no mistaking the expression of desperate, haunted bleakness on his face.

‘Is that everything?’

Oscar picked up the small case, frowning at how light it was, and Emily looked around the beautiful suite for the last time.

‘That’s everything,’ she said in a small voice. Everything that belonged to her anyway. She was wearing the blue dress she’d worn when they went to dinner with Luciana, but other than that all the clothes Luis had ordered for her were still in the dressing room. Not that the Duchess de Mesa would need any help with her wardrobe, Emily thought bleakly. After all, she had qualified for the job of Luis’s wife on the grounds of having the perfect image already. Maybe Luciana’s nannies would get to use them.

Oh, God. Luciana. The thought of leaving her was like knives in her flesh. The hour Emily had spent with her earlier, maintaining a mask of cheerful reassurance that she’d see her very soon and talking about all the things they would do when she came over to England to visit, had left her drained, shaky and feeling sick. It was some comfort that Valentina’s maternity leave had come to an end, and with it Senhora Costa’s sterile rule in the nursery. It was a very different Luciana who tearfully hugged her goodbye to the one who had greeted her with such rigid shyness two months ago.

The helicopter was waiting on the lawn, and with every step she took towards it Emily felt her heart crack wider open. Oscar helped her into the back, settling her in as solicitously as if she was ill, holding her hand as the blades started up and they rose into the air. Emily watched as the palace grew smaller beneath them and had to snatch her hand from Oscar’s and press it across her mouth to muffle the sobs she couldn’t control.

‘Oh, darling girl, I can’t tell you how much I’ve longed to have you back,’ Oscar said sadly. ‘But not like this. Not with your heart broken. Tell me what happened.’

‘I fell in love with him,’ she whispered, leaning her head back and letting the tears fall down her cheeks. ‘I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn’t stop myself.’

‘And he doesn’t feel the same?’

‘No.’ She turned her face to the window and looked out over the treetops. It felt like her heart was being wrenched out of her chest as she saw the slate roof of La Guarita below. ‘For him it was practical. It was PR’, she sobbed. ‘And although in the end I desperately want to think that he did come to feel something for me it just wasn’t enough. It wasn’t love.’

Ahead, beyond the trees she could see the glitter of the sea. In a moment they would be flying over the beach where they’d danced last night, and where she’d woken up this morning in his arms. And then that would be it. Santosa would be behind them, and nothing but half a world of cold, deep ocean ahead. She closed her eyes, wondering how to get through the pain.

‘You’re sure about that?’ Oscar asked gently. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ she whispered. ‘But even if I wasn’t, doesn’t that say something? I couldn’t live like that…with someone who couldn’t say it. I couldn’t live not knowing…’

‘No, sweetheart, you couldn’t.’ Oscar sighed. ‘You need—’

He stopped abruptly, midsentence, and Emily opened her eyes.

‘Daddy, what’s wrong?’

Oscar was staring out of the window, his brow creased into a frown. Heart thudding, Emily followed his gaze.

Below them the tide was out and the beach was a wide, white expanse. Already the tents had been taken down and the ashes of the fire had been covered over, leaving no trace of last night’s party. It was deserted, apart from a single figure.

A lone surfer, she thought dully, noticing the shorts, the bare, bronzed back and broad shoulders. He was bent over, as if he was looking for something in the sand, but moving quickly so that the muscles of his back rippled in the sun.

And then she realised. He wasn’t looking.

He was writing.

Big letters in the sand—a message that she read incredulously through a mist of tears.

EMILY…I LOVE YOU.

She gave a desperate, incredulous sob, scrubbing the tears from her eyes so she could read it again, to make sure she wasn’t wrong. And as she did so the tanned, bare-chested man on the beach heard the helicopter and straightened up, tipping his head back. And she saw that it really was Luis, and that he wore an expression of torment that matched her own.

‘I was going to say you need someone who can tell you that they love you,’ Oscar said in a voice that was choked with emotion. ‘But I think that writing it in metre-high letters is even better.’

Her heart had risen up into her throat and was beating there, as if it might choke her. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. It didn’t matter. Oscar was already leaning into the front of the cockpit and asking the pilot to land.

The sand swirled upwards as the helicopter came down, the wind from the blades ruffling Luis’s dark gold hair as he stood, taut and unmoving in the centre of the storm, his head tipped back in an attitude of silent suffering, his perfect face mask-like. Throwing open the door Emily jumped down, her blue dress billowing up around her thighs, her eyes never leaving him.

Slowly, like a sleepwalker, she went towards him, stumbling slightly as her feet sank into the sand, pausing to kick off her shoes and then stopping altogether a few feet from him as she saw that his face was wet with tears.

‘Oh, Luis…’ she said in anguish. ‘Your father. I’m so sorry.’

He gave a curt, dismissive shake of his head, as if her compassion flayed him. Everything about him resisted approach and despite the tears he looked terrifyingly, fiercely remote. ‘I listened to what you said,’ he growled in a voice like rusty razor blades. ‘I’m going to try to do it my way. Be honest. Not hide anything. Do things from the heart.’ He made a sweeping gesture to the message in the sand. ‘Telling you I love you seemed like the most important place to start.’

A cry was torn from her throat and in an instant she had crossed the distance between them and he was opening his arms to her with a muffled groan of agonized surrender. As he folded her against his hard, hot body she could smell the musky scent of his damp skin and feel his heart smashing against his chest.

‘The only problem is I don’t know where to go from here,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, cradling her cheek with his palm. ‘I don’t know how to carry on if you’re not there to show me.’

‘I’m here,’ she gasped, reaching up to find his mouth, pressing hers against it. ‘I’m here, I’m here.’

He kissed her back, wildly and hungrily, as if to prove that she was real. ‘I’m not asking you to stay,’ he rasped, breaking away and burying his face in her hair. ‘I can’t do that to you. But neither could I let you leave without knowing how much I love you.’ He took her face between his hands and tilted it up towards him, so she was staring into his blazing golden eyes. ‘I wanted you to know that I don’t care about what the public think or what the papers say—I’ll love you whatever you do and wherever you are, and I’ll keep loving you in public and in private every minute of every day for the rest of my life.’

‘I don’t want to leave,’ she said in a broken whisper. ‘I don’t want to leave you, ever again, but it’s not that simple, is it? You’re King now—that means you have a duty to Santosa, and a public image to maintain and—’

He stopped her with another furious kiss. ‘I want my duty to be to you and our children before anything else,’ he said angrily. ‘I want my image to be of a man who, above all, is desperately, ridiculously in love with his beautiful wife. But I’m trying to give up being selfish so I don’t know if I can ask—’

‘Try,’ she said fiercely. ‘Oh, Luis, please try.’

‘Oh, Emily…’ he sighed, letting her go and taking a step back. Smiling crookedly he picked up the stick that he had dropped onto the sand. ‘Close your eyes and let me finish the message.’

Half laughing, half sobbing, she did as she was told. From a distance away, above the sound of the wind and the waves, Luis’s voice reached her, wrapping itself around her and making her shiver with love and longing.

‘Emily Balfour, if I promise to show you every day how much I love you…’ he shouted across the sand. ‘If I swear never to put protocol…or obligation…or any stupid, outdated ideas of what I should be and do before your happiness…or let anyone tell us how we should live and bring up the many children I want to have with you…would you really be mad enough to do this?’

He broke off and she opened her eyes. He was standing a little distance away, and stretching away from him on the sand were the words MARRY ME.

She couldn’t speak. Her throat closed up against the wild, racking sob of relief and joy and agonising, exquisite love that gathered there, so instead she extended one bare foot, pointing her toe and writing her answer in the damp sand as tears dripped down her face

YES.

And then she was running towards him and he caught her in his arms and gathered her to him, lifting her high. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her fingers twining in his tangled hair and he held her tightly against him as their mouths met. They kissed, on and on, oblivious to the wind whipping her hair across Luis’s bare shoulders and the waves breaking behind them, to Oscar waiting, damp-eyed, beside the helicopter and the paparazzi photographers and news crews beginning to gather at the top of the dunes.

And this time there was no need for statements from the press office or quotes from palace sources. The figures locked together on the beach, the writing in the sand, told the whole story.

Sophie’s Seduction

Kim Lawrence

Kim Lawrence lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

To my two boys, who have grown into rather splendid young men

Chapter One

SOPHIE paused at the top of the steps and consulted her notebook. She turned to the pencilled map drawn in her own neat hand before glancing up to double-check the number on the door of the modest Georgian terrace. It was in a street filled with rows of similar houses, but then, as they always said, when it came to property it was all about location.

She shaded her eyes from the July sun as she directed her gaze towards the luxury cars parked along the tree-lined street. They seemed to suggest that, in estate-agent speak, this location could be classed as highly desirable.

She turned her attention back to the building. This was, she decided, definitely the place, though a further search revealed there was nothing as vulgar as a sign to identify it on the door.

Small but exclusive, her father had said, with a growing reputation for excellence. Exactly the sort of place, he had assured Sophie, for her to spread her artistic wings.

‘A springboard for future success!’ he had enthused. ‘You could go places with your talent, Sophie, you just need to get out there and show the world what you can do!’

So, no pressure, then.

Sophie had resisted the temptation to point out that a home-study course in interior decorating didn’t necessarily qualify her to achieve world domination in the field of interior design, not overnight anyway.

There would be no interview, it seemed, and when she had asked when she started the new job, her father’s reply had tipped her over into outright panic.

‘Monday…this Monday…do you think I can?’

Her father had looked stern and Oscar Balfour could look very stern, but not normally with her.

She had never given him cause; she had always towed the line, and there had never been any major dramas in her life. She’d never needed rescuing, or been the subject of embarrassing headlines; there were no unsuitable men in her past…she was an open and fairly boring book.

Depressing when you thought about it.

‘I know you can.’

‘You do?’

‘I know, Sophie, that you and your sisters will not disappoint me. I have faith in you. Your sisters have all accepted a challenge.’

And if she didn’t what did that make her?

‘I know they have.’ And she missed them.

‘This is my fault,’ Oscar Balfour had insisted.

Sophie’s kind heart had ached to see the father she loved hold himself personally responsible and she’d said warmly, though not entirely truthfully, ‘You’ve been a wonderful father.’

As she hugged him she’d seen the tabloid open on his desk. Knowing it contained a particularly vicious editorial, she’d heard herself say, ‘I’ll do it.’

Sophie had left the room with an emotional lump the size of a golf ball in her throat, in a state of shock but determined not to let down her father and sisters; for once in her life she would act like a Balfour.

A week later and the lump was still there, but as she lifted a hand to knock tentatively on the half-open door it had been joined by a tight knot of anxiety lying like a leaden weight in her stomach.

She still felt in shock.

She knew none of this should have come as a surprise. Since the drama of the scandalous events surrounding the annual Balfour Charity Ball, she had watched as one by one her sisters had been sent away to prove themselves in the world without the cushion of the Balfour wealth and influence.

But time had passed and Sophie had waited nervously for her invitation to her father’s study, and when it hadn’t materialised she had relaxed a little, assuming she was safe—then…it came.

The sympathetic look she received from her father’s butler as she let herself in by a side door to the manor had made her wonder, but the tearful hug from the cook had confirmed it—she had not been overlooked.

Her father had, he said, taken his time to find the perfect position for her. Sophie, who knew that her perfect position was at home at the Balfour gatehouse with her mother, had tried to sound suitably appreciative of his efforts.

Sophie glanced at her watch; she was fifteen minutes early for her first day. Wondering if that made her appear eager or desperate she toyed with the idea of taking a walk and coming back later.

No, it was now or never—don’t be a wimp, Sophie, you can do this! Taking a deep breath she was looking around for the bell when she caught the door with her elbow and it swung inwards.

‘Hello!’

There was no reply.

Taking her courage by the scruff of its neck she stepped through the open door. The room she stepped into was laid out like a country house drawing room, the decor aimed at people who had as much money as taste.

The aroma of coffee was her first impression; the second was the lovely and clever use of texture and colour in the soft furnishing. It was clearly a showroom of sorts, though there were no price tags on either the beautifully displayed individual pieces of modern art or the equally fine antique items.

Sophie was both impressed and daunted, as this was a far cry from her little work room at the Balfour gatehouse with her drawing board, colour charts and wallpaper samples.

She brushed her fingertips along a beautiful vibrant-coloured kilim that had been draped over a leather chesterfield and struggled to see herself working here.

‘Hello?’ she called out again.

She was standing there feeling like a spare part and wondering what to do next when she heard the sound of voices; the noise was coming from the far end of the room, but she couldn’t see anyone. With a puzzled frown drawing her feathery brows into a straight line, she moved towards the sound of the voices when she realised that what she had assumed was a wall was actually a portable screen.

The voices were the other side and as she aproached they got louder.

She peered through a gap in the screen and saw another area laid out beyond, lit by a pair of stunning chandeliers. This time the style was strongly Gustavian; pale and deceptively simple, the light airy feel was further enhanced by a stunning antique mirror in an ornate carved white-painted frame that took centre stage.

The building was clearly a great deal larger than it looked from the outside.

She opened her mouth to speak, caught the word Balfour, and closed it again, revealing herself now might cause embarrassment to the people on the other side of the screen. Two women, by the sound of their voices, though all Sophie could see were the tops of their heads above the high back of a wooden bench.

She was about to move to the opposite side of the room when she heard the person who hadn’t yet spoken exclaim, ‘One of the Balfour girls—you’ve got to be kidding! Work here! Do they work? And risk breaking a nail, surely not.’

‘Miaow…if you were a society heiress to a fortune, would you work, darling?’

‘Let me see…’

Sophie heard both girls laugh.

‘But you’d have to share the fortune with…how many sisters are there?’

‘Are we including the one they’ve just discovered?’

Normally a pretty placid person Sophie felt her face flush with anger at this mocking reference—anger she felt on behalf of her half-sister Mia, who was the result of an affair their father had many years ago.

Oscar had welcomed the daughter he hadn’t known about into the family and despite the fact she hadn’t known her for long Sophie felt a special closeness to her beautiful half-Italian sister.

‘And then Zoe Balfour isn’t really a Balfour at all…maybe she’s the one that’s coming here?’ one of the voices speculated.

There was a certain malicious amusement in the voice that responded. ‘Yeah, maybe Daddy’s cut her off now he knows she’s not his. I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall at the 100th Balfour Charity Ball!’

Sophie’s hands clenched into fists at her side as she bit her tongue, longing to set the record straight, but she was hampered by the fact that she couldn’t, without revealing that she’d been eavesdropping.

Sure Zoe had been outed as illegitimate at the Balfour Ball and the ensuing scandal had caused their father’s serious overhaul of his parental style but as far as he and all of them were concerned Zoe was a Balfour no matter what her genetic parentage was.

‘So how many are there?’

‘Six, seven, who knows…but what wouldn’t I give to have their looks and money!’ came the wistful response.

Eight, thought Sophie, silently amending their total, and she seconded their wish, at least for the looks part anyway. The money part had never been a problem for her in that she didn’t have expensive tastes, but what the Balfour name gave her was the luxury of following her instincts.

And Sophie’s instincts drew her like a homing pigeon back to Balfour, where her mother lived in the gatehouse since the tragic death of her second husband. Sophie’s eyes misted as her thoughts touched on the man who had been a second father to his wife’s three daughters.

For a short time Sri Lanka had been home for Sophie but now the Balfour estate in Buckinghamshire was the one place she really felt she belonged, it was the place where there was no pressure to be something she wasn’t.

Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t an instantly recognisable face except to the people who worked on the Balfour estate and the locals in the village.

‘I have never provided you girls with challenges,’ Oscar Balfour had lamented. ‘Children need to be pushed, but it is never too late. I have been a negligent father, but I mean to make amends. Independence, Sophie,’ he’d said, indicating the rule that she would find most valuable, though he warned it would not be easy for her to learn. ‘A member of the Balfour family must strive to develop themselves and not rely on the family name to get them through life.’

‘Which ever one it is you can be sure that we’ll end up stuck with her work and ours.’

Listening to the grunt of assent from the second girl Sophie gritted her teeth and thought she’d show them that this Balfour was not just a pretty face—actually, not a pretty face at all, but that she couldn’t do anything about.

However, she did have a work ethic and she would show them that she wasn’t afraid of hard work.

‘What was Amber thinking, taking her on?’

Sophie, unashamedly eavesdropping now, strained to hear as the other girl lowered her voice to a confidential undertone.

‘You know that diamond bracelet that Amber wears…?’

There was a pause when presumably the other girl had nodded. ‘Well, that was a little parting gift from Oscar Balfour.’

‘Amber and Oscar Balfour…wow! Why didn’t I know that?’

‘It was years ago, and it didn’t last long.’

‘Oscar Balfour…he’s quite attractive for an older man, isn’t he? Actually, quite sexy and he looks like he knows…’

Grimacing, Sophie had no desire to hear the women discussing her father in that sort of detail and covered her ears. When she uncovered them again one girl was saying, ‘And let’s face it—a Balfour girl working here…God, you couldn’t pay for that sort of advertising.’

‘That twin…Bella, the skinny one…?’

‘The impossibly gorgeous one?’

‘All right, the gorgeous one. Do you remember that time she was pictured wearing a dress from that charity shop and the shelves emptied overnight.’

Sophie did remember. She remembered when the subject had been raised during a family dinner.

Zoe had joked that she didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Sophie, she said, had been wearing charity-shop clothes for years.

Sophie had joined in the laughter, even inviting further hilarity by comparing the practicality and comfort of the sports bras she favoured with push ups that consisted of a few scraps of lace. But later in her own room she had looked at her wardrobe, filled with the sorts of clothes—or tents in boring colours, as Annie had once described her style—that made her glamorous sisters despair, and she hadn’t smiled.

The tent situation was not accidental, but her taller, slimmer sisters who did not have breasts that made men snigger and stare would not have understand her decision to hide her ample bosom under voluminous tops.

In a family famed for beauty, grace and wit—the very things that Sophie had missed out on—she had, presumably by way of compensation, been given instead the clumsy gene. A nuisance…yes, but to Sophie’s way of thinking not as much of a blight as having heads turn when you walked into a room the way they did automatically for her sisters.

A Balfour girl who disliked the limelight—a Balfour girl…how she hated that phrase—who was not witty or beautiful, made her something of a freak.

So much so that Sophie sometimes wondered if the real Balfour baby had been left at the hospital the day they brought her home—but she had the Balfour blue eyes, the same piercing Balfour blue of her father’s eyes.

For the average Balfour, being the centre of attention was as commonplace as breathing and something that they took as much for granted.

It was Sophie’s idea of hell.

But she had a solution. It had taken her time but at twenty-three she had just about perfected the art of fading into the background. Being short and on the dumpy side gave her a head start, so now the only time strangers noticed her was when she managed to trip over her own feet, or spill something.

She did both in graceful unison when a voice behind her said, ‘Can I help you?’

Sophie yelped, spun around and dropped her bag on the waxed floorboards. A tall blonde woman dressed in a snug-fitting red sheath that showed off her slim figure watched, one brow raised, as Sophie dropped to her knees and began to pick up the coins that had tipped out of her purse.

‘Sorry…I…’ Pushing her hair back from her flushed face Sophie held out her hand.

The woman looked at it with a lack of enthusiasm.

Sophie dropped her arm. ‘I’m Sophie…Sophie Balfour—I’m meant to be here…working…I…My father…’

‘You are Sophie Balfour?’ The blonde woman looked openly sceptical.

Sophie who had encountered this response before nodded and repressed the impulse to say, No, I’m an impostor! I kidnapped the real Sophie Balfour! ‘Yes. I think you were expecting me.’

‘I was expecting…’

The woman didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t need to. It was no struggle to fill in the blanks—she’d been expecting someone with glamour and style.

And she got me.

The blonde compressed her red-painted lips. If there had been any movement possible in her forehead—Sophie had seen more lines on a newborn baby than on this woman’s smooth face—she would definitely have been frowning, but she made a quick recovery and produced a strained smile.

‘I’m Amber Charles. Your father tells me you’re very talented.’

Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug, but there was animation in her expression as she admitted, ‘I enjoy colour and texture…’ She stopped, the animation fading when she realised that the svelte designer was regarding the colour and texture of her outfit with a look of growing horror.

She glanced down, genuinely not sure what she was wearing.

‘I’ve got my CV.’ Her school grades would not put an admiring light in the other woman’s eyes.

Sophie had shown no talent for anything academic, or for that matter anything sporting at Westfields, and she had often wished she’d had the guts to run away from the place like Kat. But instead she had kept a low profile and waited for the day she could leave.

Amber held up a hand and shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’re excellent.’

Want to bet? Sophie thought, and smiled.

‘A high level of girls from Westfields go to Oxbridge. My cousin’s daughter graduates next summer—she adores it. Which university did you attend?’

‘Actually, I didn’t go to university.’

The pencilled brows lifted.

‘I did a home-study course,’ she explained, wondering if she ought to say she passed with flying colours.

‘How…nice.’

Sophie watched her boss struggle to smile; clearly her dad had been economic with the details when he wangled her a job with his ex-flame.

‘Well, Sophie, what are we going to do with you?’

From her expression Sophie was thinking it possible that vanish was her first choice.

‘You may be talented…’

Sophie knew she ought to rush into this doubtful pause and confidently announce she was actually not just talented but a bit of a genius, but selling herself was not her thing.

‘…but it’s not enough to have talent…’

‘It isn’t?’

‘Of course not, this is a very competitive market and we have to do everything. Appearances, I’m afraid, are equally important. Our clients expect a certain…You know, I think you’d be happier working behind the scenes.’

‘So you want me to work behind the scenes?’

Sophie, who knew this translated as I can’t risk having a client see you, was not offended; this was the best news she had had all day.

Unbending slightly as it became clear Sophie was not going to be difficult, Amber inclined her head in assent. ‘You know, my dear, you should smile more often. It makes you look almost pretty.’

Chapter Two

MARCO left his car and walked the last mile up the winding driveway that led to the palazzo that had been in his family for centuries.

In his pocket he carried the heavy key to the massive front door that he had locked a year ago.

Locked and walked away from without a backward glance. At the time he had told himself the gesture was symbolic; he had been locking the door on his mistakes, his humiliation, his broken marriage.

He had told himself that it was about moving forward, leaving the past behind and getting on with his life. It was logical to channel his energies, to streamline. Streamlining, he mused with a contemptuous grimace, had a much more palatable ring to it than running away.

His strategy might have been based on self-delusion but his goal had been financial gain and it had worked.

Cutting himself off from the multitude of society social events that he had always believed his duty to attend, as guardian of the ancient name of Speranza, had left him with more time to devote to new business ventures—and they had been successful beyond the most wildly optimistic predictions.

No longer required by a moral code—outdated but genetically imprinted—to respect his marriage vows even while his wife had flaunted her infidelities, Marco had found time to date, though date perhaps implied an intimacy that went beyond the bedroom, and his liaisons with a series of attractive women had not.

If he was aware of a certain post-coital emptiness Marco felt no desire to fill the void with any emotional complications. Emptiness was a lot easier to live with than romantic involvement, and not being the certifiably insane romantic he had been when he had married Allegra, there was no way he was about to hand some woman his heart so that she could stomp on it with her delicate heels.

No, that part of his new life was no mistake, but running away from his responsibilities had been; he could see that now. He owed a duty to his name and the people who served his family, some for generations. He was ashamed of the selfish and cowardly impulse that had made him turn his back on them just because he didn’t want the constant reminders of his failure.

His jaw firmed as his keen gaze swept the scene ahead. Others should not suffer for his failings. The duty that was as much an integral part of Marco’s genetic make-up as the colour of his eyes had brought him back today—duty and a desire to regain something he had…lost?

Could a man know he had lost something and be unable to name it? Marco, not inclined towards such philosophical debate, had no idea but he did know that his pulse rate did not quicken with anticipation as he approached his home as it once had; he recognised the familiar sights and smells but he did not feel them as he once had.

He had always been passionately proud of his inheritance. When had that passion become duty? he wondered as he paused and looked down at his ancestral home.

The home he had brought his bride to, the home he had walked away from the day she ran off with his best friend and he had filed for divorce.

He pushed away the black thoughts from a year ago—in the history of this ancient building it was a blink of an eye; in his life more than enough time to lick his wounds as any longer would smack of self-indulgence. His pride had been injured, but a man did not regain self-respect by running away, and any bad memories these walls held for him now would be easier to live with than Allegra had been!

The marriage had been a disaster from the start, but it wasn’t her drinking and infidelity that had sickened him most; it had been the fact he had fallen for her sweet innocent act.

And there were other memories here.

This was where he had spent his childhood.

He had roamed the estate and enjoyed a degree of freedom that he might not have had his parents been more hands-on.

But his actress mother was often away on location. His father, a distant figure, had been around more frequently, but having left a promising law career to enter politics, where his integrity made him as many enemies as allies, his family came a very poor second to being a public crusading figure.

Perhaps one more enemy, Marco thought, his eyes growing bleak as he recalled the grim day in the nineties when he had learnt from a news broadcast that there had been an assassination.

One bullet—his father had died instantly and the title had come to Marco.

‘Marchese.’

Marco was startled from his dark reflections by the form of address he did not use in his professional life.

‘Alberto!’ A smile of genuine pleasure tugged his mobile mouth into an upward curve that softened the austerity of his classically cut features as he moved forward, his hand outstretched in welcome.

The other man jumped out of the open-topped vehiclewith an agility that many men twenty years his junior would have envied and came to shake his hand.

‘You are looking well, Alberto,’ Marco approved truthfully.

‘As are you.’

He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and felt the hard muscles under his fingers.

The younger man’s expensive suit did not hide a soft belly; it hid a body that was hard and tough from riding and from indulging in the sort of extreme sports that Alberto did not totally approve of.

He was relieved to see that the city life of high finance—a man should not spend his days indoors—had not softened Marco Speranza, but sorry that there was a hardness and cynicism in his green eyes that had not been there in his youth.

But then a man who had been through what he had was allowed a little cynicism.

‘You are keeping an eye on the new man?’

The estate manager Marco had taken on had been in the post for three years now but to Alberto, whose family had served Marco’s for generations, the younger man would always be new.

‘He is a hard worker.’

Marco grinned. ‘Praise indeed coming from you, Alberto, and how is Natalia?’ Marco’s voice softened as he said the name.

In her official capacity as cook Alberto’s wife had ruled the kitchen when Marco had been growing up; in her unofficial capacity she had been the person who had comforted him on the occasions when a mother would normally have offered hugs.

Even when his own mother had been around, she did not do hugs except when there was a camera to record the moment of maternal devotion.

‘She is well, Marchese.’ Alberto angled a questioning look up at the tall man. ‘And she would like to see you…?’

Marco heard the question and felt a fresh stab of guilt. He had neglected many things, including old friends, when he had cut himself off in the scandalous aftermath of the divorce.

‘And she will,’ he promised. ‘But not today, I’m afraid.’ He flicked his cuff and glanced at his watch, mentally calculating how long the journey back to Palermo would take him. ‘I have a meeting in Naples.’

‘You have been missed.’

Aware of the reproach in the other man’s voice Marco nodded; he felt he deserved it. For a while the palazzo had been a battleground, and involved in the bitter war of attrition he had forgotten it was also his home.

Marco admitted this with a humility that would have made his business competitors stare. ‘I was wrong to stay away. I have missed being here, so I’m here today to see what needs doing.’

‘You are coming home?’

What sort of home? Marco struggled to maintain his positive expression as his eyes lifted to the Renaissance facade. Fortunately no major structural work needed to be done, he told himself, concentrating on the fabric of the building, not on the dark emotions he experienced when he looked at his ancestral home.

Would he ever be able to wipe away the shadows left by his failed marriage? Would he ever be able to look at this building and think of it as a home in the true sense of the word? It would take more than a fresh coat of paint, though being a pragmatic man he thought that would be a start.

‘Yes, but first I want to make it…habitable.’

Alberto nodded in total understanding. Too much understanding, for Marco’s liking; pity, even from an old friend, was not something he enjoyed.

‘I just need to find someone who understands what this building deserves.’

Someone who felt as he did about preserving its integrity; someone capable of feeling passionate about their work…to compensate for his own lack of it… He tore his eyes away from the facade and said, ‘And of course a new housekeeper—do you think Natalia would consider it?’

During one of his absences Allegra had ousted Natalia from her kitchen and replaced her with a French chef. On his return Marco had sacked the chef and tried to persuade Natalia to return, but she had steadfastly refused to enter the palazzo while Allegra was mistress there.

Allegra had retaliated for his actions by getting drunk in public and being photographed half naked in the back of a cab with a boy who worked in the nightclub she had just fallen out of at four in the morning.

So it had been a win-win situation.

Alberto beamed, and said, ‘I think it might be possible…’

Marco pulled the key from his pocket, inhaled and approached the door.

His instructions had been that the place was not to be touched and they had been followed to the letter; barring the dust, it was all just as it had been.

A walk through the building did not lift his mood. In his youth this had been a showplace; now the whole building had a pervading air of gloom and neglect that the grandeur of the architecture and furnishing could not hide.

Had it always been this dark and depressing? he wondered as he pulled aside a dusty drape to let in some light. The light revealed damp patches on the high, carved ceiling and this fresh physical evidence of his neglect deepened the frown on his wide brow.

He cursed softly under his breath, and as he strode purposefully out into the sunlight and the waiting Alberto, Marco determined to bring light and life back into his home.

‘All I need is to find someone I trust, who appreciates what this building deserves.’

It had not seemed a major problem to find such a person when he’d said it, but a week later, and after six pitches by possible candidates that had left him totally unmoved, Marco was realising he might have to cast his net wider.

Recalling a comment by someone who had spent last summer in London concerning a firm they had used to refurbish their penthouse flat—they had been very complimentary—he picked up his phone to speak to his PA.

He gave her the limited information he had, not doubting for a moment that she would be able to provide him with all the information he required; she was absolutely perfect, if you discounted the fact she was about to take maternity leave.

Chapter Three

SOPHIE had not left work until 8:00 p.m. Taking advantage of the growing realisation that Sophie’s work ethic was a little overdeveloped, people were dumping on her…And what are you going to do about that? asked the voice in her head.

It was a good question but one she had so far avoided; it wasn’t as if her evening had contained any contemplative moments for reflection. She had arrived home to find a large hole in the street outside her flat, and after she’d pretended not to hear the comments about her bottom made by the men inside the hole, she discovered no water or electricity inside her flat.

The electricity had finally come on at eleven; the water still hadn’t. She stopped waiting at twelve, cleaned her teeth with bottled water, finally crawled into her bed and with a sigh of relief turned out the light—not just because every bone in her body ached with exhaustion, but because the bedroom looked better with the light out.

‘Basic, but I have everything I need,’ she had told her mother on the phone, ‘and I’m very near work.’

The work part was playing out a lot better than she had anticipated.

Conversations no longer stopped when she walked into room. Now that had not been nice, but even when she was viewed with extreme suspicion Sophie had kept her head down, concentrated on doing her best no matter how menial the task and smiled at everyone.

The hostility had faded once her co-workers had recognised she was not afraid of hard work—or, possibly, once they had recognised that there was someone who would willingly perform all the tasks nobody else wanted to do while smiling.

Sophie in her turn had discovered something too—she had a real talent for organisation; not quite the artistic spreading of wings her father had intended, but it was a start. She still felt homesick almost all the time but she didn’t allow herself to think about going home.

She dreamt, though—she dreamt of her mum in the kitchen with flour in her nose, the smell of baking in the air…She was having that dream when the shrill sound of the phone cut through the cosy picture of domesticity.

Sophie surfaced and flicked on the lamp before reaching for the phone and snarling crankily, ‘Yes…?’ into the receiver.

‘Sophie, thank God you’re there!’

Sophie, who couldn’t imagine where else she’d be at this time of night, which on reflection made her one of the most tragic twenty-three-year-olds on the planet, pushed her tangled hair from her eyes and frowned.

‘Amber…? Why are you calling me at…’ She glanced at the clock, saw the time and sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Everything,’ came the tragic response. ‘But we can do this.’

Sophie who was suspicious of the use of the word we asked, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Just listen, don’t talk. You have to be on the flight to Palermo at five-thirty.’

Pretty sure she was the victim of some elaborate hoax—either that or Amber had been drinking—Sophie leaned back, yawned and said, ‘Of course I do.’

Palermo was the clue; she had made the flight arrangements for Amber herself, and the office had been buzzing for days with the news that they had been contacted by Marco Speranza—the Marco Speranza, people kept saying to Sophie, as though she thought she might be likely to mistake him for another Sicilian billionaire.

Obviously, they had not been personally contacted, but the fact that the invitation to tender for a contract to refurbish his ancestral home had been issued by Marco’s own office had been enough to send the entire office into party mode.

Sophie privately called it mass hysteria, and also a little premature. ‘How many others are tendering?’ Her tentative enquiry had been ignored.

‘Something this prestigious could make us,’ Amber had said as she’d gathered her team together to plan a strategy and draw up plans for a refurb that would knock the utterly gorgeous man’s socks off.

Sophie, who was listening, would have loved to dispute the reverential gorgeous and the utterly but she had seen the photo someone had pinned on the notice board and there was no doubt at all that Marco Speranza was almost too good-looking to be real, unless he had been airbrushed to perfection.

The possibility made her feel unaccountably more cheerful.

Having worked her team into a state of hysterical enthusiasm Amber then smiled and promised, ‘We are going to bury the opposition.’

Sophie’s role in the team involved making tea but she had listened and frankly she had doubts, but aware that her place in the scheme of things did not involve giving an opinion she kept her mouth shut.

Sophie slid back under the covers as a sigh of relief echoed down the line. ‘You know, Sophie, when I first saw you I thought…’ Clearly thinking better of being that frank, Amber allowed herself a generous, ‘You’re an asset.’

‘Thank you.’ Now go away; I want to go to sleep.

‘And I really admire your ability to multitask—maybe you could pack while we talk…?’

‘Look, Amber, I’m going back to sleep now. I’ll laugh at the joke tomorrow, and good luck with the Speranza contract.’

‘No, Sophie, this isn’t a joke. I can’t go. This afternoon I—’

‘You had a dentist’s appointment. I know—it’s in the diary.’

‘No, I had some facial injections and a little liposuction on my thighs…at least, that was the idea, but it went wrong. I had a bad reaction to the anaesthetic and they won’t let me go home—they took away my clothes!’ she wailed.

Sophie’s eyes widened at the confession. ‘Relax, Amber, I’ll contact Vincent.’ Amber’s right hand was up to speed and, if you overlooked his penchant for pink shirts, charming.

‘Do you think I haven’t already tried?’ came the shrill response. ‘He’s gone to York! His partner’s mum has had a heart attack and he’s being supportive.’

Sophie, who had been introduced to Vincent’s partner, said, ‘Oh, how terrible. Colin must be—’

‘Forget about Colin,’ Amber yelled, ‘and get packed.’

‘But Sukie or Emma…’ Sophie could hear the doubt in her own voice. The two women she had heard that first day discussing her both looked the part but neither had had an original thought in their lives.

‘Emma is hopeless.’

You noticed! Sophie thought, surprised.

‘And Sukie got dumped by her boyfriend and downed a bottle of Chardonnay to drown her sorrows. She is hanging over the toilet as we speak,’ Amber observed bitterly.

Sophie grimaced and thought, Thanks for the image.

‘And if you say “poor Sukie” I’ll…My world is falling apart—my entire future depends on a girl who wears sensible shoes. No offence…’ She sniffed between sobs.

The fact that Amber could weep made more of an impact on Sophie than either the insult or the apology.

‘You’re serious.’ The realisation sent a rush of fear through her body. ‘You want me to fly to Sicily and sell this to Marco Speranza’s office?’ This was what fairy tales were made of…or was that nightmares? Maybe she was still asleep and any minute she would wake up and laugh.

‘Not his office—him.’

No, she was definitely awake; even her subconscious was not that inventive!

‘I have a meeting with him personally which is why someone representing this firm has to be there. There is no option—we need this commission, Sophie. The credit crunch has been hard on everyone and I’ve had to write off a couple of big debts after the clients went under…’

About to cut her off and say there was just no way she could do this, something in the other woman’s voice made Sophie pause…Oh, my God, she thought, as she realised what anyone who wasn’t a spoilt, indulged rich kid who’d never had to think about money already would have.

This wasn’t just about kudos. Amber was worried about her business’s survival. Sophie was ashamed that she had been so wrapped up in her own concerns, so self-centred, that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to wonder if maybe she wasn’t the only one who had problems.

‘You can’t ask to reschedule a personal meeting with Marco Speranza.’

Sophie, thinking of her father, admitted, ‘No, I can see that.’ No man got to be that rich and powerful without taking a certain amount of deference for granted.

‘If he thinks we’ve insulted him he could ruin my business. I’ve heard he can be utterly ruthless.’ The sound of a sternly muffled sob echoed down the line.

Sophie heard the sob and folded. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

Half an hour later she arrived at the office and collected the relevant papers and drawings from where Amber had said they’d be. She tucked them into her overnight bag, planning to read them on the flight.

‘The idea will sell itself,’ Amber had said.

God, I hope so, Sophie thought, because if they’re relying on me we’re stuffed!

‘Isabella, many women come back to work the week after they’ve given birth or when they’ve had a Caesarean.’

His PA forgot her stately calm enough to laugh. ‘Well, I’m not superwoman. I need six months and then I think we might discuss flexible hours.’

Marco put down the phone—the woman had him wound round her finger and she knew it, damn her!

Scowling to himself he left his car and walked into the lift. His temporary PA was scared of him, which might not have been a bad thing if this fear made her efficient, but it didn’t. She gibbered and looked at him as though he was going to eat her and spoke so quietly he couldn’t hear her.

And to make the situation worse he suspected his protégé was falling in love with her.

Love! Marco could not even think the word without a contemptuous sneer forming on his broad brow. Love did not mix well with the smooth running of his office. When he had spent the time and effort to groom Francesco he had taken an ability to keep his personal life separate from the demands of work as a given.

He did not seek to impose his views on his employees—what they did in their free time, including falling in love, did not concern him—but when love affairs crossed the line into the work place it became his concern.

When Marco walked into the office, Francesco broke off his conversation with the young woman whose fingers were flying across the keyboard.

Marco glanced their way but did not speak as he stalked towards the wall lined with files, impatience etched not just in every line of his startlingly good-looking face but in every tense muscle and sinew of his lean, athletic body.

He angled a sardonic brow. ‘Did you want to see me, Francesco?’ he asked, locating the file he was seeking and withdrawing it.

‘No.’

Marco maintained a speaking silence, but though the younger man looked uncomfortable he did not look away. Marco gave a reluctant smile; his protégé was a fool but he was a fool who stood his ground, which was good. There was no place at a senior level for a man he could intimidate.

His smile faded when he turned his attention to the blushing young woman; incompetence always irritated him. ‘I do not wish to be disturbed for the next two hours.’

‘Oh, dear!’

Marco took his hand off the door handle of his office, stopped and swung back. ‘Oh, dear?’ He angled a questioning brow and waited.

Francesco cleared his throat. ‘Slight problem there. Your two-thirty has been here since, well…’ He glanced at his wristwatch which now read six-thirty. ‘Well, two-thirty.’

Marco’s brows drew into a disapproving straight line above the hawkish nose that bisected his chiselled features.

‘I asked for you to reschedule.’

Again it was Francesco who spoke up. ‘We tried, but we couldn’t contact her in time. Miss Balfour had apparently lost her phone.’

Marco’s expression accurately reflected his opinion of people who lost phones. ‘My appointment was not with anyone called Balfour.’

‘Well, that’s who came.’

‘And you put her in my office?’ Marco’s incredulous interrogative glare was directed towards his temporary secretary. ‘You let a total stranger into my office?’

‘That was my idea, Marco, when she wouldn’t go away.’

‘Wouldn’t go away?’ Marco echoed, his glance drifting towards the protective hand that Francesco had placed on the shoulder of his temporary secretary.

The expression in the girl’s eyes seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. Great, he thought, just what I need—an office romance. Which means I either turn a blind eye or come the heavy and be about as popular as the plague.

Fortunately he did not need people to love him.

‘When you say…wouldn’t go away…’

The sardonic inflection in his boss’s voice brought a flush to the younger man’s face but he defended his decision and nodded.

‘And frankly, I didn’t have the heart to throw her out. The kid looked ready to cry when Analise—’ he flashed a warm look at the seated woman and she blushed prettily ‘—suggested she could come back another day.’

‘Kid?’

His secretary finally spoke up. ‘My sister Toni is eighteen and she looks older than her.’

Marco, whose interest in her sister Toni was not immense, struggled to contain his growing impatience while Francesco added the weight of his opinion.

‘She does look very young, Marco. She arrived direct from the airport and she’d lost her bags and she looked—’

‘Pretty?’ It was the other man’s problem if he had a weakness for a pretty face, but when he allowed the Achilles heel to encroach into office hours it became a problem.

‘No, not pretty,’ Francesco said, struggling and failing to recall the features of the young English girl who had arrived looking scared stiff. ‘She wasn’t ugly or anything…Her eyes were blue,’ he added, recalling the electric-blue eyes that had peeked out from under a long floppy fringe.

‘Not pretty…I’m intrigued,’ Marco drawled, sounding in reality both bored and irritated. ‘Call her a cab.’

‘I’ll take her back to her hotel,’ Francesco said to Marco’s retreating back.

Marco turned and stared at his protégé with a perplexed expression. ‘I suppose you gave her lunch too.’

‘Sandwiches.’

‘You’re joking.’

In the office Marco saw that he had not been joking.

The crumbs on the plate testified to the meal.

Chapter Four

MARCO’S first view of his two-thirty was a hank of waving fairish hair hanging over the arm of a leather swivel chair that faced the window. Presumably the occupant was so busy looking at the view she had not heard him enter.

When he cleared his throat it did not cross his mind for an instant that his guest would not respond appropriately to the cue.

When she didn’t, his aggravation levels climbed to a new high. His green eyes narrowed as he walked across the room; skirting the desk that stood between the chair and him he loosened his tie and said, ‘This is not a convenient time. I must ask—’

His hand fell away from his throat and his dark brows tugged into a dark interrogative line. While he did not expect or enjoy people jumping to attention when he walked into a room, he was not accustomed to being ignored.

The frown still in place he walked around the desk and it became clear that his words had fallen on deaf ears, literally.

His two-thirty, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face cushioned on her hands, was fast asleep.

He studied her, and realised Francesco had not lied; she was very young and she was not pretty.

She was small, especially to a man who dated women who did not give him a pain in the neck to kiss, not that he felt any inclination to kiss his sleeping visitor awake.

Maybe there were men around who might have felt inclined to play the prince to her Sleeping Beauty but he doubted it.

Any curves, feminine or otherwise, were hidden in the capacious folds of the shapeless outfit that covered her, though her ankles were slim and her calves slender and shapely.

His view of her face was occluded by the messy mass of pale toffee-coloured hair that lay across her cheek. Her skin, slightly flushed with sleep, had the peachy smooth texture of extreme youth.

However, he did not make the mistake of equating youth with innocence; Allegra had not been much older than this girl when they had met, and her innocent sweetness had hidden a heart of pure malice.

Sophie opened her eyes and blinked, reluctant to relinquish her dream; she had been back home at the gatehouse, in her own room, and an ache of homesickness swelled in her chest.

She wasn’t in Balfour, she was in Sicily, and awake, but the strong sense of disorientation lingered. Everything that could go wrong had; her luggage was probably in Outer Mongolia and that was the least of her problems.

The ache stayed where it was like a lead weight in her chest as she struggled to shrug off the last tenacious strands of sleep…maybe just a dream but it had felt so real.

She could still smell the vanilla of her mother’s scones.

She inhaled and thought…not vanilla, something more subtly spicy and rather delicious. Pressing a hand to the back of her head as she tried to relieve the crick in her neck. She carefully unfolded her legs, causing the voluminous folds of her sprigged-cotton ankle-length skirt to bunch around her waist as she wriggled her toes.

About to reveal his presence Marco paused. His visitor might not be pretty and she might have a very odd taste in clothes, but she did have surprisingly good legs; if the creamy pallor of her flesh were any indication they had never seen the light of day.

He felt his curiosity stir—did that creamy pallor extend all over?

God, how long had she been asleep?

If Marco Speranza had walked in and found her snoring…that really would have made a great impression, she thought, cringing at the mental image. She stretched again, flexing the kinks out of her spine, then wincing as her elbow caught a jarring blow on the coffee pot on the table beside her.

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, as the contents of the half-full pot fell with a crash to the floor where it shattered.

‘Of course, it shattered—this is the day from hell!’ Gritting her teeth Sophie fell on her knees beside the broken glass and spilled liquid that was becoming a spreading stain on the thick white carpet.

Sitting back on her heels she closed her eyes.

Despite a lot of wishing when she opened them again she was still there. Why, she wondered, patting the coffee stain ineffectually with a tissue from her pocket, do these things happen to me?

Marco, who had watched her waking moments up to this point in silence, decided it was necessary to intercede—before she sliced off a finger.

Stepping forward he took firm hold of the hand that held the shard of splintered glass.

‘What?’ Sophie turned her head and watched with saucer-wide eyes as the glass was removed from her fingers. Shock made her compliant as she was then pulled unceremoniously to her feet.

Sophie’s wide gaze stayed on the long brown extremely strong fingers circling her wrist and continued upwards, moving over a section of golden-skinned forearm, dark against the pale cuff complete with discreet but obviously expensive cufflinks.

She had to tilt her head back to see the man who wore them and then as she met his eyes she immediately wished she hadn’t made the effort. His eyes were green, deep dark green flecked with tiny specks of gold, and they regarded her with an air of critical disdain.

The sort of critical disdain reserved for the use of someone who was perfect—and physically, he was—when looking at someone who wasn’t.

She had already known that Marco Speranza was good-looking, but neither the grainy tabloid shots of him on the notice board or the more glossy images in celebrity magazines had been able to convey just how good-looking he actually was.

They had not conveyed the restless vitality, the overpowering aura of raw masculinity he exuded. She had never encountered a man who was so blatantly sexual; just looking at him put very uncharacteristic thoughts into her head. She had never in her life looked at a stranger’s mouth and wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him.

Sophie had spent a lot of time around beautiful people, but the man currently regarding her with an air of irritated disdain was something very special.

He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

‘You’re late,’ she blurted, the second thing that popped into her head; it could have been worse, as the first had been, Are you a good kisser?

One dark brow sketched upwards as he released her hand. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Sophie nursed her hand against her chest. The impression his fingers left on her skin was so real that she expected to see the imprint glowing like a brand.

The skin on her narrow wrist was pale and unblemished.

Some of Amber’s advice came back to her. ‘You’re a woman, Sophie…’ Midway through, her boss had stopped short, maybe reconsidering the statement before adding, ‘Men always respond well to subtle flattery. You have to stroke their egos.’

The woman had clearly never met Marco Speranza! His ego was probably so massive that she doubted she could reach it.

‘I’m sorry. I fell asleep.’

‘I noticed.’ His sardonic tone made her flush in embarrassment and she bit her lip and wondered, Was my mouth open? Have I been drooling?

She watched uncertainly as Marco Speranza lowered himself into the leather chair behind his big desk and opened his laptop, and decided upon reflection it was better she didn’t know.

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey,’ he said, not looking at her.

She regarded his dark head with dismay. ‘That’s it…you’re not interested in my ideas?’

He leaned back in his chair and, pushing it back from the desk, looked at her through hooded eyes. ‘I only deal with serious professionals.’

‘I’m…we’re serious professionals,’ she protested.

He gave a thin-lipped smile and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But!’

‘Your firm sent you.’’ His green eyes swept upwards from her feet to her face. He gave a fluid shrug and turned his attention back to the computer screen. Then as if he changed his mind he lifted his head and added, ‘They sent a child. I’d say that that gives me a very good idea at how seriously your firm wants this job.’

‘I’m twenty-three and I assure you I’m qualified, Mr Speranza.’

He gave another languid shrug and drawled, ‘I will take your word on both counts.’ Though the twenty-three part still seemed doubtful to him.

His attention refocused on the screen of the open laptop on his desk; he was not looking at her.

For Marco Speranza she no longer existed.

Keeping her head up Sophie took a step towards the door. She could retain what shred of dignity she had left and be graceful in defeat.

What was the point in fighting?

Marco Speranza had made up his mind the moment he laid eyes on her. She had taken two steps when she realised she was falling back into a pattern of behaviour—graceful defeat translated as failure.

Her father had faith in her; her sisters would not have wimped out this way but she wasn’t even trying. They’d all be kind when she crawled back with her tail between her legs but she knew that privately they’d be disappointed.

What did she have to lose?

The frustration welled up inside her and expanded, a solid presence in her chest, until she felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

Jaw set she turned and walked back to the desk. ‘You haven’t given me a chance!’ she accused loudly.

Marco Speranza’s eyes lifted from the laptop.

The astonishment in his face might on another occasion have made her laugh, but Sophie, who was hearing the disappointment in her father’s voice when he realised his faith in her had been misplaced, planted her hands on her hips.

‘Well, did you?’ she demanded belligerently. ‘You wrote me off the moment you walked in here.’

The hands-on-the-hip stance was not good when you did not want to draw attention to their unfortunate width, but Sophie was beyond caring if he thought she was chunky. Chances were he had not even noticed she was female, let alone that she had horribly generous curves.

He didn’t bother denying it. ‘I do that when people are so committed they fall asleep. And can you really expect to be taken seriously, appearing in someone’s office dressed as you are?’ He stopped twirling the pen in his long fingers and laid it on the table. ‘You know, I think you’ll go farther if you invest in a comb…’ he mused.

Her cobalt-blue eyes—the intense colour reminded him of the sea along the Ionian coast—slid from his and as he watched she bit into her trembling lower lip.

Marco suddenly felt less than thrilled with his clever comeback; the moment he had allowed things to become personal he had lost the moral and every other sort of high ground. This English girl was enough to try the patience of a saint, but nothing excused behaviour that had drifted worryingly close to bullying.

‘Look, if you have notes, sketches, leave them. I will look at them and get back to your boss.’

Anticipating a certain amount of tearful gratitude for his generous compromise he was taken aback when the eyes that lifted slowly to his were not misty with gratitude but sparking with anger.

‘How dare you patronise me!’

Sophie’s first reaction to his scathing put-down had been to laugh, then with a sudden flash of insight she realised that this was yet another coping mechanism.

People had been making her a joke all her life, and she had been letting them. She had been telling herself she didn’t care.

Sophie suddenly realised she did care—she cared a lot.

‘Patronise!’ This woman gave unreasonable a whole new meaning.

‘All you’ve done is sneer and look down your nose at me. People like you make me sick—people who think they are entitled to what they want, when they want it, just because of what their name is. Well, I hate that world and I don’t want to live in it.’

‘Where do you want to live?’

Sophie’s blue eyes narrowed warily. ‘We are not talking about me.’

‘My mistake,’ Marco drawled, thinking that even if she had a presentation that was mind-blowing he would be insane to take someone on his payroll who had such obvious issues. ‘Do you ever pause for breath when you speak?’

‘I only babble when I get nervous.’

‘And I make you nervous?’

She glared and thought, You’d like that, wouldn’t you? ‘You make me…’ She stopped, conscious of something that bore a worrying similarity to exhilaration circulating in her veins.

She was not enjoying this! He was a horrible man and she hated arguing. He was just so convinced he was right, when in reality he was so wide of the mark that he was not even on the right page. The man was infuriating.

‘You only value things that are beautiful.’

He blinked at the accusation.

‘You!’ she declared, waving a condemnatory finger at him. ‘Judge by appearances…!’ The last time she’d said this much was when she had drank too much—if two glasses of champagne deserved that title—after her nephew Oliver’s christening.

She had fallen into the fountain; people were still teasing her about it.

The transformation from mouse-like timidity to bristling bosom-heaving antagonism interested Marco as much as the charge.

‘What else am I meant to judge you on?’ he asked, watching the finger that was being waved in his direction and thinking appearances in this instance were definitely deceptive.

This reasonable question made Sophie pause. ‘You said my outfit meant you couldn’t take me seriously.’

‘That was rude—I was out of order, but I’ve had a bad day.’

‘You’ve had a bad day!’ she squeaked, throwing up her hands. ‘You,’ she told him with husky quivering emphasis, ‘know nothing about bad days, and for your information it’s nothing to do with my clothes. I have sisters, as I’m sure you know, who could make a bin sack look fashionable and sexy.’

‘So you decided not to compete.’

Her mouth was already open to refute the ludicrous claim, but a look of doubt spread slowly across Sophie’s face. She closed her mouth with a snap. It wasn’t true…was it? The man was a total stranger; how could he have a clue as to what made her tick?

‘It’s not about competition, it’s about recognising I’m not…’ An image of her sisters flashed before her eyes, each beautiful and talented in their own unique and very photogenic way, and she thought again, Is he right?

With a tiny shake of her head she dismissed the idea and stuck out her chin.

‘I’m not like them.’ If she was, he wouldn’t be ignoring her…only he wasn’t; there was an interest of the clinical variety in the green eyes that rested on her flushed face.

‘Why are you sure I know you have sisters?’

‘Because I’m a Balfour.’ His blank expression was not one that Sophie had ever encountered previously after revealing her identity. Thrown by the response, her next words held a note of disbelief. ‘My father is Oscar Balfour.’

Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug that turned out to be unneeded. Marco Speranza’s brows lifted in recognition of the name, though he still did not look impressed.

‘I have never met the man, though obviously I know his reputation. I’m sure I would be more au fait with your sisters if I read the sort of scandal sheets that chart their exploits.’

‘Well, you appear in them often enough!’ Sophie retorted, stung by his superior attitude. Before their break up, he and his gorgeous wife must have been one of the most photographed couples on the planet. ‘And my sisters do not ask to be photographed.’ Though admittedly they did not go out of their way to avoid it either.

‘Why are we discussing your sisters?’

Sophie looked at him, nonplussed by the question. Over the years she had become philosophical about men seeking her out for this specific reason and here was one who sounded bored by the subject. If he had been displaying any more interest in her it would have been her dream scenario.

But he wasn’t.

In fact, playing the Balfour card had not given her any advantage with this man.

‘I’m sure your sisters are fascinating, but right now—’ he glanced significantly at the watch on his wrist and turned back to his laptop ‘—I have several items that require my attention.’

Sophie stemmed the flow of anger with a firm shake of her head, the action causing a glossy hank of hair she had just secured behind her ear to fall into her eyes, and with an impatient grimace she pushed it back with her forearm from her flushed cheek before anchoring it once again behind her ear. She gritted her teeth. ‘God, I think I might just cut it all off.’

‘Your hair?’

‘You’re not interested in my hair and you’re not interested on what’s inside—yes, I get that,’ she told him, thinking that the last thing she wanted was Marco Speranza with his disturbing eyes being privy to her insecurities.

‘You really don’t need to labour the point, and as for what you should judge me on, how about—and I know this might be a novel idea—ability?’ The sarcasm faded from her voice as she added, ‘Unless you get some kind of kick out of making people feel inadequate and stupid!’

The emotional throb in her voice dragged Marco’s attention from her thick hair that on closer scrutiny proved not to be one colour but interwoven strands of several colours that ran the spectrum from soft butter gold to pale coffee.

His fingers flexed on the polished surface of his desk as he suddenly imagined spearing his fingers into the lush mass. ‘You wouldn’t suit short hair.’

Startled by the husky observation she lifted a hand to her head.

His green eyes returned to the wild waves. ‘A trim possibly,’ he conceded.

Sophie shook her head. Why were they talking about her hair? ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

She watched a flicker of some emotion, impossible to decipher, ripple across the reflective surface of his remarkable green eyes before he shrugged.

‘I’m making a constructive comment. Is the colour real?’

Baffled by his question and suspecting some sort of hidden insult, Sophie said defiantly, ‘Yes. This is all me.’ She flashed him a cold look that tipped into confusion as their glances connected. ‘Take me or leave me,’ she finished breathlessly.

Chapter Five

SHE saw the startled look spread across his face and realised she had just given him the opening for a massive put-down.

Her heart raced with a confusing cocktail of emotions—trepidation, proving she had not totally lost it; exhilaration, proving it was a close-run thing. If he laughs I will die of sheer mortification, she thought, but he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t actually do anything.

‘Not literally,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘I wasn’t…’ She cleared her throat and added awkwardly, ‘Propositioning you.’

Observing the faint twitching of his sensually sculpted mobile lips, Sophie was discovering that for some inexplicable reason his mouth exerted an almost magnetic pull. He’s thinking what a great story to produce at a dull moment during a dinner party, she thought. This dumpy, dowdy Balfour chick asked me to take her. Well, maybe not chick; she couldn’t really see Marco Speranza saying chick in that deep sexy Italian accent of his.

Of course, if she’d been sleek and glossy and had long legs and wore a short skirt he wouldn’t have been laughing. If she had been any other Balfour girl he wouldn’t have been laughing.

Not that he actually was laughing, she realised, studying his face and wondering if wanting to know what it felt like to be lusted after just once in her life made her very shallow or just human.

When he finally responded there was no hint of the amusement she had anticipated in his dry comeback. ‘I think I’m disappointed.’

She knew he was being sarcastic but it didn’t show on his face. His expression was about as easy to read as a granite wall but much, much better to look at.

Sophie realised she was staring at his sensual mouth again and, after a struggle, managed to redirect her gaze to the open neck of his shirt where the skin of his throat was smooth and bronzed a tasty…no, toasty gold.

The mental correction brought a wary expression to her face as she tried to smile through the shocking stab of lustful longing that took her totally unawares.

She was obviously in desperate need of a sugar hit.

Deciding it was certainly necessary to bring this meeting to a speedy close, Sophie inhaled deeply and pinned a sympathetic expression on her face. ‘Look, I know you’re probably upset that Amber didn’t attend this meeting in person.’

‘Because the male of the species has a fragile ego?’

Biting back a snippy retort, Sophie smiled. ‘But you really should see what we have to offer. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.’

She watched him flick through the corners of the file she had brought and scroll his way through the pages; he did not look impressed.

‘Boring, bland and predictable.’

Sophie was in a dilemma; she actually agreed with his scathing assessment, but she wasn’t here to preserve her artistic integrity. She was here to save Amber’s business and everyone else’s job, and if in the process she proved to her dad that she was more than just a dreamer it would be a massive bonus.

‘First impressions can be wrong.’

Marco, who had been thinking much the same thing himself, inclined his head. ‘You think so.’

‘I know so,’ she retorted firmly. ‘And of course that is just a rough draft. Amber always involves the client, any client—and you’re not just any client; you’re a very important man.’ Though clearly not as important as you think you are, she thought, injecting several more volts of false sincerity into her fixed smile.

The rather startling realisation that he was being patronised slowed Marco’s response.

‘She was devastated that she couldn’t be here. I wasn’t the first choice to make this pitch, or even,’ she admitted, ‘the second.’

Sophie had doubts about honesty being the best policy but at this point it seemed she had little to lose by being frank, and the novelty value might even get his attention.

It did, but as those laser-sharp green eyes stilled on her face, she wasn’t so sure this was necessarily a good thing.

‘So Miss…Amber…intended to come personally. But despite my…extreme importance she is not here.’ And her substitute had a very unique sales pitch. The disingenuous act could not possibly be genuine but he had to admit it did have the charm of being not boring.

‘She’s not…well, actually her liposuction went wonky.’ Sophie was unable to repress a shudder at the mental image. Then realising her frankness might just have tipped over into indiscretion, she tacked on quickly, ‘It was a very minor procedure—people have it done in their lunch hour these days.’

‘I take it you do not speak from personal experience.’

His eyes slid to her legs, now totally obscured by the voluminous skirt and a top that reached her knees, but what he had already seen made it obvious that this was not a procedure that she needed.

But then women frequently endured painful procedures to measure up to some weird ideal of perfection. There was no such thing as perfection, though that glimpse of soft creamy skin on her thighs was actually pretty close.

He was looking at her thighs when he spoke, which just went to prove that the man didn’t have a tactful bone in his quite magnificent body. Outraged all over again at his rudeness and without stopping to think, Sophie snapped, ‘I’m happy with my body the way it is! But of course if I wasn’t all right with it, and I didn’t already know I was fat, that comment might have hurt!’

Had she just rapped his knuckles? Marco couldn’t decide; he had very little room for comparison as it had been many years since even his closest friends had admonished him.

Embarrassed by her outburst—what on earth had got into her?—Sophie screwed up her courage and plunged on. If this was a lost cause, at least she wouldn’t go quietly.

She heard herself say, ‘I’m actually very good.’

‘At what?’

At least he hadn’t laughed but Sophie, who had already been cringing at her boastful claim, felt panic…

‘I may not have a lot of experience…’ You’re telling him this…why, exactly?

‘No experience…there’s a shocker.’

‘But that’s an advantage.’

‘It is?’ Marco found he no longer had to feign fascination.

‘Well, I’m open to new ideas. I’ve not got a closed mind.’

‘Give me an example of your open mind.’

Sophie smiled; if he thought that was going to throw her he could think again. Finally, she could talk about something she knew about.

‘Well, for starters, look at this room.’ Sophie’s nose wrinkled as her sweeping gesture took in the large oblong space.

His brows lifted; he was almost enjoying himself now. This was unlike any conversation he had had with a woman before. ‘It is not to your liking?’

‘It’s all right,’ she conceded with a sniff. ‘But do you want all right for your ancestral home?’ she asked, levelling a challenging look at his face, which gave her precisely zero clues to what he felt about her tactics.

‘I don’t do all right!’ Recognising she hadn’t even felt embarrassed saying this, Sophie wondered if it was something to do with lack of sleep or possibly the fact that every time she looked at Marco Speranza she felt the prickles of antagonism trickle down her spine.

It was irrational to so dislike someone she barely knew.

Marco leaned deeper into his chair and, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossed one ankle over the other before fixing his hooded gaze on her flushed face.

‘What do you do, Miss Balfour?’

‘I do exceptional.’’ This is insane—Sophie, what are you doing?

‘Exceptional? I’m impressed.’ One corner of his mouth lifted as he smiled and rested his chin on the platform provided by his steepled fingers. ‘Well, don’t stop now…’

Now genuinely intrigued, Marco pushed his chair from the table and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. ‘I must admit, I thought I already had exceptional.’

I really wish he’d stayed sitting, Sophie thought as she watched him move across the room, looking like the human version of a jungle cat—elegant, dangerous and casually cruel—until he stood framed by the window with the breathtaking panoramic view of the Old City below.

Not that Sophie was looking at the view. Marco had what could be called presence. Unable to dispel the lithe-jungle-cat analogy, she saw herself in the role of the pathetic defenceless animal he swatted just for the hell of it, and her courage wavered.

You’re not defenceless, you’re a Balfour! Show a bit of backbone for once!

Balfours rose to the challenge and it was encouraging that he hadn’t thrown her out yet…possibly just because he enjoyed seeing her squirm, but there was a possibility, outside admittedly, that this wasn’t lost yet.

‘So how would you make this space exceptional?’

‘Well, to begin with,’ she said, banging her hand on the wall behind her, ‘this would go, as well as those windows.’ As she continued to outline the changes she would make, her nervousness receded. She knew what she was talking about and her genuine enthusiasm made it surprisingly easy to articulate her creative ideas to someone who was listening with what seemed like genuine interest. Of course, he might just be waiting to pull her legs from under her with one cutting remark, but with the adrenaline buzz humming through her veins Sophie thought it was a risk worth taking.

What do I have to lose? she asked herself. She pushed past the recognition that at one level she was actually enjoying herself—it was just too bizarre.

Marco watched her as she moved around the room, illustrating her suggestions with gestures, speaking with increasing confidence as the ideas flowed. The change in her demeanour was nothing less than spectacular.

Her entire manner, voice and body language had altered. Gone was the awkward self-conscious hunched-shoulder attitude; her voice was animated, her blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm—an enthusiasm that was so obviously genuine that Marco found himself smiling.

Slick patter and dodgy figures left him cold but he was drawn to the thing that was, in his experience, rare—a mix of genuine enthusiasm, talent and passion.

Sophie Balfour was a revelation.

‘Well, that’s what I think anyway,’ Sophie said, finally drawing breath as she removed her hand from the wall she had just verbally demolished. ‘The glass would make the most of the marvellous light and the sleek modern lines of the furniture…’ Her voice faded as without warning her knees began to shake.

Actually, she was shaking all over.

Chapter Six

IT WAS very confusing; one moment he was propped up against the window with languid ease, and the next Marco Speranza was at her side, his hand on her shoulder as he forced her into a Phillipe Starck chair.

Actually, there was very little force involved. Her knees folded; it had been a very long day.

‘Nice chair.’ Sophie was not sure if she spoke out loud or not. ‘But not in here.’ A great piece but it just didn’t mesh with the rest of the decor.

‘Always the critic. Water.’ She had lost all colour and her intense pallor brought the vivid blue of her eyes into sharp contrast.

His lean dark features blurred before her eyes as she shook her head; even blurred he looked pretty incredible. ‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘If you drink this I will burn the damn chair.’ Marco took her fingers and folded them around the glass before guiding it to her lips and saying harshly, ‘Drink!’

Left with little choice she obeyed him.

‘Better?’ he asked, touching his thumb to a small trickle of water at the corner of her mouth.

The soft touch sent a secret shiver down her spine. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, hoping that the breath-iness in her voice was down to her wobbly moment and not the light touch.

Much to Sophie’s relief his hand fell away from her face, but his disturbing hard emerald gaze lingered another few uncomfortable moments on her mouth.

‘Well, you don’t look it.’

Her chin went up. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, utterly mortified by this display of weakness. ‘Totally fine. I just…Don’t burn the chair—it’s very nice…’

‘But it offends your aesthetic sensitivities in this setting.’

‘I’m not sensitive.’ As to contradict this statement her nerve endings acted in an inappropriate and over-the-top—actually painful—way to the faint brush of his fingertips against the inside of her wrist as he relinquished his supportive grip on the glass.

‘I don’t make a habit of almost fainting. It’s just…I can’t skip meals.’

She seemed perfectly serious and Marco, who was accustomed to women who only ate carbs on days without a D in them, glanced towards the crumbs on the empty plate.

Sophie intercepted the direction of his gaze and said defensively, ‘That was not a proper meal—it was sandwiches.’

The twitch of his lips suggested she was about to lose the credibility she had struggled so hard to establish so Sophie plunged on without pause, veering sharply away from the subject of her appetite that was as unfashionable as her figure.

‘We can do the job, and we can do it well. Check out our track record.’

He still looked distracted, probably shocked by the idea of a woman actually eating…The article she had read on the plane had included a large and growing back catalogue of disposable girlfriends, none of whom looked like they had ever eaten a full meal in their lives. Clearly, they considered starvation not too high a price to pay for being seen on the arm of someone as famous and rich as Marco Speranza, she thought cynically.

Her cynicism wobbled slightly as her glance moved over the strong angular contours of his face, coming to rest on the firm sensual curve of his mouth.

He had money and fame but he also had animal magnetism oozing out of his perfect pores—and he had that mouth.

Maybe they weren’t so stupid.

You’re staring at his mouth, Sophie.

Maybe he’s just very good in bed?

Focus, Sophie, she told herself as she dodged his gaze and brushed an invisible speck from her creased and crumpled jacket.

He wasn’t a mind reader; it just seemed as if those eerie green eyes of his—no man should have eyelashes that long—could see into her head. Still, if he even suspected that she was wondering, even in a dispassionate sort of way, about his sexual performance…!

Sophie cleared her throat and said in her best professional voice ‘You won’t find a firm that is better or more innovative.’

‘Promises are cheap,’ Marco said, thinking that her sultry, husky little voice just didn’t match the rest of her, though her lips, cherry red in her pale face, did have possibilities. She had the sort of complexion that a Victorian lady would have given her best ostrich feather to possess.

‘We are not.’ Pleased with her swift retort she gave a regal smile and added, ‘You pay for quality.’ There was nothing Sophie liked better than a bargain.

‘And if you don’t give us a chance it will be your loss!’ she warned, thinking, Mine too, as she crossed her fingers.

Marco, who had been studying his interlinked fingers, suddenly looked down and held her eyes.

The moment probably only lasted a moment but for Sophie, with a bucketful of heart-racing adrenaline still swirling in her veins and her nerve stretched to breaking point, it felt like a lifetime.

‘Look, I meant it—I don’t make a habit of having dizzy spells, and contrary to appearances I happen to be a very organised person.’ Organisation was the one thing she could do, and to see the scepticism on his face was tough to swallow.

But she wasn’t here to court Marco Speranza’s good opinion. This wasn’t personal—it didn’t matter what Marco Speranza thought of her; it mattered that he signed on the dotted line and she chalked up lots of brownie points.

It mattered that she lived up to the confidence her father had in her.

‘But this isn’t about me—I’m just the messenger.’ Wasn’t it the messenger that got shot? ‘You wouldn’t have to see me at all.’

He didn’t look as relieved as she had anticipated. Maybe he didn’t believe her? ‘I’m strictly a back-room person.’ If she pulled this off, that might change. She felt a surprising spurt of excitement at a possibility that would have once given her nightmares.

‘You make it sound as though they keep you in a cupboard. Do they let you out on special occasions?

Sophie smiled, assuming he didn’t expect her to reply to this frivolous comment.

Don’t look too desperate, Sophie…desperate is not a good sales tool, she told herself as she met his eyes projecting, she sincerely hoped, professional competence.

Siren sex appeal might have been more effective, she thought with a silent sigh, but a girl had to use what she had.

Her smile stayed painted in place as she watched under the sweep of her lashes as he walked across to his desk.

He closed the lid of the laptop with a decisive click and lifted his head. ‘All right,’ he said slowly.

Sophie’s jaw dropped.

She looked, he reflected, as surprised as he felt to hear his response.

It wasn’t one thing that had changed his mind but a combination; the plans were rubbish but she had ideas and enthusiasm.

She has what you have lost, Marco—she has passion!

And nice legs—excellent legs.

Sophie stared at him warily. ‘We’ve got the job?’

Marco angled a brow. ‘Do you want it?’

A wide smile spread across her pale features, transforming her face into a vision of sparkling animation as she jumped to her feet.

‘Yes, of course, that’s…that’s just…You won’t be sorry, Mr Speranza,’ she said eagerly as she grabbed his hand between the two of her own and pumped it up and down. Then, aware he was looking at her very strangely, she dropped it and gave a self-conscious shrug. ‘Sorry, I’m just so happy.’

‘Before you spontaneously combust I must tell you there is one condition.’

Sophie’s smile stayed glued in place but her eyes were wary. I should have known there was going to be a catch, she thought, deciding whatever he asks for no matter how preposterous nod and say yes. He’s the client—just remember, Sophie, the customer is always right.

‘I reserve the right to terminate the arrangement if I am not happy.’

‘Of course.’ Sophie pulled out her notebook and turned to a fresh page.

‘And you will personally oversee the project.’

Sophie assumed she had misheard. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite…’

‘I wish for you to personally oversee the project.’

Sophie looked up. She made herself smile at his joke and tilted her head back to look up into his lean face, her eyes drawn to the small scar beside his mouth—the only flaw in his otherwise perfect face—and she wondered how he got it.

‘Seriously, Mr Speranza, I’m sure we can accommodate all your needs.’

The earnest assurance brought Marco’s gaze to her face. ‘That is good to know,’ he drawled.

Sophie recognised the amused glint in his eyes and translated his drawled retort as thanks but no thanks.

Sarcastic rat!

She schooled her features into a neutral mask; the mortified flush that rose up her neck until her entire face burned she had no control over.

‘I admire confidence in a woman, Miss Balfour.’

Not half as much as he admired long legs and making love naked on a beach, if his ex-wife’s no-holds-barred account of their passionate marriage in a recent interview in a celebrity publication was anything to go by.

‘However, I don’t think you’d know where to begin,’ he said, although…what did they say about still waters running deep? It was possible that prim exterior hid a fiery and passionate nature.

Possible but not likely, though that mouth…?

Even though Sophie knew he wasn’t serious, she couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to be presented with such an opportunity. It could make a person’s career or, of course, break it if you blew it or got sacked, but she didn’t have to worry about that. She had done what was asked of her—she had got him. She still couldn’t figure out what had swung the decision in her favour, but the worry and the kudos were all her boss’s—and Amber was welcome to it, and to the pleasure of being forced to smile at this man with an ego that matched the size of his bank balance.

‘Seriously, Mr Speranza…’

‘Seriously, Miss Balfour.’

‘No…no…I mean, that’s not possible. I don’t do that sort of thing. I’m very junior and I only got the job because Amber had a thing with my dad.’

During the pause that followed her disclosure—way too much information, Sophie—she tried without success to read his expression.

‘My,’ he drawled. ‘You really know how to sell yourself, don’t you?’

This time she could read his expression and, while she generally had no problem laughing at herself, when the person she’d be joining in with was this man, all she could manage was a clenched smile.

‘I’m working on it,’ she gritted through her teeth.

‘I heard the British upper classes don’t move their mouths when they speak…’ And in her case it was a pretty mouth. ‘But until now I didn’t believe it.’ He leaned back in his hair with languid ease. ‘One of the reasons I didn’t show you the door—’

Sophie waited for the punchline and when it didn’t come said, ‘Because I’m underqualified but well connected?’

‘—is because you don’t say what I want to hear.’

‘I was trying to,’ she retorted with feeling.

Marco threw back his head and laughed.

Hearing the deep husky sound the couple in the adjoining office, who had been debating whether to go in and see what was happening, exchanged startled looks.

Sophie, who had no idea that Marco Speranza laughing in the work place was not a usual event, was startled for other reasons—Marco Speranza had a sense of humour!

That and a low, husky, uninhibited laugh that made the downy hair on her skin stand on end. Laughter softened the lines of his austerely beautiful face and made him look younger and almost approachable.

‘One? What were the others?’

There was a pause as he appeared to consider the question and her face.

Sophie found his unblinking scrutiny deeply unsettling.

‘You don’t carry any baggage…You’re fresh…’

The situation would change; experience would put cynicism in her eyes and etch lines onto her smooth skin, but right now her eyes were clear…and her skin…Feeling suddenly, incredibly old and jaundiced, he felt an unexpected stab of something that was close to envy.

When had he last experienced the sort of enthusiasm that shone in her eyes?

‘People in your profession frequently fall into the trap of thinking in terms of what is fashionable. I am not interested in the latest colour charts—I feel passionate about my home,’ he declared, feeling hypocritical.

The fact was he was not capable about feeling passionate about anything. During his marriage he had become adept at hiding his feelings from his spiteful wife, who got a sick kick out of inflicting pain. At some point he hadn’t needed to hide them any more as there hadn’t been anything to hide.

Had those feelings died or were they in cold storage? The fact that he was capable of objectively considering each possibility made Marco suspect the former was true.

‘I want someone to work on it who is capable of…’ He paused and thought, Capable of reminding me how I once felt. His eyes slid from her face and he said abruptly, ‘I am a Sicilian.’

As if that said it all. ‘I’m not.’

Marco’s glance drifted to her mouth and he felt things shift inside him. ‘You spoke very eloquently, with passion.’

‘That wasn’t passion, that was desperation.’

A flicker of irritation crossed his lean face but some of the tension left his shoulders. ‘This constant self-deprecation can get wearing.’ However, looking at her mouth did not.

Sophie opened her mouth to retort and closed it again, not because she’d just remembered he was the client and the client was always right, but because he was right.

It had started as a protective mechanism—get in there before someone else did. Endless casual comments, not normally intended to wound, about her figure, her hair, her lack of small talk…The list was endless and they did hurt, so it was now almost a reflex to pull herself down before anyone else got the chance.

It was ironic that the person to open her eyes was a total stranger—and this total stranger.

Aiming somewhere midway between pushy and motivated she gave him a direct look. ‘You’re serious.’

He gave the appearance of considering the question. ‘Those are my conditions.’

‘Even if I could, Amber would never agree. You’ve probably already noticed I’m not a front-of-shop person.’ Her sweeping gesture took in her creased outfit. ‘I source materials and deal with orders and make sure that…In short, I make lists,’ Sophie explained, frowning at the somewhat lame job description she had produced. ‘I’m very good at lists.’

‘You mean you do the work and let others take the credit.’ His expression did not suggest he found such a self-sacrificing mentality admirable, and his scorn stung.

Easy for him, she thought. He walked into a room and everything about him screamed dominant male; he didn’t have a clue what it felt like to be invisible among her dazzling siblings. As much as she loved them, they were overwhelming.

She felt her resentment rise as she studied his chiselled patrician features. Marco Speranza didn’t have the faintest idea what it felt like to blend into the background, and anyway it wasn’t even true—she wasn’t a doormat!

Her indignation was mixed with unease—was that really the impression she gave?

‘Just because I don’t need to be the centre of attention doesn’t make me a total doormat.’

Encountering the hostile glitter in her blue eyes Marco smiled.

‘What’s so funny?’ she asked between clenched teeth as she endured his searching stare.

‘Not a doormat…afraid.’ He taunted. He watched her chin go up and smiled. Getting the best out of people in his experience was about providing the correct motivation and knowing which buttons to push.

Sophie avoided arguments and confrontations—she disliked raised voices—but she suddenly realised that there were occasions when a person had to stand up and be counted…or explode!

Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

Dear God, the man was a total stranger and he was acting as if he knew her. First her father, and then this man, telling her what was wrong with her—well, she was sick of it! She was so mad she could hardly see straight as she fixed him with a glittering blue scowl.

‘I’m not afraid!’ she yelled. ‘Not all of us need to have people telling us how marvellous we are every two seconds. I don’t need my ego stroked to make me feel good about myself, unlike some people.’

A look of utter amazement crossed Marco’s face; he had obviously pressed more buttons than he had intended. He studied her with renewed interest—she was definitely not lacking the passion he required.

He arched a brow. ‘Some people?’

Sophie, her chest heaving, allowed her lashes to fall in a concealing curtain over her eyes; the silence that settled between them was as loud as a slamming door.

The door was probably slamming on her career.

She couldn’t believe she had actually said those things. It was, she reflected, as if another person had taken over her body. And even more bewildering than this emergence of another persona was the adrenaline rush—her body still hummed with it.

Was it the man or the circumstances that were making her act this way?

Sophie tried to smooth things over. Not that she really expected to succeed; a man like Marco Speranza would never let a mere employee speak to him that way. ‘I don’t want to make this personal.’ Pity, Sophie, you didn’t think that way a minute ago.

‘Do you want the job?’

‘Do I want the job?’ Sophie echoed. ‘After what I just said?’ She was unable to hide her amazement. ‘But I thought…’

‘Thought or hoped?’ he asked with a sardonic smile. He thought that he had seen every interview technique but hers was, he had to admit, unique.

He did not surround himself with yes-men but Marco couldn’t recall the last time that someone had challenged him in the work place. A man who wasn’t challenged was in danger of becoming complacent and losing his edge.

‘I made a personal comment, and you responded. So long as you do not forget who’s the boss, I think we will deal well together…’

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. ‘I don’t think it’s likely you’ll let me.’

‘Do you want the job?’ His lashes lifted from the angle of his sharply defined razor-edged cheekbones as he scanned her face. ‘If not, there is little point us continuing this discussion.’

‘Yes!’ Sophie heard herself shout, then more moderately and ignoring the voice in her head asking, Are you totally insane? she added, ‘I would like the job, Mr Speranza.’ This so wasn’t going to happen. Amber would voluntarily break a fingernail before she’d let Sophie take control of such a prestigious project.

As if reading her thoughts—that ability was getting distinctly unsettling—Marco moved around his desk, balanced on a corner and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘Leave your boss to me.’ He rose to his feet, tipped his dark head. ‘Come…’

This autocratic decree made Sophie stare—was this man for real?

He didn’t snap his fingers but the expectation was much the same. He was clearly accustomed to unquestioning obedience and the force of his personality was such that she suspected he generally got it.

The man had an egotism that made her father look mild mannered and hesitant by comparison.

‘Where?’ she said, not moving.

He looked mildly irritated by the question. ‘I have a home to go to if you don’t, Miss Balfour.’

He watched her get to her feet and wondered what he had said to fill her expressive eyes with bleak pain? He placed a hand between her shoulder blades and repeated his command. ‘Come.’ But this time his manner was gentler.

Sophie had been speared by a jolt of homesickness, but now wanted to respond to the hand that rested lightly between her shoulder blades—the man had no concept of personal body space. Unfortunately, as soon as he touched her everything, including her brain, refused to function. Actually, this was not totally correct; she could smell the soap he used mingled with other less familiar but not unpleasant male scents.

Luckily, the paralysis did not last more than a moment and Sophie didn’t feel the inclination to examine the heart-racing breath-catching moment of paralysis too deeply.

It was obviously a postscript to her light-headed moment. Marco Speranza’s physical presence was overwhelming and, standing beside him, crushingly devastating, but she wasn’t going to faint just because he stood next to her.

She walked through the door into the outer office before him.

‘Perhaps it would be better, Mr Speranza, if you let me explain things to Amber when I get back.’ The man and woman who were sitting in the outer office looked up as they entered.

He angled a dark brow and echoed, ‘Get back? Get back where?’

‘Home…’ She stopped abruptly, her face falling as she realised home was the one place she was not allowed to go. ‘To London,’ she added huskily.

Marco who had seen the flash of deep sadness on her face wondered what had put it there. Though, whatever personal problems this woman had they were none of his business unless they affected her work.

‘I don’t think, Miss Balfour, you understand that you have been on my payroll since we shook on this deal. I expect you to start work in the morning.’

Chapter Seven

SOPHIE stared at him in horror.

‘Morning!’ she yelped. ‘But that’s not possible. I’m only here for the night and I have nothing…’ Literally nothing—unless the airline tracked down her lost luggage—not even a toothbrush. ‘And we didn’t shake.’ It was not something she would have forgotten.

‘You’re a very literal-minded young woman,’ Marco observed before adding, ‘How young, really?’

‘It’s not polite to ask a woman’s age, but I wasn’t lying—I’m twenty-three.’

She lifted her chin and thought, If he can ask so can I. ‘How old are you?’

‘In experience, several centuries older than you, cara.’

His brow puckered as he studied her face. The exploits of the Balfour heiresses represented everything shallow and superficial that he had turned his back on after the divorce.

It remained a total mystery to him how a daughter of Oscar Balfour could utterly lack the glitter and polish that the Balfour name represented, how she could be so…wholesome and quite annoyingly naive.

The form of address brought a flush to Sophie’s cheeks.

Marco saw the flush and produced a smile that did not warm his emerald eyes. ‘The handshake can be remedied.’

Deeply regretting she had been so pedantic, Sophie viewed his extended hand with the sort of enthusiasm she’d had when she’d entered a gym at school.

‘I trust you,’ she said, tucking her hand behind her back.

A strangled sound from his subordinate drew Marco’s attention to the couple at the desk.

‘I might require you to work this weekend, Francesco.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing the couple’s faces drop in unison, as he stepped into the lift behind Sophie.

‘Where are you staying?’ He stopped beside a long sleek-looking convertible and opened the passenger door.

‘I don’t know—I came straight here from the airport. Amber hadn’t booked anywhere as she was going to stay with a friend, but she said I should go to…’ She reached into the capacious pocket of her loose-fitting jacket and withdrew the notepad inside, turning it to the relevant page.

She squeaked in protest as Marco plucked it from her fingers.

‘A nice enough hotel,’ he admitted. ‘But you should stay at…’

The buzz in Sophie’s head blocked the name. She had spent her life falling in with the suggestions made by others and felt a surge of uncharacteristic rebellion.

‘Because you say so?’

Marco noted again that the beige English mouse looked decidedly more attractive with an antagonistic glitter in her wide-spaced, dramatically blue eyes.

She would also, he thought, look good in red.

It would bring out the creaminess in her skin tone…When was the last time he had seen a woman without any make-up?

‘You would not find that argument compelling?’

‘That wouldn’t be an argument—that would be an order, Mr Speranza.’ Something she was guessing he was rather good at doling out.

‘Are you always so pedantic? And make it Marco.’

At one level Sophie knew that her gut reaction to the suggestion was disproportionate but she couldn’t keep the horror from her voice as she said stiffly, ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Step outside your comfort zone, Sophie…’ he goaded gently.

Her father had said exactly the same thing to her. Startled by the déjà vu, her eyes flew to his face…There was absolutely no resemblance between the man whose eyes connected with her own and Oscar Balfour.

She lowered her gaze and comforted herself with the thought that the opportunities to use his name were not going to be frequent.

Men like Marco Speranza delegated and she doubted he ever put himself in danger of getting a crease in his suit.

‘I’m so far out of my comfort zone that I’m…’ She stopped as a sudden ache of longing for the familiar things she had been forced to leave behind welled up inside her.

‘You’re what?’

‘Fine, Marco,’’ she said, curling her tongue around his name with difficulty and trying not to think about the gatehouse.

‘The hotel you speak of will be fully booked as they are hosting a convention. Most of the hotels in the city are full of people who like to dress up as aliens from film and TV.’

Sophie could see a flaw in his explanation. ‘And the hotel you suggest won’t be full?’

‘I keep a suite there for business purposes. I’m quite happy to put it at your disposal.’

Business purposes. Was that a polite euphemism for love nest? Would she find a selection of sexy women’s clothes in the wardrobes, silk sheets and champagne in the fridge? Her experience was limited, as in zero, and she found her sudden prurient interest in the subject troubling.

She gave a prim smile. ‘I would not like to put you out,’ she said, wondering if he ever double-booked the room.

While she was not addicted to the celebrity columns or, for that matter, the financial pages, she would have had to be living on another planet not to know that even though he had stepped off the celebrity-party circuit and gone reclusive he was rarely seen without female companionship.

It had crossed her mind that the beautiful trophy girlfriends might be a smokescreen—a way of hiding his broken heart from the world. Now having met him she felt it was more likely he just enjoyed shallow sex with beautiful women.

Marco looked amused. ‘You can stop looking so alarmed, Miss Balfour. I am not inviting you to share my bed.’

The mortified colour flew to Sophie’s cheeks. ‘I never thought you were!’ she choked.

Her emphatic response drew a curious look from him. ‘Why not?’

Sure now that he was mocking her she shot him an unfriendly sideways look as he held open the passenger door for her.

She slid into the passenger seat. ‘Men do not proposition me,’ she said flatly.

Marco, his attention caught by the flash of something pale, glanced casually downwards. His drifting gaze stilled. Her skirt had bunched up and the paleness he saw was her thighs. They were rather superior thighs, as were the legs they were attached to, the sort of legs that most women would flaunt in short skirts and heels.

It was none of his business if Sophie Balfour chose to hide them under layers of unattractive clothes, but even a disinterested observer did have to wonder about this woman’s hang-ups.

‘But you would like them to? I suggest putting slightly more flesh on show.’

When the flesh in question was as good as hers it made sense.

His eyes drifted downwards once more; the milky paleness of her skin fascinated him.

Belatedly catching the direction of his stare Sophie twitched her rumpled skirt across her knees.

He returned her glare with a look that held no trace of embarrassment and suggested helpfully, ‘Fewer layers, possibly.’

‘Thank you for the fashion advice, but I would not like to be propositioned, especially by you.’

The horror in her voice brought a smile to his lips. ‘Relax, you’re safe from my attentions.’

Oh, yes. I really needed that spelled out, she thought, wondering what it would be like to not be safe…To actually be in danger because you aroused the predatory instincts of a man like Marco Speranza?

Her sisters, her beautiful Balfour siblings, would not be safe with Marco Speranza; he would not smirk at the thought of luring them to his love nest.

And when he lured, she was guessing not many girls resisted. Her glance brushed his wide mouth, and she thought maybe even fewer than not many. It was easy to see how a woman facing the prospect of being kissed by those lips might forget all about self-respect.

Sophie was very glad, having their best interests at heart, that her sisters were each safely tucked away miles from here. Marco Speranza was quite obviously a very dangerous man.

A man one woman had made a fool of, and he was now punishing the entire female race—or the drop-dead gorgeous ones anyway.

She was safe.

On that depressing note Sophie gave her head a shake to clear her thoughts and she schooled her features into an expression of mock horror. ‘Oh, leave me my dreams,’ she drawled.

She heard Marco chuckle as he walked around the car. ‘You have a rich fantasy life, Sophie,’ he observed, sliding in beside her.

He looked at her mouth and realised his own life was getting richer the longer he spent in this woman’s company.

Sophie kept her eyes trained ahead as the door shut behind him, enclosing them in the luxurious air-conditioned leather-lined cocoon. The tension that she’d been holding in check, ever since she’d woken up and found herself being looked at by a pair of eyes as hard as emeralds, racked up another level.

Conscious that her heart was trying to batter its way through her ribcage, she lifted a hand to her throat and swallowed.

The combination of large man and enclosed space was claustrophobic; only she didn’t suffer from claustrophobia—until now.

What I need is more breathing space, she thought, an open window. Breathe deep, she told herself, inhaling deeply and almost immediately regretting it. Her nostrils quivered.

The scent that hung around him was probably no different chemically speaking than the scent that came off any other clean warm male, except the undertones of spicy fragrance that made her nostrils flare was more expensive than one the average man in the street wore.

Sophie had no intention of looking at him. ‘I’m far too busy for fantasies.’

‘And too scared for reality?’

The sly suggestion sent the colour flying to her cheeks. Her decision not to look at him forgotten, she whipped around to glare at him.

‘Look, I’m glad you’re giving us the contract,’ she admitted, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked, but she was coherent which was good. ‘But I think we should have some ground rules.’

His darkly defined brows lifted towards his ebony hairline. ‘Do I have this right…? You want to set ground rules for me? I have to tell you that that is not normally the way it works.’

‘I don’t know how it works. I just know that…’ She stopped because actually she didn’t know much at all, certainly not why she felt it necessary to start this conversation in the first place.

Keeping her own counsel had always worked for her before.

He arched a questioning brow.

‘Being my employer, which you’re not because I work for Amber—’

‘Because your father slept with her.’

‘Being my employer,’ she gritted doggedly, pursuing the thought to the end. ‘Doesn’t give you the right to…to…’ Stamp around in my head with your size tens. ‘Be personal.’

‘You are a role model of professional detachment for us all.’

Sophie flashed him a look of seething dislike.

To her relief it did not take long to reach the hotel. Marco escorted her into the foyer where the decor matched the art-deco thirties architecture outside.

Marco watched her as she looked around; when she wasn’t being guarded Sophie Balfour had one of the most expressive faces he had ever seen. For a woman who had presumably been raised in the lap of luxury she possessed an almost child-like appreciation. ‘You approve?’

‘It’s really nice,’ she said, her blue eyes glowing with pleasure as she examined the luxurious space. ‘I’m a fan of art deco.’

‘In its historical context,’ he said with a cautionary note in his voice.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be tempted to install black PVC and leopard-skin prints in the bedrooms of your palazzo.’

He met her innocent look with a smile. ‘I feel reassured. Luca will look after you,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the dapper-looking suited figure who was approaching them. ‘So try not to start a fight before I return.’

The charge startled Sophie. ‘Me!’

He smiled and looked more attractive and dangerous than in Sophie’s opinion any man had a right to look.

Well, it had been quite an experience meeting Marco Speranza and seeing him smile, but it was one that she could put behind her now, which was just as well.

His personality was so overwhelming that it was hard to concentrate on anything else, and if she was to make a success of this job and prove herself—do her small part in retrieving the good name of the Balfours—she didn’t need any distractions.

And Marco Speranza was a big distraction!

At the door he paused and turned back. Sophie, who was feeling dead on her feet, tensed.

‘Be ready at eight…’ He paused. She looked so small and utterly exhausted standing there that he adjusted his timetable. ‘Be ready at eleven-thirty.’ The decision had nothing to do with sympathy. It was purely practical; he needed her alert and functioning when he showed her what needed to be done.

‘Eleven-thirty, of course,’ Sophie said, hiding her relief as for a split second she had thought he had said eight.

‘It is an hour’s drive to the palazzo.’

‘You’re coming!’ Sophie was startled; she had assumed that Marco Speranza would delegate such a task to one of his underlings, one that she had hoped would have a less deleterious effect on her nervous system.

‘You look disappointed.’

‘No, of course not,’ Sophie denied unconvincingly.

‘I would like to see your reaction to my home and hear your ideas.’ He turned to the dapper-looking man, sliding seamlessly into Italian as they shook hands.

‘Tell Luca if you need anything. I will see you in the morning, Sophia.’ He tilted his head and moved away.

‘Sophie,’ she called after him, not liking the Latin treatment of her name—it implied an intimacy that didn’t exist.

Marco didn’t stop but turned his head to fling a grin at her over his shoulder.

The penthouse suite turned out to be just as luxurious as one might expect a suite Marco Speranza used to be, not that it bore any trace of his occupation. There were no slinky dresses in the wardrobes, but she was provided with a basket of all the essentials and a promise that her luggage would be there in the morning.

Sophie thought the promise was overly optimistic but, sure enough, when she woke up—she had fallen into a deep dreamless slumber almost before her head hit the pillow—someone who identified himself as a senior airport employee knocked on the door carrying her lost luggage.

His apologetic charm contrasted sharply with the brush off she’d received the previous day, but then she was sure that the name Marco Speranza worked miracles on Sicily.

She had just opened her cases when the text came from Amber. Sophie hadn’t been sure how to tell her about Marco’s choice. In the end, exhausted and fearing that she’d cave in a second if faced with Amber shrieking over the phone, she’d rung late last night and left a very short message. Amber’s text was comprised mainly of excess punctuation and an order to Sit tight, don’t say anything more to him and I’ll be there soon. Knowing nothing she could say would prevent Amber’s imminent arrival, Sophie headed downstairs.

The time was exactly eleven-thirty.

Marco was already sitting at a table with newspapers spread around him and a coffee in his hand.

He didn’t immediately see her and Sophie had a chance to study his clear-cut classical profile. He really was good-looking enough to make a girl weep, and so rampantly male that it was no wonder a passing group of well-dressed women did everything but rip off their clothes to get his attention as they walked by, ogling him shamelessly.

Marco, his attention on the financial pages, appeared oblivious to the buzz of female interest.

Maybe he took it for granted? Maybe he took it as his due?

He still hadn’t seen her and she was in no hurry to gain his attention. She felt pretty awkward about meeting him again after her performance the previous day.

She had lain in bed that morning reviewing the conversation, groaning at intervals as she recalled some of the things she had said to him.

Sophie had no idea what had come over her—she was always polite—but saw little point in stressing over this lapse, because it wasn’t going to happen again.

She’d been tired and anxious and her emotions had been close to the surface. It had all got far too personal and she had been…well, she had been rude, and he had given her a contract. Sophie still hadn’t quite got the why part straight in her head, but probably there was a lesson in that somewhere, though she wasn’t sure what it was.

She had decided it was pointless to stress over yesterday; she needed to concentrate on today and the task ahead. Today would be different. Today she would keep things professional.

Marco glanced at his watch and went to fold one of the broadsheets spread before him and caught sight of her standing there.

‘Good morning,’ she said brightly.

He got to his feet and offered her coffee, which she refused. ‘I’ve had breakfast.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you for a while yet,’ he admitted.

Dressed today in faded denims that hinted at the muscles in his long powerful thighs and a plain white T-shirt, he was a much more relaxed-looking version of the Marco she had met the previous day.

More relaxed but still devastatingly attractive. Italian men wore clothes well.

‘You did say eleven-thirty, didn’t you?’

‘I did but you looked tired enough to sleep the clock around last night.’

Having been shocked by the haggard face that had looked back at her from a mirror illuminated by unforgiving lights Sophie was well aware what she had looked like last night.

She met his eyes levelly, aware that the gentle buzz of the room had receded. It was as if when he was around there was no room in her head for anyone else.

She pushed aside the whimsical thought.

‘It had been a long day, but I’m fine now. I even had my own toothbrush this morning and my own clothes. I can’t believe they found my baggage so quickly.’

Marco’s brows lifted as he agreed. ‘Amazing.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?’

His look of innocent bewilderment was so phoney that despite herself she laughed. ‘Well, I’m grateful and terribly impressed by your influence.’

‘I would have thought it would take more than that to impress a Balfour girl.’ He saw her flinch and wondered what nerve he’d touched.

‘The name is Sophie,’ she said flatly. Unable to stop herself she added, ‘Did you give me the contract because I’m a Balfour?’

She waited tensely for his response; it would not exactly be the first time someone had cultivated her because they wanted access to her father or a date with one of her sisters.

And this was something she wanted on her own merits; until this moment she hadn’t known how much getting it with no string pulling meant to her. The success would have no meaning if she discovered it was the Balfour brand and not her talent that had swung the deal.

Marco, who had also been born with a name that made people assume things before they met him, understood what she was saying. ‘No, I gave it to you despite your name.’

Sophie’s startled eyes flew to his face. ‘Despite.’

He said nothing, just slung her an enigmatic look, his eyes glittering and hard, from under his dark brows and extended his arm, inviting her to walk beside him.

She knew eyes followed their progress towards the exit and wondered if the people watching had seen the danger in him too.

Some people were attracted by danger; she was glad she was not one of them.

Marco led her to a long low chauffeur-driven limousine, explaining his choice of transport by saying he had work to do.

Just as Sophie was about to step inside, a series of loud squeals and her name being called stopped her. She turned and her heart dropped. Too late. Sukie and Emma were running as fast as their high heels would take them along the pavement towards her.

Marco angled a brow. ‘Friends?’

Sophie struggled to adopt a philosophical attitude to the fact her big break was about to come to an abrupt end and shook her head. ‘Colleagues,’ she said, reminding herself she hadn’t even wanted the job any way…which begged the question, why did she feel like a kid who had just had her favourite teddy bear snatched away?

Sukie reached her first. ‘Sophie, we’ve been looking for you everywhere, poor darling. You look exhausted, doesn’t she, Emma?’ Sukie said, patting her hand absently as she gazed up at Marco, fluttering her lashes so hard Sophie was surprised they didn’t come unglued.

‘Poor Sophie. Never mind—you can sleep on the flight home,’ Emma said, extending her hand to Marco breathlessly. ‘The office sent us to take over, Mr Speranza…Marco…’

Marco didn’t take the hand. ‘Then you had a wasted journey, ladies. I have my team leader.’

Sukie’s glance shifted to Sophie. ‘Sophie.’

She exchanged a bewildered look with Emma, who said, ‘But that’s Sophie.’

‘I know who she is. You, however, I do not know.’ His expression as he nodded dismissal suggested he did not wish to. ‘Good morning, ladies. Sophie?’

Obeying the pressure of the hand on her shoulder Sophie got into the limo. She turned her head as they drew away, knowing she would always cherish the expressions on the two girls’ faces.

Aware that Marco’s eyes were on her face she turned back. ‘You were awfully rude to them. Did you see their faces when…I think I enjoyed it.’ Sophie gave a shamefaced grin and asked worriedly, ‘Does that make me a terrible person?’

‘Are they always that dismissive of you?’ Having seen how sharp her tongue was it bewildered him that Sophie let them get away with it. ‘If you think I was being awfully rude to them, then it appears your education has been sadly neglected.’

‘Working for you will probably fill in the gaps,’ she retorted, then amazed by her own daring she lapsed into silence.

And so did Marco, as after the car had pulled smoothly away he opened a laptop.

Half an hour later, she looked at his dark head, bent over the screen, with a certain resentment; his concentration was total, but his manners were appalling.

It wasn’t that she wanted to chat but having her presence acknowledged would be nice.

Lips compressed into a thin disapproving line, she fished into her bag and extracted the guidebook she had picked up in the hotel that morning. Consulting the map in the centre pages, she attempted to match it to the scenery they were passing through and tried to work out what route they were taking.

It was hard to figure out because she hadn’t noticed what route they had used when they left Palermo; she had been too busy admiring the incredible mixture of architecture the city offered, from Byzantine to Norman. Some areas were run-down and dilapidated, some grand. Palermo was a cultural and architectural melting pot, and one that boasted more crazy drivers a square mile than any place she had ever been.

Sophie was about to give up on the impossible task of figuring out where they were when Marco sighed, leaned across and took the book from her hands.

Sophie glared and lifted her chin. ‘Do you mind?’

‘We are,’ he said, handing the book back to her, ‘here.’ He pressed his thumb against a spot on the map, then moved it to another spot, adding, ‘And we are heading there.’ His attention shifted to her face. She was relieved he did not comment on her flushed cheeks. If she leaned a little closer their shoulders would be touching…

‘I am not ignoring you…All right,’ he conceded, anticipating her protest, ‘I am, but I do have work to do, so stop attention seeking. Your fidgeting is distracting!’

So was the scent of her newly washed hair which had already mostly escaped the ponytail she had secured it in. Curling fronds framed her face, giving her an angelic look that was at stark variance with the evil look she was giving him.

‘I am not attention seeking!’ Her indignation was not feigned—of all the things he could have accused her of this was the most unfair!

He ignored the protest and directed his gaze through the window. ‘This area is a nature reserve, parco naturale. The mountain range is the Madonie. I think you’ll find the rest of the guidebook drivel on page six.

‘Now try, if you can, to amuse yourself. Dio mio! If I had known I was travelling with a six-year-old I would have brought crayons and colouring books.’

Sophie’s murderous glare was utterly wasted as he had tuned her out again. ‘Do you work at being offensive?’

‘Not any longer. I perfected the art years ago.’

‘Well, that’s not something to be proud of,’ she heard herself observe.

He closed the computer and put it to one side with a long-suffering sigh. ‘You win. You have me.’

‘I don’t want you.’ Now that, she thought, could not be something he heard every day.

‘I’ll only make such an offer once…’ he taunted, trying to figure what it was about this small English woman that ate away at his patience.

She seemed to him like a woman half alive and yet there was all that passion just below the surface…He concluded it was the wasteful nature of this situation; she had life, something many people fought tooth and nail for, and she was not living it.

If there was a man in her life he clearly wasn’t doing his job properly.

Sophie let out a small shriek and grabbed the seat to steady herself as the limo rounded a sharp bend. If she loosened her grip she was going to slide into him.

So don’t loosen!

‘I’m quite happy with my guidebook,’ she said, trying not to see herself pressed up close to him. ‘And it’s a lot more…’ Her voice faded as she saw his arms closing around her, drawing her…

‘We’re here.’

She expelled a shaky sigh and pushed free of the shameful earthy images in her head. Then she saw where she would be working. ‘Oh, my goodness! How beautiful!’ she gasped.

Sophie had not exactly been brought up in a shoe box herself; she was used to luxury, but this was on another scale. No wonder Amber wanted this contract so much, she mused.

‘Renaissance?’ She flashed him a questioning look and saw he was watching her. The enigmatic expression in his deep-set eyes made her shiver and look away.

Marco nodded. ‘The facade is, but some parts date from a much earlier period. Some people believe that…’

Sophie was interested—she really was—but she struggled to concentrate on what he was saying. His words seemed somehow passionless in comparison to the beauty of the building. All she wanted to do was escape this wretched car and his disturbingly close proximity and explore.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine!’ Sophie tugged fretfully at the neck of her top. She really needed to cool off before she made a total fool of herself.

‘I thought I’d let you get the feel of the place alone.’

Sophie, who had seconds before been wishing him a million miles away, found her reaction to the news that her wish had been partially granted worryingly ambiguous.

‘Good idea.’

The door opened and she tumbled out. Having filled her lungs with pine-scented air she turned her attention to the palazzo. It was breathtaking. The only palazzo she’d seen on the journey here had been crumbling, and this certainly wasn’t; although for all its magnificence it did have an unloved look to it.

‘How many rooms are there?’ she asked, thinking she could easily get lost.

‘I have never counted. Ah, here they are.’

Sophie watched as Marco greet the elderly couple who were walking towards them. He shook hands with the man and hugged the woman, who to Sophie’s amazement ruffled his hair. The affection between them was obvious.

‘This is Alberto and Natalia.’ Marco’s smile was warm and carried no hidden agenda.

‘They,’ he said, ‘are here if you need them. This is Miss Balfour.’

‘Sophie,’ she corrected him, smiling at the couple, the man lean and angular, the woman soft and round.

‘I will see you later and you can tell me what you are going to do to bring our palazzo back to life.’

She wrinkled her nose at his choice of words. ‘It doesn’t look dead to me.’

‘Looks can be deceptive, cara. Its heart,’ he said clamping a hand to his own chest, ‘is quite dead.’ And a man could walk and talk, function, even laugh, and be quite dead at his heart.

Sophie was still puzzling over this extraordinary statement when he strode away without a backward glance. Marco Speranza, with his combustible combination of Sicilian pride and passion, was a deeply troubling man. Or was that troubled? she wondered.

Marco’s home was an incredible building, filled with treasures that one rarely saw outside a museum. In fact, the place reminded Sophie more of a museum—the old-fashioned musty variety—than a home, and there was a pervasive air of neglect that was dispiriting.

Sophie tried to be tactful, but when faced with a bucket situated below a dark stain in the ceiling she could not hide her disapproval.

‘One storm and that whole ceiling will be down!’

The upkeep on a place like this might be a financial burden for some but not Marco.

‘It was not always like this, but since the divorce he could not bear to come here. She was a bad one, the one he married. There were men,’ Natalia told her darkly. ‘Many men and drink and still the marchese let her do anything she wanted.’

‘Marchese?’

The older woman shrugged and gave a puzzled frown. ‘Of course, there was no other son, or daughter—it is very sad. This place needs the sound of children’s laughter. Are you perhaps…?’ She looked Sophie up and down as though assessing her child-bearing hip potential.

Sophie gave a strained laugh. ‘Good God, no, I’m just here to decorate.’

‘You don’t like children either?’

‘I love children but not here…his…’ She trailed off. How did she explain to this nice woman that the man she clearly adored did not date women who looked like her? Instead she turned the subject to the painting behind her that looked suspiciously like a Titian.

As she wandered later through the warren of rooms upstairs Sophie’s thoughts returned to this extraordinary conversation. It was very hard to imagine the arrogant, proud man she had met allowing his wife to humiliate him.

It seemed safe to assume that Marco must have been totally besotted with Allegra to put up with it, but finally she had pushed him too far.

Chapter Eight

MARCO spent several hours with his estate manager, Juan. Horseback was still the best way to explore the more inaccessible corners of the sprawling Speranza estate and together he and Juan rode to the area of ancient woodland, some of which Juan had suggested it would be more profitable to fell.

‘I have the figures and it really does look like a no-brainer. We could cut a road straight through to the vineyards—it would save miles—and we could plant…’

Marco, riding a few feet ahead, listened to the enthusiastic plans in silence. Sophie Balfour’s face, her blue eyes raised in reverential awe to the palazzo, kept flashing into his head at intervals.

The intervals were getting shorter.

It was inexplicable. What was it about this girl—for no one could call her a woman—that dominated his thoughts?

She was far from the type of woman he went for. Sophie Balfour was high maintenance…yet…Was he attracted to her?

Well, if you don’t know…Marco mocked the voice in his head.

They reached a point where the trees cleared and the ground fell away to a sheer precipice that gave a view all the way to the sea in the west.

‘I can let you have the figures…’

Marco tore his eyes from the view. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

The other man smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then can I set things in motion?’

‘No. I’m sure your figures add up and it makes financial sense, but this land…’ He breathed deeply, inhaling the forest air, as his eyes swept the breathtaking vista before them. ‘It is not all about balance sheets. I do not wish to stand here one day and describe to my children what the ancient Nebrodi fir once looked like.’

Always supposing he had children.

The manager looked disappointed but recognised defeat in his employer’s non-negotiable tone and a change of mood in his stony set expression.

He gave a philosophical shrug and suggested that Marco might like to see the progress they had made with the marsh area that had been set aside for conservation.

Marco, already wheeling his mount around,

shook his head. ‘No, I must get back.’

There was a brooding expression on Marco’s lean face as he left the stables and re-entered the palazzo. There was no sign of Sophie. He walked from room to room, calling her name and getting increasingly irritated when there was no response.

Speaking to Juan of continuity and family had resurrected memories that were even now raw and humiliating.

He stood at the bottom of the sweeping marble staircase that Allegra had had wanted covered in gold leaf and bellowed, ‘Sophie!’ He paused, waiting. Again there was no response. ‘This is what you get when you employ amateurs.’ And this, he thought, looking around his unloved home, is what you get when you’re young and idealistic and you equate great sex with love and get married.

When he had married, Marco had seen his future stretching ahead. A future that included children and growing old with his soulmate.

His bride had shared his dreams, at least until the ring was on her finger. Then Allegra had admitted she had other plans, and those plans did not include children or growing old.

The look of revulsion on her beautiful face when he had brought up the subject of children and the incredulity in her laughter as she had dismissed the idea were etched like acid into his mind.

‘Children would ruin my figure…you wouldn’t want a fat and ugly wife, would you, Marco?’ The idea of children was as repugnant to her as the suggestion of a line on her beautiful face.

Still he hadn’t understood. Blinkers firmly in place, he’d thought that all Allegra needed was reassurance that he would still love her.

It was three months later that the scales finally fell from his eyes, three months later when she had had her first affair and laughed and not even attempted to deny it when he challenged her with his discovery.

‘You were away and I was bored. What are you going to do, Marco, divorce me?’ She had smiled complacently at her reflection in the mirror. ‘But you won’t, will you,’ she said, her eyes mocking him, scanning his face to watch her words hit home. ‘Because that isn’t the Sicilian way, not the Speranza way. You are as romantic and foolish as your father with his ideals! And where did ideals get him? Who cares now what he stood for? He died, and all his pointless principles went with him.’

Marco had not given her the satisfaction of seeing how much her vicious words had hurt. His only defence was to have none, to remain unmoved. He had hidden his feelings but Allegra had never stopped trying. She got some sort of sick kick from turning the knife, pushing him, waiting for him to finally snap.

The woman he had married had been the ultimate hedonist, who had only ever loved the things the Speranza money and name could buy, including fame, which she craved like a drug.

Reaching the top of the staircase Marco took a deep breath and closed a mental door on the bitter memories. The man he had been then was long dead.

He paused, calling out once more as he decided which direction to take.

Where was the woman?

He began a systematic search of the west wing, about to take a left turn when the sound of a distant voice made Marco veer right. Who was she talking to?

‘Oh, my goodness!’

The exclamation drew Marco to the open door of one of the rooms to his left.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, mentally preparing himself for the sensory assault of the utterly inappropriate hand-painted black Chinese silk wallpaper that he knew covered the ancient stone walls. Added to the vast waterbed that took pride of place, this shrine to bad taste had been Allegra’s room.

Her back turned to him, Sophie Balfour was standing by the bed, her head tilted back and her eyes trained on the mirrored ceiling above it.

He had forgotten the mirror and, until this moment, Allegra’s spiteful drunken taunts of the sexual romps she had enjoyed with his best friend in this bed. Not the best of memories but actually not the worst either. By this point in their train wreck of a marriage his ex-wife had no longer had the power to hurt him, only to disgust him.

‘Oh, my goodness!’

The exclamation, hushed and shaky this time, brought his attention back to the figure by the bed. The memories that filled his mouth with a sour taste vanished and Marco was forced to bite back a laugh.

He had never thought he’d laugh in this room.

Guilt and curiosity warred on Sophie’s face as she pressed the mattress, then sprang back when it quivered.

Standing in the shadows Marco heard her tell herself, ‘You have led a very sheltered life, Sophie Balfour.’

He was inclined to agree with this assessment, though not being as ignorant of her family history—at least, some of the recent parts—as he had allowed her to think he found this circumstance nothing short of amazing.

Part of him had clung to the belief that the wholesome innocence thing was part of an act, but nobody, he realised now, was that good an actress.

As he watched, she reached out and touched the bed with her hand, in doing so turning a little so that she presented her profile rather than her back to him. At some point since they had parted she had gathered her hair into a haphazard knot on the back of her head, dragging it from her face and revealing a profile that was classically pure.

But it was not her face that Marco’s eyes were glued to; it was her body, for her hair was not the only change. The mushroom-coloured shirt that had enveloped her diminutive frame from shoulder to knee was gone.

The jeans underneath were utilitarian rather than fashionable and were also ill fitting—no surprise there. The surprise was that Sophie Balfour had a waist, and one that he could have spanned with his hands.

Had Marco felt inclined to mix business with pleasure it would be a pleasure to explore that body, because if the waist had been a shock the rest of her was a total and utter jaw-dropping revelation. Under her tent-like uniforms his interior designer had been hiding a body that invited sinful speculation.

An hourglass that would put any pin-up to shame. Below the tiny waist her hips flared full and feminine, and above…A silent sigh locked in his throat as his hot gaze moved over the outline of her full breasts, revealed in a skimpy vest affair that left very little to the imagination.

Despite this, his imagination remained active.

His fingers flexed and he felt the gush of hot desire tighten in his belly, as in his mind he traced a path over that soft warm skin and sensuous inviting curves.

And why resist the invitation they offered? he asked himself. Why rule out the possibility of enjoying that warm, womanly invitation?

Why?

There was shock in his shadowed emerald eyes as he shook his head, a hard ironic smile of self-mockery tugging the corners of his sensual mouth upwards as he followed her actions with his eyes. Still oblivious to his presence, she angled another guilty glance at the ceiling.

Why?

Why not mix business with pleasure? Why become involved with a woman—no, a girl—who probably still believes in the Easter bunny and true love and blushes like a virgin?

That he had been tempted, however briefly, meant he was clearly losing his mind. Mental note, Marco, make more time in your schedule for sex with a woman who understood that sex was physical not spiritual, a pleasure enjoyed and walked away from.

Sophie Balfour, who could only show passion for a colour chart, was clearly not such a woman, though she equally clearly had potential.

It was that potential, that inner untapped core of passion he had glimpsed in her, that had both tempted him and swung his decision.

A man who did ignite the dormant passion that smouldered in those big blue eyes might consider the inevitable complications worth it…He was not such a man.

He turned, his intention to walk away unseen, when she gave a deep little laugh. The husky sound had an earthy tactile quality that stopped Marco in his tracks.

As he watched, her body language changed to a combination of defiance and mischief. She kicked off her shoes and crawled into the middle of the bed before stretching out on her back. Then, as though overcome by the sheer audacity of her actions, she lay there staring at her reflection, her ribcage rising and falling in tune to the rapid breaths that pushed her breasts against the stretchy fabric of her vest.

There was an illicit thrill about lying here in the bed, but the thrill soured when she realised that Marco might have shared it with his beautiful ex-wife.

Her heart beat hard against her breastbone as she lay there, not seeing her own tangled fair hair spread against the black silk, but rich raven lustrous coils spread on the pillow. The two figures, their bodies, one slim, pale and perfect, one golden and hard as coiled steel, were sinuously entwined. It was so real that she could almost hear the gasps of their shared passion.

She pressed a hand to her mouth as the taste of acid rose in her throat.

Did he still love his beautiful wife despite what she had done? Would he have taken her back had his pride allowed it?

It would take a woman like one of the stunning Balfour girls to make him forget that amazing siren, and in the meantime he clearly intended working his way through every beautiful woman that appeared on his radar.

But being a Balfour girl in name only she was safe. She was minus the charm and confidence and drop-dead gorgeous looks; she just had the name, which impressed him not at all.

In some ways this was a plus point; he didn’t have a preconceived expectation of what she ought to be had the gene pool not decided to have a little joke at her expense. It was liberating not to be crushingly conscious of her Balfour legacy all the time. And as she didn’t want to impress, except in the professional sense…

Of course, not wanting to impress him did not stop her wistfully wondering what it would be like to have the ability to bedazzle him and make him laugh. Her chest hurt; feelings she did not want to own up to were locked like a tight fist at the base of her throat.

Jolted from her miserable reflections by the sudden movement of the bed, Sophie’s hand fell away and her eyelashes lifted from her cheeks.

The picture in the mirror now reflected the one in her head with a couple of significant differences—the woman wasn’t beautiful and Marco was wearing clothes.

Clothes or not, the real man was a lot harder for her out-of-control hormones to cope with than the imaginary naked image.

Sophie realised she was staring and had been for God knows how long. She tore her eyes away at once. Anything would be preferable to him guessing his plain-Jane decorator was lusting after him. She struggled inelegantly to rise.

‘I’m sorry I just…’

A finger against her breastbone sent her back into the gently undulating mattress.

The finger stayed there and Marco, who had rolled onto his side, showed no immediate sign of removing it as he levelled an emerald-eyed stare at her face.

He seemed comfortable with the silence and the physical contact. Sophie was not.

‘Now this is extremely…not normal. I wasn’t sleeping in your bed. It was research…I’ve never tried out a waterbed…I’ve not tried out a lot of things…’ She compressed her lips to forestall further unnecessary confessions on this subject and added huskily. ‘It’s weird.’

‘The bed?’

She shook her head. ‘No, though that,’ she admitted, patting it and giving a nervous laugh, ‘is weird too. You’re going to ask me weird good or weird bad.’ He’s going to ask you to shut up, Sophie, so why don’t you? ‘The jury is still out,’ she admitted, drawing breath before returning to her original theme. ‘Haven’t you ever noticed people are divided into talkers and listeners? I’m a listener—I talk very little. I’m renowned for my reserve, did you know that? Of course you didn’t, but since I got here I can’t seem to stop talking.’

Her eyes widened as a finger was placed on her lips. ‘Take a deep breath and relax.’

‘I am relaxed.’

‘You’re hyperventilating. You were curious, I understand that! Sexual curiosity is what makes the world go around.’

‘If you say so…I mean, mirrors and water-beds may be your thing but for me they’re pretty much…’

Her eyes connected with his, and a whoosh of heat crackled through her body.

‘This isn’t my bed, cara.’

‘It…’ She stopped her brows drawing together in a disconcerted frown as she pulled herself into a sitting position. ‘What did you just call me?’

Lying on his back Marco tucked one hand behind his head and looked up at her. Her heart stumbled and skipped a beat as his eyes brushed her own before sliding down her body. ‘My imagination does not require props.’ It required a leash! Just looking at that creamy skin made him want to bury his face in her softness and taste all that sinfully tempting sweetness.

Feeling several hundred degrees hotter than she had when she had removed her outer layers to cool off Sophie looked around frantically for something to cover herself.

‘It’s warm, and I was…’

‘Relax.’

She dragged her eyes from his mouth and got as far as his shadowed jaw.

‘I am relaxed!’ she heard herself bellow defiantly. ‘Totally relaxed.’

‘Good…no, don’t move yet’ He didn’t catch her arm but his fingers grazed it; her skin was so sensitized that her nerve endings reacted to the movement of air. ‘This is comfortable.’ He flexed his shoulders.

Sophie, who felt ready to crawl out of her skin, gave a grunt that could at a push have passed as agreement.

‘I haven’t been in the saddle for a month and I’m feeling it.’

He would look good on a horse. He would look good on pretty much anything. ‘If you’re stiff you should take a hot bath.’

‘I thought it was a cold shower?’

That was it; she was out of here. His earthy laughter ringing in her ears, she tumbled out—elegance was not an option—of the waterbed.

Marco followed suit and stood there, dragging a hand through his dark hair.

Sophie rounded on him. ‘I suppose you think that was funny.’

Bosom heaving, creamy satiny skin, freckles, flashing eyes and that mouth—the woman was killing him. ‘I simply mean that there is no hot water at the moment as we have a plumbing situation.’

Sophie said, ‘Oh!’ and felt stupid.

‘How did your exploration go? Do you have any questions?’

‘Yes,’ Sophie admitted, thinking, Do you still love your wife?

‘I need to know just how far you want me to go…’. She closed her eyes as the mortified colour rushed to her cheeks; she couldn’t seem to open her mouth without a double entendre escaping. ‘With the palazzo, I mean. Do I need to run every idea by you or…?’

‘I am totally in your hands, cara.’

His mockery stung. Did he think that just because she was plain and plump and probably didn’t even register a blip on his chart of female and desirable that she didn’t have feelings?

His smile faded, leaving in its place an expression nothing like mockery, an expression that sent her sensitive stomach into a spiralling dive.

‘You’re a very attractive woman.’

It was an accusation and one she didn’t know how to respond to.

‘I mention this because you’re going to be living under this roof while the place is filled with workmen—Italian workmen, Sicilian workmen—who need little encouragement.’

Having delivered this lecture he turned abruptly and walked out of the room, leaving her staring in bewilderment after him.

Chapter Nine

SOPHIE listened quietly, betraying no emotion while the man spoke, stabbing the air with an accusing finger towards her, as his attack grew more overtly personal.

Very aware of the eyes watching, though not of the pair of green ones that observed from the shadows, Sophie took a deep breath. She knew that if she did not establish her authority now she never would.

Since day one Franco’s resentment at being answerable to a woman and one who was young had been obvious. He made no secret of the fact that he thought he ought to be managing the project and he had lost no opportunity to undermine her, constantly questioning her decisions and making snide references to her lack of experience.

Sophie had tried to ignore him and she had tried to placate him; neither strategy had worked. Now it was crunch time.

‘I always appreciate your advice, Franco, but Roman is right.’ She glanced with a smile towards the gangly young man whose adherence to her instructions had made things kick off on this occasion. He stood in front of the partially exposed fresco as though he were willing to physically defend it from attack. ‘Thanks, Roman,’ she added. ‘But why don’t you take your break now.’

Waiting until the reluctant, protective youth had moved away she turned back to the angry older man and smiled. She pitched her voice low, but loud enough for the men in the farthest corners of the room to hear, as she added calmly, ‘I did tell Roman that we are stripping back this area by hand. I know it will take longer,’ she added before the older man could interrupt. ‘But restoration,’ she added quietly, ‘as I’m sure you’d agree, is about preserving when possible and not destroying. And this fresco—’ she pointed to the area where the warm, amazingly vibrant colours had been revealed when the layer of crumbling plaster had fallen away that morning ‘—is something we have a duty to preserve.’

The older man flushed with displeasure and took a swaggering step towards her. ‘The marchese will not weep when he sees it and it is his money you are wasting…’

Sophie’s chin went up another notch at the scornful reminder to her own reaction when the hidden treasure had been revealed. She was not in the least ashamed of her emotional response.

‘The marchese has put me in charge, Franco, and I know he hopes we can work together. He values your experience as much as I do.’

In the shadows, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, Marco was torn between a desire to applaud Sophie’s sheer guts as she held her ground and his urge to strangle the truculent man he was apparently meant to value so highly.

Sophie Balfour had a quiet dignity that you couldn’t teach—God, she had guts—and she looked so damned small with that beefy bear of a guy standing over her that he had to fight down the urge that made him want to rush in and rescue her.

She wouldn’t thank him and she would be right; he knew he wouldn’t be doing her any favours and that this was one battle she had to fight alone, but this knowledge didn’t stop him wanting to rip her persecutor limb from limb.

He never had any time for men who felt threatened by capable women, and Sophie Balfour wasn’t just capable, she was magnificent! And the jeans and T-shirt look suited her, he decided, feeling the usual kick of lust as his eyes slid with slow appreciation over her heavenly curves.

Sophie’s steady blue gaze locked onto the older man’s dark angry glare as she dropped her voice to a level intended for his ears alone. ‘I would regret it if we could not work harmoniously together on this,’ Sophie said, and she paused to let her words sink in. ‘I’ll make mistakes,’ she conceded. ‘And I hope I’ll learn from them, but I’ll definitely take responsibility for them, because that’s what being the boss is about.’ The emphasis was slight but she knew he picked it up. ‘Now about the problem with the electrical contractors, do you think we should…?’ She turned and after a pause Franco followed her.

Ten minutes later Sophie sank down under a giant oak tree and, head on her trembling knees, expelled a long, shaky breath. Her heart was still pounding like a piston.

‘I called myself the boss.’ She covered her face with her hands and began to laugh. ‘Wait until I tell Mia.’ Mia of all her sisters would appreciate the joke.

‘Who is Mia?’

‘My sister…’ Sophie stopped, her blue eyes flying upwards to the tall man who had materialised out of nowhere. ‘You, here…? I…’ She started to rise, then stopped, sinking with a bump to the ground as Marco dropped down, balancing with casual grace on his heels.

Had Franco already taken his complaints to the top? Had Marco come to put her in her place and tell her she was doing everything wrong?

‘How are things going?’

A casually innocent comment?

Or a leading question?

Sophie, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the sun’s glare, regarded his dark handsome face warily. She found it hard to associate anything innocent with someone who possessed a mouth that sinfully sexual. She pressed her back into the tree bark as a shiver traced a sensuous path down her spine.

‘No problems?’ His eyes drifted downwards, attracted by the hint of creamy cleavage and freckles; he wondered if she was wearing sunscreen to protect that glorious satiny skin.

Why, are you thinking of offering to put some on, Marco?

‘What sort of problems?’

‘Industrial unrest?’ he said, seeing his finger slide into the shadowy valley between her breasts.

Her eyes flew wide—he knew!

Marco’s jaw clenched and the muscles in his throat worked as he wrenched his gaze upwards and loosened his tie. ‘You handled that very well back there.’

This time it was Sophie’s mouth that gaped as she scrambled to her feet, shaking. ‘You saw, you heard…’

‘You conquered,’ he inserted, rising with languid grace to his feet to tower over her. ‘Your father would have been proud.’

Are you? Sophie only just managed to bite back the response. Why would his opinion matter more to her than that of her father?

‘Do you want me to sack him?’

The casual offer made her stare, horrified. ‘You can’t just sack people!’

‘Isn’t that what you just threatened to do in so many words?’

‘Then the hiring and firing really is up to me?’ Then frightened that question made her sound like some sort of power-hungry megalomaniac she added quickly, ‘Not that I would.’

‘You’re the boss.’ He placed a hand on the broad tree trunk behind her head. ‘And I think you like it.’

Sophie froze, a tiny choked sound escaping her aching throat as Marco leaned into her; at no point did their bodies touch but the idea was there in her head—touch me, touch me!

The idea, combined with the heat coming from his lean body and the scent of the cologne he used mixed with the underlying musky male scent of his skin, had a narcotic quality.

It struck a dazed and breathless Sophie that if anyone had seen them from a distance they might have looked like lovers, and having the men think she slept her way into the job would hardly help her credibility.

Might be worth it, though, mused the shameless voice in her head.

‘You think I like being the boss…?’ she echoed, struggling to sound normal and dispassionately curious and sounding anything but.

‘It’s good to be in…control,’ Marco said, unable to recall the last time he had felt so little in control, certainly of his physical appetites. What was it about this woman that bypassed his brain and tapped into emotions he had put into cold storage years ago? He thought of the rush of pleasure he had felt as he drew up into the forecourt earlier, of the ferocious anger he had felt towards Franco mere moments ago. How long had it been since he had felt so at prey to his changing emotions? So…alive?

What was it that he actually wanted?

He did not trust his feelings, and he tried not to trust her…but he did! That was the problem. She looked at him with those big blue eyes and he lost all objectivity. He had wanted to rip that man into pieces just for being mean to her.

Sophie had to grab the tree to stop her knees folding when without warning he straightened up and stepped back, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he did so. His eyes were suddenly as cool as his manner.

‘Do not let anyone touch the fresco until I’ve contacted an expert.’

Sophie’s head was still spinning at the sudden change in emotional temperature; clearly, the erotic moment had only existed within her overheated imagination.

She felt the heat climb to her cheeks as she made herself meet his clinical gaze.

Marco Speranza being attracted to me…sure, that’s so likely. In future she decided she would keep her fantasies firmly under control.

‘I have already rung the museum. They’re sending someone tomorrow morning to advise.’

He raised a brow. ‘You will let me know what they decide?’

She inclined her head and tried to match his bewilderingly chilly, formal manner as she had promised herself she would.

The man, she decided as she watched him walk away, was too moody for comfort. One minute she felt able to say anything to him and the next he was aloof and standoffish. And he hadn’t, she realised, even said why he was there to begin with.

‘Did you have something in particular to…?’ she began, raising her voice.

He turned at the sound of her voice, pinning her with a glittering emerald stare and making Sophie lose her train of thought.

‘It might be better if you commuted.’

The abrupt change of subject made her blink.

‘The conditions here are…primitive,’ he said, thinking he could not be the only male who had noticed how attractively she filled out jeans and a T-shirt.

‘I like it here! It’s convenient.’

Studying her mulish expression in silence for a moment, he shrugged. ‘As you wish. I will be back tomorrow to speak with the experts from the museum.’

Sophie was unable to hide her dismay at the prospect. ‘You will?’

‘I am free.’

Sophie managed a weak smile. ‘That’s…great.’

It was after midnight when the last kinks were finally smoothed from the contract, the T’s crossed and the I’s dotted. The deal was finally, successfully completed and Marco could shrug off his jacket, the success all the more sweet because popular and informed opinion had called it impossible.

It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Marco stepped into the glass elevator.

His team, all on an ebullient high, had already left. He assumed they were heading towards a fashionable nightspot to celebrate. They had invited him, of course, safe in the knowledge that he would refuse.

Marco shared their adrenaline buzz, but company and bright lights were not things he sought at such times; they were things he actively avoided. His tastes and pleasures were simpler—the privacy of his own apartment, his favourite jazz playing and perhaps a glass of brandy were the things he anticipated with pleasure as he drove through the city.

Strange then that when he came to the junction that led to his apartment he carried on driving.

He told himself that it would take him another hour before he reached the palazzo and that it would no doubt be in darkness. However, he continued to drive, deliberately not thinking about the impulse that made him do so until he reached the newly reinstated gated entrance to the estate.

The work was three weeks in now and it was going well. Sophie knew the timescale down to the nearest minute; it was one of many details circulating in her overactive brain. She had been terrified that the sheer size of this project would overwhelm her, but juggling information, tasks, times and dates was actually, she had discovered, quite a buzz.

So was the fact that she was good at it.

The ballroom had been the biggest job they faced, but well worth the effort, and what the painstaking process of removing layers of paint and grime had revealed was better than anyone, including the stonemasons, had anticipated.

There were only two places where the original stucco needed replacing.

Sophie had used every suitable Italian word of praise for the team of stonemasons who had worked diligently. Now, as she lay on her back on top of the scaffold tower, she knew they had deserved all of them and more.

Sophie shone her torch at the newly revealed relief work. Standing below, the craftsmanship of those long-dead artisans was impressive, but close to it, it was breathtaking!

The place was in darkness. Conscious of a vague sense of dissatisfaction—to call it anticlimax would have been an overstatement—Marco walked in, shrugged and said to himself, ‘What else did you expect, Marco? A red carpet, a band playing?’

A fresh-faced English girl in her transparent nightdress?

Pushing away the intrusive and frankly preposterous suggestion he walked past the rash of ugly builders’ skips that competed with the classical statues that lined the driveway.

The oak-banded door swung inwards at a touch; inside was silence and darkness. Marco’s eyes strained in the darkness as he reached behind him for the light switch. He flicked it and cursed softly when nothing happened.

Walking cautiously across to the other side of the room he found that a second switch produced a similar non-result. No electricity or a more localised fault? he wondered.

Either way his whim was looking less of a good idea by the second. Some people might make the connection with this sudden outbreak of impetuous choices and the arrival of a certain prim English girl into his life.

Marco did not.

Though a mental image of her sleeping in the old nursery where Natalia had housed her did filter through his mental barrier. It had been a long day and she was definitely a woman who would look better without clothes, though the T-shirt and jeans tightly cinched in at the waist she had been wearing the last time he’d put in an appearance had been a good look too.

That had been two days ago, but while he didn’t want to cramp her style—Sophie had proved herself more than capable—he did want to be supportive, or so he told himself. What other explanation could there be for his continued visits over these past few weeks?

And it was possible that some of the men might mistake her friendliness for something else and he didn’t want them getting out of line. And it wasn’t just them; the young academic the museum had sent, who looked more like a surfer than a professor, had made several return visits that to Marco’s mind seemed frankly unnecessary.

As he approached the sweeping staircase, at the back of his mind Marco was conscious of the fact that he would have to pass the door of the old nursery to get to his own bedroom.

As he mounted the staircase a light shining under the double doors that led into the ballroom caught his attention.

He paused and retraced his footsteps. Entering the ballroom he discovered that the vast space had not been spared the power failure; the light came from several battery-fed spotlights around the room.

His eyes lifted, and he breathed an awed, ‘Dio mio’, under his breath, for Sophie had clearly pulled off a minor miracle.

His glance moved to the scaffold tower. Something had been left on the platform. Then the something moved and he realised it was someone.

His smile faded and a strangled curse was drawn from his throat when he identified the figure lying on the gently swaying platform suspended some twenty feet above his head.

‘What do you think you are you doing up there, woman?’

The question—only one person in the universe had a voice like that—drew a startled squeak from Sophie.

‘You’re not meant to be here!’ But now that he was she realised that, subconsciously at least, this was a moment she had been anticipating with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. The same confusing mixture of emotions which anticipated all his appearances.

‘You are not meant to be there.’’ He spoke levelly, not wanting to startle her into making any sudden movements, but the vivid mental image he had of her landing with a dull thud on the stone floor at his feet put an extra layer of gravel in his husky voice.

A childhood memory surfaced, a family day out rare enough to remain in his memory even had it not been for the disaster that had etched it there. They had arrived at the beauty spot complete with picnic and Marco had allowed his puppy to jump from the car ahead of him. He had watched, laughing, as the dog chased a bird, and stopped laughing as the pup had followed it straight over the cliff, landing on the rocks below.

Climbers had retrieved the broken body, but he had never forgotten the awful thud of impact or his father’s words when he had told him that the animal had been his responsibility—if the puppy had been restrained, on a lead…the accident would not have happened.

It had been his fault.

Sophie sat up cautiously, not because she was nervous—she had a good head for heights—but because there was not a lot of room for manoeuvre. ‘You weren’t meant to arrive until the weekend,’ she added, unable to keep the reproach from her voice.

The weekend, when the worst of the debris would be cleared, and she could awe him with her efficiency and general brilliance. Face it, Sophie, it just isn’t going happen. You appear to be fated to have him appear at all the worst and most embarrassing moments in your life, moments when you’re wearing jeans over pyjamas.

She had actually picked out an outfit for the weekend, not to impress him but there was nothing wrong with a girl trying to look her best. And she was a girl; a fact that people had been noticing, and even though the attention might have something to do with her being the only female under seventy around, it was soothing to her ego.

‘I didn’t realise I had to seek permission before I visit my home and it is just as well I didn’t wait,’ Marco observed grimly. ‘When I said I wanted a hands-on designer I did not mean this hands-on. Get down here this instant!’

Sophie, who had ducked under the barrier the stonemasons connected their safety harnesses to while he was speaking, was already on the ladder. ‘All right, give me a chance!’

She slung the comment over her shoulder as she skipped her way casually down with, it seemed to a watching Marco, not a care in the world.

When he got hold of her he would…well, his intention was to throttle her, but his intentions were sometimes hard to follow through with this woman. Actually, he was not totally sure what he would do when he got his hands on her, as he knew by now that she could throw him wildly off course with a flippant comment or an inappropriate giggle.

When her feet touched the ground he was able to expel the breath trapped in his lungs on one sibilant sigh of relief. He released the icy anxiety in the same breath and fury flamed to fill the vacuum.

On the ground Sophie turned her head; the half-formed shy smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth faded abruptly as she encountered the icy glitter in his eyes.

She’d made a major miscalculation in assuming that he was irritated, arriving home to find no electricity and organised chaos, because it wasn’t irritation he saw stamped on his lean features—it was anger.

It seemed like a bit of an overreaction, though she could see that the casual observer might not get the organised part of the chaos unless they had it explained. Plus, Marco wasn’t a casual observer; he was very attached to his ancestral home and very protective.

She could feel the waves of hostility rolling off him; he’d seen the mess and he thought she was wrecking his home. Given her talent for saying the wrong thing around him she needed to choose her words with care.

Playing for time, Sophie bent forward and shook the dust out of her hair before straightening up and beginning to bang the dust from her hands on the seat of her jeans.

She might not have been quite thorough had she known that the action had drawn his attention to the curve of her bottom.

She turned slowly around and flashed an appeasing smile which abruptly lost focus.

He was standing a lot closer than she had anticipated, close enough for her to see the dark shadow on his jaw. Despite the hour he looked incredible.

Her eyes drifted over the angles of his face; drawn to the sensuous curve of his mouth, she felt something twist hard in her stomach and thought, Stop staring like you’ve never seen a man before.

She cleared her throat and managed a weak version of her smile. ‘I know it looks bad.’

Sophie’s glance moved around the ballroom. Actually, if you discounted the dust sheets, tools and equipment, it was an improvement on the retro sixties look it had been decorated in.

‘And if I’d let them have their way and sandblast everything in sight we’d be finished,’ she admitted.

The macho team who had arrived had laid down their blasting equipment only when they had realised she wasn’t going to be pressured. It would have been quicker but she had not been willing to risk the fabric of the building to save time.

He couldn’t believe she was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. If he hadn’t come when he had, that neck of hers might be lying in a pool of blood…His big hands curled into fists at his sides as he pushed away the graphic images forming in his head.

His stormy silence did not bode well. And she wished that emerald gaze would stop boring into her. She resisted the impulse to smooth her hair again—like it would make any difference—and lifted her chin, smiled pleasantly even though he was a rude rat, and was glad she did not need his admiration to get a good night’s sleep. Then again, she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in quite a while, but there was absolutely no connection between her insomnia and her difficult client.

‘The fact is…you’ve got to crack a few eggs to make an omelette.’ She made a very good omelette—not as good as mum’s, but…She swallowed but before she could recognise the knot in her chest as homesickness, Marco’s deep scathing voice jolted her back to the here and now.

‘Omelettes!’ His voice was shaking with suppressed emotion. ‘I do not wish to talk about eggs!’

‘Look, calm down—there’s no need to be cranky.’

The growling noise that issued from his clenched lips suggested her advice had fallen on deaf ears. Unable to tear her eyes from the nerve that was clenching in his lean cheek she reached for one of the spare flashlights that were stacked on an upturned box.

Marco was trying, very hard, to calm himself. He was aware that he was overreacting, but she had looked so small and delicate, and thoughts of what might have happened to her were overwhelming him. He was also exhausted by constantly fighting the almost uncontrollable urge to take her in his arms.

Sophie held the flashlight out to him with a slightly shaking hand. Was she about to be fired?

He narrowed his eyes and dragged a hand through his dark hair mussing it up so that it stood up spikily on top.

The combustible quality she had always sensed was there under his urbane facade was no longer hidden.

‘Look, it’s not as bad as it looks. All you need is a little imagination, Mr Speranza, and you’ll see…’

His nostrils flared as he sucked in an outraged breath. ‘I do not lack imagination.’ His imagination was still providing an image of her broken body lying still on the marble floor. ‘And do not call me Mr Speranza!’ he blasted. With that explosion, his self-control snapped. ‘What did you think you were doing? Have you never heard of health and safety regulations? Of common sense?’

Sophie’s glance slid to the scaffold. ‘Oh, you mean the tower? Oh, I’ve got a great head for heights!’ As he continued to glower, she added hastily, ‘But I won’t break any regs next time, if it bothers you. I’ll wait until there is someone else around and use the harness.’

‘There won’t be a next time.’

The remaining colour left Sophie’s face. Her confidence had grown but not to the point where she could consider this possibility of losing her job with anything but total horror. ‘Are you sacking me?’

‘I should never have given you the contract to begin with.’

Marco watched her bite her quivering lip and fought the compelling urge to wrap her in his arms and tell her he was sorry…What was happening to him? His whole body seemed to be shaking! She was driving him to distraction. He had to end this before his irrational, apparently uncontrollable, emotions drove him to do or say something seriously stupid.

‘This is not the time to discuss the situation. It’s late, and we both need to sleep.’ It was not the only thing he needed and the constant ache of frustration was driving him slowly out of his mind.

Sophie gave a bitter laugh. ‘You think I’m going to sleep knowing you’re going to sack me?’

‘Do not,’ he gritted, ‘put words into my mouth.’

She felt a surge of relief. ‘Then you’re not…’ She stopped as he loosed a sigh of irritation between clenched teeth. ‘You’re right.’

Maybe, she thought, this was sleep deprivation. With luck he would be more reasonable in the morning. ‘This isn’t the time…’

It wasn’t the time and it never would be the time because he was too big, too male and, damn it, too everything…! And she was so tired and frustrated that she was having serious problems with processing what he was saying. As for reading between the lines…she’d given up. The man was just too confusing, complex and unreasonable.

And her dreams…A person could not feel responsible for their subconscious but she felt irrationally guilty and also slightly panicky at the mere possibility of him suspecting the things she dreamt about him.

He won’t guess unless you tell him, Sophie. And to reveal her dreams would be a quick route to not only humiliating herself but losing her job for sure. And she was becoming increasingly convinced that he was just looking for an excuse to get rid of her, and that hurt because she was knocking herself out to impress him.

She lifted a hand to her spinning head and thought, Why else does he keep appearing at such unexpected times unless it was to catch her out?

She lowered her eyes and mumbled, ‘I’m tired.’

‘Why do you push yourself so hard?’ he asked, looking accusingly at the dark smudges under her eyes.

‘Not just me—the men have been incredible. They’ve done a marvellous job, haven’t they?’ She stopped, closed her eyes and thought, No, I can’t do this—I have to know.

She met his eyes squarely. ‘Look, you can tell me, I’m not going to break down or cry on you. Did you come here tonight to sack me?’ Her glance slid to his mouth and her hands clenched at her sides.

The lines of colour etched along the crests of his chiselled cheekbones deepened as he threw up his hands in a gesture of frustrated incredulity.

Like his body language, his accent too was more noticeably Latin as he pinned her with a glittering green glare and rasped in throaty outrage, ‘Sack you? I came here tonight because I would like to…’ His eyes settled on her mouth and he thought, Kiss you.

His jaw clenched as he battled against the impulse to follow through with the thought. This is not, he reminded himself yet again, what you came here for, Marco.

Wasn’t it?

Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?

Marco dragged a hand through his hair. He had always felt contemptuous of people who employed self-deception, and it was unpleasant to recognise suddenly that he’d been guilty of that very crime.

Five minutes in it had been obvious that despite her relative inexperience Sophie was more than capable of working without supervision; she knew exactly what she was doing, yet he had spent the past two weeks using the pretext of concerned employer to check up on her, phoning because he liked to hear her voice.

He took a deep breath; this had to stop. He was distracted and it was affecting his work—tonight’s successful business deal should have been clinched last night.

The choice was clear; he had faced similar choices before. He had weighed the advantages of having sex with a woman he was attracted to and either he’d followed through or walked away.

This was not rocket science.

For guidance he used a few simple rules, the most important being to avoid anything that pointed in the direction of emotional fireworks, and he had become quite good at spotting women who could not separate emotion from sex.

Nothing had changed; he had weighed the pros and cons in this case. In fact, he had actually weighed them several times but each time the result was the same: becoming involved with Sophie Balfour at a sexual level was a non-starter.

And yet here he was.

‘What?’ she asked, folding her arms across her chest and angling a cool, clear look of defiance at his face. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ A shiver moved through her body as he carried on staring. ‘What do you want to do?’

A number of replies to this question crossed Marco’s mind. He voiced none but that didn’t stop his body reacting to the images in his head with all the restraint of an adolescent boy in the grip of hormone overload.

Maybe he should tell her—then she’d run, which would solve his problem. Or maybe she wouldn’t…The chemistry was not, he was sure, one-sided.

‘Well, if you do want to sack me you’ll have to say it because I’m not walking.’

He ground his teeth. Why did this woman feel the need to constantly challenge him? She was incapable of compromise; she was pig-headed…As he opened his mouth to inform her that, although not fired, she was infuriating, there was a crunching sound. A small piece of debris from the platform above, dislodged by Sophie’s speedy departure, hit the ground almost at his feet. The plaster almost immediately disintegrated, spraying him liberally with powdery residue.

Sophie stepped forward and began to pat ineffectually at the front of his jacket, her efforts succeeded in grinding the dust into the expensive fabric and making her painfully aware of the hardness of his lean body; his torso had as much give as a rock face.

She took a step back, not looking at him. ‘Sorry.’ She was guiltily aware that she had continued to pat long after it became clear her efforts were not improving matters.

She was trying not to think about the addictive quality of the stolen moments of physical contact—my God, how pathetic does that make me—when he caught her wrist. Turning it over he looked at her dusty palm, displaying what seemed to her a bizarre fascination with her fingers and her unpolished, neatly trimmed nails.

I’m like my manicure, she thought, not decora- tive but suitable to purpose, and practical. She had often told herself that she much preferred to be useful rather than decorative and in this moment she recognised what a total sham that was!

Breathing hard, Sophie finally looked up from the brown fingers curled around her narrow bones to his face. She watched the emotions flicker across his dark face, and recalled an article she had read during her research that had said never play poker with Marco Speranza. The man has no emotions to hide; he is cold ice.

Well, the ice seemed very close to melting.

Chapter Ten

SHE had never imagined that it was possible to literally ache for someone’s touch. Even when they clashed—actually collided—it seemed as if there was a connection there. Why wouldn’t he stop looking at her? Did he feel something too? Was there something more to this than she’d thought?

‘No! It’s just physical.’ It’s only sex and it will go away when he does, which hopefully will be soon.

She cut short the inner dialogue because he was looking at her strangely.

‘What is just physical?’

She froze, her eyes widening in horror. Oh, my God. I said it out loud!

His eyes narrowed and his expression became suspicious. Sophie’s heart sank to somewhere below her knees. This is what you get when you let your imagination run away with you.

‘You are injured?’

She expelled a shaky relieved sigh. ‘No, I’m fine.’ As fine as someone who is in danger of getting fantasy and reality horribly confused can be.

‘The work the stonemasons do…it’s incredibly physical. They’re real craftsmen you know,’ she babbled nervously, because of the way he was staring at her…hungrily? No, surely that was her imagination. ‘I couldn’t sleep…too much caffeine.’ Too much thinking about the meaning of life and the fact it was possible she could die a virgin, which up until recently had not seemed such a terrible thing. ‘And the scaffold will be down tomorrow, so tonight was my last opportunity—’

‘To put yourself in danger?’

Sophie winced at the corrosive sarcasm in his voice. ‘To see the relief work up close—’

‘You were utterly reckless!’

The accusation made Sophie’s jaw drop; if he’d accused her of being cautious or careful or even boring she could have seen where he was coming from, but reckless!

‘Me?’ The image of herself as some sort of wild child made Sophie smile.

The smile made his fragile control snap. ‘You find this funny?’ he thundered, making her jump. ‘If I had not come when I did you could have…’

Too angry at being spoken to as if she was a naughty child, Sophie failed to notice the dramatic pallor that had robbed his vibrant skin of colour.

‘Why did you come?’ she interrupted, folding her arms across her chest and aiming a look of simmering dislike at his face.

‘I’m here…’ He stopped and dragged a hand through his dark hair. ‘I was working late.’

‘And it seemed a good idea to drive out here at, what, two in the morning…?’ She raised her brows and dug her hands in the pockets of her jeans. ‘Oh, sure, that sounds really likely.’

He didn’t even bother denying it and the tacit admission that he was checking up on her, that she didn’t have his trust, hurt her on a level that was personal, not professional.

‘You obviously don’t trust me.’

Marco, who had trust issues of his own—could he trust his control to withstand the overwhelming desire to silence her by kissing those tormenting lips?—remained silent. To bring his mouth down…to taste…

‘At least you’ve got the grace to look guilty.’

‘I am not guilty! And I do not need to explain myself to—’

‘A mere employee,’ she cut in, with a laugh that hid another quite irrational stab of hurt. ‘Don’t worry, I’m in no danger of forgetting my position.’ But she was, that was the problem.

‘Just in danger of breaking your neck.’

Exasperated by his apparent fixation and exhausted by the constant effort of trying to behave normally around him, she lashed out.

‘You want me to fail! You don’t like me!’ In the act of pacing like a caged tiger in the opposite direction he stopped dead and spun back.

And small wonder! The mortified colour flew to her cheeks. ‘Not that you have to like me,’ she inserted quickly. ‘But,’ she mused, ‘most people do.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ he said, thinking of the faceless men who had seen through her disguise, men who had been tempted by her soft feminine curves and lush lips. He pressed his fingers to the pounding in his temples and continued to pace.

Sophie read scepticism in his taut response and snapped, ‘They do—I’m nice Sophie.’ A bitter note entered her voice as she added sarcastically, ‘I’m helpful Sophie, and I never cause a scene, or disagree or say no, even if I don’t particularly—’ She stopped as she reached midtirade and at the shrill limit of her vocal range, a look of horror spreading across her face.

‘So you say, yet you appear to have acquired the knack of scene making very easily. And, no, I don’t like you—you make my life…’ The blue iridescent sheen of unshed tears halted his outpouring and filled him with a sudden and urgent need to gather her in his arms.

Refusing to recognise the emotion swelling in his chest as tenderness he inhaled deeply and, pulling his crumpled tie from his pocket, began to loop it around his throat, in a slightly belated attempt to keep things on a business footing.

‘This is my home. I think you’ll find it is in my best interests that you don’t fail. Or, for that matter, break your neck while you’re on the payroll.’

‘For goodness’ sake! I’m not going to break my neck.’ Do not cry, do not cry. So he didn’t like you; it wasn’t exactly news. ‘It’s totally safe.’ She glanced towards the scaffold and surreptitiously brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘It fully complies with every safety standard. Men work up there every day.’

‘Men work up there with safety harnesses, and they know what they are doing.’

Sophie’s chin went up. ‘And I don’t…?’

His eyes narrowed on her flushed face. ‘You’re only trying to start an argument because you know you’re in the wrong and you can’t admit it.’

There was just enough truth in this claim to make Sophie very angry. She dodged his interrogative glare and shrugged. ‘I was only up there for five minutes. And don’t worry, I’ll sign a waver if you’re concerned about me suing you.’

He muttered something under his breath and took a step forward. The action had none of the lazy grace she associated with him; the tension rolled off him in waves.

Sophie swallowed. She had seen Marco look angry before—he wasn’t the most patient man on the planet and she seemed to have a knack of irritating him—but this was the first time she had seen that anger raw and naked without the veneer of urbanity.

Her eyes riveted on his lean face, she nibbled nervously on her full lower lip.

This, she thought, must be how a small fluffy animal feels caught in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut, except even the dimmest fluffy animal wouldn’t be crazy enough to admire the vehicle’s paintwork!

She was stupid, but my God, he really was awesome!

He looked down at her, his eyes a green glitter through the dense mesh of his sooty lashes.

In an attempt to forestall the explosion, Sophie squeaked quickly, ‘Just because you have had a bad day, don’t take it out on me.’

‘It just so happens I have had a very good day.’

Sophie took the silent addition until now as read.

He inhaled and shook his head before taking another step towards her.

Sophie, who got a neat blast of the unidentifiable tension emanating from him, took a step backwards, but he carried on advancing and then her feet were not moving backwards but forwards to meet him, until they stood toe to toe.

Now how did that happen? She pressed her hand to her chest as she struggled to catch her breath…Could a person forget how to breathe?

As his hands fell heavy on her shoulders Sophie’s head automatically fell backwards, to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked and she swayed towards him, the tug that drew her so strong, so impossible to resist, that she would not have been surprised to see a cord from her chest connected to his, reeling her in.

No, that’s your lust.

Ignoring the contribution of the sly voice of her subconscious she tried to break the hypnotic hold of his glittering green eyes, and failed. Did she even want to succeed?

The debate in her head was unresolved. Part of her appeared pre-programmed to lean into his hardness, and it was impossible to think at all when you were being bombarded with so much information—the heat from his body, the warm musky male smell.

The constant nagging ache she had been conscious of over the past weeks became centralised as a tightness in her chest; her breasts felt heavy and tingling.

My God, he is so beautiful, she thought, helplessly dazzled as always by the stark, pure perfection of his dark features. He was lean and hard, all bone, sinew and muscle, the essence of masculinity, and, this close, close enough to feel the warmth—no, heat—radiating from his skin, utterly devastatingly addictive.

Sophie’s heart rate quickened to a rapid thud that vibrated through her body; things shifted and moved inside her as she struggled to break the invisible chains that held her motionless.

‘I…’ Something in his glittering emerald stare made her voice dry.

Marco’s eyes travelled slowly up the graceful pale curve of her throat. He swallowed, the muscles in his brown throat visibly working as his passion-glazed stare stilled on her lips, the hunger roaring in his blood like a fever, his laboured breath loud in the electrically charged air that separated them.

The coruscating heat in his blood, pumping to every cell in his body, disintegrated the intellectual debate he had used to distance himself from the way Sophie Balfour had burrowed into his head, his thoughts, his mind, and now she had taken control of his body also.

She had awoken feelings that he had fought and was still fighting, because she was not the sort of woman he became involved with, though some might dispute appropriateness of the term involved when applied to his relationships with women.

Involvement was what he assiduously avoided. He did not do live-in lovers; he applied the same simple rules to his personal life as he did to business, and it worked.

He had allowed himself to become emotionally entangled once; he had let his heart rule his head…he had allowed it. He hadn’t fallen into the situation; he had walked into it with his eyes open.

He had deliberately ignored the warning signs. In his book that did not make him a victim but a fool—he had wanted to be in love.

He had wanted to create the family he had never had.

And even though Allegra was out of his life, he was still living with the fallout from that decision, the self-contempt and shame.

Allegra had used him to further her ambitions and she had dragged his name through the mud in order to achieve her ends: humiliating him.

He had learnt his lesson; he would never put that sort of power in the hands of a woman again. Emotions were dangerous and unreliable, but God, her mouth was sweet and so were the crazy, unpredictable things she said.

Sophie Balfour refused to be neatly categorized, and no matter what heading he filed her under she continued to be a distraction.

He looked at her mouth, her lips raspberry red, and thought, No, not distraction…obsession, and one quite clearly it was illogical to fight.

A man always craved what he was forbidden and the forbidden fruit soon lost its appeal.

‘Dio mio!’ he rasped rawly. ‘I want you.’

She stopped breathing.

The air hummed with an electric expectation; the tension that hung between them was as taut as the corded muscles that stood out in his neck.

He cupped her face between his hands, sliding his fingers into her hair to frame her face. The contact feathered along her nerve endings, making her entire body thrum with desire. Her knees sagged and she caught hold of his shirt.

‘This is…not happening.’

His hand slid down her back, pulling her towards him and she didn’t try and stop him. Why aren’t I doing anything? Why aren’t I telling him this is not an appropriate action for an employer?

She should never have got on first-name terms with him; it had all gone downhill from there. ‘Mr Speranza,’ she croaked.

He gave an incredulous gasp and lowered his head close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, sweet and fragrant on her skin. When he spoke, she reacted as violently to his voice, a throaty whisper, as if it was a caress.

‘Miss Balfour,’ he said, managing to inject mockery and caressing warmth into her name. ‘You asked me why I came…’

Sophie, her breath coming in gusty little gasps, shook her head and said, ‘You came to check up on me.’

‘No, Sophie, this is why I came…’ Marco made the admission as much for his own benefit as hers.

Her eyes widened with shock, then closed as her lips parted under the firm pressure of his mouth. A sigh shuddered through her body and she went as limp as a rag doll in his arms.

Chapter Eleven

‘YOU kissed me,’ Sophie said, not opening her eyes.

She felt the vibration of laughter in his chest, but when she forced her eyelids to lift there was no corresponding smile on his lips. His lean features were taut, the golden skin stretched tight across the strong planes of his angular face. His eyes glittered like hard emeralds as he stared at her with a driven, hungry intensity that sent a fresh tingle along her nerve endings.

‘And I intend to again, bellezza mia.’ He ran his thumb slowly up her throat, following the motion with his eyes until it reached the corner of her mouth, then he looked into her eyes. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

The throaty challenge drew a whimper from Sophie’s aching throat. ‘I…’ Her eyes locked to his, she shook her head, totally convinced that if he didn’t kiss her again she would suffer permanent physical and psychological damage. It might be too late to do anything about the psychological damage because she had clearly already lost her mind.

‘No problem,’ she whispered, thinking, Unless you count the fact I might fall in a heap at your feet at any moment.

This time there was a smile, a white wolfish smile that screamed danger.

A sensible person would, she knew, have run away from a smile like that. She clung and lifted her head, welcoming the silky invasion of his probing tongue. Hunger licked along her nerve endings, drawing a lost cry from her throat as she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back. The hunger that had been inside her exploded like a star burst.

It was several breathless moments after his mouth lifted that she opened her eyes and admitted, ‘I wondered what that would be like.’

‘Now you know.’

She did and life was never quite going to be the same. She had never gone in for a lot of sexual experimentation, partly because no man had ever touched her and made her forget her name, and partly because most men she knew only wanted her sisters, and she didn’t want to be the runner-up prize.

‘And?’ Marco prompted, running a finger across the swollen outline of her trembling mouth and looking into her half-closed eyes. Her lashes brushed her softly rounded cheeks, casting shadows across the flushed curves. He traced the feathery outline of one shadow with his fingertip before kissing her hard on the mouth.

Her eyelids squeezed closed as a moan was dragged from Sophie’s chest. She sighed deeply, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as he nipped softly at the pink cushiony fullness of her full lower lip.

‘Do I pass, cara?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she sighed into his mouth as she gripped his hair-roughened forearms.

The kiss this time had less to do with control and more to do with hunger and desperation.

His hand tangled in her hair as he tilted her head backwards to look into her face. ‘You want me.’ It was not a question and it did not even cross Sophie’s mind to deny it.

Little broken gasps left her lips as he ran his tongue along the tremulous curve of her upper lip.

‘I want you,’ she agreed.

Want but had never expected to have, like being six inches taller or having men look at her face when they spoke to her rather than her breasts.

Along with the lust that slammed through him at the admission came a less-welcome emotion—guilt. The way she looked at him, the trust, the total lack of artifice, touched a dormant sense of chivalry in him.

‘You need to know something.’

The urgency pumping through his body made him blunt. ‘I don’t do love and commitment.’ The one time he had given his heart to a woman she had ripped it out and ground it up.

He was trying to tell her it was a one-night stand and not to have any expectations.

Did he think she didn’t already know that?

‘What makes you think I do?’ she challenged. ‘I have a career and…plans…’ This wasn’t one of them, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. ‘The last thing I want is a relationship,’ she promised him.

The assertion should have made him feel more comfortable, but instead Marco was conscious of a vague feeling of dissatisfaction.

‘Recreational sex is all I have time for.’

He pushed a strand of silky hair from her cheek. ‘Can you spare a few minutes for me in your busy five-year plan?’

‘I think so,’ she whispered, shivering at the feathery-light kiss he pressed to her parted lips.

‘And if I need more?’

She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his, gasping as she felt the rock-hard impression of his erection grind into the soft flesh of her stomach.

‘You can have as much as you want. You can have anything you want.’

Lust kicked in his belly as he groaned and picked her up.

He stumbled his way out of the ballroom, up the stairs and into her bedroom, his progress impeded not just by the objects he bumped into but by the kisses she rained on his neck. His shirt was half off before he laid her on the bed; the other half took him about two seconds.

Breathing hard he leaned over her; her face was a pale blur in the dark. ‘I wanted to do this with the lights on.’ He had, in the privacy of his fantasies. ‘But no matter, this is still better.’

‘Better than what?’

Marco smiled and, supporting her weight with one arm, he whipped her nightshirt over her head.

‘Better than anything,’ he said, cupping one soft quivering mound in his hand and watching it spill through his fingers. He touched his tongue to the pink tip and felt her go limp in his arms. ‘You’re perfect, utterly and totally perfect.’

Sophie gave a sigh of voluptuous pleasure. ‘God, yes,’ she groaned as he laid her back down.

She felt his hands on the belt of her jeans and lifted her hips.

‘This is really happening.’

‘If this is a dream, cara, I don’t want to wake up,’ he confided, sliding the denims over her hips. The pyjama shorts joined them in a heap on the floor three second later.

She opened her eyes and held out her arms, a silent invitation…longing to feel the touch of his flesh against her own.

He didn’t accept the invitation. He just sat there.

Fear curled in her stomach, closing her throat. ‘What’s wrong?’

With a groan like a man in pain Marco shook his head and rasped, ‘I can’t do this!’

Her stomach still ached from the imprint of his erection; it had felt very much to her as if he could.

The rejection was so abrupt and so unexpected that for a moment all Sophie did was blink. She sat up, dragged the top cover with her, self-conscious for the first time about her nakedness. She reached out and touched his cheek, her fingertips skating lightly across the surface.

He opened his eyes but didn’t look at her.

He couldn’t take the risk. He was a man who had always prided himself on control, but it was shredded and liable to disintegrate totally at the slightest provocation. Sophie was a walking, breathing temptation.

Lust still pumped in a hot steady stream through his body. The sight of her mouth, her eyes and her body might just be too much. Still holding her gaze, he took her fingers and, removing them from his skin, shook his head.

‘Give me a minute.’ It would be more than a minute before his painful arousal would allow him to walk straight, let alone think.

Sophie, feeling physically sick, sat there shivering as tears began to slide silently down her cheeks. He saw the glisten and groaned.

‘Sophie!’

Sophie flinched and pulled away from the hand he laid on her shoulder. ‘It’s fine…I’m fine…I understand.’ Actually, she didn’t understand. Why was he being this cruel?

Marco swore under his breath. ‘If you are fine, you are the only one.’

‘Look, I understand. You don’t have sex with the help—at least, apparently not when they look like me. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone…We can pretend this never happened.’

‘Enough!’ Ignoring her rigidity and protest he pulled her down beside him and drew her stiff body into the shelter of his arms. ‘Dio, you are shaking,’ he said, running a hand down her spine.

‘So are you,’ she discovered, sniffing. It made her feel slightly better, but not a lot. Her entire body ached with frustration.

‘You are right, I do not have sex with the help. But I do…I want to with you. I will with you, but you…’

He was trying to think of a nice way of saying he didn’t really fancy her. ‘Don’t worry, it was just…I won’t take it personally…’

She heard him swear.

‘You will not take it personally? Then why are you crying?’

‘You forgot who I was and then you…

‘Just shut up. You are speaking rubbish.’ His accent suddenly sounded very strong.

‘Rubbish?’

‘The disparaging comments, the pull yourself to pieces before someone else does.’

His mesmeric emerald gaze burned into her as he said softly. ‘It has to stop. I do not like it.’

‘All right.’ At that moment she would have agreed to anything he asked just for the painful pleasure of being close to all that hard male heat…just to smell his skin, feel his touch. She ached for him in a way that she had never imagined possible. The hunger lay tight like a fist low in her belly and every individual cell in her body ached.

‘I cannot have sex…’

A low sound of distress escaped her lips and he kissed her hard.

‘Not because I don’t want to. I swear I have never wanted anything more—you are driving me crazy.’

‘Then why?’

A finger to her lips hushed her protest. ‘Because I have nothing to protect you.’ His brow creased into a scowl of self-condemnation as he considered his criminal stupidity.

She shook her head and looked at him through a blur of emotional tears. ‘What do you mean?’

A muscle clenched beside his mouth; the frustration in his eyes made them shine like the gem-stones they were so often likened to. ‘I mean, you are not protected, are you?’ The look of total incomprehension in her swimming cobalt-blue eyes wrenched a groan from his throat.

His apparent pain confused Sophie even more.

‘I mean protection…you’re not taking the pill.’

Comprehension dawned and the mortified colour flew to Sophie’s cheeks. ‘No, I’m…not.’

‘And I have nothing, unless you…?’

Marco watched her blush all over—well, the bits he could see anyway.

‘Sorry, no.’ She was filled with shame.

She wasn’t a risk taker or reckless.

How, she asked herself, could I have not have thought about the consequences?

When Annie had revealed her unplanned pregnancy she had secretly wondered how her otherwise highly intelligent sister had not taken precautions to avoid this situation.

Sophie had found it impossible to imagine a situation where she would take the same risk.

And now she almost had! Worst of all, it hadn’t been her who had shown restraint, it had been Marco. She burned with shame.

‘I want babies, but not like this.’

It was Marco’s turn to feel awkward; the women in his life did not talk of babies.

‘My sister has a little boy. We all love him and I know she wouldn’t be without him but…’

Marco nodded in understanding. ‘There is no father?’

Sophie nodded. ‘I wouldn’t want that.’ She looked at him with glowing eyes. ‘Thank you.’

Marco gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘I am no saint, but I will not do that to you.’

Being regarded in the light of a noble, self-sacrificing hero made him uncomfortable, especially when he realised how close he had come to losing control. Even now his body throbbed with the need to bury himself deep in her softness and give in to the primal urge as old as time. She was so innocent, and her eyes were still blazing with unfulfilled passion—she had so much to learn.

He took her chin between his fingers and tipped her face to his. ‘I said I cannot but that doesn’t mean you cannot.’

‘I don’t understand…I’m…’

‘Let me show you, cara, I will enjoy that.’

‘But you…’

He took her hand and kissed her fingertips one by one. ‘There are many ways of bringing pleasure.’

‘I don’t know what you mean…’

Her response gave Marco a very poor opinion of her previous lovers. He nibbled her earlobe, making her shiver, before kissing his way to her mouth and whispering against her lips, ‘Let me show you.’

Dizzy with longing she said please at the same moment he lowered her back onto the bed and lay down beside her. Unfolding her fingers from the cover she clutched he peeled it back, exposing her beautiful body and sending the ache in his loins up another several painful notches.

One hand on the curve of her hip he looked down at her.

Sophie, suddenly overcome by the emotion, tried to turn her head.

‘No, look at me, Sophie.’

She looked at him, her face filled with a mixture of longing and fear. ‘I suppose this is chemistry. Mum says that cakes and love are both about chemistry—not that this is love obviously.’ He didn’t join her laughter. ‘I’m babbling again, aren’t I?’

‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’

She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I’m afraid of the way you make me feel…not in control.’

A flicker of something moved in his eyes. ‘Not being in control has much to recommend it, cara. Stop thinking and feel it…’

She forced her lids apart and looked at him with glazed eyes. ‘Feel?’ she whispered throatily.

He bent his head and, with his eyes still connected with hers, pressed his mouth to the side of her mouth. ‘Feel this,’ he said, sliding his fingers with seductive slowness over her ribcage before cupping one aching breast in his palm and rolling the erect tight pink peak between his thumb and finger.

Sophie gasped at the contact, moaning low as his expert caresses sent ripples of sensation through her body.

She opened her mouth to tell him she could feel it and she liked it when his tongue slid deep into the moist warmth of her mouth, silencing her. His fingers moved lower, sliding over the curve of her belly, his touch leaving trails of tingling fire, and he seemed intent to explore every inch of her skin.

‘But tonight one of us will stay in control—me. You can relax…let me do this for you.’

‘Do what?’

He smiled and kissed her, a kiss that began slow and that morphed into ravening hunger.

‘What a waste,’ he breathed.

She lifted her passion-glazed blue eyes to his face and shook her head.

‘We could have been doing this for weeks.’ His voice thickened as he added, ‘You have the most beautiful body I have ever seen…’ The mixture of lust and reverence in his husky comment sent a thrill through her body.

‘I’m…’ She stopped, her eyes squeezing closed and her voice drying as his hand moved to her other breast and he bent his head to it. The erotic caress of his tongue and mouth drew a hoarse moan from her throat.

‘You’re so sensitive,’ he rasped, sliding down her body. The friction created by his chest hair grazing her breasts drew a deep moan from her throat.

Marco watched her writhe, gasp and bite her lip as he traced a wet path with his tongue over the silky skin of her stomach. She felt like satin, warm and soft and womanly, and the scent of her skin excited him more than he would have thought possible.

Kneeling at the bottom of the bed he took one slender foot and raised it to his mouth.

‘What…?’ Sophie’s eyes opened and she watched, startled, as he ran his tongue over the blue-veined delicate arch of her foot.

Her head fell back and she gave a slow smile. There was clearly a lot more to erogenous zones than she had imagined.

Her eyes connected with Marco’s. The shadow on his jaw accented the maleness of his beautiful face, his lean, muscle-ridged torso in the half-light gleaming dull gold.

Sophie felt her throat close up as emotions rose up inside her. She could have looked at him forever and it wouldn’t be long enough.

His compelling emerald eyes still on her face, Marco hooked her foot over his shoulder and, leaning forward, slid one finger along the exposed inner aspect of her silky thigh. Then he bent his head and moved closer to her aching core.

Sophie’s smile vanished as she twisted and arched, and reached for him. ‘This is too…I…You can’t want…’ she whispered.

A muscle clenched in his cheek as he took the hands outstretched to him and moved them shockingly to the damp heat between her thighs.

‘That’s for me.’ Sophie felt the warm breath of his whisper fan on her cheek as he moved her hands, pinioning them with one of his above her head.

He arranged himself beside her and, watching her face, put his own fingers where hers had been.

Sophie lay there, open to him, her entire body suffused by a sensual lethargy.

‘Feel this,’ he purred, stroking her.

Sophie moaned and pushed against his hand, the shocking eroticism of his caresses driving every other thought out of her mind.

His clever fingers drove her to the brink and drew her back twice, before he slid a finger into her and stopped as an expression of shock spread across his tense sweat-slicked features.

‘Dio mio, how is this possible?’

Sophie did not hear his hoarse question; he had touched a place inside her and the level of pleasure went up a thousandfold. It was too much…she felt as if she would explode and then she did.

There was fire and storm and then she was safe and content in the eye of the storm, her body still throbbing with pleasurable aftershocks.

Marco did not hold her in his arms for long. He did not trust himself—the temptation was just too great.

Sophie watched him stand. ‘You’re going?’

You were a one-night stand—of course he’s going—and he’s had no fun.

He bent over her and, picking up the cover from where it had slipped, draped it over her. The sight of her body only increased the pressure pounding in his skull; primitive need pulsed through his body. He ought to be shocked that she was a virgin but he wasn’t. The idea of being her first lover was incredibly and painfully arousing.

He looked at her and felt feelings he did not recognise stir. ‘If I don’t I might do something we both could regret. It is possibly a good thing that I did not come prepared?’

Sophie, who was already feeling guilty and selfish, supposed he was trying to make her feel better until he added, ‘I could have hurt you. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It didn’t come into the conversation and I wasn’t sure if you’d notice and…’ She stopped. ‘Am I still technically a virgin or did that count as…?’

‘I really don’t know, but we will leave no room for doubt tomorrow.’

‘You’re coming back?’

‘I am coming back.’

Sophie smiled.

Chapter Twelve

BY TWELVE the next day there was no technicality about it: she was officially no longer a virgin.

She looked at the man beside her and ran a finger along the dappled pattern on his stomach cast by the sun streaming through the slatted blind.

‘You are a very beautiful man.’

‘You,’ Marco retorted, ‘are beyond direct for a virgin.’

‘Ex-virgin,’ she said smugly.

‘I stand corrected.’

‘I nearly fell over when I saw you.’ Marco had appeared at ten-thirty; walking into a meeting she was having with a furniture conservator he calmly announced the meeting was over.

He had then dragged—well, maybe not dragged; she had gone willingly enough—her upstairs in full view of several interested painters.

‘Why were you surprised I said I was coming back.’

‘I assumed you meant tonight.’

‘If I had waited until tonight there is a strong possibility I would have killed someone.’ The comment came, if not from the heart, from an area equally important to him.

Sophie hugged herself and laughed. ‘God, but I love being irresistible!’ It would not last but while it did she was going to enjoy it. She wouldn’t allow herself to think past the moment for fear of spoiling it.

‘You are.’

She turned her head. ‘What?’

‘Irresistible and unforgettable.’ He would definitely never forget the moment he heard her startled gasp of pleasure as he had slid into her for the first time.

She had been so silky hot and tight around him that he had had to struggle for control.

Afraid of hurting her he had tried to be gentle, but Sophie had not been afraid; she had responded with all the passion he had known she possessed, wrapping her legs around him and urging him on with frantic pleas.

‘What will the men think?’

Would she be able to command their respect if they thought she was sleeping with the boss? It concerned her but not, if she was honest, enough to stop her contemplating a repeat performance with pleasure.

‘They will think nothing,’ Marco lied, knowing that the men would realize what had happened and it was not in his view such a bad thing. He had seen the way some of them had looked at Sophie and considering how good she looked up a ladder he could not blame them.

She looked even better in his bed.

‘I have decided.’

‘What have you decided?’

‘We will open up the palazzo. We will have a ball to show off your work.’

Sophie regarded him doubtfully. ‘I have to tell you my recent experience of balls is not that great!’

Marco pushed aside her concern with a wave of his hand. ‘I have seen your organisational skills—they are second to none—and if you need any help my PA is on maternity leave but I understand from her husband that she is going a little stir-crazy. She would, I’m sure, love to lend a hand.’

‘You want me to organise it?’ Sophie was startled by the suggestion.

He looked bemused by the question. ‘Of course.’

‘What date did you have in mind?’

He gave one and she looked at him in stunned horror. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I have every confidence in you.’

‘I’m not wonder woman. The last ball I attended I hid in the kitchen with Mia…my sister,’ she added in response to his questioning look.

‘You have changed.’

‘And you want me to be hostess too, I suppose?’

‘Who else would be hostess?’

She rolled onto her stomach, an expression of anguish twisting her soft mouth downwards. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you of Allegra.’

His expression froze. ‘You did not remind me of Allegra.’ Sympathy and pity were two things he did not want, especially from Sophie. ‘My marriage is not a subject I wish to discuss.’

Because it was still too painful or because he couldn’t bear to hear the name of the woman he still loved?

‘What about your mother—wouldn’t she feel slighted if a total stranger acted as hostess?’

Sophie had only recently realised his mother was that Carlotta Speranza. A discovery she had made when she had waded through the albums she had discovered in one of the attic rooms.

She had realised halfway through that, though there were plenty of snaps of the photogenic actress and her husband, there were none of them as a family and only a couple of formally posed ones of Marco as a boy.

When she had mentioned this to Natalia and wondered if it was possible some albums were missing, the older woman had said, no, that wasn’t likely.

She had not come right out and said that Marco was neglected as a child but from the things she had mentioned the inference that his parents were too busy with their lives to bother about him was inescapable.

‘How did Marco’s father die?’ Sophie had asked, studying the face of the man in the photo. How could you have a child and ignore him?

It was inexplicable to Sophie.

‘You don’t know.’ Natalia had lowered her voice and looked around as though expecting to see people lurking in the shadows. ‘He was assassinated, shot. He was dead before he reached the hospital,’ she said, crossing herself.

Sophie was deeply shocked by the revelation. ‘Did they ever find out who did it?’

The housekeeper shook her head.

‘Poor Marco.’

‘Then he went and got himself married.’ Muttering under her breath she loaded Sophie’s plate with more of the delicious freshly baked sponge cakes topped with jewelled candied fruit, saying sternly, ‘You must eat if you wish to keep that lovely figure.’

Marco thought she had a lovely figure too. Sometimes, Sophie reflected, life was very amazing.

‘My mother!’ Marco looked amused by the suggestion. ‘She will come and be charming if she does not have a better offer but she will not exert herself.’

‘You’re not close,’ she probed, wondering if this part of his life was forbidden her too.

‘No closer than we ever have been.’

‘You never speak of your family.’

‘You never speak of yours,’ he countered, pressing a kiss to her throat and murmuring, ‘You taste good all over.’

Sophie felt it was only polite to return the compliment so it was a little later on, after a lot of frantic kissing, that she said, ‘I don’t mention my family because it is so large and the relationships so convoluted, it would take a week. You, on the other hand, don’t mention your family because everything with you is on a need-to-know basis. But if you want to know, my father has been married three times and my mother is the only one alive. She was his second wife. She moved back to Balfour when my stepfather was killed.’

In the act of throwing off the covers Marco slid back down into the bed and pulled her to him. ‘This I didn’t know.’

Sophie lay her head on his chest; the steady thud of his heartbeat made her feel safe and cherished, made her feel as if she belonged.

‘How?’

‘It was in Sri Lanka, an intruder. I wasn’t there. Mum was taking Annie and me back to school in England when it happened. Only Kat was there and she was very young.’

‘And you were so much older?’

‘No, but I didn’t see it.’ Sophie gave a shudder. ‘Kat needed a lot of TLC.’

‘And your TLC?’

‘I was at school.’

Something in her voice made him tilt her face up to his. ‘This was not a good time for you?’

‘They had a good library. I like books.’ Books had been her substitute for friends.

‘And everything else?’

‘A nightmare. I wasn’t good at anything and I was only tolerated because my sisters were popular. I missed Mum and…’ She stopped and tried to pull away. ‘You’re not interested in this ancient history and I don’t normally whinge on like this.’

‘You told me because I asked and I am interested.’ A thunderstruck expression settled on Marco’s face as he realised he spoke the truth.

He wasn’t sure what, if anything, this meant but there was a shade of unease in his eyes as he threw back the covers. Depositing Sophie, who was curled up in a ball like a small kitten, a few feet away, he got up.

‘I’ll email you some information on the ball, guest list and so forth.’

‘I haven’t said yes, yet.’

Marco paused in the act of pulling his boxers up over his slim muscular hips. ‘But you will.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because I’m irresistible too and I will say please.’

‘I’d prefer a kiss.’

Marco’s eyes slid from her pink just-kissed lips to the warm swell of her magnificent breasts and he grinned. ‘I think we can do better than a kiss.’

Chapter Thirteen

‘PROBLEMS?’ Marco asked when he walked into the study and found her frowning over a colour-coded chart.

He had come straight from the office. Actually, coming straight from the office had become something of a norm of late; he was spending most of his time at the palazzo and even working from home on occasion when there were not men with hammers knocking something down.

‘Not really.’ She laid down her pen and got to her feet.

But didn’t rush into his arms; he noticed that and he didn’t like it.

‘What’s wrong is that Amber rang today. She mentioned that there is a job going at Purnells—they’re the biggest and most prestigious interior design firm in the country.’

‘The country being England.’

She assumed an expression of cheery brightness that gave no hint of the fact her heart was breaking.

Falling in love with Marco had been inevitable. She hadn’t even tried to fight it; instead she’d told herself that she could live in the here and now and leave later for another day.

Well, that other day had come and she was consumed by a bleak, black despair at the thought of never seeing him again.

‘Where else would I be looking for a job?’ Amber’s call had forced her hand. ‘I was wondering—it was Amber’s idea—if you’d mind if I gave your name as a reference. After all, I’ve got a lot to thank you for. Before this I’d never even have been considered for a job like yours. You’ve made my career.’ A few weeks ago this had been all she’d dreamed of; now the knowledge left her strangely flat. ‘Always supposing,’ she said, adding a downbeat note, ‘that I can repeat the formula with the next client…’

‘You plan to sleep with the next client?’

She recoiled as though he’d struck her.

She could think of very few things worse than getting yourself seduced by Marco Speranza and then compounding it by falling helplessly in love with the man. She stuck out her chin and said, ‘Isn’t that why you gave me the job?’

‘No, I gave you the job because I thought you had potential.’

Not fooled by his pleasantly conversational tone, Sophie read the inexplicable anger in his body language as he stalked towards the bureau. He picked up the notebook she had left lying there.

His glittering green gaze eyes remained on the smooth youthful freshness of Sophie’s face as he flicked the pages filled with her neat writing.

‘Have you put it in one of your lists—”get back home and find a lover,” or possibly lovers?’

As she contemplated a life of comparing every man with Marco and being inevitably disappointed, this angry charge struck her as particularly ironic.

What was he so mad about anyway? she wondered, directing a disgruntled scowl at Marco’s lean face.

‘And if I have?’ Her jaw fell as she watched Marco rip her notebook very neatly into four pieces before slinging them over his shoulder. ‘Try a little spontaneity,’ he advised. ‘I am bored with your lists.’

Sophie watched the pieces flutter to the ground and felt the heat climb into her cheeks. ‘And me too, no doubt. Well, tough!’ she yelled.

‘Tough?’ he echoed.

‘Yes, I’m a Balfour…’

Marco rolled his eyes and head back and muttered an imprecation in his native tongue. ‘Balfour…’ He lifted his head and gritted, ‘If I hear that name once more I swear…’

Eyes narrowed she cut across him. ‘A Balfour does not leave a job unfinished.’ She threw him a look of challenge.

‘Have you any idea how different you look from that day I found you asleep in my office?’

‘I had not slept for twenty-four—’

‘I’m not talking about the creases in your clothes. The fact is you are the sort of woman who will always look at her best without clothes.’

The matter-of-factly voiced aside drew a choked gasp from Sophie. ‘If that was meant to be a compliment…I know I’m not exactly model material—’

‘A fact,’ he cut back smoothly. ‘You fill out clothes very nicely, though obviously,’ he conceded, ‘you could never be a model.’

Rub salt in the wound, why don’t you? Sophie thought bitterly.

‘Because people would not look at the clothes you wear—they would be looking at your body…at least, men would be.’ He pinned her with an intense stare. ‘Don’t make any decisions about a job,’ he said abruptly. ‘Not until after the ball.’

‘But…’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not as though I’ve long to wait.’

A week, to be precise.

Chapter Fourteen

THE week passed and jobs were not mentioned.

Sophie shook out the dress that had arrived by courier the day before.

She didn’t know whether to bless Mia or curse her, but her sister had obviously picked up on her desperation in her last letter when she had admitted she didn’t have the faintest idea what to wear for the ball, where kitchen hiding was no option.

Mia, with typical thoughtful kindness, had used her magical skill with the needle to make Sophie a dress. And what a dress! Sophie thought, running a finger down the silk of the skirt.

It oozed old-Hollywood glamour; Ginger Rogers would have been happy to float around the dance floor in a dress like this. The bold dramatic red was a statement by itself. Add the suck-you-in, push-you-up bodice and the sexy swirly skirt, and it became a very loud statement!

The note Mia had sent with it said that from her letters she thought that this was the sort of thing Sophie should be wearing.

God knows what she wrote, although the postscript of you’ll knock his socks off in this might be a clue. It was possible she had mentioned Marco once or twice.

Leaving the dress, she went downstairs to make her last round of checks before she got dressed. As she whizzed at a trot past the ballroom, the orchestra were making discordant noises that Sophie sincerely hoped would be melodious later on.

Like her, they had to pull it all together in how many hours? She consulted the watch on her wrist and resisted the temptation to sit down and weep. Weeping would not make the team doing the lights in the garden willing to change the red bulbs she had just discovered they had wrapped around the trees beside the lake for a more tasteful white.

She was tactful and diplomatic with the lighting crew and left five minutes later confident that the lighting, at least, would be perfect—the rest, well, it was too late to worry about the rest.

She just hoped she could make it back to her room before another disaster occurred.

‘Where is Miss Balfour?’ The man supervising the men who were attaching arrangements of white flowers to the balustrade above the pool house turned at the sound of Marco’s voice.

Before the man could open his mouth he drawled, ‘No, don’t tell me, she’s just left?’

This had been his response the last six times he had made the same enquiry and Marco was growing increasingly irritated.

Anyone would think the woman was trying to avoid him.

‘She has not been here, sir, not since earlier,’ the other man said. ‘But I think that might be her over there.’ He nodded towards the expanse that had been a meadow until it had been transformed back into the south lawn by a team of gardeners.

Marco looked and, as he did so, noticed that the six men up ladders were staring in the same direction, staring at a running figure dressed in a T-shirt and shorts.

While he understood why they were staring—the men were only human and the T-shirt was tight—it did not improve his mood.

He caught up with Sophie before she reached the terrace.

‘Oh, hello…’ Sophie stopped at the sound of her name. Hands on her hips she waited for him to catch her up; her breathlessness was only partly associated with her sprint from the pool house.

Pretending an objectivity she was about a million miles from feeling, she looked Marco up and down. When she lingered too long and felt her objectivity slipping she lifted her face to his and observed with a reproachful scowl, ‘You’re not dressed.’

Marco’s gaze travelled up from her bare toes; the pink polish on her toenails was new, but the smooth firm creamy skin of her shapely calves and firm thighs was not. Her displaying them, however, was.

Her skin never failed to amaze and arouse him; it was satiny, smooth and soft.

‘That has never been a problem for you before,’ Marco observed with an earthy grin. ‘And you are not dressed either. I like the shorts.’

He subjected her shapely curves to a narrow-eyed scrutiny and asked, not because he had any doubts but because he liked to see her blush, ‘Are you actually wearing any underclothes?’

She blushed.

‘While I have no objections, you are likely to cause an industrial accident.’

‘Me?’ She shook her head. ‘Why?’

He studied her puzzled face, a smile playing around his lips. ‘You do know you are unique.’

‘Unique as in freaky or unique as in—’

‘Unique as in you have a body that could stop traffic at rush hour.’

Her eyes flew wide open and a slow stain of colour spread across her skin. It was impossible to hide the glow of pleasure she felt at his words.

‘Not all might think so.’

But it was only one man whose opinion she cared about and he found her sexy! Inexplicable, but who was she to argue?

‘Oh, believe me, Sophie, they would.’ Marco found himself unable to raise even an ironic smile at the thought. ‘But let me say before I get chastised for treating you like a sex object: I want you for your mind too.’

Behind the mockery, Marco knew there was a grain of truth. Of course Sophie had a body that drove him wild and she responded to him like no other woman ever had, but it wasn’t just the sex he missed when they were apart.

Her unaffected enthusiasm was exhausting and occasionally irritating but also refreshing. She had a quirky irreverent sense of humour, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head and she had a deeply annoying habit of putting a positive spin on the most disheartening situations. But none of these flaws stopped him enjoying the sound of her voice…and the way she screwed up her nose…and now she was looking at him through her lashes with an almost wistful expression that made things shift inside. He frowned. It was not a feeling he was comfortable with.

‘I don’t mind being your sex object.’ For the first time in her life she felt womanly and sexy and not ashamed of her curves—that was down to Marco, who had let her see herself through his eyes, and it was an incredibly empowering experience.

Accustomed all her life to thinking of herself as an ugly duckling who would always fall short of swan-like status, it had come as nothing short of a mind-altering revelation that a man as tall and lean and utterly drop-dead gorgeous as Marco could find her sexually attractive, and his uninhibited appreciation and the pleasure he took in her body had made her feel like a woman for the first time in her life.

‘Actually,’ she admitted huskily, ‘I quite like it.’ And you too, though liking hardly covered the swelling of her heart when she looked at him.

Marco’s half-smile vanished as his burning eyes connected with the shy invitation shining in her china-blue eyes.

It was only the distant—but not distant enough—yell from one workman to another that prevented him from picking her up and carrying her to his bed. Well, that and the paper in his pocket.

‘Dio mio, cara, if you don’t stop looking at me like that I will not be responsible,’ he growled thickly. ‘Perhaps,’ he added, taking a deep breath, ‘we should change the subject.’ He definitely could not walk straight until his level of arousal had lowered several painful notches.

Despite the fact that she had a million things to do and several hundred of the most important people in Europe were about to descend on them, Sophie found she was painfully disappointed when he did just that.

‘So what,’ he asked, indicating her head gear, ‘is that thing on your head?’ His eyes slid to the pouting outline of her mouth. Bad move, he thought, as he was forced to ruthlessly check the surge of passion that sent a fresh pulse of pain through his groin. He was clearly going insane.

Her hand went to the scarf that covered the giant pink hair rollers. She found it some comfort that his husky voice was not quite steady and it was clear from the way he was staring hungrily at her mouth that his thoughts were not on hairstyle.

‘They’re hair curlers—Julia put them in to straighten my hair.’

Marco could see the obvious contradiction in this sentence but decided not to go there; instead he asked, ‘Who is Julia?’

He was playing for time. Decision-making was not a struggle for him; he did not overcomplicate matters as he had a goal and he went straight for it, taking the shortest route possible to reach that desired goal.

He had a great deal of success but the occasional failure was inevitable—despite what the financial gurus suggested about his infallibility—and he chalked those up to the experience part of the learning curve of life.

He did not waver or vacillate. He made decisions and lived with the consequences. He did not anticipate failure but neither did he fear it.

So why, when he never lost sleep over the acquisition of an airline or media company, was he unable to decide whether to make his pitch to Sophie now or later?

It wasn’t as if the outcome was in doubt.

It was just the timing and she did appear pretty distracted, he thought, studying her glowing face.

The word radiant came into his head and at the same moment so did the image of the workmen’s faces as they had watched her run across the grass and he thought, why wait?

‘She is Natalia’s granddaughter.’

‘Who is Natalia?’

‘The woman who cooked your breakfast for the past thirty years…’ She stopped, intercepting the gleam in his eyes. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘It is sometimes irresistible.’ Much like her lips, he mused, feeling the kick of lust again as his gaze lingered on the soft pink curve.

Sophie snorted.

‘Why are you having your hair done by the cook’s daughter? I said you should fly in a stylist from…’ He saw the mulish belligerent expression spread across her face and extended a hand, palm up, in a gesture of mock submission. ‘Fine, have it your way.’ Behind her smiles and quiet manner Sophie was as stubborn as anyone he had ever met, and quietly ruthless when it came to getting her own way, which was why the project had not only been brought in under budget but ahead of time.

Observing the moment that someone realised they had been gently manoeuvred into doing it the Sophie Balfour way was amusing, except when he was on the receiving end of her tactics, and even then he did not have any strong objections. It occurred to him that a few weeks earlier he would not have viewed being wrapped around the little finger of a woman with any degree of equanimity, let alone affectionate amusement.

Sophie tugged fretfully at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘Marco? You were joking about me…not wearing certain items, weren’t you? You can’t really tell, can you…?’ she asked in a mortified whisper as she glanced downwards, trying to assess the level of exposure.

Marco’s eyes swept downwards and made the return journey as far as her breasts. He could make out the faint shadow of her nipples.

His pupils dilated and in the space of a heartbeat he was in the grip of an insatiable, ravening hunger.

It was literally agonising not to be in a position to quench it, and the pain was not helped by a masochistic portion of his brain that provided a graphic image of her sinking her fingers into his hair as he ran his tongue across one ruched pink centre and then the other, watching them harden and hearing her catch her breath and making that throaty little groan that drove him crazy.

A woman’s body had never pleased him more, or tempted him more, and the thought of another man being on the receiving end of her warmth and generosity filled him with an utter repugnance.

‘You can tell.’

She shot him a killer glare and crossed her hands over her chest. ‘Thanks for making me feel better.’

Marco’s grin was strained. ‘There is a school of thought that says, if you have it flaunt it.’

He found that he had very mixed feelings about Sophie flaunting it for people who were not him, though once their relationship was on a more formal basis he could afford to be less vigilant. Then men would think twice before trespassing and she would stop talking about leaving.

His brow puckered into a thoughtful frown. He recognised that part of the problem was that Sophie didn’t have a clue what effect she had on men and she appeared genuinely oblivious to the fact that she had a body that inspired lust.

The combination made her incredibly vulnerable to prowling wolves.

That one of those wolves might be able to give her the love that she deserved was a thought that Marco suppressed before it was fully formed.

He could count the number of love matches he knew of, that lasted, on one hand. And who knows if they were as happy as they appeared? he mused cynically. Marco knew only too well how deceptive appearances could be. Until Allegra’s drinking had got out of control, they had presented the picture of a devoted couple.

Marriage stood a far better chance if you went into it with your eyes open. If Sophie married him, he would make her happy, not offer her false promises and break her heart.

Sure, you’re saving her from heartbreak—you’re a regular hero, Marco, mocked the voice of his troubled conscience.

Sophie’s voice broke through his introspective chain of thought. ‘Flaunting is a great policy if you have a body like your wife!’

The drop in temperature was instantaneous and dramatic.

‘I have no wife.’

Marco had always known that one day that situation would change. Continuity was important and his was an ancient name and he needed to pass on that heritage, but this did not mean that he had ever anticipated the event with any degree of pleasure.

Though naturally he would approach marriage the second time around from a very different perspective; his approach would be practical, not emotional.

His lips curled into a contemptuous smile for the romantic boy he had been.

Obviously he was not going to marry anyone he was not compatible with; common interests would be high on his list of qualities necessary in a future bride. She would need to have a certain level of sophistication to feel comfortable in his world, and of course he would not marry anyone he found physically repulsive, but he did not realistically expect mind-blowing sex.

He skimmed over the fact that Sophie Balfour bore very little resemblance to the perfect candidate, instead concentrating on the attributes that he had not previously considered essential. A peaceful life was fine but he bored easily, and Sophie was not, by any stretch of the imagination, boring!

She had brought him back to life, not just his home, suggested the intrusive voice in his head.

She was also incapable of deceit; admittedly that could on occasion be a pain, but honesty was rare and she was loyal. Her loyalty was sometimes misplaced but you had to admire a girl who spoke up for a father who had spent years taking her for granted, taught her none of the skills required for life outside her gilded cage and then virtually thrown her to the wolves to fend for herself.

If he had a daughter he would tell her she was capable of anything and tell her that he loved her every day of her life.

‘We are not discussing Allegra.’

Sophie was not fooled by his blank expression; she knew it was to hide his pain and maybe, she speculated miserably, his secret shame because he still loved the woman who had humiliated him and stamped all over his heart. He still wrote to her. She had seen the name on a handwritten letter on his desk.

A man did not react that way to the mention of a woman he was over. This was, of course, not news to Sophie but the fresh confirmation hurt anyway.

‘No.’ Not speaking but thinking. Maybe he thought about her when they made love; maybe it was Allegra’s beautiful vivid face he saw and not her own…

Sophie swallowed as a wave of nausea washed over her.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile.

He placed a thumb under her chin and tilted her face up to his. Guilt lay heavily on his conscience. She had worked herself into the ground and he had let her.

In fact, he had done more than allow it to happen; he had engineered it, and he had known she wouldn’t say no because she had something to prove, but no longer to him. He realized that no matter what Sophie Balfour thought of herself, she had more backbone and sheer guts than anyone else he knew.

He felt his anger stir at the thought of the family who had allowed her to become invisible, just because she was the quiet one.

Sophie twitched her chin from his grip. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated flatly. ‘I’m just…I’ve not stopped all day. I was in the shower when I thought I’d better check things one more time…so I had to get out of the shower which is lucky, as it happens, because for some reason the men doing the lighting had put red lights…made it look like a bordello or something…’ She stopped and flashed him a questioning look. ‘Sorry…I’m talking too much again, aren’t I?’

‘I like it when you talk too much.’

‘You do?’

‘Sì, I like your voice, though I do not always understand what you’re talking about. You really do look tired.’ He caught her chin again and this time Sophie did not pull back; the unexpected tenderness in his eyes nailed her to the spot and brought an emotional lump the size of a tennis ball to her throat.

He tapped her nose and said sternly, ‘You need to learn to delegate more.’

‘I do delegate,’ she protested, wondering if the flowers had been put in his mother’s suite.

‘You push yourself too hard.’

No matter how hard she pushed herself she knew that she could not compete with the sort of pressure Marco put himself under, and he appeared to thrive on it.

‘That’s what you pay me for.’ And very soon now her job and her stay here would be at an end.

His brows twitched into a frowning line. ‘I do not pay you.’

‘Well, indirectly, then—you pay Amber and she pays me.’

‘Not enough, I would imagine.’

‘It’s not slave labour, though not a lot by your standards,’ she admitted.

‘Or your standards. You make it sound as though we live in two different worlds.’

‘My father is rich and I suppose I will be one day, but not now, and I don’t have expensive tastes.’

‘For a Balfour,’ he inserted. ‘I have been looking for you for the past hour. It was almost as if you were avoiding me.’

‘I’ve been too busy to even think about you,’ she lied. ‘Anyway, what’s so important that you couldn’t delegate it?’

‘I would like you to consider…’

‘Could we walk while you talk?’ she asked, glancing at her watch and turning towards the stone facade of the palazzo. Looking at it, she felt a little glow of satisfaction, for there was nothing unloved about its appearance now. In a few short weeks she and the team had performed a small but pleasing miracle.

In a few short weeks she had fallen in love.

‘I really do need to get ready and so do you.’ In white shirt and denims that clung tastefully to his snaky hips and the powerful muscles of his thighs he looked pretty good already. Actually, he never looked simply good; he always looked incredible. ‘Do you mind if we duck in through the library?’ she asked, nodding towards the open doors that led into the only room that had not needed her attention. ‘If there’s a disaster I don’t want to know about it until I’m dressed.’

‘You have a very negative attitude. Why assume a disaster is inevitable?’

‘I could bore you with the details of the last Balfour Ball…’ Sophie couldn’t smile. The memory and the fallout from that night were still painfully fresh in her mind. ‘Let’s just say that experience leads me to believe that if anything can go wrong on these occasions it will.’

‘A gloomy prediction. You should learn to have a little faith or those—’ Sophie almost stumbled as his thumb flicked across the grooves above her small nose ‘—will be permanent.’

‘Some men like the lived-in look,’ she claimed untruthfully. ‘And you won’t be so sanguine if the press tomorrow is screaming about the Speranza family’s bad blood.’

‘There is very little they can say about my name that they already have not.’

There was sympathy in her eyes as her gaze brushed his profile. The world thought they knew Marco Speranza. Pages of print had been devoted to his marriage break up and acrimonious divorce. His life had been dissected, his character analysed and his face and body lusted after.

She had thought much the same as the world. She had arrived thinking Marco was the sum of the press clips in Amber’s research file; she had assumed that like many people with high profiles who lived their lives in the full glare of publicity, Marco needed that limelight.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. He endured publicity and never courted it. The Marco she had come to know was intensely private, perhaps in reaction to the days when his publicity-hungry parents had paraded him in front of the clicking flashbulbs, presenting the world with an image of perfect family life before they went back to their own lives, lives that did not have a place for a child.

She felt angry when she considered what a rotten childhood he had had.

‘As to what I wanted to talk to you about, I thought you might like to take a look at these when you have a spare moment.’

Sophie skipped, taking the steps two at a time, before the glanced down at the sheaf of papers he had put in her hands. ‘I’ll make sure Amber gets them,’ she promised gravely. ‘When I get back.’

‘They are not for Amber.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s a pre-nuptial agreement.’

‘You’re getting married.’ Sophie was amazed that she sounded normal and that she was still walking. Inside she was dead—no, not dead; dead did not hurt. She was dying slowly by painful inches.

‘That is the idea.’ While he had not expected her to throw herself at him, he had expected a positive response, or even a response of any sort.

‘Well, wow, that’s…’ She stopped and inhaled. ‘Surprising.’

Marco watched as she walked towards the library door. ‘You had no idea?’

‘Idea…’ She turned slowly and looked at him, the angry colour flooding her face. ‘If I’d had an idea do you think I’d have been sleeping with you?’

‘We have got very little sleep of late.’

‘You’re disgusting!’ she choked. He didn’t even have the common decency to look ashamed, and as for telling her by giving her the pre-nuptial agreement intended for his prospective bride—poor deluded and no doubt beautiful idiot—that was one step up on dumping someone by text!

She shook her head and told herself to keep it calm, keep it dignified. ‘It’s nice to know that you think I’m as devoid of moral principle as you are!’

The recollection of him saying on one occasion there was never more than one woman in his life at a time came back to her and Sophie saw red. Her grasp on quiet dignity faltered as she raised her eyes to his face. The lying, cheating rat had the cheek to look bewildered.

The only thing she had asked for was exclusivity for the duration, and all the time he’d been…though God knows where he found the time or energy to sleep with his prospective bride, considering the amount of each commodity he had used up in her bed!

‘Has she been out of the country? Is that it, and you needed someone to fill in…?’

‘Has who been out of the country?’ Marco, who had never perfected the art of discovering his inner calm, repressed the urge to kick the table. One of them had to retain a little control and it clearly was not going to be Sophie.

He had not been totally sure of her reaction to his proposal but in none of the possible outcomes he had considered had she turned on him like a spitting cat.

A beautiful spitting cat admittedly, he conceded. His ability to make any sense of what she was saying was being severely hampered by the bounce and erotic sway of her unfettered bosom.

Sophie shook her head and pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know!’

‘You have lost one of your earrings…’ Marco said.

‘Like I care!’ She gulped back a sob as she threw the papers back at him. ‘What am I meant to do with these?’

‘What are you talking about, Sophie?’

‘My God, you do believe in getting your money’s worth, don’t you? Designer, event organiser, sex on tap and now you want me to give you legal advice. What’s wrong with your lawyers, Marco?’ She shook her head and ignored the hands he stretched out to her. ‘I will do my part tonight,’ she told him with a sniff. ‘But afterwards I’m out of here,’ she yelled. She would walk back to London…crawl, if necessary.

‘Who do you think this contract is for?’

It wasn’t the who that mattered; it was the fact there was a who. ‘Look, I’m in no mood for twenty questions.’

‘If you stop yelling for two seconds and look—’

‘I—’

‘The name on that contract is yours.’

Sophie stopped dead. ‘What?’

‘You.’

‘Me!’ The angry colour receded, leaving her paper pale.

I’m shaking…I’m dreaming.

‘Me…you…marry?’ Poor grammar, Sophie. She lifted a hand to her spinning head. ‘This is a proposal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, God!’

‘You are practical woman, and I know you value frank speaking as much as I do.’ When it came to pointing out his myriad faults, he reflected, Sophie had no equal.

Sophie eyed him uncertainly. ‘Frank speaking is good,’ she admitted, talking slowly as she tried to work out where he was going with this—and he clearly was determined to go somewhere. ‘But sometimes a white lie can work, or even exaggeration?’

‘I would not insult your intelligence by getting down on one knee and swearing eternal love.’

‘No, that would have been embarrassing,’ she agreed, thinking, how can an intelligent man be so stupid?

He nodded. ‘I want a family, but I do not want a—’

‘Wife?’ she suggested.

He turned his frowning regard on her. ‘A marriage based on unrealistic expectations and ephemeral emotions.’

‘Life is pretty damned ephemeral, Marco.’

‘I find you attractive and I like you. I have no problem if you wish to work—you can start your own firm if you wish. Think about it.’

Sophie watched him walk away before she closed her eyes and shook her head.

‘He likes me,’ she said, and burst into tears.

Chapter Fifteen

SHE paused at the top of the stairs. She was late, but that was Marco’s fault; it had taken more cold compresses than she thought to soothe her puffy tear-swollen eyes, so if he didn’t like it, tough.

At the top of the sweeping staircase she caught her breath at the scene below—the glitter of diamonds, the rainbow swirl of silk, the buzz of laughter and conversation audible above the soft hum of the orchestra.

It was totally magical.

It was totally terrifying.

She lifted her chin: no hiding in the kitchen with Mia this time. She might be leaving but it would not be through the kitchen door and not before she had told Marco Speranza that she would never like him!

Then she saw him and the defiant sparkle faded from her eyes as she gazed with helpless longing at the tall and supremely elegant figure projecting an effortless aura of cool command that she could feel from the other side of the ballroom. Her heart had stalled. She stared hungrily, until a hissing comment from Julia made her take that first step.

Marco frowned as the diplomat he was speaking to allowed his attention to very undiplomatically stray; at about the same moment he realised that the buzz of conversation in the ballroom had significantly lowered in volume.

‘Sorry,’ said the man beside him when he failed to respond to an enquiry from Marco. ‘But who is that incredible woman?’

Marco followed the direction of the other man’s stare and his covetous gaze stilled on the figure gliding down the staircase. The figure wearing a red dress that clung lovingly to every proud curve, a figure that oozed an earthy warm sex appeal that had heads turning and jaws dropping.

She looked like a queen.

A combination of pride and lust pushed every other thought from his head as, without replying, Marco began to move forward, his eyes glued to the figure in the red dress. People parted to let him through.

He was at the foot of the staircase as Sophie reached the bottom. Without a word he held out his hand. She saw the muscles in his brown throat ripple, then their glances locked and for a moment she hesitated. Then, loosing a tiny, fractured sigh, she laid her small hand on his and he smiled.

The danger in that smile made her stomach dissolve in hot liquid excitement.

In a dream-like state Sophie allowed Marco to lead her out onto the dance floor. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hardly breathe; walking away had seemed so easy when she was upstairs indulging her self-righteous anger but the moment their eyes connected she had known that it would take every ounce of will power she possessed and more.

The orchestra struck up a soft, dreamy number.

‘I can’t dance.’

‘I can. Just move your feet and I will do the rest.’ His eyes slid over the creamy upper slopes of her breasts. ‘Where did you get that dress?’ he asked in a throaty whisper.

‘Mia sent it to me. She made it.’

‘She has captured your personality.’

‘My personality and red and…’ She stopped, flushing.

‘And passion. You are a very sensual woman, Sophie.’

Only with you, she thought, as she laid her head on his shoulder. Eyes closed, she melted without thinking into his hardness as their bodies swayed in time to the music.

He could dance and she could follow. Talk about the story of my life, she thought, making a token effort to escape the narcotic tug of his rampant masculinity before melting some more.

The music stopped and Sophie raised her head.

‘You’re a very good dancer, Marco.’ He was clearly good at everything except proposals.

Marco’s heavy-lidded eyes glittered emerald in his sombre tense face. ‘Let’s go,’ he said thickly.

Sophie stared at him blankly. Was he serious? ‘This is your party.’

A voice behind Sophie made Marco pull away and she heard him swear before he inclined his head and said, ‘Mother, this is Sophie.’

‘The clever girl who is responsible for all this?’ Without waiting for a reply Carlotta Speranza took both Sophie’s hands firmly in hers and drew her away. For a slight woman she could be rather forceful, but then she was a Speranza.

‘There are so many people who are longing to meet you.’

‘I don’t think…’

The actress ignored her faltering protest. ‘And your father…how is he…? We met at my last premiere…an attractive man and you have his eyes. Doesn’t she, Marco? Oh, where has that man gone…?’

Sophie, who knew exactly where he was, didn’t say anything. Marco was standing on the dance floor where she had left him, staring at her with a nerve-shredding intensity.

He would come and rescue her soon, she thought, and when he didn’t she rescued herself from the attention of his overwhelming mother by accepting an invitation to dance from a sweet young man who said he raced cars.

When Sophie, who was calling on her rusty social skills, pretended interest in cars and asked what his real job was, he looked startled and then laughed and told her she was delicious, adding that he assumed she wasn’t a fan of formula-one racing.

The conversation went on a few minutes longer before a strange idea occurred to her.

‘Are you flirting with me?’ she blurted unthinkingly.

‘If you have to ask, not very well,’ her companion replied with a grin.

‘Oh, I’m no judge,’ she reassured him. Her experience was limited to one man and he didn’t flirt—he seduced.

Across the room Marco watched Clermont, a man almost as well known for the hearts he broke as the races he won, throw back his head and laugh before leaning into Sophie and saying something that made her blush. But she didn’t, he noticed, clenching his teeth, pull away.

He did not notice the man he had been speaking with observe with alarm the murderous expression on his host’s face and drift away.

His little ingénue was flirting and enjoying it.

Marco experienced a moment of chilling déjà vu. He had already married one woman who had appeared all sweetness and innocence and then watched her turn into a money-hungry tramp with all the morals of a call girl.

Was his judgement fatally flawed?

As Marco took a step forward, struggling with a level of rage he had never before experienced, Sophie, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes sparkling, was whisked past him in the arms of an admiring middle-aged man, whose wife called a warning out to Sophie to mind her feet.

Marco, a low growl still vibrating in his throat, stopped dead. He had been comparing Sophie to Allegra. What sort of insanity was that?

He experienced a wave of utter revulsion as he dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. How could he have thought even for one insanely jealous moment that there was a parallel between the two women?

If he let the Allegra experience poison his mind and ruin his chances of ever having a relationship that wasn’t based on mutual suspicion she really would have won.

Allegra would have done anything, said anything, to be what she imagined he wanted—to get his ring on her finger. Sophie did not say what he wanted to hear or what would make her look good in his eyes; she said what was in her heart and that, he knew, was a preciously rare quality.

Allegra had used her sexuality and her body as weapons; she had been crude and coarse and vicious. Sophie was not using her sexuality to taunt him or any other man—she was discovering it and enjoying it!

And why shouldn’t she?

Sophie had spent her life being overlooked by her family, had been the butt of endless family jokes, he thought, his anger against the self-obsessed Balfours momentarily submerging his self-disgust.

However, knowing that Sophie deserved the attention she was receiving did not make it easier to watch her charm the men who were drawn like moths to the flame of her warmth and glowing beauty.

It was murder, and a constant struggle, fighting the compulsion to go into full chest-beating mode and drag her away.

He resisted because he trusted Sophie, but he did not trust himself to go near her without making a total fool of himself.

Having had very little experience of being the centre of attention, it took Sophie half an hour to catch on to the fact that she was.

She wouldn’t have been human if, after a lifetime of being the plain Jane in a brood of beauties, she hadn’t enjoyed the novelty of the experience. But beneath the smiles and superficial gaiety she remained miserable, because the one man she wanted to tell her she was beautiful and irresistible didn’t seem to want to come near her.

Having personally waved goodbye to the last VIP helicopter Sophie let her perfect hostess’s smile slip and, nodding to the patrolling security guards, made her way back to the palazzo. Her path was lit by the lanterns that she had rescued weeks earlier from one of the rubbish skips.

Restored and filled with flickering flames they created exactly the ambience she had hoped for, but Sophie’s thoughts were a long way from considering the pretty picture they made.

The night had been a dazzling success; she had been propositioned four times and two had come from men who were not drunk or married. And—Sophie expelled a shaky breath and felt the anger lick through her—she had also received a marriage proposal!

She had been aware of Marco watching her tonight, his brooding presence had dominated the event and her thoughts—so no change there, she thought miserably.

He had not been looking exactly happy and after that first dance and his crazy suggestion he had not come near her, though she’d caught the tail end of some of his sneery glares.

Maybe he was regretting his proposal? If you could call it that, she thought, her fists balling as she recalled his casual offhand suggestion and the contract that lay unread. On the other hand he might just be piqued because she hadn’t immediately fallen over herself to accept his offer…?

And she could understand his surprise, looking at it from his point of view. She had not exactly tried to play hard to get; she had been a total pushover, the perfect low-maintenance wife, it seemed.

She picked up her skirts and walked past the coach that was waiting for the stragglers from the orchestra, pausing to speak to the coach driver before she approached the curved sweep of stone steps that led up to the impressive entrance.

She glanced upwards; the massive double doors were flung open and the light spilled outwards, illuminating the banks of flowers that tumbled over the stone-flagged terrace onto the steps.

For a moment she felt a twinge of professional pride that almost immediately tipped over into sadness.

The problem was that this had got very personal.

This was Marco’s home and she had wanted to make it a place he loved, a place where he could bring up his family. She had succeeded, and in a way that success had made her the author of her own misery.

This was Marco’s retreat from the eyes of the world; it had hurt to think about him sharing it with someone, and now she had a chance to be that someone.

She had been tempted, but only for a moment.

She paused as a small laugh was drawn from her throat and she suddenly realised how much she had changed. Not so long ago she would have taken what he had offered, because she was plain, plump Sophie, who couldn’t expect any more. She was Sophie, who didn’t deserve the love of a man like Marco Speranza.

But now she knew that she deserved more.

She deserved a husband who loved her.

As she put her foot on the first step, three figures appeared through the double doors and paused on the veranda.

‘Great—just what I need.’ She took the next steps slowly.

‘Here she is now.’ Carlotta Speranza, the chandeliers of diamonds on her ears swinging, moved gracefully forward before Sophie had reached the top and bent forward to kiss the air either side of her cheeks. No physical contact was involved, but Sophie had already noted that physical contact was not her thing. ‘Such a clever girl—you’re very lucky, Marco,’ she remarked, turning back to her son.

Before Sophie could reply the Speranza car pulled up on the gravel in the floodlit forecourt. The uniformed driver got out to open the passenger doors.

Sophie picked up her skirts and used the distraction it afforded to negotiate that final step and slip past them into the palazzo.

She stood for a moment framed in the doorway, the light reflecting the gold highlights in her shining hair. ‘Goodnight. Excuse me, I’m a little cold.’ She nodded towards the older couple and added, ‘It was very nice to meet you both.’ Then without waiting for a response she went inside.

Her heels clicked in the silence of the doorway; the last two musicians walked past and made their goodnights.

Then she was alone.

Sophie walked into the now-empty ballroom; the contrast with earlier was dramatic. The tables were cleared, the white linen cloths removed; the flowers destined for a local hospital had been taken away and the army of caterers had all retreated to the kitchen.

She sat down at an empty table, kicked off her shoes, stretched her toes and sniffed a flower arrangement that had presumably been deemed too wilted to make the move.

She felt pretty wilted herself, wilted and defeated. Elbows on the table she propped her chin in her hands.

You could see why he thought it was a done deal. All she’d done so far was fall in with his plans. Work for me, plan my party for me, sleep with me, fall in love with me…well, not the last. Marco had certainly not asked her to do that and, had he known, she had no doubt he would be appalled.

Marco, it seemed, was a one-woman man and he had given his heart to the gorgeous and, as far as Sophie was concerned, poisonous Allegra, and she had stamped all over it with her size sixes. Yet still when she clicked her fingers he came running.

Men were stupid, she reflected bitterly, and they wouldn’t know a good woman if they fell over one—cancel that—they would run in the opposite direction if they recognised one, or marry her and look for their excitement elsewhere.

That was clearly Marco’s grand plan.

Dropping her head onto the table she let out a long sibilant sigh and crossed one ankle over the other. ‘Ouch!’ Rubbing her shin she looked under the table to see what she’d hit herself on.

When she identified the culprit, a contemplative smile played around her lips.

‘Why not?’ she said, dragging out the champagne bucket that had been missed. She set it on the table and extracted the bottle from the water dotted with pieces of half-melted ice.

After a slight tussle she managed to pop the cork, sending froth all over the dress. Pressing a hand to the fizzing top she looked around for a glass, but there was none to be seen.

‘Oh, well!’ she said, lifting the bottle to her lips, and with a reckless, ‘Cheers!’ took a daring swallow.

Shaking her head as the bubbles slid down her throat she grimaced as she set the bottle back on the table. Safe, shy, hide-in-the-kitchen Sophie would never have done that, but this was the new improved version capable of being irresponsible.

‘Excellent, exactly what you need, Sophie.’ She took another swallow and shuddered. The new improved version didn’t like the taste either, but on principle—she was hazy on what principle—she swallowed. ‘Cheers to me, perfect hostess, party animal, low-maintenance wife material.’

She bit her lip on the quivering addition and the defiance died from her face.

‘Tell me,’ she began, directing the question around the empty ballroom.

‘Tell you what?’

Sophie gasped and spun around in her seat, her knee catching the chair beside her own and sending it tumbling over.

That you love me, she thought.

Marco unpeeled himself from the wall he was leaning on and stood there, looking the epitome of what all women secretly wanted and what all men wanted to be—dark, brooding and utterly gorgeous.

And he wants to marry me! She stared at him, committing his image to memory, each proud line of his face. The knowledge that she had to walk away and never see him again lay like a lead weight in her heart.

What if I can’t do it?

Sophie felt a moment of pure fear, but pushed it away and glared at him.

‘Do you have to creep up like that?’ she snapped, thinking maybe they could have sex one last time…That sort of thinking, Sophie, is the direction that leads to total lack of self-respect.

Marco raised a brow. ‘You were too busy talking to yourself to hear me,’ he observed, bending down to lift the overturned chair. Setting it upright he straddled it, his hands resting on the back.

‘So your mother is gone?’ she said brightly.

Marco’s lips tightened. ‘Finally.’ For once she had been inclined to linger.

‘A Balfour,’ her escort had said as he got into the car. ‘I couldn’t be more delighted for you.’

His mother bestowed her gracious commendation. ‘You have my total approval, Marco.’

The irony was not wasted on Marco, who had spent his childhood trying to gain parental approval, or at least parental attention, but had now neither wanted or needed either for many years.

‘Approval for what?’

‘A Balfour,’ the boyfriend had said again to himself. ‘Well, well, I might just drop Oscar a line. From his point of view this is very good timing. A wedding is always good press…the feel-good factor. Yes, a Balfour could be a very useful connection for you…’

Marco’s hands clenched at his sides. He could contain himself no longer. It was that damned name, the same name that Sophie had been trying to live up to all her life. She’d spent all those years thinking she wasn’t good enough to be a Balfour when the truth was she was too damned good!

In his opinion the Balfours needed to be given a few home truths and he would have no problem delivering them.

‘Will you stop saying that!’ Marco had shouted at his mother and her friend.

His mother’s smile had faded, and she had cast a bewildered look towards her escort. ‘Stop saying what, Marco?’ Displays of emotion from her self-contained son were not something she was accustomed to.

‘Balfour! You will not judge her on her name. No, actually,’ he said, reconsidering his comment. ‘You will not judge her at all. Her name is irrelevant—she is Sophie. I don’t give a damn who her father is.’ He drew a breath and added quietly, ‘She is herself, which is better than I deserve.’

Having delivered this parting shot and aware that his mother was staring at him open mouthed, he had bid them both an abrupt and cold goodnight and walked away, wondering at the impulse that had made him speak out but glad he had.

Sophie was so stressed, waiting for him to speak, that she almost reached for the bottle again; the tension was unbearable—was he going to bring up the proposal or was he already having second thoughts? His enigmatic green eyes continued to move over her face; the silence stretched, the atmosphere thickened some more.

Sophie held his gaze, her sense of desperation growing with each nerve-racking second, until she could bear the silence no longer. Her lashes swept downwards and she expelled the breath trapped in her chest in a series of fractured sighs.

‘So your mother enjoyed herself?’ She winced, hearing the manic brightness in her tone. It was hard to tell if Marco had noticed; he looked…Abstracted was the closest she could come to describe the way he was behaving.

He shrugged with fluid grace and dragged a hand along the dark shadow on his jaw.

The action brought Sophie’s eyes to the stubble. Her thoughts drifted back to…God, it was only this morning! It seemed like several lifetimes ago that she had woken in his arms determined to enjoy every second of the time they spent together, with no marriage proposals to present her with a major moral dilemma.

Only that morning he had questioned with concern the faint red marks on her breasts, suggesting, quite ludicrously, that she consult a doctor.

Then she had said, ‘What a good idea, because I’ve nothing much to do today other than coordinate the caterers, arrange to increase the security at the south gate, organise the musicians transport because the coach company—’

Oblivious, it seemed, to her sarcasm he had cut across her increasingly overwrought list.

‘You can delegate.’

Sophie had dropped the hand she had used to tick off the list of her tasks and stared at him, then realised where his eyes were focused and grabbed a sheet to cover her naked breasts. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? I know you think you’re the only one who’s indispensable, but actually today I’m—’

‘Calm down.’

The languid advice had made her grate her teeth.

‘We can cancel, if necessary.’

‘You think that’s funny, I suppose?’

‘I will arrange a medical consult this morning.’

That was the point where she had realised he wasn’t joking and that he had suffered a sense of humour by-pass. Clearly, though he hid it well, he was feeling the pressure of the forthcoming party too, so she had explained in an embarrassed rush that he needn’t worry…she didn’t have anything contagious. His important guests wouldn’t be contracting some rare disease.

What she had was not catching, although an epidemic of love might be interesting to observe.

‘It’s just your…’ One hand remained clutched to the sheet pressed to her breasts as she had pointed at his face. ‘Last night you hadn’t shaved.’

He still hadn’t, and the heavy dusting of stubble gave him a distinctly piratical air that she did not find unattractive. ‘My skin is a bit sensitive.’ He had been instantly contrite and promised to always shave in future.

It was then that Sophie had rather self-consciously explained that she liked the feel of his beard on her skin and it wasn’t really painful, just…

Marco, his green eyes gleaming with wicked laughter, had let her struggle for words a while longer before he had helped her out.

‘Arousing?’

The low throaty suggestion had been made in an indecently sexy voice and she had forgiven the laughter shining in his eyes because there had been other, warmer things mingled with it.

And when he had pulled the sheet from her grasp and asked how much she liked the feel…things from there had taken a predictable course.

She had been running late and playing catch up all day because the extra hour he had suggested in bed had turned into two.

Struggling to focus on the here and now Sophie pushed away the graphic erotic images that crowded into her head and said, ‘And now your mother’s off to America.’

‘Is she?’ Marco said, sounding uninterested.

‘The stage tour.’ She had talked about little else all night. ‘Don’t you care?’ She couldn’t help but feel sad about the relationship he had with his parents.

Her family might be dysfunctional and school had been a nightmare but she had always been surrounded by love, and her heart ached for the lonely little boy Marco had been. If she ever had children she would make sure they knew they were loved and wanted and not farm them out to other people or send them to school when they were virtually babies.

‘No, I don’t care. Although I feel I should mention that she and her banker friend think us getting married is an excellent move. You have no idea what a weight that is off my mind.’

‘You had absolutely no right to tell them we were getting married.’

‘I didn’t.’

Sophie ran a tongue across her dry lips and directed a suspicious glare at him. ‘Then why did they act as if we…?’ She stopped and directed a cranky look at him. ‘Will you stop smouldering at me, it’s…it’s…’

‘Smouldering?’ he echoed, amusement briefly lightening the intensity of his stare.

‘Yes, smoulder…you smoulder…’

‘And you don’t like it?’

Her eyes fell from the glitter in his but not before the trembling in her limbs had reached her core…Because I do like it, she thought, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. The pressure did nothing to ease the liquid heat deep inside.

‘I can’t concentrate.’

‘Tell you what…I’ll stop smouldering if you stop looking at me with those big blue hungry eyes.’

The eyes under discussion flew to his face. ‘I do not have…’ She stopped, unable to repeat the phrase which, considering the level of carnal knowledge he had of her, was faintly ludicrous.

He arched a sardonic brow. ‘Why do you think my mother assumed we were an item?’

‘I don’t know, what have you been saying?’ If he thought he could force her hand that way, he was about to learn how wrong he was. Of course, if he had chosen a persuasive route that involved touch and his mouth she would have felt a lot less secure.

‘I say as little as possible to my mother. There’s very little point as no subject that doesn’t feature her actually gets her attention.’

An unwelcome image flashed into her head of a little boy ignored by selfish egocentric parents who were totally wrapped up in their own lives.

‘It might be an idea if you told your family about us before my mother goes into networking mode.’

‘Tell my…? What…?’

‘The banker thinks the Balfours have useful connections and my mother has always wanted to be invited to the Balfour Ball.’

‘She can have my ticket. I spent the last one in the kitchen.’

‘And look at you now.’

To Sophie’s dismay he accepted his own invitation, his eyes scrolling slowly upwards from her toes. By the time his glittering gaze reached her face her breathing was all over the place, but then, she thought with a spurt of resentment, he knows exactly what he can do to me and he doesn’t have to even touch me to do it.

She gritted her teeth and lowered her gaze. ‘It’s a lovely dress. Mia has excellent taste.’

‘You have an excellent body,’ he drawled. ‘And I think I like Mia better than the rest of your family.’

Sophie felt the colour mount in her cheeks and, annoyed with herself, kept her voice flat as she redirected the conversation. ‘You don’t know my family.’ And she didn’t warm to the idea of him liking Mia.

‘I suppose I’ll have to meet the Balfours when we’re married.’ And he would make it clear to them that the days of treating his wife like an extra in their exotic lives was over, he thought grimly.

Imagining the effect Marco would have on her gorgeous sisters Sophie felt queasy. As for the effect they might have on him she wasn’t going there! ‘You’re never going to meet my family,’ she told him with total confidence.

‘Why, are you ashamed of me?’ His glance slid to the bottle she was pushing around in circles on the table. ‘Have you been drinking that?’

She slung him a look of fake defiance. ‘It was a shame to let it go to waste.’

‘You know you can’t drink.’

It always amused him that she got giggly after one glass of wine, a refreshing change from Allegra’s excesses.

The reproach drew a laugh from Sophie’s aching throat. ‘There were lots of things I thought I couldn’t do, but I’m surprising myself every day.’

‘I was going to ask, have you looked at the contract, but I can see there would be no point if you’ve been drinking.’

‘There is no point and, for the record, Mr Moral Majority, I haven’t been drinking…yet…Sophie added, throwing him a look of sparkling challenge before she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a swallow.

‘Elegant,’ he admired.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. ‘And if I want to get blind drunk I will!’ she announced, fixing him with a belligerent glare. ‘Actually, I’ll do what I damn well please, just like you. I’ve no intention of reading the contract because I’ve no intention of marrying you.’

‘Accidenti! You are drunk.’

Sophie raised a brow and thought wistfully, I wish. ‘Let me get this straight. I must be drunk because I don’t want to marry you. God, you really do love yourself, don’t you!’ Feeling reckless and not nearly as defiant as she wanted to be she reached for the bottle, but he moved it away. She clenched her teeth and glared at him.

‘How dare you!’

‘It’s my champagne, cara. I’m only thinking of your head.’ Actually, he was thinking more about other parts of her delicious body. It was hard to think about much else when she was sitting there in that dress that looked as though she had been poured into it.

A man had his limits and his libido had been wildly out of control all night, aware he had not been the only male present unable to take his eyes off her. He had been torn between the desire to pick her up and take her to bed and the strong inclination to knock the teeth of every man she had smiled at down their throats.

She had done a lot of smiling and he had totally exhausted his reserves of self-restraint. Being a modern man was exhausting.

Their combative glances locked and it was Sophie, her china-blue eyes sparkling with tears, who looked away first. She clenched her teeth, determined not to let him see her cry.

‘I’ll buy my own. I’ll buy a crate!’ She sniffed childishly.

‘I do not find women who drink attractive.’

‘But it’s fine for men to drink.’ Though Marco only did so in moderation, she had never seen him do more than toy with a glass of wine over dinner and indulge in the occasional brandy. ‘You know you really are a total chauvinist!’

‘Are you going to tell me any time soon what is going on?’ he asked, with a sardonic smile that left his green eyes guarded. His quiet voice brought her head up. The indentation between her feathery brows deepened as she scanned his handsome face and gave a wild laugh. ‘That’s the worst part—you haven’t the faintest idea.’

Marco’s control slipped.

‘Will you stop being cryptic and tell me what is wrong!’

‘Do not raise your voice to me!’ Actually, he had lowered his voice the way he always did when he was particularly angry.

He reached his hand toward hers as it lay on the table. ‘Sophie…’

Sophie ignored the appeal in his deep voice and snatched her hand back, pretending not to notice him flinch, because she couldn’t afford to allow her resolve to weaken.

‘You don’t have the right to yell at me. I don’t work for you any more.’

‘I think our relationship has moved on a little from employer-employee.’

‘Employer-employee with benefits?’

Marco drummed his fingers on the table before pushing aside the chair and getting to his feet. The muscles worked in his jaw as he struggled to control his impatience.

‘That was not what I meant.’

‘I slept with you,’ she said, making her voice hard as she tilted her head back to look up at him. ‘Well, we all make mistakes, but on the plus side—’

Marco’s silky voice cut across her. ‘Oh, there is a plus side, then? I was beginning to wonder.’

‘Tonight was a success.’

He clicked his fingers dismissively. ‘To hell with tonight.’

Sophie turned her wrathful gaze on him. ‘I went through hell to make this night perfect for you,’ she told him in a quivering voice.

‘Perfect,’ he retorted, ‘would not have included you spending the entire night flirting with every man in the room…flaunting your body,’ he added, a pulse in his neck pounding as his glittering eyes raked her body.

Sophie closed her mouth. ‘Flaunting!’ she echoed.

‘That dress someone poured you into.’ His eyes lifted from the heaving contours of her breasts and rested critically on her face. ‘And that stuff on your face, it is not you.’

Not so long ago she would have been devastated by such scathing comments but though it hurt she discovered she had the confidence to lift her chin and say, ‘You said you liked my dress.’

‘I have changed my mind.’

‘Anyway, how would you know what is me?’

‘I know you better than anyone, Sophie, and I’m not just talking in the biblical sense. And I know this is not the woman I asked to marry me, or have you forgotten that? Did it slip your mind?’

Sophie lifted her shimmering eyes to his. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘And…?’ he prompted, looking at her with an intensity that made her glad the table hid the fact that her knees were shaking.

‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life.’

He paused and blinked. Twice his nostrils flared as he inhaled and pinned her with a piercing green glare. ‘Some women would not consider it an insult to be asked to marry me.’

‘Well, marry them, because I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth!’

‘Can I ask why the idea fills you with so much repugnance?’

‘Because I’m not the practical woman you think I am. Just because I’m not some skinny model with legs up to her ears doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.’’ Unable to repress the emotions that seethed in her chest, the declaration exploded from her. ‘But most of all, I can’t marry you, Marco, because I’m in love!’

‘In love?’

‘Yes.’ Too late now to retract but she could still save herself from utter humiliation.

His classic features appeared carved of stone as he shook his dark head. ‘No, you’re not.’

Thrown a little by his reaction Sophie got to her feet, her actions hampered a little by her long skirts. ‘Why? Aren’t I allowed to be in love?’

‘If you have some childish crush on a man…’ he said, thinking he would track down this man and make very sure that he never took advantage of Sophie’s trusting innocence.

Like you did?

‘Not childish.’

Her eyes big and wide and impossibly blue shone with the same calm conviction that was in her voice as she said, ‘And not a crush. I’ll never love anyone else.’ She’d never really bought into the whole soulmate thing, until she had discovered hers.

‘Well, I wish you every happiness,’ he snarled, aware that if he was a man with more altruism and nobility he might mean it.

‘I won’t be happy.’ Which wouldn’t make her unique. There was nothing special about her that entitled her to a happy-ever-after scenario. The world was full of unhappy people. She would blend in with life’s other sad losers.

‘He’s in love with someone else.’

Marco rocked on his heels as though he had been struck. He shook his head in utter rejection, his hands hanging loose at his sides, clenched into white-knuckled fists as he resisted the impulse to demand the identity of this imbecile.

‘No,’ he said quietly. She was his.

They were meant to be together, did she not see this? Why had he only just realised it?

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean…’ He took a step towards her and caught the soft scent of her perfume, the same perfume he smelt when he buried his face in her hair and the same perfume that he smelt on his skin after she’d spent the night in his arms. Very conscious of the empty aching feeling in his chest, he said, ‘Marry me. I’ll make you forget him.’

She stared at him, seeing him through a blur of bitter tears and missing the extreme pallor on his face. ‘If you only knew how funny that was.’

‘Sophie, I…’

The sound of someone clearing his throat noisily made Marco break off and he whipped around. ‘Get out!’

Sophie’s opinion of the head of security went up several notches when, instead of scuttling for the door as nine out of ten men who valued their safety would have done, he nodded apologetically towards Sophie before turning to Marco.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but…’

Marco, his body language not encouraging, gave the man a flat look from beneath heavy eyelids and said something harsh sounding in rapid Italian that Sophie couldn’t have followed even had her brain not been scrambled by the heated emotional interchange. The realisation of how close she had come to blurting out that she loved him filled her with total horror.

The other man winced and replied in the same language; his conciliatory manner did not lessen the ferocious scowl on Marco’s face.

‘I am needed. An enterprising paparazzi has been serving canapés while snapping the guests, he would have got away with it had he not decided to help himself to some mementos on his way out.’

Marco found himself wishing that his own security had not been so thorough.

‘Apparently the police were called and they want to know if I wish to press charges.’

‘And do you?’

There was the glint of steel in his eyes as he responded. ‘I have a reputation of guarding what is mine, cara.’

Sophie shivered. The underlying message was not exactly covert. ‘Is that a threat?’

He smiled, revealing even white teeth and a ruthless expression. ‘It is a fact.’

The calm pronouncement made far more impression than any exaggerated boast.

‘Your problem is you’ve started believing your own press releases.’

‘We will continue this discussion.’

‘It’s finished as far as I’m concerned.’

Eyes narrowed he took a step towards her and then stopped and threw a frustrated glance towards the exiting security chief who was speaking into an earpiece. ‘I have to sort this out. Do not,’ he added, pinning her with a lazer stare, ‘move from that spot. I will be back directly.’

The autocratic delivery would normally have drawn a sarcastic retort from Sophie but she was just relieved that it did not even occur to him she would ignore it. If it had, she would not have put it past him to put her under guard.

She made herself wait a heart-thudding thirty seconds until his footsteps had died away before she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as her ridiculous heels would carry her.

And when they sank into the freshly watered grass of the lawn she took them off and ran barefoot over the grass. Though stumbled might have been a better, more accurate description as she was coping with such a tight-fitting dress.

She would weep later and think later but right now her actions were governed by instinct not logic and she had absolute tunnel vision. She had to escape. The how and where to were not a priority…the priority was getting away from Marco before her weakening resolve snapped.

Get away before she managed to rationalise a decision to say, Yes, I’ll marry you. Before she convinced herself that she could make him love her. Before she decided that life with him on any terms was better than an existence without him—without hearing his voice, or seeing his face or smelling his skin.

Oh, my God, I need to get out of here!

Escape was a good thing but what she really needed was distance and a very thick door with locks—preferably several big ones—between them to stop her committing some ultimate act of criminal stupidity like saying, You’re the man I love!

This was about survival.

She headed instinctively for the main gated entrance, her feet making prints in the newly watered grass. The security, she knew, was aimed at keeping people out, not keeping them in. She would pass through without comment, though the shoeless situation might cause a few raised brows.

Stopping to catch her breath, she tried to focus her thoughts. What she needed, she decided, clasping her hands to her thighs as she leaned forward panting, is sensible shoes. No…what she needed was transport. The question was what transport and how did she get it?

It was then she had her brain wave—how could she have been so slow? The air-conditioned garage complex was stuffed full of Marco’s cars, and who was going to notice if one went missing?

It was not a solution that normally would have crossed her mind, but the circumstances were not normal and she was desperate.

Slipping through the trees, she passed into the courtyard where the garage was situated. Pausing to glance furtively over her shoulder she tiptoed across the cobbles. If anyone was around she’d have to think of something else…a taxi, maybe?

It was always good to have a plan B, but would a taxi come this far out at this time of night? Even if it would she doubted that it would take an IOU.

Much to her relief, nobody appeared. The courtyard area was deserted and—it got better—the folding doors of the building were half open and the lights inside were on.

There was no sound of activity so she presumed that someone had left without locking up; it was about time something went her way tonight.

The only way to find out for sure if someone was inside was to go in. Sophie took a deep breath and headed straight for the first car she saw. It happened to be a four-wheel drive and as she climbed up to the passenger seat her skirt snagged on a tool box that lay on the floor. She heard the sound of ripping fabric as she frantically pulled it free but didn’t pause to look at the damage.

The key was in the ignition.

She raised her eyes and whispered a heart felt thank-you. It was as if it was meant to be.

It was destiny.

It is theft, retorted the voice in her head. The same voice asked how far she was going without money or a passport, but Sophie ignored that too. She turned the ignition. It wasn’t as if she intended to keep it, just to borrow it.

She was backing out of the driveway when in the periphery of her vision she saw a figure running down the drive towards her. Without turning her head, she knew exactly who it was. Sophie jammed her foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward in a shower of gravel.

Heart thudding, she drove at speed down the driveway, hit the bend fast, then exhaled when the lights of the palazzo vanished. She had escaped. She didn’t feel any better, though. In fact, she felt worse and her head hurt from trying not to hear every stupid instinct in her body screaming turn around and go back!

Her powers of self-preservation needed some serious work!

As she approached the tricky second bend she braked. She braked again and nothing happened.

Her last thought before she hit the bend and everything went slightly crazy was, I’m going to die and I didn’t tell Marco I love him.

Chapter Sixteen

MARCO reached the open garage door just as the four-wheel drive drew away, spraying gravel into the air.

He swore and stood there glaring at the receding lights, his chest heaving. He couldn’t believe that she had run away from him, or rather driven away like a grand-prix racing driver.

He had never chased after a woman in his life, but he was about to now and when he caught up with her he would—Before he had an opportunity to think of a punishment dire enough to fit the crime a worried-looking mechanic in overalls appeared from inside of the garage, wiping his oily hands on a cloth.

He saw Marco and looked relieved.

Marco, who barely registered his presence, didn’t slow as the agitated man began to speak. He listened to the outpouring with half an ear as, face set in rigid lines of fierce determination, he headed towards the open garage door. Tonight was not going as he had planned, but then since he had walked in and found Sophie Balfour asleep in his office nothing had gone as planned. His life was falling apart.

‘I wish I’d never met her!’ he growled.

Never seen that face. An image formed in his head of her face, the curve of her cheek, the soft pink generosity of her lips. She was a woman with no hard edges; she was soft and warm, except when she was berating him.

About to pull open the door of the first car he came to he stopped and turned back to the mechanic, who was speaking quickly, frantic to get his point across to his obviously disinterested boss.

‘What do you mean no brakes?’ Though the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the mechanic had meant exactly what he’d said.

‘There are none, no brakes. I was working on them.’

‘You were working on your own car?’

‘No, it’s not mine,’ the man hastened to assure him. ‘One of the guests had trouble with it and I said I’d take a look…I only left for a moment to get a drink and…whoever has taken it is going to be in real trouble when they try and brake.’

A picture of the steep bend a few hundred yards down the drive flashed into Marco’s head at the same moment as there was a loud discordant noise in the distance.

Noise, then silence.

The silence was almost worse. Marco hit the ground running, his open jacket flapping as he ran. He struggled to banish the nightmare images of twisted metal, and a broken body flashed kaleidoscope-like through his mind…She was fine.

She had to be fine. He couldn’t think, he needed to focus; he needed to run, he needed to get to her.

The scene that met his eyes as he rounded the bend drew a groan from his dry throat. ‘This isn’t happening.’ He shook his head in denial of what he was seeing.

The off-roader was just that. It had overturned and taken out several saplings with it; the fallen greenery partially blocked it from view but by the light from the headlights he could see that it was upside down.

Icy tentacles of paralysing fear spread through his body, threatening briefly to overwhelm him, but Marco pushed past it.

His first instinct was to rush straight in, but he made himself pause and assess the situation.

The off-roader’s position, lying at a drunken forty-five degree angle up the steep embankment at the side of the drive, was precarious. He approached it cautiously; one false move and it would crash down the slope, causing God knows how much damage to Sophie, who had to be unconscious, or else she would surely have replied to his calls.

The smell hit Marco almost immediately; his nostrils flared. The air reeked of pungent petrol fumes. With a grimace he registered the pool of petrol forming on the road below and swore. One spark and the whole thing would go up.

‘Sophie!’ Marco was not a praying man but he prayed now as he worked his way around the vehicle. ‘Sophie!’

His frustration mounted as he saw that the driver’s side of the vehicle was jammed into the grassy embankment—the door was not accessible. Still calling her name and still getting no response he worked his way back around to the passenger side, his progress hampered by the loose ground beneath his feet that kept crumbling away.

After what felt to Marco like an age he reached the door. Dropping to his knees he called her name as he heaved his upper body through the open window.

‘Sophie!’ Inside the fumes were thick enough to make him cough.

He scanned the interior, dread clutching like a vice in his chest, anticipating the worst. When he saw the cab was empty and she wasn’t there his initial relief was quickly followed by frustration.

Where the hell was she?

He saw the piece of torn red fabric first, fluttering in the breeze that blew in through the cracked windscreen. It was when he went to pick it up that he saw the second flash of red, a smear on the windscreen, and he froze. He reached out a hand. Unable to take his eyes off the stain on his fingers he closed his eyes.

Then he shook himself and thought, Get in gear, Marco. Sophie was injured but she was alive. He had to find her and, considering the blood and the amount of petrol sloshing around, sooner would be better than later…

As he pulled himself out of the car he heard a sound.

He stopped and, head tilted on one side, listened.

Frustrated he heard nothing but the distant call of a hunting owl. Then just as he began to slide down the slope he heard it again, but this time louder; it was a definite whimper.

Forgetting caution he slid backwards down the rest of slope and, landing gracefully on his feet, moved in the direction of the sound, still calling her name frantically.

He had gone a couple of yards when she appeared out of the shadows.

She blinked in a dazed manner when she saw him and said his name.

Light-headed with sheer relief he didn’t respond, he just stared. She was a pitiful sight: her beautiful dress in shreds, her face filthy, blood oozing from what looked—much to his relief—like a superficial wound on her forehead. There was also a bruise along her cheekbone but to him she had never looked more beautiful.

He wanted to throttle her and kiss her and tell her that when she left a room it was empty and if she left him he’d be empty too…He loved her.

Saying it in his head made him feel lighter somehow. It was actually a release to finally admit it to himself.

He felt elation as emotions he had kept in cold storage broke free—elation and deep shame that he had been such a coward. Post-Allegra he had channelled his energies into work and sealed his heart off behind high walls, afraid to get hurt, afraid to make a fool of himself. Allegra had only ever been able to hurt his pride, not his heart, and maybe that was part of the reason she had been so spiteful…she knew it.

Sophie had dismantled the walls he had built brick by brick.

He had told himself that she wasn’t part of his plan so he had changed the plan to fit around her, because he had always known he couldn’t let her go.

‘You’re all right.’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ As if to disprove this claim she swayed. She grabbed the steadying arm that went to her waist and held on to his forearm with both hands. ‘Just a bit…’

‘Alive. You’re alive.’ A hoarse sound left his throat as he tugged her to him, then cradling the back of her head in one hand he pressed her face into his chest. His arms closed around her and she sighed and stopped fighting her feelings. This was where she wanted to be and she felt safe, and for that moment it was enough.

‘I thought—’ He broke off, saying something uneven in Italian.

She had never heard that note in his voice before and he sounded so strange that she made herself pull a little back. As she tilted her head to look up she was shocked by the anguish and tension stamped on his lean face.

‘I thought you were—’ Unable to complete the sentence he shook his head.

‘Me too, for a minute,’ she admitted. ‘I think I was thrown clear.’ She frowned; the sequence of events was still hazy.

‘Are you hurt anywhere?’ She stood passively while his big hands moved over her body; his light touch was clinical but the feelings it evoked were not.

Finding no obvious signs of injury Marco relaxed fractionally. ‘Does it hurt anywhere?’

‘No,’ she lied, thinking, everywhere. ‘Not broken,’ she joked shakily, ‘just bruised.’

He didn’t smile back. Her hand pressed to her head, she launched into a shaky apology. ‘I’m sorry about your car.’

‘It’s not my car.’

‘Oh?’ Were Italian jails nice? ‘I hadn’t been drinking—I’d only had two mouthfuls of the champagne…honestly! I just pressed the brakes and nothing happened. It just kept getting faster and then it tipped over twice. I wasn’t going to keep the—’

‘If you mention the car again I will kill you myself and save you the bother. Come, we need to get away from here, there’s petrol.’

Registering the smell for the first time Sophie nodded. ‘Right, of course…’ she murmured.

Marco watched as she pushed her hair back from her face with her forearm. The weary gesture and her attempt at a smile made things twist inside him.

Without a word he scooped her up into his arms and strode away from the accident scene.

Even if she’d had the inclination, she didn’t have the strength to resist, so instead Sophie tucked her head under his chin and held on tight.

He carried her as though she weighed nothing and he wasn’t even breathing hard.

He had put a few hundred yards between them and the car wreck when she became aware of the distant sounds of sirens. Before she could comment on it there was a hiss and then a loud explosion.

With her in his arms Marco leapt forward, throwing her to the ground and covering her body with his own while the world exploded around them—at least, it felt like that to Sophie.

She had no idea of how long they lay there but when Marco finally levered himself off her the air was filled with acrid smoke fumes, and the billowing orange flames from the exploded car lit the night sky.

Sophie rolled over. ‘Your face is bleeding.’

He dismissed the cut on his cheek with a shrug. ‘So is yours,’ he reminded her as he tugged her to her feet.

Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off the blazing vehicle. ‘I could have been in there.’

Marco saw the shudder run through her body. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. A nerve clenched in his cheek and his eyes were dark and shadowed as he said, ‘The point is that you are not in there.’

She nodded. ‘I know, it’s just…it makes you realise how…temporary everything is…how fragile.’

His lips twisted into a smile she didn’t understand as he said, ‘Not everything is temporary. Some things last forever and nothing can extinguish them, not fire…’ His deep voice broke huskily, his eyes flickering towards the smouldering pile of metal as he added, ‘Not anything.’

Before Sophie could respond to this cryptic utterance the first fire engine drew up, followed by a second, then a police car and an ambulance.

Blinking at the sea of flashing lights Sophie shook her head. ‘Goodness, that’s what I call overkill.’ And an overdose of testosterone, she thought as the firefighters sprang into immediate action, applying a smothering layer of foam to the flames.

‘That’s what I call about time,’ Marco retorted as he walked forward to meet the approaching paramedics. Even with his face streaked with smoke and mud, his clothes torn and filthy, he still stood out as the man in charge among a dozen hero types.

Though she could not hear the conversation Sophie could tell by the gestures that Marco was refusing the other man’s suggestion he check out his head wound.

The conversation was brief; a moment later Marco was back at her side

‘You go to the hospital in the ambulance. I will follow in the car.’

‘I don’t need to go to the hospital.’

A spasm of irritation crossed his lean features. ‘You have a head wound, you could have concussion.’

‘You have a head wound, you could have concussion, but you’re driving.’ She furrowed her brow in an attitude of feigned bemusement. ‘Is it just me? Or—’

‘Enough!’ Marco’s deep voice cut her sarcastic protest short. ‘You will go in the ambulance—this is not open to discussion.’

‘But—’ Sophie’s eyes flew wide and she let out a yelp as he picked her up. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

He handed her to a hunky paramedic and said, ‘I will see you at the hospital.’

He didn’t, well, not immediately. Sophie had been poked and prodded, her wounds cleaned and her X-rays pronounced clear, by the time he appeared.

‘We can go home now.’

Sophie embarrassed herself terribly and probably him by wailing she had no home and bursting into loud noisy tears.

‘You’re carrying me again,’ she complained as he strode out of the swinging glass doors.

‘You know what they say, keep your enemies close and the woman you love closer.’

Sophie stopped crying and stared at him. ‘That’s not what they say.’ She sniffed. ‘And you don’t.’

He turned his head and the glow in his eyes made her heart flip. ‘I do love you.’

‘But…’

He slid her into the passenger seat.

‘No buts,’ he said, placing a finger on her lips and walking over to the driver’s side.

She waited until he got in and said one word.

‘Allegra.’

Marco stiffened at the name. ‘This has nothing to do with Allegra.’

‘It has everything to do with her. I knock myself out trying to please you and still fail!’

‘You have not failed.’

Sophie ignored the interruption. ‘She humiliated you and cheated on you and you still love her.’

‘Allegra…’ He stopped and shook his head, a look of blank incredulity spreading across his face. ‘You think I love Allegra?’

His eyes scanned her face; he opened his mouth and appeared to change his mind. Then quite suddenly he smiled. Sophie, who could find nothing to laugh at in this situation, told herself he was a callous rat and she’d had a lucky escape.

Marco felt a rush of heady relief. ‘And that bothers you.’ It was a statement.

‘I couldn’t give a damn!’ she flung back, then seamlessly contradicting herself yelled, ‘It bothers me that you’re stupid and sh-shallow enough to be in love with someone who isn’t good enough to…to…’

As her feelings threatened to overcome her, Sophie pressed a hand to her trembling lips and shook her head mutely before choking, ‘Just because she’s beautiful on the outside.’

And despite lip service what man born, she thought cynically, cared a jot if a girl had a sense of humour or a lovely personality, if she was plain or fat or had cellulite. Men went for the package and in Allegra’s case that package was stunning.

‘I don’t give a stuff about Allegra.’ Marco’s lips didn’t even twist into their usual grimace as he said the name. ‘She is the past.’ He made a slashing gesture of finality before extending his hand to Sophie.

She looked at his fingers and wanted to take them, wanted to place her hand within his and feel safe and cherished, but she knew that she would be fooling herself. The safety would be an illusion.

‘The past that you have been writing to.’ She saw his eyes widen and said, ‘Yes, I know.’

‘How?’

At least he hadn’t bothered denying it. ‘I saw the return address on the envelope. I waited for you to tell me…I gave you every opportunity.’

‘I have been corresponding with Allegra, but we have not been exchanging love letters. I would not touch Allegra with a barge pole—I would not risk even that. Allegra is poison.

‘My marriage to her was pure hell from almost day one. She never wanted me, just what I could give her. I have been corresponding not to her direct but to her lawyers. It is Allegra who insists on writing to me personally. When she left she took some items that did not belong to her,’ he explained. ‘It was a loss I did not discover until recently, and I needed those items back.’

‘She stole something from you.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘What items?’

He reached into his jacket and withdrew a box.

‘It’s for you,’ he said, placing it on her lap.

Sophie slid him a sideways look. Marco smiled and tilted his head encouragingly towards the box.

Sophie opened it slowly and gasped.

‘They’re beautiful.’ The sapphire-and-diamond collar were set in antique gold, and there was a matching pair of earrings beside it. ‘They look very old.’

‘They date back to the Arabian invasion of Sicily,’ he said, watching her face.

‘So old…They’re beautiful, Marco, but I couldn’t possibly…’

Without a word Marco got out of the car. Sophie watched, thinking, My God, is he giving up?

I haven’t even had the chance to say no and he’s—

‘Sophie.’ Marco stood at the open door beside her.

He waited until he had her attention and dropped down on one knee.

‘I said I would never insult your intelligence this way but it is my intelligence that is in question. Sophie Balfour, my own dearest angel, I swear eternal love to you and ask—no, beg—you to marry me and…’ He stopped and lifted a hand. ‘One moment, I almost forgot.’

She watched, her brain still lagging one sentence behind, though that sentence was enough to make her heart soar, as he pulled a familiar-looking legal paper from his pocket.

‘This,’ he said, ripping it with slow relish into eight pieces, ‘we do not need.’ He flung the shredded paper over his shoulder and addressed the matter in hand.

‘Please do me the very great honour of being my wife. Before you say anything, let me tell you that if you say no I will be a broken man. I might even take to drink, not that I am in any way trying to influence you.’ The glimmer of humour faded from his eyes as he added huskily, ‘You brought my home back to life, and my heart. If you leave me, you take it with you.’

Sophie pressed a hand to her trembling lips. ‘I’m not going to say no, Marco, you know that.’

Marco raised her hand to his lips. ‘Where you are concerned, cara mia, I do not take anything for granted. I have been such a fool and a coward.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I was afraid to feel—my emotions have been in deep freeze until you, my own personal sun, melted them.’ He took her face tenderly in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

Sophie sighed and choked tearfully, ‘I love you, Marco.’

‘What about this man you spoke of…you invented him?’

‘He’s you.’

For a smart man Marco could be very stupid sometimes. The look of shock swiftly followed by complacence on his face made Sophie laugh and plead, ‘Please get back in the car, people will see you.’

‘I don’t care if they do. I want the world to know that you are mine.’

‘And you are mine?’

Marco’s expression was solemn as he placed her small hand on his heart and said, ‘Always. You said tonight that life is fragile and you were right—I almost lost you…’ She watched the muscles in his brown throat work as he visibly struggled to regain his composure.

Sophie leaned forward and stroked his cheek, touching a finger to the fresh wound. ‘I’m not going anywhere without you,’ she said lovingly. ‘You know what scares me, if that reporter hadn’t seen Bella and Olivia having their catfight, and Daddy hadn’t decided to change his ways, I would never have met you, and I would still be hiding away at Balfour being the plain one. I never feel plain with you, Marco, you’ve always made me feel beautiful.’

Marco rested his forehead against Sophie’s. ‘This is because you are beautiful.’

His throaty voice sent a shiver of pleasure though her body. He kissed her closed eyelids tenderly and she sighed before lifting her swimming blue eyes to his.

‘Can I really be this happy?’ she asked wonderingly. ‘Let’s go home, Marco. I like the way that sounds, home…I might say it again, possibly many times.’

‘Yes, it does have a good ring,’ he agreed, kissing the tip of her nose. ‘And, yes, let us go home. I have had enough of cars for one day. They have their uses but I require more room to express my feelings tonight.’

His wicked smile made her blush.

‘I have one request: do not come naked to my bed tonight.’

‘What?’

He grinned at her indignation. ‘I would like to see diamonds and sapphires against your skin.’

She pretended shock but was seriously aroused by the erotic suggestion. ‘You are a very bad man, Marco.’

He bent his head and kissed her hard before walking around to his side of the car. He started the ignition and turned to Sophie with a smile in his eyes that made her eyes fill.

‘I will attempt to always be bad for you.’

Sophie could find no fault with this plan.

Zoe’s Lesson

Kate Hewitt

Kate Hewitt discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen and she’s continued to read them ever since.

She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long – fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams – her older brother’s childhood friend – she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers – you can contact her through her website, www.kate-hewitt.com.

To Maggie, a great New York friend!

Love, K.

Chapter One

MAX MONROE gazed at the cherry blossoms outside the doctor’s office on Park Avenue, the fully opened buds as soft and round as pink puffballs. He blinked; were the blossoms blurring together into one indiscernible rosy mass, or was he imagining it? Fearing it?

He turned back to the doctor who was smiling at him with far too much compassion and steepled his fingers under his chin. When he spoke his voice was bland, deliberately so. ‘So what are we looking at? A year?’ He swallowed. ‘Six months?’

‘It’s difficult to say.’ Dr Ayers glanced down at the clipboard that chronicled Max’s history of sight loss in a few clinical sentences. ‘Stargardt’s disease is not a predictable process. As you know, many are diagnosed in childhood, yet yours was not detected until recently.’ He gave a tiny, apologetic shrug. ‘You could have months of blurred vision, loss of central vision, sudden blackouts…’ He paused, tellingly.

‘Or?’ Max asked, the single word opening up a well of unwelcome possibility.

‘Or it could be faster than that. You might have nearly complete loss of sight within a few weeks.’

‘Weeks.’ Max repeated the word with cold detachment, turning to gaze once more at the blowsy blossoms, now at the height of their glory. Perhaps he wouldn’t see them fall, wouldn’t witness the silky pink petals turn brown and wrinkled, curling up at the corners before they fluttered slowly, disconsolately to the ground.

Weeks.

‘Max—’

Max held up a hand to stop the doctor’s words of sympathy. He didn’t want to hear how sorry the man was, how Max didn’t deserve this. Polite but pointless offerings. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, his throat suddenly—stupidly—tight.

Dr Ayers shook his head, his words lapsing into a sigh. ‘Your case is unique, as the head trauma from your accident might have exacerbated or even accelerated the conditions of the disease. Many people with this disease can live with a managed condition—’

‘While others are legally blind and have nearly complete loss,’ Max finished dispassionately. He’d done his research, back when the first flickers of darkness rippled across his vision, as if the world had gone wavy. Back when he’d been able to read, watch, see. Just three weeks ago, yet a separate lifetime.

The doctor sighed again, then reached for a brochure. ‘Living with sight loss is challenging—’

Max gave a sharp bark of disbelieving laughter. Challenging? He could do challenging. He thrived on challenges. Sight loss was not a challenge. It was a devastation. Darkness, utter darkness, as he’d felt once before, when the fear had consumed him, when he’d heard their cries—He bit off that train of thought, refused to lose himself in the memories. It would be all too easy, and then he would never find his way back.

‘I could refer you to some groups that help you to become accustomed—’

‘No.’ He pushed the proffered brochure away and forced himself to meet the doctor’s compassionate gaze, angling his head so the man’s blurred face was in his peripheral vision, where his eyesight was best. He blinked, as though that would help. As though it would change. Already the world was losing its focus, softening and darkening at the edges like an old photograph. Shapes blurred, and spots and lights drifted across his vision, like stars in a darkening sky. How much he could see at any given time was, as Max was coming to realise, a complete crap shoot.

And when he was sightless, Max wondered, when the curtain of his vision finally drew completely closed, would the present reality—those vibrant cherry blossoms—be like an old photograph to him too? Blurred and distant, hard to remember, fading with time? How would he cope with the unending darkness? He’d felt it once before; he couldn’t bear to face it again, yet there was no choice. No choice at all.

He shook his head, both to block the thought and Dr Ayers’s suggestion. ‘I’m not interested in joining some kind of group,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ll handle this my own way.’

‘I’m not talking about some touchy-feely thing—’ Dr Ayers began. He was, Max knew, a military man, which is why he’d been referred to him. Army, though, not air force. And he hadn’t seen any action.

‘I know.’ He forced his lips to stretch into a meaningless smile. ‘Thank you.’ He rose from his chair, his head aching, his leg throbbing with pain. For a moment he felt dizzy, groundless, and he reached out to steady himself on the corner of the doctor’s desk. He missed, his hand swiping through air, and he cursed aloud.

‘Max—’

‘I’m fine.’ He righted himself, shoulders thrown back in military fashion, his eyes dark and hard, the scar that now bisected his face, running from the inside corner of his right eyebrow along the side of his nose to the curl of his lip, blazing with remembered feeling. Pain. ‘Thank you,’ he said again and, walking with careful, deliberate steps, he left the office.

Outside the window a single, silky petal fluttered lazily to the ground.

Zoe Balfour handed her wrap—nothing more than a bit of spangled silk—to the woman at the coat-check counter and ran a hand through her artfully tousled hair. Throwing back her shoulders, she stood for a moment in the soaring entrance of the Soho loft and waited for heads to turn. She needed heads to turn, shamelessly craved the attention and praise. She needed to feel like she always had, as though her world hadn’t blown apart when the newspapers had splashed the story of her illegitimate birth across their pages just three weeks ago. When the world—her world—had drawn a collective gasp of salacious shock. When she realised she didn’t know who she was any more.

She took a deep breath and entered the art gallery, plucking a glass of champagne from a nearby tray and taking a deep draught. She relished the crisp taste of it on her tongue, the bubbles zinging through her body. And she saw—and felt—the heads turn, but realised now she didn’t know why they were turning. Was it because she was a beautiful woman entering a party, or because they knew who she was—and who she wasn’t?

Zoe took another sip of champagne, as if the alcohol could ward off the despair that stole coldly into her soul despite her intent to have fun, to forget. It frayed the edges of her composure, made her feel as if she were teetering on the precipice of something terrible, an abyss she couldn’t even fathom or name. It was a despair and a fear she’d been fighting since the newspapers had told the story of her shame, and even more so since she arrived in New York three days ago, at the request of her father. No, Zoe mentally corrected, not her father. Oscar Balfour, the man who had raised her.

Her father was here in New York.

Only that afternoon she’d finally summoned her courage to stand outside the gleaming skyscraper on Fifty-Seventh Street, watching and waiting for a glimpse of the man she’d come here to see. She’d paced; she’d drunk three coffees; she’d even bitten her nails. After two hours he still hadn’t appeared and she’d slunk back to the Balfour penthouse on Park Avenue, feeling like an impostor, a fake and a cheat.

Because she wasn’t a Balfour.

For twenty-six years she’d smugly rested in the knowledge that she was one of the Balfour girls, a member of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most powerful families in all of England, if not all of Europe. And then she’d learned—from the front page of a gossip rag, no less—that she had not a drop of Balfour blood in her veins.

She was nobody, nothing. A bastard.

‘Zoe!’ Her friend Karen Buongornimo, the organiser of tonight’s gallery opening, looking sleek and elegant in a little—tiny actually—black number, her hair like a gleaming dark waterfall, pressed a powdered cheek to hers. ‘You look amazing, as I knew you would. Are you ready to sparkle?’

‘Of course.’ Zoe smiled, her voice airy and bright. Perhaps she was the only one to notice its brittle edge. ‘Sparkle is what I do best.’

‘Absolutely.’ Karen gave her shoulder a little squeeze and Zoe tried to inject some feeling into her smile. Her face hurt with the effort. ‘I’m just about to make some terribly insipid remarks—I have to thank our sponsors, including Max Monroe.’ Karen rolled her eyes suggestively, and Zoe raised her eyebrows, trying to act as if the name had meaning for her. ‘He’s apparently the most eligible bachelor in the city, but he’s certainly not winning any points from me tonight.’

‘Oh?’ Zoe took another sip of champagne. Someone else wasn’t having a good time, she thought, even as another part of her brain insisted fiercely that she was having a good time—she was the good-time girl. An accident of birth didn’t need to change that.

Because if it did…

‘No, he’s sulking—or really, glowering—in a corner, looking like he’s got a thundercloud over his head. Not exactly approachable.’ Karen pouted prettily. ‘He’s probably consumed a magnum of champagne on his own.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Still, he is rather sexy…I think the scar just adds to it, don’t you?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see the man in question,’ Zoe replied, surveying the milling crowd, her curiosity piqued, and Karen shrugged.

‘It won’t be hard to miss him. He’s the one looking like someone’s torturing him. He did have an accident a month or so ago, and he’s not been the same since. Such a nuisance.’ She shrugged again and set her glass on an empty tray, air-kissing Zoe on both cheeks. ‘All right, I must get everyone’s attention somehow.’ She pulled her designer dress down a bit, to reveal another inch of bronzed cleavage, and gave Zoe a salacious wink. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard.’ Smiling faintly, Zoe took another sip of champagne and watched her friend work the crowd. She was usually the one working the crowd, yet she found she couldn’t summon the energy or even the desire to chat and flirt and sparkle. All it seemed she could do was remember.

Illegitimacy Scandal Rocks Balfour Legacy!

When Blue Blood Turns Bad!

The newspaper headlines screamed inside her mind ever since a grasping journalist had overheard her sisters’ argument at the Balfour Charity Ball. They’d discovered the truth of Zoe’s birth in her mother’s forgotten journal, and Zoe wished they’d never opened that worn book, wished she could forget the truth that now would never escape her. Bad blood. Her blood.

The shame and pain of it was too much to endure or even consider, and so she hadn’t. She’d accepted every invitation, gone to every party and nightclub, in an attempt to forget the shame of her own birth, her own self. She’d found her wildest friends and acted as if she didn’t care. Yet all the while she’d been frozen, numb. Wonderfully numb.

Oscar had let her be for a fortnight, hardly ever home, arriving at dawn only to sleep the day away.

Then he’d finally forced her out of bed and called her into his study, that sanctum of burnished mahogany and soft leather, the smell of pipe tobacco lingering in the air. She’d always loved that room with its unabashed masculinity and its memories of Sunday afternoons curled into her father’s deep leather armchair, flipping through his old atlases and encyclopedias, reading and dreaming of faraway places, exotic names and plants and animals. She’d never been much of a student at boarding school, but she’d loved to read those fusty old books and then regale her family with odd little facts nobody expected her to know.

Yet that afternoon in her father’s study she hadn’t even glanced at the row of embossed leather encyclopedias. She’d simply stood by the door, listless and blank faced and a bit hungover.

‘Zoe.’ Her father swivelled in his desk chair to survey her with a kind-hearted compassion that made Zoe’s insides shrivel. It looked—and felt—like the compassion of a pitying stranger, not the deserved emotion of a father. ‘This can’t go on.’

She swallowed, her throat tight, and forced her shoulders to give a tiny shrug. Her head ached. ‘I don’t know what—’

‘Zoe.’ He spoke more firmly, giving her a stern stare that reminded her of when she’d been eight years old and had got into her stepmother’s make-up. She’d used most of a lipstick and eyeshadow in one sitting, and somehow managed to make it to school decked out in glittery warpaint without anyone noticing. ‘For the last fortnight you’ve been out all hours, God knows who with, doing what—’

‘I’m twenty-six years old,’ Zoe returned sulkily. ‘I can do as I like—’

‘Not in my house, with my money.’ Although his tone was level, there was a hardness in Oscar’s eyes that made Zoe stare at her feet, more miserable than ever before. ‘I know the story in that rubbishy newspaper upset you,’ he continued more gently, ‘but—’

‘It’s not a story.’

For a second Oscar looked nonplussed. ‘Pardon?’

‘It’s not a story,’ Zoe repeated a bit more loudly. She looked up, staring at her father with the angry challenge of a sulky child—except she wasn’t a child, had never been his child. ‘It’s the truth.’

Oscar was silent for a long moment, too long. ‘Oh, Zoe,’ he finally said, shaking his head, ‘is that what you think? That…that somehow this matters?’

‘Of course it matters,’ she’d replied, her voice torn between a hiss and a whisper. ‘It matters to me.’

‘Well, I can assure you it doesn’t matter to me,’ Oscar replied briskly. ‘If the truth must be told, Zoe, I suspected as much from before you were born—’

‘What?’ Zoe recoiled as if she’d been stung. Hurt. ‘You knew?’

‘I suspected,’ Oscar replied evenly. ‘Your mother and I—well, we hadn’t been happy together in some time—’

‘You knew all this time and you never thought to tell me?’ Zoe shook her head, blinking back angry tears.

‘Zoe,’ Oscar asked gently, ‘why would I tell you such a thing? You are—and always have been—my child in every way that matters.’

Zoe could only shake her head again, unable to voice the clamour of unsettling emotions that raced through her. How could she explain to her father that it wasn’t the same, that it did matter? She wasn’t a Balfour. She didn’t belong.

‘I know,’ Oscar continued quietly, his voice laced with his own sorrow, ‘this is difficult for you. In a matter of months you’ve lost your stepmother, and discovered you have another sister—’

‘But I don’t.’ Zoe met her father’s gaze directly. ‘Mia’s no blood relation to me.’ It hurt to say it. Only in the past few weeks had she—and the rest of her sisters—discovered Oscar’s affair before he married Lillian, and the daughter that had resulted from the one-night liaison. Yet while Mia had discovered she was a Balfour, Zoe had learned she was not. The irony tasted bitter in her mouth.

‘This isn’t about blood,’ Oscar said a bit sharply. ‘I know I’ve made my mistakes over the years, Zoe, but surely you know I’ve loved you and been a father to you.’

Tears pricked her eyes and she averted her face. ‘But I’m not a Balfour.’

Oscar was silent for a long moment, long enough for Zoe to fidget uncomfortably, afraid she’d said something too revealing.

‘I see,’ he finally said, and he sounded almost disappointed. ‘It’s simply about the name. Are you worried how people might see you? Judge you?’

Heat rushed into her face and she turned back to him. ‘So what if I am? You’re not the one whose photograph is being splashed about on the pages of every gossip rag—’

‘Actually, Zoe, I am, along with you and your sisters.’ Oscar sighed. ‘My mistakes are being proclaimed to the world, and I am learning to hold my head high in spite of them. I hope you can hold yours high too, for your last name or even the blood running through your veins doesn’t change who you are.’ Zoe said nothing. She couldn’t reply because in her mind it did.

Growing up she’d always felt different, as if she didn’t belong somehow. She’d thought it was simply because Bella and Olivia were twins; they had a bond that no one else could break or match. Or perhaps it was because she was the only one without any memories of her mother, since Alexandra had died in childbirth. Her birth. Emily had Lillian, whom everyone had loved; Kat, Sophie and Annie had their mother, Tilly, who was beloved by the other girls as well.

Zoe had no one. No mother she could call her own.

And now she knew why she’d felt so separate. It was this. She really didn’t belong. It wasn’t just a feeling; it was the truth.

‘I’d like you to go to New York,’ Oscar said, withdrawing a leather wallet from the drawer. Inside Zoe glimpsed a first-class plane ticket. ‘You can stay in the apartment there as long as you like.’

She took the wallet, her fingers digging into the soft leather. ‘Why do you want me to go?’ she asked, although she heard the question underneath: Why do you want me to leave?

Oscar sighed wearily and rubbed his eyes. ‘I read your mother’s journal myself, Zoe, and from the things she’s written, I have a good idea of who—’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice sounded sorrowful. ‘Who your biological father might be.’

Zoe stiffened, froze. ‘You know? Who?’

Oscar waved a hand towards the wallet. ‘The details are in there. But he’s in New York, and I think it will help you to know…and perhaps even to find him.’ He paused, his smile gentle and touched with sorrow. ‘You’re stronger than you think, Zoe.’

Yet she hadn’t felt strong then, and she didn’t now. She felt appallingly, pathetically weak, too weak even to look for the man she’d come to find. Too weak and afraid to even talk to anyone at this party; every outing frayed her composure, her sense of self, a bit more, until she was left clutching the ragged edges, feeling as if she had nothing, was nothing.

Who was she? Who could she be now?

Another sip of champagne, Dutch courage. God knew, she didn’t have any of the real kind.

Max surveyed the milling crowd in the art gallery, a mass of bright, blurred shapes. Had his vision worsened in the few hours since his doctor’s appointment, or was it simply psychological? His mind, bent with fear, making him think he really was seeing less? Although if vision were simply a matter of will, surely he would see perfectly by now. He wanted nothing more.

He took a sip of champagne, one shoulder propped against the metal pillar of the soaring loft space, its walls decked with nouveau art that fortunately really were just blobs of colour.

He hadn’t wanted to come tonight; the only reason he had was because his company, Monroe Consulting, had donated an embarrassingly large amount towards this exhibition. Glancing at the walls, Max wasn’t sure why he’d allowed a quarter million dollars to fund what looked like really appallingly bad art, but he supposed it hardly mattered. Someone on his board had made the decision months ago, and he’d signed off on it because he hadn’t much cared. He’d been too busy with his life, with managing his company, flying his plane and finding the next beautiful woman to grace his arm. All those pursuits, he acknowledged grimly, would soon be denied to him, one way or another. Some, like flying, were already. For the rest it was simply a matter of time.

‘Max.’ A woman pressed his hand with both of hers, and he inhaled her cloyingly floral scent. She dropped her voice to a breathy whisper. ‘So good of you to come. Considering…’ She trailed off delicately, but Max wasn’t in a mood to let her off the hook. He couldn’t quite make out her features but the nauseating perfume and the deliberate whisper told him all he needed to know. This was Letitia Stephens, one of New York’s most prominent aging socialites, and a notoriously vicious gossip.

He arched an eyebrow and offered his most urbane smile. ‘Considering what, Letitia?’

A tiny pause, and she withdrew her hands from his, shifting her weight in a slightly discomfited manner. ‘Oh, Max.’ This was said almost reproachfully, and Max just smiled and waited. ‘Everyone has been so worried for you…since the accident…’

Suddenly Max’s moment of good humour—or something close to it—evaporated. He’d walked right into that one, but he still didn’t want to be reminded of his accident…the smoke, the sudden darkness. The spiralling into nothingness, the agonising understanding of just what had happened. The pain and the memory. No, he didn’t want to remember.

He straightened, his body stiffening, shoulders back, a position he wore like armour, remembered not only from his years in the military, but from childhood.

Stand up straight. Take it like a man.

‘Thank you for your concern.’ He said it as a dismissal, and Letitia Stephens was—for once—wise enough to accept it as such. Max was glad he couldn’t see well enough to catch the murderous glare she was undoubtedly favouring him with, the poisonously saccharin smile. He turned away, not wanting to invite another conversation.

Alone, he tossed back the last of his champagne and debated leaving. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and the organiser of tonight’s party, a glamorous socialite named Karen Buongornimo—all he’d seen was a flash of dark hair and the gleam of an artificially whitened smile—had yet to speak. He would be publicly thanked; he needed to stay. This would, he determined, be the last such event he attended. It wasn’t simply difficult to navigate the sea of blurred faces and bodies; it was dangerous and humiliating. He did not intend to endure it another time. Grimacing, he held out his glass for a refill.

Zoe skirted the edge of the crowd, clutching her champagne, avoiding conversations. She watched as Karen called for everyone’s attention, and half listened as she gave a flowery speech about the importance of supporting emerging artists and how Monroe Consulting had been so fabulously generous. Monroe Consulting…that must be Max Monroe’s firm. The man with the thundercloud. Zoe felt another little dart of curiosity. She tossed back the rest of her champagne. Tonight was not a night for thinking. Or remembering.

Tonight she was going to have fun. She was good at that; she’d always been good at that. And now it helped her to forget.

‘And I’m sure Max Monroe would like to say a few words…’ Zoe didn’t so much as hear Karen’s introduction as the deafeningly awkward silence after it. Heads turned, bodies swivelling, waiting for the man in question to speak.

He didn’t.

Zoe craned her neck, standing on tiptoes in her already stiletto heels, but there were too many people—not to mention a large concrete pillar—for her to see the dreaded Max.

Finally, when the silence had gone on long enough for Karen to look both annoyed and embarrassed, and several people had cleared their throats in a telling manner, he spoke.

‘I have one word.’ His voice was low, his tone dry, almost, Zoe thought with a pang of recognition, bitter. ‘Cheers.’

Another silence, and then someone called out, ‘Hear, hear!’ and a peal of laughter like staccato gunfire burst out, the tension easing. No one wanted the party to be ruined, it seemed.

‘Cheers,’ Zoe said aloud, and reached for another glass of champagne.

She might not be a Balfour any more, but she could still act like one.

She surveyed the crowd; she recognised most people, knew only a few. Good. It was better that way. Tonight she wanted to laugh and forget the burden of her birth. She wanted to have fun.

‘Drowning your sorrows, darling?’

Zoe froze. She knew that voice, hated that voice. She turned slowly, hardly able to believe who she was seeing…Holly Mabberly, her nemesis from boarding school and the it-crowd in London. They weren’t enemies, precisely. Nothing so uncivilised. In fact, most people probably thought they were friends. They air-kissed and chatted in public, laughed in perfect trills and fetched each other drinks. During one winter evening Holly had even borrowed her new pashmina when they’d decided to walk to another party. Zoe wasn’t sure she’d ever returned it.

Yet she would never call Holly her friend. She remembered in year four at Westfields, when a scholarship girl had been caught filching lipsticks from the chemist’s in the village, and had been expelled. Holly had smiled a terribly cold smile and said, ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

Zoe didn’t know why that seemingly insignificant moment had stuck with her, why that smile had chilled her to the bone, the offhand, callous remark cutting deep. Yet it had. For in Holly’s arctic gaze she sensed a predatory anticipation, an eagerness to see the high brought low.

And this was surely the moment she’d been waiting for, for Zoe had been brought very low indeed.

Zoe hesitated a split second before taking a final sip of her drink, draining its dregs. Then she lifted her head, tilting her chin as she deposited her glass on a nearby tray. ‘What sorrows, Holly?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I’m having the time of my life.’

Holly’s mouth turned delicately down at the corners in a perfected expression of false compassion. She reached out to clasp Zoe’s bare arm with her hand, her fingernails digging into the tender skin. ‘You don’t need to pretend with me, Zoe. I know—well, actually I can’t know, as I’m not…you know—but I can only imagine how you feel absolutely—’ she paused, searching for the word before latching onto it with relish ‘—destroyed.’ She squeezed her fingers again as she added sadly, ‘Completely lost.’

Zoe blinked, surprised by Holly’s inadvertent perception, for that was exactly how she felt. Lost, spinning in a great void of unknowing, the ground she’d thought so solid under her feet not simply shifted but gone. She blinked again, refocusing on Holly, her blue eyes narrowed to assessing slits, her mouth still curved in a smile that didn’t even bother masquerading as anything but malice.

‘Lost?’ she repeated with a little laugh. She choked on the sound; it wasn’t her perfect trill. More like a wobble. ‘Good gracious, Holly, you’re sounding awfully melodramatic. Why should I feel lost? I think the only time I felt that way was when we tried to walk back from the Oxford-Cambridge boat race—do you remember?’ She laughed again, and this time the sound rang true—or rather false—a perfect crystalline peal. ‘It took us four hours to make it from Putney Bridge to Mayfair. Too many drinks, I suppose.’

‘Darling.’ Holly squeezed her arm, her nails digging in deeper. Zoe bit the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing. ‘I told you, you don’t need to pretend with me.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper that still managed to carry to seemingly every corner of the room. ‘Is it just too, too awful? Is that why you came to New York? To get away from all the gossip, the whispers and stares?’ Holly made a moue, the expression of sympathy so patently false it made Zoe’s skin crawl.

‘I’m fine, Holly,’ she managed to say, but her voice sounded wooden. It had been three weeks since the Charity Ball, but this was the first person who had dared to openly confront her about the tabloid’s story in all that time, the first person whose scorn and relish she had to face, and of course it had to be Holly Mabberly. Yet it hardly mattered; there were dozens of Holly Mabberlys in the world, in her life, people who would act just the same as she was, disguising scorn with sympathy. She shook Holly’s arm off, giving her an icy smile. ‘So sorry to disappoint you, as I’m sure you’d prefer me in floods of tears, but really, I’m fine.’

Holly just shook her head. ‘Oh, darling, you don’t need to take it out on me.’ This was said with the perfect combination of reproach and pity that had Zoe swallowing a molten lump of fury. Holly patted her cheek. ‘I can only imagine how utterly difficult it must be. You can hardly hold your head up in England any more, can you? Not amongst anyone who matters anyway.’ Holly clucked her tongue, and this time her voice carried all too well. ‘It’s too, too sad. I suppose blood will out, though, won’t it?’

To her horror Zoe found her eyes suddenly filling with tears. Stupid. Holly’s remarks were childish and aimed to wound; how could she let them? And how could she cry here? She wanted to hold her head high and proud, as Oscar had said. She did. She just wasn’t sure she could. She wasn’t strong, no matter what he thought.

She could not, would not, cry now, not in front of Holly Mabberly, who would gloat and tell every soul and socialite from here to Paris, not in a room full of strangers who suddenly seemed no more than a gang of nosy eavesdroppers. Not here. Please, not here. She hadn’t cried since she’d learned the news; she’d kept it together, her composure all too fragile but still intact. Why on earth would she break down in the middle of a party?

She’d been having fun, for heaven’s sake.

‘Oh, Zoe…’ Holly murmured, reaching out again, but Zoe avoided her grasping claw and took a stumbling step backwards.

‘Leave me alone, Holly. Just leave me alone.’ The last came out in a strangled sob that made Zoe close her eyes in an agony of humiliation. She spun away from Holly, reaching wildly for another glass of champagne—anything to forget that wretched moment, her whole wretched, false life.…

Half hiding behind a pillar, a few deep breaths—and sips—later, the threat of tears had mercifully receded and Zoe felt more like herself, although, she acknowledged, she hardly knew who that person was any more.

She surveyed the crowd, conscious of a new crop of speculative looks, a sly ripple of curious murmurs. Was everyone looking at her, or was she just imagining it in a fit of humiliated paranoia? If she left now, would it be so obvious that she was running away…again?

Her gaze fastened on a man in a corner of the room, his shoulder propped against a pillar, a glass of champagne in his hand. He was incredibly good-looking, with dark, cropped hair, olive skin and a towering physique that did more than justice to the expensive navy suit he wore. Yet it was the look on his face that appealed to Zoe; he looked beyond bored, totally uninterested in the party or anyone there, and the thought filled her with a strange, dizzy relief.

Here was a man who wasn’t going to slip sly innuendoes into the conversation; he looked as if he didn’t want to talk at all. He certainly didn’t want to be noticed, and he hadn’t noticed her. Yet.

She ran a hand through her tousled hair, took a deep breath and straightened the silky jade-green halter top she wore. Smile now firmly in place, she sauntered over to the one man in the room she was quite sure had no interest in Zoe Balfour.

Perhaps, she thought, he would be interested in just Zoe.

Chapter Two

HE DIDN’T see her coming; he felt it. A sudden charge in the atmosphere, a ripple in the air, like an electric current wired straight to his heart. The jolt reverberated through him and the little hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with awareness as his fingers instinctively clenched around his drink.

Please, no more pity.

‘Hello, there.’ Her voice was pleasantly low, pitched to an inviting huskiness. Max thought he detected an English accent, which became more pronounced when she spoke again. ‘I had to come over here to see if you are as bored as you look.’

‘Even more so,’ he returned a bit flatly. He turned his head to look at her, at least as much as he could. He saw a sweep of golden hair, the smooth, pale curve of a cheek and the glitter of green—her eyes as well as her top. She smelled faintly of rose water. His gut clenched with an unexpected spasm of desire.

‘Oh, dear. That is bad,’ she returned with a little laugh that sounded like the tinkling of crystal bells. ‘Will another drink cure it, do you think?’

‘I’ve had too many already.’ His voice came out brusque again; he couldn’t help it. What was the point in encouraging this little flirtation? If she knew…

‘Well, I haven’t.’ He saw her raise her arm, slender and pale, and soon a waiter hurried over. She plucked a glass from the tray and, turning back to him, took a sip. ‘If you’re so monumentally bored, why did you come this evening?’

‘Because my company donated a quarter of a million dollars to fund these monstrosities on the walls.’

She paused for a tiny second, and then gave an abrupt and unpractised laugh; it was a wonderfully throaty gurgle, so different from her earlier calculated peal. His gut clenched again, and he found himself wondering if her hair was as soft as it smelled, if a smell could even be considered soft. His other senses, he realised, were heightened by his lack of sight. Was the faint smell of roses a perfume or soap? He inhaled it every time she moved, faint and yet so temptingly evocative.

‘Oh, of course,’ she said, her voice still filled with laughter. ‘You’re Max Monroe. The one with the thundercloud.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard that,’ he replied drily. For the first time in weeks he was enjoying himself, or close enough. He was actually not remembering.

‘Well, you haven’t exactly been the life and soul of the party, have you?’ she said, and he felt her shrug, felt the slippery feel of her silk top against her silken skin. How he could feel it, he didn’t know; he certainly couldn’t see it. Yet even though his eyes saw little more than blurred shapes, a bit sharper at the edges, his body felt something else. Every part of him prickled with awareness, with longing.

He wanted her.

He hadn’t been with a woman since his accident, hadn’t felt another’s touch except for the cool, clinical hands of a doctor, and now suddenly he craved it. Needed to be close to someone, to breathe her scent and feel her skin. And more than that. To move with her, inside her. To ease the emptiness, to not be alone.

Even if it couldn’t go anywhere, even if only for a night. Even if it was with one of society’s shallow darlings, as she surely must be.

‘I don’t suppose I need to be the life and soul of this party,’ he finally said, ‘with guests like you to give it some energy.’ He knew her type, knew what kind of beautiful, confident woman walked over to a strange—and sulking—man and asked him for a drink. It was the kind of woman he pursued, the kind of woman he’d always wanted.

And he wanted her now. She didn’t need to know he was almost blind; she wouldn’t even stay the night. He’d make sure of that.

He felt her tense for a tiny moment, felt it like a shiver in the air. Then she shrugged and took another sip of champagne. ‘I can’t deny I like to have fun,’ she said lightly.

He shifted his weight; his leg, still recovering from the accident, was starting to hurt. ‘Are you having fun tonight?’

She gave another practised laugh. ‘No, I think I’m as bored as you are. I’m just better at not showing it.’

‘Right, I’m the one with the thundercloud.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘My friend Karen organised this event,’ she explained, her tone breezy. ‘She was rather put out at how unhelpful you’ve been, you know. She said I’d recognise you by the thundercloud over your head. And of course—’ She stopped suddenly and, even though he couldn’t really see her, Max’s eyes narrowed.

‘And?’ he asked softly.

She paused. ‘The scar,’ she said quietly. She lifted her hand and for a moment Max thought she was going to touch him. He didn’t move. Her hand—he could tell it was pale and slender, at least—hovered in the air for a moment before she dropped it back to her side. He felt as if everything had suddenly changed, the light, flirtatious banter turning dark and intimate and far too intense. He didn’t want her pity, yet he craved her touch. ‘I suppose it’s a bit like the elephant in the room,’ she said, her voice quiet, rueful and perhaps a little sad. ‘No one ever talks about it. Were you in a car accident or something?’

‘Something.’ Although he spoke tersely, Max felt a reluctant flicker of admiration for her candour. So few people he knew actually told him the truth, unvarnished and unpalatable. He was surrounded by sycophants and social climbers who only told him what they thought he wanted to hear.

And doctors. Doctors at least told him the truth.

‘I’m sorry anyway,’ she said quietly, and he could tell she meant it. She surprised him, and he didn’t want to be surprised. It was easier when she was shallow, when he could believe she was shallow. He wanted a bed partner, not a soulmate. It was too late for that, too late for him.

They were both silent for a moment, and Max wondered if she would walk away. He should walk away; he would, except he was afraid he might bump into a pillar or a waiter or God knew what else. He hadn’t expected that unguarded moment, hadn’t wanted it. Had he? She was a shallow, beautiful socialite; she’d said as much, and he wanted to take her at face value.

To take her, and then leave her, for surely he had no other choice.

‘So,’ he said, and pitched his voice to a low, sensual hum that had her leaning closer to hear him. He breathed in the rose-water scent again. ‘Are you really as bored by this party as I am?’ There could be no mistaking his innuendo or his intent.

She was silent for a long moment, and he turned so their faces were close, so he could look directly at her, or as directly as he could, in the periphery of his vision. And for a moment, despite the floaters and spots and blurs, he felt he saw perfectly. Her eyes were vivid green, her mouth a perfect pink curve. She was smiling.

‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I think I am.’

Resolve fired through him. ‘Good,’ he said, placing his empty glass on a tray. ‘Then why

don’t we both get out of here?’

Zoe watched as Max started stiffly from his corner; he walked with careful, deliberate steps that made her wonder if he’d hurt himself in whatever ‘something’ had caused that scar. He was clearly expecting her to follow him, and after a second’s hesitation she did.

She didn’t usually leave parties with perfect strangers. Despite her party-girl reputation, she wasn’t quite the wild child her older sister Bella was. She didn’t do one-night stands. She preferred to dance and laugh and flirt—and then go home alone.

Yet hadn’t the rules changed? Hadn’t she changed? She wasn’t Zoe Balfour any more. She could do whatever she wanted. And she’d sensed in Max Monroe something she felt in herself, a darkness, a despair. Like called to like, she supposed, and she wanted to follow him.

She wanted to be with him.

Of course, there was no denying he was an attractive man. Her belly clenched, a coil of desire unfurling and spreading out through her limbs with sleepy warmth as she stared at his broad back and trim hips, his long, powerful legs still taking their careful strides as he weaved his way through the party’s crowd, and Zoe followed. She wasn’t, she realised belatedly as they made it to the foyer, even conscious of the stares.

She handed her ticket to the woman at the coat check and took her filmy wrap. Max, she saw, had uttered a few terse instructions into his mobile. He slid it back into his jacket pocket and turned to her.

‘My car will be here in a moment.’

‘Brilliant,’ Zoe answered, for lack of anything else to say. She was realising how little she knew this man, how tense and even angry he seemed.

Was this—could this possibly be—a good idea?

‘You don’t have to come,’ he said abruptly. Zoe started in surprise. ‘You seem nervous.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘No matter what you may think, this isn’t my usual behaviour.’

‘Oh?’ He arched one eyebrow, his expression one of slightly smug curiosity. He had her all figured out, Zoe supposed. Or thought he did. Well, she’d thought she had herself figured out too. She was only now realising she didn’t. ‘So what is your normal behaviour?’ He paused. ‘Who are you?’

The question startled her, for it was the question she had not been wanting to ask herself for these past three weeks. She stared at him in astonished silence until he clarified impatiently, ‘I just want your name.’

‘Zoe.’

He arched his eyebrow a little higher. ‘Just Zoe?’

‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Just Zoe.’

A limo pulled sleekly to the curb outside the gallery, and with one arm Max ushered her outside.

The air was balmy, the darkness soft around them. Zoe glanced around, realising she was on a tiny side street in Soho with no idea where or how to find a cab if she even wanted one. The street was empty, the sidewalks deserted, and somewhere in the distance a car alarm set to a mournful wailing.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the limo’s door, gesturing for Zoe to enter.

‘Having second thoughts?’ Max murmured in her ear. His breath, cool and scented with mint and champagne, tickled her cheek.

‘More like third thoughts,’ Zoe quipped, and a tiny smile flickered across Max’s face, easing the tension and lightening his features.

‘You’re a beautiful woman, Zoe,’ he said. His face was half averted to her, yet still he slowly, carefully reached out to brush a tendril of hair away from her bare shoulder, his cool fingers barely skimming her skin. She quivered under the tiny caress. ‘I’m sure any man in there would want to be in my position right now.’

‘Most assuredly,’ she agreed lightly. Her heart had started to hammer and she felt suddenly, unreasonably, dizzy with longing. No single touch had ever affected her so much. Made her want so much.

Made her forget…if only for a moment, for a night.

He reached out again, this time letting his fingers caress her collarbone, barely brushing her skin, yet still making her quiver and ache deep inside with an unexpected and fierce longing. ‘It’s up to you, of course.’

Slowly Zoe nodded. When Max Monroe touched her, every thought—every memory, every fear—went clean out of her head. That was what she wanted.

Not just passion, but oblivion.

Slowly, silently, she climbed into the car.

Max climbed in after her, and the chauffeur closed the door. Within seconds they were speeding through the night, the darkness relieved only by the passing lights of an occasional taxi.

Zoe sat back against the plush leather seat, surveying the well-stocked minibar and contemplated downing most of its contents. Had she really just climbed into a car with a total stranger? An angry, bitter, sardonic stranger at that? Well, she thought, swallowing a bubble of nervous laughter, at least it was a limo.

‘Nice ride,’ she said, and forced herself to relax—or at least seem relaxed—stretching her arms along the back of the seat, letting her head fall back as if she were utterly comfortable, completely in her element. ‘So where are we going?’

Although Max sat next to her, he suddenly seemed oceans away, his face averted from hers as he stared out the window at the darkness.

‘My apartment is in Tribeca. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else?’ He turned to her, his smile—although it didn’t quite feel like a smile—gleaming in the darkness.

‘And miss seeing your place? I’m sure it’s something fabulous.’ She gave him a breezy smile and shook her hair back over her shoulders.

‘And I’m sure you’re quite used to fabulous,’ he murmured, and she laughed, the sound husky.

‘Absolutely.’

They didn’t speak again, lapsing into a silence that was tense with unspoken thoughts. Expectations.

Zoe smoothed her silky black trousers, nervously pleating the fabric between her fingers before she forced herself to stop, and affected an air of unconcerned insouciance once more.

The limo came to a stop, and Zoe slipped out after Max. They were on a patch of old cobbled pavement—murder for her heels—in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront. Zoe’s heart lurched against her ribs. Oh, Lord, what had she got herself into? She turned around; the limo had disappeared and there wasn’t a soul in sight…except Max.

He stood on the uneven cobbles, looking almost frozen, as if he didn’t know where he was going, or was actually afraid to move.

The look of uncertainty on his face visible in the sickly yellow glare of a street lamp banished Zoe’s own fears and compelled her to ask gently, ‘Max…?’

‘This way.’ He spoke brusquely, shaking off that strange, uncertain look, the way a dog shakes off water, before striding across the sidewalk with long, deliberate steps to the warehouse.

Of course, Zoe saw as they approached the building, it wasn’t an abandoned warehouse at all. Perhaps it once had been, but as they came closer signs of its upscale refurbishment were clearly visible. Instead of what had first looked like broken or blank windows, Zoe saw they were merely tinted. The front doors were made of the same thick, tinted glass, with polished chrome handles. A doorman leapt to attention as they approached and swung the doors open. Max stalked through them, in an almost military march, with Zoe hurrying behind in her heels.

This wasn’t, she thought a bit resentfully, the most auspicious beginning to the evening. Yet even so, she wasn’t tempted to turn away. Max Monroe fascinated her, and more than that, he somehow managed to reach a place inside of her she hadn’t known existed, even now wasn’t sure was real. When he’d touched her she felt something stir to life that she hadn’t realised was asleep—or perhaps even dead. Something—someone—that had nothing to do with Zoe Balfour, and all to do with just Zoe.

And that was why she followed him through the building’s foyer with its polished floor of slick black marble, to the bank of gleaming, high-speed lifts. Max stepped inside, his finger trailing along the buttons until he reached the top one, and pushed PH. The penthouse. Of course.

The Balfour apartment on Park Avenue was a penthouse as well, with its dignified drawing rooms and separate servants’ quarters. It was a beautiful, well-preserved relic from another age, a different century, and Zoe knew instinctively Max Monroe’s penthouse was going to be something else entirely.

And it was. The lift doors opened straight into the apartment, and Zoe felt as if she were stepping into the sky. The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows on every side, and the Hudson River gleamed only a block away, the lights of one of Manhattan’s many bridges twinkling in the distance.

She turned, and from the other side saw the Empire State Building’s needle point heavenward, a sea of skyscrapers behind it, filling the horizon.

She turned slowly in a full circle, savouring the view from every direction, until she finally chuckled a bit in admiration and turned to Max, who had shrugged out of his jacket and was even now loosening his tie. He didn’t look at the view at all.

‘Impressive,’ she murmured. ‘Do you ever grow tired of the view?’

‘No.’ He spoke so flatly Zoe wondered if she’d said something wrong.

Max moved around the apartment, flicking on a few lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow. Zoe glanced at the austere furnishings: all high-end bachelor pad with sleek leather sofas and uncomfortable-looking chairs made out of chrome, a designer glass coffee table she thought she’d seen featured in a decorating magazine, and a glimpse of a spotlessly clean stainless-steel kitchen that looked to have every gadget and appliance and was clearly never used.

Her heels clicked against the Brazilian cherry-wood floor as she came to stand by a window. Actually, Zoe saw, it was a door, made so seamlessly it looked like a window except for a discreet metal handle that led out to a wide terrace.

She heard Max cross the floor, felt him stand behind her. It amazed her how attuned she was to his movements, so that even before he reached out she knew he was going to touch her, was waiting for him to touch her.

He lifted his arm slowly—so slowly—and Zoe tensed, ready for his touch. Yet when it came it still shocked her, the heaviness of his hand on her bare shoulder sending ripples of awareness along her arm and through her body, deep into her belly. Neither of them spoke.

His hand slid along her shoulder, down her arm, as if he were slowly, languorously learning the landscape of her body. His fingers twined with hers as he pulled her around so she was facing him, his eyes dark and fathomless, his face seeming harsh in the yellow light cast from the buildings behind her, a sea of sightless skyscrapers. He moved so her back pressed against the glass and she could feel his heat, the hardness of his chest and thighs.

Her heart hammered with slow, deliberate thuds and her knees actually felt weak. She’d never had such a reaction to a man—to anyone, anything—before. And he hadn’t even kissed her.

Yet he was going to, Zoe knew that, felt it. She wanted him to, and yet she could hardly believe this was happening, that she’d come here, found him. Her nerves leapt to life and she opened her mouth to say—what? Something, preferably something light or clever, to diffuse the intensity of the moment, of him, but before she uttered a word—and she wasn’t even sure she could—she was prevented by his mouth coming down on hers.

His lips were hard, the kiss urgent and even a little angry, as if this moment was all either of them might ever have. His fingers slipped from hers, his hands sliding under her top to cup her breasts, and Zoe gasped at the sudden, intimate touch.

Her senses reeled; her body jerked into an instinctive and powerful response, and she found herself answering him kiss for kiss, the sorrow and despair of the past few weeks overflowing from her soul into this one caress. The intensity of Max’s kiss, as well as her own response, surprised her—this wasn’t even like her. She wasn’t used to feeling this much, had been keeping it at bay these past weeks, maybe forever, and yet—

Yet she couldn’t stop herself from responding, from her hands travelling up Max’s hard, muscled shoulders to his hair—surprisingly soft—pulling him closer, as if she could take him right into her skin, fuse their bodies and melt into one.

It frightened her, this feeling so much. Wanting so much. From somewhere she summoned the strength to pull away—or try to, for she was trapped against the wall of glass. She arched her head back, her hair cascading down her back, so she could look at his face. Colour stained his cheekbones; his eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.

‘In a hurry, are we?’ she finally managed, but if she’d meant to sound light and unaffected, she failed. Her voice came out in little more than a gasp, and her body shook with the aftershocks of emotion.

He drew in a breath, and slid his hands from her breasts up to her shoulders, threading his fingers through her hair, his thumbs massaging her scalp. ‘Why waste time?’ he murmured.

‘I’m sure you get plenty of women with that approach.’ With the last of her willpower Zoe slipped under his arms, away from the cage of his body, and walked across the floor on legs that were far too wobbly.

Max propped one shoulder against the window, one hand in his trouser pocket. He looked remarkably recovered. Zoe felt as weak as a newborn kitten, a motherless lamb.

‘You want to talk?’ he asked with the slightest sneer, but it was still—considering what had just happened—enough to wound. Zoe sank into one of the chrome chairs—more comfortable than she’d expected—and arched an eyebrow.

‘Silly me,’ she said, and her voice finally sounded light and droll. ‘I thought you might have mastered the art of conversation.’

‘Only when necessary.’ He walked slowly along the outside of the room, one hand trailing along the glass wall, so Zoe felt as if she were a powerless prey being circled by a hungry predator. He stopped in front of a chrome-and-glass drinks table; a bottle of whisky and a tumbler were already neatly laid out. He poured himself a finger’s worth, his movements deliberate and precise. ‘So,’ he finally said, sipping his drink and swivelling to face her, ‘you’re from England.’

‘Yes.’

‘Just visiting, or do you live here?’

Zoe hesitated. ‘Visiting,’ she said finally. ‘For now.’

‘No firm plans?’ Again, that slight sneer that still hurt. More than it should.

She smiled with a breezy confidence she was far from feeling. Seemingly innocent questions, yet each one possessed its own little sting. ‘No. Never. I’m not that kind of girl.’

‘Ah.’

‘And what about you?’

He took another sip of his drink. ‘What about me?’

‘You’re a businessman.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do, exactly?’

‘Business.’

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘How enlightening.’

‘I manage investments. I buy companies. I take risks.’ He shrugged, the movement one of powerful, eloquent dismissal. ‘I make money.’

‘Money is good.’

His mouth quirked up in something that looked like a smile but didn’t feel like one. ‘Isn’t it just.’

‘How did you get that scar?’ The question popped out inadvertently; she hadn’t meant to ask it. She suspected he was sensitive about it, perhaps self-conscious. And how could he not be? It was noticeable, impossible to ignore, a livid line of whitened flesh from his eyebrow to his chin, snaking along the side of his nose, a vivid reminder of—what? Something, he’d said. Something terrible.

‘An accident.’ He spoke flatly, unemotionally, yet Zoe sensed the darkness—the sorrow and despair and even the fury—pulsing underneath. He said the word accident the way she said illegitimate.

‘It must have been some accident.’

‘It was.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘Yes.’ He paused, his throat working before he elaborated in that same flat tone. ‘I was flying my plane.’

‘You’re a pilot?’

‘I was.’ He paused. ‘Recreationally.’

His voice was flat, his face expressionless as he took a sip of his drink.

‘So.’ Zoe tried to keep her voice light, as if her tone could stave off the darkness emanating from Max, swirling around her soul. ‘What happened?’

‘I crashed.’ He smiled, the curve of his mouth terribly cold. ‘It happens.’

‘I suppose so.’ Zoe crossed and recrossed her legs, searching for something to say. ‘You’re lucky you escaped with your life,’ she finally said, and at that moment it felt like a terribly inane sentiment.

‘Oh, yes,’ Max agreed, and there was a darker note in his voice now, the pulsing emotion underneath bubbling to the fore, as hot and dangerous—and fascinating—as a latent volcano. He walked towards her with slow, deliberate strides. ‘I’m very lucky.’

Zoe resisted the urge to press back against the chair. She didn’t like the dark look in Max’s eyes, the sudden, cruel twist of the mouth she’d just kissed.

‘How long have you been flying?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to restore a sense of normality to the moment. It didn’t work; Max just kept walking. He stopped only when he was a hand span away, and then, to her surprise, he dropped to his knees in front of her so they were level, his eyes gazing darkly, intently, intensely, into hers.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking, the only sound the harsh tear of their breathing. Zoe felt trapped, transfixed, and yet with a strange, new need inside her. What was happening here?

Max didn’t move, didn’t tear his gaze from hers—it was as if he were waiting, needing something…needing her…

Then, out of instinct and even her own need, Zoe reached out—with the same careful deliberation he had touched her moments ago—and with the tip of one finger traced the jagged path of the scar along his face. The damaged flesh was surprisingly smooth, almost silky, and faintly puckered.

Zoe didn’t know why she did it, didn’t know how Max would react. She didn’t really know what was happening here, what this feeling was between them—so much feeling. Pain and sorrow and even a jagged little shard of hope.

Max stilled, tensing under her touch, and then she felt him relax, the resistance trickling from his body, leaving him loose and pliant under her hand. He closed his eyes. Her finger rested on the edge of the scar by his chin; she could feel his stubble. Then, still acting out of instinct and an even deeper desire, Zoe leant forward and kissed that wounded place, her lips lingering on his skin as she breathed in his scent, mint and musk.

Max shuddered.

Zoe drew back, strangely shaken, and her gaze flew to Max’s face. He’d opened his eyes and was staring at her with a blatant hunger that both thrilled and alarmed her. He reached forward and cupped her face in his hands, his fingers sliding along her cheekbones, and he drew her to him so their lips barely touched.

He brushed his lips against hers once, and then again, and then kissed her with a gentleness that was so different from that first angry encounter. It made Zoe’s insides sweetly melt, until a deeper, rawer urgency made her deepen that little kiss, and her hands came up to grip Max’s shoulders.

She didn’t know how long they remained that way, only knew the glorious sweetness of a kiss so deep and unending it felt as if they were exploring each other’s souls. Then Max scooped her up in his arms; she felt as tiny and treasured as a doll, nestled against his chest, curling into him with a surprising naturalness. He carried her with the careful, deliberate strides she was becoming accustomed to into the bedroom.

Like the living room, the bedroom was all windows, and light from the buildings outside filtered through the venetian blinds, bathing the room in luminescence. Max set her down on a huge bed, the navy satin sheets slippery under her. She looked up at him; his expression was shuttered and yet grave. She waited.

Slowly Max brushed a tendril of hair away from her face, his fingers skimming her cheek, her eyebrow, the ridge of her nose. Then he dropped his hand and began to unbutton his shirt.

Zoe watched, unable to keep her gaze from the expanse of broad, muscled chest revealed by the gap in his shirt; she reached out and helped him shrug the garment off, letting her fingers trail his skin as his had hers, enjoying the feel of hard muscle, crisp hair.

Still, neither of them spoke, and Zoe wondered if it was because they had no need of words, or because they were afraid words might break this moment, shatter the precious, fragile bond that had silently sprung and stretched between them.

The only sound was the whisper and slither of clothes as they undressed each other, the slide of silk to the floor as Zoe shrugged out of her halter top and trousers. Then they lay naked on the satin sheets, staring at each other for a long moment. Zoe wanted to speak, to say something, and the words clogged in her throat, too many words. She wanted to tell Max she might not have a scar on her face, but there was one on her soul. She wanted to explain that, like him, she’d had an accident—an accident of birth. And, she suspected, like him, it had left her wrecked and wondering how to rebuild a life that had been virtually destroyed, if there even was a life to rebuild.

Yet she said none of it, despite the pressure building inside her, in her chest and behind her eyes. She blinked away the sting of tears she hadn’t expected and when Max kissed her again, his hands skimming her body, learning all of its curves and dips and secret places, she gave herself up to the sweet oblivion and let the words—and the thoughts, the fears—trickle away…at least for now.

Afterwards Max lay on his back, Zoe resting in the curve of his arm, her slender body curled towards the shelter of his. A tendril of her hair tickled his nose, and he breathed in that now-familiar scent of rose water. Shampoo, he surmised, and smiled.

He wasn’t used to smiling, not a real smile anyway, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling this good. His body hummed with sleepy satiation, his limbs languid and heavy, and he felt, for the moment, utterly replete.

How strange.

For weeks—since that moment on the plane when his world had gone totally, terrifyingly black—he’d felt as if he were missing something. Losing something, bit by bit, so his body and his soul and his tormented mind all hungered for it, cried out for it.

Yet now, amazingly, he felt as if he’d been given something. He felt full. Blessed, even.

Ridiculous.

He heard Zoe give a little sigh and knew she was asleep; her head was heavy on his arm. He had no intention of sleeping himself, no desire to surrender to the weakness of dreams, or have Zoe see him in such a humiliatingly vulnerable state.

Carefully he extracted himself and rolled to a sitting position, his feet flat on the floor. The clothes were scattered haphazardly, and it took a moment for him to find his boxers. He pulled them on and then oriented himself by the foot of the bed; it was six steps to the door to the terrace.

Outside, the air had turned chilly and damp, and a breeze blew over him, cooling his heated skin. Ten steps to the railing; in the darkness he could make out very little, and he made a note to have all the terrace furniture removed. He’d hardly need it, as he doubted he’d spend much time out here.

Do you ever grow tired of the view?

No, he never had. He’d lost it before he had the chance.

Max closed his eyes. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. He didn’t know if the voice inside his head was his own or his father’s. No point in whining, regretting. Just get on with it. Get on with living.

Yet this didn’t feel like living. This, he acknowledged starkly, felt like slowly dying. Yet even as this realization dawned, another followed closely on its heels.

What had happened in there, with Zoe—just Zoe—hadn’t felt like dying. That had been life in its purest, most elemental form. He’d never experienced a night like that with a woman before, and he’d had plenty of nights. Plenty of women. Yet never had he felt so attuned with another person before, moving truly as one flesh.

Or was he just romanticising a tawdry encounter, imbuing it with more meaning that it actually had because he knew he would not have another night like it? He couldn’t hide his encroaching blindness forever, couldn’t keep the darkness at bay. The doctor had given him months, perhaps only weeks. Perhaps, Max thought as he struggled to identify the Chrysler Tower amidst the blurred shapes of the Manhattan skyline, only days.

And then what? What could his future possibly look like, what shape could it take?

He had no idea, couldn’t imagine the suffocating darkness all the time, endlessly blindfolded. Just the thought of it made his chest hurt as he fought back the encroaching panic. At least now he had some visibility, some light. Some sanity.

He turned away from the view he couldn’t really see. He would allow Zoe to sleep until morning, and then she would have to go. There was no point in her staying. Not that she would even want to stay; it had been clear to both of them what this night was…simply that, a night.

He took ten steps to the door, another six to the bed. From the light outside he could see the golden halo of her hair spread on the pillow, the pale, bare shoulder above the ink-coloured sheet.

She was a shallow, spoiled socialite. Every indication proved that assessment true. No matter what she had said, nights like these were simply par for the course. So why did the thought of her walking away in the morning feel like a punch straight to the gut?

To the heart?

Gently, so gently she didn’t even stir, he slid his hand along her shoulder, across her cheek, feeling—seeing—her for the last time. His hand stilled as his thumb brushed moisture clinging to her lashes.

A tear?

Why would a woman like her—a spoiled socialite—be crying?

Regret and guilt bit at him. He knew he was dismissing her; he knew he needed to.

To believe she was more, could be more to him, was both dangerous and pointless.

They had no future together.

They couldn’t.

Max let his hand fall away and stretched out next to her, making sure not to brush against the inviting warmth of her body. He lay there, staring sightlessly ahead, waiting for sleep to come. He both hated and craved sleep, for while it granted oblivion, it also meant darkness and dreams.

More darkness.

Chapter Three

ZOE woke slowly to sunlight, felt it stream over her sheet-covered body and warm her face. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth as she stretched slowly, languorously, the satin sheet cool against her bare skin.

She was naked.

In an instant the memories rushed back, tumbling through her mind, making her smile. Her body still hummed with satisfaction; her heart felt full.

Last night…Last night had been wonderful.

She opened her eyes; sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, bathing the room in cheerful morning light, slanting golden shafts across the empty bed.

Max was gone.

Zoe was surprised it had taken her this long to realise it; his absence was enormous, as if there was a great jagged hole next to her instead of an empty expanse of navy satin. Slowly she pulled the sheet around her, tucking it firmly across her breasts. Still, it trailed across the floor, and as she stepped over her scattered garments from last night she almost considered pulling them on, but then couldn’t bear to do such a thing, for somehow—unreasonably perhaps—it relegated last night to something tawdry and temporary, and she didn’t think it was.

Hoped it wasn’t.

Was she simply being naive?

Last night she’d wanted to forget who she was, what she was, in Max’s arms. She had, and amazingly, she’d woken feeling new. Different.

In Max’s arms she’d felt whole. Healed.

Loved.

Now she realised she was being ridiculous. She barely knew the man; he certainly didn’t know her, just Zoe. Could one night—one amazing night—really change that?

Zoe slipped into the living room, the morning light making the room seem all the more sparely chic and austere. And empty. Max wasn’t there. She looked in the kitchen, peeked in two other bedrooms, a study, a library and a dining room with a table that looked able to seat twenty—but probably never sat a soul—and couldn’t find him anywhere.

Had he actually left?

She stood in the middle of the library with its walls lined with leather-bound books, a huge mahogany desk in one corner. A scent of leather and pipe tobacco hung faintly in the air, and for a moment Zoe was reminded with painful force of home, of her father.

Oscar.

Uncertainty—and fear—gnawed at her.

She gazed around, the sheet slipping slightly, pooling in inky satin around her feet, and then she saw him.

Of course, he was outside. She’d glanced out at the terrace when she’d first entered the living room and hadn’t seen him, but now she saw it wrapped around the entire apartment, and he was on the other side, through the dining room.

She crossed the two rooms, the sheet trailing behind her in a dark river, and opened the doors that led out to the terrace.

‘There you are.’ She spoke lightly, but still she heard—and felt—the uncertain wobble in her tone. Felt the flutter of fear in her heart. Max was seated at a wrought-iron table, a thick ceramic mug of coffee cradled between his palms. He looked lost in thought, and he glanced up only as she came to stand near him, feeling a bit ridiculous wrapped in a sheet.

Why on earth hadn’t she put her clothes on?

‘Here I am,’ he agreed, and Zoe couldn’t tell a thing from his tone.

‘Did you make coffee?’ she asked, making sure to keep her voice light. ‘I didn’t smell any in the kitchen, but I’m gasping for a—’

‘I made it hours ago. It’s cold.’ Now she was able to recognise his tone, and it was frighteningly flat.

‘Oh.’ She paused, hitching the sheet more firmly around her. ‘Well, perhaps I could make another pot. And maybe borrow one of your shirts?’ She raised her eyebrows, tossing her hair over her shoulders, determined to seem far more insouciant and confident than she felt. What man could resist a woman wrapped in a sheet after all?

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

Apparently Max could. Zoe’s hand clenched on the sheet, and the satin slipped under her fingers. Max regarded her with a remote coolness that made her throat dry and her eyes sting.

No. No, please, no. Not this. Not this utter rejection, the look in his eyes one of…annoyance? Zoe feared that was the humiliating emotion she saw there. She was no more than an irritation to be dealt with before he got on with his day.

Or was she overreacting? Battle scarred from all the trashy tabloid talk, the stares and whispers?

‘Why?’ she finally asked, and forced herself to smile. ‘Are you out of coffee?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Max replied. ‘But I don’t think you should stay long enough to warrant coffee or clothes.’

Zoe blinked. She felt as if she’d been slapped. She opened her mouth but for once any witty retort or rejoinder deserted her. Her mind was blank, numb, and she looked away, blinking hard.

‘I can’t say much for your hospitality,’ she finally managed. Her voice sounded scratchy, and her throat felt sore.

‘No,’ Max agreed. His mouth was set in a hard line, the expression in his eyes chilly and so terribly resolute.

‘Did last night not mean anything to you?’ Zoe asked, wincing even as the words came out of her mouth. What a stupid question to ask. Obviously it didn’t; he really couldn’t make it any plainer. Was she a glutton for punishment, demanding the torture of him explaining himself even more?

‘No,’ Max said again, and Zoe bit her lip. ‘And I don’t think it meant much to you either.’

How could he say that, Zoe wondered, when she’d felt so different, so new? How could he believe it? Pride forced herself to smile coolly and toss her hair over her shoulders. ‘Well, even so, a parting cup of coffee would be a courtesy, at least.’

‘Sorry.’ He didn’t sound sorry at all.

‘Right. Well.’ She gripped the sheet tightly; the last thing she wanted was for the thing to fall off completely and leave her standing completely naked in front of this man who had used and rejected her with a clinical, cold cruelty.

And she had let him.

She’d wanted to forget…and she had to give Max that—he’d allowed her to forget.

And now she just had more pain and heartache to remember. To try to forget…again.

‘You might want to explain to your future lovers that you have a strict morning-after policy,’ she said, gripping a handful of sheet, her teeth gritted even though she managed to keep her voice cutting rather than wobbly, as if she were angry rather than desolate or even heartbroken. ‘Out before eight o’clock.’

‘Actually, it’s almost nine,’ Max drawled in a bored voice. ‘But I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘Bastard,’ Zoe hissed. She couldn’t keep herself from saying it; it was better than crying.

Max swivelled to face her fully for the first time since she’d come out on the terrace.

‘You knew what you were getting into, Zoe,’ he said coolly. ‘Just Zoe. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do, but the fact remains the same. We had a night together, and it’s over. Now I have work to do.’

He rose from his chair, one hand braced against the table. Zoe didn’t move, and his mouth tightened.

‘You need to go.’

‘What about—’ Zoe swallowed the words. What was the point of asking, What about when I touched your scar? I held you in my arms. It felt like so much more. It meant so much more…to me.

She was so very, very stupid.

‘Fine.’

In a whirl of satin she stalked from the terrace, and it was a testament to her rage that she didn’t even care when the sheet caught in the door and came undone, leaving her utterly bare.

Naked she strode through the rooms, too angry to care—or at least to acknowledge she cared—and found her clothes in the bedroom. She jerked them on, reaching for her wrap and handbag by the door before she stabbed viciously at the lift button.

It seemed an age before the elevator finally arrived, and she stood there, taut, her chest heaving with the effort of containing her emotion, unable to turn and look at—for—Max, to see the scorn that would undoubtedly be twisting his features. Finally the doors opened, signalling her freedom, her exile. She could feel Max behind her, even though she hadn’t looked at him once since he’d told her to go.

Now as she stepped into the lift she whirled around, determined to give him one parting shot.

‘Go to he—’ The words, ripped from her, were cut off as she gazed at him still standing by the door to the terrace, the sheet she’d worn pressed to his face, his eyes closed.

He didn’t seem aware of her at all, and before she could say—or think—anything more, the doors whooshed closed and she was speeding down, away from Max Monroe forever.

The sheet smelled ever so faintly of rose water. Max breathed it in, his eyes still closed, trying to reconstruct her face, the feel of her body, in his mind. A memory.

Everything was becoming a memory.

Sighing, the sound harsh with regret, he dropped the sheet. He’d almost tripped over the blasted thing, and he’d only meant to kick it away, but when he’d smelled that faint, lingering scent…

He sighed again, and then he cursed.

It was over. He’d never see Zoe again. He let out a sharp laugh at the irony of his words. Of course he’d never see Zoe again. That was why he’d sent her away as callously as he had. Admittedly he’d never spent more than a few days—sometimes weeks—with a woman, but he favoured them with more dignity and respect than he’d just treated Zoe.

He’d had no choice. The cut had to be clean. Sharp.

Final.

Everything felt so final.

Cursing again, Max walked with careful steps to the study. At least he had his work…for now. When would that be taken from him? How could he consult or invest when he couldn’t even read a newspaper or a computer screen? Already those tasks were proving difficult, near impossible, and it was only a matter of time before everything went blank. Black.

Forever.

And he was left powerless, as helpless as a child once more. He couldn’t bear to feel that again, and he certainly couldn’t bear for anyone to see him like that.

That was why he’d sent Zoe away.

Bastard.

Yes, he was a bastard, and she was a shallow socialite, and they’d forget each other in a fortnight. For his own sake, Max prayed that were true.

Go to hell.

Max smiled grimly. He was already there.

Zoe took a taxi back to the Balfour apartment, barely conscious of the blocks speeding by, a blur of traffic lights. Her body and mind both ached, and she felt utterly exhausted. Spent.

Used.

She gritted her teeth, trying to keep Max’s words—his sneer—at bay. Some men might sugarcoat it a bit more than I do…

That was an understatement.

Sighing she leant her head against the windowpane of the cab. The morning sunshine had given way to grey, and outside a light drizzle fell, misting over Grand Central Station. The weather matched her mood perfectly.

Why had she gone with Max last night? What had she been hoping to achieve? Even though she liked a party, she was choosy with her partners. She didn’t hop into bed with just anyone, and yet last night…

Last night had been different. Max had been different.

Or so she’d thought. She winced, remembering that feeling of glorious optimism she’d felt when she’d woken in a pool of sunshine in Max’s bed. She’d felt as if it was the beginning; she thought she’d finally found herself.

Hardly.

Nothing had changed; she hadn’t changed. Max Monroe was a self-serving ass and she was just what she’d been before, and what she’d called him—a bastard.

The apartment was dark and quiet when Zoe entered, flinging her keys on the marble table in the grand entrance foyer. Oscar Balfour hired a full-time housekeeper to maintain the apartment, but she had weekends off and Zoe was glad. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she didn’t think she could handle a conversation of any kind at this point.

She stripped off her clothes, kicking them into a corner, vowing never to wear them again. Then she strode into the marble en-suite bathroom and ran a full, foaming tub, hot enough to almost hurt, sinking into the bubbles in blessed relief.

She stayed in the water until her fingers and toes looked like prunes, and it had gone from steaming to tepid to cold. Only then did she reluctantly rouse herself from the blank state of lethargy she’d snuggled into like a cocoon, blocking out the world and its harsh judgements and memories. She put on the pair of pyjamas no one ever saw her in—an old pair of grey track bottoms and a worn-to-softness hoody—and curled up in bed, her knees to her chest.

All around her the apartment was quiet, dark. Empty. Curled on the huge bed, she’d never felt more alone. More lonely. Spinning in a great, empty void of uncertainty and uselessness.

And then before she could stop herself, the tears she’d been holding back for not just hours but weeks came rushing down her face, scalding her cheeks, emptying her soul.

She didn’t know how long she cried, the sobs racking her body as for once she didn’t hold anything back, didn’t pretend even to herself that she was all right, that she was strong as her father had told her she was.

She wasn’t. She wasn’t, Zoe thought as she wiped her cheeks, anything at all. The loss of the Balfour name had been the loss of her identity. It was humiliating to realise that, to feel as though she had nothing to call her own, nothing to be.

And had she actually thought—if only for a few hours—that Max Monroe could give that to her? That with him she’d know who she was?

‘I know who I am,’ Zoe said aloud. Her voice sounded small and forlorn, pathetic. Yet still hugging her knees to her chest, she reminded herself of just what kind of woman she was. What she could do best.

Sparkle.

And so she would.

She sparkled and partied and kept herself busy, all of her energy and emotion poured into the trivial matters of shopping sample sales and deciding what the best entertainment for an evening was. She came back to the apartment only to deposit her shopping bags and to sleep, and she determinedly ignored the housekeeper Lila’s silent censure.

She refused to think about Max. She didn’t think about anything, anyone, not even herself. Yet with each party she felt herself becoming more fragile, more frantic, clinging to a way of life that was surely slipping out of her grasp. Perhaps it had been for years, and it took the outing of her birth to make her realise she couldn’t be an it-girl forever. Eventually you had to grow up. You had to do something.

You had to be strong.

Except she had no idea how to be strong, or even who she was, or how to go about finding out.

Three weeks after her night with Max, Oscar called her. Zoe wouldn’t have even answered—she didn’t want to talk to her so-called father—but she’d been asleep and she reached for her mobile in a half-stupor.

‘Zoe?’ Oscar’s sharp tone had her scrambling to a sitting position.

‘Dadd—’ She pressed her lips together, and heard Oscar sigh.

‘I hadn’t heard from you since you arrived in New York, Zoe, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. You sound as if you were asleep—’

‘I was.’

‘It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘I was out late last night.’

The tiny, arctic pause told Zoe Oscar wasn’t happy about that. ‘Am I to understand you have not taken steps to reach your father?’

‘He’s not my father.’

‘Indeed.’ Oscar’s tone gentled. ‘But you know who I am talking about, Zoe, and—’

‘I haven’t decided if I want to find him,’ Zoe cut him off. ‘I’m not sure what good it will do. He hasn’t been interested in me before now—’

‘I doubt he knew of your existence.’

‘You don’t think my mother ever told him?’ The question came out stilted. My mother. Who was she? Bella and Olivia had memories; she had nothing but the knowledge that she was the cause of her mother’s death. The only mother she had really ever known had been Oscar’s third wife, Lillian, and she’d died months ago. The loss was still fresh, painful, leaving her feeling even more adrift.

‘I doubt it, Zoe.’ Oscar paused. ‘But even if she did, his position was hardly tenable. She was married, you know, to me.’

‘Well, still,’ Zoe said, hearing a petulant note creep into her voice. ‘I don’t know if I want to find him.’

‘Then perhaps you should return here,’ Oscar said after a moment, ‘to Balfour Manor.’

Balfour Manor…the only place she’d ever really thought of as home, with its gracious rooms and rolling lawns, its sense of history and honour, certain of its dignified place in the world.

If only she felt the same.

‘Zoe…?’ Oscar prompted, and she shook her head even though he couldn’t see her.

‘I can’t.’ She couldn’t face everyone’s pity or curiosity, the tabloids who wouldn’t let go of her story, or the fair-weather friends who would turn—already had—at the first sign of rain. She couldn’t, even though part of her—a large part—longed to flee back to the safe haven of home.

‘If you can’t go back,’ Oscar told her, a smile in his voice, ‘then go forward. That’s why you’re in New York—not just to ring up the charges on my credit card.’ Although the kindness in his tone took the sting out of the words, Zoe still flushed guiltily.

‘OK,’ she finally said, the one word given reluctantly, and Oscar gave a tiny sigh.

‘I love you, Zoe.’

Tears stung her eyes. She thought she’d cried them all already, yet there they were again, ready to fall. She blinked them back.

‘I love you too,’ she mumbled.

After she hung up the phone she clambered out of the bed and walked through the quiet, empty rooms of the Balfour apartment. Out on the penthouse’s terrace, Zoe sank into a wrought-iron chair, drawing her legs up to her chest.

It was a gorgeous day, the sky a pale, washed blue, the trees in Central Park a vivid green. Even in the city everything smelled fresh, new.

If you can’t go back, then go forward.

The thought terrified her. She had no idea what forward looked like, felt like. What it could mean.

Yet she knew of only one step forward to take, the step she’d been sent to New York for.

She needed to find her father.

Chapter Four

ZOE tilted her head back to survey the gleaming glass skyscraper once more; it was one of the tallest, most imposing buildings on Fifty-Seventh Street. A brass plaque by the front doors, guarded by an official-looking doorman in a navy suit with gold braid, had two discreet words: Anderson Finance.

Thomas Anderson, the CEO and founder of the company, was the man she’d come to meet. Taking a deep breath, her nerves still jarring and jangling, she walked briskly into the building’s foyer, favouring the doorman with an imperious nod, her heels clicking on the black marble floor.

‘May I help you, miss?’ A woman with an upswept do and a good deal of glossy make-up gave her a smile of official courtesy when Zoe was halfway to the bank of gleaming gold lifts.

She gave the woman a breezy smile. ‘I’m here to see Thomas Anderson.’

The woman didn’t even blink. ‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked, and Zoe gave her practised little trill of laughter.

‘No, actually, it’s a surprise.’ She batted her eyelashes, and saw a brief look of distaste flicker across the woman’s expertly made-up features.

‘I’m afraid Mr Anderson doesn’t like surprises,’ the woman told her with a frosty smile. ‘And he has back-to-back meetings all morning—’

‘Then call up,’ Zoe interjected. She smiled sweetly, even though her insides felt far too wobbly. ‘Tell him…’ She took a deep breath. ‘Tell him Zoe Balfour is here to see him.’ Another breath. ‘Alexandra Balfour’s daughter.’

The woman pursed her lips and then reached for the phone. Zoe couldn’t hear what she said into that gleaming black receiver; her heart was beating so fast and loud it thundered in her ears. It took all of her strength to simply stand upright, a cool little smile on her face, looking for the world like the outcome of that ten-second phone call held no import whatsoever.

The woman put the receiver down and gave her a rather narrow look. ‘He’ll see you. Twenty-sixth floor.’

Zoe let her smile widen as she waggled her fingers and then she turned and walked crisply to the elevators, the click of her heels echoing all around her.

Her heart was still thudding right out of her chest and her finger trembled as she pushed twenty-six and then watched as each floor zoomed by, a reverse countdown.

A little ping announced she had arrived, and the elevator doors opened straight into a large reception room, endless yards of plush cream carpet scattered with leather sofas, a lot of modern art on the walls. Zoe glanced at a few blobs of colour daubed on a canvas and thought of Max’s words to her at the gallery opening: my company donated a quarter of a million dollars to fund these monstrosities on the walls.

She smiled slightly, even though the memory of him still hurt, hurt more than it ever should, considering how little they really knew each other. Had known. Max Monroe was in the past; there would be no opportunities to know him more, or at all, in the future. She would do well to remember that.

A black-suited PA rose from behind a streamlined glass-topped desk and walked over to her. ‘Zoe Balfour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Anderson will see you now. I’m afraid he only has a few moments. He’s got—’

‘Back-to-back meetings,’ Zoe filled in. ‘So I heard.’

The PA threw her a startled look and Zoe realised how terse she sounded. She forced herself to smile.

The PA tapped on a pair of double doors of burnished mahogany before throwing them open and ushering Zoe into an office as huge and sleekly decorated as the waiting room. At the end of what seemed an acre of plush carpet a man waited behind a desk, his back to her. He gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows of tinted glass at the bustling street below, a forest of skyscrapers stretching to the horizon.

Zoe recognised him from the photo she had, a grainy shot featured in the business section of the New York Times. His thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair, the wide set of his shoulders—she didn’t even need to see his face to know this was the man she’d been looking for.

This was Thomas Anderson.

Her father.

Still, she wasn’t prepared for the lightning bolt of shock that sliced through her when he finally turned, and she gazed into a pair of eyes as jade green as her own. She’d always felt like an anomaly among her sisters, with their dazzling Balfour blue eyes, the same as their father’s. Hers were so different, and now she knew where those eyes came from, who had given them to her. And they were gazing at her now with an expression of cold courtesy.

‘Miss Balfour? How may I help?’

He had no idea why she was here, Zoe thought numbly. Or at least he was good at pretending he didn’t.

‘I believe you knew my mother, Mr Anderson. Alexandra Balfour?’

He stilled, the expression in his eyes turning wary before it quickly cleared. ‘I don’t—Yes, a long time ago. I had business in London one summer and I believe we may have met.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Pardon me, Miss Balfour. I’d assumed you came here to ask on behalf of a charity or some such. I have numerous such requests and—’

‘That’s not why I came.’ Zoe spoke through stiff lips. Not unless she was considered a charity. ‘And you know it.’ She didn’t know where she found the courage or the conviction to say the last, but she knew it deep in her bones. Thomas Anderson knew exactly why she’d come here. He had to at least suspect. ‘I expect, being in finance,’ she continued coolly, ‘you’re rather good at maths.’ He shrugged, and Zoe continued. ‘It will be twenty-seven years ago this June that you met my mother.’ She paused, watching him. ‘I turned twenty-six in April.’

The silence was electric and went on for too long. Thomas Anderson’s gaze had turned terribly cold. ‘I’m afraid, Miss Balfour, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Zoe stared at him, not wanting to feel the well of disappointed hope opening up inside of her, consuming her. Had she actually thought he might accept she was his daughter? Open his arms and embrace her like some prodigal child? And would she have even wanted that?

At least a small, desperate part of her would have. She recognised that by the disappointment and despair swamping her now. Her nails dug into her palms and she lifted her chin. ‘I don’t know how much of it reached the papers over here, Mr Anderson, but a little over a month ago a story broke at the Balfour Charity Ball—a scandal.’ She paused; her father’s expression didn’t change. ‘The story was that my mother—Alexandra Balfour—had an affair twenty-seven years ago, and her youngest daughter was actually illegitimate.’

The smile he gave her was chilly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t read the kinds of papers that run those stories, Miss Balfour.’

‘No, you just live them.’ The vitriol in her words shocked both of them, but Zoe didn’t apologise. ‘This episode of my mother’s life was discovered in an old journal she kept. She named you as my father.’ There. It was said. It wasn’t exactly true—she hadn’t written his name—but how many American businessmen spent a summer in London, had been invited to Balfour Manor and had eyes the colour of jade?

Thomas Anderson stared at her for a long moment, and for a second—no more—Zoe thought he would admit it. Explain. Apologise. She longed for it, for the explanation and, more importantly, the acceptance. Then she saw a flicker of regret pass across his face like a shadow and he turned away from her, back to the windows.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t have an affair with my mother?’ Zoe demanded in both disbelief and despair.

He paused, a tiny hesitation but telling nonetheless. ‘I knew your mother socially, for a very brief time.’

‘So she lied?’ Zoe said, her voice turning raw. ‘In a journal she hid in a children’s book, a journal she never expected anyone to see, she lied?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Thomas said again. His back was to her, and his voice was low.

‘Just what are you sorry for?’ Zoe demanded. ‘Fathering me or not being able to admit it now? I could have a DNA test done—’

‘That would involve a court battle,’ he returned sharply. ‘I don’t think either of us want to go there.’

More scandal. More shame. ‘Why don’t you want to admit it?’ Zoe whispered. She felt the sting of tears behind her lids and she blinked hard. ‘We have the same coloured eyes,’ she added in a choked voice. ‘No one in my family—no Balfour—has eyes that are green like mine. But you do.’

She saw his body tense and when he turned to her any possible trace of compassion or pity had completely vanished. He reached to press a button on his telephone. ‘My security guard, Hans, will escort you out, Miss Balfour. I believe our conversation is finished.’ He paused, his eyes—so green and so cold—meeting hers. ‘I don’t think I need to warn you that if this story spreads somehow, I could sue for slander.’

Zoe’s eyes widened. ‘You’re threatening me?’

‘Just stating a fact.’

She shook her head, her gaze falling on a large sterling-silver picture frame on the desk. Slowly, numbly, she reached over and turned it so she could see the photograph inside. It was a picture of a family.

A woman in her early fifties perhaps, with a stylish bob of silvery hair, and two boys and a girl. The girl, she saw with a terrible, creeping numbness, was actually a woman, about her own age. The boys were younger, perhaps in their teens.

He had a family. Of course. She stood there, gazing at her half-brothers and half-sister who would never know her, who would never want to know her. She didn’t belong with them. She didn’t belong with the Balfours.

She didn’t belong anywhere.

Behind her the doors opened, and she felt a firm hand on her elbow. ‘Miss Balfour, let me show you out,’ a man said, his voice polite but unyielding.

Zoe shook off his arm. ‘Don’t touch me.’ She turned back to Thomas Anderson, who was looking at her as if she were a bug he had just neatly squashed, a mixture of distaste and relief. ‘You can deny it all you want,’ she choked, ‘but you and I both know the truth.’ Hans grabbed her arm again, leading her backwards. Zoe gazed at her father, hurt and hatred boiling up within her and firing her words. ‘We both know,’ she said, ‘and I’ll never, ever forget this. Never.’ The last word ended on a sob and, shaking off Hans once more, she turned around and strode from the room.

She wasn’t aware of the curious gaze of her father’s PA, or the several businessmen who entered the elevator on various floors as they sped down to the lobby. She ignored the woman at the front desk and the security guard who opened the door.

She could feel nothing but her own pain, see nothing but the look of utter rejection on her father’s face. It was her deepest fear, her worst nightmare, and she’d just lived it.

Her head felt light and her vision swam; she tasted bile. She needed to find some composure, some control, but she couldn’t even begin to know how. She took a deep breath, and another, trying to steady herself, but her stomach heaved and she bent over double, cold sweat prickling on her forehead.

From her handbag she heard the persistent trill of her mobile and with a wild, impossible lurch of hope she wondered if it was her father ringing, having second thoughts, wanting to apologise.

It was Karen. ‘Zoe! I just wanted to make sure you’re coming out with us tonight. There’s a new club opening in the Village—’

Zoe leant against the side of the building and closed her eyes. Cold sweat still prickled on her forehead and her mouth tasted metallic. ‘Is there?’ she said dully. She could barely even make sense of Karen’s words.

‘Yes, of course there is! You sound a bit funny.’ Karen sounded torn between impatience and concern. ‘Are you all right?’

Zoe leant her head back against the brick wall. For an insane moment she wanted to confide just how not all right she was. No, I’m not all right. I’ve been rejected outright by two men—maybe even two of the most important men in my life—in the space of two weeks. I don’t know who I am or what I want to be, and I know I should have figured that out by now. I’m so scared.

‘I’m fine.’ Karen wasn’t the kind of friend who wanted to hear about those fears. She didn’t have that kind of friend.

‘So are you coming tonight?’

Zoe opened her eyes. ‘Yes.’

She went out to the club with Karen and a bunch of New York friends determined to forget Thomas Anderson and Max Monroe. Both men—and their almost identical looks of sneering indifference—haunted her, their cold words of denial and rejection replaying in her mind, echoing through her heart. Still, Zoe tried to make a good show of it, dancing and laughing and flirting even though she felt so brittle inside, ready to break. After only an hour the club’s pounding music made her head throb, and the cocktail she’d been drinking tasted sour. She left it virtually untouched on the bar and went in search of the loo.

The harsh lights in the ladies’ put her own pale face into awful relief. She looked terrible, Zoe thought rather distantly as she waited in line for an open stall, her arms creeping around herself in a self-embrace. Two women in skimpy dresses and stiletto heels were putting on lipstick in front of the mirror.

‘I had such a scare last week,’ one of them said, her eyes on her own reflection, and Zoe found herself listening, curious despite her own sense of lethargy.

‘Oh?’ The other woman asked in a rather bored drawl.

‘Yes.’ She smacked her lips together and slipped her lipstick into her bag. ‘My period was three days late, but thank God I wasn’t…’

‘Pregnant?’ The friend filled in as she put her own lipstick away. ‘What a nightmare.’

Zoe watched them both sashay out in their spiky heels, and she didn’t move until the woman behind her in the queue tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Are you in line or what?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Zoe mumbled. ‘No, I’m not.’ She half stumbled out of the bathroom, her mind buzzing.

Such a scare…three days late…thank God I wasn’t…

Pregnant.

Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

The word beat a restless tattoo in her brain. Even in her numb state she could do the math. Her period had been due—what? More than three days ago. Almost five. And she was annoyingly regular, as predictable as clockwork, but—

Max had used a condom. It had just been the one time.

She felt like a teenager, stupid and careless, demanding that this couldn’t happen to her, it didn’t work that way.

She couldn’t be pregnant.

She wasn’t, she assured herself. She was stressed, she was unhappy; those things made a difference.

Still, she could hardly stay at the club without the question answered, and without even making her excuses to Karen or any of her friends, she left the pulsing music and flashing strobe lights for the rain-slicked street. She hailed a cab and headed uptown, stopping only at a twenty-four-hour chemist’s to pick up the necessary item.

A pregnancy test.

Twenty minutes later, back in the apartment, she stared at two pink lines, and then the leaflet explaining the results. She stared at the lines one more time, and then read the leaflet again. There was no escaping it, no denying it.

She was pregnant. With Max Monroe’s baby.

Just the thought of Max made her stomach clench. He’d sent her packing after one night; what on earth would he do when—if—he discovered he was the father of her child?

Yet even as this question formed in Zoe’s mind, she realised there was no if about it. The life inside of her was tiny, fledgling, but it was there. It was part of her, part of Max, and with a sense of something—her whole self—settling into place, she knew this was where she belonged.

And Max needed to know.

It took Zoe three days to work up the courage to face Max. First she had to find him. She couldn’t have found her way back to his apartment building if she tried, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to confront Max in the place that was his own domain, where they’d made love. If what they’d done had anything to do with love, which she now knew it hadn’t.

Still, it had resulted in a child, a life, and for that alone Zoe knew she had to tell Max. A quick Internet search gave her the address of Monroe Consulting, an office building near Wall Street, right on the water, and Zoe made her way there.

She felt a sickening sense of déjà vu as she crossed the threshold. A row of security desks faced her, guarding the entrance to the elevators which led to the exclusive offices upstairs.

A bored security snapped his gum as he looked up. ‘Who are you here to see?’

‘Max Monroe.’

The guard nodded and reached for the phone. Zoe watched, her heart thudding as it had before, hardly able to believe that she was in the same awkward, uncomfortable, excruciating position she’d been only three days ago. Once again she was about to confront a hostile man and give him the unwelcome news that he was a father.

And this time it mattered even more.

‘Name?’ the guard asked, cradling the receiver to his ear, and Zoe swallowed nervously.

‘Zoe.’ He waited, and she added rather grimly, ‘Just Zoe. He’ll know who I am.’

The guard shrugged and spoke into the receiver; Zoe couldn’t hear what he said. After only a few seconds he replaced the telephone in its cradle. The look of boredom had been replaced by one of prurient interest. Zoe flushed. ‘He says he’s not expecting you, miss.’

‘I didn’t ring beforehand,’ Zoe confirmed with what she hoped passed as a gracious smile. ‘I hope Mr Monroe isn’t averse to surprises.’

The guard shrugged. ‘He sounds like he might be. He doesn’t want to see you anyway.’ He paused before he turned back to the newspaper he’d been reading. ‘Sorry.’

Zoe stared at the man in disbelief, her flush intensifying, spreading through her entire body in hot, prickly colour. Max Monroe wasn’t going to even let her come to his office. He wasn’t going to see her at all.

She drew in a shaky breath even as her vision swam and nausea rose in her throat. ‘I see,’ she managed. ‘Thank you.’

On legs that very nearly tottered she made her way out of the building. She stood in the middle of the concrete concourse in front of the building, the breeze from the Hudson River blowing her hair into tangles around her face. She took two, then three, deep lungfuls of air, trying to steady her nerves, her shaking body. Even now, after one spectacular dismissal, she could hardly believe she’d been given a second. Max Monroe wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to tell him about his child.

And she, Zoe determined, was not going to give him the opportunity to escape.

Max sat back in his chair, discomfort prickling along his body, through his thoughts. Why had Zoe—just Zoe—come to see him? He’d made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of pursuing a relationship or even setting eyes on her again. He couldn’t. Yet she’d tracked him down to his office and attempted to gain access—why?

Max had done his best to forget her and the night they’d had together. It took a surprising amount of concentration not to think about someone—the scent of her hair, the silken feel of her skin, that unexpected, throaty gurgle of laughter.

And more than that…the way she’d touched him, with such gentle hands, as if she felt something. Loved him, even. He still could feel the touch of her lips on his skin, his scar, and the answering agony of need inside of him.

No. He needed to forget, not to remember. There was no future, no hope. Besides, he told himself, rising from his chair in one abrupt yet fluid movement, she wasn’t worth his time. She was shallow. Insipid. A vapid, vacuous social butterfly. The only reason she’d been so angry the morning after their night together was because her pride had been hurt. Nothing more.

She probably preferred to be the one to say goodbye.

He had to believe that.

Slowly Max walked to the floor-to-ceiling window to behold a view that was fading all too rapidly. He could see the sun, a golden ball of fire in the sky, glinting off the buildings below, setting the whole world alight.

Only that morning he’d had his regular appointment at the ophthalmologist, to monitor the rate of retinal degeneration.

‘You seem to be holding steady,’ the doctor had said, as if this were encouragement. Max just shrugged. ‘You’ll have moments of good, even perfect, vision,’ Dr Ayers continued, ‘followed by increasing blind spots, floaters and periods of darkness. As I said before, it’s not a seamless process.’

‘No.’ He had experienced those alarming and exhilarating moments where it seemed as if his vision had cleared—as if he could see—only to have it all fade to blurry grey again. It felt like a taunt.

Just as knowing Zoe was looking for him felt like a taunt. He wanted to see her again, feel her again, and he couldn’t.

He couldn’t bear the pain when he failed her, the rejection when she was the one to walk away.

The sun had sunk below the horizon of buildings, the Hudson River turning to molten gold with its setting rays, and still Zoe sat on the bench facing the entrance to Max Monroe’s building.

She was stiff, chilly and ravenously hungry—not to mention in desperate need of the loo—but she hadn’t moved in nearly three hours.

From the moment she’d realised she was carrying this precious little life, she had been certain of one thing: Max would know he was the father. He would be involved. What shape that might take, how it could possibly happen, Zoe didn’t dare to think about. Still, she burned with determination that her baby would not grow up without the knowledge of who her real father was. Like she had.

She—or he—would know. Zoe would make sure of it.

The trouble was, she wasn’t sure Max wanted to know. In fact, she was quite sure he didn’t.

Just as she was thinking this she saw the man himself. She felt it, a prickle of goose bumps up her arms and along the back of her neck—awareness, alarm, attraction. She watched as he exited the building; he looked stunning and yet grave in his dark suit, a trench coat over one arm. He walked slowly, his steps careful and deliberate in a way that made Zoe’s heart ache. He looked, she thought, like a man weighed down by experience, by life itself. What had happened to make Max so burdened?

When he was halfway across the concourse, Zoe stood. He stopped, and they both stood there, staring at each other even as people hurried and scurried around them, silent and waiting.

Max stilled by instinct. The concourse in front of his building was filled with people rushing here and there, hurrying to home or to a restaurant, to a waiting lover or child. Everyone had somebody.

And apparently so did he, at least for this moment, for even though he couldn’t see her, he could sense her. Zoe was here, waiting for him. He stilled, and it came to him, the faint scent of rose water. Or was he imagining it? Surely he was, for there was no way he could smell so faint a scent with dozens of people between them.

Where was she?

He walked forward slowly, avoiding the blurred shapes of people rushing past, letting instinct—and need—guide him.

And then he felt her in front of him, saw for a moment the soft fall of golden hair, the glint of a green eye, the lovely, lovely sound of her voice.

‘Max.’

‘You’re stubborn, aren’t you?’ He meant to sound cutting but he couldn’t quite keep the hint of a smile from his voice.

‘I prefer the word determined.’

‘As you like.’ He took a breath, forcing back the words he felt almost desperate to say. You came back. You smell like spring. Touch me. ‘We have nothing to say to each other, Zoe.’ He began to move past her; he could see the dark shape of the waiting limo, his driver at the ready.

‘Actually, we do.’ She moved quickly—too quickly—in front of him, and he nearly stumbled. Irritation bit at him, making him sound colder than ever.

‘Then perhaps I should amend that—I have nothing to say to you.’

She gave a harsh bark of laughter, a sound like nothing he’d heard before. It was full of bitterness and cynicism, and the realization stabbed him with sorrow. ‘Perhaps you will, when you hear what I have to say—’

‘I don’t—’

‘I’m pregnant.’

The two words caused Max to go completely still. They reverberated through his body, his empty soul.

Pregnant. A child. His child.

Or not.

His voice was cold and dismissive as he moved past her. ‘As I said before, I have nothing to say to you.’

Zoe watched Max walk away from her in shocked disbelief. Then the fury came, rushing through her in a scalding river, disbelief giving way to determination.

‘You’re just going to walk away? You’re not even going to discuss it?’

He swivelled slowly, stiffly, to address her. ‘If you could do simple maths, Zoe, you’d realise not enough time has passed for your pregnancy claim to be credible.’ He inclined his head in what she supposed was a gesture of dismissal and started to walk away again.

‘I never was very good at maths,’ she called to his broad, indifferent back, ‘but it’s been a few weeks. These days you can take a pregnancy test after just ten days. Plenty of time, Max.’

He stilled again, his back to her. At least thirty seconds ticked by in taut silence. ‘Get in the car.’

Zoe saw the limo waiting at the curb, and without a word to Max she stalked to it and threw herself inside.

Max followed, moving with a careful precision that Zoe decided meant he was either very angry or in great pain. Perhaps both.

When the driver had closed the door and began moving through the city’s traffic, he spoke.

‘You wouldn’t have any symptoms yet, and I wore a condom. What on earth made you think to take a pregnancy test?’ He turned to her, his grey eyes gleaming in the dim interior of the limo. ‘You did take one, I presume?’

‘Yes. I overheard some women talking, and I realised I was late, so I—I put two and two together—’

‘And came up with an unsavoury three.’

Zoe pressed her hand to her middle. So. The idea of a pregnancy—a child—was unsavoury to him. An inconvenience, an irritation. Bitterness spiked her words. ‘You’ve made your feelings clear.’

‘Am I supposed to want this baby?’ he asked in disbelief, and she shook her head.

‘No, I suppose that would be too much to ask.’ She stared blindly out the window, wondering just why she had come. When she’d learned she was pregnant, it had seemed essential that she tell Max. She wanted her baby to have a father, yet she should have realised Max was hardly going to jump into the role of daddy with eager ease. They barely knew each other.

And the last thing she wanted was for her baby to have a father who rejected her…like she had been rejected.

‘What do you want to do?’ Max asked eventually, his voice terribly neutral. ‘Somehow I don’t think you need money, but if that’s what you’re after—’

Zoe twisted in her seat to glare at him. ‘I’m not after anything,’ she ground out. ‘Silly me, I thought it might concern you, the fact you’ve fathered a child.’

Max turned to the window so she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Are you telling me you intend to keep it?’

Zoe recoiled. ‘Would you prefer I didn’t?’

He shrugged, not speaking, and revulsion crawled through her. When he finally spoke, it was no more than a whisper, and she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him at all. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I’m not asking you to get an abortion if you don’t wish to have one,’ Max said flatly, his face still turned to the window. ‘I’m not quite that selfish.’

The limo pulled to the curb in front of Max’s building and he got out of the car, leaving Zoe no choice but to follow, tripping once more over the uneven cobbles.

They didn’t speak in the foyer, or in the closed space of the lift as it soared thirty-two floors up into the sky. Zoe waited tensely as Max stalked across his living room—shoving aside a chair in an almost vicious movement—before he poured himself a rather large Scotch and downed it in one gulp.

‘I’d offer you a drink but I suppose that’s not the thing when you’re expecting,’ he said, his back to her, his voice dark with a savage humour.

‘No, it’s all wretched herbal teas,’ Zoe replied lightly. ‘I’d kill for a cup of coffee.’

‘Surely a little caffeine can’t be that bad for you, this early on?’

Zoe shrugged. She’d read a brochure that linked excessive caffeine to the threat of a miscarriage, and while the research showed that a cup a day was fine, she realised she didn’t want to take unnecessary risks, or even any risks at all.

She wanted this baby. A lot. More than anything she’d ever wanted before. Perhaps even more than she wanted to be a Balfour. The realisation surprised her, and even scared her a little bit.

‘So.’ Max put his glass down carefully on the table and turned slowly to face her. ‘I appreciate you telling me the news, but what exactly are you hoping to achieve here?’

Zoe swallowed. It was, she knew, a good question. What was she doing here? What did she want—realistically, possibly—from Max? ‘I want you to be involved in our child’s life.’ The words came out in a nervous rush, and Max arched one eyebrow.

‘Involved?’ he repeated, and there was no disguising his incredulity. ‘What are you talking about?’

His blatant disbelief stung her, reminded her of her own biological father’s utter refusal to acknowledge her in any way. ‘I’m talking about responsibility, Max—’

‘The responsible thing would have been not to get you pregnant in the first place,’ Max replied shortly. ‘Barring that, it would be to give you the money—’

‘No.’ Zoe took a step closer to him, her hand pressed against her tummy. ‘Are you really that cold-hearted, that you’d wish your own child out of existence?’

Max’s face and voice were both expressionless. ‘I can’t really be sure it’s mine, can I?’

‘We can have a paternity test as soon as you like,’ Zoe said evenly. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

‘Don’t you?’ Max remained motionless, but Zoe could still feel his heat, his anger. He stood still, seemingly relaxed, yet to Zoe he felt like a panther ready to pounce. On her. ‘Just Zoe?’ he jeered softly. ‘Who are you, really?’

Zoe met his taunting gaze, her voice steady. ‘The woman who is going to have your child.’

Max let out a sharp bark of disbelieving laughter. ‘You really are a piece of work.’

‘What—’

‘Have you even considered what having this baby means, Zoe? What it will do to that lovely little body of yours, to your lifestyle? No more parties, no more late nights. No more spending the night with your latest lover—’

‘That’s not fair.’ Zoe felt the sting of tears under her lids and furiously blinked them away. ‘You don’t know me—’

‘Exactly. I don’t know you.’ The words seemed to hang in the air, flat and final. ‘Do you even know what it means to have a child?’ Max demanded after a moment, his voice harsh. ‘Or are you just seeing this baby—this life—as another fashion accessory, something different because you’re bored?’

Each word, Zoe thought numbly, was a judgement, a condemnation. Of course, there was very little reason for Max Monroe to think more of her; she hadn’t given him any reason to. She hadn’t given anyone any reason to. And standing there, her face drained of colour, her mouth dry, she wondered at the truth of his words.

Was it selfish—stupid, even—to have a baby because you wanted a family of your own? Because at last you’d have someone to belong to?

Perhaps it was.

Yet even as these thoughts—fears—slipped slyly through her mind, Zoe knew she wanted this baby for more reasons than her own selfish desires. She wanted this baby because it was a child, her child, part of her own body, and he or she deserved to live.

‘If I wanted a fashion accessory,’ she finally said, her voice thankfully dry, ‘I’d buy a bracelet.’

Max inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Zoe thought she almost—almost—saw the glimmer of a smile in the curve of his mouth, the flicker in his eyes. Then he shrugged. ‘Naturally I’ll offer financial support, if that’s what you need.’

‘Write a cheque and be done with it?’

Max narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you angling for, Zoe? Because you can’t possibly expect—’ He stopped, swallowing, and turned away.

‘Expect you to be involved in your child’s life? Funny, how men seem to think that idea is so absurd. So impossible.’

Max swung around sharply. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been in this situation before?’

Zoe hesitated. ‘In a manner of speaking. But no, I’ve never been pregnant before.’ She took a breath; it hitched slightly. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me, Max, or even attempt some kind of godforsaken relationship.’ She said the word with a little sneer, even though she didn’t feel like sneering. She didn’t want a relationship with Max; she was realistic enough to realise how ill-fated that would be. Yet it still hurt that he hadn’t even considered it for a moment. He’d dismissed her the morning after they’d made love, and he was dismissing her and her child now.

Hadn’t she had enough of rejection? When was she going to wise up and stop insisting on these confrontations? A wave of dizziness passed over and she swayed on her feet, a tiny moan escaping her. Max inhaled sharply.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m just a little dizzy. I haven’t eaten in awhile.’ She sat down in the nearest chair with an inelegant thud, closing her eyes against the dizziness, the accompanying nausea and, worst of all, the reality of Max’s rejection.

Her eyes still closed, she heard him mutter a curse under his breath and he moved from the bar to the kitchen. She heard the sound of cupboards and drawers being opened and shut, and then she opened her eyes to see him at the kitchen counter, its gleaming, pristine surface marred only by the presence of a knife and a jar of peanut butter.

She watched him stand there for a moment, looking lost and a little helpless, and she wondered if he’d actually ever been in his own kitchen.

‘I have my meals delivered,’ he explained tersely, even though Zoe hadn’t said anything. Clearly he must have guessed what she’d been thinking. ‘I’m afraid peanut butter and bread is all I have.’

‘That’s fine.’

He reached for the jar of peanut butter, unscrewing the cap and setting it aside; in the process his elbow knocked the knife from the counter. He cursed again, under his breath. Zoe watched, strangely transfixed, as Max bent, his long, lean fingers slowly sweeping the black marble tiles for the knife. His fingers closed around it after only a few seconds, yet Zoe was left with the odd feeling that he hadn’t known where the utensil was.

She opened her mouth to say something—what?—but Max’s cold, closed expression kept her from uttering a word.

‘Thank you,’ she finally murmured, for he’d spread peanut butter on two slices of bread and silently handed her a sandwich. She took it, her appetite absolutely vanished, her mind seething with questions. Somehow she felt making a simple sandwich had cost Max something—and she didn’t even know what it was.

Was he still injured from his accident? She wanted to ask, but she was uncertain of Max’s response. She couldn’t bear another rebuff, and actually she wasn’t sure she wanted the truth.

Suddenly, she was afraid. Afraid of all the things she didn’t know, the future looming dark and so terribly uncertain in front of them both.

‘If you’re envisioning some kind of happy-families scenario,’ Max said after a long, tense moment of silence, ‘I’m afraid that it is quite impossible.’ He’d moved to the window and propped one shoulder against the wall of glass, seeming utterly indifferent to the spectacular view.

Zoe stared down at her sandwich, unable to manage even a mouthful. ‘Impossible?’ she repeated slowly, and let it linger in the air, a question.

‘Impossible,’ Max confirmed. Then, to her surprise, the words seeming reluctant and yet no less heartfelt, he added, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You speak as though you have no choice.’

‘I don’t.’ The two words were laced with a surprising and deep regret.

Zoe looked up, eyes flashing, anger—and hurt—coursing through her. ‘What are you saying, Max? You don’t want to be involved in this child’s life at all?’

His mouth tightened, a muscle flickering in his jaw. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Only if you choose for it to be so.’

‘What are you actually imagining, Zoe?’ he demanded harshly, his voice a raw, ragged whisper. ‘We barely know each other. I don’t even know your last name. Are you actually expecting us to be a family?’

That one word—family—caused tears to gather under her lids, crowd her throat. She swallowed, blinked, forced it all back. ‘I don’t know what to expect, Max. All I know is—’ She swallowed again, her throat so very tight, and continued. ‘I won’t let this baby grow up without knowing who her father is.’

He looked at her sharply, as if he wanted to ask a question, and Zoe didn’t want to have to explain. She continued in a quieter, more subdued voice. ‘And it’s Balfour.’

‘What?’

‘My last name. It’s Balfour.’

He shrugged, obviously indifferent and Zoe felt a ridiculous urge to laugh. The name clearly meant nothing to him. That all-important social symbol—a sign of wealth, luxury, prestige and, finally, scandal—was simply a name to Max Monroe. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed; she felt nothing at all.

‘At the very least,’ she continued, ‘you could visit—’

‘What? Fly over to England every couple of weeks?’

She blinked, suddenly realising how very little she’d thought any of this out. All she’d thought about since learning she was pregnant—all she’d wanted—was her baby to know her father. To feel as if she belonged, as if she was loved.

Yet you couldn’t force either of those. Maybe, Zoe thought hollowly, it would be better for this child not to know her father…if her father didn’t want to know her. Yet even as she considered this, she knew it wasn’t true. Not knowing, for her, had been as bad as knowing.

Carefully she placed the uneaten sandwich on the table next to her. She rose slowly, dizziness still lapping at the edges of her mind, her self-control a slippery thing. ‘I haven’t thought any of this through,’ she said with as much dignity as she could gather. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Max, and I won’t pretend that I do. I just…’ She drew a breath into her lungs, sharp and painful. ‘I just wanted this child to know where he or she came from. Because—’ She stopped, then forced herself to go on. ‘Because I didn’t.’ Max’s mouth opened soundlessly, his eyes widening in surprise, and Zoe hurried on. ‘Anyway. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Because you can’t force the kind of thing I want. You can’t force love—not even a father’s love for a child. I should know.’

Max closed his eyes briefly; he looked as if he was in pain. ‘Zoe—’

‘So,’ she finished, her voice sounding high and strained, ‘that’s it. I just wanted you to know.’

He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. His face was utterly expressionless, devoid of emotion, and Zoe knew then, with a chill, that he had decided. He’d made up his mind not to be involved. He didn’t move, didn’t change at all, as he said tonelessly, ‘Now I know.’

And he still didn’t move as Zoe, on leaden legs, walked slowly to the elevator. She pushed the button, waiting, half expecting or at least hoping for Max to say something. Do something.

He didn’t.

It seemed to take ages for the elevator to arrive, yet even so all too soon the doors whooshed open, leaving Zoe with no choice but to step inside. And then, just as once before, they closed, and Max had never said a word.

Max heard the elevator doors close, heard the swoosh as it started downwards. He heard the silence all around him, angry and mocking, and he wished he could close his ears—and heart—against it. He heard Zoe’s accusations and, worse, her pleas.

You can’t force love—not even a father’s love for a child—I should know.

He didn’t know her history, although he supposed he could guess a little bit of it now, and the thought of how he was letting her down—letting their child down—cut through him cleanly. He’d never wanted to let anyone down again. To fail another person was, he knew, the same as failing himself.

Yet better to let her down now—a little—than far more, far worse, later.

You speak as though you have no choice.

Zoe had no idea how true those words were. She’d meant them as an accusation, yet Max felt them as a sentence. A life sentence, impossible to escape. Would Zoe be so eager for him to be involved in their child’s life when she learned he was nearly blind, on his way to becoming a virtual invalid? He could imagine her distaste, her horror, at his condition all too well.

And even if she pretended it didn’t matter, Max knew it did…to him. To a child. How could he be a father when he couldn’t see his child’s face? He couldn’t play catch with a son; he couldn’t whirl a daughter around and around without stumbling, falling, putting her into danger.

He was useless. And worse, far worse, he was afraid.

He choked back another curse, pressing his fists to his eyes, closing them against the bright, blurred shapes. The darkness was complete and almost soothing…for a moment. Then the panic, all too familiar, rose within him, a cry, a silent scream of anguish he’d never voice.

He stalked to the bar, bumping hard into a chair which he shoved out of his way, and reached for the whisky bottle. Here, at least, oblivion—temporary, sweet—could be found.

It was past midnight when he finally stumbled to bed, shedding his clothes with haphazard indifference. Sleep claimed him all too quickly, and with it came the dread and the dreams—the suffocating darkness, the taunts and jeers and, worst of all, the supplications.

Max…do something…help me, please…

He’d done nothing. He’d sat and waited, unable even to help himself. In his sleep a groan of abject misery escaped him, and he thrashed against the slippery sheets as the memories took hold of him, held him in their vicious grasp.

No…no…please…don’t hurt her…

Help me, Max…

He hadn’t. He hadn’t been able to.

As dawn broke, he finally fell into a deeper, dreamless sleep, his muscles still knotted with tension, his eyes clenched closed and his sheets wet with the tears he would never shed while awake.

Chapter Five

THE next few days passed in a lethargic blur. Zoe didn’t go out; she spent most of her days lying in bed, drained and empty. Finally she dragged herself from the apartment, determined to do something. To act.

Yet how? What? She found herself wandering the streets, gazing listlessly at the store fronts and office buildings, watching as people hurried everywhere, busy and productive, part of something. She’d never felt so listless, so separate. Then her gaze fell upon a discreet sign in front of a midrise office building, no different than a thousand others.

Midtown Pregnancy Support Center. Where Women Find the Help They Need.

Without even considering what she was doing, or why, Zoe pushed through the office doors and took the lift to the fourth floor. She entered the support centre, her surprised gaze taking in a few faded, squashy armchairs and a battered desk where a woman was arranging brochures in a basket. She looked up when Zoe entered. ‘Can I help?’

‘Actually,’ Zoe said, and her voice sounded surprisingly strong, ‘I was wondering if I could help you.’ The woman raised her eyebrows, surprised, and Zoe smiled. ‘I’d like to volunteer.’

‘Volunteer? Have you been here before?’

‘No.’ Zoe realised how absurd she must seem, storming in here and asking to be part of it. Yet she wanted to be a part; she wanted to contribute, to act. She needed to do, rather than just think and wonder and fear. ‘I’m new to the city, but I’ve got plenty of time on my hands, and I want to do something useful. I know I’m not trained in much of anything,’ she continued with determined cheer, ‘but I could file and answer phones, surely?’

‘Right…’ The woman glanced down at the papers on her desk and Zoe felt her tenuous hold on her composure slipping. Please, not another rejection. At this point, she felt as if she might fall apart if someone so much as frowned at her on the street. Then the woman looked up and smiled.

‘It’s usually so difficult to find volunteers. Everyone is so busy in this city. We’ll need to run a few background checks, but I’m sure we’d love your help.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Tiffany.’

‘Brilliant.’ Zoe took her hand and shook it. ‘I’m Zoe,’ she said, and then added, her voice still strong, ‘Zoe Balfour.’

Within a few days Zoe had learned all the menial tasks—from watering the potted plants on the windowsill to making copies of brochures and forms on a rather antiquated photocopier—that she’d once never have even thought to stoop to. She tried to imagine Holly Mabberly or even Karen seeing her in this setting, and knew they would be incredulous, most likely scornful.

She was, Zoe realised on her third day of volunteering, happy. Or close enough. She knew she’d never be truly happy with the men in her life so indifferent—the men who had actively chosen not to be in her life. Yet she was doing something, something good, and that gave her a deep sense of satisfaction she’d never expected to feel.

Yet the nearly eight hours that she put in at the pregnancy centre didn’t fill the other long, empty hours of the day and night, hours where she walked through the park, observing the children with their mothers and fathers and nannies, where the sight of a baby dozing contentedly in a pushchair made her insides contract with both hope and fear.

Hours where she lay in bed, exhausted yet sleepless, wistfully imagining a different scenario, a different life, one where her father and the father of her child accepted and embraced her.

Bedtime stories. Fairy tales.

And still there was too much time to think, to wonder, to fear, for she was realising with an increasing sense of panicked urgency that she had no idea what she was doing.

Where would she live? What would she do? How was she going to tell her family, her father? In one grim moment, she pictured the tabloid headlines—Bastard Gives Birth to Bastard—and shuddered.

Perhaps she was being foolish, pushing these thoughts away, taking each precious day as it came, enjoying her work at the pregnancy centre, her camaraderie with Tiffany and the other counsellors and volunteers. Yet Zoe knew herself well enough to realise that all the implications and problems of the future would destroy the fragile sense of equanimity she’d finally managed to achieve.

Then the sickness hit. She’d been feeling a little queasy off and on, but nothing like the utter wretchedness that descended on her just a little over a week after she last saw Max. Exhausted and utterly nauseous, she took several days off volunteering and spent them in bed, nibbling on dry crackers and trying to sleep as much as she could.

One dreary, drizzly afternoon the doorbell rang and, thinking it must be the housekeeper, Lila, forgetting her key, she roused herself from her state of lethargy and went to open the front door.

It wasn’t Lila. It was Max.

Zoe’s mouth dropped open in shock as she stared at him; his hair was damp from rain, and he wore an exquisitely cut grey suit, the steely colour matching his eyes. He looked grim, determined and resolute—and absolutely wonderful.

Zoe’s heart bumped against her ribs and she was suddenly, painfully conscious of how she looked. She hadn’t showered, her hair was in a scraggly mess and she was wearing the comfort pyjamas that nobody ever saw her in. Max, however, didn’t seem to notice, and he made no comment. Still, she folded her arms across her chest in a gesture of self-protection.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We need to talk.’

Zoe arched an eyebrow in cool scepticism even as her heart lurched. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really,’ Max snapped. ‘Now are you going to let me inside?’

‘Since you asked so graciously,’ Zoe muttered, and stepped aside. She watched as Max walked slowly into the foyer, gazing around at the priceless antiques—her father had a passion for ancient art and sculpture—with something close to disdain.

The scornful look on his face made Zoe’s own cheeks burn with shame and resentment. Had he learned of her own birth? It would have only taken the most rudimentary Internet search to discover who she was; she’d given him the ammunition when she’d told him her full name. Was that why he looked so contemptuous now, because he knew who she was? He knew she didn’t belong here, didn’t deserve—

Zoe clamped down on these thoughts and gazed levelly at Max. ‘What do you want?’

‘Are we going to be so uncivilised as to stand here in the hall?’

‘You’re hardly one to speak of civility,’ Zoe fired back.

Max inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I’m sorry.’

Surprised, it took Zoe a moment to find her tongue. ‘You said that before.’

‘You shocked me. I spoke out of turn.’ The words were spoken flatly, without emotion, yet their meaning made Zoe’s heart turn. Was he having second thoughts? Good ones?

‘Follow me.’ She turned and led the way into the living room, with its thick Aubusson carpet and its sweeping view of Central Park. After the slightest hesitation, Max followed.

‘I’m sorry I look such a fright,’ Zoe said in what she hoped was a flippant tone. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I would have taken a bit more care.’

Max just shrugged. ‘It’s not important.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you been feeling well?’

Zoe let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘You see me like this and you can ask that? No, I’ve been feeling wretched.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Max said after a moment.

‘It’s meant to pass in a few weeks,’ Zoe replied. ‘I think.’ They both lapsed into a tense, uneasy silence. Max stood in the centre of the room, unmoving, his face so terribly expressionless. Zoe had no idea what he was thinking, wanting. Wearily she pushed a tangled mass of hair behind one ear and asked, ‘Why are you here, Max?’

He turned slowly to face her, his body tense and straight, shoulders thrown back, chin angled haughtily, yet even so Zoe wondered if she saw a shadow of vulnerability in his dark eyes. Or was she just being fanciful, hoping for some more tender emotion that wasn’t there?

‘I told you, I spoke out of turn the other day,’ Max said tightly. ‘I…I shouldn’t have dismissed you quite so readily.’

Was that actually meant to be an apology? Zoe wondered. ‘Thanks for that,’ she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. ‘It didn’t take you long to realise you were an utter cad—’

‘I was surprised,’ Max cut her off, his voice sharpening. ‘And I still don’t know how—’ He stopped, his lips pressed tightly together, and Zoe felt a thrill of trepidation ripple coldly through her.

‘How what?’ she asked quietly.

‘How any of this will work, if you actually intend to have this baby,’ Max snapped. ‘We’re strangers, Zoe—’

‘Strangers who slept together.’ She couldn’t quite hide the note of sorrow from her voice. Max simply shrugged and Zoe drew herself up. ‘So what exactly are you proposing?’ she asked, then winced at her choice of words.

‘I’m not proposing anything,’ Max returned evenly. ‘But if you are indeed having my child, then naturally I have a certain responsibility.’ He made it sound so cold, so heartless, a matter of duty, not desire, yet Zoe knew she couldn’t really expect much more. ‘Are you planning on remaining in New York for the duration of your pregnancy?’

‘I…I haven’t thought…’ Zoe pleated the worn fabric of her track bottoms between her fingers. She hadn’t thought through anything, yet she knew she couldn’t return to England—not yet, not when the tabloid’s rabid eye would be trained so viciously on her, especially if anyone learned she was pregnant. ‘I think I should stay here,’ she said after a moment, and heard the hesitation and uncertainty in her voice.

‘Is there a reason why you don’t want to return to England?’ Max asked, his tone neutral, but nerves and fear made Zoe spiky. ‘You mentioned—’

‘I just want to stay here,’ Zoe cut him off, and Max nodded. He wasn’t going to press, Zoe realised with a wave of relief. At least not yet.

‘Fine. Have you seen a doctor?’ he asked after a moment.

‘No, not yet. It’s still early days.’

‘Yet if you’re feeling wretched, surely there is something a doctor could prescribe.’

‘I don’t know—’ Zoe admitted. She watched as Max withdrew a slim mobile phone from his breast pocket and began to punch in numbers. ‘What are you—?’

He spoke tersely into the mobile, and Zoe realised he must be talking to some assistant, a staff member ready to scurry and obey his sharply given commands. He snapped the phone shut. ‘My assistant is looking into doctors. We’ll try to get an appointment for this afternoon.’

Zoe was torn between annoyance, admiration and a strange sort of gratitude. When he put his mind to it, he obviously got things done, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be quite so managed. ‘I’m fine—’

‘You said you were feeling wretched,’ Max pointed out, and then had the gall to actually sniff. ‘Perhaps you’d like to shower before your appointment?’

Mortified, Zoe flushed to the roots of her unwashed hair. Surely she didn’t actually smell? ‘Fine,’ she said stiffly. She rose from her chair; Max hadn’t moved from his military like stance in the centre of the room. ‘Are you just going to wait here?’ He shrugged one powerful shoulder and Zoe couldn’t help but ask a bit resentfully, ‘Don’t you have things to do? Money to make?’

Max gave her the faintest flicker of a smile. ‘The good thing about making money,’ he said, ‘is that after awhile it makes more all on its own.’ He shoved one hand in his trouser pocket, looking a shade more relaxed. ‘I have time.’

She should be glad Max was here, Zoe knew, grateful that he’d changed his mind and wanted to be involved in some way. Yet for some perverse reason she could only feel resentful. He changed his mind, and now she was meant to leap to do his bidding? She felt like a parcel to be cared for, rather than a person.

The shower felt good, stinging and hot, and despite her queasy stomach she felt a bit better, enough to dress with care in a pair of skinny jeans—she could still fit into them, although the zip stuck a bit in the middle—knee-high leather boots and a silky T-shirt the colour of sea foam. She did her make-up, knowing she was being ridiculously vain, wanting to look good for Max. She doubted he would even notice, and yet still she was ludicrously disappointed when she returned to the living room and he didn’t even glance at her.

‘We have an appointment in an hour,’ Max said briskly. ‘My car will be here in five minutes.’

‘That was quick,’ Zoe said a bit sulkily. ‘Amazing how you can get things done when you put your mind to it.’ She knew she sounded sharp and sarcastic and didn’t really care.

Max fixed her with a cool, even stare. ‘I understand why you’re angry with me, Zoe. I didn’t behave as I should have—as I wanted to—the last time we spoke. I’m sorry. But I’m doing my best now to take care of you and our child, and I’d appreciate not having it tossed back at me at every turn.’ He spoke levelly, his face expressionless, and Zoe nodded in acceptance.

‘I suppose this situation is difficult for us both.’

‘Indeed.’ He reached out an arm, and belatedly Zoe realised she was meant to take it. She slipped her arm through his awkwardly, conscious of his nearness, the scent of his aftershave, something woodsy and clean, and a deeper, muskier smell underneath that was surely just him. His arm felt strong under hers, the muscles rippling beneath the smooth fabric of his suit, and for a second Zoe wanted to lean into him, to feel the strength of him as she had before, that night. She wanted to lean on someone—on him—and admit that she was uncertain and afraid, that the future scared her, that she really had no idea what she was doing or who she was. That she was trying—and this baby felt right, the first right thing in a long time—but she was still afraid of failing. Of messing up. Of losing—losing even Max himself, which was ridiculous, because she’d never even had him in the first place.

Perhaps Max could guess some of her thoughts already; perhaps he would only feel contempt if she admitted such weaknesses to him. He probably didn’t have a moment of weakness, she thought with a touch of resentment. He always seemed so self-assured, so collected, so certain of his place in the world.

The moment when Zoe had kissed his scar—the moonlight rippling over them in a silver curtain of light—slipped into her mind and she found herself thinking that Max hadn’t been so sure then. Yet the man who had let her kiss him, hold him…that man had disappeared. Zoe didn’t even know if he was real, or if she’d ever see him again.

They might have once been lovers, but they weren’t now. Now, Zoe acknowledged starkly, they were bound together by only one thing—the baby nestled in her womb.

Max tried not to lean on Zoe’s arm, not to inhale the sweet scent of her hair, her skin. Roses. Tried not to show any weakness, or the fact that coming here, to a strange place, to her, had taken every ounce of his strength and self-control. New places challenged him now. Hell, they scared him. He could make out vague shapes, doorways and corners, but too much could trip him up. Every step felt as if he were about to fall into a void of unknowing. He didn’t want to stumble. He didn’t want to fall.

He didn’t, he knew, want to make an ass of himself, or have Zoe realise that he was near blind.

Yet she would surely have to know at some point, if she didn’t figure it out on her own. He would have to tell her; he could hardly keep such a secret if they were to be involved in any way. Already his mind jumped ahead to the future, wondering just who Zoe Balfour was. If, despite her social connections, her beauty and her charm, she was the kind of woman who could live with a blind man.

Who could love him.

You think this is about love? his mind—and perhaps his heart—slyly mocked. What do you want from her? What can you really expect from her?

Nothing was the only answer to both of those questions.

The limo was waiting by the curb; Max could make out its long, dark shape, and he heard the door open and close, his driver calling out.

‘Mr Monroe.’

Frank knew about his lost eyesight; Max had been forced to tell him when he’d been unable to perform the smallest, simplest tasks that he’d taken for granted before. Now they never spoke of it, but Frank performed small services that were indispensable—he spoke as he opened the door so Max would know where he was; he made sure the way to the car was clear. Max relied on him utterly, and the knowledge stung. He’d been independent, needing no one for so long, and now he was nearly as helpless as the child he and Zoe would soon have.

What would Zoe think then? And why should he even care? No, he didn’t want to be pitied, but he could surely deal with it, or even with her scorn. It didn’t have to matter; he didn’t have to care. And he could still be involved in his child’s life.

It was that realisation that had brought him back to Zoe. After she’d left his apartment, regret and guilt had lashed at him. In his own agony of disappointment, he’d treated her without care or concern, or, if he were honest, even the least amount of sensitivity.

During the long, dark nights, as he staved off sleep and its accompanying dreams, he’d thought of her. He’d imagined he could still smell her on his sheets. He’d pictured their baby, for some reason a girl; she would have blonde curls and Zoe’s jade-green eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see this baby with his eyes, but he’d felt, during those long, lonely nights, that he could already see her with his heart.

Then he chastised and mocked himself for such ridiculous, fanciful, sentimental dreams. He barely knew Zoe—Zoe Balfour, apparently—and what he knew of her suggested that she would be horrified by his liability, his weakness. No matter what he secretly might long for in those dark, weak moments, he knew he couldn’t be involved with Zoe Balfour.

Even so his code of honour, latent all these weeks of blasted self-pity, would not allow his own child to enter this world fatherless. He’d let someone down before, terribly, totally, out of weakness and fear, and he wouldn’t do it again. Ever. Not Zoe, not his child. No matter what cost.

And so he’d searched Zoe out, and he would care for both her and her child—his child—even if it meant enduring her pity or scorn.

Still, he had no idea what it would look like, how it would feel, what it could mean.

Or when—how—he could tell Zoe about his blindness.

Zoe leant her head back against the plush leather seat and closed her eyes as the limo sped down Park Avenue, the speed making her already queasy tummy do another alarming lurch.

Max had been staring ahead, seemingly oblivious of her since they’d entered the limo, and Zoe gathered he didn’t want to talk. Well, neither did she; this situation was awkward enough without enduring pointless, stilted conversations.

A knot of misery lodged in her gut, found its way up her throat. She’d clung to the belief—the hope—that her child would know its father, and now Max was choosing to make that a reality, so why couldn’t she be happier?

Why did everything still feel so unsettled, so wrong?

Zoe glanced at the forbidding profile of the man seated next to her and knew why she felt as unhappy as she did. Max might be willing to care for her and her child, but he obviously didn’t like it. Right now he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere—with anyone else—in the world.

Sighing, Zoe turned away and closed her eyes once more.

The doctor Max had found came highly recommended—or so he told her—yet Zoe could barely summon the energy to care or even respond as she sat in the luxurious waiting room, flipping through celebrity gossip magazines with a listless air.

Max sat next to her, his body rigid, his expression forbidding. Zoe fished out a packet of crackers from her handbag and nibbled one miserably.

When they were finally called into the examining room, she perched on the edge of the table with its crackly paper, suddenly nervous and unsure. The thought of being physically examined with Max standing in the corner of the room like a dark shadow made her feel even more nauseous than usual.

Perhaps he sensed this, for he suddenly asked, his voice as terse as ever, ‘Would you prefer me to be in the waiting room?’

‘I…’ Zoe swallowed, moistening her lips. ‘No. It’s all right. You can stay.’ Stupidly, perhaps, she meant it.

A few minutes later Dr Hargreaves, a trim, grey-haired woman in her early fifties, entered the room. ‘Mrs Monroe?’

‘No—’ The word came from Zoe involuntarily, horror and humiliation making her face burn. She glanced at Max, who didn’t react. ‘That is…my name is Zoe. Zoe Balfour. I’m—We’re…not—’

‘Of course,’ Dr Hargreaves said smoothly. ‘I apologise for my assumption. The assistant who took Mr Monroe’s call must have made a mistake.’ She smiled briskly and took Zoe’s chart from the folder by the door. ‘Now, let’s see…your last period was about eight weeks ago?’

‘I…I think so.’ Zoe couldn’t look at Max, which was just as well because he was standing utterly still and silent, the look on his face still so forbidding.

‘And you’ve done a home test?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re feeling quite nauseous?’ The doctor continued with sympathy. ‘It tends to hit right around this time.’

‘Right.’

She flicked a glance towards Max. ‘I can prescribe something to help the nausea if it’s really bad, but the best thing is to eat protein, especially early in the morning, and snack frequently. It does usually pass within a few weeks.’

‘Good to know.’ Zoe smiled weakly, so achingly conscious of Max standing there, arms crossed, face so damned inscrutable.

‘Now we can’t hear the heartbeat yet with the Doppler as it’s so early, but I can do a quick scan to reassure you?’ Dr Hargreaves smiled, and Zoe thought she saw a compassion in the woman’s kind eyes; the tension in the room, between her and Max, was surely palpable enough for the doctor to feel it. ‘We might be able to see the heartbeat, at any rate.’

‘That would be wonderful.’

Zoe stretched out on the table, and Dr Hargreaves squeezed some cold, clear gel on her tummy. She switched on the ultrasound equipment and began to sweep the wand over her middle.

It seemed to take an age, and Zoe felt her hands turn clammy and her heart thud with fear, but then Dr Hargreaves smiled. ‘Ah. There it is. Do you see?’

And amazingly, she did see: a tiny, perfect little bean of a baby, with a heart beating like a butterfly’s wing. There really was a baby in there. Zoe laughed aloud, a sound of wonder and disbelief, but when she looked at Max she saw he wasn’t even glancing at the ultrasound screen.

Dr Hargreaves switched on the sound, and the room was suddenly filled with the quick, thready sound of their baby’s heart. ‘Sounds a bit like a horse galloping,’ she said with a smile, and Zoe nodded. It was a wonderful sound, the sound of life, and when she looked at Max again she saw with surprise that his face, so expressionless before, was now suffused with emotion. It took her a moment to realise what was reflected in his eyes, in the incredulous curve of his mouth. It was joy. He was smiling, and with a ripple of shock Zoe realised his eyes were damp. He blinked hard.

Without even seeming to realise what he was doing, Max reached out his hand, his fingers fumbling for hers, and then lacing with them tightly. She leant her head back against the hard little pillow and closed her eyes, a sudden sense of overwhelming relief making her faint and dizzy with the sheer hope and joy of it. It’s going to be all right, she thought, her hand still held tightly in Max’s. I don’t know how, or even what, but it’s going to be all right.

Max kept holding her hand even as Dr Hargreaves switched off the ultrasound machine and handed Zoe a paper towel to wipe the gel off her stomach.

‘I never get tired of the sound,’ she said cheerfully. ‘So everything looks as if it progressing normally—you should schedule another visit in about four weeks, although of course if you have concerns I can see you earlier. And if you like I’ll prescribe something to help with the nausea.’

Zoe nodded, and glanced again at Max, wondering how he was taking all this. Despite the wonder of the moment before—despite the fact that he was still holding her hand—she felt afraid and uncertain. Four weeks suddenly sounded like a long time. So did nine months.

Max must have been thinking along the same lines, for he slipped his hand from hers and he retreated to the corner, unmoving, the smile wiped from his face completely so that once again Zoe had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.

They didn’t speak as they left the doctor’s office. Max’s limo was waiting by the curb, and they both climbed silently inside, speeding down Park Avenue in a tense, uneasy silence.

As the traffic lights passed in a blur of green, block after block of brownstones, Zoe finally worked up the nerve to speak. ‘So.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for arranging the doctor’s visit. It was wonderful to see the heartbeat.’

‘And hear it,’ Max agreed quietly. He paused, flexing his fingers as if he was remembering how they felt holding hers. Or was she just imagining that? Hoping it? ‘I think we should celebrate.’

‘What?’ Startled, incredulous, Zoe could only stare at him.

Max smiled, his mouth flicking upwards, a teasing glint in his eye that Zoe had never seen before.

‘It’s not every day you hear your baby’s heartbeat. And no matter what has happened before—’ He paused, sounding stilted. ‘No matter what is—or isn’t—between us, we can celebrate that. A life. A new life.’ He sounded wistful, even aching, and yet determined.

Zoe smiled. ‘That’s true. What shall we do?’

‘Dinner,’ Max said firmly, ‘at Le Cirque.’

‘I’m not dressed—’

‘We can stop by your apartment,’ Max told her. ‘I’m sure you have something fabulous.’

An hour later, feeling slightly unreal—and far too hopeful—Zoe slipped back into Max’s limo. She wore an evening gown in silver satin, one of her favourite dresses. It was simple, deceptively so, falling from two skinny straps to skim her growing curves and swirl around her ankles. She left her hair full and loose over her shoulders, and when Max first saw her he smiled faintly and said, ‘Silver.’

Zoe had smoothed the gown over her hips and smiled self-consciously. ‘Yes, it’s a bit bright, I suppose—’

‘I like it,’ Max said firmly, and led her to the waiting limo.

It was early for dinner, and the restaurant was nearly deserted. Still, Max insisted on a private table in the corner, and the intimacy felt new, strange. She picked up the heavy gilt menu and stared blindly at the entrées. What was going on here? she wondered. Was this actually a date? She was stunned by Max’s seeming about-face, hopeful that it could lead to better things, more things. That they could have some kind of future.

The waiter came, and Max ordered champagne. Zoe opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. ‘I know you’re not supposed to have any alcohol, but you can surely have a sip at least.’

‘I suppose.’ She clenched her napkin in her lap, feeling nervous and shy. ‘I didn’t expect you to want to celebrate…this.’

Max’s answering smile was wry. ‘I didn’t expect it either. I know—’ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I know I was a complete idiot before. I’m—I’m trying not to be.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘That’s not much, is it?’

Zoe smiled. Max’s confession had the odd effect of lightening everything inside her, dissolving—if only for the moment—her worries and fears. ‘It’s more than you think.’

‘I want to celebrate,’ Max told her. His voice was low and strangely fierce. ‘I want to remember the good things.’

Zoe tilted her head, unnerved by the fierce resolve in his voice. He sounded almost as if he were speaking about the past rather than the future. The waiter came then with the champagne, and made a show of opening the bottle, the cork popping and bubbles frothing over.

Max lifted his glass, and so did Zoe. ‘To the future.’

It was a rather open-ended toast, Zoe thought, but at least Max thought there was a future. For them. ‘To the future,’ she echoed, and took a tiny sip.

After they’d ordered, a silence seemed to descend on them, heavy and awkward. Zoe was conscious of how little they knew each other. She pleated her napkin in her lap, ridiculously tongue-tied. She could flirt famously, banter with the best, and yet now she found she had nothing to say. Or perhaps she had too much to say, and none of the courage to actually say it.

‘So,’ Max said after a moment. ‘Zoe Balfour.’ Zoe tensed, waiting. ‘You’re from quite a famous family.’ Words crowded in her throat so she could only manage a jerky nod. ‘I’d never heard of you, of course,’ Max continued insouciantly, and Zoe gave a little gurgle of laughter.

‘No?’

‘But apparently you’ve got a family manor in England and a million sisters…or so a search on the Internet shows.’

‘Really? Did it tell you anything else?’ she asked, bracing herself for what else it might reveal.

Max shook his head. ‘No, just your family name.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, you’re not that important.’

‘Shame.’ She waited, expecting him to ask more. Know more. Yet he didn’t say anything, and even as she felt a flicker of relief, she found herself saying, ‘Actually, it’s not really my family name.’

Max cocked his head, his expression alert and watchful. Waiting. Zoe forced herself to continue, unsure why she’d begun this in the first place, and yet knowing she wanted to say it. She wanted Max to know.

‘I’m illegitimate. You probably heard—read about it, if you did some kind of Internet search.’

‘There were a few mentions of that,’ Max agreed quietly. Zoe tried to smile.

‘Just a few? I must really not be important.’

He smiled faintly.

‘I just found out a few weeks ago—well, a few months now, I suppose.’ She stared down at her lap, a lump of painful emotion lodging in her throat.

‘That must have been hard,’ Max said quietly. Simple words, yet Zoe knew he meant them. She felt he understood, and his words were a balm.

‘It was. It still is. I suppose that’s why I was so determined to find you—for this baby to know you. I don’t want her—or him—to wonder. I don’t want there to be secrets.’

‘There won’t be.’

Zoe nodded, her throat tight—too tight. She wanted to ask him how. Why. She wanted details, plans, promises. She knew neither of them were ready for any of those. They barely knew each other, and while tonight was wonderful, it was also fragile. It wasn’t ready to be tested.

They kept the conversation light and impersonal as they ate their dinner, yet even so Zoe enjoyed the talk of weather, films, the best restaurants and museums in New York. She found herself beginning to banter, even to flirt, and she liked that her old self was still there. She wasn’t completely changed.

By the time dessert came round, the restaurant had started to fill up and a jazz quartet was playing near a small dance floor that was, Zoe saw, completely empty. Yet she felt reckless, hopeful, and so she tossed her napkin on the table.

‘Let’s dance.’

Max froze. ‘What?’

She gestured to the dance floor, still buoyant. ‘Come on, Max. We’re celebrating, remember? Let’s dance.’

Max couldn’t quite see Zoe’s face, but he could feel the energy and enthusiasm rolling off her in intoxicating waves and he was reluctant to quench them. He was also reluctant to make a complete fool of himself. He couldn’t dance. His fingers clenched on the napkin in his lap.

‘I don’t dance.’

He felt rather than saw Zoe’s disappointment and uncertainty. ‘Come on, Max,’ she said lightly, although he heard the yearning underneath. ‘I bet you could really cut up the rug if you wanted to.’

The image was ludicrous. He smiled faintly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No? You’re not a dancer?’ She still sounded light but Max could tell she was hurt. He felt like a cad. Worse, he shared her disappointment because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much. Tonight he’d felt free, unburdened. Happy. Hopeful. He wasn’t going to give that up so easily, even if it meant he might look like a fool.

‘Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything.’ He tossed his napkin on the table and rose stiffly, the restaurant seeming to stretch endlessly in every direction, full of unknown obstacles, hidden dangers. Smiling, he held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

Zoe rose and slipped her hand into his and Max laced his fingers with hers, remembering how he’d held her hand at the doctor’s office, how he’d wanted to. He still wanted to, and he needed her strength. She was his anchor as they wove through the sea of tables to the relatively safe stretch of dance floor.

A lone saxophone wailed soulfully, and Max knew very little dancing would be required. What was dancing but an excuse to hold someone? And he wanted to hold Zoe. He reached for her, glad and grateful that she slid into his embrace naturally and without reserve. For a split second their bodies remained apart, separate and untouching, and then by mutual accord Zoe nestled into him, her body pliant and seeming to fit around his so perfectly. Max rested his head on her hair, one hand on the gentle curve of her hip, the other laced with her own. They barely moved, merely swayed and shuffled. It was enough; it was more than enough.

It was wonderful.

Max didn’t know how long they danced; it could have been minutes or even hours. He was conscious of nothing, of no one but Zoe and the feel of her against him. It felt like home and heaven all at once.

At some point he felt instinctively that she was tired, and he remembered with a pang that she was pregnant, that only this morning she’d been nearly too nauseous even to leave the apartment.

He stepped away, steadying her with one hand. ‘It’s late. I should get you home.’

‘I am tired,’ Zoe admitted with a little laugh. ‘But I feel like dancing forever.’

So do I, Max thought, but somehow he couldn’t say the words. Now that they weren’t dancing he felt the old fear come back. The restaurant seemed to yawn menacingly around them, and the walk back to their table and then outside to the car felt as arduous and impossible as climbing a mountain. As impossible as having a relationship with a woman as beautiful and desirable as Zoe Balfour. He would have to tell her about his blindness at some point, yet Max knew it wasn’t even about saying the words.

It was about building that trust, allowing himself to be honest, to hope, perhaps even to love. Opening himself up to pain, and opening Zoe to pain.

As terrifying as the prospect of her not giving him a chance was the possibility that she would.

What if he failed her?

He would, Max thought bleakly, rather not try—or love—at all.

Despite her fatigue and nausea, Zoe practically floated out to the limo. Her whole body tingled from their dancing, where Max had touched her. He’d been a different man tonight, she thought almost dreamily. He’d been the man she’d first seen, the man she’d hoped she’d seen, and even better than that.

Her body hummed. Her mind flew to distant possibilities, dreams she’d hardly acknowledged until now. Dreams of a family, of her and Max…

‘I want you to come with me,’ Max said. They were riding in the limo, cars streaming past, the night still dark around them. Zoe turned to him, startled.

‘Where?’ she asked, knowing at this moment she’d go with him anywhere.

He smiled faintly, although Zoe felt something sad emanating from him and it made her a little afraid. She half reached out to him, but then dropped her hand at the last moment. Afraid, even now. Especially now. ‘To the Hamptons,’ Max said, and Zoe’s heart swelled with hope.

‘Of course,’ she said simply, and they didn’t speak again except to say goodbye.

Chapter Six

SHE should refuse, Zoe thought. That would be the sensible thing to do. She barely knew Max. One dance did not change everything, even if it felt as if it had. He’d been harsh, judgemental, even cruel. Going on their track record, she should not trot after him to the Hamptons as soon as he crooked his finger. The very idea was absurd and unreasonable.

So why, Zoe asked herself, had she agreed so absolutely, felt the certainty of her own decision deep in her bones? Why had she rung the pregnancy centre to say she wouldn’t be volunteering for at least a week? Why was she, in fact, packing her bags?

Why was she now staring out the window at the stream of taxis speeding by, counting the minutes until Max came to pick her up? Why was she looking forward to this unexpected and unexplained trip with excitement and, more damning still, hope?

What on earth was there to hope for?

He held my hand. He danced with me. She blew out an exasperated breath, feeling as stupid and naive as a little girl who believed in fairy tales. Happy endings. A few little kindnesses did not change the cold, hard fact that they barely knew each other, and Max had not even given a hint as to how he thought he would be involved in their baby’s life. In her life.

She had no idea what was going to happen, or even what she wanted to happen.

I could love him.

‘No.’ She spoke out loud, the treacherous thought slipping from her mind so softly, so dangerously. Love was dangerous. Loving someone like Max—someone she didn’t completely understand—was way too much of a risk. She’d been rejected too many times recently; she surely couldn’t think of taking the biggest risk of all.

Her whole heart.

No.

Max’s limo pulled to the curb, and Zoe’s fruitless, fearful questioning ground to a halt as her heart skipped a beat and her hands grew clammy with nerves. She watched as Max exited the limousine, walked with his deliberate, measured strides to the entrance of her building.

The doorman didn’t ring up, just as he hadn’t the last time Max had visited. Max, Zoe realised, had the kind of imposing presence that quailed even Park Avenue’s premier doormen, and kept them from the kinds of security checks he so obviously didn’t require.

When the front bell finally buzzed, Zoe knew it was Max himself and she went to open the door with both trepidation and joy—a heady, uncomfortable and even dangerous mix.

Max stood there, dressed with casual elegance in a white button-down shirt and pressed khakis. He stared straight ahead, his expression rather grim.

‘Zoe?’ he said, and for a tiny second Zoe thought he almost sounded uncertain.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you ready?’ There was a bite of impatience in his voice now, and to her annoyance Zoe realised she was flushing. Any intimacy they’d shared the night before seemed to have evaporated in the glare of day. Zoe found it hard to believe that he’d held her, that she’d nestled close to his body as if she’d always belonged there.

‘Yes. Of course. I’ll just get my bag.’

‘I’ll carry it.’ After a second’s pause he stepped forward, and it took Zoe a moment to realise he was waiting to tell her where it was. She felt awkward, gauche even, clumsy and uncertain.

‘It’s right here.’ She reached for the handle of a suitcase that was far too large—she’d ended up packing most of her wardrobe, even the outfits that were sadly becoming a little too tight.

‘I told you, I’ll do it,’ Max said, and hefted the heavy case with ease.

Zoe followed him out of the apartment, into the lift and then downstairs and outside into the warm sunshine. Neither of them spoke.

Max’s driver took her suitcase and Zoe slid inside the limo, Max following her. His thigh pressed against hers as he sat down, and Zoe tingled from his touch, no matter it was obviously inadvertent, for he muttered some kind of apology and moved closer to the window. What had happened to last night, when he’d gathered her to him, when he’d wanted to touch her?

What had changed?

Zoe couldn’t answer for Max, but she knew that, for herself, fear replaced hope. Doubt took over from certainty, and she was left huddling near the window in silent near-misery.

The limo sped away from the curb, and within minutes they were leaving the endless city blocks behind them for the Lincoln Tunnel, and then the golden stretch of highway towards Long Island Sound.

Zoe leant her head back against the seat, nerves making her queasier than usual, her heart still racing and skipping as skittishly as a newborn foal. Max remained brooding and silent, and she couldn’t even begin to think what to say. What to feel. The situation was so bizarre, so strange and unexpected, and yet still—even now—so hopeful.

It was there, a precious seed, determined to take root, determined to believe that even if this was the mess Max claimed it was, even if they were two damaged and broken strangers whose only tie was the child she carried, even if she was afraid Max wouldn’t—couldn’t—love her, even if…

There was some way forward. Max had said so himself.

Despite the tension in the car, Zoe drifted into a doze without realising, for she found herself blinking sleep from her eyes as the limo slowed to a stop. Outside the sky was hard and blue, glinting brightly off the water.

The limo was parked in front of a sprawling, shingled beach house perched on a bluff overlooking the sound. Zoe glanced around and couldn’t see another house or building, just scrub and sand. The limo, she realised, had come down a narrow, sandy track, and this was its end.

‘This looks like the last house on all of Long Island,’ she joked as she slid from the car and stretched, her muscles aching, her stomach still queasy…although Zoe wondered how much this nausea had to do with pregnancy.

She was nervous, she realised. She was afraid—of what? Not of Max, even though his expression was shuttered, his eyes dark; not of the house, which looked beautiful, jutting out to sea; not even of the future, which loomed in front of her, uncertain, unknowable.

No, she was afraid of herself, afraid of the longing this man created inside her, a deep well of need she didn’t even understand. Why her? Why Max? Why did her body and soul and perhaps even heart long for something from a man who was so obviously inappropriate and unwilling to give it?

Why now?

Her hands went to the small of her back, where a persistent knot of tension had lodged.

‘Are you all right?’ Max asked, his tone all too polite.

‘Just tired.’

‘Come inside.’

He turned and walked up the slate path that wound through a landscaped garden of rhododendrons and hydrangeas, his steps measured and precise. Zoe followed, gazing out at the winking sea, a few sailboats bobbing lazily in the distance, the air fresh with the tang of brine, and felt that little seed of hope nestle inside her soul and start to unfurl.

Inside, the house was all light and space, every window providing a breathtaking vantage point to view the sea and sky. The foyer soared upwards, lit by an immense skylight, bathing the room with the warmth and brightness of the sun.

Zoe’s footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor, and she felt the emptiness of the rooms around her.

‘Are we alone?’

Max had dropped his keys on the hall table and shrugged out of his suit jacket. Zoe watched in helpless fascination at the ripple of muscles under the smooth, expensive fabric of his shirt and felt a tug of desire—and remembered longing—deep in her belly.

‘Yes. There’s a live-in housekeeper but she’s on vacation at the moment.’ He paused. ‘I thought we might as well manage for ourselves.’

‘OK.’ Zoe tried to keep her voice light and unconcerned even though the thought of being alone with Max made her stomach dip yet again. ‘I have to warn you, I’m not much of a cook.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to be. We can order in.’ He turned to her, the glimmer of a smile on his face, flickering in his eyes. ‘Any cravings yet?’

‘Actually, I could kill for a good tikka masala,’ Zoe admitted with a little laugh. ‘And I don’t even like Indian food all that much.’

‘Consider it done.’ He turned away from her, and Zoe felt ridiculously bereft, as if he’d somehow withdrawn from her even though he was still in the room, still only a few feet away. Words crowded and clogged in her throat.

Why are you so distant? What changed you from the man you were last night? Which man were you last night? And then, surprising her, Who am I? I feel like I may have found myself here, and yet I’m not even sure who that is. Who could she be, in relation to Max, if not Zoe Balfour? The Zoe Balfour the world knew, the Zoe Balfour she knew.

‘You should rest,’ he told her. ‘You can have any bedroom you like upstairs.’ Already he was walking away. ‘I’ll see you at dinnertime.’

Max walked stiffly away, forcing back the stupid feeling of regret at leaving Zoe alone. He’d brought her here because he’d wanted to, because he needed to. He’d told himself they needed to spend time together, if simply to figure out where they were going. What kind of future they could have. Yet now that she was here, observing him, seeing him, he realised he couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him unguarded, vulnerable. Knowing the truth.

He had work to occupy him, at least, several conference calls to make, deals to conclude. Work grounded him, kept him sane. Made him feel useful and alive.

Yet as he sat down at his desk and punched in the numbers on the telephone—it took a damnably long time—he found he couldn’t concentrate. All he could think about was Zoe lying upstairs, her golden hair spread across the pillow like some kind of Rapunzel, the scent of rose water perfuming the air. What was she thinking? Was she glad to be here? Would she be bored? Would she discover the truth of him, even before he told her?

Suppressing a groan of frustration, Max forced his mind back to the telephone conversation that would conclude a multimillion-dollar deal—a deal he’d worked months for, that now felt as empty as his own bleak heart.

Zoe wandered up the marble steps, her fingers trailing along the wrought-iron railing, to the main floor of bedrooms. She peeked in a few rooms; each one was spectacularly decorated, the nautical colours perfect for the beach house and its many views of the sound.

Which bedroom was Max’s? They were all anonymous guest rooms, and Zoe had the unwelcome feeling that Max would choose a bedroom as far from hers as he could. Perhaps that’s why he’d asked her to pick one first.

Whatever had transpired between them before seemed well and truly gone.

Zoe finally picked a room in the centre of the house, its bay window overlooking the beach. She prowled around restlessly for a few minutes, examining the array of little soaps and shampoos in the en-suite bathroom, uselessly straightening a towel, glancing disinterestedly at the row of glossy paperbacks on the bookcase. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, she stretched out on the king-size bed with its smooth navy sheets—sheets so similar to Max’s back in New York—and after only a few moments she fell asleep.

When Zoe awoke the sun was slanting its long, mellow rays across the water, turning the sea’s surface to burnished gold. The sky was cloudless and hazy, a few seagulls circling over the water. All around her the house seemed utterly still and empty and Zoe wondered where Max was, what he’d been doing. She must have slept for several hours. Her stomach growled, and she realised she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything all day.

After a quick brush of her hair and teeth—she looked basically presentable, which seemed as much as she could hope for these days—she wandered downstairs, room after room empty and silent, lit only by the long, setting rays of the sun.

She found Max in the kitchen, a hymn to granite and stainless steel, standing at one of the counters, two foil containers in front of him. The pungent aroma of tikka masala wafted through the room, and Zoe’s stomach growled again.

‘You remembered,’ she said, and heard the pleasure in her own voice.

Max looked up, turning his head so he wasn’t quite looking at her; his face was unsmiling.

‘Yes. Are you hungry?’

‘Starved.’ She hesitated, unsure how to gauge Max’s mood, uncertain what the source of the sudden tension in the room was. Of course, there had always been a tension between them. Why should she expect anything different, just because he’d ordered her a takeaway, for heaven’s sake? It was a moment’s kindness, nothing more, perhaps not even that. ‘Shall I get some plates?’ she asked, injecting a bright note into her voice.

‘Good idea. They’re above the sink.’

Zoe busied herself with fetching plates and forks, and setting two places at the huge oak table in the breakfast nook of the kitchen. French doors led directly out onto a patio with a flagstone path leading to the beach, the water now lost in darkness.

Within a few minutes they were both sitting down at one end of the table, the kitchen huge and empty around them. Zoe took a bite of chicken and closed her eyes.

‘Good?’ Max asked, and she heard a hint of laughter in his voice.

‘Heavenly. It’s wonderful just to enjoy eating something for a change.’ She opened her eyes, smiling ruefully. ‘I didn’t realise I took my health for granted until I started feeling so utterly unwell.’ She took a piece of nan bread, dipping it in the sauce. ‘At least it will pass.’

‘Yes,’ Max agreed after a tiny pause. ‘It’s only temporary.’

They both lapsed into silence, and Zoe thought Max looked even grimmer than before. ‘So,’ she finally said, determined to keep this awkward conversation going, ‘I don’t really know anything about you.’ Max merely lifted one shoulder in what Zoe supposed was a shrug. ‘Where did you grow up?’

‘Connecticut.’

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘Three sisters, older than me.’

Zoe smiled teasingly. ‘You must have been dreadfully spoiled.’

Max paused, his head cocked to one side, considering the question. ‘Not particularly,’ he finally said, and Zoe resumed her one-way questioning. It wasn’t so much a conversation, she supposed, as an interrogation.

‘Did you have any pets?’

‘Pets?’ Max repeated in surprise, and arched an eyebrow. ‘We had a family dog named Boots. She died when I was six.’

‘That must have been hard.’ His only answer was another shrug; Zoe pressed her lips together. ‘Have you always been in business?’

‘No.’

‘What did you do before?’

A pause; Zoe wondered if she was finally getting somewhere. Learning about Max was like wandering in the dark, unsure of every step. ‘I was in the air force.’

‘Miltary?’ Zoe said in surprise, even as she thought, Of course. Now she understood his sense of precision, the cool self-control of his movements and reactions. ‘For how long?’

Another pause. ‘Two years. The air force paid for college. My second year I was called up to fight in the Gulf War. The first one.’

He spoke flatly, without any emotion, and it made Zoe wonder what he wasn‘t saying. ‘You fought in the war?’ she asked, even though he’d already said as much.

He nodded. ‘I was a flight officer on an E-2 Hawkeye. We mainly did search-and-rescue missions.’ He paused again. ‘I left the air force after the war.’ Another pause and he turned to stare out at the sea and darkness. ‘I was honourably discharged.’

‘You were wounded?’ Zoe whispered.

‘Our plane went down.’ He pushed his plate away, the movement restless. ‘Now it’s my turn to ask some questions.’

‘All right,’ Zoe agreed, even though she longed to ask more. Know more. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Why did you come to New York?’

She swallowed, struggling not to avert her eyes. ‘I needed a change of scene,’ she finally said, keeping her voice light.

‘Why?’

She swallowed again, a flush rising from her throat to stain her cheeks. She wanted to dissemble, yet she knew she couldn’t. Honesty had to start somewhere. ‘You remember that Internet search you did?’ She toyed with her fork, her eyes on her plate. ‘Well, in England the press was about a hundred times worse than that. Reporters on the lawn, ringing up all hours. It was ghastly.’ She wasn’t about to go into the truth of her father, the rejection she’d received in New York.

Max didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘So you left to escape the press?’ he said, and Zoe knew he didn’t buy it. He didn’t believe her. And why should he? As much as she’d wanted to be honest, she hadn’t been, not even with herself.

‘No, I left to escape myself.’ The words surprised her even though she knew they were true. ‘When I found out I wasn’t my father’s…Oscar’s child—I wasn’t a Balfour—it was like I’d lost an arm or a leg or—’

‘Your sight?’ Max filled in, and Zoe nodded.

‘Yes. An essential part of me. And I didn’t know who I was, who I could be, without it.’ She gave her head a little shake. ‘I still don’t.’ She lapsed into silence, both wanting and dreading Max to say something, equally afraid of his judgement or pity.

‘Well, how old are you? Twenty-four, twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘You have plenty of time to figure out those questions.’ He pushed back from the table, suddenly seeming caged, restless. ‘I’m thirty-eight.’

‘And you’ve served in a war and have a multimillion-dollar business,’ Zoe returned a bit wryly. ‘What do you have to figure out? I’m sure you know exactly who you are.’

Max let out a low laugh; there was something almost grim in the sound. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said, and Zoe stared at him in surprise. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, his voice softening a bit, ‘you’ll get there. You’re stronger than you think.’

It was exactly what her father had said. Yet Zoe couldn’t quite believe it. She wanted to, desperately, but she didn’t feel strong. At all.

‘How about some other questions?’ she asked lightly, taking another bite of chicken. She didn’t want to talk about herself any more. ‘Like what’s your favourite colour?’

Max flashed her a brief smile, although there was something sad about the curve of his mouth. ‘All of them,’ he said quietly. He turned his face away from her, and Zoe thought she heard him sigh, a tiny sound of loss and even despair. ‘All of them,’ he repeated, speaking so softly she almost didn’t catch the words.

They ate the rest of the meal in near silence, and afterwards Max left for the sanctum of his study, citing work as an excuse, Zoe thought a bit bitterly, not to spend any time with her. Why had he invited her at all? Every time she felt as if she were getting close, Max pulled away again. Was he regretting his decision to invite her, perhaps even his decision to be involved in his baby’s life? In her life?

The thought terrified her, and she was so tired of being afraid. She wandered around downstairs, examining each spectacular room before settling in the living room with a book. She wasn’t particularly interested in reading, but she hoped that if she stayed downstairs Max might stop and sit with her for a few moments at least.

He didn’t. At ten o’clock, exhausted despite her long nap, Zoe shelved her unread book and headed upstairs, feeling like the lone guest at an all-too-exclusive hotel.

She fell asleep only to wake suddenly, in the middle of the night, the moon sending silver rays across the floor of her bedroom. She could hear the gentle shushing of the tide outside her window, but something else had woken her—she felt the echo of it still reverberating through her tense body.

A sob.

She heard it again, that muffled cry, and wondered who on earth could be making such a sound. Was a child lost outside at this time of night? Was there someone here Max hadn’t told her about?

She swung herself out of bed, groping in the dark, walking instinctively towards that faint, intermittent sound. It was, she realised, coming from inside the house. She tiptoed down the darkened hallway past door after closed door, until she came to the last door on the corridor and paused.

The silence was unending, a thundering in her ears. Her own breathing was ragged, her heart racing. She pressed her hands against the door, spreading her fingers wide against the cool wood. Then the sound came again, a ragged breath, as if someone were in pain. And it was coming from behind the door she touched.

Without even thinking about what she was doing, or considering its possible ramifications, Zoe quietly pushed with her hand, and the door swung inwards. She stepped inside the room.

There, in a spill of silver moonlight, lay Max. He was in bed, the sheets twisted about his bare body, his eyes clenched closed. He was asleep, and that sound—that sob—was coming from him.

‘Max…?’ Zoe whispered, no more than an exhalation of breath, but Max didn’t hear her. He was dreaming…if such an expression of emotional agony could be considered dreaming. He looked as if he were caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare; it held him in its grasping jaws and wouldn’t let go.

Zoe stepped closer. ‘Max,’ she said again, louder, but words had no effect. His fingers clenched on his sheets and he shook his head as if to ward off some great danger, helpless against its encroaching power.

‘Max…’ Zoe knelt on the bed, the sheets slippery under her knees, and touched his forehead, smoothing back his dampened hair. She longed to take this burden from him, ached with the need to comfort him, to give him solace. He thrashed against the pillows once more, and her heart twisted. She felt close to tears; they crowded under her lids and in her throat. ‘Max…’ She cupped his cheek with her palm, felt the flick of stubble against her fingers. ‘Max…it’s all right. It’s all right…you’re only sleeping.’

She leant closer to him, her hair falling forward to brush his face, and his hand came up to clutch hers, his grip like a vice, so her hand remained pressed against his cheek, and she was powerless to move. His eyes opened and he stared at her with a sudden, wild desperation.

‘You’re all right? You’re all right?’ he demanded, his voice harsh and raw.

Startled, and a little bit afraid, Zoe stammered, ‘Y-yes, Max, I’m fine.’

His hand still clutched hers, nearly crushing her fingers. He stared at her for a long moment, and Zoe wondered if he was even seeing her. There was a strange and terrible look in his eyes, as if he were still caught in the nightmare.

Then he relaxed, his face softening, his grip loosening. Zoe began to pull back, but to her surprise Max pulled her to him, hauling her against his body and wrapping his arms around her in a way he never had before, as if he would take her into himself, fuse their bodies in one seamless joining. She snuggled against his shoulder, their bodies pressed together, joined at every joint, amazed at how well they fit together, hard against soft, large against small.

She looked up at him; his eyes were closed once more, but not in the grimace of pain they had been a moment ago. His face had relaxed, softened, and Zoe felt a little ripple of gratitude pass through her. Her own body relaxed.

Then Max opened his eyes and looked down at her for an endless moment, their gazes locked, before he lowered his head and claimed her mouth in a kiss so achingly sweet Zoe nearly wept. Her hands came up and bunched on the sleek, smooth muscle of his shoulders and she pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to touch him, feel him, even be a part of him.

Finally he released her, leaving her spinning, joyful and yet also bereft. Then he gathered her in his arms once more, his chin resting on her head.

‘Stay with me,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

‘I won’t,’ Zoe whispered. There was no chance of that. She didn’t want to leave him; she didn’t want to be alone herself. There was, Zoe realised, no place she’d rather be than in Max’s arms.

Still, she couldn’t even be sure how aware Max was of his actions, or even how awake he was. Had he meant to kiss her? Yet even so, she didn’t move, didn’t want to break this new bond, fragile and wonderful, between them.

Max sighed, the soft sound one of relaxation and contentment. ‘You smell like roses,’ he murmured against her hair, and Zoe’s heart turned over, only to still suddenly—horribly—when he added, ‘Diane.’

Chapter Seven

MAX woke slowly, blinking the world into its blurry focus, but for once it didn’t matter. He didn’t mind the loss of his sight. He felt the sunlight warm on his face, could see its yellow glow flooding his bedroom—and his heart—with light.

He still felt a sleepy languor in his limbs, a contentment throughout his body that was so strange, so unfamiliar, he hardly recognised what it was. And why he felt it.

Zoe.

She’d come last night, here, to his bedroom. She’d lain in his arms; she’d fit. And he’d let her stay, he’d wanted her to stay. It had been good.

Even as his heart acknowledged this fact, his mind protested. She saw you weak…helpless…unmanned.

He closed his eyes against the light.

He couldn’t remember more than a few fragments of the night before: the softness of her hair, the scent of roses, the gentle sweetness of her touch. When she’d lain in his arms, the old nightmare, the mocking voices and anguished screams, receded, as did his own father’s censorious voice:

You have to let it go, Max. If you’re going to be a soldier, a man, then you have to let it go.

He’d never let it go. He carried it with him to this day, the shame and the pain and the regret, and worse, the feeling of utter helplessness. He never wanted to feel that way again, couldn’t bear the thought of Zoe seeing him like that…

Couldn’t bear the thought of letting her down, failing again as he had before.

And yet. And yet she had seen him weak last night—a little bit, at least—and she hadn’t left. It was—strangely, stupidly—only then that Max realised his arms were empty. He was the only one in bed.

Zoe was gone.

He fought back the sudden wave of loss and fear and swung himself out of bed. He jerked on his clothes; he’d learned to leave them folded by the side of the bed so he wouldn’t have to sort and scramble through myriad unrecognisable garments.

Dressed in jeans and a loose button-down shirt, he walked through the house, hearing and feeling the mocking silence all around him. Where was she? Had she left? He went into every room, his ears and even his heart attuned to the tiniest movement, waiting for Zoe to say something, reveal her hiding place. To find him.

Why had she left?

Desperation gave way to annoyance and even anger. Had she actually gone without telling him? Had he repelled and disgusted her so much last night with his weakness, like a child who needed to be comforted because of a silly dream, that she’d fled? Shame burned, harsh as acid, inside him, corroding his courage and the sweet memory of Zoe next to him.

Alone in the centre of the kitchen, a fresh wave of fury pounding over him, he felt something. A flutter, a breeze, from the beach blowing over him, cool and sweet. He inhaled and smelled brine; the sliding glass doors that led to the beach must be open, and then he knew where Zoe was.

He hesitated, suddenly reluctant to venture out to the beach. He used to like the sea, the glint of sunlight on water, the freshness of the breeze. Now everything had changed. The thought of walking across such an unfamiliar landscape—he hadn’t been to his beach house in more than a year, and then only for a few weeks—made him hesitate. Fear.

It was that little spasm of fear that hardened his resolve. He would not let fear rule him; he was stronger than that. He could be.

He headed towards the doors that led to the dunes, and then to the sea.

Walking barefoot in the sand wasn’t easy, but God knew he was used to it. The shifting sand made him lurch and stagger, and he felt the remembered metallic taste of fear on his tongue and in the back of his throat, could almost feel the sharp prod of a rifle in the small of his back, hear the jeering voices, and taste the sour stench of a gag in his mouth.

And the darkness. The unending darkness he feared so much.

It was so much like before, like his nightmare, he could hardly bear it. He hadn’t had such a strong sense of memory swamp him before—at least while he was awake. Sweat broke out, cold and prickly, along his shoulder blades, and he bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing deeply, hating himself.

This had all happened nineteen years ago. Half his lifetime. And he was still crippled by it, especially now he was losing his sight.

By sheer force of will he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until he crested the dune and he could smell and hear the sea. He wasn’t in the desert; he was on the beach. His beach, and he knew, absolutely knew, that Zoe was right in front of him. Relief flooded through him, weakening his limbs with its sweetness.

He blinked in the glare of the brilliant sunshine, its brightness making it even harder than usual to discern any shapes. Yet even so, squinting, he could make out a small, seated form on the hard sand, the graceful curve of a shoulder and back.

Zoe.

He walked forward until he was only a few feet away from her, shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and waited. Questions crowded in his throat: Why did you come to my room last night? What made you stay? What made you leave?

Yet he didn’t ask any of them. Couldn’t. He was, he realised with stinging self-contempt, afraid of the answers. So he stood there, listening to the seagulls call out with their mournful cries, imagined them wheeling in graceful arcs against an azure sky. And waited for Zoe to speak.

Zoe felt Max behind her and found herself tensing with a confusing mix of hope, relief and fear. He’d come and found her, yet now he stood unmoving and unspeaking, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Feeling. Wondered if last night—as intimate in its own way as their other night together had been—had meant any more to him. Had it meant anything at all? She didn’t know if he even remembered it.

‘You’re awake,’ she said, turning to smile at him, shading her eyes as she kept her voice deliberately light.

‘Yes.’ The single word was terse, making Zoe tense all the more. She turned back to face the sound, its surface smooth and placid under the morning sun.

‘It’s beautiful out here. I watched the sun rise over the water. It turned everything to mother-of-pearl. Amazing.’ She was babbling, Zoe realised, and she sounded utterly inane. Yet it had been amazing, and watching the sea cast in luminescence, the world slowly awaken to colour and light, had been surprisingly restorative. She’d felt, strangely, as if she had been awakening as well—her mind and body and heart opening up to possibility.

She’d felt that when she’d woken up next to Max that first morning, as if colour and light were flooding through her, restoring her senses. As if she was, once more, alive. She’d felt it again, an hour ago, when she’d seen him sleeping next to her. She’d touched his cheek, loving the feel of him. Then she’d remembered how he’d called her by someone else’s name and she’d slipped out of bed.

‘I used to love watching the sun rise,’ Max said, and there was a strange note of longing in his voice that Zoe didn’t understand.

‘Used to?’ she asked, her voice still light and even teasing. ‘Not a morning person any more?’

He paused. ‘Not a sunrise person.’

Zoe nodded even though she didn’t really understand. ‘Neither am I, to tell you the truth. I usually sleep in far past dawn.’

‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’ The faint note of humour took the sting out of his words, and he sat down next to her on the cool, hard sand, his body tantalisingly close to hers. She could feel his heat, even his strength, and she wished she could touch him. She wished she were brave and confident enough to lean into him, to ask him what he was thinking and perhaps even tell him how she felt.

I think I’m in love with you…with the glimpses of you I see, when you let me in like you did last night.

She pressed her lips together and stared out at the sea.

‘I used to come here as a child,’ he said quietly. He scooped up a handful of damp sand and let it trickle through his fingers. ‘I loved it.’

Zoe turned to look at him, desperately curious. ‘Does this place belong to your family?’

Max shook his head. ‘No. We rented a little cottage closer to town. I had this place built five years ago. I wanted the light to fill every room, to see it no matter what time of day it was.’

Zoe couldn’t help but notice how he spoke in the past tense, as if his life were over. And perhaps, in some strange way, it was. Max, she realised, didn’t seem like the walking wounded; he seemed like the walking dead. Everything about him was closed, shut off from life, from love.

Why? What had happened to him to make him so utterly remote, the bleakness in his eyes chilling and yet so unfathomable?

Or was she simply imagining it all, as a way to explain his own past brutal rejection of her?

And yet, Zoe knew, it was that bleak sense of loss that had first drawn her to Max, for she felt it in herself. Her life—the life she’d known—was over. No matter what happened, she could never be a Balfour—the kind of Balfour she’d been before—and that gave her a certain grief…a grief she felt Max, in some strange way, shared. Felt.

And yet when they were together—when they’d danced, when he’d held her in his arms—she hadn’t felt that grief. And she didn’t think he’d felt it either.

For some reason now, the thought didn’t give her hope. It made her sad.

‘Who is Diane?’ She had not meant to ask that question. She wanted to forget that Diane even existed, that Max had said another woman’s name while he held her in his arms, the taste of her still on his lips. Yet the memory of that one little word had tormented her all morning, a thousand pointless questions echoing emptily inside her as she watched the sun peek over the edge of the water and then flood the world with light.

Next to her Max tensed. She watched him drop the last few grains of sand and flatten his hand on the ground, spreading his fingers wide, as if he were bracing himself. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You—you said her name,’ Zoe said quietly. She turned her head, unable to look at him. ‘You called me Diane last night,’ she elaborated, and tried to shrug as if it were all a bit amusing. ‘I couldn’t help but wonder.’

Max let out a sigh, whether of exasperation or some deeper, more painful emotion, Zoe couldn’t tell. Neither of them spoke for a long moment; the only sound was the shushing of the tide and the cry of the gulls. ‘She was a flight surgeon, one of my crewmates on the Hawkeye during the Gulf War.’

Zoe blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that. A socialite, an old lover even, at worst, a fiancée. But a crewmate? Yet then again, why not? Those two years must have been powerful and traumatic for him; why shouldn’t he carry the pain of those memories even now? She remembered how he’d cried in disbelief, ‘You’re all right?’ to her and she asked slowly, ‘Did she die when your plane went down?’

Max let out a ragged breath. ‘No. But sometimes I wish she did.’

Zoe blinked again. She wanted to ask what happened to make him say such a terrible thing, but she was afraid of the answer. She was afraid she might not have the strength to hear it, to know what demons Max was battling even now. To know what she was up against. She wasn’t strong enough, despite what her father—and Max—had said.

In any event, Max did not give her the chance. He rose from the ground in one fluid movement, reaching down a hand to help her up. Zoe took it, if only for the opportunity to touch him again. His hand was hard and strong as he pulled her to her feet and then let go.

‘Come on,’ he said and, surprising her once again, added, ‘Let me make you breakfast.’

Zoe followed him into the kitchen and perched on a stool at the black granite island, watching as Max moved around the kitchen with his careful, deliberate actions. He opened the fridge and took out a dozen eggs, glancing back at her. ‘I hope you like scrambled eggs?’ he asked wryly. ‘It’s one of the few things I know how to make.’

Zoe swallowed. She’d never been particularly fond of eggs, and the thought of eating one now made her queasy tummy take an unpleasant turn. Still, she was too touched by Max’s willingness to cook for her—to even spend time with her—that she found herself smiling and saying brightly, ‘Lovely.’

He got out a bowl, cracking six eggs into it one-handed and with a brisk efficiency Zoe couldn’t help but admire. She could make coffee and tea and occasionally a decent piece of toast, and that was it.

He looked up, arching an eyebrow. ‘Is coffee out? How about herbal tea?’

Zoe made a face. ‘Wretched. I’ll just have water.’ She slipped off the stool to fetch herself a glass. She stood by the fridge and sipped her water, watching Max move around the kitchen with that precise military deliberation. He reached for a frying pan and put it on the sleek new range, pausing only slightly before he lit the gas and poured the frothy eggs into the pan.

This was all so normal, Zoe thought with a pang. So comfortable and real. She felt as if she could exist forever this way, enjoying the sun pouring through the French doors, the warmth of the tableau they created, with breakfast sizzling busily on the stove and Max standing there, surprisingly relaxed, in a half-buttoned shirt and jeans that emphasised his narrow waist and trim hips, his long, powerful legs encased in denim.

Zoe’s belly turned over, tightening with desire as she remembered their kiss from last night. Max hadn’t mentioned it. Had he remembered? Did she dare ask?

‘I think the eggs are ready,’ Max said, prodding them with a spatula. Zoe gave him another bright smile.

‘Fabulous.’ And amazingly, she actually didn’t mind eating them; she liked it. Sitting at the table with Max in a pool of sunshine, she felt she could eat anything and enjoy it, for the moment was so pure, so perfect, so possible.

Max stretched his legs out and sipped his coffee while Zoe nursed her glass of water, wanting to make the moment last.

‘So how did you make your millions, then?’ she asked a bit pertly, and was gratified to see a flicker of a smile in return.

‘I’m brilliant, of course,’ he replied drily, and she let out a surprised laugh. ‘And I will confess to a bit of luck. I made the right investment at the right time.’

‘More than once, I should think.’

Max acknowledged her remark with a nod. ‘A few times.’

‘Do you like what you do?’ It was an impulsive question, and Zoe watched as Max gazed almost somberly into his coffee mug.

‘Yes,’ he said after a long moment. ‘I like it very much.’ He glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly even though he smiled. ‘And what about you, Zoe? Do you like what you do?’

Zoe smiled ruefully, keeping her voice light. ‘You mean shopping and partying and spending my…my father’s money?’ She stumbled ever so slightly over the word.

‘If that’s what you do,’ Max said after a moment. His head was cocked to one side, his expression alert and yet also approachable.

She took a sip of water, suddenly self-conscious, unprepared for honesty. ‘It’s what I’ve always done,’ she finally said with a shrug, and even managed a little laugh. ‘I suppose I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

‘You suppose?’ Max repeated, one eyebrow arched. ‘Aren’t you sure?’

She looked up. ‘I thought you said last night I had plenty of time to figure out what I want to do with my life.’

‘A few questions could get you started,’ Max returned with the hint of a smile. ‘What did you want to be when you were a little girl? A ballerina?’

She laughed ruefully. ‘No, I’m afraid I’m way too clumsy for that.’

‘You weren’t clumsy when we danced,’ Max said quietly, and Zoe felt her heart contract as if a giant fist were squeezing it.

‘No, but we were barely moving,’ she said after a moment. ‘That’s about as much dancing as I can manage.’ She kept her voice light even though her whole body hummed with the memory of that dance, and swayed instinctively as if she could still hear the lonely wail of the saxophone.

‘Well, then,’ Max asked. ‘Did you want to be a rock star?’

Zoe rolled her glass, beaded with moisture, between her palms. ‘When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist actually.’

Max raised his brows. ‘A scientist? That’s not what most little girls dream of.’

Zoe gave a reluctant little laugh. ‘No, it isn’t. But I loved science—I used to sit in my…my father’s study and read his encyclopedias.’ To her embarrassment, her throat was tight with an emotion she couldn’t even name. Somehow she made herself continue. ‘I loved the entries about exotic plants. I used to memorise facts to tell my sisters at the dinner table.’ She paused. ‘They thought I was making it up.’

‘Why would they think that?’ Max asked softly.

Zoe shrugged. ‘I’m not very bright. I barely scraped through my GCSEs, to tell you the truth. University was quite beyond me.’ She turned away, her cheeks flushing with the remembered shame, as well as the new humiliation of Max knowing. She didn’t like to admit she’d as good as failed out of school—and an exclusive boarding school at that! She still remembered her science teacher saying kindly, ‘Some girls aren’t meant for university, Zoe. You have other talents…’

And so she did. She was particularly talented at having a good time.

‘I’m sorry,’ Max said quietly. ‘It hurts to have a childhood dream taken away.’

He sounded as if he spoke from experience, and it made Zoe curious. ‘What about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?’

‘A soldier,’ Max said, and his voice sounded a bit flat. ‘Always a soldier.’

‘And you were as good as, in the air force.’

‘I discovered the beauty of flying when I was fourteen,’ Max admitted. A smile flickered across his face, lightening the moment. ‘My friend’s father took us out in his little biplane.’ His voice sounded faraway and wistful, lost in memory. ‘It was magical, soaring above the clouds, away from everything. I didn’t want to ever come down.’

Away from everything…What had Max been escaping? Zoe wondered. His description of flying reminded her of her own escape of choice, into the books in her father’s study. And then later, when her form of escape had been the endless social circuit. When you were so busy having a good time, you didn’t have to think. She’d hidden from her self—from her lack of self—for years.

The realisation shocked her. She knew she’d been running away ever since the news of her birth broke; she hadn’t realised until now that she’d been running long before that. Running from disappointment, from fear, from a sense of failure that she hadn’t seemed to turn out the way she’d wanted to. Meant to. That little girl who curled up in her father’s armchair and dreamed about discovering things…knowing things—Where had she gone? And, Zoe wondered sadly, could she get her back?

‘Flying sounds wonderful,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you think you’ll fly again?’

‘No.’ This was said with such matter-of-fact certainty that Zoe sat back, a little startled.

‘Never?’

‘No. Never.’ They both fell into silence, and then Max leant forward, a look of bleak determination on his face, harshening his features. Zoe’s breath dried in her throat. She knew instinctively that they were both poised on a new threshold, that Max was about to say something…tell her something. The knowledge of it crackled in the air and she felt a thrill of trepidation, a tremor of fear, at what he might say. The look on his face heralded nothing good. ‘Zoe…’

‘Yes?’ she whispered after a long moment when Max didn’t speak, even though his whole body was tense, as hers was, with expectation.

‘I need to tell you…’ He stopped, and a look of uncertainty passed over his face like a shadow before it was replaced by a grim determination. He reached for her hand, and they remained silent, sitting, joined by their fingers. Even as she drew comfort from his touch, a wave of dread was rolling through her.

‘Max…?’ Zoe whispered, and heard a wobble of uncertainty in her own voice. What was Max going to say? Zoe was suddenly startled by a shaft of fearful realisation that, whatever it was, it could change everything. And not in a way she wanted or was ready for. Without even considering what she was doing—or its consequences—she gave a light little laugh, the sound like the striking of crystal. ‘Max, you look positively grim. Surely it can’t be that bad?’ She smiled, tilting her head to one side, and for a moment Max looked as if he’d been struck, as if she’d somehow hurt him. And Zoe knew she had; she’d defused the tension of the moment because it had been too much for her, and kept Max from saying whatever terrible thing he’d been going to say.

A look of almost relief softened his features and darkened his eyes, and he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said quietly, rising from the table. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’

Zoe watched him walk away, regret swamping her. She was so weak, she thought savagely, and afraid. Her father was wrong; she wasn’t strong. As much as she sought Max’s confidences, wanted to know his heart, she also feared she wasn’t strong enough to bear up under yet another rejection.

‘I need to work,’ Max said, pausing by the doorway, and Zoe didn’t think she was imagining the bleak note in his voice.

‘Fine,’ she’d said as brightly as ever. ‘I’ll do the washing up since you made the breakfast.’

Max paused. ‘Thank you,’ he said finally, and walked stiffly from the kitchen.

Disconsolately Zoe gazed at the dirty plates and cups and wondered how, when only moments before she’d felt so wonderful, she now felt so utterly flat.

‘You want to what?’ Max’s fingers stilled on the handle of his telephone. He’d just been about to make a call; he did all his business by phone these days, using the radio and the voice-activated software on his computer to keep him up to date and fully functional. He dropped his hand and sat back in his chair, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head so he could see as much of Zoe as possible.

She stood in the doorway of his study, wearing something floaty and pink, her hair a blonde cloud around her face. He couldn’t tell much more, but even so his gut clenched with an unexpected spasm of desire and he remembered the taste and touch of her last night—how her lips had felt against his, so soft and sweetly pliant, her body curling naturally into his.

Max forced the memories away. Whatever had happened last night, this morning had tainted it, destroyed any sense of hope Max had been nurturing that he and Zoe could have something. Build something together. The way she’d shied away from even the possibility of truth had hammered home the realisation of who she was. Who he was.

‘I want to go into town.’ Her voice was light, bright and airy. ‘See a bit of this place. Or were you planning on keeping me shut up here while you beavered away in your study?’

‘We’ve been here one day,’ Max said, an edge to his voice. ‘I hardly think you’re shut up.’

He felt her shrug, heard the slide of fabric against skin. ‘Still, Max, if we’re going to get to know each other…’ She trailed off, whether in innuendo or uncertainty Max couldn’t say. ‘Find a way forward…’ she finished quietly, her voice sounding small.

Max looked away. Was there a way forward? He’d felt hope this morning, felt a freedom in knowing Zoe had seen him in his weakness and had not turned away. Yet still, they hadn’t spoken of that night—both of them were com-plicit in the lie, acting as if it hadn’t happened at all.

And it might as well have not happened, for the despair he felt now, as he squinted to see and wondered how on earth he could tell her the truth. The truth terrified him; what would it do to Zoe?

He’d tried to tell her this morning; he’d started to, at least. Then he’d seen her false smile, heard that crystalline laugh and knew in his gut she didn’t want to hear. She wasn’t ready. And why should she be? They didn’t know each other well enough to have their relationship—if they even had one—tested so severely. What could a woman like Zoe, a woman so clearly used to the finer, fun things in life, do with a man like him? She’d been determined to have him involved in their child’s life; would she want as much when she learned what he was and how little he was capable of?

She wouldn’t have a choice.

He would not allow her to deny him his child.

His own childhood had been stark and hard enough. He wanted more for his own son or daughter. He wanted to give more. And yet even so, he wondered how on earth they could find that way forward. The thought of attempting some half-life with a woman who could only pity him made both rage and hurt boil up inside him.

Never.

Max swallowed and forced his gaze back to Zoe. He heard a sigh, a tiny, breathy sound, one of impatience and perhaps even sorrow.

‘You want to go to town,’ he said slowly.

‘Yes.’

Max tapped a pen against the burnished wood surface of his desk. Scrambling eggs this morning had been hard enough. He’d acted on instinct, simple movements, yet so achingly, agonisingly difficult. His body had been taut, his nerves frayed by the unfamil-iarity of the tasks, the complexity of such simple procedures. He’d wanted to do something, to prove to Zoe and to himself that he was capable.

Of what? His mind mocked now. Making breakfast? And was that really going to impress Zoe, when the thought of walking through town, encountering all sorts of unexpected obstacles, people, things, terrified him? An uneven step, an open door? Who knew how he might reveal and humiliate himself?

‘Well?’ Zoe asked, and Max forced himself to smile.

‘All right,’ he said, rising from his desk. ‘We can go to town.’

The village of East Hampton was quaint in a wealthy, intentional way; Zoe couldn’t help but admire the trendy yet tasteful boutiques, the handcrafted wooden signs, the strategically placed coffee shops. Yet even so, as she walked along the pavement past shingled shops with their cloyingly quaint picket fences, tension reverberated through and radiated from her body. Since the limo had dropped them off in the centre of town, Max had been acting like a man being slowly and excruciatingly tortured.

He walked next to her, his posture stiff, every step a military march. His face was blank, his eyes dark, his jaw so tight Zoe wondered if it might snap.

For heaven’s sake, she thought in annoyance, was walking through town with her such an imposition? Max didn’t look as if he was irritated or bored; he looked worse. He looked as if he was in pain.

Was he in pain? Zoe wondered. How hurt—how wounded—was he still from his accident? Was that what he’d been going to tell her this morning? She didn’t know if she had the courage to ask the questions or, more importantly, to know the answers. Just like this morning, her mind shied away from such thoughts, and her own cowardice shamed her. How could she expect to have any kind of future with Max if she wasn’t willing to face the truth, however hard it might be? And yet despite this ignorance, she still felt irritated—and hurt, perhaps unreasonably so—by his cold, stiff demeanour.

She found herself determinedly making up for his own stoic silence, chatting and even flirting with every male they came across, trying on outrageous hats and filmy wraps, batting her eyelashes and letting her perfect, cut-glass trill echo through shop after shop as Max stood stiffly by the door, unwilling to enter, looking as if he were suffering the ninth circle of hell.

Or maybe she was. She certainly wasn’t enjoying herself, despite every indication she gave to the contrary. Zoe knew she was falling back on old tactics, her old self. She wanted to provoke a reaction from Max, childishly so. She needed to see—feel—something from him. She also knew that she fell back on these old habits because she didn’t know how else to act. Who else to be? The realisation annoyed and shamed her. She wanted, she realised, to change. She wanted to recapture that curious little girl in the armchair; she wanted to discover her hidden strengths and talents.

What hidden strengths? Her mind mocked. She pulled off the broad straw hat with its trailing silk ribbons and replaced it on the hat stand with a dispirited sigh. Max stood in the doorway, his expression tense and even a little angry. Zoe felt like walking up to him and shaking him. Hard.

What about last night? she wanted to demand. What about when he held her in his arms, when he kissed her as if he loved her—or perhaps just the memory of another woman, of Diane. Had they been lovers? Zoe wondered disconsolately, knowing she had no real right even to be jealous. Had something happened to Diane that made Max the man he was now, a man who looked as if the best of life had already happened, and yet whose nights held terrible dreams—memories—of what had come before?

Was that what he’d been going to tell her?

As the afternoon wore on, Max wasn’t willing—or interested—in playing her games, and no matter how outrageously Zoe acted—laying a hand on the arm of a young sales clerk who couldn’t even be out of college, batting her eyelashes and tilting her head with coquettish charm as he stammered a reply to one of her ridiculous questions—Max’s inscrutable expression didn’t change, and he didn’t talk to her any more than he had to as he ferried her from one place to another.

By the end of the afternoon, Zoe felt defeated, drained, and yet all the more determined to get something from this man. It was, she thought despondently, like squeezing blood from a stone.

Did Max Monroe even have any blood? Was he a flesh-and-blood human being with a heart? For he certainly gave a good impression of not having one.

Yet then Zoe remembered how he’d held her last night, how he’d asked her not to go, how they’d danced, and the sweet memory of it all made her want to cry.

Had she ruined any chance she had with this man this morning? Could she get it back?

She dropped an outrageously expensive scarf she’d been pretending to admire and without even disguising the weariness and sorrow in her voice, she said, ‘Let’s go back.’

And Max, she saw sadly, looked utterly relieved.

Back at the house he disappeared to his study, and Zoe was left alone. The sun was starting to set, light being leached from the sky, leaving it a colourless canvas hung above the sea.

Zoe made her way out to the beach, the sand cool and hard under her bare feet. She sat down on the shore, letting the water lap at her feet, too dispirited even to think, much less attempt to sort out the tangle of her feelings. She didn’t know how long she sat there, staring blankly at the sea. It had grown dark, she realised, and a little cold. She thought of going back to the house, skulking through the empty rooms, looking for Max. And then what? Would they continue this awkward dance as they tried to navigate around all the unspoken words, regrets, memories?

Zoe didn’t want to do it any more. She was tired of this, all of it—this uncertainty and fear and endless regret. She was, she realised with a surprising, wry little smile, tired of herself, and feeling sorry for herself.

She couldn’t change Max. She couldn’t make him feel things he wasn’t ready to feel. She could only change herself, and she knew she wanted to. She was ready to. Zoe took a deep breath, drawing her knees tight to her chest. The moon had risen in the sky, slim and silver. A few stars twinkled faintly.

She wasn’t going to feel sorry for herself any more. She wasn’t going to think about all the things she didn’t have, all the things she’d lost. Instead she was going to think about what she did have: a family who loved her, a father who had faltered not even for a moment in his support of her, a baby nestled in her womb who she already loved. Deeply. And Max.

She was thankful for Max. She loved Max, Zoe acknowledged with a dawning sense of rightness, even as the realisation shocked her. She loved him; there was no possibility, no maybe, about it. It was good, strong and true. She loved the man who held her in his arms, who needed her. The man who made her laugh over a plate of eggs, who danced with her, swaying softly to the music. Was it possible to love someone so quickly, so utterly? Could she trust her own feelings? More importantly, Zoe thought with a wave of trepidation, could she tell them to Max?

There was only one way to find out.

Max buried himself in work all afternoon, eager to occupy his mind and distance himself from the debacle of that afternoon. Going into town with Zoe had, he realised, confirmed every fear and suspicion about their possible union.

Impossible.

He could never give Zoe what she wanted.

He’d barely managed walking around town for a single afternoon; the entire affair had been an exercise in endurance, as gruelling as any challenge he’d faced in the air force. He hadn’t realised just how much of his sight had already gone until he’d been thrust into an unfamiliar terrain, the sidewalk pavement uneven under his feet, each ritzy little boutique a foreign landscape with a hundred different obstacles to navigate.

He knew he should just tell Zoe; it was absurd to hide such a thing from her. Childish, even, as if he were a frightened little boy who had done something wrong and was vainly attempting to hide the implicating evidence.

He could have told her this morning, as he’d meant to; at the last moment his courage had failed him, and perhaps hers had as well, for he didn’t think he’d imagined the flicker of relief in her eyes.

He could have told her about his past. She’d asked about Diane, and he had skirted away from the truth, not wanting to relive that terrible month, even though those days still haunted his dreams and made him wake up in a sweat of fear and regret.

He hadn’t told her about the desperate cries he’d heard—and still heard—while he’d lain, gagged and blindfolded, utterly immobile.

The same immobility seemed poised to claim him now, for he surely felt as trapped, as tortured, as he had for the endless month he’d been held hostage.

Chapter Eight

‘A PARTY?’ Zoe looked up from the paperback she’d been half-heartedly attempting to read. She’d managed a page. ‘What party?’

Max, still standing in the doorway of the cosy library where she’d holed up for the morning, shrugged one shoulder. ‘An associate is having a party at his beach house. Some clients of mine will be attending, and I need to make an appearance.’ Zoe didn’t reply, and he continued, an edge to his voice, ‘Besides, I thought you’d enjoy such a thing.’

‘Did you?’ Zoe asked quietly. Once, she would have. Once, she would have liked nothing more. She would have been bored without entertainment, attention and laughter. Yet now as she sat curled in the huge leather armchair that reminded her with a shaft of pain of Balfour Manor—and her father—she knew she wasn’t that girl any more. She didn’t want a party; she wanted Max. She wanted him to look at her and explain who Diane was, and why he had such terrible dreams. She wanted to ask him what he’d been going to say, and she wanted to tell him she was ready to hear. She wanted to tell him she loved him.

Yet ever since her self-revelation last night, she had not managed to find the opportunity. Max had been as closed up as a box, his tone and face forbidding. Nothing about him encouraged her to say much of anything, much less bare her heart.

She was, Zoe knew with stab of self-loathing, still afraid.

‘Zoe?’ Max asked, the edge to his voice more pronounced, sharp and bitter. ‘Don’t you want to go?’

She glanced away from the window and the view of the sun high in an azure sky. Max’s face was half cast in shadow, despite the early hour of the day.

Too much darkness, Zoe thought with a sorrowful weariness. Too many unspoken questions and regrets. Hopes. And she didn’t know how—or if she had the strength—to break the cycle. She found a bright smile and pinned it on. ‘I’d like nothing better,’ she said, and laughed, the cut-glass trill seeming to echo through the empty rooms.

The sun was just starting to set, sending lavender streaks across the sky and glazing the surface of the sound in violet, as they set out for the party.

Zoe had managed to find a dress that still fit; her clothes were becoming alarmingly tight. She wore a halter-style dress in cream silk shot through with gold thread, the material floating around her and ending a good six inches above her knee.

Max, Zoe noted sourly, had not noticed her dress, or the pains she’d taken with her hair or make-up. He made no comment at all. He’d simply jerked his head in something like a nod and walked stiffly to the waiting limo, his driver, Frank, attentive as always.

‘So who is this associate of yours?’ Zoe asked, fiddling a bit nervously with the heavy gold hoops at her ears. She took in Max’s perfectly cut trousers, his blindingly white shirt open at the throat. He’d developed a bit of a tan, which made the contrast between his olive skin and the whitened line of livid flesh bisecting his face all the more obvious and startling. Funny, Zoe thought, how she’d come almost not to see the scar, the mark of unspoken suffering.

‘Just someone I do business with. I’m buying his business actually.’

‘He must not like that.’

Max shrugged. ‘Tough.’

Even though Max was seated next to her and she could inhale the musk of his cologne—of him—he still felt impossibly remote, as remote as he ever had. More. The thought of telling him she loved him seemed impossible, ludicrous, and yet still the words seemed to rise straight from her heart to clog her throat. She actually opened her mouth—a tiny sound came out, something halfway to a moan, and Max turned sharply.

“Are you ill?”

Zoe swallowed a wild gurgle of laughter. Ye., she thought, I must be. To think I love you…and you can barely look at me now. Max arched an eyebrow, impatient, and she shook her head.

By the time they arrived at the beach house, its wide, shingled veranda strung with lights, Zoe felt brittle and ready to break. Max hadn’t said a word the entire trip; he hadn’t even looked at her. Zoe felt as if she were in his company on sufferance, and the pathetic dreams she’d cherished of building some kind of life together—of loving him—seemed utterly absurd.

She turned away from him, straightening a little as they walked into the party, tossing her hair over her shoulders. The first interested and appreciative glance was like a balm to her starved soul, and Zoe found herself instinctively—childishly perhaps—reacting to it, just as she had when they’d gone to the village. Recklessly she accepted a glass of wine and drained it in one defiant sip. Tonight, she decided savagely, she was going to have fun…like she always had.

She didn’t have any fun at all. Even as she chatted and laughed and flirted her way across the room, working the party with an instinctive, inborn charm, she felt dead inside. She refused to look for Max, and yet her heart cried out, knowing he was near…and utterly oblivious.

Still, she persevered, her laughter taking on a ragged, desperate edge as she sought to lose herself in the party, in the woman she’d once been, and to forget Max’s—and every other man’s—rejection of her.

It didn’t work. Even as she stood in the centre of the room, holding court with several young city types, she was conscious of Max in the corner, his expression closed, eyes flinty as he spoke with a business associate.

‘What did you say your last name was again?’ A young man, all fake tan and too-white teeth, smiled at her as he asked the seemingly innocuous question. Zoe’s smile froze on her face, making her realise how utterly fake it was. Sh. was.

She took a sip of sparkling water. ‘I didn’t actually,’ she said sweetly. Was she imagining that hard glint in the man’s eyes? She couldn’t even remember his name, though they’d been supposedly laughing and chatting for the better part of an hour.

‘Balfour, wasn’t it?’ he suggested pleasantly. ‘You’re one of the Balfour girls.’ Zoe stilled, saying nothing, and he continued with only a touch of malice, ‘Or are you?’

The others gathered around shifted both in interest and unease, sensing the ugly undercurrent of the conversation.

The man waited, his smile turning to a sneer, and out of the corner of her eye Zoe saw Max slip from the room, out onto the veranda that led to the beach.

She felt the flush of humiliation on her face, the sting of it in her soul. And yet even so, as she saw Max leave, she realised she didn’t really care at all. She smiled at the man, at everyone. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name,’ she said sweetly, ‘but I don’t have the time to learn it. Excuse me.’ Depositing her empty glass on a tray, she left the room in search of the one person who really mattered.

Outside a breeze was blowing from the sea, cooling Zoe’s heated cheeks. She picked her way across the uneven sand before discarding her heels in impatience, and made her way on bare, silent feet to the shore where Max stood, staring out at the ruffled surface of the water, a few sail boats and yachts bobbing in the distance, no more than pinpricks of lights relieving the darkness.

Her heart still pounded, and her cheeks felt hot from the abandoned conversation, the ugly innuendo. Her arms crept around her body in a vain attempt to ward off the chill that was coming not from the sea breeze but from inside herself.

There would always be people like that man in there, or Holly Mabberly, or whoever else saw her as no more than gossip fodder, vicious amusement. She realised in that moment that she no longer cared what they thought; she cared only about the man standing in front of her, his shoulders bowed from the weight he carried—a weight she didn’t understand. Yet she wanted to, wanted to reach out to him and tell him she understood…she needed to understand. Wanted, finally, to tell him she loved him.

Yet even now, standing in the sand with the breeze blowing her hair into tangles, she was afraid. Afraid that Max would reject her, that she couldn’t be enough. That he would only see Zoe, the shallow socialite, and not Zoe, the girl in the armchair. The real Zoe. The person she was, the person she could be.

You’re stronger than you think.

She turned her unseeing gaze back to Max; he hadn’t moved from the shore. His body was rigid, his head bowed, his whole position seeming strangely vulnerable. Slowly Zoe picked her way across the sand to be closer to him.

‘Max?’

‘You were having a good time in there,’ Max remarked, his back still to her. His voice sounded terribly hard.

‘Actually, I wasn’t,’ Zoe replied after a pause. ‘I was just pretending I was.’

‘You told me that the first night,’ Max said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head to stare at the sky, now riddled with stars. ‘You told me you were bored, you were just better at pretending than I was.’

‘I’ve always been good at pretending,’ Zoe agreed quietly. She felt as if she’d been pretending her whole life. She was ready to stop. ‘But I’m not sure I want to any more.’

‘Don’t you?’ The question sounded bleak rather than barbed, and then Max let out a shuddering sigh that was half laugh, half sob.

In that moment Zoe knew this wasn’t about her. This was about Max. Her fear fell away as she walked towards him, a man who was so clearly hurting. She could see the mental anguish in every taut, harsh line of his body. He didn’t move even as she stood behind him, tentatively raised her arms to touch his shoulders; his shirt was damp with sea spray.

‘Max,’ she whispered, wanting the right words so desperately, yet unsure what they were. What he needed to hear. ‘What is it?’

She thought he wouldn’t answer. He was silent for so long, unmoving, his body tense under her hands, although at least he did not shrug her touch away.

‘I thought you didn’t want to know,’ he finally said, his voice so low Zoe almost didn’t hear it. She realised with a chill just exactly what he was talking about. Yesterday morning, when she’d deflected the intensity of that moment in the kitchen, when he’d said her name in a way that both thrilled and frightened her. When she hadn’t had the courage to hear what he might say. She still didn’t know if she was brave enough, strong enough, but she wanted to be.

You’re stronger than you think.

‘What is it?’ she asked again, her voice a whisper. She pulled on his shoulders, wanting to touch him, reac. him, but he didn’t move or respond, and she might as well have been trying to tear down a brick wall with her bare hands. It felt as painful, as futile. Then, just when she felt despair creep in, knowing she was failing to reach him, he turned around, slowly, reluctantly, so they were facing each other, eye to eye.

In the starlight Zoe could barely make out his face; the moonlight slid over his scar, shadowed his eyes and cheekbones. Neither of them spoke, although she could hear the ragged tear of his breathing. Slowly, hesitantly, and yet with a growing certainty, she reached up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against the stubble, her thumb finding the fullness of his lip. She cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand as she had the other night, when he’d been racked by such a terrible dream. Its memory, Zoe thought, still held him now.

‘Max…’ she whispered, the word no more than a breath, yet she still meant it as both a plea and promise. She wanted to know; she wanted him to tell her. ‘Tell me.’

He moved closer and brought his forehead to rest against hers, their faces close, their breath mingling. Her hands slid down his face, across his shoulders and found his; their fingers entwined.

A few strains of music could be heard from the open French doors, faint and haunting, and with a little laugh Max said, ‘We could almost be dancing.’

Tears stung Zoe’s eyes. She’d never felt so achingly close to someone before, and yet still so agonisingly far away. ‘Then let’s dance.’

He paused, his eyes closed. ‘I told you I didn’t dance.’

‘You showed me you did,’ Zoe whispered. ‘Remember?’

Max gave a little shake of his head. ‘This time I don’t know the steps.’

She closed her eyes too and swayed her hips, stumbling a bit on the sand, her fingers still threaded with Max’s. ‘Neither do I. We can just make them up. Create a whole new dance.’

To her surprise—and joy—she felt Max swaying against her, with her. ‘Do you think it would be any good?’ he murmured against her hair.

‘I think it would be wonderful,’ Zoe whispered. Her throat was so tight it was hard to get the words out. She felt Max’s fingers tighten on hers. They swayed to the strains of music for a few wonderful minutes, moving almost as one, the waves lapping at their feet and the darkness all around them. Then Max gave her fingers a final squeeze and stepped away so quickly that Zoe was left half stumbling in solitude.

‘Max—’

‘I’m blind, Zoe.’

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her mind was spinning, struggling to keep up. Blind. She stared at him, his face lit only by the moon, his expression so terribly bleak, and her heart ached. ‘How—’ she began, even though she barely knew what question to frame.

‘Stargardt’s disease. It’s genetic, a gradual degeneration of the retina which leads to seriously impaired vision or, as will most likely be the case for me, complete blindness.’ She still could only stare; there were too many questions, too many thoughts, and she knew by the rigidity of Max’s stance that she had to speak carefully. ‘I had no idea I had the disease until my accident,’ Max continued in a dispassionate tone. ‘I blacked out, you see—that’s why I crashed my plane. Sudden blackouts can sometimes be a symptom of the disease, and my diagnosis was confirmed while I was in hospital a little over three months ago.’

Three months. He’d only known this for three month.? No wonder he looked like a man whose life was over. He’d had so little time to adjust to such devastating news.

‘Since then my vision has only gotten worse,’ Max continued, and she heard the strain in his voice, felt the sorrow. ‘I can hardly see anything at all, and the simplest tasks are difficult…impossible—’ He broke off, took a deep breath and continued. ‘Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something—your hair, or the green of your eyes. They’re so very lovely.’

She felt a tear slide coldly down her cheek and tried to speak, but Max wouldn’t let her. ‘But really I can’t see anything at all. Blurred shapes, patches of darkness, sometimes something out of the corner of my eye. Peripheral vision, apparently, is the last to go. Eventually—’ he swallowed ‘—it will all be dark.’ His voice throbbed with feeling and Zoe dashed at the tear on her face. She would not be weak. Not now, not when this was so important.

‘Max—’

‘So you see why I was reluctant to have a relationship with you. I’m not—and I never can be—the man you thought I was. The man you want and need me to be.’

‘How do you know what I want?’ Zoe asked, her tone raw, her throat aching. Everything was making terrible sense: his careful, deliberate movements, the look of uncertainty she’d seen flash across his features…why he hadn’t looked at the ultrasound screen.

And hear i., he’d said about the galloping sound of their baby’s heart. Now Zoe understood why that had been so precious.

Max arched an eyebrow in blatant scepticism. He was distancing himself; she could feel it. He was becoming remote because it was the only way to protect himself from pain, or the possibility of pain. She knew all about that. Max protected himself by withdrawing; she did it by diving into the fray, laughing and flirting and partying her way to forgetfulness. Neither method ever really worked. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked in a voice that was all too cold, ‘that it doesn’t matter?’

‘Matter?’ Zoe repeated incredulously. She blinked back the threat of tears and thought of how her own father had told her the circumstances of her birth hadn’t mattered. But they did; she felt it deep inside. It mattered, and it also mattered what she did. How she responded. ‘Of course it matter.—’

Max took a step back on the sand, his expression turning terribly blank, and Zoe reached out with desperate, empty arms. She’d said the wrong thing—she could see it in his face—and she hadn’t even realised, hadn’t meant…

‘Max, no—’

‘I knew what kind of woman you were the moment you sidled up to me,’ he said, each word deliberate, cutting, aiming to wound. ‘A

shallow socialite and an accomplished flirt. That was why I took you to bed—I didn’t want to have to deal with the morning after, and I knew you wouldn’t give me any trouble. That’s all you wanted too, wasn’t it? At least, at first.’

Zoe shook her head, refusing to listen, to believe. ‘Don’t—’

‘But it’s true, Zoe. Remember that Internet search? I found plenty of fodder. Scandal.’

Zoe felt the blood drain from her face. The spotlight had swung towards her, and she didn’t like its penetrating glare. ‘I’m sure you did,’ she whispered.

‘You have quite an interesting history,’ he continued, and now there was no disguising the sneer. ‘Failed out of school at sixteen. You were nearly expelled for sneaking out and partying with local boys.’ Escapades she’d almost forgotten. Now they were thrown at her as judgements, and from the one person in the world she couldn’t bear to know and say such things. ‘And you continued that reputation in London, spending your daddy’s money on having a good time—except he’s not even your daddy, is he? As we both know.’ This was stated with a cold matter-of-factness that left Zoe winded and gasping for air, as if she had been struck. ‘Not,’ Max finished with chilling precision, ‘that any of it matters.’

‘Why are you saying this?’ she asked, her arms around herself, her back bent and shoulders hunched as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She felt as if she had, or, worse, stabbed in the heart.

‘Because it’s true.’

Zoe shook her head. ‘No, Max—’

‘You’re denying it?’ he asked incredulously, and Zoe gave a little, hiccupping laugh.

‘No, I can’t deny it. Everything you said is true.’ She raised her head, met his contemptuous gaze. Perhaps he couldn’t see her, but he could hear the truth in her voice. ‘I came to New York to escape the gossip when the news of my birth broke. I told you that before. And before that I was everything you’ve said I was.’ She gave another little laugh. ‘I admit it, I haven’t done much with my life. I haven’t fought a war or started a business or made millions. I never even thought about doing anything until I learned the truth, that I’m not a Balfour. I’m not who I thought I was.’

‘And that’s so important to you?’ Max asked, the question a sneer. ‘Being a Balfour?’

‘It was,’ Zoe confessed quietly. ‘It was everything to me. I felt like if I wasn’t a Balfour, I didn’t know who I was. But now—’

‘I know who you are,’ Max cut across her. His voice was icily calm, chilling Zoe to the heart, to the bone. ‘You’re a shallow, vacuous socialite who’s been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.’

‘No—’ Zoe gasped, the word choked from her. She could hardly believe Max was saying these things; it hurt so much more than any newspaper’s rubbish or acquaintance’s sly remark.

‘It’s only a matter of time before you get bored,’ Max finished with cutting clarity. ‘Before you walk away and move on to the next amusement.’

‘That’s not fair—’

‘Just true.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘Why are you saying these things?’

‘Because it’s better to end this now,’ Max said. ‘Before anyone could get attached.’

‘Attached?’. Zoe repeated, her voice somewhere between a sob and a squawk. ‘I was falling in love with you—’

‘Well, then.’ The curling of Max’s lip wasn’t a smile; it was too cold, too cruel, for that. ‘It’s a good thing you stopped.’

Zoe closed her eyes. She felt dizzy and sick, as if she’d been physically attacked. She fel. attacked, violated, stripped bare. She could handle anyone else saying such terrible things about her, she realised; she expected it now. She’d endured it enough. She’d almost—almost—got over it. Yet coming from Max—Max, who she’d seen at his most vulnerable, and perhaps hers, who had let her hold him, who had held her—it hurt beyond bearing.

She lifted her head and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It’s a good thing I did,’ she finally said, her voice ragged, and then she turned and walked away.

Max watched Zoe disappear into the darkness; it swallowed her up and when he breathed in he couldn’t smell roses any more. He felt winded, stunned, his mind and heart both shattered.

It was better this way, he knew. Better to have her leave on his terms, rather than hers. Better to fail her now, rather than later, when he couldn’t be what she wanted, or give her what she needed. It was easier now, even if it didn’t feel like it.

It felt like hell.

He’d only experienced this futile rage and hopeless desperation once before, when he’d been blindfolded, gagged and tied, a prisoner of war listening to the screams of his comrades and unable even to move. Even though he had no such binds now, he still felt as powerless. Still—and always—a prisoner.

Chapter Nine

ZOE called a taxi from the party, climbing in and letting it speed her away, down the sandy track to Max’s beach house, now no more than a darkened hulk huddled against the shore.

She would leave tomorrow, she decided, too numb to consider the practicalities, the implications. She’d hire a car, or a bus—something—to take her back to New York.

And then what?

She lay on her bed, her eyes closed, unable to think about the next step…if there even was a next step. Every word Max had said was like a knife wound, her mind and heart lacerated and throbbing with pain.

You’re a shallow, vacuous socialite who’s been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.

It hurt, she knew, because she believed him. He was right. She was shallow and frightened, afraid she’d fail herself. Fail Max. Fail their child. She’d run away when the rumours started over her birth; she’d deflected Max’s confidences just yesterday; tonight she’d walked away from him because she’d been too hurt, too frightened, to fight.

Afraid. Always afraid and weak.

You’re stronger than you think.

She rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees. No, I’m not, Dadd., she thought, her eyes closed. I wish I was. I wish I was as strong as you believed me to be.

It’s only a matter of time before you get bored. A scathing indictment, and so unfair. So untrue. And yet Max had believed it, had said it with such chilling finality, and the fact that he believed it—thought so little of her—hurt her more than she knew it should. More than she should let it.

She’d believed Max might think more of her, because she’d thought more of him. She’d wondered about and hoped for something deeper, something hidden underneath his haughty demeanour, his chilling scorn. She’d seen it…felt it, tasted it, when she’d lain in his arms, when he’d let her comfort him, when he’d smiled, when they’d danced…

Why, then, had he driven her away with such terrible words, scathing indictments?

I’m not…the man you want and need me to be. Zoe opened her eyes, staring into the darkness, dry-eyed, her heart suddenly thudding in her ears. She’d known Max was distancing himself for his own protection; she’d felt it, yet she’d forgotten in the onslaught of personal accusations and judgements. She’d only been thinking about herself, and her own weakness.

Had Max been thinking about his? Was he driving her away because he was afraid she would leave him when she learned he was blind? Could he really think she was that shallow?

Or was he simply afraid…as she was?

Zoe knew she had to discover the truth. She had to know just why Max had driven her away like he did. She had to confront him.

The thought left her dry-mouthed with fear. She’d faced too many rejections, too many cold stares. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing that again, of feeling so empty and alone again, with no choice but to walk away, humiliated and hurting. Yet what was the alternative? Life without Max—without the possibility of Max—was too bleak even to contemplate. It was no choice at all.

You’re stronger than you think.

‘I’m trying, Daddy,’ she whispered, and slipped off her bed to search for Max.

The beach house was silent and silvered with moonlight, every room she slipped through quiet and empty. Zoe realised she didn’t even know if Max had returned. Was he still at the party, forgetting his cares—forgetting her—with some socialite who really wa. as vacuous as he’d claimed she was?

Still, Zoe searched, slipping through the moonlit rooms on silent cat’s feet, wanting only to find him, yet having no idea what she might say, what he might be willing to hear.

She finally found him in the first place she realised she should have looked—on the beach. She walked down the slatted wooden path between the dunes and saw Max near the shore. He was seated on the sand, his elbows braced on his knees, the waves lapping his feet. A thousand stars spangled the sky above him, and the surface of the sound glittered with their light. Zoe hesitated by the softly rolling dunes, unsure what to say.

She tried to imagine what Max must be feeling now; she wondered how much of the awesome star-filled sky he could see. Her heart twisted, not with pity, but with admiration. He was a brave man.

She walked forward, the sand cool under her feet, and sat down next to Max. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

‘I came to find you because I don’t believe you meant all those things you said,’ Zoe said quietly. Max didn’t answer for a long moment, and she clasped her knees, her fingers digging into her palms as the silence went on and on—too long. Finally he spoke.

‘Which things?’ His voice was low, aching, and Zoe ached too.

‘The bit about being a shallow, vacuous socialite who is going to get bored,’ she reminded him. The words still hurt even though she tried to keep her voice light. ‘Remember?’

‘I remember.’

Zoe took a deep breath. This was harder than she thought; Max was giving her nothing. In the moonlit darkness his profile was hard, the line of his cheek and jaw harsh and unyielding. ‘I won’t, you know,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t, if you gave me the chance.’ Still, Max said nothing and Zoe looked down at the sand, blinking hard. ‘When you said those things, it hurt so much because—because I’ve always believed them about myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else believing them too—someone I loved.’

Max let out a ragged sound, something torn from him, something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Don’t, Zoe—’

‘I have to,’ she said simply. ‘I’m trying to change, to be strong, and I’m not going to walk away without trying, Max. Without telling you everything.’

He shook his head. ‘It will just make it harder.’

‘Why?’ She reached out a hand and touched his arm; his skin was warm and her fingers curled around his forearm, craving the touch. The connection, no matter how small. ‘Why does it have to be hard? I love you, Max. I love the man I’ve come to know, when you let your guard down, when you stop trying to hold yourself apart—’

He shook his head again, more forcefully. ‘Don’t—’.

‘And in those moments,’ Zoe continued, her voice no more than a whisper, ‘I believe you love me too.’ She stopped, her hand still on his arm, and he didn’t respond. She felt the tide shush around her feet, lapping over her toes, warm and salty, like tears. Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Am I wrong?’

He just shook his head, his throat working, yet he didn’t speak. Couldn’t, Zoe thought, and she didn’t know whether that gave her hope or sorrow. ‘Tell me, Max,’ she commanded, her voice soft yet strong. ‘Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me you meant all those things you said before, that I’m shallow and…and vacuous.’ Her voice broke, just a little bit. This was so scary. This was more of a risk than she’d ever taken before, more of a risk than when she’d faced her biological father. This was her heart, life, love, everything, on the line. She waited, watching him; he didn’t move.

Please don’t turn away.

Max covered his face with his hands, his long, tapered fingers pressed against his temples. ‘I can’t,’ he said in a voice so low Zoe almost didn’t hear it. Her breath came out in a surprised, grateful rush, and Max dropped his hands to look at her, his expression so bleak it chilled and saddened her, even as hope bloomed deep inside. ‘I can’t, Zoe. But I wish I could.’ Even as he said the words, his hand came to circle her wrist, pulling her towards him. Zoe went, unresisting, her head falling back as his lips met hers again and again, a desperate dance of their mouths, lips and tongues and teeth, a furious yet beautiful joining, both of them craving the connection.

‘I should let you go,’ he murmured against her mouth even as he kissed with a deep hunger that Zoe matched, her fingers threaded through his hair, her body moulding and melting into his as they fell onto the sand, their limbs entwined, their mouths meeting once more. ‘I should let you let me go,’ Max confessed raggedly in between kisses.

Zoe held his face in her hands, moving away a little bit to ask, her voice as ragged and breathless as his, ‘Why?’.

Max let out a shuddering breath, and the wonderful moment—that moment of hope—was broken, shattered, so Zoe wished bitterly she hadn’t asked such a question. He’d been kissin. her; why had she asked any questions at all?

‘Because there can never been anything between us.’

She touched her lips, swollen by his kisses, tasting of him. Her heart still raced and her body tingled. ‘It’s a little too late for that.’

Max shook his head. He rolled to a sitting position, and after a moment Zoe did too. Her clothing was rumpled and she could feel sandy grit in strange places—between her breasts, on her thighs. ‘I mean it, Zoe. I can’t give you the life you want. I can’t be the husband you need.’

A shard of anger lodged inside her, splintering her soul. ‘That’s starting to sound like a tired—and rather convenient—refrain.’

Max swung his head around to stare at her, his eyes narrowed, and Zoe wondered if he was trying to see. His heart, she thought resentfully, was as blind as his eyes.

‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t know what I want, Max. You don’t know what I need. And it’s not up to you to decide whether you can or cannot give me those things.’

He sighed, the sound weary, and the anger drained out of the moment, leaving a far worse despair. ‘Do you know what I hate about going blind?’ he finally asked, and Zoe just shook her head, not willing even to hazard a guess. ‘The sense of powerlessness.’ Max scooped up some sand and let it trickle between his fingers. ‘I felt that once before, and I never thought I’d have to feel it again. The thought…’ He drew a breath, let it out. ‘It terrifies me,’ he finished so softly Zoe wasn’t even sure she’d heard him.

‘When…?’ she asked, her voice just as soft.

‘When my plane was shot down in combat.’ He gave a little humourless laugh. ‘Nineteen years ago, half a lifetime, and I still can’t get over it. Pathetic.’

‘No—’

‘We were captured,’ Max cut across her useless denial. ‘There were five of us. Four men, one woman. Jack, our pilot, was in bad shape. He died en route to the holding facility.’ His face was averted from hers, and Zoe longed to touch him. Reach him. ‘The others were stable, but hurt. More hurt than I was.’ He paused. ‘I was the healthiest, you see. The most capable of giving answers.’

Zoe’s whole body went cold. ‘You mean—’

‘It’s standard,’ he cut across any sympathy she might have been about to offer. ‘You’re prepared for it. You expect it. It’s war after all.’

‘But still—’

‘There’s no justification for abuse,’ he said, as if he were agreeing with her even though she hadn’t said anything. ‘By anyone, any side. But I thought I was ready.’ Another pause; his head was still averted. ‘I didn’t think I’d break.’

‘Oh, Max.’ It was all she could say. There were no words, no useless expressions of sympathy or pity, she could offer, no absolution she could give.

‘They kept me blindfolded, you see,’ he said quietly. ‘They never took it off. I couldn’t—’ He paused, his throat working, his eyes now closed. Sweat beaded his brow. ‘I couldn’t stand it after awhile. I thought I might—I thought I was—’ He shook his head, let out a long, slow breath. ‘Crazy. Insane. I felt like I didn’t even know who I was any more. I couldn’t remember what it was like to…see. Feel.’ Zoe swallowed past the lump in her throat. She reached out and touched his arm again; to her relief and joy he didn’t shrug her away. He didn’t, she realised, seem aware of her touch at all. ‘I didn’t answer their questions. I stayed strong. I was prou. of myself.’ The sneer she’d once heard in his voice returned, his deepest scorn reserved for himself. ‘Then they started on the others. I couldn’t tell what they did. I only heard….’

Zoe remembered his words about Diane, and whether she’d died: No. But sometimes I wish she did. Now she was starting to understand.

‘I told them everything,’ Max said after a moment, his voice now flat and emotionless. ‘I don’t even remember half the things I said. I was gibbering like an idiot, tripping over myself to give them the information they needed. I would have sold my own mother.’ He paused, turning to gaze unseeingly at the fathomless darkness, the stretch of ocean in front of them. ‘I sold my own soul.’

‘Then you aren’t the first to feel you did so,’ Zoe replied evenly. ‘Plenty of men—and women—have reacted as you did, and no one blames them for it. Max, you were torture.—’

‘Don’t.’ He held up one hand, his palm flat in front of her face, obscuring her view. The movement had the effect of both distancing and silencing her even though she was still touching him. ‘Don’t try to excuse or absolve me, Zoe. Trust me, plenty of people have tried. Doctors, nurses, comrades, friends. Even my crewmates. You know we all made it through, except Jack? They told me they understood. They said they would have done the same in my place. As though that makes it better.’ He spat the word with contempt. ‘It’s why I left the air force. An honourable discharge, because of war wounds, but the reality is there was no honour in it at all. I couldn’t hold my head up. I couldn’t even stand to look in the mirror.’

Zoe wondered how much judgement and condemnation Max had poured on himself. More, she suspected, than anyone else had. Then she was proved wrong by his next words.

‘My father saw my true colours. Colour. Yellow.’ His mouth curled in a grim little smile. ‘We haven’t spoken since I left the air force. He fought in Vietnam. He was a POW too. H. didn’t—’ He stopped and simply shook his head. Zoe didn’t say anything; she couldn’t speak. She simply kept touching him, her hand on his arm, faintly squeezing, offering him her silent comfort and compassion. ‘So you see,’ Max finally continued, his tone final, ‘why we can’t be together.’

Zoe’s hand stilled on his arm. She felt as if a bucket of icy water had been poured over her head, drenching her frail hopes. ‘That’s a non sequitur if I’ve ever heard one.’

‘I’m surprised you know the meaning of the word,’ he threw back, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, but for once Zoe refused to rise to the barb, refused right now to let her own pain matter more than his.

‘I’m not buying that, Max,’ she said evenly. ‘Not any of it. You’re trying to drive me away now because that’s how you protect yourself. You’re afraid of getting hurt.’

‘And now you’re some kind of psychoanalyst?’

Zoe smiled sadly. ‘No. Just speaking from experience. I’ve been afraid too.’ She paused, her fingers warm against his skin. ‘I’m still afraid.’

It was a long moment before Max spoke. When he did, the rage and desperation were gone, replaced only by a weary finality that alarmed Zoe more than anything that had come before. ‘Zoe, the month I spent hostage—blindfolded—was the worst of my life. I thought I’d put it behind me when I left the air force. I spent all my time—all my thoughts—on building my business. I even started flying again. When I blacked out in the plane and crashed, it shocked me. There was the pain, of course, but it also brought back the memories of when we crashed during combat. And then the diagnosis—it was like I was reliving it all again. The crash followed by darkness. Blindness. And even now the thought of being completely blind—of losing all light like I did before, of being so helples.…It terrifies me.’ He turned to gaze at her with bleak honesty. ‘I never wanted to be in such a powerless position again. And I won’t let anyone be hurt by it—by my own inability—again.’ He stopped then, and stared out to sea, leaving Zoe caught between fury, despair and an entirely unreasonable desire to pull Max into her arms and kiss him senseless—senseless enough to forget all these so-called reasons that would keep him from her.

‘I see,’ she finally said, and to her credit her voice was calm. Mild, even. ‘So your desire to protect me from this powerlessness of yours is what is motivating your lack of involvement in my life? Our child’s life?’ Max angled his head so he was glancing at her from the periphery of his vision, where he’d told her he could see best. He didn’t speak. ‘Is that why you brought me here to your beach house? To tell me you couldn’t be involved?’

‘I’d hoped—’

‘Oh?’ Zoe cut him off; fury was winning over despair. ‘And what made you change your mind?’

‘Everything,’ Max said simply. ‘Everything is hard.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘You want to talk about torture?’

‘Not particularly—’

‘Going into town with you. Every second was a living hell.’

‘I’m sorry my company was so distressing,’ Zoe said, her tone a mixture of sharpness and levity.

‘I don’t mean being with you—’ Max explained impatiently.

‘I know you don’t. But it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Because you’re going to let your damn self-pity keep you from trying to be happy. From letting us be happy.’

‘I can’t be a proper husband to you, Zoe!’ The words came out in an anguished roar. ‘I can’t stand by and watch—or no. watch, as the case may be—while something terrible happens. And something wil. happen. Sometime. Some day. I’ll fail you. I’ll fail our child. Do you think I can risk that? Live with that?’

‘Am I a prisoner of an enemy army?’ Zoe demanded. She flung her arms out. ‘Am I tied, gagged? No. This is not a war, Max. You may be blind, but you’re far from helpless.’

‘There will be times…things I can’t do—’

‘And there are things I can’t do,’ she shot back. ‘I already told you I can’t cook.’

‘Stop trivialising this!’ Max’s voice was low and furious. ‘You may think you can handle it, Zoe. You may see yourself as some kind of damned Florence Nightingale, but it’s simply not going to be like that. Day in, day out—are you prepared to live with the kind of life I’d have to—’

‘What, live as a recluse? Does being blind mean you can’t interact with society? Are you going to start hoarding newspapers and collecting cats too?’

‘Stop it.’ Max slashed a hand through the air.

‘No, you stop it,’ Zoe returned forcefully. ‘Stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself, Max. I know the signs because I’ve lived them myself. After the newspapers ran the story of my birth—When Blue Blood Turns Ba. and more—I was racked with self-pity. I didn’t even realise it at the time—I was so wrapped up in it. Poor little Zoe, who never knew her mother. Poor Zoe, who never felt like she belonged. The dumb one, the non-twin, the orphan. I suppose I let it be an excuse for my less than exemplary behaviour through the years. I let it be the reason why I didn’t even have a reason, why I’ve drifted through life without thinking about a greater purpose, a deeper design.’ Max opened his mouth, no doubt to utter some scathing retort, but Zoe wouldn’t let him. She neede. to say this. He needed to hear. ‘And then when I fell pregnant, I almost—almost—let myself play the poor little victim once more. Then I realised that a baby is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Not because I want a fashion accessory, but because I’ve found a purpose. I want to love and shape this little life, guide her steps and give her strength. I want her to see my mistakes without making them herself. I want to be a mother,’ Zoe finished simply. ‘And mothers can’t afford to sit around and pity themselves.’ She paused, let her voice turn hard. ‘And neither can fathers.’

‘I am not—’ Max began. He stopped abruptly. ‘I can see how you might look at it that way, but it’s a point of honour for me, Zoe. I failed someone—several people—before. Diane especially.’

‘I’m sorry, Max,’ Zoe said, and meant it. ‘But you can’t let a single episode in the past—as massive and life-altering as it was—define your entire existence. You can’t let it ruin your future, Max. Our future.’

‘We have no future,’ Max replied flatly. ‘We can’t.’

Zoe stared at him. She felt like screaming, like stomping her feet and pulling her hair and crying like a child. A proper temper tantrum, that’s what she felt like having, the kind she hadn’t experienced since she was three years old. Yet even as the urge came over her, it left suddenly and completely, left her feeling empty and flat. There would be no reasoning with Max. No arguing, no understanding. He’d set his course, set his face away from her, and Zoe knew—felt it deep in her bones, in her broken heart—that he would not change. She couldn’t change him. She could, as she’d reminded herself only yesterday, change herself.

Slowly, her body aching, she rose from the cold sand. She stood behind him, observing the rigid lines of his body with a strange, new, dispassionate calm. ‘Just one question,’ she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as she now felt. ‘Do you love me?’

He didn’t answer. Zoe realised she hadn’t even expected him to. She turned and walked back towards the house, away from Max. It wasn’t until she reached the slatted wooden path stretching between the dunes that she heard his reply: ‘Yes.’.

Max stayed out on the cold sand until the sky lightened with the sun’s first pale rays. He could tell that much; the darkness faded to grey, to nothingness, a blank canvas.

He felt as blank as the sky, empty and leached of light, although perhaps that was merely a way of protecting himself. For underneath that comforting numbness was, he sensed, a deep well of terrible emotion he could not bear to plumb. Grief, pain, loss, hurt, fear, guilt. Too much to feel. Too much truth to acknowledge.

Zoe was right. He did feel sorry for himself, had been struggling with self-pity since he’d learned his diagnosis. God knew, he wanted to be stoic. Strong. Take it like a man, as his father had urged him too since he was six years old and struggling not to cry when their dog had died. Breaking under hostile questioning had been the last straw for his father; as a son, Max had proved an utter failure. A humiliation, a source of shame.

And he felt it himself. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t willing to risk a life with Zoe; he couldn’t bear her to be ashamed of him. To lose her because of his own weakness. It wasn’t a point of honour at all; it was simply a matter of fear.

Zoe didn’t see Max again. She stretched out on her bed and watched the sky lighten, the stars going out one by one as if snuffed by the heavens. Perhaps she slept; she wasn’t sure. When the hour was finally late enough for her to call a taxi service and arrange her transport back to New York, she did so, her body leaden, her heart numb.

She took a taxi to East Hampton, and then a bus—the jitney, full of sunburned weekenders, laughing and chatting or else sleeping through their hangovers—back to Grand Central. From there she hopped a cab to the Balfour apartment, and she entered the cool, quiet sanctuary of its elegant rooms with something almost bordering on relief. It was the closest thing to an honest emotion that she’d felt since leaving Max the night before.

‘You’re back.’ Lila, grey haired, dark eyed, with a faint exotic accent—Zoe wasn’t sure where she was from and realised, to her shame, that she’d never bothered to ask—stood in the corridor that led to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters. ‘Where were you?’

‘I spent the weekend in the Hamptons.’ Had she only been there for three days? It seemed ludicrous, impossible. She felt completely transformed, as ancient as if she’d been gone years.

Lila nodded, somewhat stiffly, and Zoe could only imagine what the housekeeper thought. Zoe Balfour, bored with New York and partying it up somewhere else. She smiled tiredly. ‘I think I need a bath and bed.’ Lila nodded again and turned to go back to the kitchen. ‘Lila,’ Zoe asked suddenly, ‘where do you go so often? My father mentioned something—are you visiting a relative?’

Clearly surprised, Lila turned around slowly, her eyebrows elegantly arched. ‘My sister. She has cancer—she’s in the hospital. I visit her twice a week. If it is too much—’

‘No, no,’ Zoe said quickly. ‘I just wondered. I’m sorry. About your sister, I mean.’ She paused, seeing the lines of worry on Lila’s high forehead that she’d never bothered to notice before, the dark shadows in her eyes. ‘It must be hard.’

Something flickered across Lila’s face, surprise perhaps. ‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly, ‘it is.’

Everyone had a story, Zoe thought as she turned towards the bedroom wing. Everyone had a sorrow.

‘Before I forget,’ Lila called, and Zoe stilled. ‘A man came by. He left a letter. It’s on the hall table.’

‘Thank you,’ Zoe murmured. She hurried towards the little gilt table where the post was usually left, her heart beating with fast, frantic beats. Had he come? Right from the beach house, beating her own slow journey on the bus, to see her—

She turned the heavy cream envelope over, ripped it open. Her heart did a curious flip-flop of disappointment and surprise when she read the brief message.

I would like for us to meet. Please call to arrange a time at your earliest convenience. T. Anderson.

Her father wanted to meet her? Why? Did he regret the way he’d sent her on her way before? Was at least one man in her life coming back to say sorry?

It mattered so much less than Max, and yet the message—the contact—gave Zoe a small amount of solace, a little hope. Perhaps at least this would be made right.

When she rang Thomas Anderson’s offices, she was put straight through to his receptionist; she remembered the haughty, frosty-haired woman with a patina of glossy make-up all too well.

‘Mr Anderson will see you four o’clock tomorrow,’ she informed Zoe crisply, ‘at the Collegiate Club on Fifty-fifth and Fifth Avenue. Do you know it?’

‘No,’ Zoe said, ‘but I’m sure I can find it.’

The receptionist hung up.

It was a beautiful day, the sun bathing the city buildings in light, as Zoe walked down Fifth Avenue towards the meeting place. The trees on the edge of Central Park provided leafy shade for the cobblestone path that led down to Fifty-Ninth Street, the famed Plaza Hotel presiding over that well-known corner. She walked past the streams of tourists and the sidewalk sketch artists, one enterprising soul decked out in silver paint as a Statue of Liberty mime. She absorbed it all, realising that she’d come to love this city, its vibrant energy and its colourful canvas of people. It was a shame, she thought with a wry sorrow, that she no longer had a reason to stay.

The Collegiate Club was a prepossessing building with an ornate, Italianate-style facade. Inside it was all dark panelled wood and book-lined walls, the spacious rooms still managing, to Zoe, to feel stuffy.

She found her father in the library; he sat in a silk armchair, spectacles on the edge of his nose, reading a report. He looked up as she came into the room, ushered by a silent staff member who disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

‘Hello,’ Zoe said. Her voice sounded small in the large room; the heavy Turkish carpets and endless rows of books absorbed all sound.

‘I took the liberty of ordering us tea.’

‘Thank you.’

She sat down across from him, on the edge of a matching armchair. He put down his report.

‘I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you when you came to my office,’ he said. His voice sounded formal and slightly stilted. ‘You shocked me, obviously. When my receptionist announced your name, I thought—hoped, really—that it was mere coincidence that brought you. I hadn’t heard the reports.’

‘No?’ Zoe asked quietly. Her fingers curled around the strap of the handbag she hadn’t let go of. She stared at the floor, the carpet a rich swirl of reds and yellows.

‘No,’ Anderson said heavily. ‘But I’ve since seen some of the…articles…and I’m sorry, for your sake. What you’ve had to go through.’

Zoe lifted a shoulder in a silent shrug. Funny, but the horror and humiliation of those days after the story broke seemed nothing to the emptiness and heartbreak she felt now.

Anderson cleared his throat. ‘It seems, however, that you have a very supportive family back in England. A supportive father.’ Zoe looked up, surprised by his choice of words. The tea things had arrived, and the same staff member set out porcelain cups and saucers, a rather impressive-looking teapot.

‘Would you like to pour?’ her father asked awkwardly, and Zoe almost reached for the pot. Then she stopped and sat back in her chair.

‘Why exactly did you ask me here?’

‘I wanted to explain—’

‘Explain what, exactly?’ Zoe pressed. She felt strangely, remarkably calm, and when Thomas Anderson next spoke she wasn’t even surprised.

‘As much as I regret…what happened, this situation isn’t…tenable.’ He spoke the words haltingly, yet Zoe still had a feeling it was a rehearsed, and unpleasant, little speech.

‘Tenable?’ she prompted when he trailed off.

‘I have a wife,’ he said. He sounded apologetic. ‘And children—’

‘Yes, I saw their picture. Three. Four, if you count me.’

Something hardened in Anderson’s features, and without another word he handed her the manila folder he’d been perusing when she arrived. ‘I’d like you to sign this.’

Zoe flipped it over and scanned the officious-looking document. It was a waiver of sorts, a gag order to keep her from ever acknowledging they were related. In return she would be given two million dollars. She looked up, dry-eyed.

‘Do you think I need money?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied evenly. ‘Since you’re not actually a Balfour—’

‘I don’t receive any money?’ Zoe finished. ‘Fair point.’ She flipped the folder closed and held it out for him to take. After a moment he did so, reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to say no to your offer,’ she told him. ‘As tempting as it might have seemed to you, when you were putting it together. But thank you for proving to me that blood really doesn’t matter.’

‘Zoe—’ It was the first time he’d said her name.

‘But don’t worry. You don’t need a gag order to make sure I stay silent about you. I don’t want anyone to know I’m related to such a selfish, cold-hearted bastard.’

Anderson coloured faintly. ‘That’s not completely fair—’

‘Oh, only partly? Would it have killed you to acknowledge me in some way? To explain? Did you love my mother?’

He blinked. ‘I knew her for one summer. We were both unhappy.’

‘I see.’ Zoe rose from the chair. Her legs felt damnably weak, but her voice still came out strong. ‘Well, you were right about one point. I do have a family back at home, and they’ve been incredibly supportive. So has my father. My real one.’ She gestured to the impressive tea set. ‘I’ll leave you to pour.’

Chapter Ten

SHE took a flight home to England the next day. For it was home, and it always would be, as much as she’d fought against it, out of hurt and pain and a fear—like Max—of rejection. She’d faced her demons, faced herself, and she wanted to be where she knew she would always be loved and accepted. The place where she could change and grow and become the woman she knew she was meant to be.

She had stopped by the pregnancy centre before she left, thanking Tiffany and the other volunteers for their time and support.

Tiffany hugged her goodbye. ‘You seem to have sorted yourself out,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m afraid the father’s still not involved.’

‘You can only control yourself.’

Zoe nodded. ‘True words.’

‘Anyway,’ Tiffany said, stepping back, ‘you seem strong. Stronger than you did when you first found out.’

Zoe smiled. ‘I am,’ she said simply.

She hired a car at the airport, not wanting to call Balfour Manor for their driver to pick her up. She didn’t want anyone to know she was coming. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep her arrival as a surprise; perhaps because she wanted to see them in that unguarded moment when they first caught sight of her, perhaps because she wanted to be real.

She was done with pretending.

She turned through the familiar wrought-iron gates, the family motto, Validus, Superbus quod Fideli., worked into the metal in elegant script. Ahead of her the lawns rolled out towards the estate in a velvety green scroll, the house with its imposing yet no less dear facade, the circular gravel drive and the Renaissance-style fountain. She pulled up in front of the front stone portico and killed the engine. The gravel crunched underfoot as she stepped out of the car, and to her surprise the double doors that served as the main entrance to the manor house opened almost at once. Tilly, the manor’s former housekeeper, her father’s former wife and an often-surrogate mother to Zoe, stood there.

‘Zoe!’ She wrapped her in a gentle, all-encompassing hug, leaving Zoe with no choice but to return the embrace, resting her head on Tilly’s soft shoulder with gladness. ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’

‘So am I.’ Zoe pulled away a little bit. ‘Where’s Daddy?’

If Tilly noticed how Zoe referred to her father she gave no sign. She simply nodded and tilted her head towards the house. ‘He’s in the study.’

Zoe nodded and slipped from her arms, climbing the steps towards her home. Inside, the foyer was cool and dark, and as she stood in front of her father’s study, the door only slightly ajar, she thought she caught a whiff of tobacco. Smiling, she knocked lightly.

‘Tilly?’ Her father sounded absorbed, slightly impatient, and Zoe knew he must have been reading. She pushed the door open.

‘Hello, Daddy.’

Oscar looked up as she stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything, merely gazed and blinked rapidly. Then he smiled and rose from his chair, discarding the book he’d been so absorbed in with careless ease. ‘Zoe. Zoe. I’m so very happy to see you, my child.’

He enveloped her in a hug just as Tilly had, and once again Zoe leant against him, her head on his shoulder.

‘I’m happy to see you too.’

‘You found what you were looking for?’ Oscar murmured against her hair, and Zoe smiled.

‘I think so,’ she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

He pulled away, smiling, although concern pleated his brow. ‘You look tired. And pale.’

‘It was a long flight.’ She wasn’t quite ready to tell him—or anyone—about her pregnancy, although she wouldn’t be surprised if Tilly guessed sooner or later.

‘Are you sure that’s all?’

‘It’s been a long journey,’ Zoe said, and she knew her father took her double meaning.

‘But you’re all right?’ he clarified, and Zoe nodded.

Even if her heart was broken…She would be all right. She was strong.

‘Good.’

‘I want to tell you I’m sorry,’ Zoe said. Oscar raised his eyebrows. ‘For everything.’

‘Zoe, my dear, there is nothing you need apologise for.’

‘There is,’ Zoe said. ‘I was so hurt when I realised I wasn’t really a Balfour. But more than hurt, I was afraid.’

‘Afraid of what?’ Oscar asked softly.

‘Afraid of being scorned. Humiliated. Treated differently.’

‘Not by us?’

‘By everyone. I put all my identity—all my meaning—into being a Balfour. When I found out I wasn’t one, I had to take a long, hard look at myself.’

Oscar smiled faintly. ‘That’s never easy.’

‘Or pretty,’ Zoe agreed. ‘But I got through it. And I’m stronger for it.’

‘You always were—’

‘Stronger than I thought. Perhaps you were right.’ Zoe smiled; her eyes were damp. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and Oscar briefly touched her cheek.

‘Zoe, it is my deepest pleasure. You are my daughter. I love you.’

‘I love you,’ she returned, heartfelt, and then she left the study.

The manor was strangely empty—Bella and Olivia were both off, having their own adventures—and yet Zoe didn’t mind. Silence, solitude, didn’t scare her any more. She didn’t mind being alone with herself, her thoughts. Even if those inevitably drifted to Max, imagining what he was doing—or not doing—how he felt, if he missed her.

A few days after her arrival, Zoe knew she needed to act. She was not going to let herself fall into a lifeless lethargy, for she knew all too well how that could lead to a contemplative and unhelpful sort of self-pity. Instead she took action. She enrolled in a night course in A-level biology, and then found her way to the nearest market town, where there was a small pregnancy centre off the high street.

She smiled at the grandmotherly type standing at a tired-looking photocopier in the front office.

‘I’d like to volunteer.’ She gestured to the machine. ‘I’m good with those.’

The days turned into weeks, and even as Zoe occupied herself with school and volunteer work, she knew she’d have to tell her father—as well as the others—about her pregnancy. It would soon prove difficult to hide her condition; and while her nausea had finally abated, her stomach bore a new, not unpleasing roundness and her breasts had become heavy and full. Her father might not notice such things, but Tilly and any one of her sisters certainly would.

Despite her newfound resolve, the sense of peace she’d come to have about herself and who she was, she was still nervous to tell her father she was going to have a baby, and that the father was nowhere in sight.

In the end it was surprisingly easy. They were having dinner, just the two of them, in the huge dining room, and Zoe couldn’t quite manage the French onion soup.

‘You don’t seem to have much appetite,’ Oscar commented, a telling shrewdness in his eyes. His voice still remained gentle.

‘No…’ Zoe clenched her napkin in her lap. She took a breath and looked up, meeting her father’s clear gaze directly. ‘The truth is, Daddy, I’m pregnant.’

Oscar’s expression didn’t flicker. ‘Someone in New York?’ he surmised gently.

Zoe nodded. ‘He’s not—that is, I love him—but…he’s not ready to be involved.’ That was an understatement.

‘Then he’s a fool.’ Oscar paused. ‘You want to raise the baby? On your own?’ Swallowing, Zoe nodded, and Oscar raised his glass. ‘Then let us toast this precious little one.’

And Zoe raised her glass too.

‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’

Max gritted his teeth even as he smiled reluctantly at his sister Allison’s fierce determination. ‘You might just have to.’

‘I mean it, Max. You’ve been keeping yourself apart for too long. I won’t have it any more. Lunch tomorrow at Nobu at noon. Be there, or I’ll drag you by the hair from that modern monstrosity you call a home.’

‘Fine.’ Max was tired of fighting. ‘Noon, it is.’ Amazingly, as he hung up the phone, he realised he was almost looking forward to it. It had been four endless, agonising weeks since Zoe had left—since he’d made her leave. A few discreet inquiries by his assistant told him she’d returned to England. The thought made him ache. She was well and truly gone…and it was his fault. He thought he’d been doing the right thing, the only thing, yet now he found himself wondering. Wishing. Had he simply been afraid, and used honour as his excuse? The thought was terrible and yet all too possible.

‘You look like hell,’ Allison told him as he sat across from her at one of the restaurant’s best tables. Forty years old, impeccably turned out and a high-powered lawyer, it was a testament to her tenacity that Allison had only recently given up trying to manage him. He imagined he could see the burnished gleam of her hair and nails even though his vision was too blurred to take in much.

‘I feel like hell,’ he said, surprised by his own honesty.

‘Max? Is everything all right?’ Allison paused, uncharacteristically uncertain. ‘I know the accident shook you up—’

Max took a breath. Zoe had taught him one thing, at long last: he couldn’t live in fear. He couldn’t live alone and apart either. ‘Actually, it did more than that,’ he said, and he proceeded to tell her the truth of his condition.

Afterwards Allison insisted on ordering a second bottle of wine. ‘I need it even if you don’t,’ she said.

Max gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘I think I need it too.’ He waited until the wine was poured and he was taking a sip of Dutch courage before he added, ‘That’s not all. It’s not even the worst.’

‘What?’ Allison exclaimed. ‘What more could there be?’

Max smiled sadly. ‘I met a woman.’

‘That sounds like good news, very good news—’

‘I made her leave.’ He didn’t mention the baby. He knew Allison’s contempt would be complete and scathing.

‘Why?’ Allison didn’t let him answer. ‘Not because of some godforsaken misplaced sense of honour, Max? Because of your blindness? Tell me you didn’t.’

‘Something like that.’ Allison groaned. Max tried to smile. ‘It seemed like the right thing at the time, but now I wonder—’ He stopped, his throat tight. Wondering was the worst. Wondering made him feel as if he’d thrown away the best—the only—chance of happiness with both hands.

‘Where is she now?’

‘England.’

Allison was silent for a moment. Max could almost hear the cogs in her brain turning over. ‘Do you think she loves you?’ she finally asked.

Max’s throat had tightened so much he could barely get the words out. ‘She told me she did.’

‘Then the only question,’ Allison said, leaning forward so Max could smell her citrusy perfume and hear her jewellery clink and jingle, ‘is what the hell you’re still doing here?’

It was one of those rare, perfect summer days, the roses in full bloom along the gravel drive, the sky a deep, pure blue. Zoe had taken a rug out to the front lawn to enjoy the sunshine, a paperback forgotten on her lap. She felt almost completely happy, until she remembered. Then she experienced that jagged, lightning streak of pain that made her realise her happiness—as solid and strong a thing as it seemed—was really as insubstantial as smoke. It had been a month since she’d seen Max on that cold, dark beach and he’d sent her away. Gazing down the long, empty drive shimmering under the sunlight, Zoe realised she’d been cherishing hopes—hopes she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself—that Max would find her. Write. Call. Something.

Not this unending silence, not when she knew he loved her, when he knew she was carrying his baby. Was he really so determined? So stubbor.?

She’d thought of going to New York, finding him, demanding more answers. Yet what answers were there that he hadn’t already given? She just didn’t like them.

She hated them.

Zoe closed her eyes. It wasn’t pride that kept her from returning to New York; she had none left. It wasn’t even fear, because the worst had already happened.

It was despair.

Funny, how she could think she was doing fine, that she was happy, only to be utterly swamped by despair.

Zoe opened her eyes. And blinked. Then she blinked again. There was a figure standing at the end of the drive.

Even as her heart lurched in wild hope, she told herself that it was improbable. Impossible. Max Monroe had not—could not, would not—travel to England to find her. And even if he did, he wouldn’t walk up her driveway like some returning soldier of war.

He’d drive up in his damned limo.

Yet who was it? Who could it be? Zoe struggled to her feet, her heart starting to beat with steady, heavy thuds. The figure was drawing closer, and there was something terribly wonderful about the slow, deliberate strides he was making. Zoe took a few faltering steps down the drive, one hand stretched out of its own accord, in supplication…and then she stopped.

She could see now it was Max, and she knew instinctively this was one journey he needed to make all on his own.

Yet it seemed to take an age for him to walk the drive; Zoe knew it was a quarter of a mile, yet it felt as if he were crossing the Sahara. She thought of how unfamiliar everything must be to him, how strange and perhaps scary, so many uncertain bumps and turns, and yet still he walked. When he was close enough so she could see his face, she saw he was smiling and she let out a little cry of joy.

Max came to a halt a few feet away from her. ‘I smell roses,’ he said.

‘They’re in bloom, everywhere—’

‘No, it’s more like rose water. It’s you.’

‘It’s my shampoo actually.’

Max smiled. ‘I thought that’s what it was.’

They remained silent, standing, and Zoe felt the words bloom inside her, ready to burst right out of her. You came. You found me. I love you. Yet somehow she kept them back and waited for Max to speak.

‘I’m sorry,’ Max said finally, ‘for putting you through so much hell.’

A little bubble of laughter escaped her. Forgiveness was easy. ‘Apology accepted.’

‘It shouldn’t be that easy.’

‘I told you before—it doesn’t have to be hard.’

Max was silent for a long moment; the sun beat down on both of their heads. ‘I suppose that’s what I’m afraid of,’ he said quietly. ‘That it’s going to be too hard…for me.’

‘I’ll be with you.’

‘I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to fail you.’

Zoe blinked hard. ‘You won’t, Max, because you love me. We can be strong together.’

Max was silent again. ‘I thought I sent you away because I was protecting you. Doing the honourable thing. But you were right, Zoe. It was fear. I was afraid. I still am.’

‘So am I,’ she whispered. ‘It’s OK.’

‘It was hell getting here,’ Max said. A smile flickered around his mouth. ‘I did it the hard way, to test myself. The subway, the airport and then a bus to Balfour village. I walked the rest.’

She let out a little disbelieving laugh. ‘You really do like to put yourself through the mill. You could have at least taken a taxi to the airport.’

He laughed, and suddenly, wonderfully, he snatched her into his arms, buried his face in her hair. Zoe’s arms came around him, revelling in his familiar strength. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered against her hair, his lips pressed to her brow. ‘I’m so sorry.’

And Zoe knew he was…Sorry for everything, from the moment on the beach when he’d sent her away, her hopes and heart in ashes, to the afternoon in his office when he’d told her he couldn’t be involved in their baby’s life, to the morning after they made love. Even before that, she suspected, to the mistakes he felt he’d made nineteen years ago, the mistakes whose repercussions could be felt even now.

‘I forgive you, Max,’ she whispered. ‘I forgive you and I love you.’ She drew back then, her hands cupping his face, staring deep into those dark grey eyes. He looked back, and Zoe knew he could see her. Perhaps not with his eyes, but with his heart. She kissed him then, sweetly, deeply, conveying all the hope and love and happiness she felt deep inside, wanting him to feel it too. And when he kissed her back, she knew he did—and more.

Finally they broke apart and, smiling, Zoe reached for Max’s hand. ‘Come inside,’ she said, ‘and meet my father.’

Annie’s Secret

Carole Mortimer

Carole Mortimer was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978 and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon. Carole has six sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, “I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.”

Prologue

Italian ski resort, January 2006

‘HAVE your friends all deserted you…?’

Annie, having been gazing apprehensively down the Italian mountain slope, trying to decide whether she felt up to the risk of skiing down her first black run, now felt a quiver down her spine that owed nothing to the danger of the slope or the chill in the air and everything to the sound of that huskily accented voice that spoke so teasingly behind her.

That quiver turned to a delicious shiver as she turned and took her first look at the man who had spoken. Very tall, and dressed all in black, with wide shoulders and narrow waist and hips, he looked like one of those male models her older sister Bella so often worked with. Except there was nothing in the least false or affected about this man’s raw sexuality.

Black reflective sunglasses prevented Annie from seeing what colour his eyes were, but the rest of him certainly took her breath away. Shoulder-length dark hair showed beneath his woollen ski hat; the face behind the sunglasses was tanned, with high cheekbones and a long aristocratic nose above a sensually chiselled mouth, and his square jaw was strong and determined.

He gave her a devilish grin, his teeth very white and even against the dark swarthiness of his skin. ‘Or perhaps you simply changed your mind about attempting this particular run?’ he taunted.

That was exactly what Annie ha. done!

She hadn’t been too sure if she wanted to come on this holiday when a dozen or so of her university friends had suggested they all go on a post-Christmas skiing trip to Italy before they settled down to studying for their final exams in the summer, but surprisingly the past week had been a lot of fun. The weather had been perfect. The skiing fantastic. And there had been a noisy party in their chalet every night, usually with lots of other guests staying at the resort invited to join them.

After years of suffering the fierce competitiveness of her sisters when they went on their annual winter holiday to Klosters, Annie had found herself blossoming in the more relaxed company of her friends. So much so, that today, with only three days of her holiday left to go, she had decided to attempt a black run. Unfortunately she had chickened out after the last of her friends had already set off to join the others for hot chocolate in the cafeteria at the bottom of the mountain.

Only to now find herself being challenged by this gorgeous Italian…

‘I was just taking a breather,’ she excused, not quite truthfully.

He flashed her a hard, knowing smile. ‘Then perhaps you would care to join me in a race to the bottom?’

And perhaps she wouldn’t! It would be foolish, totally reckless, to accept this gorgeous man’s challenge. Wouldn’t it…?

Foolish an. reckless, Annie acknowledged. But after being practical and sensible all her life, wasn’t it time she did something foolish and reckless, like following this sexily attractive man down a mountain? Of course it was!

Annie straightened determinedly. ‘That’s fine with me!’ She dug her poles into the soft snow to push herself forward onto the run.

An experienced if only competent skier, Annie was no match for the skill of the man who overtook her within seconds of them setting off, his style much more daring than her own as he hot-dogged down the mountain ahead of her.

Needing all her concentration just to remain upright, Annie nevertheless found herself watching the sheer elegance of the man’s style. He moved so smoothly, so capably, that just looking at him was exhilarating. By the time she skied to a halt beside him at the bottom of the mountain her cheeks were flushed and her eyes a bright periwinkle blue.

‘That was fun!’ She laughed up at him breathlessly.

‘Yes, it was.’ He gave her another of those devil-may-care smiles as he removed his sunglasses to reveal the deepest, darkest brown eyes Annie had ever looked into.

‘Want to try it again?’ she suggested enthusiastically, reluctant for this time with him to end. With three beautiful sisters older than her, Annie rarely found herself the object of any man’s interest, let alone one as gorgeous as this one.

The man grinned down at her. ‘I have finished skiing for today and now it is my intention to return to my chalet and drink schnapps.’

The light went out of the young woman’s deep blue eyes, her smile becoming noticeably disappointed. ‘Oh.’

He looked down at her speculatively. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me?’ he asked.

‘I would?’ She blinked up at him owlishly. ‘I mean…yes, I would.’ She gave a firm nod.

‘Luc.’ He removed his ski glove before proffering his hand.

She returned the gesture, her hand small and warm in his much larger one. ‘Annie.’

Luc had kept to himself since his arrival at the resort two days ago, but nevertheless he had seen the group of university students intent on having a good time. He had noticed this young woman in particular as she seemed to stand slightly apart from the antics of her friends. She was certainly worth noticing, with her long, rich chestnut-coloured hair, the vibrant blue of her eyes flashing whenever she laughed and the way her blue ski suit outlined the lush, feminine curves of her body. He’d been consumed by a curiosity to see the lushness of those curves without the ski suit…

If nothing else, her joining him for schnapps might succeed in a temporary banishment of the mess Luc had left behind him in Rome.

‘I will wait here for you if you wish to tell your friends where you are going.’ He glanced across to where her friends were seated outside the cafeteria, chatting and laughing together as they enjoyed warming drinks.

‘I—Yes.’ Colour warmed her cheeks. ‘How thoughtful of you.’

Not thoughtful at all, Luc acknowledged cynically, but merely an effort on his part to make sure that the night he was now contemplating enjoying with this young woman was not interrupted by her friends if they came looking for her.

He reached up and gently touched the creaminess of her cheek, instantly aware of the darkening of those wide blue eyes and the way her breath caught and held in her throat. ‘Do not keep me waiting long, hmm?’ he encouraged throatily.

Once again Annie felt that thrill of awareness down the length of her spine. Dear God, this man was lethal. Absolutely, one hundred per cent lethal. And for once in her so-far-practical life, Annie was going to be daring. Reckless. And to hell with the consequences.

Chapter One

Lake Garda, Italy

June 2010

‘I’LL be home in a couple of days, darling.’ Annie spoke warmly into her mobile, totally unaware of the sunshine and beauty of the scenery of the lake outside the long windows of the bustling hotel as she hurried down the carpeted hallway to the conference room on the ground-floor level. ‘I love you too, Oliver—oomph!’ Annie was brought to an abrupt—and painful—halt as she crashed into an immovable object.

A warm, firmly muscled, very male object, Annie recognised as the free hand she had raised to steady herself came to rest on one broad shoulder and she felt the ripple of those powerful muscles beneath her fingers.

‘I’m so sorry—’ Annie’s laughing apology strangled in her throat, her face paling, as she looked up into the coldly brooding, breathlessly handsome face.

No…

It couldn’t be Luc!

Could it?

Annie felt absolutely stunned. Could this man really be the same one she’d met four and a half years ago? Apart from the fact that she had only ever seen the tall and lithely muscled Luc in ski wear or casual denims and cashmere sweaters, and this man was dressed in an expensively tailored suit and white silk shirt with a silver-coloured tie meticulously knotted at his throat, he certainly looked a lot like the man Annie had met, and spent a hot and steamy night with, all those years ago.

Except…

That Luc had had shoulder-length dark hair, whereas this man’s hair was cut short—in an effort to control the inclination it’d had to curl? But this man’s eyes, dark as onyx in an arrogant and harshly uncompromising face, were the same. As was the long slash of a nose, and the chiselled mouth above a ruthlessly set jaw.

He looked identical, and yet, at the same time, so very different…

The Luc Annie had met on an Italian ski slope four and a half years ago had possessed a reckless glint in the ebony darkness of his eyes. His hard grin had betrayed that same air of devil-may-care that had drawn the quiet and—until then—eminently sensible twenty-year-old Annie to him, like a moth to a flame.

There was not even a hint of that dangerous recklessness now in those penetrating black eyes that returned Annie’s gaze so coldly.

Eyes that also seemed to totally lack the same jolting recognition that she now felt…

Annie removed her hand as if burnt from the broadness of his shoulder as she took an involuntary step backwards. At the same time becoming aware that she hadn’t so much as drawn in a breath since she had looked up and instantly recognised her fiercely passionate lover in this icily controlled man.

Annie took a much-needed breath. ‘Scuse, signore—’.

‘I speak English, signorin.,’ he bit out curtly.

Dear God, that voice…

No amount of steely coldness could ever disguise the voice that had once murmured husky encouragements against Annie’s throat and breasts as she climaxed again and again beneath the fierce, possessive thrusts of his hard body…

It wa. Luc.

But a different, much colder Luc than Annie remembered.

Twenty-six-year-old Luc had been wild and restless. Everything he did—from skiing to lovemaking—had been possessed of a driving, single-minded energy that dared anything and anyone to deny him. The same single-minded energy with which he had set out—and succeeded—in seducing Annie…

No one looking at the man standing in front of her could ever doubt that he possessed that same determination of purpose. But now that energy was as fiercely controlled as it had once been wild, and his emotions were hidden behind a face that showed only an arrogance and ruthlessness that made Annie shiver as he continued to look down at her coldly from a vastly superior height.

Luc’s patience, never at a premium, evaporated with each second that this young woman continued to stare up at him as if she had seen a ghost. Or her worst nightmare. Certainly not the reaction that Luc was accustomed to evoking in any woman!

A humourless smile curled his lips. ‘Or perhaps it is signor.?’ he asked.

‘No, you were right the first time,’ she answered.

Luc felt a slight stirring of memory as the woman spoke softly. Her voice possessed a husky quality that somehow seemed familiar.

He took in her medium height and slender body, clothed in a black business suit and white silk blouse. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown secured at her nape, her face heart shaped. It was an arrestingly beautiful face with a small, uptilted nose, and sensually full lips above a pointed and determined chin. A face dominated by eyes as deep a blue as Lake Garda itself.

Again Luc felt that slight stirring of familiarity. ‘Have we met before, signorin.?’ he asked slowly.

She blinked before giving a brittle, dismissive laugh. ‘I don’t know, have we?’ she said, deflecting his question back at him.

Luc bit back his increasing impatience. ‘I believe . asked first?’ he pointed out coldly.

And he could go on asking, as far as Annie was concerned! All this time, all these years, Annie’s worst fear had been that she would somehow, somewhere, meet Luc again. A meeting that she knew would complicate her life in ways she didn’t even want to contemplate.

Now, by some terrible mischance, she ha. met him again, had met the man who had changed her own life forever—and he didn’t even remembe. her!

The relief Annie should have felt was overlaid by a deep resentment. This man had literally skied his way into her life and introduced the normally reserved Annie Balfour to an intensity of passion and excitement she had never known before or since, before disappearing again just as abruptly.

Only for her to now realise that their time together, all those wonderful memories that she had never quite been able to put from her mind, had meant so little to him that he didn’t even remember her.

Arrogant louse!

Her chin lifted in silent challenge. ‘I’m sure on. of us would have remembered if that were the case, signore.’

Luc wasn’t so sure. The pallor of this woman’s face, the angry resentment he sensed beneath her tone, seemed to tell a completely different story. One in which he had patently not appeared in a good light.

As the only son and heir of a rich and powerful Italian business entrepreneur, Luc’s youth had been one of wealth and privilege, with his every wish being granted. As a consequence, Luc knew he had become arrogant, and possessed of an overconfidence in his own infallibility. A youthfully arrogant belief that had continued after he had proved to have his father’s flare for business, and at only eighteen had been placed in a position of power within his father’s business empire. Until the overconfident Luc had taken one risk too many and the whole of his father’s empire had come tumbling down about their ears…

Luc’s mouth tightened as he thought of that time. Of the past four and a half years when he had concentrated single-mindedly, often ruthlessly, on rebuilding that business empire until it was bigger and better than ever. Years when there had been very few women in his life, and even then only ones who had shared his bed for the night and been quickly forgotten afterwards.

Had the young woman who now stood before him in the crisp black business suit, with her chestnut-brown hair secured in that no-nonsense bun at her nape, the clear lines of her face bare of any make-up to enhance her natural beauty, been one of them?

Somehow Luc thought not. Unlike thi. woman, those women had invariably been tall and blonde, rich and vacuous socialites. Nevertheless, as he continued to look at her, that feeling of familiarity persisted…

His mouth quirked. ‘You appear to have forgotten your telephone call,’ he drawled.

Annie gave a startled glance down at the mobile she still held in her hand. The mobile from which a concerned voice could be heard squawking, if not the actual words being spoken.

Oliver.

In her utter shock at seeing Luc again, Annie had completely forgotten that she had been talking to Oliver when she had crashed into the tall Italian.

She swallowed hard. ‘If you will excuse me?’ She deliberately turned her back on the powerful effect of this man’s close proximity, intending to escape to somewhere more private to continue her call.

Although she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to talk to Oliver with any degree of normality after this chance, disturbing meeting. In fact, the sooner Annie was able to get away from Lake Garda—no, from Italy altogether—and the man she’d had a one-night stand with, who didn’t even remembe. her, the better she was going to like it.

Deeply aware that Italy was the place where she had met Luc and behaved so impulsively, Annie hadn’t wanted to attend this management course at the conference centre in a hotel on the shores of Lake Garda at all, and had only done so because her father had insisted.

A father who, still reeling from the death of Lillian, his beloved third wife and Annie’s stepmother, had become dictatorial with all of his daughters following the scandal that had rocked the family to its very core during the celebration of the centenary Balfour Charity Ball the previous month.

Annie froze as she felt strong fingers curl about her upper arm before she had chance to walk away. Luc’s fingers. Long, elegant fingers that nevertheless possessed a compelling strength.

Fingers that had once caressed and touched Annie more intimately than any other man ever had. And which still had the power to send an electrifying jolt of awareness down the length of her arm and up into the fullness of her breasts. Breasts that, to Annie’s embarrassment, instantly responded to the familiarity of that touch as they swelled inside her bra, the nipples pressing against the lacy material.

Annie’s eyes, the deep Balfour blue eyes, were flashing a warning as she turned back to face Luc. ‘Take your hand off me!’ She spoke between gritted teeth, her face having once again paled.

Luc lowered hooded lids at the vehemence he heard in her tone. No, he had not imagined it earlier; there was definitely some resentment being displayed here towards him, a resentment he wished to know more of.

He made no effort to release her. ‘Would you care to have dinner with me this evening?’

Her eyes widened as she stared up at him uncomprehendingly for several long seconds. ‘What?’ she finally snapped even as the colour rushed back into her cheeks.

Luc gave a brief humourless smile. ‘I asked if you would have dinner with me this evening. In apology for having almost knocked you over just now,’ he added, both of them fully aware that it was her lack of attention to where she was going that had caused the collision.

She gave him a speaking glance. ‘Thank you for the invitation,’ she answered drily. ‘But no.’

Luc narrowed dark eyes, unaccustomed to being turned down by any woman. ‘Why not?’ he asked bluntly.

Eyes the colour of cornflowers, and surrounded by thick dark lashes, glared at him fiercely. ‘Because I don’t allow myself to be picked up by men I don’t know in hotel hallways, that’s why! Now would you please let go of my arm or do I have to call a member of the management and have them throw you off the premises for harassing one of their guests?’

That might prove interesting, considering that Luc’s family owned the hotel!

‘That will not be necessary,’ he murmured even as he slowly uncurled his fingers and released her arm. ‘The dinner invitation was no more than a gesture of apology on my part.’ He shrugged dismissively.

Annie, having already been completely thrown by Luc’s unexpected invitation to dinner, thankfully felt the easing of that tingling sensation in her arm and breasts once he had released her.

Just as she also felt slight disappointment that she couldn’t—no, daren’t—accept his dinner invitation…

Oh, no—she couldn’t still be attracted to this man! Could she?

No, of course not! He had erupted into her life, taken what he wanted from her and then literally disappeared into the sunset.

As Annie had taken what she wanted from him?

With three older sisters, all of whom had made headlines in the daily newspapers at one time or another, and three younger sisters—four now!—who looked to be heading the same way, Annie was the one who had always preferred to remain firmly in the shadows of the publicity so often connected with the Balfour name.

A fact her father had been well aware of when he encouraged her to join her university friends on that skiing holiday in Italy more than four years ago.

To Annie’s surprise, away from the pressure and publicity that so often accompanied being a Balfour, and the constant competitiveness so typical of a Balfour family holiday, she had found herself relaxing and enjoying herself.

Consequently, when Luc had flashed that dangerous grin at her and issued his challenge for her to accompany him down the steepest black run at the resort, Annie had been more than open to his heady brand of seduction.

So much so that she had behaved completely out of character after going back to Luc’s luxurious chalet with him. As he had suggested, they had drunk schnapps together while cooking a meal, Annie wrapped in a glorious rosy glow as the two of them made love in front of the blazing log fire.

It had been a time out of time. When she could just be Annie. And Luc could just be Luc.

But who was he really? Annie wondered now as she glanced at him cautiously. Because, from the expensive cut of his hair, the tailored suit, silk shirt and tie and handmade leather shoes, he was obviously someone important.

Not to mention someone she had wanted to avoid seeing again at all costs!

‘No apology is required,’ she assured him crisply. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I really do have to finish my call.’

Luc regarded her with guarded intensity. ‘I cannot help feeling that the two of us hav. met before,’ he insisted.

‘In another lifetime perhaps,’ she retorted.

‘Perhaps,’ Luc echoed slowly.

There was something about the delicate curve of this woman’s jaw, the deep blue of her eyes, the husky, sexy softness of her voice, that he knew.

Nor had Luc missed her response to merely the touch of his fingers on her arm. Her breasts had visibly swelled beneath the jacket of the black suit, the nipples pebble hard against the soft material of her blouse.

And he thought her eyes once again widened in alarm at his persistence in suggesting that they had met before.

‘Will you be remaining at the hotel for long?’ he asked curiously.

‘The weekend only,’ she replied curtly. ‘But I’m here on business and expect to be kept very busy, so I doubt that we will have a chance to meet again,’ she added firmly.

She so obviously hope. that they would not meet again, Luc acknowledged.

Interesting.

Having taken over as head of the family business empire four years ago following his father’s near-fatal heart attack, Luc was accustomed to being hotly pursued by women intent on becoming his wife or, failing that, his mistress. Whereas this woman could not have shown her lack of interest in him any more clearly.

Which only increased Luc’s own interest in her. An interest he intended pursuing, with or without her cooperation…

He gave a determined smile. ‘I would not be too sure of that, if I were you.’

Once again she blinked, her creamy throat moving convulsively as she swallowed before speaking. ‘Just talking to you has already made me late for a meeting.’ She gave a pointed look at the slender gold watch on her wrist.

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Then a few minutes more will not make any difference, hmm?’

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I dislike tardiness, in myself as well as others.’

Luc knew she was not in the least sorry. In fact, she couldn’t wait to get away!

The fiery snap in her stunning eyes, and the stubborn set of her chin, told Luc that she had no idea how her obvious determination to get away from him only increased his interest rather than diminished it.

‘In that case, I will say goodbye. For now,’ he added softly.

‘We will not meet again, signor.,’ she insisted, the delicate colour that entered her cheeks now due to temper rather than embarrassment at her previous rudeness.

Luc found himself giving her one of his rare smiles. ‘Fate has a way of deciding these things for us, I have found.’

Fate had already led Annie into behaving completely irrationally in this man’s company once, and she had no intention of putting that temptation in her way ever again.

Yet, if anything, this Luc was even more devastatingly attractive than the man Annie had met before. There was a hard ruthlessness about him now, a haughty remoteness, that challenged as much as it beguiled.

As for his smile…!

Those moulded, sculptured lips had pulled back briefly over white and perfectly straight teeth, in a familiar wolfish smile that, although fleeting, had nevertheless made Annie’s heart pound harder and louder.

Despite everything, she realised with horror that she wa. still attracted to him!

Her mouth firmed. ‘I really do have to finish this call.’

Luc’s mocking humour faded as he recalled that she had been talking to someone called Oliver when they had collided a few minutes ago.

A man named Oliver, who, from the lack of rings on her long and slender fingers, had not yet made a public claim on this woman, despite the fact that she’d huskily assured him that she loved him too.

He nodded abruptly. ‘I too am late for an appointment.’

The woman’s smile was saccharin sweet. ‘Then I really mustn’t delay you any longer, must I?’

This woman needed to be put across someone’s knee, and her bottom firmly spanked, Luc decided ruefully. Her bare bottom. Her lush and curvaceous bare bottom.

It was an erotic image that flowered and grew in Luc’s mind and caused his thighs to throb and harden as he became fully aroused—something that hadn’t happened to him in years at just the thought of making love to a specific woman.

Luc had spent years rebuilding his family’s wealth and business empire. Four long years when he had allowed no other distractions, least of all an interest in a woman, to interfere with those plans.

Attractive as this woman was, Luc very much doubted that she would hold that interest for very long either. But her prickly nature indicated a passion that might prove fun while it lasted.

‘Signorina.’. He inclined his head in farewell, secure in the knowledge, in the pleasure, of her presence at Lake Garda for several more days at least.

Annie held her breath as she watched Luc’s long and arrogantly confident strides until he turned left at the end of the hallway, leaning weakly back against the wall of the hallway once he had disappeared from view.

Dear God!

How had this happened? Why had it happened?

It had happened for the simple reason that her father, newly fired with a desire to guide the lives of his wayward daughters into less notorious and hopefully more worthwhile channels, had decided that Annie was to take a more active role in the Balfour business empire by attending this management course!

Her protest that she had no interest in taking on a more high-profile role in her father’s management team hadn’t seemed to matter a jot to him. As the only one of Oscar’s eight daughters who actually worked for him, usually at the office complex at Balfour Manor, Oscar had just overridden all of Annie’s objections by threatening to sack her.

Annie had known that he had meant that threat too. That Oscar was absolutely adamant in his decision that it was time—past time—that all of his daughters went out into the world to find themselves and what they really wanted out of life. Even if the majority of them, Annie included, went kicking and screaming!

Which brought Annie back full circle to her presence here at this glamorous hotel set on the shore of beautiful Lake Garda in Italy.

A hotel at which Luc, her ex-lover, was obviously also a guest…

Chapter Two

‘So, signorin., you have found time from your busy schedule to relax after all.’

Annie’s heart jolted in her chest just at the sound of that sexily familiar voice, and she was grateful for the dark glasses that shielded the expression in her eyes as she looked up to see Luc standing beside her. She had been hoping for a little peace and quiet as she lay on a towel on the sand of the private beach in front of the hotel.

But she would obviously get no peace today. The man was gorgeous. Decadently. Wonderfully. Indecently. Lethally gorgeous.

Luc had been vitally and excitingly handsome when Annie had met him all those years ago, but the skimpy pair of black bathing trunks that were all he wore now showed an added toughness to the lean and muscled contours of his body.

His skin had always been the colour of mahogany. But his shoulders were wider, and more muscled. A light dusting of dark hair covered a chest and washboard abdomen. His hips and thighs were lean and powerful, and those black bathing trunks seemed to emphasise rather than disguise the telling bulge between those spectacular thighs.

Thighs that Annie had once been intimately familiar with…

She sat up abruptly, her manner instantly defensive as she glared up at him from behind her brown sunglasses. ‘Are you following me?’

Luc felt only amusement at the accusation. Knowing that the flush of heat on her cheeks, and the way her nipples had hardened against the material of her blue bathing costume, was due to physical awareness rather than the angry indignation she wished to convey.

In truth, he’d had no idea she was even on the beach when he decided to indulge in a swim before his meeting later this afternoon. But as he had stood on the warmth of the sand looking for a place in which to place his towel, he had spotted that familiar chestnut-coloured hair that had seemed to glow a deeper auburn in the warmth of the midday sun.

Having swiftly established that it was the little firebrand of earlier this morning, Luc had been unable to resist the impulse to join her. To annoy her further perhaps? She did look so very beautiful when she was scowling at him.

The black business suit and white blouse she had been wearing this morning had not done her justice, Luc realised once he had crossed the beach to stand looking down at her from behind black sunglasses.

Her bare skin was tanned a pale gold, the top of the blue bathing costume cupping full and exquisite breasts, the thin strip of material that connected the top to the bottom of the costume at the front revealing the toned flatness of her waist and stomach above enticingly curvy hips and long, shapely legs.

‘What if I wer. following you?’ He answered her accusation teasingly.

A frown appeared between her eyes. ‘Then I really would have to report your harassment to the hotel management.’

‘Please feel free to do so,’ Luc invited as he dropped down onto the sand beside her.

The fact that he seemed so unconcerned by the threat told Annie that he somehow knew she would be wasting her time in making such a complaint.

Just as her inner feeling of panic also told her that she was completely aware—achingly aware—of the hard promise of Luc’s almost naked body so close to her own that their thighs were almost touching.

So close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. So close that she could smell his delicious masculine scent. So close she could have easily reached out and touched one of those hard and muscled thighs…

Her fingers clenched so tightly in an effort not to do exactly that, that her nails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. ‘What is it you want, signor.?’ she asked instead. ‘Surely there are enough willing women at this hotel that you don’t need to harass the only one who isn’t interested in you?’ Annie hadn’t missed the openly lascivious female glances in Luc’s direction since he had joined her on the sand. ‘Or is that the challenge?’ she added in disgust.

An amused smile curved those sculptured lips. ‘Are you not being a little unkind to these other women?’ He ignored her second taunt.

‘I prefer to think of it as being truthful,’ Annie retorted waspishly.

He raised dark brows. ‘And are you always truthful?’

‘I like to think so, yes.’

‘Hmm,’ he mused softly. ‘So, are you trul. not interested in me?’

Annie felt her cheeks colour in a revealing blush. ‘I’m not interested in any man who, when he’s away on business, just wants a weekend fling while out of sight of his wife and family.’

‘And if the man has no wife? Or family?’ he pressed.

Her mouth compressed. ‘Don’t they all say that?’

‘Do they?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Annie replied. She may prefer to spend most of her time at Balfour Manor but that didn’t mean that she didn’t occasionally accompany her father when he went away on business. Or that her father’s presence protected her from the advances of some of the business associates she met at those times. On the contrary; the often scandalous exploits of Annie’s sisters seemed to have given most of those men the impression that all the Balfour sisters were open to seduction!

Luc gave her a hard look. ‘In my case it happens to be the truth.’ Children to inherit, and a wife to provide those children, would one day be necessary, Luc accepted. But he would choose his own time, and the correct woman, when it came to filling that position.

‘I’m still not interested,’ she announced.

He arched mocking brows. ‘No?’

‘No!’ she said with finality. ‘And I very much doubt you usually have to try this hard to seduce a woman into your bed either,’ she added.

It was true that Luc usually only had to show the minimum of interest in a woman in order to make love with her. But of late, he recognised with a frown, those easy conquests had started to pall. To become boring.

To the point that boredom had succeeded in piquing his interest in this bristly brunette? A woman so unlike the tall and model-thin blondes he was usually attracted to? Perhaps.

He moved restlessly. ‘You presume to know me that well?’

Annie gave a derisive snort. ‘I know your type that well,’ she claimed.

‘Indeed?’ There was a dangerous edge to Luc’s voice now.

‘Indeed,’ Annie echoed tauntingly.

Luc continued to look at her for several long seconds, the colour burning in Annie’s cheeks by the time he stretched his long legs out in front of him and leant back on his hands in the sand to turn dismissively and gaze out across the lake.

Giving Annie the opportunity to study him at close quarters unobserved. To once again note the changes in him. What had happened in the past four and a half years to change Luc from that young man, who had met every challenge with a recklessness that bordered on dangerous, to this remote and ruthlessly unyielding man whose every word and action proclaimed contempt for the very wildness he had once possessed in such abundance?

Why should she care what had happened to him, Annie instantly rebuked herself, when the same intervening years had taken their toll on her own life and emotions? When he didn’t even remember their time together that had resulted in those changes in her life. When he didn’t even remember he.!

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go for a swim.’ Annie didn’t wait for Luc to reply as she rose abruptly to her feet and began to walk down the beach to the water’s edge.

Luc slowly turned his head, his gaze admiring as he watched her fluidity of movement as she walked across the sand, arms lightly swinging, shoulders straight, her back long and supple, her hips gently swaying—

He sat forward suddenly, the darkness of his narrowed gaze arrested on her lower back. On the tattoo revealed just above the soft rise of her left buttock!

Luc’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at that tattoo. As the memories of a lush body naked in bed beneath him, wrapped around him, riding him as the woman smiled down at him seductively and her breasts jutted forward temptingly, came crashing into his head.

He rose quickly to his feet to cross the sand in three long, determined strides, before reaching out to grasp her arm and swing her round to face him. ‘Annie?’. he exclaimed as he pushed his sunglasses up into the darkness of his hair to look down searchingly into her face.

Once again the memory of those golden limbs entwined with his flashed graphically into his head. As did the silky softness of her skin as he’d kissed and tasted every inch of her body—the length of her back, that distinctive tattoo, the full curve of her bottom—before he had turned her over and explored the curve of her neck, the hard pebbles of her breasts, the gentle slope of her belly, the tiny nubbin nestled amongst the auburn curls between her legs as she writhed beneath him in the throes of ecstasy…

The sudden pallor of her cheeks, and the slight trembling of her body, told him all too clearly that this woman had those same memories—just as she had when they’d met earlier this morning!

His eyes narrowed furiously. ‘You denied earlier that we had ever met before!’

Annie gave a bitter laugh. ‘No, what I actually said was that surely on. of us would have remembered it if we had,’ she reminded him. And one of them ha. remembered; how could Annie ever forget? Yet obviously Luc had! ‘Something obviously just triggered your own memory,’ she added sarcastically. ‘What was it?’

A nerve pulsed in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘The tattoo,’ he bit out.

Annie’s eyes widened. ‘My unicorn?’

Several of her university friends had decided to acquire tattoos during their first year at Cambridge, and Annie, with a desire to be accepted for herself rather than as a Balfour, had foolishly allowed herself to be dragged along too. Most of the other girls had opted for dolphins or butterflies, but Annie had known as soon as she saw the unicorn that it was the one she wanted.

How ironic that its existence should have succeeded in alerting Luc to her identity when nothing else had!

‘Your unicorn,’ he echoed grimly as he grasped both her arms. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier that we had met before?’ He shook her slightly.

‘And what was I supposed to say when you obviously had no memory of that meeting?’ Annie hissed. ‘“Hey, remember me? I’m the woman you spent the night making love to when you were on a skiing holiday four and a half years ago before dumping me the following morning.”?’ She scowled at him. ‘Somehow I don’t think so, Luc’.

Well, when she put it like that…

Having spent the past few years deliberately blocking all memory of his ignominious fall from grace, and the dire consequences to his father because of that recklessness, Luc now clearly remembered the night he had spent making love with this woman.

Luc frowned. ‘We need to talk—’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ Annie interrupted derisively. ‘So we were lovers.’ She shrugged. ‘I remembered it. You obviously didn’t. End of story.’ She grimaced. ‘Now, would you please let go of me, Luc—you’re causing a scene.’ She looked about them pointedly to where several of the other hotel guests were now watching their exchange with open curiosity.

‘Ignore them!’ Luc rasped. He didn’t give a damn what the other hotel guests thought of them. Or him. He only cared that for some reason Annie had chosen not to remind him of their prior relationship.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ Annie snapped. She only hoped, once Luc had released her, that she didn’t add to their curiosity by collapsing at his feet! Her legs certainly felt shaky enough for her to do that.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. Why did Luc have to suddenly remember their brief time together? It would have been so much easier, for everyone, if she could have just attended the rest of the conference without seeing him again—without him remembering—before returning home to England with no one any the wiser.

That Luc had now remembered their meeting was a complication she could well have done without. One that raised too many questions in her own mind…

The fact that he’d looked so grimly formidable at having remembered that meeting certainly wasn’t reassuring.

Annie forced the tension from her body and permitted a relaxed smile to curve her lips. ‘Let’s not make a big deal out of this, Luc,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘It was a little unflattering that you didn’t remember me initially, of course, but—’

‘Stop it, Annie!’ Luc said impatiently even as his fingers tightened on her arms.

‘Stop what?’ she asked, frustrated at his behaviour. ‘It’s great that you now seem to want to get together and discuss old times, but really, what would be the point when—’

‘I said, stop it!’ Luc repeated with controlled aggression. ‘The Annie I met before—’

‘The Annie yo. met, and who you’ve only just remembered,’ she pointed out fiercely, ‘was twenty years old and extremel. naive!’ She gave a huff of derisive laughter. ‘I’ve grown up a lot in four and a half years, Luc. Enough to know when a man’s only interest is in taking me to bed!’ she added insultingly.

Luc felt the nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched cheek as he considered how she had learnt such a thing. Apart from that night she had spent with him, that is…

How coul. he not have remembered Annie when they met earlier this morning?

A part of him ha. remembered, came the instant answer to that question. An inner part of him had recognised both Annie and the huskiness of her voice. The part of him—that recklessly overindulged young man who had almost ruined his family and caused his father’s heart attack—that Luc had long tried to bury in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.

Until he saw the unicorn tattoo on her lower back and all of those memories came rushing back with a vengeance.

Her hair had been longer four years ago, of course—a wild cascade of wavy chestnut curls that reached almost to her waist. Her body had been more youthfully rounded then too, her curves lush rather than athletically toned as they were now, and her face had also been fuller, the cheekbones not so defined.

But he should have remembered the deep blue of her eyes and those long dark lashes. Should have remembered how he had enjoyed the plump fullness of her lips when he’d kissed them. When she had kissed him, on the lips, and other more intimate parts of his body. He should have remembered—

‘I was your first lover!’ he exclaimed.

The colour flooded briefly back into those pale cheeks. ‘Yes. Well.’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere, don’t they?’

Except in Annie’s case Luc had been both the start and the finish.

What would Luc say, what would he do, if she told him that a child had resulted from their night together? That waiting for Annie at her mother’s home was a little boy of almost four, who had Luc’s dark curly hair and sturdy body, and the Balfour blue eyes shining brightly in a face that also bore a very strong resemblance to this man?

To his father.

To Luc.

Annie repressed a shiver of apprehension as she looked up at him, having no doubts that the hard, implacable man Luc now so obviously was took no prisoners. It was there for everyone to see in the hard arrogance of his face and the cold, remorseless darkness of those black uncompromising eyes.

No prisoners perhaps, but if he were to learn of Oliver’s existence, would Luc want to claim his son?

And if he did, what would Annie do about it? Oh, she wouldn’t allow him to take Oliver from her, never that, but would Oliver want to know who his father was? One day maybe. And how would Oliver feel once he learnt that Annie could have told his father of his existence now but had chosen not to do so?

Annie needed time to think. To try to decide what to do for the best. For Oliver’s sake…

‘Would you please let go of me now, Luc?’ she requested calmly. ‘I think we’ve drawn enough attention to ourselves for one day, and I have another meeting to go to this afternoon,’ she added.

Luc’s eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over her face. A face that suddenly completely masked her inner emotions. ‘In that case we will dine together in my hotel suite this evening so that we can continue this conversation.’ He made it a statement rather than a question.

Her eyes widened. ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Think what you like, Annie, but your agreement is the price for my releasing you now,’ he added coolly.

‘The price for—!’ Annie glared. ‘You really have turned into an arrogant snake since we last met, haven’t you?’ she seethed.

Luc gave a hard, humourless smile as he slowly uncurled his fingers from her arm. ‘Perhaps I always was one.’

‘Perhaps,’ Annie said, aware that the anger she felt was the only reason her knees hadn’t buckled beneath her when Luc released her. This whole thing—meeting Luc again, torn between whether or not she should tell Luc about Oliver and what might happen once she had—was turning into her worst nightmare.

His mouth tightened. ‘Humour me, Annie.’

‘I have a feeling that far too many women have already done that!’ she retorted.

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Perhaps.’

Annie sighed her frustration with his obvious intractability. What should she do for the best? Should she tell Luc about Oliver or not? Not to tell him now that she had met him again seemed cruel to both Oliver and Luc, but at the same time Annie feared what Luc might do once he knew he had a three-year-old son.

She sighed again. ‘OK, Luc, I’ll have dinner with you this evening—on two conditions,’ she added swiftly as she saw the triumphant glitter in the depths of those coal-black eyes. ‘One, that I be allowed to leave when I want to.’

‘And if you wish to leave as soon as you have arrived?’

‘I won’t.’ She doubted she would be allowed to leave if she decided to tell him about Oliver!

‘How can I be sure of that?’

‘I don’t lie, remember?’ she pointed out.

‘Very well, I agree to your first condition.’

She looked at him from under long lashes. ‘Two, we dine in the hotel restaurant and not your hotel suite.’

He smiled mockingly. ‘You are…nervous at the thought of being alone with me?’

Nervous didn’t even begin to describe Annie’s feelings of apprehension concerning spending more time with him. She was only agreeing to have dinner with him at all because she already knew this older and harder Luc well enough to realise this situation needed closure. One way or another.

Besides, if she should decide to tell Luc about Oliver during dinner this evening, then Annie knew that the whole of the Balfour family would rise up protectively at any attempt by Luc to take Oliver away from her.

‘Not in the least,’ she denied easily as she turned to pick up her towel and bag. ‘I merely believe in the safety of numbers.’

‘So you are nervous of being alone with me,’ Luc drawled.

‘No, I’m not.’ She flicked back her shoulder-length hair as she turned to meet his gaze unflinchingly. ‘I’m merely hoping that the fact there are other people around—as there are now—will prevent me from giving in to the temptation I have to slap that look of satisfaction off your arrogant face!’

Luc gave an appreciative grin at this fiery response. ‘I will very much look forward to seeing you again at eight o’clock this evening, Annie.’

‘Well, that makes one of us, I suppose!’ she said smartly before turning to stride determinedly up the beach back to the hotel.

Luc remained standing where he was for several minutes after Annie had disappeared inside the hotel, his eyes narrowed in thoughtful contemplation. He had known her before. Intimately. So very intimately. And she had known him just as intimately.

The resentment and anger he had sensed in her this morning now made complete sense. The apprehension he had read in her expression a few minutes ago, almost a look of fear, did not.

What could she possibly have to fear from him?

Could it be that, like Luc, she grew hot at the memory of that night they had spent together? That she became aroused at the thought of the intimacies they had shared? That no matter how she denied it, they might share those intimacies again?

Or could Annie’s wariness of him be for another reason entirely…?

Chapter Three

‘YOU’RE just in time,’ the woman at the end of the row of seats at the back of the conference room commented as she scooted along so that Annie could sit down beside her.

Annie had been completely flustered by that encounter with Luc on the beach earlier—by her uncertainty as to whether or not she should tell him about Oliver during dinner this evening—that she’d had very little time to shower and dress in preparation for this afternoon’s meeting.

Consequently she’d only just managed to get into the conference room before the doors were closed. She sat down hurriedly now as the head of the conference stood to make several announcements before it came time to introduce the guest speaker for the afternoon, her thoughts still on the dilemma of whether or not to tell Luc about their son.

Oliver was only three years old now, but when he was older he might come to resent the fact that he had grown up without knowing his father. He might actually come to hate Annie for not telling Luc about him—

‘I don’t know about you, but he’s the only reason I fought so hard to come on this course,’ the blonde woman beside Annie said in an excited whisper.

Annie had no idea which ‘he’ the woman was referring to, although she somehow doubted it could be the sixty-year-old chairman of the conference, Daniel Russell. Not that she was particularly interested in the other woman’s conversation. How could she be, when she was so churned up inside at the thought of what was best for Oliver?

‘He almost never appears in public any more, you know,’ the woman continued confidingly.

‘Really?’ Annie answered distractedly, her thoughts still firmly on Luc.

Obviously Luc was Italian, but he’d told her long ago at the ski resort that his home was in Rome, so what was he doing at a hotel in Lake Garda, of all places?

More to the point, how long did he intend staying here?

Long enough to have insisted Annie have dinner with him this evening, at least, so that the two of them could ‘talk’!

‘—a warm welcome to Luca de Salvatore!’ Daniel Russell announced proudly.

Annie glanced without interest at the podium, her eyes then widening in disbelief as she stared at the dark-suited man who strode arrogantly onto the slightly raised platform to take his place so confidently behind that podium.

It was him!

Luc.

No, not Luc, Annie realised as she began to tremble, but Luca de Salvatore.

Oliver’s father was Luca de Salvatore!

Anyone who was anyone in the world of business—even the usually stay-at-home Annie—had heard of Luca de Salvatore. It was impossible not to have heard of the man who had taken over the reins of his father’s crumbling business empire several years ago, before ruthlessly cutting the number of employees of that business empire to the bone, and then proceeding to eliminate or simply take over any and all of the competitors who stood in the way of the de Salvatore business empire, retaking its place as one of the most powerful in the world.

Making Luca de Salvatore, as the head of that extensive and successful business empire, one of the most powerful men in the world…

Annie had never even guessed, never imagined, that the Luca de Salvatore, spoken of with so much awe and respect by people equally as powerful as he, such as her father, was actually Luc! Her Luc!

No, not her Luc, Annie corrected shakily. He had never been her Luc. One night together four and a half years ago hadn’t made him hers. And Luca de Salvatore, with a well-earned reputation for being coldly ruthless in his personal life as well as in business, had never belonged to any woman.

She had to get out of here. Needed to think—

Annie froze on the spot, literally couldn’t move a muscle, was held completely captive, as the piercing coal-black eyes that had swept so purposefully about the room now came to rest on her as she half rose in her seat, those dark eyes narrowing in challenge as he seemed to guess she was about to leave.

As if, somehow, Luc had known she was here…

The slightly amused curl of his top lip confirmed that impression. As the slow, mocking rise of one dark brow over those taunting black eyes now dared her to stand fully and complete her escape.

Damn!

Luc had been standing unseen to one side of the raised platform when he chanced to see Annie hurrying belatedly into the room to hastily take a seat on the end of the back row, once again dressed in a dark business suit, with a cream blouse, the vibrant chestnut colour of her hair muted as it was swept back and secured at her nape.

He had noted that Annie looked totally bored at the mere thought of spending the afternoon listening to yet another talk on business management.

It was too much to hope that maybe her lack of attention to the meeting was due to thoughts of the dinner they would share later this evening.

She had certainly looked less than pleased when Luc had stepped out onto the platform. In fact, her eyes had widened in alarm and her face had visibly paled, he noted grimly.

Eyes that sparkled with sudden anger, and cheeks that flushed with temper, as Luc’s mocking gaze deliberately caught and held hers.

She abruptly resumed her seat to stare at him with a glassy attention that was fixated rather than genuinely interested in what he had to say.

In an effort to unnerve him as he had so obviously unnerved her when he stepped out onto the platform?

Possibly.

Except Luc was not a man as to be unnerved by the angry challenge in a pair of sparkling blue eyes.

‘Our afternoon speaker has expressed a wish to be introduced to you, Anna,’ Daniel Russell, the chairman of the conference and owner of the prestigious Russell Hotel Group, announced heartily from behind Annie as she attempted to move hurriedly through the crush of people in her haste to escape.

She had listened to Luc talk for more than an hour and then had to listen to him answer questions for a further hour. An agonisingly slow two hours when all Annie had wanted to do was get out of here and shut herself away in the privacy of her hotel suite so that she could get her jumbled thoughts into some sort of order. Away from Luc. Away from the mockery in those piercing black eyes that had returned to her again and again during the long afternoon.

Learning who he was had turned Annie’s world upside down, and now he had the gall, the arrogance, to ask to be introduced to her!

Annie’s eyes blazed with renewed temper as she turned to face both Luca de Salvatore and Daniel Russell, the latter a grey-haired man of her father’s age who Annie knew slightly from his past business dealings with Oscar.

‘It’s good to see you again, Daniel.’ She ignored Luc completely as she briskly shook the older man’s hand.

‘You too,’ the older man returned warmly before stepping slightly aside. ‘Anna, may I introduce Luca de Salvatore.’ He beamed proudly. ‘Luca, this is one of the team at Balfour Enterprises, Anna Balfour.’

Luc’s face darkened ominously. ‘Balfour?’ he echoed incredulously.

‘One of Oscar’s many daughters,’ Daniel Russell explained pleasantly.

Daughters Annie knew that Luc had certainly heard of—or more likely read about in the more lurid of the tabloids!—if the way those piercing black eyes narrowed on her so grimly was anything to go by.

A polite mask swiftly replaced the grim one, Luc’s expression now becoming totally unreadable as he offered her his hand. ‘Miss Balfour.’

Luc couldn’t believe Annie was Anna Balfour!

Or, more descriptively, one of the many daughters of Oscar Balfour who regularly made the headlines in newspapers and magazines for embarking on one scandalous escapade or another.

‘Mr de Salvatore,’ she returned with un-mistakeable mockery as she allowed her hand to briefly touch his.

A nerve pulsed in Luc’s tightly clenched jaw. ‘There is no reason for us to keep you any longer, Daniel,’ he gritted out through a clenched jaw as he continued to stare down at Annie—no, at Anna Balfour.

‘Oh. No. Of course not.’ The older man was slightly flustered by the abruptness of the dismissal. ‘It really is good to see you again, Anna,’ he recovered enough to add. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Lillian,’ he added regretfully.

Annie nodded. ‘It was a tremendous shock to everyone.’

Daniel paused from turning away. ‘I almost forgot to ask.’ He glanced back at her. ‘How’s Oliver?’

If Luc hadn’t been staring at Annie so intently he might have missed the slightly shocked look in her eyes, and the way her chin rose defensively. As it was he saw both those reactions, and wondered why she should react like that at the mention of the man she had been talking to on the telephone earlier today.

Perhaps because she would rather Luc didn’t know about the current man in her life?

It was a little late for that when Luc had already overheard at least part of her telephone conversation with the other man where she had told Oliver that she loved him.

For the moment, one presumed; the Balfour sisters were not known for their fidelity or constancy. What they were known for was causing scandals and gossip on a daily basis!

Annie’s maternally defensive response to Daniel’s mention of Oliver had been wholly instinctive. Instinctive but stupid, she realised as Luca de Salvatore’s hard black eyes studied her even more intently.

She forced a relaxed smile to her lips as she answered Daniel warmly. ‘He’s very well, thank you.’

The older man smiled back. ‘What is he now—three, four?’

‘Three,’ Annie said tightly as she watched Daniel walk away rather than meet Luc’s glittering gaze.

‘Who is Oliver?’

Annie drew in a sharp breath before turning back to face Luc, forcing herself to meet that accusing gaze unflinchingly. She really would prefer not to tell Luc about Oliver in surroundings such as these!

Her chin slanted proudly. ‘Oliver is my son.’

‘Your—?’ Luc’s eyes narrowed icily. ‘You did not tell me you are married!’

Annie moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘That’s because I’m not.’

‘Have you ever been?’

‘No. And so you are Luca de Salvatore?’ she murmured, suddenly wanting to change the subject. This really wasn’t the place to tell Luc that Oliver was his son too! And how dare he stand there and make judgements on her when he was the reason she was an unmarried mother!

‘And you are Anna Balfour?’ he came back coldly.

She nodded. ‘Family and close friends call me Annie.’

Those chiselled lips curved into a hard, humourless smile.

‘No doubt you refer to the sort of ‘close friends’ we once were?’

Annie felt the warm colour enter her cheeks. ‘No doubt,’ she bit out curtly.

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘I find the Balfour part of your name of more…interest,’ he grated.

Annie knew by the contemptuous curl of his top lip exactly what sort of interest he was referring to! ‘As I recall, neither of us seemed particularly interested in introducing ourselves properly four and a half years ago, Mr de Salvatore,’ she pointed out drily.

‘What was that all about, I wonder?’ Luc countered scathingly. ‘A dare amongst the Balfour sisters, perhaps, as to which of you could lose your virginity first—I think not, Anna!’ He easily caught her wrist in a tight grip as her hand swung up with the obvious intention of slapping his face. ‘I think we should leave before you cause a scene.’

‘Before I cause a scene?’ she choked, tears—of anger or distress?—balanced precariously on long dark lashes as she glared up at him.

‘Before either of us causes a scene,’ Luc amended, his fingers tightening about her wrist as he began to pull her along beside him towards the exit, knowing that his usual tight control over his emotions was in serious danger of snapping completely.

Anna Balfour.

This woman, the woman Luc had made love to over and over again that night four and a half years ago, was one of the infamous Balfour sisters. She also had a young son. A young son whom she admitted had been born out of wedlock.

Annie knew by the inflexibility of Luc’s grip on her wrist, and the grimness of his expression as he easily pushed his way through the crowd of chattering people still gathered in the room, that she had little chance of escaping whatever came next.

Instead she trailed along in Luc’s wake, managing to bestow a wan smile on the woman she had sat next to earlier as she raised envious brows at her departure. No doubt the silly woman thought Annie had succeeded in capturing the attention of the world-renowned Luca de Salvatore!

‘Where are you taking me?’ Annie demanded as Luc made no effort to come to a halt once they were outside the conference room, but instead continued to stride purposefully along the hallway to the lifts, punching in a code and then stepping into the lift when the doors immediately opened.

‘We are going to my hotel suite. Do not attempt to fight me, Anna,’ he warned as she immediately tried to extricate her wrist from his grasp as he pulled her into the lift with him. ‘You will only succeed in bruising yourself,’ he advised.

‘Really?’ she challenged. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Luc’s gaze remained steadily fixed on the flushed beauty of her face as he considered her challenge. Annie was about five feet six inches tall, but still six or seven inches shorter than he even in her two-inch-heel shoes, and her build, whilst lean and toned, was no match for his superior strength. ‘Very sure,’ he finally answered drily.

‘Mistake!’ Annie announced even as Luc felt the turning of her hand in his as she took a firm grip of his wrist and proceeded to turn him and twist his arm up behind him. Her knee was placed in the curve of his back as she attempted to push him down onto the lift floor.

At least, that was what she had obviously intended to do. Unfortunately for Annie, Luc had spent part of his rebellious youth wandering the back streets of Rome looking for mischief. An occupation which his father had warned would be the death of him if he didn’t learn some self-defence. Luc had learned his lessons diligently and well.

Annie had absolutely no idea how it was she came to be the one lying on her back on the carpeted floor of the lift, both her hands firmly grasped in one of Luc’s. She stared up at him dazedly as he pinned her there by straddling her hips with strong muscled thighs, and black eyes gleamed down at her with satisfaction.

Luc tutted mockingly. ‘I do not remember you expressing a preference for rough foreplay four years ago, but perhaps your tastes have become more—’

‘Earlier you didn’t even remember me from four years ago!’ Annie gasped accusingly, her efforts to shake him off only succeeding in pressing the hardness of his thighs into her more intimately.

More intimately? The man was already so aroused she could see the fullness of that arousal bulging against the expensive material of his trousers!

And she could feel the heat of her own arousal in the flush of her cheeks and the shallowness of her breathing. The telltale tingling of her breasts. The warmth between her thighs.

‘And now I do,’ he murmured throatily, that black gaze fixed on the fullness of Annie’s slightly parted lips, raising her captured hands above her head as he leant forward slightly, as if he were going to kiss her. As if he were going to thoroughly enjoy kissing her!

Annie eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ she taunted, refusing to give in without a fight. ‘We Balfour girls aren’t known for giving a man a second chance.’

Luc’s mouth tightened even as he quirked one dark mocking brow. ‘No?’

‘No,’ she said defiantly.

‘Perhaps we should put that to the test?’ Luc mused huskily, his lips only centimetres away from hers now as those dark eyes held Annie’s captive.

The warmth of his breath moved softly, seductively, over Annie’s parted lips, an insidious, erotic invasion that robbed her completely of her own breath as she lay beneath the press of Luc’s warm, highly aroused body. Then he moved slightly and his lips instead began to explore the sensitive column of her throat. A throat that arched instinctively into those searching, pleasure-giving lips—

No, she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t allow this! ‘We’re in a lift, for goodness’ sake!’ Even as Annie made the protest she was aware that her tone lacked conviction. That her breasts were aching inside her bra, the nipples already erect. That the warmth Luc must feel as he rubbed the hardness of his arousal against her must betray her heated response…

Luc lifted his head to look at her, eyes gleaming with laughter. ‘Fear of discovery only heightens the pleasure, surely?’ He deliberately removed the slide from her hair before releasing it loosely onto her shoulders.

‘Not for me it doesn’t!’ Annie snapped.

Luc allowed the darkness of his gaze to move slowly from Annie’s fevered eyes to her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Before moving lower to where her breasts were full and firm against her blouse, the nipples clearly outlined. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he taunted softly.

‘You—‘ Annie’s angry rebuke strangled in her throat as, still holding her captive, Luc lowered his head and drew one of her aroused nipples into the heat of his mouth, his lips closing about her and allowing no quarter.

Even through the material of her blouse and bra Luc felt that nipple swell and grow as he drew her in deeper. Then he began to stroke his hard length between her sensitive thighs, instantly feeling the way she responded to his rhythmical movements. Luc pressed himself against her harder, and then harder still, as Annie made little mewling noises in her throat in harmony to that erotic rhythm.

What was she doing? Annie wondered desperately as a sob caught in her throat. Damn it, she knew exactly what was about to happen if she didn’t put a stop to this right now. On the floor of a lift, for goodness’ sake.

An occurrence, if she and Luc were discovered, that would make all of her sisters’ past exploits pale into insignificance!

Her fingers became entangled in the dark thickness of Luc’s hair as she pulled him away from her breast—she would think about dealing with that telltale dampness on her blouse later. And the throbbing dampness between her thighs. ‘Get off me, Luc!’ She glared up at him furiously as he looked down at her with dark, hooded eyes.

Annie was furious with herself as much as with Luc. What had she been thinking? Except thought, she accepted with some disgust, had very little to do with what had just happened.

This man had been her lover four and a half years ago. A relationship that had resulted in a child. Her beloved son, Oliver.

‘Get. Off. Me,’ she repeated with renewed fierceness as her fingers tightened further in the silky thickness of his hair.

Luc ignored her hold on him as he looked down at her speculatively. ‘You would prefer that we continue this somewhere more private?’

‘Frankly, Luc, I would prefer it if I never have to set eyes on you ever again!’

Luc gave her a wicked smile as he glanced down to where he could still clearly see the rosy hardness of her nipple through the damp material of her blouse and bra. ‘All evidence to the contrary,’ he drawled mockingly.

Her cheeks flushed with temper. ‘You arrogant bast—’

‘Now, now, Anna,’ Luc cut in as he rose easily to his feet and pulled her up beside him. ‘Has no one ever told you it is unladylike to swear?’ he murmured as he released her to calmly straighten the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket.

‘I must have been absent from the nursery that day,’ she grated.

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘No doubt all your sisters were too!’

‘You—Why hasn’t this lift moved since we stepped into it?’ she asked suddenly, starting to feel as if the walls of this spacious lift were closing in around her.

Luc shrugged. ‘It is a private lift that goes to the penthouse suite of the hotel only. Only the occupant of that suite knows the code of entry.’

‘And that would be you,’ Annie guessed, her hair swinging forward about her cheeks as she bent to pick her slide up from the floor where Luc had dropped it.

He smiled wickedly again. ‘As the owner of the hotel, that would indeed be me.’

The owner of the hotel? Annie should have realised as much after the way Luc had been so dismissive of her threats to report his harassment of her to the management. He was the damned management!

‘So,’ Luc drawled. ‘Which one of Oscar’s many wives is your mother?’ His gaze swept over her contemptuously.

‘There have only been three!’ Her eyes sparkled at his deliberate insult. ‘And my mother is Tilly. Oscar’s second wife,’ she added as Luc looked down at her blankly.

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘She is the one that still lives at Balfour Manor with him, is she not?’

Annie drew in a sharp breath. ‘She doesn’t live with Oscar.’

She eyed Luc impatiently. ‘If you must know, my mother was heartbroken after her second husband died, and so my father offered her the use of the gatehouse at the Balfour estate.’

‘How civilised to remain…friends…with an ex-wife,’ Luc commented.

Annie raised her chin in challenge. ‘Yes, it is actually.’

Luc shook his head. ‘And his third wife—Lillian?—did not object to this arrangement?’

Annie went very still. ‘What arrangement?’

‘Oh, come, Anna, we are all grown-ups here,’ he jeered.

‘You’re implying…saying—’ Annie broke off on a gasp, her face paling.

Luc looked scornful. ‘It is no wonder that Oscar’s daughters are so…so wildly out of control, when their own father sets such an example.’

He was implying her mother had continued to be Oscar’s mistress during his marriage to Lillian, Annie realised numbly. How dare he? By what right did he judge her family? ‘You know absolutely nothing about my father or my mother,’ Annie seethed. ‘If you did, then you would know that they are the best of friends. That my mother is the sweetest, kindest, wisest—’

‘I believe you are protesting too much, Anna,’ Luc mocked, far from over the shock of discovering exactly who this woman was.

Just the name Balfour was synonymous with scandal. With beauty, glamour and style also, Luc allowed grudgingly, but most especially with scandal.

Luc had spent the past few years completely avoiding the sort of publicity that the Balfour family, the Balfour daughters in particular, seemed to take such delight in creating. Hardly a day went by, it seemed, when one or the other of them did not appear at the centre of one scandal or other.

Admittedly, Luc never bothered to read anything that was written about them in the newspapers, deciding that they were a group of silly young women with more money than sense.

Much like he had been until four years ago?

Perhaps.

Although he seemed to recall there had been an even bigger than normal Balfour family scandal on the front page of every national and international newspaper the previous month. Something to do with one of the daughters being illegitimate…?

Oscar Balfour had so many daughters—seven, no, eight at the last count—that Luc was surprised that anyone cared about whether or not they were all legitimate!

His top lip curled contemptuously. ‘Perhaps you would rather not have dinner with me this evening after all?’

Annie easily guessed the reason for the contempt she could clearly see in Luc’s expression. Not only were her sisters always involved in one scandal after another, but Annie herself was the single mother of a three-year-old boy.

Whether to tell Luc that Oliver was also his son was something that Annie was still undecided about. Even more so after seeing the contempt Luc had for her whole family!

‘You’ve decided we have nothing to talk about after all?’ she said sarcastically.

His jaw hardened perceptively. ‘Nothing that would not result in more insults being traded between us, no.’

Annie felt the stinging heat of mortification in her cheeks. ‘Never heard the saying about people in glass houses, Luc? I seem to remember that Luca de Salvatore was something of a wild child in his youth,’ she added as Luc raised questioning brows.

A nerve started pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘Fortunately, I grew up.’

‘You aren’t the only one who had to grow up fast, Luc—’ Annie broke off abruptly, realising she had said too much when she saw the glitter of speculation in those narrowed dark eyes. ‘If you wouldn’t mind opening the lift doors now?’ she prompted stiffly. ‘I have some papers that I need to read through and fax to my father this evening.’

After Luc’s reaction to learning exactly who she was, Annie also had a lot more thinking to do!

Annie had never confided the identity of Oliver’s father to anyone. How could she, when until today she’d had no idea that the Luc of four and a half years ago was actually the billionaire businessman Luca de Salvatore! But she knew exactly who he was now. And that knowledge only made her decision concerning whether or not to tell him about Oliver all the harder to make.

Luca de Salvatore was a hard and remorseless man. A man who would maybe not want to just play the active role in Oliver’s life that she was prepared to offer him, but to take Oliver away from her completely…

Luc gave a humourless smile. ‘So you work for your father?’

‘And I hate it,’ she admitted immediately.

‘Then why do it?’

‘Why?’ she echoed. ‘Because, despite what you might think to the contrary, I needed a job to earn the money to keep both my son and myself. And working for my father was the job least disruptive to Oliver,’ she added defensively. ‘Besides, you work for your own father, don’t you?’ she pointed out accusingly.

Luc’s eyes narrowed. ‘My father retired some years ago and left the running of the company to me.’

Annie eyed him mockingly. ‘Isn’t it nice to know that nepotism is alive and well and living in Italy!’

Luc’s mouth compressed at her deliberate insult. His father hadn’t just retired; he had been forced to do so through ill health, leaving it to Luc to restore the de Salvatore business empire after he had almost ruined it. Almost? His arrogant overconfidence in business matters had been solely responsible for bringing that empire crashing down around their ears!

He looked coldly at Anna Balfour. ‘In England too, it would seem.’

She sighed wearily. ‘You’re right, Luc, we’re only insulting each other by continuing this conversation.’

That was indisputable. And yet…

A few minutes ago Luc had wanted this woman as deeply as her heated response had told him that she had wanted him. Damn it, if Annie—Anna Balfour—hadn’t called a halt to that lovemaking Luc knew he had been perfectly capable of completing the act right here on the lift floor!

Such impetuosity, such stupidity, was completely out of character with the man he now was.

With the man he intended to continue to be.

Chapter Four

‘YOUR son is three years and eight months old!’

Annie had opened the door to her hotel suite in answer to a sharp knock, staring up at Luca de Salvatore now as if transfixed. He was dressed casually this evening in faded denims and a black polo shirt, but the roiling fury emanating from that hard, muscled body and glittering black eyes gave him the look of an avenging predator.

She should have checked through the spy hole before opening the door! Shouldn’t have just assumed that it was room service with the club sandwich she had ordered for her dinner! Should have—

What did it matter what she should have done before opening the door? The cold and furious Luca de Salvatore who looked down at Annie so contemptuously was more than capable of kicking that door down if she had refused to open it!

‘Isn’t he?’ he bit out harshly as the flat of his hand knocked the door out of Annie grasp before he strode past her into the sitting room of her suite, the depth of his fury a tangible thing.

Annie winced, delaying facing Luc immediately by lingering to draw in several deep breaths before she quietly closed the door and turned around. One glance at Luc’s ruthlessly etched features showed her those few seconds’ respite hadn’t changed the force of his blistering anger in the slightest.

Of course it hadn’t. Luc wasn’t stupid—far from it!—and no doubt he was perfectly capable of doing the appropriate maths and working out that Oliver was his son too.

The fact that Luc looked as if he were perfectly capable of strangling her with his bare hands and that he would enjoy doing it told her that he had done exactly that.

Annie ran the damp palms of her hands down her denim-clad thighs. ‘I told you earlier that Oliver is my son—’

‘While omitting to mention that he is also my son!’ he snarled, a nerve pulsing rapidly in the pallor of his tightly clenched cheek, those black eyes blazing dangerously.

Annie moistened suddenly dry lips before swallowing hard. ‘Isn’t that rather a drastic assumption for you to have made considering…considering the tarnished reputation of the Balfour sisters?’ she asked shakily.

Luc clenched his jaw tightly, his hands curled into fists at his sides as he resisted his inclination to take hold of this woman and shake her until her teeth rattled. To shake her until she cried out for mercy. To shake her until she admitted the truth to him.

He gathered his rapidly fragmenting control and took a deep breath. ‘Not when I have seen the evidence with my own eyes, no,’ he said.

‘Evidence?’ she echoed sharply, paling slightly. ‘You can’t possibly have seen Oliver since we parted earlier!’

‘Of course not.’ Luc’s mouth twisted scathingly. ‘I had my assistant in Rome fax copies to me here of photographs of the boy from several newspaper archives.’

And been shocked to the very centre of his being as he had looked at those photographs. As he looked at images of a healthily sturdy little boy with thick and curling black hair, and laughing eyes the same magnetic blue of his mother’s, in a face that bore a startling resemblance to Luc’s own at the same age.

He was sure, certain, that this woman had borne a son from their brief time together four and a half years ago. His son!

A son whose existence she had chosen not to share with Luc!

‘Why would you do such a thing?’ she breathed.

Luc gave a humourless smile. ‘Curiosity, mainly.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I had no idea that curiosity would reveal your perfidy! Would show that unless you also made love with my brother—a brother I do not have,’ he added sarcastically, ‘that your son also happens to my son!’

‘I—’

‘I seriously advise you not to even attempt to lie to me, Anna,’ he said menacingly.

Her chin rose defiantly. ‘I’m not one of your employees, Mr de Salvatore, and so thankfully don’t have to take orders from you.’

‘You will take more than orders from me if you do not cease this ridiculous charade and admit that the boy is mine!’ Luc reached out and took a firm grasp of her shoulders.

‘Take your hands off me, Luc!’ she exclaimed.

‘It disgusts me to even touch you!’ He released her so suddenly that Annie thought she was going to fall over, Luc’s expression savage as his glittering gaze raked over her mercilessly.

Annie felt as if her legs would have buckled beneath her if she hadn’t grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. ‘What do you want from me, Luc?’ she asked weakly as he stood far too close to her and towered over her ominously.

‘The truth, of course!’ he said.

‘Why?’ she asked warily.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘So that I may begin the process of claiming my son, of course.’

Annie felt the heated colour drain from her cheeks and her mouth once again went dry. ‘Claiming him?’

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘He is a de Salvatore—’

‘He’s a Balfour!’ Annie protested.

Luc gave a hard snort of derision. ‘And the whole world knows what a prestigious name that is!’

‘No less prestigious than your own past wild behaviour has made the de Salvatore name!’ she snapped back, her chin raised in challenge.

Luc became very still. ‘What do you know of my so-called past wild behaviour?’

Annie wasn’t fooled for a moment by his apparent calm. ‘I experienced it firsthand, for goodness’ sake. I’m the woman you picked up on a ski slope, spent the night with and then dumped the following day and forgot about, remember?’

Luc continued to look at her through narrowed lids. ‘It would appear that the only redeeming quality we have between us is our son—’

‘Oliver is my son—’

‘And mine.’ Luc’s voice became dangerously soft. ‘A fact that a simple blood test will no doubt prove if you continue to be difficult,’ he added confidently.

No matter how much Anna Balfour might try to deny it, Luc was certain he couldn’t mistake the evidence of his own eyes; he knew that the small boy in the half a dozen photographs he had looked at earlier was his son.

An heir who would one day carry on the de Salvatore name as head of the family business empire.

‘He has a name,’ Annie snapped.

Luc nodded. ‘Oliver de Salvatore.’

She gasped. ‘No!’

‘Yes!’ Luc insisted harshly.

Annie gave a protesting shake of her head, knowing that the full name on Oliver’s birth certificate, Oliver Luc Balfour, was even more damning.

She moistened dry lips. ‘I had already decided I was going to tell you about Oliver—’

‘When?’

‘Over dinner this evening.’

‘Why do I find that so hard to believe?’ Luc bit out scathingly.

Annie’s eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘Possibly because you choose not to believe it!’

This was worse, so much worse, than Annie could ever have imagined. Maybe if the Luc she had been involved with hadn’t turned out to be the reputedly ruthless Luca de Salvatore, she might have stood a chance of fighting this. As it was…

She had absolutely no doubts that all of her family—her mother, father, as well as her sisters—would stand with her on any legal battle that might ensue over custody of Oliver; they may be a dysfunctional family at the best of times, but when push came to shove, the Balfour family stood by one another.

Except in this case Annie knew that Luca de Salvatore—she could no longer even think of him as the Luc she had met and briefly been bedazzled by—was more than justified in staking his claim as Oliver’s father. There had only ever been one lover in Annie’s life, so how could Oliver’s father possibly have been anyone other than Luca de Salvatore?

She moistened dry lips. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘From you? Nothing! What I want is my son,’ Luc growled.

‘You want visiting rights? Joint custody? Just tell me what it is you want!’ Her voice broke emotionally.

Luc drew back sharply as Annie’s words unwittingly confirmed that Oliver Balfour was indeed his son.

He really did have a son. A beautiful dark-haired, blue-eyed little boy of almost four years of age.

Luc dropped down abruptly into one of the armchairs to stare unseeing down at the floral carpet as he took in the enormity of his discovery.

In all of his thirty years Luc had only ever given cursory thought to the day when he would hold his son in his arms. The first twenty-six years of his life had been spent in a whirl of decadence and overindulgence, and the last four Luc had been too busy rebuilding the de Salvatore business empire to think of anything beyond that. If he had thought of marriage and begetting heirs at all, then it had only ever been in the abstract, something to be contemplated in the distant future, once he was confident that the de Salvatore wealth and business prestige had been fully restored.

To learn that he already had a son, a son named Oliver that he had never even seen in the flesh, let alone held in his arms, was almost beyond belief. Almost.

Luc raised cold, narrowed black eyes to look at Anna Balfour as she stood in the middle of the sitting room staring down at him in wary apprehension. She was right to feel wary! Even now it was hard to believe this woman was the mother of his son. That her slender body had become ripe and swollen with his child. Her breasts would have become larger too, in preparation for that child’s birth. Had she fed him herself from those engorged breasts? Or had the spoilt and capricious daughter of Oscar Balfour passed their child on to a nanny as soon as he was born? To be nurtured and hidden away in a nursery while she carried on with her own life?

Luc’s mouth thinned ominously. ‘What do you think I want, Anna?’

Annie swallowed hard as she easily heard the edge of menace in Luc’s tone. As every part of her screamed in alarm at the danger she sensed in Luc’s too-still body and the coldness in those remorseless black eyes.

But it was too late—far too late!—for her to even attempt to avoid this confrontation. Maybe if she had told Luc about Oliver earlier today rather than letting him find out in this way…It was no good thinking of what she should have done; she had to deal with here and now, not what-ifs. ‘I’ll do anything you want, Luc, agree to anything you want, if it means avoiding dragging Oliver through a public custody battle.’

He raised dark brows. ‘What do you have that I could possibly want?’

She frowned her agitation. ‘Stop playing games, Luc, and just name your price!’

He regarded her closely. ‘You believe everyone has one, then?’

Her father certainly thought so—at least, as far as business was concerned. Had assured Annie on numerous occasions that it was only a question of finding that price. But this wasn’t a business deal. She and Luc were talking about their son’s future, not some inanimate object. And Luca de Salvatore was rich enough, powerful enough, to make a good case for taking custody of Oliver if that was the route he decided to take. A route that Annie wished to avoid if at all possible.

‘I’ve usually found that to be the case, yes,’ she answered cautiously.

‘And you are willing to give me anything, Anna?’

The hairs on the nape of Annie’s neck rose in alarm at the danger she once again sensed in the very softness of Luc’s tone. But what choice did she have? What choice was Luc giving her!

‘Anything,’ she echoed huskily.

Luc stared at her unblinkingly. Relentlessly. ‘You love Oliver that much?’

‘Well, of course I love him that much!’ she answered impatiently. ‘What sort of mother do you think I am?’

‘I have no idea what sort of mother you are,’ he cut in harshly. ‘At the moment you appear to be an absent one.’

‘Oliver is at home, with my mother—’

‘That would be Oscar Balfour’s second wife who has lived conveniently close to him in the gatehouse at Balfour Manor since the death of her second husband?’ Luc drawled insultingly.

‘I live in the gatehouse at Balfour Manor too!’ Annie said resentfully. ‘As does Oliver.’

‘Could the reason for that be because Oscar Balfour prefers to keep his only grandchild, a grandson born out of wedlock, hidden away from the public eye?’ Luc’s voice was steely at the thought of his son being treated in such a way.

There had been very little information for Luc’s assistant to find and send to him on Oliver Balfour. Just the name of his mother and when he was born, and those few photographs that the press occasionally managed to snap of him when he appeared at one family occasion or another. Other than those things there was very little known about the young boy. Certainly any mention of who his father was had been conspicuous in its absence!

The hastily compiled file he had demanded Marco gather for him on Anna Balfour was even less informative.

‘Of course my father hasn’t hidden Oliver away.’ She snorted in disgust. ‘As you say, Oliver is my father’s only grandchild, and he absolutely adores him,’ she said.

Luc nodded tersely. ‘So much so, it would seem, that Oliver very rarely leaves Balfour Manor.’

‘I’m the one responsible for that decision,’ she said agitatedly.

‘Why?’

She made an impatient movement. ‘Because—Well, because—’

‘Yes?’

How could Annie explain to this man—this hard, intractable man!—what it was like to be a Balfour? How almost from the cradle, it seemed, her every word and movement had been avidly followed by the paparazzi, to become front-page headlines in one tabloid or another? How much she had always hated it all? How she had decided from the beginning that she didn’t want any of that for Oliver?

She sat down heavily. ‘He’s a little boy, Luc. A little boy who deserves to enjoy being a child rather than living the nightmare of publicity that has always dogged my own life.’

‘There are ways to avoid such publicity—’

‘Then I wish you would tell me what those ways are,’ Annie snapped.

‘Perhaps having less notorious sisters may have helped?’ Luc pointed out.

Colour warmed her cheeks. ‘I’m not responsible for the behaviour of my sisters!’

‘No, you are only responsible for your own actions,’ he allowed. ‘So tell me, Anna Balfour, what do you think would recompense me for not even knowing of my son’s existence for the first three years and eight months of his life?’

When he put it like that…

There was no way Annie could make up to Luc for missing those first years and months of Oliver’s life. Nothing Annie could say, or do, that could ever bring that time back. It was already gone.

‘I had no idea who you were, so how was I supposed to tell you I was pregnant, let alone inform you of Oliver’s birth?’ Annie reasoned.

Luc couldn’t deny the truth of that particular argument, knew that when they’d met before they had both been living only for the moment. Luc because he desperately wanted not to even think of the mess he had left behind him in Rome. Anna Balfour because—He had no idea what she had been running away from four and a half years ago…

Although perhaps her remark about ‘the nightmare of publicity that has always dogged my own life’ went some way to answering that question.

None of which altered the fact that Oliver was almost four years old and had yet to even meet his father!

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘Did you even try to find out who I was? Once you learned of your pregnancy, did you go back to the ski resort and make the necessary enquiries to see if you could learn the identity of your lover?’

Her gaze no longer met his. ‘No.’

‘Why not? You can’t tell me that with all the Balfour resources available to you, you couldn’t have done it,’ Luc pressed.

Annie stood restlessly, her eyes blazing deeply blue as she glared down at him. ‘What would have been the point? We had a one-night stand, Luc,’ she expanded. ‘I can’t think of any man who would have been interested in learning that a child had resulted from such a brief relationship.’

He scowled darkly. ‘You are looking at him. As I am now looking at Anna Balfour. Really looking,’ he added coldly. ‘And I do not very much like what I see.’

Annie felt a sinking, sick sensation in her stomach. ‘Stop calling me Anna Balfour in that insulting tone!’

Luc shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I have only just learnt it is your name.’

‘We both know that isn’t the reason you keep saying it in that distasteful way.’

‘Do we?’

‘Yes!’ Annie stared down at him in utter frustration. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Sorry that we chanced to meet again and I discovered the truth perhaps?’

‘Yes. No!’ She gave an agitated shake of her head. ‘Maybe you’re right, and I should have tried to find out who you were four years ago. I just—I’m sorry you never knew of Oliver’s existence until today. I’m just sorry,’ she added shakily.

Luc looked at her through narrowed lids, noting the shadows in those deep blue eyes, and the tears that glistened on the length of her dark lashes. Her face was deathly pale, and there was a slight tremble to those full and sensuous lips.

Yes, she was indeed sorry for denying him knowledge of his son these past four years. She was going to be sorrier still…

‘Very well.’ Luc stood. ‘You are booked on a flight back to London on Monday morning—‘

‘How did you know that?’ she gasped.

‘Because before coming here I made it my business to know.’

Annie swallowed hard. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘The why is unimportant,’ Luc said dismissively. ‘You will cancel your seat on that flight—’

‘No, I—’

‘You will find that you and I will deal better together if you cease arguing with me over every little detail,’ he reproved.

‘My going back to England on Monday isn’t a “little detail”,’ Annie insisted stubbornly. She needed to go home. Needed to be with Oliver. To take his sturdy little body in her arms and just hold on to him!

‘I do not remember saying you would not be returning to England. Did I say that?’

Annie frowned her confusion. ‘Well…no. But—’

‘We will both be flying to England tomorrow, Anna,’ Luc informed her arrogantly.

She moistened her lips nervously. ‘Tomorrow?’

He nodded curtly. ‘I will make arrangements for the de Salvatore jet to transport us there in the morning. After which we will both go to Balfour Manor and you will introduce me to my son.’ His voice had hardened angrily.

Annie’s mouth opened but no words came out. Luc couldn’t be serious about coming to Balfour Manor with her! Couldn’t expect her to just take him there and—‘Introduce you to him as what?’ she asked warily.

He was every inch the arrogant Luca de Salvatore as he looked down the length of his aristocratic nose at her. ‘As his father, of course.’

‘I can’t do that, Luc,’ she protested. ‘Can’t you see that would only confuse him?’ she reasoned as Luc remained completely unmoved by that impassioned protest. ‘At the moment Oliver has no real concept of what it means to even have a father—’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Luc asked.

‘Mine,’ Annie allowed with a weary sigh. ‘But if you come back to England with me tomorrow, and I introduce you to Oliver as his father, then he’s just going to be confused when you have to leave him to return home a few days later.’

Luc looked at her coldly. ‘I do not remember saying that I intended to leave him again.’

‘But of course you will!’ Annie exclaimed. ‘You live in Rome, and Oliver lives with me in England—’

‘Hmm.’

Annie tensed. ‘Hmm, what?’

‘Hmm, I have reached a decision on my “price” for allowing you to keep Oliver with you,’ Luc informed her coolly.

One look at the hardness of those merciless black eyes and the cruel twist to those sculptured lips and Annie knew she wasn’t going to like Luc’s ‘price’ at all!

She swallowed hard. ‘Which is?’

‘The solution is obvious once you look at the situation logically.’

‘Logically?’ she echoed slowly.

Luc gave an arrogant inclination of his head. ‘The only way that Oliver can both remain with you and know his father is if the two of us marry.’

‘If—? If the two of us—? If we—?’ Annie sat down again before she fell down!

Surely Luca de Salvatore, a man usually so assured and coldly controlled, had gone slightly insane?

Slightly?

Luc had gone seriously insane if he thought for one moment that Annie would ever agree to marry him!

Chapter Five

‘NO!’

Luc raised dark brows. ‘No?’

‘No,’ she repeated firmly.

Luc calmly returned the fierceness of her gaze. ‘No, the answer is not logical? Or no, you will not marry me?’

‘Both!’ she answered vehemently.

Luc considered her with complete detachment. Anna Balfour was without doubt a very beautiful and self-assured young woman. She also now possessed the sort of slender elegance that ensured she would look good in anything. She even managed to look sexily attractive in faded jeans that fitted low on her hips, and a fitted white T-shirt that barely covered the flatness of her stomach!

Yes, she was very beautiful. She also possessed an innate self-confidence that would ensure she felt comfortable in any company she happened to find herself in. The file Luc’s assistant had hastily compiled on her also revealed that, despite being six months pregnant at the time, she had completed and attained a degree in English, attesting to her determination as well as her intelligence.

Despite all those positive attributes—and the physical attraction that had drawn him to her this morning—Anna Balfour was not the woman Luc would have chosen as his wife.

Any more, it seemed, than Luc was the man she would have chosen as her husband!

His mouth firmed. ‘A few minutes ago you promised to give me anything, Anna,’ he reminded her.

‘If you would let me continue to bring Oliver up in England,’ she pointed out.

He looked at her scathingly. ‘We both know that is not going to happen.’

‘I—’ Annie broke off impatiently, having no doubts now; Luc really had gone insane! ‘Marriage is a little drastic, don’t you think?’ She raised incredulous eyebrows.

‘You have another, less drastic, solution to this problem perhaps?’ he prompted coolly.

It was that very coldness that unnerved Annie the most. If Luc’s anger had been hot and accusing she could maybe have tried reasoning with him. As it was, his very calmness, that stillness of the predator he had so reminded her of earlier, told her that he was perfectly serious about his preposterous proposal.

She sighed. ‘I’m only twenty-four years old, Luc, and I have no intention of marrying any man for the sake of convenience.’

‘I do not find the idea of a marriage between the two of us in the least convenient either,’ he admitted.

‘Then—’

‘Are you willing to give up our son to me?’ he asked.

Annie gasped. ‘No, of course not!’

Luc gave an unconcerned shrug. ‘Then the matter is settled. Once in England I will see to the necessary arrangements for our marriage—’

‘The matter is most certainly not settled,’ Annie interrupted as she once again stood. ‘I’m not marrying you, Luc,’ she repeated stubbornly. ‘And I can’t believe that you would want to sully the de Salvatore name by marrying one of the notorious Balfour sisters either!’

‘It would not have been my first choice, no,’ Luc acknowledged wryly.

‘Or your last!’ Annie guessed easily.

‘It is my last,’ he drawled. ‘And I have no doubt that such a marriage will prove to have some compensations,’ he added.

Annie felt the warm colour enter her cheeks at his deliberately provocative tone. ‘I’m not marrying any man, let alone sharing his bed, when I’m not in love with him,’ she insisted.

Luc’s gaze narrowed as he heard the vehement determination in her tone. Every inch of her was tensed as if for a fight. From the fiery lights in that thick chestnut-coloured hair, and the tension in her body, to the bareness of her toes now curled into the carpet as if ready to spring into action if necessary.

She really was very beautiful.

A beautiful woman possessed of an inner fire that had already succeeded in melting Luc’s own coolness more than once.

Even now Luc felt a stirring, a hardening, of his thighs as he recalled their time together earlier today, of the way she had been prepared to fight him then too. Before passion had replaced her anger…

‘You did not seem to find the idea of sharing my bed so distasteful this afternoon,’ he pointed out as he allowed his gaze to deliberately move down to the firm thrust of her breasts. Breasts that were full and pouting, and obviously unconfined beneath that fitted T-shirt, the tips becoming engorged with arousal even as Luc looked at them.

Annie resisted the urge to cross her arms over that betraying hardening of her nipples. What was it about this man in particular that made her respond this way? Whatever it was, Annie couldn’t allow it—wouldn’t allow it!—to affect her resolve not to give in to Luc’s demands.

She shook her head. ‘A marriage that isn’t based on love will ultimately fail. One or both of us is sure to one day meet someone we can love, and then we would have to go through the messy process of a divorce.’

Luc raised dark brows. ‘You speak as if from experience…’

Had she?

Yes, of course she had!

Annie’s mother and father had only married each other because Oscar had been left with three very young daughters following the death of his first wife. Tilly, as nanny to those three little girls, had been the obvious choice to become Oscar’s second wife. And because Tilly liked and respected Oscar, and already loved his three young daughters to distraction, she had accepted his marriage proposal. Only to then meet Victor, the man she had fallen instantly in love with, four years and three daughters of her own later.

The fact that Tilly and Oscar’s separation and divorce had been amicable, that they remained close friends, hadn’t made the experience of having parents who were divorced any less traumatic for Annie.

Strangely, Annie had never admitted that before, even to herself.

She was only doing so now because she had no intention of putting Oliver through that same heartbreak!

‘The break-up of your own parents’ marriage might have something to do with that?’ Luc guessed with that shrewdness that could be so unnerving.

Everything about this man was unnerving, Annie acknowledged frustratedly. From the cold chill of his ruthlessness, to the way that just looking at him made her heart beat faster and her breath catch in her throat!

The fact that, in spite of everything, she was still physically attracted to Luc was no basis for a marriage between them either, she told herself firmly.

‘Being at the centre of a divorce, even an amicable one, is never good for the children,’ she said bluntly.

‘Then it is as well that my family does not believe in divorce,’ Luc said.

‘I don’t believe in marriages of convenience either.’ Annie stubbornly stood her ground. ‘That results in a stalemate, I believe, Luc!’

Her father, following the scandal that had occurred at the 100th Balfour Charity Ball, had lectured all of his daughters on the necessity of restoring some pride and dignity back into the Balfour name. In an effort to instil his determination into his more rebellious daughters, he had dragged out an ancient family manuscript outlining the code of honour by which the Balfours had once lived. Antiquated that code may have been, but one of them had remained fixed in Annie’s mind ever since: A Balfour should be frightened of nothing. Face your fears with courage and they will lead to further self-discovery.

Meeting Oliver’s father again had always been Annie’s biggest fear!

An occurrence that had already led her to one piece of surprising self-discovery—she had never before realised how much she had been affected by the heartache of growing up with parents who were divorced…

But she realised it now, and that realisation made her more determined than ever that Oliver’s childhood would not be blighted by his parents suffering the same fate.

‘Perhaps,’ Luc answered her softly now.

Despite her own resolve, Annie wasn’t sure she particularly cared for that determined glint in Luc’s coal-black eyes. She liked it even less when that dark gaze again moved slowly over the curves of her body to once again create a tingling in her breasts and that rush of heat between her thighs.

A heat that suffused all of Annie’s body, making her skin ultra sensitive, and her close-fitting jeans and T-shirt suddenly feel uncomfortably tight…

She gave a self-disgusted sigh at this response to just having Luc’s gaze upon her body. ‘I need to go outside for some air,’ she announced. She didn’t wait for Luc’s response but turned on her heel to move across the room, opening the door to the balcony and stepping outside to breathe in the fresh, clean—sobering!—air.

Luc remained unmoving for several seconds after she had gone outside.

He had no doubts that she meant it when she said she wouldn’t marry him. Luc’s own resolve that such a marriage would take place was also unshakeable. Oliver Balfour was his son, and Anna Balfour was the mother of that son. There was no question, absolutely no doubt in Luc’s mind, that she would become his wife.

Luc stepped outside to cross the balcony to where she stood against the balustrade looking out at the evening beauty of Lake Garda. Or giving the appearance of looking across Lake Garda; the defensive stiffening of her shoulders told him that she was completely aware of him standing directly behind her.

Because she feared him?

Or was her tension for another reason completely?

Luc stepped forward, his body mere centimetres away from hers as his hands moved either side of her to rest lightly on the balustrade and hold her trapped within his encircling arms. ‘Your hair smells of flowers and sunshine,’ he murmured as he breathed in her heady perfume—flowers, sunshine and an underlying musk of sensuality.

Her throat moved convulsively before she answered him. ‘I think you’ll find that it’s the flowers in the bowers hanging off the balcony that you can smell.’

Luc laughed softly. ‘Allow me a little poetic licence.’

Every part of Annie was tinglingly aware of every part of Luc. The warmth of his breath against her exposed throat. The powerful heat of his body as he stepped even closer. The hardness of his arousal as it pressed intimately against her bottom…

‘What are you doing, Luc?’ she breathed huskily even as her throat arched and she felt the warm rasp of his tongue against the heat of her skin.

‘Demonstrating one of those compensations,’ he murmured as he nibbled the lobe of her ear.

Annie had been out on several dates the past three years. She had even liked some of those men enough to go out on second and third dates with them. But none of those men had ever made her want to throw off all her clothes and offer herself to him in the way that Luc did, both in the lift earlier and again now.

‘I’m not going to marry you, Luc,’ she managed to tell him breathlessly.

‘No?’ His hands moved up to cup her breasts, the soft pads of both his thumbs caressingly lightly over the swollen tips of her breasts.

‘No.’ Annie gasped as heat coursed from her breasts down into her thighs.

‘Do you not remember how it was between us, Annie?’ He moved the hardness of his erection against her bottom. ‘How we couldn’t get enough of each other that night?’

Yes, of course Annie remembered! It was those memories of being with Luc, more than anything else, that had prevented her from being able to enter into another relationship with someone else!

Meeting Luc in the way she had, daring to spend that single wild and passionate night with him, had been completely out of character for Annie. Until that night she had always been the most quiet and practical one, preferring to spend her time at Balfour Manor with Tilly rather than flitting from party to party as two of her older sisters did.

Her emotions once she realised she was pregnant had been a tangle of contradiction. Part of her had been terrified at the thought of having a baby. Another part of her had been thrilled at the thought of the child growing inside her.

Luc’s child.

Not Luca de Salvatore’s.

After all, she didn’t even know Luca de Salvatore.

Except that she seemed to respond to him as readily as she had Luc all those years ago…

Annie’s mouth tightened. ‘Before you did your disappearing act the following day, you mean?’

‘There was a good reason for that—’

‘I’m sure there was!’ she scorned as she recalled the humiliation of sitting in a restaurant the evening following their night together, waiting for a Luc who had never arrived. She twisted out of his restraining arms now to put some distance between them. ‘I remembered that night, Luc—you’re the one that didn’t,’ she reminded him tensely.

Luc’s mouth thinned, and his hands clenched at his sides in frustration.

No, to his shame, he hadn’t initially remembered spending that night with this beautiful young woman. But there really was an explanation for that. Maybe not an acceptable one to the woman who had given birth to and brought up his son alone, but it was an explanation, nonetheless.

A shameful explanation that had been the driving force behind all of Luc’s thoughts and actions this past four and a half years…

Through his arrogance he had brought the de Salvatore business empire to its knees. And then, instead of remaining in Rome to help his father try to repair the damage he had done, Luc had taken himself off to enjoy the Italian ski slopes. Had closed his mind to the mistakes he had made by indulging in a frenzy of pleasure that had culminated in him taking Anna Balfour to his bed.

What Luc hadn’t known, hadn’t realised until the following morning, was that while he had been busy enjoying himself, his father had suffered a heart attack as a consequence of Luc’s mismanagement, and was in hospital fighting for his life.

He had seen the news of his father’s collapse in a newspaper, of all places!

Having arranged to meet Annie later that day, Luc had instead ended his holiday abruptly and returned to Rome to be at his father’s bedside.

How could he possibly have known—how could he have guessed?—that by doing so he had abandoned Annie to the fate of giving birth to their son alone?

Luc sighed. ‘I am no longer the self-centred young man I was four and a half years ago.’

Annie gave a rueful acknowledgement of her head at the truth of that. ‘Luckily, I’m not as naively trusting as I was then either,’ she assured him drily.

His mouth twisted. ‘Have any of the Balfour sisters ever been “naively trusting”?’

Annie drew in a sharp breath. ‘I really don’t believe we’re going to achieve anything by insulting each other.’

‘No,’ he acknowledged, that nerve once again pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘Nevertheless, we are going to be married, Anna,’ he stated evenly.

Annie gave him a pityingly look. ‘It’s a long time since anyone said no to you, isn’t it, Luc?’

He gave a humourless smile. ‘I do not remember anyone ever doing so.’

‘I just did,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly, those dark eyes glittering in the moonlight. ‘But you do so in the knowledge that I will fight for my son if necessary.’

Of course Annie knew that Luc wasn’t about to just walk away from Oliver because she refused to marry him. She doubted that the man who stood before her, so hard, so ruthlessly intractable, had ever walked away from a fight. He certainly wasn’t about to walk away from his own son!

Annie swallowed hard. ‘The media will eat us alive if we fight over Oliver in a court of law,’ she said heavily.

Luc shrugged. ‘That is your choice.’

Annie looked at him searchingly, knowing by the hard challenge she could read in Luc’s expression that he wasn’t going to back down.

But the alternative to the horror of a court battle was marriage. To Luca de Salvatore. A Luca de Salvatore who was no more in love with Annie than she was with him.

She couldn’t do it!

Luc easily read the determined resolve in her face as she obviously came to her decision. A decision, he had no doubt, that would result in the two of them facing each other across a courtroom as they fought, by any means possible, for custody of their son. A very public and bloody battle that would no doubt also end with them hating each other as they were left with no choice but to rip each other’s characters and past behaviour to shreds.

‘You would be very foolish to even contemplate fighting me in that way, Anna,’ he warned softly.

Her pointed chin rose to that challenge. ‘With my own parents’ broken marriage as an example, I would be even more foolish to contemplate marrying a man I don’t love and who doesn’t love me!’

‘Just because your father was not successful in keeping your mother contented in their marriage bed does not mean that I would fail to keep you happy in the same way!’ Luc stated arrogantly.

Anna’s cheeks coloured. ‘My father kept my mother contented enough for her to produce three daughters in three years!’

Luc regarded her coldly. ‘Would you not like more children of your own, Anna? Or do you feel you have already done your duty by producing a son?’

‘Of course I would like more children,’ she snapped. ‘Just not with a man I don’t love!’

Luc gave a derisive snort. ‘I am surprised, considering your own childhood, to hear that you still believe in this elusive emotion called love.’

She looked rueful. ‘Just because my parents never loved each other in that romantic way doesn’t mean that they didn’t both find love, true love, with other people.’

Luc scowled darkly. ‘And you fear, if we were to marry for Oliver’s sake, the same thing might happen to one or both of us some time in the future?’

Did Annie fear that?

Or was her biggest fear, if she were to agree to marry Luc, that it might be him that she fell in love with? While he continued to feel nothing more than contempt for Anna Balfour, as he continued to call her.

She was back to that challenging Balfour code again: Face your fears with courage and they will lead to further self-discovery.

What if it should turn out that Annie’s biggest fear, the most momentous self-discovery she made, was that the reason she had never fallen in love with any of the men she had dated the past three years was because she had never been able to get over that night she had spent with Luc?

Chapter Six

ANNIE repressed a shiver just at the thought of her emotions being completely at the mercy of Luca de Salvatore’s legendary ruthlessness. ‘In your case?’ she bit out. ‘Somehow I doubt that very much!’

Luc’s eyes narrowed ominously. ‘You believe me incapable of feeling love for another person?’

She grimaced. ‘I believe Luca de Salvatore to be capable of dismissing any emotion that might result in him feeling in the least vulnerable.’

How well she already knew him, Luc thought. As far as he was concerned, love for one’s family, especially one’s children, was permissible. But to feel love for a woman was to leave oneself totally vulnerable.

For any man to ever fall in love with one of the capricious and fickle Balfour sisters would be the height of foolishness!

To feel desire for one, however, was another matter entirely…

He looked at her quizzically. ‘And what of the man you met four and a half years ago? Do you believe him to be incapable of emotion too?’

Annie looked at Luc for some seconds. The hard glitter of his eyes. That thinned mouth. The inflexibility of his jaw. ‘They’re one and the same man,’ she finally stated flatly.

‘You did not seem to think so once,’ he said.

Annie shrugged. ‘I was young and easily impressed.’

‘And four short years later you have succeeded in eliminating such childish illusions?’ Luc taunted.

‘Having a baby when you’re unmarried and alone will do that to you every time,’ Annie said tightly.

He stiffened. ‘You chose—’

‘I didn’t choose anything, Luc!’ Annie cried. ‘How could I have done anything else but what I did when I had no idea who you were? And if you think, just because I’m one of the infamous Balfour sisters, that it was easy telling my parents I was pregnant, then I suggest you think again!’ she snapped angrily as Luc continued to look at her with that chilling intensity. ‘It was—’ She broke off, shaking her head slightly as she recalled that awful evening when she’d had to get her father and mother together at Balfour Manor and tell them she was three months pregnant.

Oscar had been furious, demanding to know the name of the father—with the obvious intention of beating the man to within an inch of his life for daring to get one of his daughters pregnant! He had become angrier still when Annie had tearfully refused to—because she couldn’t—tell him the father’s name.

As usual, it had been left to Tilly to calm the situation, as she first comforted Annie and then soothed Oscar’s angry protestations, pointing out the futility of Oscar knowing the name of the father of Annie’s baby when Annie obviously wanted nothing more to do with him.

Not quite true, of course; Annie had been left with no choice when Luc had disappeared so abruptly that day. But at least the abruptness of his departure from the Italian ski slopes, as well as from her life, had shown Annie only too clearly that as far as Luc was concerned that one night together had been enough. Pride, more than anything else, had dictated that Annie didn’t try to find Luc just because she had realised she was pregnant.

She had always been sensible. Practical. For her to then be the daughter who ended up alone and pregnant had been mortifying!

‘Some of my sisters may sometimes behave outrageously, but—’ Annie shook her head. ‘My parents never said so, never voiced any recriminations, in fact, but I know that I must have disappointed them terribly when I became pregnant,’ Annie acknowledged heavily.

Luc could see the pain of that admission in the darkness of her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks.

Something Luc understood only too well when he had let his own father down so badly himself. It wasn’t the same thing, of course, but—

‘You did not consider…terminating the pregnancy?’

‘Of course not!’ That fire returned to Annie’s eyes. ‘And my parents didn’t suggest it either, if that was going to be your next question,’ she said. ‘The Balfour family may make the newspaper headlines on a regular basis, but I don’t think anyone can ever accuse us of running away from our responsibilities.’

No, Luc knew he certainly could not accuse her of doing that.

‘You—’ He broke off as a knock sounded on the outer door of the hotel suite.

‘That’s probably room service with my dinner,’ Annie realised. ‘You’re more than welcome to share my club sandwich if you haven’t already eaten,’ she offered as she moved lightly across the balcony and back into the suite. The food would probably choke her after this conversation with Luc anyway!

What followed, after Luc’s earlier accusations and threats, was slightly surreal as far as Annie was concerned.

Whoever would have imagined that the two of them would be able to sit down together and make polite—if slightly stilted—conversation?

Annie certainly wouldn’t have thought it possible, but that’s exactly what they did as they waited for the waiter to return with a second club sandwich for Luc. That conversation became less general and more personal once the waiter left them alone a second time.

‘Have you attended one of these management conferences before?’ Luc asked.

‘No. Daddy just decided that it was time that I did.’ She had no intention of telling Luc of her father’s ridiculous decision to send all of his daughters out into the world to seek their destiny.

‘Really?’ Luc frowned across at her. ‘So you did not want to come to Italy?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Possibly because it was where we met?’ Luc guessed astutely.

Annie looked him straight in the eye. ‘Italy is a big place, Luc.’

‘Obviously not big enough!’ he drawled drily.

‘Obviously not.’ She grimaced. ‘But even so, you have to admit, the chances of us meeting again were pretty remote.’

‘And yet it happened.’

‘Pure fluke,’ Annie stated.

‘Was it?’

‘Exactly what are you implying?’ Annie eyed him warily. ‘That I deliberately came back to Italy with the intention of finally seeking you out?’

He raised dark brows over those remorseless black eyes. ‘Did you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she denied, deeply resenting the fact that he had thought she might have done so. ‘I work for my father, Luc, and as such, I have to go where he tells me to go.’

He considered her closely. ‘But you said you do not like working for your father?’

Liking didn’t come into it; it had simply been the easiest and most convenient thing for Annie to do to earn a living once she considered that Oliver was old enough to be left with her mother for a few hours every day.

Annie eyed Luc defensively. ‘Not particularly, no. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ Annie said. ‘A couple of years ago I helped my mother put her small cookery business on a financially viable footing—’

‘A cottage industry does not compare to one of international proportions—’

‘I’ve only been here twenty-four hours, Luc, but already I can tell you that this hotel doesn’t have enough receptionists. I had to wait ten minutes yesterday in order to book in. The health club should open earlier than seven-thirty in the morning. There aren’t enough restaurants for the number of guests. A bar actually on the beach would add to the guests’ comfort and enjoyment. And that’s only after a cursory observation,’ Annie added challengingly. ‘I’m sure I could find more room for improvement if I were to go into it more thoroughly.’

Luc sat back to look at her in reluctant admiration. ‘You have inherited your father’s business acumen, I see.’

‘So it would seem, yes,’ Annie said a little smugly.

‘Perhaps I should consider hiring you myself?’

‘You couldn’t afford me!’

Luc’s admiration turned to amusement. Certainly no one could accuse Anna Balfour of a lack of self-confidence!

He sobered. ‘The offer was actually a serious one, Anna, in the event you might wish to continue working after we are married.’

‘Oh, please, not that again!’ She pushed her plate of food away almost untouched before standing, those deep blue eyes glittering angrily as she looked down at Luc. ‘I have no intention of marrying you. Not now. Not ever,’ she added with finality.

Luc had never before met a woman as determined to thwart him as Anna Balfour—or Annie Balfour, as she preferred to be called.

Or one apparently so unaware of her own sensual allure…

The red lights in her chestnut-coloured hair seemed all the deeper beneath the overhead light. Her eyes as deep and clear a blue as the lake outside. Her complexion a perfect cream. The bow of her lips full and sensuous.

It was also impossible to ignore the allure of her curvaceous body—as he had discovered earlier those full breasts definitely were completely bare beneath her T-shirt, her waist flat above the low waistband of her jeans. As for the way that denim hugged the contours of her rounded bottom…

Luc felt a tightening of his thighs just looking at her! And the way she smelled was delicious. There was that floral perfume, of course, but beneath that, elusive but still discernable, was a hint of heat, of sexual arousal, that touched a part of Luc he had long thought subdued.

‘Do not be too quick to reject the idea, Annie,’ he murmured throatily as he slowly stood.

Annie’s eyes widened as Luc now stood towering over her. ‘We aren’t back to those compensations again, are we?’ She tried to inject scorn into her tone, but even to her own ears she sounded nervous rather than scornful!

That nervousness increased as Luc lifted a hand to gently cup one side of her face, those fingers seeming to burn where they touched. ‘You are a very beautiful woman, Annie.’

Just the way Luc said her name, huskily, with a hint of sensual persuasion, was enough to set alarm bells ringing in her head. ‘I’m also a Balfour,’ she reminded him tartly as she stood her ground in a determined effort to keep Luc from seeing how much his touch affected her.

Luc’s mouth quirked. ‘That would no longer be true if you married me. Then you would become Anna de Salvatore.’ Strange how right that sounded.

She gave a rueful shake of her head. ‘Being a Balfour is a state of mind, not just a name,’ she told him.

‘Not all of your sisters are considered wild and unruly,’ Luc pointed out.

Annie gave a short laugh. ‘I’m sure they would be thrilled to hear it!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘It was merely an observation, not a personal opinion.’

Annie glared at him. ‘I may have become one of those wilder Balfour sisters if I hadn’t had Oliver to think of.’

Luc’s nostrils flared. ‘Believe me, I need no reminder that my behaviour changed the course of your life.’

Maybe not, but Annie certainly did!

In fact, she needed every defence she could dredge up in order to fight against the sensual spell Luc’s close proximity was weaving around her already battered emotions.

‘Don’t do that!’ she muttered achingly as Luc raised a hand and ran his thumb across her slightly parted lips.

‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Does your physical attraction to me bother you?’

‘Does your physical attraction to me bother you?’ she came back challengingly.

‘At this moment?’ he considered gruffly. ‘No.’

Annie groaned as the softness of his thumb once again swept across the sensitivity of her bottom lip before dipping into the moist heat beneath. ‘Luc!’

‘Annie?’ he replied hoarsely even as his head lowered and his lips replaced that caressing thumb.

No man should possess such a wickedly sensual mouth. Or hands that felt so deliciously hot as they cupped her bottom to pull her in tight against his hard body. A hard body that moulded so perfectly to her softness that she could already feel the pulsing heat of his arousal…

An arousal that was all the more heady to Annie’s already inflamed senses because it was Luca de Salvatore, and not Luc, who felt it. A man well-known for his cold ruthlessness, both in business and his personal relationships.

Luc was anything but cold at this moment, his mouth hot and demanding against Annie’s, the sweep of his tongue parting her lips even further to thrust into the warm cavern beneath. He instinctively deepened that kiss as Annie’s hands moved caressingly across the hardness of his chest before her fingers reached up and clasped his shoulders.

His mouth devoured, beckoned, drawing her tongue into a duel with his, those hard thrusts enticing Annie into returning the caress.

Luc growled low in his throat as he felt that first tentative response, and then captured her tongue inside his mouth before she could withdraw it, needing to take her into him, and to be a part of her.

He moved one of his hands to support the back of her head as their kisses became wilder, more demanding, his fingers becoming entangled in that chestnut-coloured richness as his lips and tongue continued to taste her. His other hand moved to skim lightly over the flatness of her stomach, ribs and finally against the underside of her breast.

Annie wrenched her mouth from Luc’s to purr low in her throat as he repeated that caress, feeling her breast swell and harden beneath his touch, her nipples becoming twin aching point of pleasure. Of aching, decadent need…

Her neck arched instinctively as Luc’s clever mouth sought out the hollows of her throat, the movement thrusting her breasts forward. Annie groaned, burning hotly between her thighs as Luc’s hand cupped a breast to capture one aching nipple between his thumb and finger, squeezing lightly, pleasurably.

She moved restlessly against Luc in an effort to ease that pulsing ache, rubbing rhythmically against the hardness of his erection as it throbbed and swelled with the same need. She was pulled even closer still as Luc hooked a hand beneath her denim-clad knee to raise her leg and lift her up into him so that the full thrust of his arousal touched the sensitive place between her thighs.

But it wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. Annie needed, oh, God, she needed—

‘Tell me what you want!’ Luc rasped gruffly against Annie’s throat. ‘Tell me, Annie!’ he demanded as she continued to move restlessly against him.

Until Luc answered her Annie hadn’t even been aware that she had spoken out loud! ‘I—’ She broke off in a gasp as one of Luc’s hands cupped her between her legs.

She needed Luc inside her. Deep, deep inside her, until she had no idea where she ended and Luc began…

‘Tell me, Annie!’ Luc insisted again as he looked down at her fiercely, the palm of his hand moving rhythmically against her as he felt her heat through the material of her jeans. ‘Say it, Annie. Tell me what you need.’

She moistened lips swollen from his kisses, those blue eyes slightly dazed as she looked up at him. ‘I want—’ She cried low in her throat as Luc pressed harder, deeper, between her thighs even as he lowered his head and placed his lips about the hard tip of her breast, drawing that fullness into the heated wetness of his mouth, his tongue rasping, his teeth gently biting. ‘Oh!’ she gasped weakly.

‘Say it!’ Luc demanded relentlessly.

‘You’re driving me crazy, Luc!’ she cried achingly, eyes fever bright with need.

Luc pressed his fingers into her. ‘Tell me you want me, Annie. Say it!’ he said hoarsely.

‘I—’ She whimpered her longing as Luc ceased his caresses. ‘Don’t stop, Luc. For God’s sake, don’t stop…’

His eyes blazed as he cupped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her completely off the floor. Her hands clung to his shoulders, her legs curved around his waist, as he carried her to the sofa.

Annie found herself looking down at Luc as he sat, her legs straddling his thighs, and her knees on the cushions of the sofa on either side of him. This position pressed his hardness even more intimately against that aching throb between her legs.

The darkness of Luc’s gaze held hers captive as he peeled her T-shirt up and over the fullness of her breasts, his gaze becoming even hungrier as he looked down at those soft and creamy swells tipped with nipples that were swollen and rose coloured.

Annie felt the heat course through her body as Luc continued to look at her breasts, tongue flicking across his lips, moistening them, causing her breasts to tingle even more as she quivered in anticipation of feeling those lips against her bared flesh.

She watched, fascinated, as Luc slowly lowered his head, the warmth of his breath moving lightly over her even as his tongue rasped briefly—too briefly!—against one aching nipple.

Annie arched into that caress as Luc’s mouth continued that slow leisurely torture of her breast before transferring his attention to its twin. ‘Don’t tease me!’ she groaned, her hands moving up, fingers becoming entangled in the dark thickness of Luc’s hair as she pulled him harder against her, that groan turning to an aching moan as Luc took her deeply into the heat of his mouth and his fingers moved to the fastening on her jeans before sliding down beneath the lace of her panties.

Annie almost sobbed with pleasure as she undulated against the skilful fingers that found and then caressed the swollen nub nestled there. Those caresses becoming faster, harder, as Annie rushed towards a climax so fierce, so mind-numbingly glorious, that when it finally came to an end she could only collapse weakly against Luc’s shoulder as she fought for breath.

Luc’s own breathing was deep and ragged as he held her against him, satisfied for the moment with the knowledge that he had given Annie pleasure. He didn’t need to know that pleasure himself when he could still feel how she trembled and quivered so delightfully in his arms.

Annie obviously had other ideas as she moved to sit up and pull up his polo shirt, sitting back slightly as she rolled the shirt up his body and over his head before casting it aside. Her concentration was total as the slenderness of her hands touched his much darker flesh; her fingers caressed the muscled hardness, manicured nails scraping teasingly across the hardened nubs nestled amongst the light dusting of dark hair that covered Luc’s chest.

Luc sucked his breath in sharply when those fingers moved lower still, unfastening the button on his own jeans, Annie’s gaze boldly holding his now as she moved off him to kneel on the cushion beside him. She slowly slid the zip down, pushing his jeans and black boxers aside before curling her fingers about his throbbing hardness.

Luc groaned as he allowed his head to fall back against the sofa, eyes closed as he revelled in the sensation of having Annie’s fingers wrapped around him. Fingers that slowly moved along the swollen length of him, from base to tip, causing him to harden even further.

Annie was emboldened, empowered, as she felt as well as saw this physical evidence of the depth of Luc’s arousal. Her gaze held his once again as her fingers curled firmly about him before she lowered her head and took him into the heat of her mouth.

She saw his eyes widen even as he tensed beneath the unexpected intimacy and his hands moved to grip her shoulders tightly, with the obvious intention of pushing her away from him.

Annie refused to budge, shrugging off those restraining hands as she paused to lick along the length of him before once again sucking him deeply into her mouth.

He tasted as sweet and warm as honey, of hot pleasure and even hotter sex, the urgent increasing thrum beneath her mouth and fingers telling her how close Luc was to release. She drew him in deeper still as Luc’s hands became entangled in her hair, no longer pushing her away but holding her in place as he couldn’t seem to stop himself from thrusting into the heated wetness of her mouth.

Luc felt his normal control slipping, evaporating, as he found himself aware only of Annie, of the caress of her lips, tongue and fingers as they moved against his hard and fevered flesh.

He became rock hard as he felt himself poised on the very edge of release—and how he wanted, craved, that release! But—

‘No!’ Luc’s fingers tightened in Annie’s hair and he carefully pulled her up and away from him before standing. He moved right across the room, his back turned towards her as he refastened his jeans, and then ran a hand through the dark thickness of his hair as he drew deep, controlling breaths into his starved and aching lungs.

Annie sat back on her heels to look across at Luc dazedly, too stunned for several seconds to understand, let alone accept, that Luc had brought an end to their lovemaking.

Arousing Luc had made her ache all over again. Everywhere. And seconds ago Luc had ached and throbbed with that same need.

The uncompromising rigidity of the muscled back and shoulders he kept turned firmly towards her told her that was no longer the case.

Minutes ago Annie had almost ripped Luc’s polo shirt from his body in her burning need to touch him, to feel the heat of his naked skin beneath her caressing hands. All of his heat.

Her cheeks flamed as she remembered how she had hurriedly unfastened Luc’s jeans in her need to touch him more intimately still. To taste him.

To touch and taste Luca de Salvatore intimately!

Dear heaven above, what had she just done…?

Chapter Seven

LUC was disgusted with himself as he kept his back firmly turned towards Annie.

It had been his intention to kiss her, to touch her, in order to show her they were still physically attracted to each other, if nothing else.

Instead Luc had only succeeded in proving that Anna Balfour was a danger to the rigid self-control he had exerted over his emotions—all his emotions—for the past four years.

If he needed food, then he ate. If he required liquid, then he drank. And if he needed physical release, then he took a woman to his bed. Coldly. Calculatedly.

The pleasure he had just received in kissing and touching Annie, in having her kiss and touch him in return, had not been in the least cold or calculated. Instead she had reached him, pierced the armour he kept about his emotions, driven him to an excess of physical pleasure, in a way no other woman had for years. Since Luc had last made love to her, in fact!

He drew in several harsh, controlling breaths before turning to face her, his jaw tightening as he took in the evidence of their lovemaking in the tousled wildness of her hair and the swollen fullness of her lips. Lips that minutes ago had been wrapped around—

‘Do you still dismiss those “compensations” so hastily?’ he asked as he picked up his polo shirt and pulled it back over the nakedness of his torso.

Annie was glad she had taken advantage of Luc’s few minutes of distraction to straighten her own clothing as she saw the hardness of his expression and those dark, uncompromising eyes.

‘What can I say, Luc—you’re still an accomplished lover.’ She shrugged. ‘No doubt you’ve had plenty of opportunities to practise your technique over the years.’

His jaw tightened at the deliberate insult. ‘As have you,’ he pointed out coldly.

Annie almost laughed at the ridiculousness of that accusation when she hadn’t so much as thought about a man in that way since Luc. Except there was nothing in the least funny about this situation.

To say that she was stunned by her response to him was an understatement!

Just as the way she had touched him, caressed him, had been purely instinctive. Annie had no other experience on which to draw except that time with him more than four years ago.

Luc frowned fiercely. ‘Do you have someone in your life at the moment?’

Only Luc himself! ‘Do you?’ She evaded the question by slamming it straight back at him.

‘I have…the occasional woman in my bed,’ he revealed slowly. ‘But not recently,’ he added tightly.

‘OK, comparing past or present lovers isn’t conducive to this conversation.’ Not when Annie had felt a shaft of jealousy course through her at Luc’s admission.

‘There will be no other lovers for either of us once you are my wife—’

‘Are you hearing impaired, Luc?’ Annie cut in sharply as she stood. ‘I’ve told you numerous times now that I’m not going to be your wife.’

‘You have another solution to this situation?’

Her solution was that Luc disappear out of her life as completely as he had re-entered it! A solution he had unfortunately already rejected.

‘None that seem to be acceptable to you, no. But—’

‘There can be no buts, Anna,’ Luc growled. ‘Either we marry or we commence a legal battle over Oliver. A battle that will no doubt become a very public one, considering who we are. After the recent scandal concerning the illegitimacy of one of your sisters, how do you think your father will react to a custody battle over his grandson?’ he added challengingly.

Annie gave a pained gasp. ‘You bastard!’

‘On the contrary, my own legitimacy has never been in question,’ Luc drawled.

She glared at him. ‘Only your son’s!’

Luc’s eyes glittered as black as coal. ‘Yes.’

Annie frowned her frustration. A month ago she would have had no hesitation in telling Luc to do his worst. Before the scandal at the Balfour Charity Ball. Before, as Luc so rightly pointed out, the legitimacy of one of Oscar’s own daughters had been brought into question.

Could the timing of this have been any worse?

She clenched her fists in utter frustration. ‘We’re going round and round in ever-decreasing circles with this conversation, Luc.’

His mouth firmed. ‘That will cease once you stop fighting the inevitable.’

‘There’s nothing in the least inevitable about your demand that I marry you!’ Annie exclaimed.

‘No?’

Was it really inevitable that she agree to marry Luc? He seemed to think that it was.

So what if he did think that? Damn it, she may be one of the less aggressive Balfour sisters, but she was still a Balfour, and as such she did not intend allowing anyone to bully her into doing something she didn’t want to do.

‘Our union promises to be a stormy one,’ Luc murmured ruefully as Annie’s expression easily gave away her thoughts. The doubts, quickly followed by a renewed determination more than equal to his own forceful nature.

Her eyes flashed a deep, sapphire blue. ‘If you succeed in forcing me to marry you, Luc, then I promise you I will make it my ambition to ensure that your own life becomes a living hell!’

Luc had no doubts that they would have disagreements once they were married. But his very nature demanded that he could never be content with a woman who simply bowed to his dictates, and Annie Balfour had already shown that she had no intention of doing that.

He smiled wickedly. ‘I will look forward to seeing you try.’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ she warned.

Luc gave an unconcerned shrug. ‘So we are in agreement, then, that our marriage—’

‘We are in agreement on nothing!’ Annie interrupted hotly. ‘And until we are, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to meet Oliver—’

‘Agreed.’

‘—and upset him with this…this dissention between the two of us. It will only confuse him—’

‘I said I agree, Annie.’

‘—and that can’t be good for any of us. What did you say?’ Annie looked across at him in confusion.

‘I said I agree, Annie,’ he repeated patiently. ‘It is not my intention to confuse or upset Oliver either.’

‘Oh.’ Annie felt a little like a deflated balloon. ‘So we’re agreed that I will go back to England on Monday, somehow try to explain the situation to Oliver, and then—’

‘No, that is not what I said at all.’ Luc gave a brief smile.

She sighed. ‘You aren’t making any sense, Luc.’

‘I believe, if you listen closely to what I am saying, you will find I am making complete sense,’ Luc assured her drily. ‘Neither of us will return to England to be with Oliver until the situation between us has been resolved.’

Much as Luc longed to see Oliver, to see his son for the first time, he appreciated that to do so while he and Annie were still at loggerheads over their future would not be beneficial to any of them. Least of all Oliver.

The little boy had spent the first few years of his young life living happily with his mother and grandmother. No doubt with lots of visits from his grandfather and his many aunts. As such, Luc knew that his own introduction into Oliver’s life had to be done in a way that would be acceptable to the little boy. More importantly, it would be far better for Oliver if his mother and father could at least have a conversation without resorting to argument or insult!

‘You mean once I’ve resigned myself to marrying you?’ Annie said with patent disgust.

Luc raised dark, arrogant brows. ‘Exactly.’

She gave a derisive snort. ‘You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that.’

‘As are you,’ he murmured appreciatively.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘So what’s the plan, Luc? We remain here and continue arguing the point until one of us—namely me—sees reason?’

He grimaced. ‘Staying on at the hotel would not be practical when my business here is complete and you have arrangements to leave here on Monday.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’ She eyed him warily.

‘I had originally planned to spend several days at the de Salvatore vineyard near Venice once I left here. If you were to come with me—’

‘You want me to come to Venice with you?’ Annie gasped. Venice was supposed to be one of the most romantic cities in the world, wasn’t it?

‘The de Salvatore vineyards are in the hills above Venice,’ Luc corrected.

Venice itself, or the hills above the city, what did it really matter when Annie would be alone there with Luca de Salvatore! When this evening had already shown her how dangerous it was for her to be alone with him anywhere!

She shook her head. ‘I don’t—’

‘The alternative is for me to accompany you back to England as originally suggested,’ Luc pointed out coolly.

One look at the utter determination on Luc’s face was enough to tell Annie that he meant the threat.

As if she had ever doubted it!

‘What if, after these several days, we still haven’t managed to find a compromise over Oliver’s future?’ she challenged.

Those black eyes were cold and merciless. ‘I am confident that we will have done so.’

Annie felt as if she were up to her neck in quicksand. As if the whole of the world she had so painstakingly built for herself and Oliver these past four years was in jeopardy.

It was in jeopardy! It had been in jeopardy since the moment Luca de Salvatore learnt that Oliver was his son!

She swallowed hard. ‘Very well, Luc. I’ll come to your vineyard with you tomorrow. But only on the understanding that…that there will be no repeat of…of this evening’s behaviour.’ Embarrassed colour burned Annie’s cheeks just at the thought of the intimacies they had shared earlier.

He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you believe that to be possible?’

‘It had better be, or I’m not coming to Venice with you!’ Annie insisted stubbornly.

Luc studied her between narrowed lids as he once again noted the disarray of her hair, her lips swollen from the force of the kisses they had shared and the press of her breasts against that body-hugging white T-shirt, the nipples still hard and aroused.

This woman had caught fire in his arms in the lift this afternoon. And she’d continued to burn only a short time ago, when she had been so aroused by their lovemaking she had reached a climax that had shaken the whole of her body with its intensity.

Just as he had almost done as she’d kissed and caressed him…

Even during those wild years of his youth Luc could not remember being as aroused, so out of his own control, as he had been when Annie Balfour touched him with her hands and mouth.

Such loss of control had no place in the rigidly self-disciplined life of Luca de Salvatore!

He nodded. ‘If that is your price for accompanying me to Venice, then I agree.’

She eyed him warily as she voiced her concern. ‘A little too readily perhaps?’

He shrugged. ‘I am acknowledging that, for the moment, physical intimacy between us only…confuses the issue, shall we say.’

Her cheeks coloured hotly. ‘Might I remind you that you’re the one who forced your way into my hotel suite this evening, Luc. You threatened both myself and my son—’

‘Our son!’

‘—before proceeding to make love to me in order to prove that you still can!’ Annie continued fiercely, her eyes shooting sparks at him.

His jaw tightened. ‘I did not—’

‘Yes, you did, damn you!’ She could never remember being this angry before. With anyone. ‘Well, you’ve proved your point, Luc, and I’ve agreed to come to Venice with you tomorrow, now would you just go?’

Luc had no doubts that if he stayed they would just continue to argue. Or make love again. Neither of which was acceptable to him in his present mood.

Annie Balfour had managed to pierce his guard this evening. More than that, her caresses had driven him to the edge of a complete loss of control. He could not, would not, allow that to happen again.

He nodded coldly. ‘I have your word that you will not leave the hotel and attempt to go back to England without me?’

Her eyes pierced him with their scorn. ‘The Balfours have never run away from a fight either!’

‘It is your intention to continue fighting me, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she stated confidently.

Luc shook his head. How could they possibly reach any sort of compromise, some agreement on the future, if they continued to argue and insult each other?

‘Do you ever smile any more, Luc?’ Annie eyed him curiously from behind her dark sunglasses.

She had been packed and ready to leave when Luc came to her suite shortly after ten o’clock, the grimness of his expression not in the least conducive to conversation. He had continued that grim silence as the convertible sports car he was driving ate up the miles to Venice, the beauty of the surrounding scenery obviously completely wasted on him.

And the longer that silence continued the more Annie became aware of him. Of how the darkness of his hair had become ruffled from the warmth of the breeze, giving him a boyish look so at odds with the coldness of his expression. Of the width of his shoulders beneath the black polo shirt he wore. The flatness of his abdomen. The long length of his muscled legs stretched out beside her own. The subtle male smell of him—an elusively tangy aftershave and raw masculinity—that was all Luc.

Damn it, Annie was just aware of everything about him!

‘I smile when the occasion warrants it,’ Luc answered her quietly.

‘Really?’ Annie jeered. ‘Only I seem to remember you as being a lot more fun four years ago,’ she added.

Black sunglasses hid the expression in Luc’s eyes as he glanced at her. ‘You gave me the impression yesterday evening that my conversation was not to your liking.’

‘Not that conversation, no.’ She grimaced. ‘But a little polite conversation would be nice.’

‘Polite conversation?’ he repeated drily.

With the obvious implication that the two of them were incapable of being polite to each other.

Which they probably were, Annie acknowledged ruefully. Every conversation they now had seemed to come back to Oliver, and that was a subject on which they would never agree!

But not talking to each other at all certainly wasn’t going to bring an end to that particular impasse.

‘Yes, Luc, polite conversation,’ she said. ‘You comment on the warmth of the weather. I concur. You remark on the beauty of the countryside. I concur—’

‘I do not believe you capable of concurring with me twice in the course of a single conversation,’ Luc goaded back.

‘No. Well. You’re probably right about that.’ She sighed. ‘OK, then we’ll just agree that the scenery is beautiful.’

‘The scenery is beautiful,’ Luc repeated mockingly.

‘You know, coming from you, that almost counted as a joke,’ Annie remarked lightly as she settled back in the leather seat. Arguing with Luc hadn’t succeeded in making her any less physically aware of him, but it was certainly a diversion from that awkward silence!

Luc eyed her guardedly. ‘You seem less…antagonistic, this morning.’

Something he found extremely suspicious after the way they had parted last night, when Annie had given him the distinct impression that she intended fighting him to the bitter end.

She looked both confident and beautiful this morning in a pale cream knee-length sundress that showed off her tanned arms and legs, the red lights in her hair appearing deeper in the warmth of the sun and her face bare of make-up.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Never heard of trying to make the best of a bad situation?’

Oh, yes, Luc had heard of it—he just found it disconcerting after her assurances yesterday evening that she intended making his life a living hell. Of course, she had also said that would come after he had forced her to marry him.

‘And making the best of this bad situation involves you being pleasant to me for a change?’ he asked.

‘Telling you that you’re no fun any more is being pleasant.’

‘It is an improvement on being called a bastard, yes,’ Luc drawled.

Her cheeks coloured warmly. ‘As I recall, you were behaving like one at the time.’

Luc’s mouth tightened. ‘You gave me no choice.’

‘Oh, you had a choice, Luc,’ she snapped. ‘I think you just enjoy being like that!’

‘Do I take it that our attempt at polite conversation is over now?’ he taunted.

‘Without a doubt!’ Annie turned to look out of the window beside her.

She had lain awake for hours last night trying to find a solution to this problem. A solution that was acceptable to both of them, and not just to Luc.

She had known yesterday evening that returning to England without him was a non-starter; he would only follow her there, and in doing so no doubt create the scandal Annie was trying so hard to avoid.

The insults and accusations they’d hurled at each other during their arguments certainly wasn’t helping the situation either.

That left only reason. Calm, logical reason.

Annie didn’t want to marry Luca de Salvatore any more than he really wanted to marry her. Therefore there must be another, more acceptable, solution to this problem. One that could only be discussed in an atmosphere of calmness.

Which, as well as trying to dispel her total physical awareness of Luc, was what Annie had been trying to create a few minutes ago.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What?’ Annie frowned as she turned to look at Luc.

He sighed. ‘I said, I’m sorry. For being the cause of yet another argument between us,’ he expanded as she still looked puzzled.

‘That’s what I thought you meant…’

Luc’s mouth twisted at her obvious surprise at his apology. ‘You just did not believe it.’

‘Well, it’s a little unusual, you have to admit,’ she pointed out.

It was unusual for Luc to apologise. For anything. Making him every bit as arrogant as Annie had often accused him of being?

Had he always been this way? Annie didn’t seem to think so if her remark about him having been more fun four years ago was any indication.

Damn it, he hadn’t just been fun four years ago, he’d been reckless and totally lacking in all responsibility!

But what was he now?

According to Annie he was unsmiling, not fun and totally lacking in a sense of humour.

The time spent restoring the de Salvatore business empire to its former glory had consumed Luc’s every waking moment. Luca de Salvatore had found no time for smiles. Or fun. Let alone maintaining a sense of humour.

He had no time for them now either!

Just as he had no time whatsoever for the desire he felt for this woman that yesterday evening had threatened every barrier he’d placed about all of his softer emotions.

‘Perhaps,’ he answered curtly. ‘But I would not take it as the setting of a precedent.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,’ Annie assured him sarcastically. ‘I’m well aware that one apology from Luca de Salvatore has to go a long way.’

Luc’s mouth tightened. ‘You do not have a very good opinion of me, do you?’

She shrugged bare shoulders. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘And what little you do know you obviously do not like!’

‘I suggest you ask me that again in a couple of days.’

Luc very much doubted that anything he did or said during the next two days was going to change Annie Balfour’s opinion of him.

Chapter Eight

‘ADMIRING the view?’

That was exactly what Annie had been doing as she stood out on the balcony of the guest bedroom one of the maids had shown her to a few minutes ago. And she felt reluctant to turn from admiring that view—miles and miles of heady sweet-smelling vineyards as far as the eye could see, with the waterways and graceful architecture of Venice glittering in the distance.

The de Salvatore villa itself was set on the hillside, a beautiful two-storey terracotta-coloured house, built in a hacienda style, and surrounded by terraced gardens filled with an array of heady perfumed flowers, and a huge swimming pool sparkling temptingly behind the villa itself.

It was all so beautiful—the villa itself, the surrounding hills covered in vines and the mystery of Venice as tempting as a jewel.

Only Annie’s reason for being here stopped her from fully enjoying them!

She sighed wistfully before turning to face Luc as he stood in the doorway from the bedroom out onto the balcony. ‘Is it all yours?’

‘As far as the eye can see.’ He nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like to go for a ride after lunch?’

‘On horseback, quad bikes or motorbikes?’ she prompted interestedly, having seen the employees in the vineyards use all three as transport during the past few minutes as she watched them moving from one set of vines to another.

‘Any or all of them.’ Luc stepped fully out onto the balcony, and Annie saw that he had changed out of the black trousers and shirt he had worn for travelling, and into a pair of cream linen trousers and a brown short-sleeved shirt that emphasised the powerful width of his shoulders and muscled arms, and left his feet bare on the cool marble.

Dark sunglasses were pushed up into the dark thickness of hair still damp from the shower he had obviously taken before changing, allowing Annie an unimpeded view of those enigmatic dark eyes, and the harsh beauty of his face.

All in all, Luc looked good enough to eat!

Warm colour flared in Annie’s cheeks as she remembered how close she had come to doing exactly that the evening before. ‘I don’t mind which,’ she answered him abruptly, making no move to step away from the balustrade, knowing that if she did she might just forget her need to keep her physical distance from this man.

Something she hadn’t succeeded in doing too well earlier in the confines of the car, their brief conversation having done very little to alleviate her discomfort. By the time they reached the villa Annie was so aware of her need to touch Luc that as soon as the maid left her alone in the bedroom she had rushed to the adjoining bathroom to splash cold water on her face in an effort to cool that fevered longing.

A need that had returned the moment Luc stepped out onto the balcony. In fact, the only thing holding Annie back from the evergrowing urge to go to him and curve her body intimately into his before taking his mouth was the painful thought that Oliver’s future rested on what transpired between herself and Luc in the next few days.

Luc shrugged. ‘Quad bikes or motorbikes, then. It will still be a little too warm for the horses immediately after lunch.’

‘Fine.’

He frowned at her shortness. ‘You seem…a little tense.’

Annie moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘Do I?’

She wasn’t tense—she was just painfully aware of Luc! Totally, achingly physically aware of him.

Luc studied her through narrowed lids. ‘This bedroom is not to your liking?’

Having grown up either living or staying in one of the Balfour homes—several houses in London, the apartment in New York, a chalet at Klosters, even a privately owned Caribbean island—Annie was used to being surrounded by luxury.

Even so, the bedroom she had been given in the de Salvatore villa was something else—peach-coloured marble floors, beautiful white and gold antique furniture, including a four-poster bed draped in silk curtains. And the adjoining marble-floored bathroom was equally as magnificent, dominated as it was by a huge sunken bath surrounded by plants and statuary.

‘What’s not to like?’ Annie replied honestly.

‘Then perhaps you are just hungry for your lunch?’ Luc persisted with concern.

‘Maybe,’ she said evasively, knowing ruefully that he was what she really hungered for. ‘I need to call my mother and tell her where I am first though.’

‘I should have thought earlier.’ Luc looked annoyed with himself. ‘There is a telephone downstairs in my study you may use for your call when you are ready.’

‘Do I have time to freshen up and change before we eat?’

‘But of course.’ Luc nodded, sure that he was not imagining the return of Annie’s caution around him. She almost seemed afraid of his proximity. ‘As we parted some while ago I had thought you would have had time to have already done so.’

‘I’m a woman, Luc,’ she pointed out tartly. ‘Worse than that, a Balfour woman! There are only three bathrooms at the chalet at Klosters,’ she went on to explain as Luc raised a questioning brow. ‘One of which my father, as the only male, claims for himself. When all the sisters are there together you should hear the fights over who gets to use the other two bathrooms first!’

Luc found himself smiling slightly at the image she presented. ‘I wouldn’t know—I’m an only child.’

Annie eyed him curiously. ‘Isn’t that unusual in an Italian family?’

He nodded. ‘My mother was unable to have any more children after I was born.’ His jaw tightened. ‘A fact that probably contributed to my being a spoilt brat.’

‘Were you a spoilt brat, Luc?’ she asked gently.

‘Like often recognises like, does it not?’ Luc goaded.

Her eyes widened. ‘If that was a dig at me, then you really don’t know me at all either!’

He looked at her closely. ‘Your clothes, even those business suits you wore over the weekend, have a designer label. Your hair is expertly—and no doubt expensively—styled. You go on family holidays to the family-owned chalet at Klosters and a private Caribbean island. You travel first class. Stay in exclusive suites in five-star hotels. You apparently know how to ride a horse, a quad bike and a motorbike, and no doubt many other things besides. I do not believe that the average young lady of twenty-four has the opportunity to do all, or perhaps any, of those things. So yes, I believe you are spoiled to a certain extent.’

Annie raised her chin challengingly. ‘My father believes that in business the look is everything, hence the clothes, the hair and the first-class travel and five-star hotels. He also owns the chalet in Klosters, and the Caribbean island, not me. My stepfather taught me to ride a horse when I was six. My older sisters, the quad bike and motorbike when I was ten or so. Along with sailing and surfing, rock climbing and abseiling—’

‘No wonder your father’s hair has turned white!’ Luc drawled.

‘—but I believe those things make me accomplished rather than a spoilt brat,’ Annie continued stubbornly. ‘I also studied hard to get three straight As in my A levels. I went to university and attained my degree in English—’

‘And became an unmarried mother three months later,’ Luc finished for her.

‘We’ve already had this conversation once, Luc,’ she reminded him irritably.

Because Luc had not given any thought to contraception the night they spent together. Because he had left her so abruptly the following day. Because he had not bothered to try to find her again once his father was out of danger and recovering from his heart attack. Because he had been too focused on salvaging and then rebuilding the de Salvatore business empire to give more than a cursory thought to the girl called Annie that he had made love to that night…

His expression was bleak. ‘I am doing everything I can to rectify that mistake—’

‘You believe Oliver was a mistake?’ Annie’s voice was dangerously calm—the calm before the storm, in fact.

‘I did not say that.’

‘Oh, yes, you did!’ Her eyes glittered deeply blue, and her hands were clenched at her sides.

‘No—’

‘Yes!’ Annie bit out furiously, finding a temporary release from her tension—and her physical awareness of Luc—in her anger.

His face darkened ominously. ‘You are becoming agitated…’

‘We mothers tend to do that when someone attacks or criticises our child,’ she pointed out.

A nerve pulsed in Luc’s tightly clenched jaw as he looked at her coldly. ‘I would never attack or criticise either my son or his mother.’

Not Oliver and Annie, but ‘my son or his mother.’

Because Oliver as Luc’s son was still an unknown quantity to him, and Annie was merely the vessel by which he had acquired that son.

The anger left her as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her feeling strangely weary. ‘I really would like to take a shower and change my clothes now, Luc.’

It was impossible for him to miss the flatness of her tone. Or the sudden pallor of her cheeks. ‘It was never my intention to hurt you, Annie—’

‘Too late,’ she choked.

Luc could see the tears glistening on her long dark lashes now. Annie’s anger and sarcasm he could cope with; her tears were another matter entirely…

He took a step towards her. ‘Annie—’

‘Don’t touch me, Luc,’ she advised softly as she held up a hand to ward him off. ‘I’m hanging on by a thread here,’ she added shakily. ‘The least show of kindness on your part could result in my blubbering all over you.’

Luc gave a pained frown. ‘I believe my shoulders are strong enough to take it,’ he assured her gruffly.

‘I’m sure they are,’ she replied. ‘But my self-esteem isn’t,’ she added ruefully.

Luc looked at her wordlessly for several long seconds. He had been stunned yesterday when he learnt Annie had a son. Furiously angry once he had looked at those photographs of that dark-haired little boy, and realised from his date of birth that Oliver was his son too.

He was only now beginning to see, to realise, what that discovery on his part—his demand that she marry him—meant to Annie.

By insisting on marriage Luc would be taking her and Oliver away from everything and everyone that was familiar to them, at the same time forcing her into a role she obviously wanted no part of.

But what choice did Luc have except to demand she marry him? Oliver was indisputably his son, and the de Salvatore heir. Luc could not, would not, give Oliver up just because Anna Balfour managed to shed a few tears at the idea of becoming his wife!

‘I will show you to my study so that you might telephone your mother when you come downstairs.’

Dark lashes fanned down on the paleness of her cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured huskily.

He looked momentarily confused. ‘For allowing you to use the telephone?’

‘No.’ Annie looked up to give him a tremulous smile. ‘For allowing me to keep my self-esteem.’

Luc drew in a ragged breath as he once again fought the urge to take Annie in his arms and offer her comfort. Knowing that if he held her in his arms it would not be comfort he offered her!

He wanted her. Wanted her with a fierceness that made the blood burn in his veins and his body ache. Wanted to make love to her, until both of them were too weak to do anything more but fall asleep in each other’s arms.

It was a feeling so at odds with the man he had become these past four years—cold, ruthless, in control of all his emotions—that Luc knew he had to get out of here. Now. Before he could no longer resist giving in to that impulse he had to lay Annie down naked on the bed before caressing and kissing every inch of her.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides at the thought of gazing into the misty unfocused blue of Annie’s eyes as she trembled and quaked in the throes of her climax. ‘Please believe me when I say I am no longer that spoilt young man who let you down, Annie,’ he said.

‘Why aren’t you?’

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘It is a long story that does not reflect well on me.’

‘But maybe one that you’ll share with me someday?’ she pressed gently.

‘Perhaps.’ He nodded. ‘I will wait for you on the terrace.’ Luc turned on his heel and left, knowing that if Annie were ever to understand the man he was now, the man he had become, then he would have to tell her of those dark days after his father’s collapse. And then she’d know he was responsible for almost killing his own father…

‘So which did you decide upon?’ Annie asked lightly once they had finished eating the delicious cold lunch Luc’s housekeeper had provided for them to enjoy on the terrace beside the sparkling blue pool.

She had kept her telephone call to Tilly deliberately brief, just telling her mother that she had met up with an old friend who had invited her to stay at their villa near Venice for a couple of days. As expected, Tilly had assured Annie she was more than happy to look after Oliver. With the added comment that a couple of days’ holiday would do Annie the world of good.

Some holiday!

Annie had deliberately kept up a stream of inane chatter once she had joined Luc outside, more than a little embarrassed by the way she had almost broken down in front of him earlier. The reason for that emotional blip was obvious, of course—too much stress and too little sleep.

Along with that overwhelming attraction to Luc that was never far beneath the surface of her emotions.

Even now Annie was completely aware of everything about him. Of the way the darkness of his hair curled slightly from having dried in the warmth of the sun. How the hue of his olive skin had already deepened in the sunlight. Of the dark hair visible on his arms and at the V of his polo shirt. Of the way the thin material of that shirt emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and the washboard flatness of his abdomen.

As for his hands…

Annie found herself mesmerised by the lean strength of those long, tapered fingers as Luc ate, unable to stop herself from remembering how they’d felt on her body the evening before as he’d cupped her breasts before moving lower to caress her between her moist and aching thighs—

‘Quad bike or motorbike?’ she prompted again as her cheeks burned at the thought of what had happened next.

‘You choose,’ Luc invited as he sat back in his chair, the expression in his eyes once again hidden behind dark sunglasses.

‘Quad bikes can be fun, but I’d enjoy using motorbikes, if that’s OK with you?’ She looked enquiringly at Luc.

‘Fine,’ Luc drawled. ‘Although I have to admit, I haven’t ridden one in years,’ he added ruefully.

Annie quirked a pointed brow. ‘Four and a half years to be precise?’

‘As it happens…yes.’

‘Hmm.’ She frowned slightly. ‘So what happened to change your lifestyle from that of irresponsible playboy to ruthless businessman?’

Luc scowled darkly at her perception. ‘Like you, I grew up,’ he brushed her off.

‘But there must have been a reason for it?’ she persisted. ‘Didn’t de Salvatore Enterprises hit a rough patch around that time?’ she said slowly.

Luc eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. ‘How do you know that?’

She gave a shrug. ‘I’m my father’s daughter, remember? Besides, it isn’t exactly a secret that you took over your father’s ailing company and made it bigger and better than ever.’

‘Not before I had almost ruined it!’ Luc grated. ‘At twenty-six I believed myself to be invincible,’ he explained bluntly. ‘I made many mistakes because of that belief. Mistakes that almost cost my father his life as well as his business empire.’

‘What do you mean?’ Annie gasped.

‘Because of my mistakes my father had a heart attack and almost died,’ Luc said bitterly. ‘Does that not fit in with your image of me as the monster who is trying to take your son away from you?’

She looked at him directly. ‘Oliver is your son too, Luc.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘As I tried to tell you last night, I have no wish to hurt you, Annie. I just—I would like to be a father to Oliver. To help him to understand that although he has a privileged life, it does not mean he should behave as recklessly as I did for so many years.’

‘You want to help him to not make the same mistakes that you did?’

‘That is exactly what I want, yes,’ he said. Luc had learned a hard lesson that he would never allow himself to forget.

Annie looked up at Luc quizzically, understanding the changes in him a little better now than she had. Understanding the compulsion he felt to be a full-time father to Oliver a little better than she had before too.

But still not enough to agree to marry him!

She gave a rueful sigh. ‘I’m ready if you are?’

‘You intend going out like that?’ He looked at the white shorts and tank top, which was the same colour blue as her eyes, Annie had changed into after taking her shower.

Annie laughed. ‘Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?’

His mouth compressed. ‘The employees at the vineyard would perhaps expect to see my future wife wearing something a little more…conservative, shall we say, than brief shorts and an even briefer top.’

‘Really?’ Annie said, unruffled. ‘Well, as that future wife isn’t going to be me, that expectation doesn’t apply, does it?’

‘It does apply to you—’

‘No,’ Annie cut in sharply. ‘No, Luc, it doesn’t,’ she repeated firmly. ‘Now are you ready to go out or not?’ she asked again.

Luc looked down at her in frustration. There was no doubting that Annie looked fresh and cool in the brief shorts and tank top that emphasised the full curve of her breasts, slender waist and curvy hips, and the long length of her bare and golden-tanned legs.

She also looked no older than the twenty she had been the day Luc first met her.

And just as desirable!

The fact that her hair was secured on the crown of her head in an untidy tumble of chestnut curls, her face completely bare of make-up, the sun having brought out an endearing sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of her nose, should have had the opposite effect. Instead Luc ached to release those red-brown curls and let them cascade onto the bareness of her shoulders. Longed to kiss each and every one of those freckles before capturing her mouth hungrily with his and kissing her senseless.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Annie here, to the de Salvatore villa in the hills above Venice. Luc had done so with the intention of them being able to talk, to discuss Oliver’s future—and their own—without distractions.

He had not expected that same lack of distraction to have intensified his awareness of Annie, of her perfume and the smooth silkiness of her skin, skin he ached to touch to such a degree that Luc knew he had thought of little else but making love to her again since their arrival here.

He looked haughtily down the length of his nose at her. ‘If it does not bother you to parade yourself around in public half naked, then I see no reason why it should bother me either.’

Annie’s mouth tightened at what she knew to be a deliberate—and successful—attempt at an insult on Luc’s part. ‘Being seen half naked in public has never bothered a Balfour,’ she retorted naughtily. ‘In fact, being completely naked has never been too much of a problem for us either!’

Luc’s nostrils flared disdainfully. ‘Thank you for the timely reminder that you are a Balfour.’

‘No problem.’ She gave a breezy smile to hide how much it stung to hear the disgust in his voice. ‘Although you might want to actually get to know some of those Balfours before you look down your disapproving nose at all of us.’

His mouth twisted. ‘I know you, and that is enough.’

Annie drew in a sharp breath at this second deliberate and even more successful insult in as many minutes. ‘What a pity, then, that your son is also a Balfour.’

Luc scowled. ‘Not for too much longer.’

‘You might be surprised!’

‘I rarely am,’ Luc drawled confidently.

Annie shook her head in disbelief. He really was the most arrogant, pig-headed, son of a—‘Then this could be a first,’ she snapped.

Just when she thought she might actually be starting to like Luc, he reverted to type once again!

He had been much softer earlier as they had talked on the balcony of her bedroom, and then again just now as he spoke of his father, so much so that Annie had almost forgotten her reason for being here with him.

They were obviously lapses that Luc regretted, because he was back to being a bastard with a vengeance now!

Chapter Nine

‘THAT was fun!’ Annie laughed glowingly up at Luc a couple of hours later as they parked the motorbikes back in the storage shed several terraces down from the villa where the hay for the horses was also stored.

It had been fun to ride the motorbikes around the estate, Luc acknowledged with a slight frown. It had felt good to feel the wind in his hair and the warmth of the sun on his face. It had brought it home to Luc that fun really hadn’t been a part of his life for a long time now.

Working twenty hours a day, enjoying the occasional woman in his bed, followed by yet more work, had been what was necessary to return the de Salvatore business empire back to the thriving concern it had once been.

That it now was.

Yet Luc still more often than not worked those twenty-hour days. Because, apart from his ageing parents, he’d had nothing else in his life?

Something that no longer applied now that he knew he had a son.

Just as he was determined that Annie Balfour would soon become his wife. His to kiss and to touch whenever he wanted…

Having decided yesterday that such distractions only confused the situation, Luc had almost been driven mad with a desire to do both those things this afternoon as he watched Annie from behind the shield of his sunglasses. The way the bareness of her thighs had hugged either side of the leather seat of the motorbike. The creamy swell of firm, unconfined breasts visible above the low neckline of her top…

‘Luc?’ Annie prompted lightly at his continued silence.

He grimaced as he turned to face her, having pushed his sunglasses up into the dark thickness of his hair so that he could see in the gloom of the shed. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’

Well, of course he was, Annie acknowledged ruefully. No doubt wishing himself far away from here. And the inconvenience of having to entertain her.

She shrugged. ‘I could go for a swim now if there’s something else you would rather do?’

The intensity of his gaze swept over her, slowly, lingering on the curve of her breasts. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked huskily.

Annie found herself slightly unnerved by the heat in Luc’s eyes. Deep, fathomless dark eyes that she might drown in if she continued to look at him.

So she shifted her own gaze to a point over his left shoulder. ‘I thought maybe—’ She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘I’m sure the vineyard doesn’t run itself.’

‘No, I have a manager who does that,’ Luc drawled.

‘Oh.’ Annie was suddenly very aware of how alone they were in the cool gloom of the shed, and the delicious shiver that ran down the length of her spine was due to the heat of Luc’s gaze rather than that coolness.

He frowned. ‘You are cold—’

‘No, of course I’m not cold!’ Annie winced at the awkwardness of her reply. ‘I…well…maybe a little.’

It was just so eerily quiet in here—quiet and private. Annie doubted that anyone ever had reason to come down here at this time of day. ‘We should probably go back up to the villa now.’

‘Should we?’

Annie shot Luc a cautious glance. When had he moved so that he now stood so close she had to tilt her head back to look up at his face? More to the point, why had he moved?

She moistened her lips nervously as she took another step back. ‘I really think we should get back now, Luc—’

‘There is no reason to rush.’ His accented English had become more apparent as his voice lowered seductively. ‘I do not like your hair confined like this,’ he murmured softly even as his hand reached up and removed the clasp from the crown of her head.

Annie was aware both of her hair tumbling loosely onto her shoulders and the way Luc’s eyes had become darker still as he entwined his fingers in the hair at her nape and began to pull her slowly towards him.

‘I—What are you doing, Luc?’ she gasped.

He gave a wolfish smile. ‘Guess,’ he whispered, so close now that the warmth of his breath brushed against her lips.

‘I thought we had agreed that…that this only confused the issue.’ Annie could hear the desperation in her own voice as she tried to resist him.

‘This…?’ Once again his breath was a warm caress, against Annie’s jaw this time as he bent his head to place feather-light kisses along its length.

Annie raised protesting hands against Luc’s chest with the intention of pushing him away, those hands stilling instead, lingering to caress, as she felt the hardness of muscle encased in silk, his heart a wild and primitive beat beneath her fingertips. ‘You agreed we weren’t going to do this again.’

‘I have changed my mind,’ he murmured as his hands moved to cup her bottom and pull her into him, making her completely aware of the hard, urgent throb of his arousal.

An arousal echoed in the sudden explosion of heat between Annie’s own thighs. ‘But—’

‘Can you not see that this is the only way in which we seem able to communicate?’ He groaned even as his mouth took possession of hers, fiercely, hungrily.

Annie’s hands crushed against Luc’s chest as her lips parted to meet the full force of that kiss. A kiss that became more urgent still as his arousal hardened further until all Annie could think about was having him deep inside her.

She parted her legs as Luc pressed closer still in an attempt to fill her emptiness, the velvet hardness of his shaft a hard and rhythmic caress against the tiny nub nestled there.

This was madness. Pure madness. But it was a madness that Annie had no will, or desire, to resist.

Instead her hands moved up so that she could entangle her fingers in the dark thickness of Luc’s hair as he drew her bottom lip into his mouth, gently biting and then sucking that tender flesh. His hands moved up to slip the thin straps of her top down her arms before pushing the material down to her waist and baring her breasts.

Annie gasped slightly as the cool air caressed her heated flesh, the sensitive nipples already aroused, becoming even more so as Luc cupped those twin orbs, and the soft pad of his thumb swept lightly, teasingly, across those tender tips. Again. And again. Until Annie was lost in that mindless need.

She pressed herself against his skilful hands. ‘Please, Luc,’ she moaned.

‘Tell me what you want,’ Luc encouraged hoarsely. ‘Tell me, Annie!’

‘Harder,’ she pleaded encouragingly. ‘Harder, Luc!’ She arched her back, her breasts thrusting once again against his hands.

Luc’s eyes glittered darkly as he looked down at her breasts, the areolae surrounding the nipples a deep dusky pink, those nipples dark and swollen, like two ripe berries waiting to be tasted. Eaten.

His head lowered so that he might taste one of those berries, taking it fully into his mouth while his hand rolled its twin between thumb and finger. Annie groaned deeply and rubbed her thighs urgently against the rock hardness of Luc’s.

Luc transferred the attention of his lips, tongue and teeth to Annie’s other nipple before moving his hand down to the fastening of her shorts and sliding the zip down over silky panties to cup and caress the moist heat between her thighs.

‘Yes! Oh, yes, Luc!’ she encouraged breathlessly as she pushed those clothes down the length of her smooth legs before stepping out of them completely.

Her curls were silky soft to the touch as Luc sought, and found, the swollen bud nestled there, feeling it pulse beneath his fingers as he stroked her. He could hear the ragged sob in Annie’s breathing, her fingers tightening as she clung to his shoulders, and she arched into him in rhythm with those caresses.

Annie cried out as Luc slid first one finger, and then two, into her hot wetness, plunging into her again and again as the soft pad of his thumb stroked against her aching bud. He continued to tease her nipple with his teeth and tongue, taking Annie higher and higher until she knew herself poised on the edge of release.

‘Come for me, cara,’ Luc encouraged urgently as he raised his head from her breast. ‘Let me watch you as you come!’

His eyes glittered in triumph as she cried out suddenly, climaxing fiercely, endlessly, until she collapsed weakly against his chest.

She clung to Luc’s shoulders as he lifted her, wrapping her legs about his waist as his hands cupped her bare bottom and he carried her across to where some bails of hay were stored in one corner of the shed. His gaze held hers as he slowly lowered her to the floor and then ripped the shirt from his body and placed it on the hay. Then he carefully laid her down on his shirt before straightening to take off the rest of his clothes.

Annie’s breath caught in her throat when he finally stood naked above her. There was a silky covering of dark hair on his chest, the muscles deeply defined, his hips lean, the long length of his shaft jutting out in a hard, throbbing arousal that Annie longed to touch.

She moved up onto her knees in front of him, her gaze holding his as she reached out to cup him, her other hand caressing his silken length, and then running her thumb softly across its sensitive tip.

Luc groaned low in his throat as the muscles in his buttocks and thighs tensed and his back and neck arched. ‘No!’ His hands moved to cup either side of Annie’s face to hold her away from him as she would have taken him in her mouth. ‘I want to be inside you. I need to be inside you…’ he growled as he moved down onto the straw to stretch out and pull Annie on top of him so that several inches of him slid into her hot tightness. ‘Take me, Annie,’ he encouraged. ‘All of me…’

She looked magnificent as she raised herself slightly so that her hand could guide him deeper inside her, her hair a red-brown tangle about her shoulders, eyes sultry, lips swollen, and her breasts pouting temptingly.

Luc gave another strangled groan, and his eyes closed in pleasure as he slid inside her and he felt her wrap around him, taking him in until she sheathed him fully.

Luc took a few moments to just enjoy the sensation of being inside her. She was so hot. So wet. So incredibly, wonderfully tight.

And then she began to move. Lifting herself up to slide along the length of his shaft until the tip was poised at her entrance, before plunging down to once again take him fully inside her. Holding his gaze with hers, she repeated the movement, riding him slowly at first, and then faster, harder, her breasts moving in the same mesmerising rhythm.

Luc raised his head to kiss one breast as Annie continued to move over him. His hands clasped her hips as his thighs surged up to meet each downward stroke until he felt an unmistakable inner tremor.

That tremor became a full-blown quake as Annie’s climax claimed her, stronger, longer, than the last one, and Luc cried out as she finally took him over that precipice with her.

Only the ragged sounds of their breathing broke the silence as Annie lay replete and exhausted on Luc’s chest, his skin warm and slightly damp beneath her cheek as his chest quickly rose and fell.

Dear God, after all they had said—all the insults—it had happened again!

Only this time it had been worse—or did she mean better?

Surely making love couldn’t get much better than this? It couldn’t possibly; if it had been any more enjoyable, if Annie had felt any more pleasure, climaxed any more intensely than she had, then she surely would have expired completely!

Yes, but what happened now? What did Luc think was going to happen after…after—Oh, dear Lord, she had all but begged him to take her, had let him gaze at her unashamedly as she’d writhed in ecstasy above him.

‘What?’ Luc looked up dazedly as Annie sat up, his hair falling endearingly over his forehead, dark eyes as warm as melted chocolate, and the hard sensuality of his lips relaxed into a half-smile.

It was all Annie could do to stop herself from bending down and capturing those lips again with her own. ‘We need to get dressed, Luc,’ she told him instead. ‘Anyone might come in here and find us together like this.’

‘Not at this time of day,’ Luc reassured her huskily, his hands on her hips as he rolled slightly to the side, taking Annie with him so that she now lay beside him, one of her legs still hooked about his hips, their bodies touching from their chests to their joined thighs. ‘Lovemaking should be savoured. Enjoyed…’

‘I think we’ve savoured and enjoyed enough for one day,’ she said sharply as she attempted to extricate her body from his. ‘Let me go, Luc,’ she ordered as he only tightened his arms to keep her in place.

He frowned as he finally saw the fierce glitter of her eyes and the angry flush in her cheeks. ‘And if I refuse?’

‘Why would you?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘You’ve had me now, so there’s no reason for us to stay here any longer!’

‘Had you?’ he uttered incredulously.

Annie pursed her lips. ‘Had sex with me, then, if you prefer.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘And what if I wish to have sex with you again?’

She snorted. ‘I’m sure that wasn’t part of the plan.’

He drew in a sharp, hissing breath. ‘You think, as all my other arguments have failed, that it was my plan to seduce you into submission?’

‘Wasn’t it?’ she challenged accusingly.

Luc hadn’t been able to plan anything, it seemed, since meeting Annie Balfour again!

Even his work, his driving force, no longer held the same appeal when he knew she was somewhere near.

He certainly hadn’t planned to make love with her this afternoon; he just didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from touching her, taking her, whenever the opportunity arose.

So much for his decision not to do any of those things again until they had settled the question of marriage between them!

He reached out to clasp Annie’s arms so that he might lift her up and away from him, his jaw tightening as his body protested at being removed from the hot tightness of hers. He stood abruptly to pull on body-hugging boxers before speaking again. ‘I believe I might equally accuse you of endeavouring to seduce me into doing as you wish!’

‘Attempting to make you my sex slave, you mean?’ she retorted with obvious derision.

Luc made a dismissive movement of his shoulders. ‘I am sure that many men would agree to anything you asked of them if you rewarded them as generously as you have just rewarded me.’ His dark gaze swept lingeringly over her nakedness.

Annie drew in a sharp breath even as she stared up at him in disbelief. Luc couldn’t really think that; for heaven’s sake, she didn’t have enough experience with men to even contemplate attempting such a calculated plan!

‘Doesn’t that usually work better if the woman asks for what she wants before they make love?’

‘Usually.’ His mouth quirked. ‘But then our relationship has been…unusual, from the first.’

Annie felt the heat burn her cheeks at the memory of just how unusual it had been. That wild, impetuous night four and a half years ago. Their unexpected, tempestuous meeting again at Lake Garda. Luc’s demand, once he learnt of Oliver’s existence, that she become his wife…

Wasn’t all of that complication enough without her succumbing to his arrogant brand of seduction every time he so much as touched her?

She sighed heavily as she stood to begin pulling on her own clothes. ‘The only thing I want from you, Luc, is for you to leave Oliver and me to live our lives in peace, and I already know that isn’t going to happen.’

He gave a smug smile. ‘Not this side of the next millennium, no.’

Annie gave him a frustrated glare as she finished pulling on her top before once again looking on the floor for the clasp that had held her hair in place at her crown. ‘I would like to go back to the villa now,’ she said stiffly.

‘Of course,’ he accepted, just as distantly.

How had this happened? Annie wondered as she hurriedly preceded Luc up the steps to the villa. One minute they were as close as two human beings could possibly be, and the next they couldn’t be far enough apart. Emotionally as well as physically.

Physically!

She blushed just at the memory of the intimacies they had so recently shared. Squirmed inside because her body still tingled and ached from the force of their lovemaking. Was this how it was going to be between them? Mind-blowing hot sex followed by a return of the fraught tension that told Annie, at least, that they were actually worlds apart?

The sooner Luc accepted that Annie wasn’t going to marry him, the better it would be for both of them!

And what happened once he had accepted that? Would he then go ahead with his threat of a legal battle over Oliver? One glance back at the brooding coldness of Luc’s expression told her that he would do exactly that.

No doubt once again making a huge Balfour family scandal appear in the front-page headlines of all the newspapers.

Her father was just going to love that! He—

‘Signor de Salvatore!’ The elderly housekeeper hurried from the back of the house the moment Annie and Luc stepped inside the villa’s coolness, her face and hands animated as she continued talking to her employer.

Annie had studied Spanish, German and French when she was at school, her Italian only very rudimentary, but her attention was caught and held as she heard her own name in the older woman’s conversation, followed seconds later by ‘Signora Tilly Williams.’

‘Luc…?’ Annie prompted anxiously.

‘Grazie, Maria.’ He briskly dismissed the housekeeper before answering Annie. ‘Your mother rang while we were…out.’ His mouth firmed. ‘She asks that you call her back on her mobile as soon as you return.’

Annie felt her face go pale at the knowledge she had only talked to her mother a few hours ago, that something must have happened to necessitate Tilly needing to speak to her again so soon.

Chapter Ten

LUC paced the drawing room restlessly as he waited for Annie to come back from his study after returning her mother’s telephone call.

He had advised Annie not to jump to any conclusions, to just stay calm until she had spoken to her mother, but inwardly Luc was just as concerned by Tilly’s call as Annie so obviously was.

From the little Annie had told him of her mother, Tilly Williams appeared to be a practical as well as warm woman; the fact that she had married Oscar Balfour knowing it was a marriage of convenience spoke of her practicality, and that she had done so out of love for his three young motherless daughters was testament to her warmth of nature.

As such, Luc couldn’t imagine she would have telephoned Annie so quickly, when the two of them had only spoken a few hours ago, over some triviality.

One look at the pain and stress on Annie’s face when she entered the drawing room was enough to tell Luc that his surmise was a correct one. ‘What is it?’ he barked.

‘I have to leave, Luc,’ she said. ‘I need to get back to England as soon as possible.’

‘We will both go to England once you have told me what has happened,’ Luc insisted.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have time for another argument, Luc.’

‘There will be no argument if you just tell me what has happened!’ he demanded forcefully as he crossed the room to grasp her firmly by the shoulders. ‘Annie!’ he said, his own fear growing by the second as he saw the tears now balanced on her long, dark lashes.

Annie seemed to focus on him with effort. ‘I—’ She moistened dry lips. ‘Oliver accompanied Tilly to a gymkhana this afternoon. She only took her eyes off him for a second and—’ She broke off, pressing a trembling hand to the back of her mouth.

‘Tell me what has happened to Oliver!’ Luc begged, almost beside himself with fear by now.

Annie swallowed hard, and made an effort to pull herself together, still desperately trying to take in Tilly’s conversation herself. ‘He was kicked by one of the horses and—’ Luc released her so suddenly that she swayed a little. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as Luc took out his mobile phone and began making a call.

‘Readying the de Salvatore plane for immediate take-off, of course,’ he said, turning away as his call was answered, to begin issuing a spate of instructions in Italian.

Annie was too worried and too full of self-recriminations to take too much notice of Luc’s telephone conversation.

The tears fell hotly down her cheeks as she realised that all the time she and Luc had been making love, their son was injured and being rushed to hospital!

Annie would never forgive herself if anything happened to Oliver. She should never have allowed her father to bully her into coming to Italy in the first place. She certainly shouldn’t have let Luc force her into remaining on in Italy. If she had gone home this morning, then she would have accompanied Tilly and Oliver to the gymkhana and probably none of this would have happened.

As it was, Oliver—small, sturdy, vulnerable Oliver—was now unconscious in hospital with a possible concussion and who knew what else wrong.

‘It will be all right, Annie.’ Luc reached out to grasp both her hands firmly in his.

Annie’s eyes flashed angrily as she pulled her hands away to glare across the table that separated them in the luxurious cabin of the de Salvatore jet. ‘I realise you like to think of yourself as omnipotent, Luc, but you can’t possibly know that!’ she exclaimed, still too shaken by Tilly’s news to be able to think of anything else—least of all the pallor of Luc’s face that was clear evidence of his own concerns over Oliver.

‘No, I don’t,’ Luc acknowledged as he sat back heavily in his seat. ‘But your mother’s second telephone call was much more reassuring.’

Tilly had managed to call them again before the plane took off to tell them that Oliver had woken up, sore and a little bewildered by his surroundings, but that the doctors now seemed pretty confident that there was going to be no lasting damage.

None of which reassured Annie in the slightest when she just wanted to hold her small son in her arms and know for herself that he really was going to be OK.

‘Keep telling yourself that, Luc,’ she said shakily, still too angry and upset to be able to offer him the same comfort he was attempting to give her.

Luc knew that he well deserved the anger she was directing at him. She had not wanted to travel to Venice with him. He had been the one responsible for preventing her from returning home as she had wished.

Preventing her?

No, not just that; he had insisted that Annie stay on in Italy with him. Had assured her that he wouldn’t allow her to return to England until she agreed to marry him. And now his son, that beautiful and dark-haired little boy that Luc had so far only seen in photographs, was in hospital after receiving a severe blow to the head.

Without the love and comfort he no doubt needed from his mother.

No wonder Annie continued to refuse to even consider his proposal; the ruthless arrogance Luc had shown her since they’d met each other again was even less acceptable than the reckless self-confidence he had so catastrophically demonstrated four and a half years ago!

If Oliver recovered—

When Oliver recovered, Luc firmly corrected himself. Then—

‘I’m sorry, Luc.’

He was frowning darkly as he looked across the table and met Annie’s contrite blue gaze. ‘What can you possibly have to be sorry about?’ he rasped.

Annie grimaced. Luc’s few minutes of brooding silence had given her time enough to calm down and realise that she had been transferring her own worry and guilt over Oliver onto Luc.

When in reality she was the one who hadn’t followed through on her decision to leave Italy sooner. Admittedly in the belief that it would be easier to reason with Luc here rather than back at Balfour Manor. Nevertheless, she’d had a choice—and events had proved that she had obviously made the wrong one!

She bit her lower lip before admitting, ‘Taking out my frustration with this situation on you isn’t going to change anything.’

Luc’s mouth thinned. ‘Who else should you blame but me?’

Annie shook her head. ‘I don’t—’ She broke off as the Italian captain of the plane began to speak. ‘Please tell me that was an announcement that we’re about to land?’ She looked across at Luc anxiously.

He smiled. ‘That was indeed an announcement that we are about to land,’ he said.

‘Thank God!’ Annie breathed her relief.

The landing, passing through customs, the drive in the private car Luc had waiting for them and arriving at the hospital where Oliver had been admitted earlier today all passed in a blur as far as Annie was concerned.

She was barely aware of Luc holding her hand firmly in his as he strode along beside her. She hurried down the long corridor to the ward where her mother had told her Oliver had been admitted, Annie’s only desire now to get to her son as soon as possible so that she could see for herself that he truly was going to be OK. Something she wouldn’t feel sure about until she had actually held Oliver in her arms, despite having received another reassuring telephone call from Tilly just a few minutes ago.

Her mother, a slim and beautiful redhead in her late forties, stood in the corridor waiting for them, her face lighting up as soon as she saw Annie. ‘He’s going to be fine, darling,’ Tilly soothed, as with a pained sob Annie rushed into her waiting arms.

Annie held on tightly to her mother as she finally allowed the tears of tension to fall hotly down her cheeks. ‘Is he awake? Is he in pain? Can I—’

‘You have to calm down before you go in to see him, Annie.’ Her mother ran a soothing hand up and down her back. ‘And yes, he’s awake and asking for you. Just be prepared for the fact that he has a dressing over the stitches, and he’s slightly woozy from the painkillers the doctor gave him.’

‘I have to see him.’ Annie pulled abruptly from her mother’s arms, not sparing Luc so much as a second glance as she hurried into the room beyond where her beloved Oliver lay.

Leaving Luc to the curious gaze of the beautiful and petite woman, who with her long red hair and blue eyes was easily recognisable as Annie’s mother.

Her mouth curved into a rueful smile. ‘I apologise—my daughter usually has better manners.’

Luc inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘These are difficult circumstances.’

‘Yes.’ She gave a wistful sigh.

‘I am Luca de Salvatore.’ He politely offered his hand.

‘Tilly Williams.’ She returned the gesture, her hand cool and elegant in his. ‘I’ve often seen your name mentioned in the business papers. You’re the friend Annie was staying with in Italy?’ It was impossible to miss the curiosity that sharpened her huskily low tone. Or the slight puzzlement in that intelligent blue gaze as she looked at him more closely.

No doubt wondering why it was that Luc seemed vaguely familiar to her. No doubt she would place that familiarity eventually!

Luc drew in a ragged breath, longing to go in and see Oliver for himself, but at the same time aware that the little boy didn’t know him, and would no doubt be upset by the arrival of a stranger in his hospital room.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed simply.

‘Strange that Annie has never mentioned you before,’ Tilly said slowly, frowning a little now.

Luc settled for giving what he hoped was a noncommittal shrug.

‘Have the two of you been friends for very long?’ she pressed.

‘We met some years ago, yes,’ he answered evasively.

‘I see,’ Tilly murmured.

Luc’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Do you?’

‘I believe so, yes.’ She paused. Then she said, ‘Would you like to go in and see Oliver, Mr de Salvatore?’

The suggestion confirmed that Tilly had realised exactly who Luc was. As she must also realise that he hadn’t been a part of either Annie’s or Oliver’s lives for the past four and a half years.

He swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. ‘I do not think Annie would appreciate my doing that.’

‘Oh, I think that you’ll find my daughter is big enough to accept that these are…unusual circumstances,’ Tilly assured him drily. ‘After all, she brought you here, didn’t she?’

Luc grimaced. ‘Once I learnt of Oliver’s accident I gave her little choice in the matter, I am afraid.’

‘Oh, you have no need to be afraid of me, Mr de Salvatore,’ Tilly said lightly. ‘My ex-husband is another matter, however! Or maybe not…’ she added with slow deliberation.

‘Sorry?’

‘How did you and my daughter meet, Mr de Salvatore?’ she questioned shrewdly.

‘Recently? Or…before?’ he asked awkwardly.

‘Recently,’ she clarified.

Luc was unaccustomed to explaining himself to anyone, but in these ‘unusual circumstances’ he accepted that perhaps he needed to. ‘We attended the same business conference at Lake Garda.’

‘Ah.’ Tilly gave a knowing nod.

‘I am sorry, but I do not—’

‘Luc?’

He turned swiftly to see Annie standing in the doorway of the hospital room, her face still unusually pale but the tears no longer falling. Luc couldn’t resist looking past her into the room beyond, where he could see the outline of a small boy lying in the bed, his curls dark against the white bandage about his temple.

Oliver.

His son.

Annie couldn’t miss the way Luc’s gaze moved so quickly past her to where Oliver lay, her heart aching at the hunger she saw in those dark eyes. ‘Would you like to come in?’ she invited gently.

That hungry black gaze moved back to her sharply. ‘I would not like to cause Oliver any further distress by presenting him with a stranger.’

‘He fell asleep once I had assured him that I would still be here when he woke up,’ Annie explained.

A nerve pulsed in Luc’s clenched jaw. ‘In that case, I would very much like to see him.’

Annie nodded before glancing across at Tilly. ‘Luc and I will sit with Oliver for a while, Mummy, if you would like to take a break?’

Tilly nodded. ‘The battery on my mobile has gone flat, so I need to go home and call your father.’

Annie frowned. ‘He isn’t at Balfour Manor?’

‘Is he ever nowadays?’ Tilly said lightly.

Tilly was right; having dispatched his daughters to the four corners of the earth, Oscar now displayed a distinct reluctance to spend any time alone at Balfour Manor.

‘I’ll see you later, then, Mummy,’ Annie said warmly.

‘No doubt I’ll see you both later, hmm?’ Her mother gave Luc a pointed glance.

Annie groaned inwardly. People generally tended to underestimate Tilly because of her warmth and openness, but having helped her mother set up her small cookery business, Annie knew just how shrewd Tilly could be when it was necessary. No doubt her mother had taken one look at Luc, seen his resemblance to Oliver and guessed exactly who he was!

‘No doubt,’ she acknowledged drily. ‘Luc?’ She opened the door wider for him to enter, remaining by the closed door as Luc moved past her to cross silently to the bedside.

How must it feel for him to be looking down at his son for the first time? She found it difficult to imagine.

Luc couldn’t breathe, and his heart seemed to have stopped beating altogether, as he looked down at the tiny child lying in a hospital bed that was far too big for him.

There was a bandage wrapped about Oliver’s head, of course, but what little Luc could see of the little boy’s dark curls reminded him of his own at the same age. Delicate lids were closed over eyes Luc knew were as deep a blue as his mother’s, and long dark lashes rested against chubby cheeks. Oliver’s face still bore the rosy plumpness of babyhood, a tiny little nose, a small bow of a mouth and a little pointed chin. He was wearing colourful pyjamas decorated with ponies, his hands spread like starfish on top of the bedclothes.

His son.

His beautiful flesh-and-blood son!

Having given Luc a few moments’ privacy Annie now crossed the room to stand at his side to look down at Oliver. She still trembled slightly with the relief of having held her son in her arms, of seeing for herself that he wasn’t too distressed. In fact, apart from the gash on his head that had needed several stitches, Oliver didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects from his accident.

‘He’s so small,’ Luc murmured gruffly at her side.

‘I shouldn’t let him hear you say that,’ Annie warned drily as she moved to sit down on one of the chairs beside the bed before taking one of Oliver’s hands in her own, needing that physical contact with him even though he was asleep. ‘Oliver considers himself quite the man of the family at the gatehouse, and takes great delight in ordering his grandmother and me around,’ she explained ruefully at Luc’s questioning look. ‘He’s obviously inherited his father’s ability to issue orders and expect them to be obeyed!’

Luc moved to sit down on the chair on the other side of the bed, his gaze still firmly fixed on Oliver as he lay between them, fast asleep and breathing softly. ‘Tell me about him,’ he invited hoarsely. ‘How much did he weigh at birth? Was he a good baby? When did he get his first tooth? Take his first step?’

There was so much that Luc didn’t know about Oliver, so much he had missed because she had decided not to try to find him all those years ago and tell him of Oliver’s existence, Annie realised with a heavy feeling of guilt.

She did her best to correct that omission over the next half an hour or so as Oliver continued to sleep, the two of them interrupted at intervals by one of the nurses coming in to check on Oliver, as Annie related everything she could remember about the first three years and eight months of his life.

‘He goes to the local playgroup in the village hall?’ Luc raised dark brows as Annie related this piece of information.

She stiffened defensively. ‘I already told you, I want Oliver to have as normal a life as possible.’

‘Which includes going to playgroup with the local children of the village three mornings a week?’

She frowned. ‘Yes.’

‘The village of Balfour?’

‘Your point being…?’ She eyed him guardedly.

‘Doesn’t the fact that Oliver’s surname is the same as the village rather detract from him just being another of the local children?’ Luc asked softly.

Annie frowned her irritation. ‘If you’re trying to pick another argument, Luc—’

‘I’m not,’ he reassured her quickly. ‘Having grown up as the de Salvatore heir, with a nanny and then numerous private tutors, I totally approve of your attempts to give Oliver a childhood free of such constraints.’ He reached out and gently stroked one of the starfish little hands resting on the bed sheet, Oliver’s skin feeling so soft and new that Luc felt the emotion rise at the back of his throat.

‘Oh.’

Luc smiled as Annie once again had that look of a slightly deflated balloon. ‘You did not expect that to be my response, did you?’

‘In a word? No!’ she said wryly.

‘Your mother is…not as I had imagined her to be,’ he said quietly, still gently stroking Oliver’s hand.

‘No,’ Annie agreed. ‘But don’t be fooled by that maternal exterior. I assure you, she is much more astute than people give her credit for.’

Luc looked across at her searchingly. ‘You realise that she has guessed who I am?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Tilly had made that perfectly obvious by that pointed glance she had given Annie earlier. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that though,’ Annie added. ‘It’s hardly going to remain a secret for very long once you decide to make a legal claim on Oliver.’

He drew dark brows together. ‘Does that mean you have definitely decided not to accept my marriage proposal?’

Annie drew in a sharp breath. ‘You didn’t make a marriage proposal, Luc.’

‘Of course I—’

‘No, Luc, you didn’t,’ she cut in firmly. ‘You issued another one of those orders you’re so fond of making: You will be my wife and Oliver will be my son. In typical Me Tarzan You Jane fashion!’

Luc scowled fiercely. ‘Me Tarzan You Jane?’

Annie smiled wryly at the disbelief she could hear in his tone. ‘I don’t think here and now is the right time for us to talk about this.’ She gave the still-sleeping Oliver a pointed glance.

‘Me Tarzan You Jane…’ Luc repeated again in disgust. ‘Is that really how you think of me?’

How else was she supposed to think of him after the way he had behaved so dictatorially both at Lake Garda and then at his vineyards near Venice?

Not that he’d behaved like that all the time…

Annie felt the colour warm her cheeks as she thought of their lovemaking earlier today. So much had happened since then that it seemed like a lifetime ago!

It was a lifetime ago. A time out of time.

A time never to be repeated!

‘Have you given me any reason since we met again not to think of you in that way?’ she asked bluntly.

‘This afternoon—’

‘Was a mistake,’ Annie interrupted quickly, her cheeks actually burning now. ‘An enjoyable mistake at the time admittedly, but nevertheless still a mistake,’ she insisted as Luc would have interrupted.

‘I disagree.’

‘Luc, can’t you see that a physical relationship between us only clouds the issue?’

‘That issue being…?’

‘That we don’t love each other!’ Annie was breathing hard in her agitation.

Luc’s eyes glittered darkly. ‘Love may come with time.’

‘Love either is or it isn’t, Luc,’ Annie said. ‘And in our case, it isn’t,’ she added wearily.

Or, to be more precise, in Luc’s case it wasn’t.

Annie had had plenty of time to think during that long journey back to England. And not all of it had been about her worry over Oliver. Mainly because to think of Oliver was to now think of Luc too, the two of them inexplicably bound together in her mind.

Luc and Oliver.

Oliver and Luc.

And she had realised during that tense flight back to England that she loved them both.

Not in the same way, of course.

As Oliver’s mother she loved him unconditionally. But these past two days, this afternoon especially when Luc had talked to her about his father, of his reasons for wanting to be Oliver’s father, when Annie had become completely unravelled in Luc’s arms, she had also come to realise that she had fallen in love with him, despite the arrogance and coldness that now seemed such an integral part of his nature.

Chapter Eleven

‘YOUR mother is a warm and understanding woman,’ Luc remarked admiringly as he and Annie made up the two beds that had been provided so that they could remain at the hospital overnight with Oliver.

Her mother was a warm and manipulative woman, Annie inwardly corrected. She would much rather Tilly had put Luc up for the night at either the gatehouse or Balfour Manor, but her mother had suggested that, in the circumstances, perhaps Luc might prefer to remain at the hospital overnight too.

In the circumstances…

Even though the subject hadn’t been openly discussed between the three adults when Tilly returned to the hospital earlier, they all knew what those circumstances were!

Luc was Oliver’s father, so of course he would want to stay here overnight.

Although the good news was that so far Oliver had shown no evidence of the concussion the doctors had feared, and if that continued to be the case, then they intended to discharge him the following morning.

But not before Annie had spent the night at the hospital with Luc.

Admittedly they would be sleeping in separate beds, and Oliver’s presence was more than enough to ensure there would be no repeat of this afternoon’s madness. But Annie’s newly realised feelings for Luc made her self-consciously aware of how alone they were in the quiet of this private hospital room. Of how much she loved him…

Had she always loved him?

Four and a half years ago Annie had been completely bowled off her feet by the rakish and exciting Luc. Had realised once she returned home from her ski trip that one glance had been all it had taken for her to fall in love with him. For her to have behaved completely out of character by spending the night with him.

But had she continued to be in love with Luc for all this time?

Her lack of interest in going out with other men, and her disappointment in the few she had dated, all seemed to indicate that she had.

Annie now glanced across at Luc beneath lowered lashes as he placed his overnight bag on top of the bed before unzipping it to look through its contents.

No. She glanced across at Luca de Salvatore.

Because this man, so darkly brooding, so much in control of both himself and his surroundings, was not the devil-may-care Luc that Annie had met and fallen in love with.

So did that mean that in the past two days she had fallen in love with Luca de Salvatore too?

God, it was all so complicated. So confusing. Luca de Salvatore and Luc were one and the same man, and yet somehow they weren’t.

Luc had been exciting. Wild. Irresponsible. A man Annie had known instinctively wouldn’t make a good husband for her or any other woman, let alone a father to the baby she had discovered she was expecting.

Luca de Salvatore was something else, however…

Ruthless, powerful, completely confident of himself and his abilities, Luca de Salvatore would take his responsibilities as a father, at least, very seriously indeed.

He did take them seriously!

To the extent he was insisting that Annie marry him or risk a legal battle for Oliver.

How could she possibly have allowed herself to fall in love with him all over again?

‘Annie…?’ Luc frowned across at her as he saw that her thoughts—whatever they were—had made her face go pale, and her eyes take on a slightly haunted look. ‘The doctor seems confident that Oliver will be able to go home in the morning.’

Those deep blue eyes now sparked at him angrily. ‘Just in time for you to try and take him away from me!’ She took a protective step towards the bed where Oliver slept.

Ahh…

Luc was sure that Annie had no idea how young and vulnerable she looked as she faced him so challengingly. Like a tigress protecting her young.

When they had met again at Lake Garda, and Luc learnt that she was Anna Balfour—one of the notoriously wayward daughters of Oscar Balfour—he had made assumptions about her character. About her fitness to be a mother to his son too, once he learnt of Oliver’s existence.

Seeing her distress this afternoon over Oliver’s accident, her tension on the journey back to England, and then observing how tender and loving she was with the little boy once they had arrived at the hospital, Luc now realised how wrong he had been. Annie’s love for Oliver was absolute. A fierce and protective love that would see Luc in hell before she would ever relinquish her son to him.

Just as it had only taken Luc one glance at Oliver, one touch of his delicate little hand, to be overwhelmed by that same fierce and protective love.

‘Mummy?’

Luc’s attention sharpened on the little boy in the bed as Oliver awoke for the first time, his eyes the same deep, deep blue as his mother’s as he looked up at her so trustingly.

‘Hello, darling,’ she greeted him huskily, smiling as she sat on the side of the bed to gently brush a curl back from the little boy’s brow. ‘How are you feeling now?’

He pulled a face. ‘My head hurts.’

Annie gazed down at him tenderly. ‘Would you like me to go and ask the nurse to give you something to make the hurt go away?’

‘Yes, please, Mummy.’ Oliver gave a tentative smile.

Oliver looked so much like him at that age, Luc recognised achingly as he stood back from the bed watching Annie and Oliver together. The same dark curls. The same wide brow. The same shaped face.

Only the blue of his eyes was different.

Beautiful deep blue eyes.

Annie’s eyes…

She looked across at him now, those eyes guarded. ‘Would you sit with Oliver while I go and find a nurse?’

Luc could feel a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw as he nodded. ‘Of course.’

She turned back to Oliver, giving his hand a little squeeze as she stood to move slightly away so that Luc was now visible to the little boy. ‘Oliver, this is Luc. He—he’s a friend of mine,’ she added awkwardly.

Oliver turned curious blue eyes in Luc’s direction. ‘Hello,’ he greeted solemnly.

There was a lump in Luc’s throat that prevented him from answering immediately. An emotional surge that made breathing difficult.

‘Luc?’ Annie prompted, frowning at his continued silence.

What was wrong with him? Why didn’t Luc say something? Was he annoyed because she had introduced him to Oliver as only a friend?

Well, that was just too bad because Annie had no intention of just blurting out, in what to Oliver was the middle of the night, that Luc was his father. There would be plenty of time for them to explain things to him once he was allowed home and was back amongst things, and people, that were familiar to him.

Which Luc certainly wasn’t!

He seemed to give himself a mental shake before he stepped closer to Oliver’s bed. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Oliver.’ His voice was low and warm as he proffered his hand to the little boy.

A formality that Oliver obviously took delight in as he returned the gesture. ‘Have you been to Italy with my mummy?’ he asked curiously.

Annie raised mocking brows at Luc as she waited to see how he was going to deal with that question!

‘I live in Italy, Oliver,’ he answered.

Oliver’s eyes widened. ‘You do?’

Luc nodded. ‘I am Italian. My full name is Luca de Salvatore.’

And you are my son…

Annie could almost hear those five unspoken words on the end of that sentence. Unspoken for now, that is.

She straightened abruptly. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes,’ she promised firmly before hurrying from the room.

Luc scowled a little at the warning he had heard in her tone. As if she half expected him to claim Oliver as his son right here and now.

He forced a relaxed smile to his lips as he moved to take her place, sitting on the side of the bed. ‘I believe that you had an argument with a horse earlier today?’ he teased lightly.

‘I lost!’ Oliver grinned, revealing tiny, even white teeth.

Luc chuckled. ‘So you did. But the doctor says you will have a most distinguishing scar once you have healed.’

The little boy thought about that for a moment before pulling a face. ‘I didn’t mean to worry Mummy.’

Luc gave him a reassuring smile. ‘In my experience, mummies always worry.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘My mummy smiles and laughs a lot.’

‘Does she?’

The little boy nodded. ‘Not when she has to go away on business for Granddad, of course. Then she frowns a lot, because she doesn’t really want to go.’

Out of the mouths of babes and innocents…

The picture Oliver was painting of Anna Balfour as his mother was one of warmth and love and laughter. With a definite aversion to going ‘away on business for Granddad.’

Luc gave Oliver another reassuring smile. ‘It wasn’t for very long though, was it?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘She still doesn’t like it.’

Annie had told Luc that herself. Explained that she worked for her father because she was a single mother who, far from being one of the spoilt and wayward Balfour sisters, felt she had to work at something in order to pay her way in life. Even if it was doing something she didn’t like.

Begging the question, what would Annie have done with her life if she hadn’t become pregnant four and a half years ago?

If Luc hadn’t left her alone and pregnant?

Luc’s tension was so palpable when Annie came back into the room that she almost felt as if she could reach out and touch it, making her wonder what he and Oliver had been talking about in her absence.

‘I brought you a coffee,’ she told Luc as she crossed the room carrying the two cups. She almost spilled most of Luc’s in the saucer when she felt the light touch of his fingers sliding against hers as he stood to take the hot drink from her. ‘So how have you two been getting along in my absence?’ Annie prompted brightly as she moved to stand beside her son.

Oliver beamed up at her. ‘Luc says I’m going to have a dist…a distinshed scar when my cut gets better.’

‘Distinguished,’ Annie corrected automatically, deliberately keeping her gaze averted from Luc after her earlier reaction to just the touch of his fingers against hers. Although she couldn’t help but be completely aware of him as he stood on the other side of the bed.

It wasn’t fair, simply wasn’t fair, that she responded in this way to Luc’s slightest touch. Things would be so much easier for Annie if she could just have hated him.

Instead she had fallen in love with him. Again.

Which was going to make things very awkward when she refused to marry him and he attempted to try and take Oliver away from her.

They stood to one side as the nurse bustled into the room to check on Oliver before administering the liquid medicine that would help to ease his pain.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ Luc murmured gruffly.

‘You’re welcome,’ Annie dismissed as she continued to watch Oliver chat happily to the nurse.

Luc drew in a harsh breath at her coolness. ‘Would you prefer it if I didn’t stay here tonight?’

She snorted. ‘What would your reaction be if I were to say yes?’

Luc smiled a little. ‘Then I would respect your wishes and leave, of course.’

Her eyes were wide with disbelief as she finally looked up at him. ‘Really?’

‘I am not a monster, Annie,’ he said quietly.

‘I’ve never said that you are.’

‘But you have thought it,’ Luc guessed, grimly now.

Her mouth firmed as she looked away. ‘Maybe.’

He drew in a sharp breath. ‘Oliver is a beautiful child.’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘A beautiful and happy child.’

Her jaw tensed. ‘Yes.’

‘And you are obviously a wonderful mother.’

Annie turned to him impatiently, irritation creasing her brow. ‘Knowing that isn’t going to stop you from trying to take him away from me though, is it?’ she hissed under her breath.

Luc frowned fiercely. ‘You still reject the idea of marriage? Do you not feel that Oliver would benefit from living with both his parents?’

Her chin rose stubbornly. ‘Not if it means I have to marry you, no! Now, if you’ll excuse me…?’ She put her empty cup down on the table. ‘I would like to sit with Oliver until he falls asleep.’ She moved back to Oliver’s side now that the nurse had quietly left the room, sitting down to once again hold her son’s hand as she murmured soft words of reassurance.

Luc remained standing across the room, for once in his ordered life completely at a loss as to how to proceed.

Marriage, and providing the necessary heirs to one day take over the reins of the de Salvatore business empire, had both been things Luc had envisaged for some time in the future. The far and distant future. Learning he already had a son had made him rethink those plans, dictating that he marry Anna Balfour now and legitimise his son. He had seen her refusal to marry him as merely an obstacle to be overcome. One that, if she persisted in her refusal, Luc would circumvent by instead legally claiming Oliver as his son and heir. The Balfour family might be rich and powerful, but the past four years had ensured that Luc was even more so!

It had been a decision, as with all the decisions Luc had made, based on cold, hard facts rather than emotions.

Luc certainly hadn’t been prepared for how he would feel when he saw Oliver for the first time. The instantaneous and almost overwhelming feelings of love that had besieged and captured him in a single heartbeat.

The same overwhelming love that Annie so obviously felt for her son.

The same adoration that Oliver felt for the mother who had unselfishly loved and cared for him since the day he was born.

Was Luc now to be instrumental in these two warm and loving beings having to be torn apart from each other? Could he really do that to either of them?

To Oliver…

To Annie…

That same warm and passionate woman Luc had held in his arms only hours ago as the two of them made passionate love to each other.

Emotion had played no part in Luc’s life over the past few years, and now he was beset with too many of them. Emotions that made a nonsense of cold logic and practicality. Emotions that made his heart ache and resulted in the breaking down of the barriers he had so painstakingly erected about his heart in his determination to rebuild the de Salvatore business empire until it was bigger and more powerful than it had ever been before…

‘Luc? Luc!’ Annie repeated more insistently as he seemed so lost in thought he didn’t hear her the first time. ‘Oliver is asleep now so we may as well try to grab a couple of hours’ rest ourselves,’ she explained softly as those narrowed dark eyes finally focused on her and asked a silent question.

No doubt Luc had been hatching plans as to the best way to take Oliver away from her with the least trouble to himself, Annie surmised angrily.

He nodded his understanding. ‘I will be back shortly.’ He strode over to the door.

Annie frowned. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I need some fresh air before sleeping,’ he paused to say before leaving.

Annie glared at the closed door for several long seconds, but there was very little point now that he’d gone. ‘Fine,’ she muttered to herself before grabbing her own overnight bag and going into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door firmly, but quietly, behind her.

There was no way, Annie told herself forcefully as she stared at her dishevelled reflection in the mirror over the sink, no way on this earth that she would ever allow Luc to take Oliver away from her and the family that loved him.

‘I bet he’s with his lawyer right now plotting and planning how best to take Oliver away from me!’ Annie said furiously the next morning as she paced restlessly up and down Tilly’s sitting room at the gatehouse in the grounds of Balfour Manor.

As promised, Oliver had been discharged from hospital earlier this morning, and a couple of hours ago Luc had driven the three of them to the gatehouse. Luc had then carried a sleepy Oliver up to his bedroom and seen him settled down for a nap before making his apologies and leaving to keep a business appointment in London.

Considering that Luc hadn’t even known he was going to be in England today, to Annie’s mind that business appointment could only be to discuss one thing!

‘Perhaps you’ve misunderstood him, darling?’ Tilly’s worried frown totally belied her reasoning tone.

Annie gave her mother a pitying look. ‘You can’t really be this naive, Mummy. You were married to the original arrogant despot for four years, for goodness’ sake!’

‘I really can’t allow you to talk about your father in that way, Annie. Besides, Oscar never once suggested taking my children away from me when we divorced,’ Tilly defended her ex-husband.

‘Only because he wouldn’t have known what to do with us if he had!’ she pointed out with some disgust.

Her mother tutted reprovingly. ‘Annie, your father is my best friend.’

‘I know that, Mummy.’ She sighed heavily as she dropped down into an armchair. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to upset you, I just—’ She gave a frustrated growl. ‘I didn’t misunderstand Luc, Mummy. He was perfectly clear when he told me that I either become his wife or he will take his son away from me by other means.’

Luc had been completely uncommunicative when he’d returned from his walk outside the night before, and again this morning during the drive back to Balfour Manor.

Annie hadn’t been feeling exactly chatty herself after spending an almost sleepless night alternately checking on Oliver and trying to ignore Luc’s disturbing presence on top of the bed beside her own.

But she didn’t need to be more than half awake to know the reason Luc had disappeared so abruptly to visit London so soon after arriving at Balfour Manor.

‘Your father would never allow it—’

‘I don’t see how he can stop it when Luc is so obviously Oliver’s father.’ Annie scowled darkly, her fierce determination of the previous night severely depleted after her virtually sleepless night.

She wished she had her mother’s optimism, she really did. But the more Annie thought about Luc’s claim on Oliver, of the love she had seen burning brightly in the darkness of Luc’s eyes as he looked at his son for the first time, the less sure Annie felt in her ability to stop him from taking Oliver from her.

Which left a loveless marriage between herself and Luc as the only other viable option—and one that Annie had been fighting against with every fibre of her being!

How could she possibly marry Luc when to him she was just part and parcel of a smooth and trouble-free claim on Oliver? When she was so hopelessly in love with him and he so clearly did not feel the same way about her?

‘Yes, I’ve been longing to talk to you about that.’ Her mother eyed her curiously. ‘How on earth did you ever meet Luca de Salvatore in the first place, let alone—Well…’ Tilly gave a rueful grimace.

‘Go to bed with him?’ Annie finished drily. ‘Bad luck!’ she muttered, almost to herself. ‘Pure bad luck!’

‘Not the most flattering description I have heard in regard to my bedroom skills,’ Luc said as he strolled confidently into the drawing room, very dark and handsome in a white polo shirt and tailored black trousers. ‘Mrs Williams,’ he greeted a blushing Tilly with a mocking lift of his dark brows. ‘Would you mind very much leaving Annie and me alone for a few minutes so that we might talk?’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Annie said defensively as she stood.

Luc regarded her through narrowed lids, noting the dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the pallor of her cheeks, no doubt both a result of Annie’s lack of sleep the night before.

Luc hadn’t slept at all the previous night either, his thoughts still deeply troubled despite the long walk he had taken outside in the fresh air. Annie’s anguish as she lay beside him, dry-eyed but obviously deeply upset, had only added to that inner turmoil.

Only Luc’s total physical awareness of Annie, and the knowledge that she would no doubt refuse any comfort he might offer, had prevented him from getting up from his own bed to lie beside her and take her in his arms.

That, and the doubt that he could control his awareness of her enough to offer her only comfort!

Even now, wearing a black T-shirt and fitted black jeans that did little to flatter her pallor or heavily tired eyes, Annie was still the most desirable woman Luc had ever known.

His mouth tightened. ‘But I have a few things I wish to say to you,’ he told her firmly.

She shrugged. ‘I have already told my mother that it’s your intention to apply for legal custody of Oliver.’

‘I have no intention of applying for custody of Oliver,’ Luc bit out.

Annie eyed him scathingly. ‘You still think you can force me into marrying you?’

‘No, I no longer think that either,’ he acknowledged tautly.

Her eyes widened. ‘Then—’

‘Would you mind leaving us, Mrs Williams?’ Luc asked again softly.

‘Not at all.’ Tilly rose gracefully to her feet. ‘I’ll only be in the laundry room, darling,’ she reassured Annie warmly as she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Leaving Luc as the sole focus of her daughter’s frowning blue eyes.

Chapter Twelve

‘BUT I don’t understand,’ Annie said, looking puzzled.

Luc had said that he no longer intended applying for custody of Oliver and that he wasn’t going to force Annie into marrying him either. So what was he going to do? Surely he didn’t just expect the two of them to come and live with him in Rome?

He gave a rueful shrug. ‘Tell me, Annie, how would you have felt, reacted, when we met again at Lake Garda, if there had been no Oliver to…complicate things, shall we say?’

Her cheeks flushed warmly. ‘Even without Oliver, you would still have considered me one of the notorious Balfour sisters,’ she reminded him.

Luc’s jaw tightened. ‘I asked how you, not I, would have felt about us meeting again if Oliver had not been a consideration.’

Exactly as she had felt even knowing of Oliver’s existence; she had fallen in love with Luc all over again! No. Annie had realised that she had never actually ever stopped loving him…

She spread out her hands in denial. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t envisage a world where Oliver doesn’t exist.’

Luc drew in a harsh breath as Annie’s words hit him with the force of a blow to the chest. It had only been a matter of hours since Luc first looked at his son, but he could no longer imagine a world where Oliver did not exist either. Just as he could not imagine a world without Annie Balfour in it.

‘He truly is an adorable child.’

‘Yes, he is,’ Annie confirmed huskily.

‘All your own doing.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find there were more people than me involved in that. Tilly. Oscar. My sisters,’ she elaborated with a challenging look as Luc looked at her enquiringly.

Luc knew that Annie was right to feel the way that she did; he had judged all of those people, all of Annie’s family, on the headlines that so often appeared about them in the newspapers.

But he had been wrong about Annie, and having now met Tilly Williams, he knew he had also been wrong concerning his assumptions about her; the chances were that he had also misjudged Oscar Balfour and his many daughters too.

He smiled. ‘I am proud to call Oliver my son.’

‘And so you should be!’ Annie reproved indignantly.

That tigress protecting her cub again…

‘You still have not answered my original question,’ Luc reminded her.

‘How would I have felt about meeting you again at Lake Garda if I hadn’t become pregnant four and a half years ago?’ Annie repeated drily. ‘Hmm, let’s see.’ Her expression was rather mocking as she seemed to give the question some thought. ‘I meet a wild and sexy Italian on the ski slopes—’

‘Wild and sexy?’ Luc choked, with a pained wince.

‘Wild and sexy,’ Annie repeated firmly, knowing that was exactly how Luc had appeared to her all those years ago. ‘We ski down the mountain together. He invites me back to his chalet for some food and schnapps. We end up spending the night together. We part the following day having agreed to meet up again for dinner that evening. And then—poof!—this wild and sexy Italian does a disappearing act on me.’ Her voice hardened angrily as she recalled her humiliation when Luc hadn’t met her that evening as planned. When she had sat alone in the restaurant for more than an hour, sure that Luc would join her at any moment, and that he had just been unavoidably detained.

He had been unavoidably detained for four and a half years!

Luc frowned darkly. ‘There was a very good reason why I did not meet you for dinner that evening—’

‘Oh, I’m sure that there was,’ Annie scorned, two bright spots of angry colour in her previously pale cheeks. ‘Maybe you needed to wash your hair? Or there was something on the television you wanted to watch? Or maybe you just decided to move on to someone who was more of a challenge!’ she accused, more than a little disgusted with herself.

Annie still burned with embarrassment every time she so much as thought about how easy a conquest she had been for Luc. A few sexy smiles, a caress, a kiss or two, and she had been putty in his hands!

She shook her head to clear the unpleasant thoughts from it. ‘How would I have felt about seeing that man again a few years later? Exactly the same way I felt when I saw you again two days ago, Luc—I wanted to punch you on your arrogant nose!’

Luc drew in a swift breath, knowing he deserved Annie’s condemnation, that his behaviour had been utterly disgraceful. Even more so than he could ever have imagined when a child had resulted from their night together. A child that Annie had taken complete responsibility for. That she’d had no choice but to take responsibility for when Luc had disappeared so completely!

His jaw tightened. ‘I owe you an explanation for the way I left so abruptly that day without leaving a message at the restaurant.’

‘It’s way too late for explanations!’ she scoffed. ‘So what if you had turned up for dinner that evening, Luc?’ she continued impatiently as he would have protested. ‘At most we might have had a few days’ holiday fling before I had to return to England. Or we might have just met up again that evening and decided we didn’t like each other enough to even bother with that.’ She shrugged. ‘Your method of ending things may have been a little callous, but on reflection your instinct not to continue the relationship was probably the correct one.’

Luc had asked for Annie’s honesty, and he had absolutely no doubt he was getting it! ‘If I had not left so suddenly you may at least have had the name of your baby’s father!’ he ground out.

‘A name, maybe,’ she accepted coolly. ‘But knowing your name was Luca de Salvatore wouldn’t have made any difference to the decisions I made once I discovered I was pregnant.’

Luc’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still would not have told me?’

Annie knew how angry Luc was by the way his English had become more clipped and accented. ‘I still wouldn’t have told you,’ she said truthfully.

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Luc!’ She made an impatient movement. ‘This! This is why I wouldn’t have told you! Because if I had, we would just have ended up having this same argument four years ago instead of now. You demanding that I marry you or you’ll attempt to take Oliver away from me. I say attempt, because I have absolutely no intention of allowing you to win that particular battle,’ she told him defiantly. ‘Just as I won’t marry a man just because he’s the father of my child.’

It was the answer that Luc had expected. The only answer he could expect, when to Annie he would never be more than just the father of her child.

He lowered his lids to guard his expression. ‘When we first met you were in the final year of an English degree—’

‘I don’t remember telling you that,’ Annie cut in suspiciously.

‘No.’ Luc’s mouth twisted. ‘I knew no more about you then either than your first name and that you had a sexy unicorn tattoo on your lower back.’

‘Then how? You’ve had me investigated!’ Annie ignored the unicorn remark as her indignation rose. ‘You hired some sleazy private investigator to tell you every little detail of my life!’ The angry colour returned to her cheeks.

Luc winced. ‘My assistant provided the necessary information, not a sleazy investigator.’

‘It’s the why rather than the who that interests me!’ she challenged. ‘Were you looking for something to use against me in a custody battle, Luc? Because if you were, then I can assure you that you were wasting your time! I—’

‘I have told you there will be no custody battle, Annie,’ Luc interrupted quickly.

‘Because you still think you can bully me into marrying you!’ she exclaimed.

Luc gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘No, you have finally convinced me of your determination concerning that subject also.’

Annie paced the room restlessly. ‘Then why did you have me investigated, Luc? Why were you asking me about my degree? What possible relevance can any of that have on the here and now?’

He shrugged muscled shoulders. ‘I was curious as to what you would have done with that degree if you had not had Oliver.’

‘Why were you?’ She eyed him suspiciously.

Luc sighed his impatience. ‘We would progress further with this conversation if you stopped being so defensive.’

‘Defensive is how you make me feel, Luc,’ she admitted heavily.

Luc was well aware of that. Just as he was aware that Annie had good reason to feel the way she did after his behaviour over these past two days.

‘Could we perhaps just sit down for a few moments, take a couple of deep breaths and then talk calmly together like the two adults that we are?’ he asked reasonably.

Could they? Somehow Annie doubted that very much. There was too much history between them, both past and present, for either of them to remain calm for very long.

‘We can try,’ she allowed grudgingly as she subsided into one of the armchairs.

‘That is all that I ask,’ Luc said ruefully as he did the same. ‘What was your purpose in taking an English degree? I cannot believe it was with the intention of working for your father.’

‘Hardly,’ Annie drawled drily. ‘No—’ she rested her head back against the chair ‘—I wanted to teach, and maybe become the twenty-first-century Jane Austen in my spare time.’

Luc raised surprised brows. ‘Teach and write?’

Annie glanced across at him. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed shortly. ‘But instead my father has decided it’s now time to groom me into becoming part of the upper management of his business empire.’ She gave a horrified grimace.

‘You have a natural talent for it, I believe.’ Luc nodded. ‘I have already implemented the deficiencies you noted at my hotel in Lake Garda,’ he explained at Annie’s questioning look.

Her eyes widened. ‘You have?’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘I talked with the manager yesterday.’

‘Oh.’

‘But having a natural talent for something does not mean it is what you should do,’ Luc continued. ‘Oliver told me that you do not like going away on business for your father.’

‘Did he?’ Annie gave an affectionate smile at the thought of her young son. ‘He’s right, of course. Oh, I have no doubts that I’m more than capable of doing the job—’

‘But?’

‘But—’ she gave a weary sigh ‘—it really wasn’t what I envisaged for my future when I was eighteen.’

‘I am sure that at eighteen you did not envisage becoming a single mother by the age of twenty-one either!’ Luc pointed out.

Annie calmly met the dark glitter of his gaze. ‘I have never regretted having Oliver, Luc. Not even for a moment,’ she added for emphasis.

No, Luc didn’t believe that she had. ‘What if you could have both?’ he asked softly. ‘If you could be a mother to Oliver but still fulfil your own dreams of teaching and writing at the same time?’

‘Which I could do by marrying you, no doubt,’ Annie said knowingly.

‘No doubt.’ Luc gave a humourless smile. ‘But we have already ruled that out, have we not?’

‘I have, yes, but I’m still not sure you have.’

Luc could hear the wariness in her tone. A wariness he well deserved. ‘Annie, I went to London to see my English lawyer this morning, in order to have him draw up the necessary custody documents—’

‘I knew it!’ She stood suddenly, her gaze accusing as she glared down at him. ‘This was what you’ve been planning, isn’t it? Have me investigated, find something you can use against me—although I have no idea what that could be when I’ve lived like a nun for the past four years—and then force me into signing the papers that give you custody of Oliver! Well, I’m not signing anything, Luc. Not now! Not ever!’ She clenched her hands to hide the way they were shaking.

Luc had no doubt as to the depth of Annie’s anger. He could see it in the furious glitter of her blue eyes, the flush to her cheeks and the stubborn set to her chin.

Just as he was aware of a slight lifting of the heaviness inside him at the knowledge that Annie had ‘lived like a nun’ these past years. Although her behaviour yesterday afternoon when they’d returned from their motorbike ride could not exactly have been deemed nunlike.

‘As usual you have chosen to misunderstand me.’ He sighed.

‘Somehow I doubt that!’ she argued.

Luc gave a weary shake of his head. ‘The documents I am having drawn up do not involve my taking Oliver from you but instead give you full custody of him, with reasonable visiting rights for me, when and if you, as his mother, allow it.’

Annie stared at him. Completely stunned. Her mind had gone utterly blank.

‘They will also make financial provision for both you and Oliver, so that you do not feel you have to work at anything if you do not wish to do so,’ Luc added evenly.

What?

‘I don’t understand,’ Annie finally managed to stutter, looking dazed.

Luc raised an eyebrow. ‘I am going to financially provide for both you and Oliver rather than fight you for custody of him.’

‘Why?’ she asked, still eyeing him warily.

‘Because it is the right thing to do,’ Luc said through gritted teeth. ‘Because I no longer believe I have the right to take Oliver from you.’ He flexed tense shoulders. ‘Until I saw Oliver yesterday he was not quite real to me as a person in his own right. A little boy with feelings and needs of his own. Watching the two of you together, that special bond that you both have, understanding the sacrifices that you have made in your own life since he was born, I realised that I have no right to even attempt to take him away from you.’ His expression was bleak. ‘That I gave up that right four and a half years ago when I disappeared so abruptly out of your life and left you alone to cope with the results of our night together.’

Emotions warred deep within Annie. Feelings of elation that Luc no longer wanted to even try to take Oliver from her, let alone force her into marrying him. Followed by the intense pain of knowing that Luc’s capitulation meant he was going to walk out of her life for a second time, the only contact they had in future years when he came to collect Oliver or return him to her.

Years when Annie would have to stand back and watch Luc marry someone else. Have children with someone else. Grow old with someone else. Love someone else…

She swallowed hard. ‘You said you had a good reason for disappearing that day four and a half years ago?’ she recalled huskily.

‘I considered it a good reason at the time,’ he acknowledged. ‘But not an acceptable one when compared to what you have suffered because your “wild and sexy” Italian lover was also a very selfish one!’

‘Hey, I’ve never considered myself to have suffered because I chose to have Oliver,’ Annie chided him. ‘Nothing can compare to the privilege I feel at being his mother. He has been the biggest joy, the most wonderful experience, of my entire life.’

Once again Luc experienced that ache in his chest at the knowledge of Annie’s unconditional love for Oliver. For his son, and not for him.

‘Perhaps,’ he began hoarsely, ‘once we have dealt with the legalities of Oliver’s custody, you might consider having dinner with me one evening?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You want us to have dinner together?’ she echoed slightly incredulously.

Luc held her gaze as he nodded. ‘I would like that very much, yes.’

Annie felt somewhat punch-drunk as she was hit with one surprise after another. She had only just begun to believe that Luc was no longer going to fight her for custody of Oliver, or force her into a loveless marriage, and now he sounded as if he were asking her out on a date!

‘Why didn’t you meet me for dinner that night?’ she probed slowly.

Luc drew in a harsh breath. ‘What can I say? You were right to describe me as being wild then. Not only wild but deeply irresponsible too,’ he added honestly. ‘As I have told you, it was an irresponsibility that ultimately resulted in my almost ruining my father’s business empire. It did result in my father’s near-fatal heart attack,’ he added bleakly.

Annie’s eyes widened. ‘It happened then? That’s the reason you disappeared so suddenly instead of meeting me for dinner?’

‘Yes.’ A nerve pulsed in Luc’s tightly clenched jaw. ‘I had left Rome only days earlier, like the defiant and spoilt young man that I was, leaving my father to deal with the mess I left behind me. It almost killed him,’ he said flatly.

Annie knew a little of the guilt and pain Luc must be feeling—the same pain and guilt she had felt when she had to tell her own father that she was pregnant. The same determination she had felt to atone for her mistake by agreeing to work for Oscar, even though it wasn’t what she really wanted to do.

The same pain and guilt that had resulted in a single-minded, ruthless determination developing in Luc, consequently making him into the hard, implacable man he was today.

The man Annie knew herself to have fallen in love with all over again…

But at least she now knew the reason Luc had left her sitting alone in that restaurant. ‘So would you turn up this time?’ she asked lightly.

Luc frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘If I agree to have dinner with you, are you going to turn up this time?’ she murmured ruefully.

She still had no idea why Luc had issued the invitation, but loving him as she did, and having his assurances that the heavy weight of Oliver’s custody had been removed from the equation, it certainly wasn’t an invitation Annie intended turning down.

Luc gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You will never know how much I regret not meeting you at the restaurant that night.’

Annie looked at him searchingly. Wishing she could read what was behind those enigmatic dark eyes. Wishing she knew why Luc had issued this invitation.

Well, there was only one way she could find out the answer to that! ‘If you’re only asking me out to dinner so that we can discuss Oliver—’

‘I would be more than happy to talk about Oliver—the sheer miracle of him!—twenty-four hours a day,’ Luc admitted. ‘But alternatively, I—we—do not have to talk about him at all. I want to spend time with you, Annie. To get to know you better. And for you to get to know me. You have turned my world upside down these past two days,’ he added emotionally.

‘Because of Oliver—’

‘No, not because of Oliver!’ Luc insisted.

How could he explain this to Annie? How could he make her understand the things he had discovered about himself yesterday evening when he’d gone outside and strolled so restlessly about the hospital grounds?

That it was she, and she alone, who had effected the changes in him. That since he had met her again she had completely demolished the barrier he had kept so tightly wrapped about his emotions. That his emotions were now so fully engaged, so exposed, he felt vulnerable in a way he had not believed possible.

Somehow Luc knew he had to try—more than try!—to make Annie believe these things, or risk losing her for ever.

‘Annie, my dinner invitation has nothing to do with Oliver,’ Luc said firmly. ‘I am asking that you give me a chance to…to court you, if you will, in the old-fashioned way.’

She became very still. ‘Why?’ she breathed.

Luc drew in a ragged breath and decided to risk everything on one last throw of the dice. ‘Because I love you. Because since meeting you again two days ago I have come to admire and love you more than any other woman on earth. Because the thought of having to allow you to walk out of my life for a second time is totally destroying me!’

His hands were tightly clenched at his sides, his jaw clamped together so tightly that it looked in danger of snapping from the pressure.

Annie stared at him. Simply stared. Rendered completely and utterly dumbstruck by what Luc had just said. By how he looked.

The pained darkness of his eyes, and the tension in his face and body were all clear testament to how important Annie’s response to his declaration was to him.

Luc loved her?

Somehow, during the confusion and pain of the past two days, Luc had managed to fall in love with her?

But why not? After all, hadn’t she fallen in love with him all over again during those same two days?

Still she hesitated. ‘Are you sure this doesn’t have anything to do with Oliver?’

Luc released his breath in a rush. ‘Doesn’t the fact that I am signing over full custody of Oliver to you, relinquishing all right to him other than the ones you allow me, tell you that it does not? That I am doing those things because I cannot bear the thought of hurting you? Any more than I have already, of course,’ he added wryly. ‘Annie—’ he stepped forward to place his hands lightly on her shoulders as he looked down at her intently ‘—all I am asking is the chance, the opportunity, to—’

‘Court me,’ Annie finished evenly, a bubble of happiness, pure unadulterated happiness, beginning to rise within her.

‘It’s hopeless, isn’t it?’ he groaned softly, releasing her to run an agitated hand through the dark thickness of his hair. ‘Why am I even bothering to say these things to you? Of course you do not wish to go out to dinner with me. Do not want us to get to know each other better.’ His expression was grim. ‘Why should you want me anywhere near you when I have either threatened or made love to you since the moment we first met again?’ He shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Annie. So very, very sorry!’ He turned sharply on his heel, his expression bleak as he left the room.

Annie couldn’t move for several seconds, the closing of the front door what finally galvanised her into action as she hurried into the hallway and wrenched that door open.

Luc’s back was towards her as he stood in the driveway unlocking his car. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded dazedly.

His shoulders stiffened before he turned slowly to face her. ‘I will be back.’ He grimaced. ‘I just need some time to myself. As you, no doubt, need some time away from me.’ His eyes were no longer black and remorseless but the colour of warm chocolate, and that telltale nerve pulsed in his tightly clenched cheek.

The bubble of happiness inside Annie became bigger, and then bigger still, until she felt full to bursting with it.

She leant against the door frame. ‘You know, Luc, you’ve done nothing the past couple of minutes but ask questions and then answer them yourself. If you carry on like this I may have to attempt another judo throw on you just so that I can get a word in edgewise,’ she teased, remembering exactly what had happened the last time she had tried that.

It was obvious Luc also remembered as his expression softened slightly as he answered her. ‘This time I would probably let you succeed.’

‘Let me succeed?’ Annie echoed drily. ‘Now there’s a challenge if ever I heard one!’ She walked slowly down the path towards him.

Luc looked down at her as she came to a halt in front of him, the sunlight picking out the gleaming red highlights in her hair, and her eyes the clear blue of the Caribbean Sea in a youthfully beautiful face.

Annie was so petite, and yet at the same time so very strong; she had to be to have stood up to him the past two days! So young and yet at the same time so wise and knowing.

And she held Luc’s heart in the palms of her tiny hands…

He reached out to grasp both of those hands in his. ‘I really am sorry for the way I have behaved towards you, Annie.’

‘How sorry?’

‘Very sorry.’

‘And…?’

‘I really am very, very sorry?’

‘And…?’ she repeated with some frustration.

Luc gave a pained frown. ‘I do not understand.’

Annie sighed. ‘That was your cue to repeat your dinner invitation. In fact, it was an invitation for you to repeat all your questions. Oh, what the hell!’ she dismissed, throwing her arms joyously about Luc’s neck as she finally allowed her happiness to show. ‘Forget the questions—my answer is yes!’ She beamed up at him glowingly.

Luc’s arms moved possessively about the slenderness of her waist as he looked down at her hungrily. ‘You will allow me to take you out? To court you? To show you how much I have come to love you?’

‘Yes. No. And very much yes,’ Annie answered, more light-hearted than she had felt for a very long time. ‘Any time, any place!’

Luc loved her.

He really loved her.

Annie knew—had absolutely no doubts—that nothing else on earth could have convinced Luc to back down from continuing to pursue his claim on Oliver unless he loved her very, very much.

‘Yes, I may take you out to dinner?’ Luc said slowly. ‘No, I may not court you? And yes, I may show you how very much I have come to love you?’

‘You forgot “any time, any place.”’ Annie grinned up at him unabashedly. ‘Of course now, and Tilly’s front garden, may not be the time or the place,’ she added teasingly. ‘But just as soon as we can be alone somewhere together—definitely yes!’

Luc became very still as he stared down uncertainly into the beautiful glow of Annie’s face. ‘I want you to marry me, Annie, not just make love with me.’

‘That’s why I don’t think the old-fashioned courting is a good idea,’ she chided happily, sobering when she could see that Luc still truly didn’t understand. ‘You don’t need to court me, Luc.’ She reached up and tenderly touched the side of his face. ‘I already love you and want to marry you,’ she revealed huskily.

Luc looked stunned for a second, then the hunger in his eyes deepened as Annie allowed him to see all the love for him she had been keeping in check. For so long, it seemed.

But no more. Now she could kiss Luc. Hold him. Tell him exactly how much and for how long she had loved him.

Something she proceeded to do to both their satisfaction…

Two weeks later

‘Cheer up, Daddy.’ Annie turned to smile at her father as the two of them sat on the terrace at the de Salvatore vineyard near Venice watching Luc in the pool as he attempted to teach Oliver how to swim. Oscar had given the three of them some time alone together before joining them in Italy to celebrate the announcement of Annie and Luc’s engagement. ‘Look on it as gaining a son rather than losing a daughter!’

‘I’m not in the least unhappy at the thought of having Luca de Salvatore as my son-in-law,’ Oscar assured with a smile, still a handsome man despite being in his early sixties. ‘Especially as it’s what I hoped would happen when I sent you to that particular business conference at Lake Garda,’ he added softly.

Annie turned to him. ‘What?’

Oscar took one of her hands in his. ‘You didn’t really think that I would just accept it when you refused to tell me the name of your baby’s father, did you?’

Well, of course Annie had thought he had!

Actually, had she? Had she really believed that her arrogant and powerful father wouldn’t try to find out for himself exactly who Oliver’s father might be?

‘You’ve known all this time that Luc was Oliver’s father?’ she said disbelievingly.

Oscar shrugged. ‘My enquiries at the time only showed that he was at the ski resort the same time as you were. But that equally applied to a lot of other men. But then I actually saw Luc across a restaurant in New York and…He and Oliver do bear a startling likeness to each other, don’t you think?’ He gazed affectionately at his grandson as Oliver giggled happily at something Luc had said to him.

Annie should have known; she should have guessed that her father had had an ulterior motive for sending her to the business conference in Italy!

‘You aren’t going to be annoyed with me over this, are you, Annie?’ her father asked as he saw the way her eyes were sparkling. ‘After all, I only made it possible for you and Luc to meet again. What happened then was up to the two of you.’

How could Annie possibly be angry with Oscar when ‘what happened then’ was the best thing that had ever happened in her life?

The past two weeks of being together had more than convinced Annie that it was her that Luc loved. Totally. To distraction.

Just as Annie loved him in the same way.

As they both adored their son.

And she had no doubts they would continue to love each other, and Oliver, and any more children that might result from their wholehearted commitment to each other.

‘Mummy, come and join us!’

She looked up at Oliver as he held on to the poolside looking at her, the cut on his head having totally healed, thank goodness, the pleasure written all over his face at being with his beloved Daddy, as he was already calling Luc.

‘Yes, Annie, come and join us,’ Luc entreated as he joined Oliver at the side of the pool, looking much younger and more relaxed, his dark eyes warmly caressing as he made no effort to hide his complete adoration of her.

‘Go!’ Oscar encouraged indulgently as Annie stood to look down at him questioningly.

Annie didn’t need to be told twice, running to the side of the pool to dive smoothly into the water, surfacing to laugh happily as Luc immediately caught her up in his arms and began kissing her.

Annie had finally faced her fears, and what she had discovered was Luc. The man she would love for the rest of her life and who would love her in the same way in return.

Bella’s Disgrace

Sarah Morgan

Sarah Morgan trained as a nurse and has since worked in a variety of health-related jobs. Married to a gorgeous businessman, who still makes her knees knock, she spends most of her time trying to keep up with their two little boys, but manages to sneak off occasionally to indulge her passion for writing romance. Sarah loves outdoor life and is an enthusiastic skier and walker. Whatever she is doing, her head is full of new characters and she is addicted to happy endings.

Chapter One

SAND, sand and more sand.

Her father couldn’t have sent her to a more remote place if he’d put her in a rocket and sent her to the moon. And if that had been possible, no doubt he would have signed the cheque, Bella thought bitterly as she curled her bare toes into the coarse sand of the desert and stared across the stark landscape. Come to think of it, this might as well be the moon. Or maybe Mars. The red planet.

Why a retreat in the middle of the desert?

Why not a nice spa on Fifth Avenue?

‘Bella?’

Hearing her name, Bella gave a moan of despair. Already? It was barely daylight.

Reluctantly, she turned. None of this was his fault, she reminded herself. It wasn’t fair to take her anger and frustration out on him. ‘Early start, Atif?’

He was dressed simply in a white robe, the fabric glaring under the beginnings of the Arabian sun. ‘I meditate before dawn.’

Bella suppressed a yawn. ‘Personally I prefer to start my day with a strong black coffee.’

‘You can find a better start to the day by feasting on what lies around you,’ the old man murmured. ‘There’s nothing as calming as watching the sunrise in the desert. Don’t you find the peace soothing?’

‘Honestly? It’s driving me stark-staring nuts.’ Without thinking, Bella reached for her phone and then remembered that it had been confiscated, along with everything else that she needed to communicate with the outside world. She tapped her empty palm impatiently against her thigh and then looked down at her fingernails with distaste. Given the choice between a coffee and a manicure, she would have opted for the manicure. ‘Do you actually own this place?’

‘I am merely passing through. When I am ready, I will move on.’

‘I would have moved on after two minutes given the chance! I’ve been here for two weeks and it feels like a life sentence.’

How could her father do this to her? Thanks to him, she’d been cut off from everyone. Left alone at a time when she desperately needed human comfort.

The shocking discovery she’d made only two weeks earlier had left her numb and emotionally drained. The person she’d been before that night had gone forever. So had the naive assumptions she’d nurtured throughout her life.

Regret tore through her

You shouldn’t have looked, Bella.

Like Pandora, she’d lifted the lid of the box and now she was paying the price.

‘You allow emotion to grip you the way a falcon grips its prey.’ Atif watched her with the same tranquil expression he adopted during their sessions together. ‘You are angry, but your father sent you here for your own benefit.’

‘He sent me here as a punishment because I embarrassed him.’ Bella wrapped her arms around herself and wondered how she could feel cold in such a hot, oppressive place. ‘I’ve embarrassed the whole family. Brought the Balfour name into disrepute. Again.’ But no one had considered what the whole sordid incident had done to her. And the fact that no one had considered her feelings simply increased her sense of abandonment.

Remembering everything that had happened on the night of the Balfour Ball, Bella felt a lump build in her throat. She wanted to know how her sister Olivia was feeling about the whole thing—she wanted to make amends.

Her behaviour had been bad—she knew that. But she’d been goaded. Upset. And Olivia had said things too…

‘Can I have my phone back just to send one text?’ Suddenly it seemed desperately important that she contact her twin. ‘Or could I use your computer? I haven’t checked my emails for two weeks.’

‘That isn’t possible, Bella.’

‘I’m going mad, Atif! Sand and silence are a lousy combination.’ She glanced around her desperately and her attention focused on a cluster of low whitewashed buildings she’d noticed earlier in the week. ‘How about those stables over there—can I at least go for a ride or something? Just for an hour.’

‘They are nothing to do with the Retreat. The stables are privately owned.’

‘Strange place to keep horses.’ Bella studied the guards standing by the entrance. Why would a stable need guards? ‘Well, if I can’t borrow a horse could I at least have my iPod? I find it easier to relax to music.’

‘Silence is golden.’

‘Around here, everything is golden.’ Simmering with frustration, Bella looked at the shifting sands and an idea took shape in her mind—an outrageous, daring idea. ‘That city we passed through on the way here, tell me about it.’

‘Al-Rafid is a sheikhdom, famous for its rich, cultural heritage.’

‘Is there oil?’ She forced herself to make casual conversation but all she really wanted to ask was, How long will it take me to get there and do they have high-speed broadband?

‘Huge reserves of oil, but the ruling Sheikh is an astute businessman. He has turned what was once an ancient desert city into an international centre for commerce. The buildings on the waterfront are as modern as anything you would find in Manhattan or Canary Wharf, but only a few streets away is the old city with many wonderful examples of Persian architecture. Al-Rafid Palace is the most breathtaking of all, but it is rarely opened to the public because it is home to Sheikh Zafiq and his family.’

‘Lucky him, living in a city. He obviously hates the sand too.’

‘On the contrary, Sheikh Zafiq loves the desert, but he is a fiercely bright, educated man who has successfully incorporated progressive business thinking into the running of a very traditional country. But he has never forgotten his roots. For one week every year, he allows himself time alone in the desert. Time for reflection. He is a powerful man—some would say ruthless—but he is also a man deeply aware of his responsibilities.’

Responsibility…

Wasn’t that the last word her father had said to her before he’d sent her into exile? Bella squirmed uncomfortably, trying to ease the sharp prick of her conscience. ‘So…this sheikh. Is he married with eight wives and a hundred children?’

‘His Highness has not yet chosen a wife. His family background is complicated.’

‘I bet it’s a picnic compared to mine.’

‘Sheikh Zafiq’s mother was a princess, much loved by everyone. Unfortunately she died when he was a baby.’

‘She died?’ Bella felt as though she’d been thumped in the chest. Like her, he‘d lost his mother as a child. She felt compelled to find out more about the powerful, ruthless Sheikh, forgetting that her original objective had been simply to discover the distance to civilisation. ‘Did his father marry again?’

‘Yes, but tragically both his father and stepmother were killed in an accident when His Highness was just a teenager.’

So he’d lost two mothers.

Bella watched as the rising sun set fire to the dunes, changing the colours from dull red to bright gold. She felt a strange affinity with the mysterious Sheikh. He was out there somewhere across the bleak, featureless mountains of sand. Did he think about the mother he’d never known? Had he discovered things about her that would have been better left a secret?

Was his mind as much of a mess as hers?

Bella dug her hands into the pockets of her cotton trousers and reminded herself that regret was pointless. The past couldn’t be undone. In all the hours of enforced meditation there was one topic on which she’d refused to allow herself to dwell.

Her mother.

Later. Later, she’d have to think about it but for now it was all too raw.

‘So this Sheikh guy—’ she pushed her hair out of her eyes, grimacing at the texture and indulging in a brief fantasy about deep conditioning and a blow dry ‘—he must have been pretty young to take over the running of a country.’

‘Just eighteen. But he was bred to rule.’

‘Poor guy. Must have had a pretty grim childhood. But all that oil must mean he’s rich. So why hasn’t he married? I suppose he’s old and ugly and can’t even buy himself a wife.’

‘His Highness is in his early thirties and is considered extremely handsome by those better qualified to comment on these things than me.’

‘So what’s wrong with him, then?’ Bella eyed the lizard that scuttled across the sand in front of her.

‘At some point he will marry someone suitable, but I understand that he is in no hurry.’

‘And who can blame him? Marriage can be a nightmare. My father has done it three times. He’s a devotee of the saying, “If at first you don’t succeed—try, try and try again.” You have to admire his perseverance. As a spectator sport it’s quite gripping.’

‘Your father has had three marriages?’

‘You’d think he’d be good at it by now, wouldn’t you?’ Bella brushed sand from her bare arms, wondering whether it counted as exfoliation. ‘He’s had enough practise.’

‘You have to let the anger go, Bella. You’re too passionate.’

‘That’s me.’ She kept her tone careless. ‘Too passionate. Too…everything. Try having siblings, half-siblings, three mothers and a father like mine and you might understand why I don’t have your sense of calm. Nothing winds you up like family. Except maybe having your laptop, your phone and your iPod removed at the same time.’

‘It is when life is at its most demanding that we must seek inner peace. Your own ability for quiet reflection can be an oasis in the storm of life.’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a few days by an oasis,’ Bella said absently, unsettled by the effect his words had on her. The truth was she envied his sense of calm. She wanted that, but had no idea how to achieve it. ‘Palm trees, water to bathe in. I have no problem with sand, providing I’m staring down at it from my sun lounger with a Margarita in my hand.’

He bowed his head. ‘I’ll leave you to reflect, Bella. And see you at nine for yoga.’

‘Yoga. Yippee. The excitement might just kill me.’ Bella’s expression was deadpan and she watched him stroll back towards the tents but inside she was boiling with emotion.

Enough!

No more meditation.

No more desert.

She was going to find the keys to a Jeep and get out of here even if it meant tying someone up in their tent.

She was about to return to the Retreat and go on the hunt for transport when she noticed that the guards had disappeared from the entrance to the stables. Bella’s eyes narrowed and her mind raced ahead as she adjusted her plans. No one knew her in the stables, did they? If she walked with enough confidence they might even think she worked there.

Indulging in a brief fantasy about fleeing across the desert in a horsebox, she slid past a sign that said “Strictly No Admittance” and walked down a sandy path that led to a stable block. A fountain bubbled in the centre of the deserted courtyard and only now could Bella see that the stables were both sophisticated and extensive.

‘Whoever owns this place must be seriously loaded.’ She sneaked a look over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed her. But the stables appeared deserted. No guards. No one.

Strange, Bella thought, glancing around her. Where was everyone?

She knew from experience that stables were busy places.

A horse stuck its head over the door of the stable and whickered at her.

Bella walked across to him. ‘At least someone lives here. Hello, beautiful,’ she crooned, rubbing her hand over the mare’s silky neck. ‘How’s your morning so far? Done any meditation? Knotted any of your legs into a lotus? Sipped any herbal tea?’

The horse blew gently against her neck and Bella suddenly felt better than she had for weeks.

‘Want to come and sleep in my tent?’ She kissed the animal on the nose, fussing and gentling the mare, the familiar scent of hay and horse calming her in a way that no amount of meditation had achieved. Peering over the stable door, she took in the quality of the horse. ‘You really are a beauty. Pure-bred Arab. Why would anyone keep a horse as special as you hidden away out here?’

The horse nudged her hard and Bella almost lost her balance.

‘You’re fed up with being trapped in the stable, aren’t you? I know the feeling. Where is everyone? Why are you on your own here?’

The place was eerily deserted and Bella looked around uneasily, trying to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong—that something bad was about to happen.

‘Oh, for crying out loud—’ Cross with herself, she turned back to the horse. ‘I’ve been living in boredomville for so long I’m imagining things. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past two weeks it’s that nothing ever happens out here.’

The horse moved restlessly in its box and Bella murmured to the animal sympathetically, sharing that restlessness. She had a desperate longing to spring onto her back and just ride and ride until her thoughts were far behind.

And why not? Why take a Jeep when she could ride to the city?

It couldn’t be that far. She could remember the way. Vaguely. Once there she could arrange for the horse to be returned with her compliments.

Hopefully Atif would be so angry he’d refuse to have her back.

I’ll be banned, Bella thought happily, sliding the bolt on the stable door and letting herself inside. Bad Bella. ‘People always think the worst of me and I’d hate to disappoint them. Poor Atif is going to need to delve deep to discover his inner peace,’ she told the mare as she swiftly untied her. ‘I’m about to put his karma through significant turbulence. He’d better fasten his seat belt.’

‘If you wish to spend a week alone in the desert, then at least allow your guards to accompany you, Zafiq.’

‘If I allowed the guards to accompany me, then I would no longer be alone,’ Zafiq pointed out drily. ‘This is the one week of my life when I am allowed to be a man and not a ruler. I place you in sole charge, Rachid.’

His young brother paled, clearly daunted by the responsibility. ‘You don’t think you should postpone your trip? The oil negotiations have reached a crucial stage. They are expecting you to come back with a lower offer.’

‘Then they will be disappointed.’

‘You are seriously going to walk away at the peak of negotiations? It’s the worst time.’

Zafiq gave a cool smile. ‘On the contrary, it’s the best time, Rachid.’

‘What if they go elsewhere?’

‘They won’t.’

‘But how can you be so sure? How do you know? How do you always know the right thing to do?’ As they walked towards the stables, his brother cast him an envious glance. ‘I wish I could be as inscrutable as you. You never reveal your emotions.’

Hearing the angry squeal of a stallion, Zafiq walked purposefully in the direction of the commotion. ‘The same cannot be said for my horse, who seems to be revealing his emotions unhindered.’

‘Everyone in the stables is terrified of him.’

Zafiq watched as his Master of Horse led the half-wild, prancing stallion into the yard. Noticing the stallion’s ears flatten angrily, he sighed. ‘It seems Batal needs a break as much as I do.’ Without hesitating he strode towards the horse, his brother following at a safe distance.

‘Do you ever worry about anything?’ Rachid blurted the words out as if he’d been bottling them up for days. ‘Was there ever a time when you felt like me?’

Zafiq reflected on that question, a grim smile touching his mouth. He could have told his brother that his childhood had felt like nothing more than a rigorous training camp for instilling a sense of responsibility and duty.

‘Confidence comes with experience. I have had plenty of experience.’ With that economical response, he watched as Batal pawed the ground, nostrils flared. ‘Release him.’ As the sweating stable staff sprang out of the way, he put his hand on the animal’s neck and the stallion shuddered and calmed.

‘Horses and women—’ Rachid grinned at him in admiration. ‘How do you do it?’

Zafiq ignored the question, vaulting onto the animal’s back with athletic ease. ‘I will be back in five days. And Rachid—’ his hand closed around the reins as he stilled the restless stallion ‘—this is your opportunity to gain experience of your own. Don’t waste it. And try not to start a war.’

Without giving his brother time to voice any more objections, Zafiq allowed the shivering, expectant horse to spring forward, not bothering to rein him in as he plunged forwards through the open gates that led straight from the palace into the desert. The animal gave two ferocious bucks, but Zafiq didn’t shift in the saddle and the stallion settled down, as if remembering that he’d met his match in this particular rider.

‘You’re as impatient as I am to leave the city,’ Zafiq murmured, enjoying the surge of adrenalin that came with the sudden burst of speed.

The desert opened up before him, the space offering sanctuary from the oppressive demands of state business and the pressures of caring for his young brothers and sisters, whose needs appeared to become more complicated as they grew up, rather than less. As their guardian, he felt a burden of responsibility towards them that was in every way equal to the one he felt for his country.

After eleven punishing months of responsibility and duty, he was ready to leave it all behind and indulge in the yearly solitude he richly deserved and rarely enjoyed.

No problems. No pressure.

Just the desert and his own company.

Lost.

Heat, thirst, sand, heat, thirst, sand…

Shouldn’t she be there by now? She’d been riding for hours and it all looked the same.

Whatever had possessed her to think she’d be able to find her way?

Her mouth was drier than the desert, her head throbbed and her eyes stung.

Bella squinted dizzily into the blazing sun, focusing on the shimmer of heat that seemed to make the landscape move. What she really needed now was an oasis with cool water and palm trees offering a generous cocoon of shade. But there was nothing except sand, heat and the desperate burning thirst that grew more acute by the minute.

Her mouth was so dry she would even have welcomed herbal tea.

She’d stopped guiding the horse and was only dimly aware that the animal was still walking purposefully.

‘I’m sorry,’ she moaned, leaning forward and burying her burning face in the mare’s mane. ‘I don’t care about me but I’m really sorry I’ve done this to you. Why aren’t you fitted with sat nav? Stop walking. There’s no point. We might as well just give up.’

The horse gave a snort of disapproval and continued to walk. Bella was too weak and exhausted to do anything about it.

She was going to die.

Her body was going to be buried under the sand and discovered centuries later by archaeologists digging for relics.

Despite her dizzy, dehydrated state the inevitable headlines flashed into her head: Bad Bella Balfour Disappears from Desert Retreat.

Perhaps they’d think she’d drowned herself in herbal tea.

Perhaps they wouldn’t even care.

She gave a weak moan and tried to say something to the horse but by now her mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak. The pain in her head was so severe she felt as though someone was attacking her with an axe and her vision blurred.

The last thing she saw before she slid from the horse was an ominous black shadow emerging through the golden haze.

Death, she thought dizzily, and landed on the sand unconscious.

Chapter Two

ZAFIQ sprang from his horse and issued a low command. The stallion immediately threw up his head proudly and stood still, his tail held high.

Taking in the identity of the other horse, Zafiq’s initial shock turned to raw, undiluted fury. ‘Amira—’ His voice gentle, he approached his favourite mare, hand outstretched, his anger ruthlessly contained. ‘What are you doing all the way out here?’ The horse allowed him to take the reins and he swiftly tied the animal to the saddle of his own mount.

Later, he promised himself with icy focus. Later, there would be a price to pay for this. For now, his priority had to be the girl.

She was the most unlikely looking horse thief he’d ever seen.

One glance at her thin cotton clothing was sufficient to tell him that she knew nothing about surviving in the harsh, unforgiving desert, and his mouth tightened as he bent over her inert body.

A pink baseball cap lay in the sand some distance from where she’d fallen but apart from that one small concession to the heat of the sun she appeared to have nothing in the way of protection.

Zafiq’s lip curled in contempt. After all the threats and warnings, this was who’d they sent to kidnap his most valued horse?

Impatience mingling with anger he glanced around for a rucksack, or something that indicated the girl had packed liquid, but there was nothing.

Muttering under his breath he stooped and lifted her, the breath hissing through his teeth as her blonde hair trailed over his arm like a shaft of light from a single sunbeam. Sand dusted her flushed cheeks and his eyes rested on her dry lips.

Unable to look away from the generous curve of her mouth, Zafiq felt a dangerous heat explode inside him and he stared down at her beautiful face, momentarily forgetting everything except the woman in his arms. And then her eyelids flickered upwards and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. They were eyes that reminded him of a summer sky, of the azure blue of the Arabian Sea, of the cerulean silk that was sold in the souks of Al-Rafid. But despite the intense colour those eyes were dull, dazed and her lips parted and she whispered something—nothing that made sense; something about herbal tea—and then her eyes closed and she didn’t say another word.

Aware that he was still staring down at her face, Zafiq felt a rush of anger.

What sort of a man was he?

The girl was unconscious.

She was half dead, and he was thirsting for her as she was no doubt thirsting for water.

Dehydration, he thought savagely, holding her easily as he walked back to his stallion and removed a bottle from his saddlebag. He’d seen it before, too many times.

‘Drink,’ he ordered harshly, but she gave no sign that she was able to obey his command.

Questioning what crime he’d committed to be saddled with an unconscious girl at a time when he was supposed to be enjoying solitude, Zafiq splashed a small amount of water over her lips and watched with grim satisfaction as her tongue flickered out. At least he wasn’t dealing with a corpse.

He wanted her to live so that she could face justice for trying to steal his horse. She would pay the price for her crime.

In order to keep her alive, he needed to get her out of the sun and cool her down. And the only place he could do that was in his own camp.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Zafiq swung her limp body onto his horse and supported her while he vaulted on behind her. Drawing her lifeless body against the power of his own, he closed his legs on the stallion’s flanks and urged him forwards, glancing over his shoulder to check on the mare.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach the shelter of his remote desert camp—twenty minutes during which he discovered to his frustration that he was able to become aroused by an unconscious woman.

Dismounting in a fluid movement, Zafiq gritted his teeth as he lifted her once again into his arms.

Perhaps he should have left her in the desert.

Turning the horses loose to find shade and water in the small oasis, he carried the unconscious girl towards his tent, breathing through his mouth in order to block out the tantalising floral scent of her hair. He dumped her gently on the mat that served as a bed and frowned impatiently as she lay still, not moving.

Torn between concern and exasperation, Zafiq leant forward and placed his fingers on her forehead. Registering the dry, burning heat, he realised that if he didn’t cool her down, he was going to have a serious problem on his hands.

‘I don’t know who you are, but you clearly have more beauty than sense,’ he growled, striding across the tent to fetch a bowl of tepid water and a piece of cloth.

So much for a week of peace, solitude and quiet reflection.

Zafiq dipped the cloth in the water and bathed her face and neck. Knowing that her recovery was dependent on cooling and rehydration, he reluctantly unfastened the buttons of her long sleeve shirt. Peeling it away he bathed her slender arms, keeping his eyes averted from the pretty lace bra that was now the only barrier between him and her body. He left her arms and body damp, allowing the water droplets to cool her overheated skin.

At this rate he was going to need the cool water himself, he thought, seriously unsettled by the effect she had on him. With haste and clinical efficiency he tugged her white cotton trousers past the curve of her hips and down her long legs.

‘Atif?’ She murmured a man’s name and Zafiq frowned sharply, wondering whether there had been someone else out in the desert with her.

Of course. She must have had an accomplice. A plan to kidnap his horse couldn’t have been executed by one lone woman, could it?

Wondering what had happened to his usual clarity of thought, Zafiq dropped the cloth back into the bowl and raked her flushed cheeks with an impatient gaze, but this time his impatience was directed towards himself. Since when had he ceased to think logically?

Driven by concern and the pressing need to extract information, he scooped her up and pressed the cup of water to her lips. ‘Drink,’ he ordered, and although her eyes remained closed she obediently parted her lips and swallowed. ‘And more.’ He continued to encourage her to drink and then laid her gently back against the pillows and bathed her once again.

Shaded by the tent and cooled by the water she started to revive.

Only when he judged that she was able to answer, did Zafiq scoop her up once again and voice the question that was troubling him.

‘Who was with you?’ His voice was rough—rougher than he intended—but even so she didn’t respond. Trying to ignore the softness of her skin against his arms, Zafiq tried again. ‘Were you alone?’

Her eyes slid to his and she looked at him with those stunning blue eyes that were undeniably designed to drive a man to distraction.

‘Horse—’ she croaked, and Zafiq felt the tension ripple across his shoulders.

‘I know about the horse. What about humans?’

Her tongue moistened her lower lip, slowly, as if speaking were the hardest thing she’d ever done. ‘Is the horse OK?’

She was lying half dead in his arms and yet she was asking about the horse?

Momentarily thrown by that surprising fact, it took Zafiq a moment to realise that she obviously had a vested interest in the animal’s welfare. ‘She is fine, although no thanks to you. You will not be profiting on this occasion.’

‘Profiting?’

‘There are many questions which you will answer in time, but first tell me about Atif. Who is he?’

Her eyes closed again but not before he’d seen tears glistening and the dull sheen of despair.

‘Please don’t make me go back.’

‘Go back where?’ Accustomed to receiving an immediate answer to any question he posed, Zafiq found this laborious process of dragging information from her unspeakably tedious.

What sort of man would leave it to a woman to steal a horse?

Or had she seduced someone to achieve her objective?

Irritated by his thoughts, he pressed the cup to her lips again. Her hand closed over his wrist as she drank and the burn of her fingers against his skin induced a reaction so shockingly powerful that Zafiq almost dropped the cup.

‘How could you have done this without help? There must have been someone with you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was faint. ‘On my own.’

As he laid her back against the pillows, Zafiq pondered why a horse thief should be working alone and unsupported. All the intelligence he’d received on the threat to his valuable mare had seemed to point to a group of people. ‘Sleep.’ He rose to his feet swiftly, needing to distance himself. Needing to regain control. ‘I must check on the animals.’

No one would be touching his horses again, he promised himself fiercely as he strode towards the entrance of the tent.

‘Wait—’ Her soft croak stopped him. ‘Who are you?’

Zafiq gave a cynical smile.

Never before had anyone asked him that question. He eyed her blonde hair and fair skin thoughtfully. It was entirely possible that this uninformed, naive woman, who thought she could kidnap a valuable animal without detection, genuinely had no idea who he was.

Which suited him.

His exact location was a secret. And he wanted it to remain a secret, particularly as he now had Amira’s safety to think about.

‘I’m your nemesis,’ he purred, his voice lethally soft as he lifted the flap of the tent. ‘And you are going to live to regret the day you stole my horse.’

Everything had shifted from gold to white.

Had she died and gone to heaven?

Bella blinked several times and realised that she was staring up at canvas. She was inside a tent. And it was hot. Stiflingly hot, like being trapped in an oven on full heat with the door closed. Her head throbbed, her mouth felt parched and she had no idea what she was doing here. Memories flickered through her head—a strong male voice ordering her to drink, firm, decisive hands stripping her of her clothing…

Stripping her of her clothing?

Realising that she was naked apart from her underwear, she was about to find something to cover herself with when the flap of the tent was pushed aside and a man strode inside. Stripped to the waist, his muscular bronzed shoulders glistened with water, as though wet from a dip in the pool. He was naked apart from a towel tied loosely around his lean hips.

For a moment she thought she must be hallucinating because he was indecently, impossibly, handsome.

‘OK, maybe I have died and gone to heaven,’ Bella croaked humorously but there was no answering smile from her rescuer. Eyes as dark as jet scanned her with arrogant appraisal and unconcealed disdain.

‘You have a strange concept of heaven. Or maybe you don’t realise how much trouble you’re in.’

‘You are my kind of trouble—’ Feeling weak and dizzy, Bella eyed his powerful physique and started to laugh. ‘You have to see the funny side—all those hours I’ve spent at parties hoping to meet a spectacular-looking man and he turns up here in the desert—’ The desert.

Oh, God, she was still in the desert.

Catching the flare of shock in his eyes, she sighed as everything rushed back to her. ‘Look, I’ve no idea where I am, but just tell me you’re not going to make me drink herbal tea and search for the meaning of life. Otherwise I’ll have a relapse.’ Conscious of the contrast between his striking good looks and her dishevelled appearance, Bella surreptitiously slid her fingers through her hair, wincing as she encountered a dry, matted mass. ‘Ugh. Sand. There’s sand everywhere.’

‘That’s why it’s called the desert.’

‘Yes, but it’s even in my hair—’ Her trademark silky mane had the texture of sandpaper and Bella shuddered.

No wonder he wasn’t looking at her the way men usually looked at her.

‘A few hours ago you were staring death in the face and now you are worrying about your hair?’ The contempt in his tone added insult to injury.

‘Look, do you have any idea what it’s like to be stranded in this red, gritty wilderness without so much as a bottle of decent conditioner?’ Bella pouted at him and then lifted her fingers to her mouth in horror. ‘My lips are cracked—’

‘That’s what happens when you trek across the desert without appropriate protection.’ He was as harsh and blistering as the desert sun and Bella’s spine stiffened defensively.

‘I hadn’t planned on getting lost!’

‘That tends to happen when you point your horse in the wrong direction.’ His sardonic tone was the final straw and Bella felt her cheeks redden.

‘Your bedside manner needs work.’

‘The quality of my bedside manner,’ he drawled, ‘depends on who is lying in my bed.’

A stranger to masculine indifference, Bella was appalled to feel a lump settle in her throat. She reminded herself frantically that red tear-stained eyes in a sandblasted face would make her look like a gargoyle and swallowed hard, refusing to give in to an emotion that would make her even less physically appealing.

Give me half an hour in that pool he’s just swum in, she thought to herself, and I’ll knock him dead. Even without the aid of a mirror.

‘Are you always this preoccupied with your appearance? One would have thought you had more important issues on your mind. Like humility. You should be dwelling on the lesson the desert has taught you.’ The slow-burning anger in his eyes made her wonder what she’d done to offend him so deeply.

‘The desert has taught me never to leave the city again.’ Feeling sicker by the minute, Bella stretched gingerly and discovered that she ached from head to toe. ‘You don’t seem very pleased that I’m alive.’

‘I was not expecting to spend my first night in the desert with a half-dead female.’

‘You prefer completely dead females? I suppose at least they don’t answer back.’ Sneaking a look at his unsmiling face, Bella decided there was no point in asking if he had a mirror. ‘Look, I’m sorry I’ve messed up your plans, OK? Just give me something for my headache, point me towards the city and I’ll get out of your way.’

He muttered something in a language she didn’t understand and this time his glance was both fierce and contemptuous. ‘Have you learned nothing from your escapade? This is the desert, not the English countryside. You don’t just go for a walk. Or even a ride.’

Bella remembered the dark shadow emerging from the haze of sunlight and realised that it must have been him. ‘You do.’

‘I was born in this country. I understand every movement of the sun and every shift of the sands and yet even I would not set out on a journey as lamentably ill equipped as you. Next time you decide to commit a crime I suggest you spend more time on the planning. You had no map, no spare clothing and no water.’ Incredulity and disgust radiated from his expression and his tone. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘I suppose I wasn’t really thinking,’ Bella admitted, chastened by his harsh words and distracted by the word crime. ‘I just wanted to get to the city. I misunderstood the distance.’

‘And that one small error would have cost two lives if I hadn’t arrived when I did.’

‘Two?’ As she absorbed the meaning behind his statement, Bella struggled to a sitting position, guilt sharpening her anxiety. ‘Wait a minute. The beautiful horse—is she all right? You said—’

‘She will survive, but no thanks to you. That mare is a valuable animal.’ His smile was cynical. ‘But you know that, don’t you? That’s why you took her.’

‘I took her because she was so friendly.’ Bella was tortured by the horror of what might have happened. She’d almost killed a horse. She’d totally and utterly messed up. Again. But no one would be surprised to hear that, would they? Everyone expected her to mess up. ‘She’s full Arab isn’t she? They have such distinctive features.’

‘And I’m sure you were well acquainted with her distinctive features. How else would you be sure of stealing the right animal?’

‘You’re right to be angry with me.’ Bella was genuinely contrite and more than a little puzzled by the venom in his tone. ‘I’m angry with myself. I would never intentionally have put the mare in danger. I love horses—much more than humans actually,’ she said humbly, ‘but I honestly thought it would take me less than an hour to get to the city.’

‘Was that where they were waiting?’

‘Who?’

‘Your accomplices.’

‘I didn’t have any accomplices.’

‘Then how did you plan to sell her?’

‘I wasn’t going to sell her!’ Bella sat up straight, offended by the suggestion. ‘I was going to send her back to the stables.’

Exasperation mingled with incredulity. ‘You expect me to believe that you stole a horse with the intention of returning her?’

‘I didn’t steal a horse!’ Bella’s voice was an outraged squeak. ‘I—I just borrowed her. For a short time…’ Her voice trailed off, her pathetic defence squashed by the satanic blaze of his beautiful black eyes. ‘I’m not a thief!’

‘You were in possession of an animal that does not belong to you. Had she escaped from her stable?’

Bella shrank slightly. ‘Er, no.’

‘So you physically took her?’

‘I borrowed her—’ Seriously worried now, Bella wished she had a weapon so that she could defend herself. And then she remembered he was a man. And she had big blue eyes. What better weapon could a girl ask for? She angled her face and looked directly at him. ‘I can explain…’

One eyebrow raised, he folded his arms. ‘Rarely have I been so intrigued to hear an excuse.’

Perhaps he hadn’t looked at her properly. Bella widened her eyes slightly but his hard gaze didn’t flicker.

She must be too far away from him. Still, there was always her hair. Her long, blonde hair. Bella tried to flick her hair over her shoulder but it was so stiff with sand it barely moved.

Realising that she was going to have to rely on her wits, not her looks, she felt her insides quail. ‘I was stuck in this place in the middle of nowhere—’

‘What was it called?’

‘The Retreat.’ Bella shuddered. ‘It’s an alternative, yoga…thingy—a drive-you-mad place—’

‘It is a world-renowned centre for contemplative meditation.’

‘That too.’ Bella discreetly removed some sand from inside her nails and grimaced with distaste. ‘Anyway, there was sand everywhere—sand, sand and more sand.’

‘In the time it is taking you to voice your excuse, the entire landscape of the desert will have altered,’ he drawled, and Bella glared at him.

‘You’re so unsympathetic. I suppose you’re going to tell me you love the sand.’

‘I have too little time to enjoy it.’

‘How much time is too little? A nanosecond? I don’t think I ever want to see a grain of sand again. And that’s why I borrowed the horse. I just had to get out of there! I doubt I’ll ever be able to look at a beach again. I’ll be taking city breaks from now on.’

His gaze hardened. ‘So you just walked into a busy stable and helped yourself to a horse.’

‘Actually, that was really weird.’ Bella wrinkled her nose as she remembered how odd it had seemed to her at the time. ‘The place was deserted. A bit spooky actually. No one around. It was as if something was about to happen—’ she gave a shrug ‘—but that was probably wishful thinking. Nothing ever happened in that place, I can tell you. My imagination must have been playing tricks.’

‘It’s heartening to know that you are capable of imagination—’ But he seemed distracted, as if something she’d said had captured his attention. ‘So you are saying that no one was there? That you simply walked into the yard, took the horse and rode into the desert?’

‘Yes. Whoever is running that stable should fire some of the staff because they were really lax. I mean, what if one of the horses was sick or something?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Anyway, so I rode into the desert, following the track to the city. Except it obviously wasn’t the right track. It all looks the same. And then I realised I was lost. If you hadn’t come along when you did—’

‘You would be dead.’ His blunt appraisal made her shiver.

‘Yes. Very probably. So, thanks again. I’m lucky you found me.’

He watched her for a long moment, as though he were making his mind up about something, and then he strode across the tent, pulled open a canvas bag and removed a robe. Intercepting her stare, his mouth tightened. ‘You might want to look away.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Bella’s wicked side took over, driving her into territory she knew she would have been better avoiding. ‘You have a fantastic body.’

Shock flared in his eyes and dark streaks of colour highlighted his magnificent cheekbones. ‘And you play a dangerous game for a woman alone and unprotected. Perhaps I am not a good man to be trapped with, habibiti.’ His voice was suddenly soft and there was a shimmer of mockery in his jet-black eyes. He slid the robe over his head in a fluid movement, somehow managing to discard the towel at the same time. ‘I believe you have a saying: “out of the frying pan into the fire.”’

Bella’s mouth dried as she watched him slide a dagger into the folds of his robe and her stomach fluttered with nerves. ‘Well, it’s certainly true that in the past few hours I’ve been fried, sautéed and flambéed.’ Her weak attempt at humour again fell flat and she flopped back against the pillows, her head throbbing and her bravado wearing thin. ‘All right, I get the message. No humour allowed. But you ought to know it’s polite to at least smile when someone makes a joke.’ She wanted to ask why he needed a dagger, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

He was a complete contrast to the men she usually met—a lethal combination of untamed man and raw sexuality. A real man, she thought to herself, distracted by the dark shadow that emphasised the strong lines of his jaw. It was hard to imagine him sitting at a desk in a tall city office, but she had no problem imagining him wrestling a wild animal with his bare hands. Embarrassed to admit that she found him astonishingly attractive, Bella put her hands over her eyes and gave a groan. She was the ultimate modern city girl and here she was lusting over macho man.

The heat must have finally got to her.

‘I’m surprised you find your situation amusing.’ His gaze held hers. ‘You’re lost and you have absolutely no idea where you are.’

‘I’m not lost. I’m with you.’

‘And that gives you no cause for alarm?’ His cool voice held a dangerous edge. ‘I could be a greater threat to your safety than being lost in the desert. There is no one else near you. No one to rescue you. No one to hear you scream.’

Bella burst out laughing. ‘You sound as though you’re doing a voice-over for a horror movie.’

‘I am merely pointing out that a healthy dose of caution might increase your life expectancy.’

‘I’ve lived in London and New York. I’m streetwise.’

His smile was slow and deadly. ‘You are not in London or New York now. You are in the middle of the Arabian Desert with a man you don’t know. And outside this tent there are poisonous snakes, scorpions and enough sand to swallow you whole and never again reveal your body.’

His words made her shiver and Bella rubbed her hands over her arms, growing more alarmed by the minute. ‘Stop trying to scare me. Do you want a hysterical woman in your tent?’

‘I don’t want a woman in my tent at all.’

‘Oh—’ Bella relaxed slightly. ‘I get it. You’re gay.’

Incredulity flared in his dark eyes. ‘I am not gay. But nor did I seek company on this trip. I value solitude.’

‘Really?’ For a moment she was fascinated. ‘You mean you actually want to be on your own?’

‘Time for reflection is a gift.’

Bella pulled a face. ‘In my opinion, reflection is an overrated pastime. I prefer being around people.’

‘So what were you doing in the Retreat?’

‘I was sent there.’

‘By…?’

‘Look, do we have to talk about this? The place was bad enough when I was there, without having to think about it afterwards. My brain is tired of examining itself. I’m allergic to meditation. Life is difficult enough without reflecting on it.’ Bella watched as he poured himself a glass of water.

Every movement he made was assured and confident, and although he was quite staggeringly good-looking, he was far too serious for her.

And now he was looking at her with the same expression of grim disapproval that her father used whenever she saw him.

Bella closed her eyes, the throb in her head worsening by the minute.

She heard him step towards her. ‘How bad is that headache?’

‘Headache? What headache? I don’t have a headache.’ She would rather have died than admit weakness to this stony-faced, austere sex god. ‘I’ve never felt better in my life.’

‘You’re dehydrated. Drink more water.’

Bella contemplated ignoring his advice but the pain tearing through her head was growing worse so she reached for the cup that he’d placed on the floor by the bed. ‘How come you have so much water with you?’

‘I came prepared. Unlike you. I’m not accustomed to having to repeat a question—who sent you to the Retreat?’

‘My father sent me.’ She took another sip of water, tempted to ask him how much water it would take to cure the headache. ‘I was supposed to find myself.’

‘Instead of which you lost yourself.’ His sardonic smile turned his face from handsome to breathtaking and Bella found it impossible to look away. He really was stunning. In fact, she had an uneasy feeling that his eyes might be even more beautiful than hers. If she didn’t have a vile headache and he wasn’t so moody, she’d definitely be interested.

Slightly unsettled by that realisation, she put the cup down carefully, trying not to spill any of the precious liquid. ‘Thank you for rescuing me.’

‘I had no choice. You collapsed in my path.’

He stood watching her from the end of the bed and it was impossible to miss the air of command that clung to him. ‘So who are you?’

Bella’s eyes widened again, but this time in amazement. No one had ever had to ask who she was before. Everyone knew who she was. Everywhere she went she was followed, photographed and criticised. People who had never even met her thought they knew her. Everyone had an opinion of her—almost always bad.

But out here in the wild sands of the desert, her face meant nothing.

It occurred to Bella that, at this precise moment, no one knew where she was. No one was watching her. No one was waiting for the scandalous Balfour twin to slip up. The headline writers of the newspapers were probably sitting bored at their desks, wondering who to write about.

An unusual sense of freedom settled over her.

Feeling liberated, she gave a wide smile. ‘I’m Kate,’ she said impulsively. ‘And you are…?’

‘And who is Olivia? And what is it you don’t want her to do?’

Reminded of the situation that had brought her to the desert, Bella’s euphoria dimmed. ‘How do you know about Olivia?’

‘While you were delirious with the heat, you talked. You kept saying, “No, Olivia, don’t do it. Don’t do it.” Who is Olivia?’

‘Just someone I know,’ Bella whispered, her body trembling. Suddenly she wondered just how much she’d revealed. ‘What else did I say?’ Had she talked about her other sister Zoe? Had she said anything else about that terrible night?

‘Nothing much. Did no one know you were leaving the Retreat?’

‘No.’ Bella thought back to the conversation she’d had with Atif. ‘But I think they’ll guess.’

‘And they will send out a search party,’ her rescuer snapped, ‘which is the last thing we want.’

‘I agree! If they find me they’ll just drag me back for more torture—’ Her eyes narrowed speculatively as she thought about what he’d just said. ‘Wait a minute. Why wouldn’t you want a search party to find me? It shouldn’t bother you, unless…you don’t want anyone to know where you are…’ Her mind working, she rubbed her fingers along her forehead, trying to ease the pain in her head. ‘And if you don’t want anyone to know where you are, it means that normally people do know where you are, which in turn means that you’re either a dangerous murderer on the run from justice, or you’re someone important—’

‘I haven’t yet been driven to murder anyone,’ he gritted, ‘but that moment could be fast approaching. You clearly do have a very agile imagination and you talk a great deal for someone who was almost unconscious a few moments ago.’

‘I have remarkable powers of recovery. So if you’re not a criminal, then you must be famous.’ Bella drew her legs up and rested her chin on her arms, determined not to reveal just how ill she was feeling. ‘You’re the Sheikh, aren’t you? That’s why you don’t want anyone to know where you are.’ Watching closely, she saw his immediate withdrawal. His shoulders straightened and his eyes were suddenly blank.

‘What do you know about the Sheikh?’

‘Very little. But Atif told me you spend a week every year in the desert.’ She gave a soft gasp of understanding. ‘That’s why you don’t want a search party, isn’t it? This is your week in the desert and you don’t want anyone to know where you are.’

‘You are making a great number of assumptions.’

‘All of which are right. There’s no need to get defensive. I know all about wanting to avoid people.

And I know how to keep secrets.’ Bella rubbed her fingers over her cheeks and grimaced as she felt how dry her skin was. ‘I’ll do you a deal. I won’t say I saw you, if you don’t say you saw me.’

‘This is not a joke.’

‘Neither is my headache.’ Exhausted from the conversation, Bella flopped back onto the bed and closed her eyes. ‘Stop glaring at me. You’re very bad tempered. That’s what meditation does for you. You should try thinking less.’

‘Perhaps you should try thinking more, and then you would not find yourself in such scrapes.’

Deciding that it was time to get herself out of this mess, Bella swung her legs out of bed, stood and promptly collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor of the tent. ‘Oops. Horizontal again and I haven’t even had a drink.’ She kept up the banter, too proud to admit how ill she felt. ‘Look, just point me towards Al—whatever it’s called, and I’ll be out of your way. You can go back to your life and I can go back to mine.’ Although what she was going to do with no source of income, she had no idea. Her father had cut off her allowance.

If she was at home she would have called one of the glossy magazines and offered herself for a cover shoot, but that wasn’t exactly an option in the desert.

Did anyone employ models in this part of the world?

Even if they did, they weren’t going to find her attractive at the moment.

He obviously didn’t.

Strong hands lifted her to her feet. ‘Given that you don’t have the strength to cross the tent, how do you propose to make this journey safely?’

‘Just lend me a horse. I’ll be fine.’ Overcome by a wave of dizziness, Bella looked for something to lean on. The only solid object seemed to be his chest, so she used that. Feeling hard muscle and solid male strength, awareness sliced through her, taking her by surprise. ‘You smell really good,’ she muttered. ‘But I guess women tell you that all the time.’

He said something in a language she didn’t understand and the next minute he’d released her and she crumpled to the floor in a heap again.

‘All right, maybe women don’t tell you that all the time.’

He’d pushed her away. Men never pushed her away.

It was always the other way round.

Still battling with the terrible dizziness, she risked a glance at him and clashed with furious black eyes.

‘You have no idea how to behave.’

‘You’re right.’ Bella dug her nails into her legs, fighting back a sudden rush of nausea. Oh, God, she felt hideously ill. And she was stuck with a man with a bad attitude and a dagger. ‘You’d better get rid of me. Just lend me a horse and I’m out of here.’

‘I will not lend you a horse.’

‘Why not?’ Her pride severely dented by his rejection, Bella suddenly wished she had access to her bathroom at Balfour Manor. And her hairdresser. Then this arrogant man wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to push her away. Deciding that extra charm was needed to compensate for her sunburned face and sandy hair, she treated him to her most seductive smile. ‘You don’t need two horses. That’s just greedy.’

‘My stallion would kill you in minutes, and the mare is too valuable to risk with a novice.’

Affronted by his derogatory tone, Bella was about to confess that she knew a great deal about horses but decided that the less he knew about her the better.

She was feeling sicker and dizzier by the minute and it was dawning on her that she was stranded in the desert at the mercy of this stranger who thought she was a horse thief. ‘I just want to get back to the city. I could make it in a couple of hours.’

‘It takes longer than a couple of hours.’ His tone dripped acid and he paced to the far side of the tent, every line of his powerful frame rigid with tension as he contemplated the situation. ‘Without an escort, you would not make it.’

Bella struggled to stand, wavering like a newborn foal yet to become acquainted with its legs. Ignoring the obvious challenges of playing the seductress when it was difficult to put one leg in front of the other, she walked across to him. ‘Then won’t you escort me? Please?’ Her voice coaxing, she placed her hand on his biceps and felt hard, solid muscle under her fingers.

He was strong. Really strong.

Without thinking what she was doing, she slid her fingertips slowly over his arm, fascinated by his physical strength.

The breath hissed through his teeth and he looked down at her, the raw sexuality in his shimmering gaze punching the breath from her body.

Chemistry arced between them and Bella responded to his unmistakably male appraisal with a slow, feminine smile.

So he wasn’t immune.

It was a boost to her confidence to know that even without the help of her hairdresser, she could still twist a man around her little finger.

You’re going to be giving me that horse as a gift in a minute, she thought with a flash of relief, peeping at him from under her lashes.

It was a look that had never failed her. Even without the extra help of mascara, she was optimistic that she could work her usual magic.

‘I know you’ll help me,’ she said breathlessly, deciding that a man as macho as him would respond best to a weak-female-in-trouble approach. All she needed to do was take advantage of his need to feel like a man and at least flirting took her mind off the fact she was lost in the desert with a stranger.

Searching for just the right phrase to boost a fragile ego, she gave a faltering smile. ‘I—I don’t think I can cope by myself.’

He didn’t return the smile. ‘Given that I’ve already had to rescue you once, I don’t need you to tell me that you can’t cope by yourself. I have reached that conclusion without assistance.’

Angry, Bella turned red. And now she was trapped. If she snapped that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself, then there was no way he’d help her.

Frustrated, she decided that the only other trick worth trying was agreeing with him. Men liked that, didn’t they? It made them feel clever.

Ignoring her inner woman who was gearing up to slap his arrogant face, she lifted her blue eyes to his, switching her expression to helpless.

‘You’re right.’ She conjured up her most pathetic voice. ‘I can’t cope. I’m a disaster.’ Trying not to reflect on the fact that her father would actually have agreed with that statement, Bella cleared her throat and added extra weight to her image of vulnerability by fluttering her eyelashes.

‘You seem to be having some sort of problem with your eyes,’ he drawled. ‘Is it sand? If so, then I recommend that you splash them with water.’

Bella couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. ‘So you do have a sense of humour under that severe exterior.’

‘I’m not laughing.’

‘Well, you should! It would do you good! You’re way too grumpy. Oh, just forget it. Flirting with you is too much like hard work,’ Bella said crossly, seriously worried that she seemed to have lost the only skill she possessed. ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll just go by myself!’

‘An interesting transformation. Innocent to independent in one blink of an eyelash. You’re a very manipulative woman. And slow to learn.’

Bella gasped. ‘I’m not slow!’

‘But you admit to being manipulative. Interesting.’ His smile lacked humour. ‘The only way you will make it out of this desert alive is if you are escorted.’

‘Then escort me,’ she said sweetly, peeping at him from under her lashes, but his answering gaze was hard and unyielding.

‘Is that what men do when you look at them? Do they roll over and say yes?’

‘The rolling over part usually comes after the yes,’ Bella said flippantly, feeling her anxiety increase by the minute. He just didn’t respond to her the way other men did.

‘Your morals are clearly as suspect as your judgement.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my judgement.’

‘You chose to ride through a desert. That behaviour borders on the insane.’ He extracted himself from her grip with a deliberate movement and Bella looked at him in dismay, horrified to discover that the lump was back in her throat.

Her life had fallen apart and she appeared to have lost the only thing she’d ever been sure of. Her ability to attract men. And that was all she had, wasn’t it? That was her gift. She wasn’t clever like her sister Annie; she wasn’t sweet and kind like Emily, or practical like Olivia…

She had blue eyes. She had blonde hair. And the combination had stopped working. Feeling incredibly vulnerable, she looked away. ‘Look, you obviously hate me and that’s fine. I don’t care. Surely that’s all the more reason to escort me back to the city where you’ll never have to see me again. I promise I won’t be any trouble—’

And finally he laughed. ‘The word could have been invented just for you. You have trouble written all over you.’

‘Then the sooner you escort me out of your life, the better,’ Bella said hopefully and he shook his head, still laughing.

‘You just can’t help it, can you? You have to flirt. I’m tempted to give you seven veils just to see how far you’re prepared to go to get what you want.’

Distracted by how seriously attractive he was when he laughed, Bella stared at him. ‘Do women really dance for you? Using veils?’

‘People do whatever I want them to do,’ he said silkily, and she felt her stomach perform a series of elaborate acrobatics.

‘More fool them. I wouldn’t dance for you.’

His smile was supremely confident. ‘I’m the ruling sheikh. If I order you to dance, you’ll dance.’

‘And if I refuse?’ It was weird, she mused, this combination of raw fear and shocking chemistry.

His smile faded and he looked at her with disturbing intensity. ‘You are wilful and reckless.’

‘Absolutely right.’ Abandoning the helpless woman act, Bella tried a different approach. ‘You don’t want me around. As you say, I’m more trouble than I’m worth. So why don’t you just lend me the friendly horse that isn’t likely to kill me and I’ll go and be wilful and reckless somewhere you can’t see me.’

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.

Then he surprised her by taking her face in his hands.

His fingers were firm and strong on her face and Bella wondered if he could feel the frantic beat of her heart. Did she have a pulse anywhere near his fingers?

A slow, heavy weakness spread through her limbs but she knew that the lethargy had nothing to do with her recent spell in the desert and the feeling shocked her because she never felt anything for men. She used them, the way they used her.

His gaze held hers. ‘I’ll escort you back to the city—’

Hypnotised by his velvety dark eyes, Bella felt a rush of relief. ‘Thank you so much, you’re a really wonderful person. I knew it the moment you walked into the tent. I knew that all that scary warrior stuff was all an act. And that dagger is obviously ornamental. I bet it isn’t even sharp—’

‘Do you always interrupt people?’

‘Often,’ Bella breathed, distracted by the beauty of his eyes. ‘Sorry, what were we saying? Oh, yes…interrupting—it’s one of my many faults. But I’m working on it.’

‘Then you might like to work a little harder.’ His thumb traced a circle over her cheek. ‘I said that I’ll escort you back to the city—’

‘I heard you. And I—’ Bella felt his fingers cover her lips and she felt the instant response of her body.

‘—at the end of my stay here,’ he said softly, a trace of mockery gleaming in his eyes as he finished his sentence. ‘Once a year I am given the chance to be alone. I will not relinquish that luxury for anyone. I will not change my plans for a woman.’

Bella made a sound in her throat but his fingers still covered her lips.

‘Which gives you two choices.’ He spoke in a deceptively gentle voice. ‘Either you can try and make your own way on foot—and if you do that I calculate you’ll be dead in an hour or so—or you stay here with me until it suits me to return you to Al-Rafid.’

Chapter Three

ZAFIQ withdrew his hand from her lips, fighting an inexplicable temptation to replace it with his mouth. ‘Those are your options. Pick one.’

Anger flared inside him but the anger was directed towards himself and his own weakness.

Despite her ordeal, she was more alluring than any other woman he’d ever encountered, and his jaw tightened because she was a woman who knew how to use her gifts and he despised the fact that he was susceptible to her practised flirtation.

The rigid self-control and discipline on which he prided himself suddenly seemed like a flimsy, fragile thing. It was like going into battle and discovering that your armour was made of paper.

Perhaps, he mused grimly, he’d never been really tested before.

Was that what this week of reflection and personal time was going to be about? His own weakness?

Was he about to discover that he was, after all, just like his father?

His initial suspicions that she was part of the conspiracy to steal his horse had been eliminated by her explanation. It was galling to acknowledge that he might actually have to be grateful to her because it seemed that she’d inadvertently foiled a serious crime. By ‘borrowing’ Amira she had clearly prevented the threatened kidnap by a matter of minutes. Contemplating the reaction of the criminals who had been planning to steal his horse, he gave a grim smile. They must have had a shock to discover that someone had already done the job for them.

He was determined to keep his precious mare safe in his care until he was due to return to the city.

Which meant keeping the girl too.

Zafiq watched as various emotions flickered across her beautiful face.

Even with sand in her golden hair she was gorgeous. She reminded him of a princess from one of the fairy stories he’d read to his younger sisters when they were small. Only less sweet natured. A sulky princess. Now that he’d thwarted her plans to escape from the desert, he could see her struggling to hold back her temper. She was fiery and full of fight and he wondered what she was hiding.

Her hands clenched and she glared at him. ‘Don’t put yourself out, will you?’

Accustomed to receiving the appropriate degree of respect at all times, Zafiq was taken aback by her lack of deference. ‘Generally people put themselves out for me,’ he drawled softly. ‘That’s the way it works.’

‘You say “jump” and they say “how high?”’

‘Something like that.’

She tilted her head and studied him with perfect blue eyes that had undoubtedly been designed by nature to bring a man to his knees. ‘If that’s how you expect people to behave around you, then you definitely don’t want to keep me here. I’m honestly not great at doing as I’m told. In fact, I’m rubbish. That’s why I’ve been banished to the middle of the desert. I’ll drive you mad if you make me stay.’

Zafiq almost laughed.

She was already driving him mad, but he had no intention of revealing that.

‘You seem anxious to become better acquainted with the inside of a prison cell.’ His remark appeared to register because her face coloured.

‘Look, I know it was wrong to take the horse, OK? But—’

‘Not for taking the horse.’ Reluctant to reveal that he was actually grateful to her for that part of her escapade, Zafiq trod with caution. ‘For speaking to me with such a lack of respect.’

‘At least prison has bars, which would be a step up from the Retreat,’ she quipped, quickly regaining her spirit. ‘Alcohol is banned. You have to get your highs from herbal tea.’ She studied his reaction and then rolled her eyes. ‘I liked you better when you laughed. You should do it more often.’ Tense and edgy, she paced to the other side of the tent. ‘What am I supposed to call you, then?’

‘Your Highness.’

‘Wow. No formality, then! And I’m supposed to do everything you tell me, Your Highness?’ Her mouth curved into a mocking smile that challenged his already straining self-control. ‘So I’m your slave, is that right? Sorry, I should have said, Is that right, Your Highness?’

Zafiq had a disturbing image of this blonde, defiant beauty dressed in thin veils and bound at the wrists and ankles, awaiting his pleasure. ‘I hadn’t considered that option, but I will bear it in mind.’

His reply seemed to unsettle her. The dangerous gleam in her sexy eyes was almost enough to make Zafiq rethink his ultimatum.

She was the most alluring, tempting woman he’d ever met.

‘We will get along very well together,’ he said in a cool tone. ‘As long as you obey certain basic rules.’

‘And what are those?’ She flicked her hair out of her eyes in an unconsciously graceful gesture. ‘I just have to do everything you say, Your Highness?’

‘Yes.’ He watched as she swayed slightly and suddenly he remembered how long she’d been exposed to the sun. She must be feeling awful and yet she was determined to hide it from him and it was impossible not to admire that. ‘You’re still suffering from dehydration. Drink something.’

‘You might be a sheikh, but could you stop ordering me around? It brings out the worst in me.’ But she sank back onto the mattress and reached for the glass, her hand shaking as she sipped the water. ‘I feel filthy. My hair is full of sand. Does this tent have an en-suite bathroom or anything?’

For some reason he found her sense of humour every bit as disturbing as her more obvious charms. People were usually stilted and formal around him. They didn’t crack jokes. ‘As it happens, there is an en-suite bathroom. Outside the tent. This is an oasis. There’s a pool.’

‘I hope it’s an infinity pool with a bar serving iced drinks in the corner and a changing room. Or am I supposed to strip off in public?’

‘It’s not public. I’m the only person here.’

‘Well…’ She took another sip of water and then put the glass down. ‘In that case, no peeping. And what about the creatures you mentioned before? Am I likely to be eaten while I’m bathing?’

He refrained from admitting that she was probably the most dangerous creature in the area. ‘I doubt you’ll be eaten.’

‘Good, because I don’t have a particular desire to be tonight’s takeaway for some hungry camel.’

‘Camels are herbivores.’

She shuddered and lifted her hands, palms towards him like a stop sign, but there was a twinkle of mischief in those eyes. ‘Don’t mention herbs to me again—after a week at the Retreat, I never want to hear about herbs again. I don’t want to eat them, and I don’t want to drink them.’ Her cheeks dimpled and a smile burst across her face like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. ‘And I don’t want to ride on one either. If there’s herb in the word, count me out. I suppose it’s useless to ask if you have a change of clothes? Mirror? Hairdryer?’

‘Wash your clothes in the oasis.’ He was irritated by how much that smile affected him. ‘They’ll dry quickly if you put them on a rock.’

‘And in the meantime I’m supposed to walk around naked?’

‘In the meantime you wear a robe.’ It might be a good for his sanity, Zafiq thought grimly, to cover her up from head to foot. The mere mention of the word naked was enough to make him consider jumping back in the pool himself simply for its cooling effects on his overtaxed libido. ‘And stay out of the sun.’

Bella sank under the still surface of the water. Her skin was burning from the sun exposure; she felt hot, grubby and unattractive but she did feel better now that she’d cooled off, and it was bliss to wash off the sand that appeared to have stuck to every part of her skin. There was no mirror in the tent but the Sheikh’s indifference to her as a woman told her everything she needed to know.

Clearly she looked a complete fright. Like some sort of alien sand monster. If she’d been thinking clearly she would have bathed in the pool before trying to talk him into taking her to the city.

Still unable to believe that he was going to make her stay here with him, she glared at the outside of the large white tent.

Where was he anyway? Meditating?

Bella frowned as she tried to see her reflection in the water.

No, a man with muscles like that had to do something more physical than meditate.

Was he watching her?

The thought made her shiver and she dipped under the water again and did her best to remove the sand from her hair, methodically working on it section by section.

‘Never again am I taking shampoo for granted.’ Despite her disappointment at not being back in the city, she had to admit that the pool was beautiful. Shaded by palm trees, the calm, glassy surface of the water reflected the perfectly blue sky, and beyond the palm trees the dunes rose steeply, turned to a shade of pinky orange by the late-afternoon sun.

It wasn’t the city, but it was better than being trapped in the Retreat. Better than having to meditate or contemplate or whatever, Bella mused as she cleansed the last section of her hair and then turned onto her back. Floating in the peaceful pool, staring up at the sky, she felt unusually tranquil.

In fact, the whole situation was surprisingly relaxing.

The Sheikh had no idea who she really was. He knew nothing of the latest Balfour scandal. They’d probably never even heard of the Balfours out here in the desert.

Which suited her perfectly.

Although she’d hated the Retreat, Bella knew she couldn’t go home.

What was there to go home for?

They didn’t want her there.

She’d made a hideous mess of her life.

Feeling tears prick her eyes, Bella dipped her head under the water, feeling more alone than she’d ever felt.

Feeling the water ripple around her she spluttered to the surface, realising that she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.

The Sheikh’s stallion stood on the edge of the oasis, drinking from the water.

‘Hi, there.’ Bella grinned at him, admiring the powerful muscles of his neck and legs. ‘Are you really as dangerous as he says you are? You don’t look it.’

At the sound of her voice, the horse reared up, showing the whites of his eyes as he pawed the air.

‘All right, I get the message,’ Bella said drily, ‘you’re dangerous. And moody like your master. Calm down, will you? I’m harmless.’ She swam across from the centre of the pool and swept her dripping hair out of her eyes. ‘What else can you do? Any other tricks?’

The horse flattened his ears to his head and stared at her suspiciously.

Bella was about to reach out her hand to stroke him when a masculine voice stopped her.

‘Don’t touch him—he has a very uncertain temper. He could hurt you.’

Bella froze, but the sudden tremor of her limbs wasn’t caused by fear of the horse. ‘Have you been watching me?’

‘I was watching the pool. As you seem to have the most astonishing propensity for attracting trouble, I thought it might be the simplest way to keep you alive.’

‘I’m not your responsibility.’

‘I know. But if you die out here in the desert I will have to take your body back to the city and that doesn’t fit in with my plans.’

‘Oh, thanks!’ Her tone sarcastic, Bella waded into shallower water, forgetting that she was naked from the waist up.

She heard his sudden indrawn breath and saw his gaze linger on her body in an unmistakably masculine appraisal.

Bella resisted the inexplicable urge to cover herself. ‘Stop staring.’

‘If you didn’t want me to look, you wouldn’t have removed your clothes.’

‘I only have one set,’ she said tartly. ‘It’s either naked in the water, or naked all evening. Take your pick.’

‘You have no modesty.’

‘If you don’t like it, don’t look, Your Highness.’ But she saw the unmistakable gleam of admiration in his eyes as he scanned her curves reluctantly. Reluctant was good, she told herself. Reluctant meant the emotion he was feeling was more powerful than he wanted it to be. And there was no better confidence booster than a man who wanted her despite himself. Starved of affection—deeply wounded by the rejection of her family—Bella couldn’t help enjoying that admiration.

She stepped out of the water and twisted her hair into a thick rope, squeezing out the water, not bothering to cover herself. Although she didn’t look at the Sheikh, she was hyperaware of him as she stretched out her hand to the snorting stallion.

She could feel him looking at her.

‘You need to calm down,’ she cooed. ‘There’s no need to be all macho and dominating. I know you’re stronger than I am.’ She talked to the animal in a low voice and the horse blew through his nostrils, watching her all the time.

His head snaked forward in a rapid movement and in an instant the Sheikh was between her and the horse.

Controlling the stallion with a single, abrupt command, he closed his hand round Bella’s wrist and dragged her towards the tent.

‘You are the most provoking, wilful, obstinate—’

‘Irresponsible, thoughtless, selfish,’ Bella added helpfully, and he growled deep in his throat and hauled her against his hard, powerful body. Without hesitation or warning he brought his mouth down on hers and she felt his strong hands slide down her bare back, holding her captive. Her damp skin burned against the pressure of his fingers and sexual excitement consumed her body like a ravenous beast.

As his mouth plundered hers with raw, unrestrained passion all she was aware of was heat. The heat of his tongue, the heat of the tent and the scorching heat that seared through her body like a flaming lance.

It was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

Like nothing she’d ever imagined—

And then he released her, thrusting her away from him as if she were infectious.

Suddenly unsupported, Bella swayed, dizzy and disorientated from his kiss and wondering why he would want to stop doing something that felt so good.

Up until that point in her life if anyone had asked her if she’d ever been kissed, she would have said yes. Only now did she realise that she would have been lying.

She’d never been kissed.

Not like that.

Everything that had happened to her before this moment had been a pale imitation of the real thing.

Where had he learned to kiss a woman like that?

‘Cover yourself!’ His voice harsh, he kept his back to her and Bella stared blankly at his wide shoulders, wondering why he was so angry. She was feeling a thousand different emotions, but anger certainly wasn’t one of them.

But she didn’t argue. She saw the white robe that he’d spread on the bed, picked it up and slipped it over her head. It fell to the ground and she pulled a face.

‘Great. Right on trend. Do you have a pair of scissors or something? I’m going to break my neck if I wander around in this.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded so normal, because inside she felt anything but normal. That kiss had left her feeling as though she’d been mixed in a cocktail shaker.

He turned swiftly, his dark eyes hooded, his mouth a firm, uncompromising line as he swept her appearance in a single glance. Without saying a word he took the dagger from the folds of his robe and stepped towards her.

Alarmed, Bella took an involuntary step backwards. ‘There’s no need to—Oh—’ She squeaked in astonishment as he bent down, sliced the blade through the fabric and removed the surplus material in two bold strokes. The robe now stopped just above the ankle and Bella stared at his dark, glossy hair, heart thumping.

‘So the blade isn’t ornamental, then,’ she croaked, and he straightened in a lithe movement, his eyes menacing.

‘No.’ He slid it back inside his robe. ‘It isn’t.’

She licked her lips. ‘Why do you carry a knife?’

Without bothering to answer her question he strode out of the tent, leaving her staring after him, wondering what she’d done wrong.

He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Surely he couldn’t blame her for that.

Irritated by the injustice of it all, Bella sat down on the bed, touching her lips with her fingers. Her lips were so dry after her day in the desert, it must have been like kissing sandpaper.

Feeling more vulnerable than she wanted to admit, she combed her fingers through her rapidly drying hair, wishing she could do something about her appearance.

There must be something she could use to see her reflection.

Typical, she thought gloomily. She met the man of her dreams and she didn’t even have a mirror or a decent pair of shoes.

No wonder he’d virtually run out of the tent. He’d probably prefer to look at his horse.

Bella’s wounded pride made her reluctant to leave the tent, but her restless nature made it impossible for her to sit still for long. And she couldn’t quite believe that he’d knocked her back.

She was used to fending men off, not chasing after them.

Telling herself that if he didn’t want to look at her, then he could face the opposite direction, Bella stalked out of the tent.

The throb in her head was growing steadily worse again but she was too proud to ask if he had any tablets.

‘I have made you tea.’ His deep voice came from a few metres away and she turned to look at him, noticing that he’d built a fire.

‘If it’s herbal tea, I might just have to kill you.’ Bella rubbed her hands up her arms, wondering how it was possible to feel shivery in the desert. ‘I don’t suppose you have anything more interesting to drink? Champagne?’

He didn’t smile. ‘It’s Bedouin tea.’

‘What’s Bedouin tea? Tea you drink before you go to bed?’ Still cross with him, she knelt down gingerly on the rug he’d placed on the sand, determined not to show how bad she felt.

‘It’s made from tea leaf, sugar and desert herbs—’ He poured some of the dark liquid into a cup and handed it to her. ‘It has a very distinctive flavour. Try it.’

‘I’ve drunk more tea in the past two weeks than I’ve had in my whole life.’ Bella sniffed the tea cautiously, took a sip and wrinkled her nose. ‘It tastes…different. I hadn’t imagined you drinking tea—’

‘It is customary to drink tea with a guest and share stories and news. The Bedouin are very hospitable people. And excellent story tellers.’

‘So tell me a story. But make sure it has a happy ending. No drama or misery. A few fairy princesses wouldn’t go amiss.’ She’d had more than enough drama lately to last her a lifetime. ‘Tell me about the Bedouin. They’re nomadic, aren’t they? So are you rediscovering your tribal roots?’

‘The sheikh is basically the leader of the tribe.’

‘All-powerful. Do people shake when they see you coming? Get it? Shake…sheikh…?’ Her voice trailed off. She grinned at him, her hands curled round the mug, eyeing the austere lines of his handsome face. ‘You don’t smile much, do you?’

‘I smile when I’m amused.’

Refusing to be daunted, Bella blew gently on her tea. ‘You need to lighten up and take life less seriously.’

‘Perhaps you need to take it more seriously. Then you wouldn’t find yourself dying of heatstroke and thirst, or stranded alone in the desert with a stranger.’

‘So what amuses you? You said you smile when you’re amused. So I’m wondering what makes you laugh. Obviously not my appalling sheikh jokes.’ She took another sip of tea and decided that the taste was growing on her. ‘When was the last time you collapsed with laughter? You know, laughed so hard you couldn’t speak—laughed so hard you almost cracked a rib.’

The fire crackled and a whisper of smoke curled into the air. ‘I can’t recall ever having “collapsed with laughter” and amusement has never affected my ability to converse.’

‘Don’t people ever make jokes around you?’

‘Never.’

‘Because you’re so intimidating, I suppose.’ Seriously worried by how ill she felt, Bella curled her legs to one side. ‘What do you do to relax, then? Parties? Do you sheikh rock and roll?’

A muscle flickered in his lean, angular jaw. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’

‘No. I can’t. Sorry. I’m trying to make you laugh but I know when I’m beaten, Your Highness,’ Bella said flippantly, really disconcerted by the fact he hadn’t smiled at a single one of her jokes. Used to being the centre of attention wherever she went, she didn’t know how to react to him.

He added something to the food bubbling in the pot. ‘Presumably you frequently collapse with laughter?’

‘Quite often. Usually at awkward times. There’s something about stiff, formal occasions that makes me want to giggle. Usually at about the same moment someone is pointing a camera at me.’

His glance was penetrating. ‘You attend many stiff, formal occasions with photographers in attendance?’

Bella stilled. ‘Not really. Church and stuff. Family photographs.’ The annual Balfour Ball with shoals of hungry paparazzi ready to indulge in a feeding frenzy.

Thinking of that particular event wiped the desire to laugh from her body.

He was still watching her. ‘Is everything a joke to you?’

‘No,’ Bella said flatly, staring down at her empty mug and trying not to think about the latest scandal she’d unearthed. ‘But I prefer to try and see the funny side of life whenever possible.’

‘You are extremely frivolous.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’ Her voice husky, Bella kept her eyes fixed on the mug until she was sure she was in control. ‘You ought to meet my father. You’d get on really well. If you have a spare month you could compare notes on my deficiencies. So you’re from a noble family, is that right? How come you speak perfect English?’

‘I went to a boarding school in England. My father understood the importance of maintaining our unique history and culture whilst incorporating the advances of the modern world.’

Bella looked around her, surprised to realise that it had grown dark while they were talking. Above them what seemed like a million tiny silver stars gleamed in a cloudless desert sky and she stared up at them in fascination. ‘I feel as though I could reach out and touch them. I don’t remember there being this many stars in England.’

‘You have too much light pollution.’

Or maybe she’d never stopped to look at the sky. ‘It’s pretty. Reminds me of a dress I had once—’ she tilted her head to one side ‘—indigo silk with tiny silver beads.’

‘Do you ever think of anything other than how you look?’

‘Looking good is part of my job,’ Bella said defensively and then flushed as his eyes narrowed.

‘What is your job?’

‘Oh, this and that…’ She was tempted to just say ‘doctor’ or ‘lawyer’ or something that would wipe the arrogant look off his face. She didn’t think he’d be impressed to know she spent most of her day asleep and most of the night at parties, wearing clothes by designers who were desperate to have their creations modelled by Bella Balfour. ‘I’m sort of in between jobs at the moment.’

‘It is good to take time out to reflect on how you are spending your life. Everyone needs time to think about whether they are making a difference.’

‘Absolutely.’ Bella squirmed, pretty sure that she didn’t make a difference to anyone. At least, not a positive one. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘I spend a week in the desert to escape the constant pressures of twenty-first-century life.’

‘Don’t you miss civilization? How do you survive without the Internet?’

‘The Internet is a useful tool, not an addiction.’

‘For me it’s an addiction. I’m a Google girl. How do you stop yourself playing around with it?’ Bella waved her hand and then remembered that she hadn’t had a manicure for two weeks and tucked it out of sight. ‘I go on to look up one thing—I don’t know, let’s say a new spa or something—next thing I know, an hour has passed and I haven’t done the thing I was supposed to do. I’m horribly undisciplined.’

‘I have no trouble believing that.’

She looked at the pot on the fire. ‘So if you’ve gone back to nature, how did you light the fire? Did you rub two sticks together? Use a magnifying glass to concentrate the sun’s rays?’

‘I used a match,’ he said drily and Bella giggled and wagged her finger at him.

‘That’s a disgraceful short cut. I’m really disappointed in you. You should have been setting fire to camel dung at the very least.’ She was painfully conscious of him—of his strength and competence. ‘But you enjoy being away from everything, honestly?’

‘Desert life is hard, but simple. The problems are basic ones that man has faced for centuries. Where to find food and water. How to provide for a family. I enjoy the silence and I enjoy being with the horses.’

‘How come the stallion is happy alongside the mare?’

‘They know each other well.’

‘So the mare I took, you know her?’

‘Amira—she belongs to me.’

Bella remembered the guards. ‘You own those stables?’

‘You ask too many questions.’ He poured more tea into her mug and spooned food into a bowl. ‘Eat. You haven’t eaten all day.’

She stared at the bowl he handed her. ‘You cook for yourself?’

‘Is that so surprising?’

Bella put her mug on the ground and lifted the bowl, realising that she was expected to eat with her fingers. ‘Well, you don’t exactly come across as “new man,” if that’s what you’re asking me. I suppose I expected you to have chefs and people running round after you.’ Examining the contents, she tried to imagine her father or any of the men she knew cooking anywhere, let alone the desert. ‘I’m impressed. I think.’ She sniffed suspiciously. ‘What is it? Camel stew? Loin of lizard?’

‘It’s rice and vegetables.’

Stung by his tone, Bella tightened her grip on the bowl. ‘You think I’m a complete waste of space, don’t you?’

‘I am trying not to think about you.’ He kept his eyes on the fire as he ate his meal, the fire illuminating his handsome face. ‘This is not how I envisaged my few days in the desert. It is supposed to be time for contemplation. And relaxation. Clearly you know nothing of either pastime.’

‘That’s not fair! I’m not stopping you relaxing.’

A sardonic smile touched his beautiful mouth. ‘You think not, habibiti?’

Her insides decidedly unsettled, Bella sampled the stew gingerly. ‘This tastes good. I’m not going to get in your way, I promise. Just do what you would normally do if I weren’t here.’

‘I am.’ He ladled more stew into his own bowl. ‘Unfortunately you are doing it with me.’

‘Ignore me.’

‘How do you propose I do that? You are not an easy woman to ignore.’

His words sent a thrill of excitement through her body. ‘No?’

‘A woman as beautiful as you cannot fail to know precisely what effect she has on men.’

‘You don’t seem to be having too much trouble resisting me.’

‘I have a severe aversion to being manipulated. Every look you give me and every word you speak is a carefully constructed plan to get your own way.’

Bella was starting to feel truly dreadful. The shivering intensified by the moment and her head throbbed too badly to allow her to construct a smart response. She wished she hadn’t eaten. ‘All right. I’ll stop talking.’

‘Is that truly a possibility?’ The irony in his tone was matched by the gleam in his eyes. ‘You strike me as a woman who has never learned the meaning of the word silence.’

His harsh evaluation was all the more hurtful because she was feeling so ill. Suddenly she felt horribly vulnerable, alone in the desert with this ice-cold stranger.

She ought to be putting all her efforts into persuading him to take her to the city, but she felt too ill to summon up the energy.

It was only when the bowl was gently removed from her hands that she realised that he was watching her.

‘I’m fine,’ she whispered fiercely, and he sighed.

‘Go to bed. Tomorrow you will feel better.’

Would she? She didn’t think she’d ever feel better again. Despite the fire, her teeth were chattering. ‘I-is it c-cold or is it me? Do you have a j-jumper or something?’

With a driven sigh, he rose to his feet. ‘You have sunstroke—that is why you are shivering.’

‘Sunstroke? That sounds serious!’ Alarmed, Bella stared at him, her teeth still clattering. ‘Sh-should you call an air ambulance or something?’

‘There are no emergency services in the desert.’

‘I d-don’t want to d-die in the d-desert.’

‘That is unlikely.’

‘And I b-bet you’re disappointed about that.’

‘Can you walk back to the tent or do you want me to carry you?’

‘I don’t want you to touch me!’

‘Good—’ His mouth grim, he doused the fire. ‘On that one thing, at least, we are in agreement. You need to go to bed and rest. Keep drinking. I will bring you a blanket and some cream for your skin.’

Feeling wretched, Bella dragged herself into the tent and collapsed on the bed. ‘At least this ultra-stylish garment you’ve given me to wear can pass as nightwear.’

A look of exasperation on his handsome face, he tucked a blanket over her. But despite his rough tone his fingers were gentle as he checked the temperature of her forehead. ‘Sleep. You will be better by tomorrow.’

Still shivering, Bella closed her eyes. ‘And then what?’

‘You and I are going to have to learn to live alongside each other, habibiti.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Unless you develop a sudden gift for silence, I suspect that will prove a challenge.’

Chapter Four

ZAFIQ urged his stallion across the sand, his hands barely touching the reins. Usually on his first night in the desert he fell into a soundless, dreamless sleep. Last night, sleep had eluded him and he’d stared at the stars for more hours than he cared to remember.

And the reason for his unusual bout of insomnia was currently asleep in the tent.

His tent.

Concerned about the shivering, he’d checked on her several times during the night and watching her sleep had proved every bit as disturbing as spending time with her awake. Asleep she lost the feisty, wilful side that was so much a part of her personality. Instead she looked vulnerable, her incredible blonde hair trailing over the sheets and her body curled into a fetal position, as if she were trying to protect herself.

Wiping that memory from his brain, Zafiq urged Batal faster. Usually, riding was guaranteed to clear his mind but apparently the golden-haired goddess had the ability to ruin even that simple pleasure.

Even a swim in the oasis hadn’t cooled his blood because his memory of her walking semi-naked through the water was indelibly printed on his brain.

Temptation, he thought grimly, had been shaped into the form of a woman.

Was this what his father had faced with his stepmother? All those times he’d given in to her greedy demands, was this what he had been fighting?

For the first time Zafiq felt a flicker of sympathy towards his father and then he crushed it.

A man always had a choice, he reminded himself grimly, no matter how captivating the woman. And the true test of a man lay in the choices he made, not when those choices were easy, but when he was presented with temptation.

And he would not be making the same choices as his father.

He would never allow his judgement to be clouded by his feelings for a woman.

It wasn’t even as if she was his type of woman. She showed neither respect nor modesty. Accustomed to women who were usually overwhelmed to meet him in person, Zafiq found her vitality and lack of deference disconcerting to say the least.

Today he would urge her to remain inside the tent, away from the harsh desert sun. And he’d make sure she didn’t remove her robe again during their time in the desert. If she had to stay, then she had to learn to behave, he thought savagely, shielding his eyes against the sun as he focused on the horizon.

Having formulated what he believed to be a workable solution to the problem, Zafiq rode back to the desert camp, confident that he had his emotions well in hand.

Suddenly Batal gave a shriek of anger and rose on his hind legs, sawing at the air with his hooves. Welded to the back of the plunging animal, Zafiq spoke to the horse quietly, using all his strength to hold the powerful stallion in check.

Only when he’d calmed Batal did he look to see what had spooked him.

She stood in the shadow of the tent, her hair damp from another cooling dip in the oasis.

‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were out on the horse. You startled me.’ The redness of her skin had calmed overnight and her beautiful face now had a healthy glow.

But what really caught his attention was the way she was dressed.

For the first time in his life Zafiq found it difficult to speak. ‘What have you done to the robe?’

‘I altered it a bit.’ She glanced down at herself, her blonde hair sliding forward in a silken mass of temptation. ‘It was too long.’

‘It was a perfect length,’ Zafiq ground out, and she looked up at him with a stunning smile, her eyes challenging him to a fight.

‘If this is offending you, you could always take me to the city.’

So that was her plan.

She was trying to drive him mad.

And she was succeeding.

Rigid in the saddle, Zafiq scanned her outfit in silent disbelief.

Somehow she’d turned a modest, shapeless robe into a high-fashion item.

She’d ripped the fabric with her hands, tearing a metre off the bottom so that it now skimmed her thighs, exposing her incredible legs. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d taken some of the leaves from a date palm and woven them into a belt, accentuating her tiny waist.

Suffering from an explosive blast of sexual arousal, Zafiq took a deep breath and acknowledged that his plan to cover her up had failed spectacularly.

She looked like a temptress straight from a Greek myth.

Frustrated by his own response, he raked his brain for an alternative solution to concealing her. ‘You will stay in the tent today,’ he commanded, and she raised her eyebrows, a hint of humour in her gorgeous blue eyes.

‘Am I supposed to say, “Yes, Your Highness”?’

‘“Yes, Your Highness” would be fine.’

Her smile was apologetic. ‘Trouble is, I’ve never been much good at doing what people want me to do. I was brought up to challenge and question. I have a tendency to do the opposite of what I’m asked.’

Zafiq’s gaze didn’t shift. ‘In that case, I order you to stay out of the tent and to walk around half naked until we leave this place.’

She collapsed into a fit of giggles, her laughter so infectious that he felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

‘You see?’ She was still grinning, a tiny dimple flickering at the corner of her full mouth. ‘You do have a sense of humour. You’re smiling.’

Was he? Zafiq vaulted from the horse, removed the animal’s bridle and urged him towards the oasis to drink, reminding himself that there was nothing amusing about this situation. But he had to admit that there was something incredibly refreshing about being with someone who didn’t automatically say what they thought he wanted to hear. ‘How is your headache?’

‘Gone, thanks. Did you get any sleep on the floor? Must have been pretty uncomfortable.’

‘I slept,’ he lied, unwilling to admit even to himself that this woman would cause him a moment of unbroken sleep. ‘Are you ready for breakfast?’

‘Definitely. I’m starving. Then I think I might go for a swim—naked, of course—and then a long ride in the desert—’

‘You are being intentionally provoking—’

‘No, I’m being me. And you don’t like me, so why don’t you just take me to the city? Then you can have a few days’ peace and quiet. I’m nothing but trouble.’

‘The ability to handle trouble is the true test of a man’s character,’ Zafiq purred, and watched with satisfaction as a flicker of surprise touched her beautiful face. ‘And I love being tested.’

He had no intention of revealing that he’d never been tested like this before.

Never before had he felt such a powerful urge to forget who he was and just lose himself with a beautiful woman.

Irritated by his own thoughts, Zafiq scanned her slender frame. ‘You don’t look like a woman who eats breakfast.’

‘I burn off a lot of calories.’ She sounded defensive, as if he wasn’t the first person to say that to her. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, OK? I don’t have an eating disorder and I’m not on any stupid diet—’

‘Is that what people say about you?’

‘No.’ Her denial was a little too fast. ‘Anyway, I don’t care what people say. I’m slender because I’m a very physical person.’

Zafiq closed his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the image her words created. Everything about her was bold, physical and athletic, from the long limbs clearly displayed under the remodelled robe to the strength in her slender arms. She was vibrant, energetic and alive.

‘I’m hot after my ride. I’m going to bathe.’ His jaw clenched, Zafiq strode towards the tent and then paused and delivered a warning glare. ‘And I don’t want an audience.’

‘OK, Your Highness.’ The dimple was back. ‘I promise not to peep.’

Growling deep in his throat, Zafiq took refuge in the tent.

She was slowly driving him mad.

Reviewing the success of her plan with delight, Bella sat in the shade of a large date palm, fanning herself with a giant leaf. At this rate she’d be back in the city by lunchtime.

Lying there in the oppressive heat, she realised that the knot of tension in her stomach had eased and that she actually felt rested for the first time in two weeks. Last night she’d slept. No bad dreams.

Brushing an insect off her arm, Bella wondered why. She was still in the desert. She still had all the problems that had been with her when she’d arrived two weeks earlier. What had changed?

Hearing a splash, she stopped fanning herself and watched as the Sheikh powered through the water with rhythmic strokes, the muscles across his shoulders rippling as he swam.

He was fit, she thought dreamily, in more ways than one.

And he was going to go mad when he saw her sitting here.

Whether he’d be angry enough to banish her somewhere civilised remained to be seen.

How long would it take her to get her own way? Hopefully after a morning in her company, he’d be calling the cavalry and expelling her to civilisation.

In the meantime, she was going to enjoy herself. How often did she get the chance to admire a physique like his?

He was, without doubt, the sexiest man she’d ever encountered.

Bella rested her chin on her hands, her eyes following every movement of his bronzed, hard body as he put himself through a punishing physical workout. He was the polar opposite of the pale, artistic society types she mixed with. Not just in looks, but in personality and behaviour.

And then there was the fact that he was so serious.

Bella gave a little frown.

Not her type.

So why was she sitting here watching him?

What she should really be doing was making the best of herself, but it was hard to make the best of yourself without a mirror.

She stared at his discarded robe and suddenly she had an idea.

Glancing across the water to check he still had his back to her, she leant across and picked up the robe, retrieving the knife gingerly.

The deadly blade glinted in the harsh overhead sun and Bella smiled as she tilted it to find the right angle.

‘What are you doing there?’

Caught out, Bella glanced up guiltily and saw the anger flash across his face. Ignoring her thundering pulse rate, she smiled sweetly, raising her voice so that he could hear. ‘Er, fiddling with your dagger and watching you?’

Instead of replying he swam back towards her, each stroke a study in controlled, masculine power.

Remembering that kiss, her heart started to thud and she felt an almost ridiculous urge to make a run for it. But her limbs wouldn’t move so she stayed as she was, sitting in the dust, her eyes on the man, the dagger clutched in her hand.

He emerged from the pool like some glorious vision of athletic perfection, water pouring off his muscular frame, his abdomen flat and strong, his chest and legs shaded by dark hairs.

Bella tried to say something flippant but discov ered she wasn’t capable of saying anything at all when confronted by such raw masculinity.

Raking his dripping hair away from his face, he stared at her angrily. ‘You were not supposed to be watching me.’

‘There’s nothing else to do. I don’t have a laptop, a cellphone or an iPod.’

‘And without those you cannot occupy yourself? You rely on technology for entertainment?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s how I keep in touch with my friends. I can’t do that, so I thought I’d watch you instead.’

‘I am not your friend.’

‘No, but you’re a living creature, which is a start. And you’re pretty good to look at.’ She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but she was desperate for him to take her back to the city and she was pretty sure that he’d crack eventually.

‘You are intentionally provocative.’ Without waiting for her response, he removed the knife from her hand and hauled her to her feet, his furious dark eyes only centimetres from hers as he yanked her against him. ‘What were you planning to do with the knife?’

‘Calm down, will you?’ Bella bit back a gasp as her thigh brushed against his. ‘I was going to use it as a mirror.’

‘A mirror?’

‘Yes, the blade is shiny…metal—I’ve been trapped without a mirror for two weeks! I just wanted to know whether the damage can ever be repaired.’

He glanced down at the lethal blade in his hand in astonishment as if its alternative properties had never occurred to him before. ‘A mirror—’

‘Look,’ Bella snapped, ‘the desert may be heaven to you, but to me it’s the opposite, OK? I can’t do any of the things I normally do!’

‘You spend your day looking in the mirror?’

Feeling shallow, Bella shrank slightly. ‘Try being me before you pass judgement,’ she muttered. ‘If I leave the house without make-up, everyone is suddenly asking whether I’m ill, or on drugs, or about to be admitted to a clinic. Whatever I wear is scrutinised—people are mean.’

‘Who is mean?’

Recovering from the shocking fact that she’d actually admitted to someone how much the negative press coverage actually hurt her feelings, Bella backtracked. ‘Friends,’ she said vaguely, ‘and family—’

‘Your friends and family scrutinise everything you wear? They’re mean?’

‘Oh, whatever—’ Realising that she was digging a hole for herself, Bella shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying it’s second nature for me to look in a mirror and just check I haven’t woken up with a huge spot on my nose.’

‘And what do you do if you have?’

‘I stay indoors.’

‘Your life is truly bizarre.’

Bella frowned. She’d lived that life for so long she no longer even questioned it. Was it bizarre?

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘You need to stop thinking about the way you look and learn humility. And obedience. I told you not to sit there and watch. Don’t challenge me, habibiti, because you will not win.’

‘Oh, dear, am I annoying you?’ She forced the taunt past dry, stiff lips and saw the flare of anger in the depths of his gaze.

‘Yes,’ he gritted, his hand tightening around her wrist, ‘but my response to that will not be to send you away, but to keep you closer. Remember that, before you push me too far, Kate.’

Kate? Who on earth was Kate? Bella opened her mouth to tell him that he ought to at least get her name right and then remembered that she was the one who had introduced herself as Kate.

Out here in the burning sands of the desert, Bella Balfour didn’t exist.

What a confusing mess she’d created, although there was something liberating about being anonymous. It would be even better if she could be anonymous somewhere with decent facilities.

‘Why would you keep me closer if I’m annoying?’

His smile was lethal. ‘Because I intend to teach you how to behave. You need to learn respect.’

‘What are you going to do? Throw me over your knee?’ Bella’s tone was sassy but her heart was thudding. ‘This is the twenty-first century.’

‘You are in the desert. Here, time has stood still. And since you are so determined to watch me in the water, you can join me.’ Without warning, he swept her off her feet and dropped her into the water.

Unprepared, Bella sank under the surface, the water closing over her head. For a moment everything was muted and she kicked frantically, swallowed several mouthfuls before she surfaced, coughing, only to find him in the pool next to her. Sweeping her sodden hair away from her face, she took a gulp of air.

‘Are you trying to drown me?’ She coughed again and thumped her chest with her hand, trying to clear the water from her lungs. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘I thought you needed cooling down.’ A sardonic smile on his face, he swam away from her, leaving Bella staring after him.

Filling her lungs with air, she ducked under the water and followed him across the pool, making sure she was deep enough not to create a ripple on the surface.

Where was he?

She peered through the murky grey-green water, wishing she had swimming goggles, and then saw a pair of strong male legs directly in front of her.

Smiling, Bella silently ducked to the bottom of the pool, intending to grab his foot and unbalance him, but a large hand caught her shoulder and hauled her to the surface.

‘You can swim.’

‘Were you hoping I’d drown?’ Grumpy that he’d seen her, Bella fought to catch her breath. ‘How did you know I was there?’

‘Because your behaviour is extremely predictable. It’s designed to cause maximum irritation.’

‘You think I’m predictable?’

‘Kate, you do whatever you can to be as annoying as possible. Are you afraid of wildlife? Because there is plenty in this pool.’

‘Is that what women do around you? Squeal and come over all girly? I hate to remove the opportunity for you to play macho man, but I can lift spiders from the bath without help.’ Bella twisted her hair into a rope, wringing out the water. ‘If you want a screaming maiden, you’re looking at the wrong woman. I tell you what—I’ll race you across the pool. If I win, you take me back to the city.’

His eyes darkened. ‘I will not race a woman.’

‘Why? Because you might lose? Don’t worry, Your Highness. I promise not to tell anyone when I beat you.’

He stared at her in incredulous silence and then he shook his head and started to laugh. Transfixed by the change in him, Bella’s own smile faded.

Moody, he was incredibly handsome but when he smiled…Oh, no, no, no—

Her limbs felt weak and suddenly she was thinking about that kiss.

About his wickedly clever mouth…

This is not good, Bella thought uneasily, trying to ignore the heat spreading through her body. Finding a total chauvinist so shockingly attractive was incredibly embarrassing. Not something you’d ever admit in public. Still, at least no one she knew was around to see her temporary lapse in taste and judgement.

Watching her, he lifted an eyebrow. ‘Now what? No smart remark?’

Arrogance just wasn’t attractive, Bella told herself firmly. ‘I’m just psyching myself up to beat you. I hope you’re a good loser.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ A sardonic smile touched his beautiful mouth. ‘I’ve never lost.’

Bella gritted her teeth. ‘Everyone lets you win because you’re the Sheikh—obviously.’

‘You think so?’

‘If you’re not afraid to be beaten, then you’d let me race you.’

‘What would be the point? You cannot possibly win such a race, habibiti.’

Bella put her hands on her hips, her irritation increasing by the minute. ‘Watch me! Watch me as I disappear into the distance, Your Highness. You can’t possibly swim that fast because you’re hauling the weight of your ego—’

He was still laughing, as if the mere thought of being beaten had genuinely entertained him. ‘You are the most aggravating female I’ve ever met. And you really do need to learn to show respect.’

‘Respect should be earned.’

‘I agree. So when I win, this ends.’ His smile faded and his tone was suddenly hard. ‘You will stop annoying me on purpose in the hope that I will return you to the city. I am prepared to give you a start.’

As infuriated by his patronising tone as she was by his arrogance, Bella faced him. ‘I don’t need any favours.’ Holding his gaze, she undid the belt she’d made for herself. Reluctant to spend another hour plaiting date-palm leaves, she flung it out of the water and watched as it landed with a splat in the sandy dust by the side of the pool. Then she grabbed the hem of her robe and stripped it over her head.

Get a load of that, handsome, she thought smugly and had the satisfaction of hearing the breath hiss through his teeth.

Without looking at him she bunched the robe into a ball and threw it nonchalantly after the belt. Standing only in her wet bra and pants, she turned and gave him a sunny smile.

‘I was wearing more clothes than you. That gave you an unfair advantage,’ she said airily, but her heart thudded as she saw the blaze of disapproval in his eyes and a tiny part of her wondered just what he’d do if she did push him too far. ‘That’s all the start I need. Ready, steady, go!’ Without waiting for his response, Bella plunged forward into the water, lithe as an otter, driving forward in a stylish front crawl that was the result of endless races with her siblings in the lake at Balfour Manor.

At school she’d been unbeaten in the swimming races and she was confident that, over a short distance, she’d be the winner. She was fast, light and strong and she had the additional advantage that he clearly underestimated women. So confident was she of success that when she turned her head to breathe and saw him passing her, she felt a flash of shock. Shock was immediately eclipsed by a burning determination to win and Bella put her all into the last few strokes, her heart pounding and her lungs bursting with the effort.

He beat her by a full length and he wasn’t even breathing hard.

Hauling air into her struggling lungs, Bella saw his amused smile and silently plotted all sorts of retribution.

‘I offered you a start,’ he said mildly, reaching forward and removing some weed from her hair. ‘You should have taken it.’

Bella felt her vision darken and in the distance she heard him mutter something in a language she didn’t understand. Then he was scooping her up in his arms and placing her gently by the side of the pool.

‘Why did you push yourself so hard?’ His tone rough, he sprang from the pool, water streaming from his body, his hair slick to his head. ‘You are recovering from heatstroke. You should be taking it easy in the shade. You are the most aggravating, infuriating woman I’ve ever met.’

‘And I love you too.’ But Bella kept her head down for a moment, deeply humiliated that she was showing weakness yet again. Macho man was going to love this. ‘If you’re going to gloat, please go and do it from a distance. I just need a minute.’

‘What you need is a lesson in humility.’ He paused, his expression thoughtful as he studied her face. ‘You’re a surprisingly good swimmer.’

The dizziness cleared slightly. ‘I’m a good swimmer for a woman, isn’t that what you’re saying? Savour your victory while you can—I’ll beat you next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time.’ His bronzed shoulders gleamed strong and powerful under the bright sunlight. ‘Put some clothes on, Kate. And stop trying to provoke me. I won the race. You stay.’

Bella squeezed the water out of her hair. Every part of her body was tingling with awareness and it was impossible not to stare at his strong legs and board-flat stomach.

His gaze lingered on her bra, which was now little more than a transparent film.

Bella had a sudden urge to cover herself, which was ridiculous because she’d never been prudish or self-conscious about her body. She was used to being photographed from every angle, accustomed to being studied by men.

But this man was different.

Ignoring the sizzle of awareness low in her belly, she stood gracefully, instinctively exploiting the advantage she had over him. ‘Take me back to the city, Your Highness.’

She saw the sudden flare of anger in his eyes and then his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her against him. ‘You play a very dangerous game.’ Pressed against his hard, damp body Bella felt an instant rush of chemistry. Exasperated by her response she twisted her wrist, but it was like being held in a vice.

‘Let me go. I’m not your type and you’re certainly not mine.’

His answer was to scoop her up in his arms and Bella gave a gasp of shock.

“Where do you think you’re taking me? You can’t just throw me over your shoulder like a caveman,’ she muttered, conscious of his hands on her bare thighs and trying to ignore the tiny voice in her head that said she didn’t know another man who could lift her with such ease.

He didn’t pause in his stride. ‘We’re alone in the desert, habibiti. I can do anything I please. And I intend to.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? You’re proving you’re the Sheikh? I’ve got news for you, Your Highness—I don’t do as I’m told.’

‘Then it’s time you learned.’ Tough and unyielding, he strode into the tent and deposited her on the floor as if touching her had burned him.

‘You can’t just—’

With a warning growl he clasped her face in his hands and brought his mouth down on hers with raw, untamed hunger. As their lips collided the chemistry exploded, the sudden eruption of passion so primitive that it was like being caught in white water. Bella was swept along, her senses churning and tumbling, unable to escape the flow of searing excitement that shot through her body.

Her mouth opened under the demands of his and she felt the erotic stroke of his tongue and the pressure of his hand on her back as he pulled her against him. As their bodies touched, Bella melted. Her head swam, her knees weakened and everywhere there was heat—around her, inside her, frying her nerve endings. With a moan of desperation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, fascinated by the strength of his shoulders and the sheer power of his masculine frame. But the biggest high came from knowing that he wanted her. He wanted her. Not Bella Balfour. It was the woman he was interested in, not the name or the family connections.

He made her feel beautiful, desirable—irresistible—and she gasped as she felt his hands on her breasts, his touch unerring as he removed her bra and dragged his thumbs over the swollen peaks.

He didn’t speak and neither did she, but their actions said everything as they feasted on each other’s mouths and savoured each fresh exploration. When his hand moved lower Bella closed her eyes, and when he finally touched her there, she shivered and buried her face in his neck, breathing in his masculine scent and savouring the roughness of his jaw with her tongue.

She was so lost in the fire he’d created that she didn’t protest when he lifted her off her feet and lowered her gently onto the mattress. His muscles bunched as he supported her weight and then he drew back slightly, scanning her semi-naked form with eyes that glittered dark with raw, masculine desire.

‘You are truly beautiful,’ he said huskily, and then he removed the last of her flimsy protection with a single confident slide of his hand. Naked, Bella felt a flicker of uncertainty but he shifted his body so that he was covering her, the movement oddly protective. Mesmerised by the startling beauty of his eyes, Bella gazed up at him and then tensed as she felt the skilled slide of his fingers touching her intimately. It was maddeningly, impossibly good and she gave a moan of disbelief and tried to say something but his mouth covered hers again, silencing her incoherent whimper. Displaying an expertise far beyond anything she’d ever experienced before, he created a storm of pleasure so intense that she felt desperate. She’d never wanted anything or anyone as much as she wanted this man. Her pelvis was burning and she shifted frantically, trying to ease the almost agonising pressure, but he refused to release her from her sensual agony.

‘Please,’ she gasped, dragging her hand down his back in an attempt to urge him closer. ‘Please…oh, please, can you just—’

His answer was to fasten his mouth over the tip of her breast and Bella moaned as another explosion of heat erupted inside her, the dark feverish pleasure almost too much to bear.

‘Please…I really need—’

He muttered something in a driven tone, looked at her with eyes blazing dark with passion and then slid a strong hand under her bottom and shifted her beneath him in a purposeful movement that brought her into contact with the powerful thrust of his erection. He was dominant and decisive, very much the controlling male, but Bella didn’t even care—all she cared about was that he do something about the desperate craving that was threatening to eat her alive.

‘Now,’ she begged frantically, and he positioned her the way he wanted her and surged into her quivering, throbbing flesh with a single smooth thrust that joined them completely.

He gave an earthy groan and dropped his head onto her shoulder, his breathing harsh and unsteady as he fought for control.

The feel of him inside her was so shockingly good that Bella couldn’t breathe or move. As he surged into her again, she dug her nails into his flesh and arched against him, moving her hips in response to the urgent rhythm he’d set. It was frenzied, fast and frantic, and almost immediately she shot into a climax so ferociously intense that she couldn’t catch her breath. Again and again he drove her to the same point and then finally, when her mind was blurred and she thought she might actually pass out, he muttered something against her mouth and gave a final thrust that sent them both slamming hard into a solid wall of sensation.

This time Bella was completely out of control, her body overwhelmed by such crazy levels of excitement that she clung to him and sobbed against his sleek skin. Even as the spasms gradually faded she didn’t let go of him. She couldn ’t let go of him. She wanted to hold him forever. In the depths of her passion-soaked brain, she felt as though everything had changed but she couldn’t identify what or why. All she knew was that they’d shared something incredible. She felt sexy, and cared for and special.

The light flooded the opening of the tent and the intense heat shimmered around them, as if the sun was smiling approval. Bella lifted her hand and touched his hair, noticing that it was almost blue-black in colour.

He must have felt her touch because he lifted his head and looked down at her. She noticed that his jaw was the same blue-black as his hair, that his lashes were long and thick and that he had beautiful cheekbones—and she saw that his deep dark eyes were blank of expression.

He was obviously as shell-shocked as she was, Bella thought weakly. Her hair was sticking to her neck; she felt wrung out by the heat and by the whole experience. In all the things that had gone wrong lately, this felt completely right. It was the single most thrilling moment of her life. And suddenly she was desperate for him to just hold her. That was all she wanted. A hug.

Tentatively she placed her hand on his chest, the tips of her fingers tingling as she encountered hard muscle and dark body hair. His body was incredible—all golden skin and tightly defined muscle. Glancing up at him, Bella suddenly realised that she felt shy for the first time in her life.

His eyes held hers and then he gave a brief nod of satisfaction. ‘So you are capable of being submissive,’ he drawled in a flat tone, and Bella blinked because whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it hadn’t been that.

Her bubble of pleasure popped.

Shame slid over her. What had made her think, even for a moment, that they’d shared something special? Was she so desperate for affection that she had to magic it out of nothing?

Slowly she removed her hand from his chest, trying to control her breathing, trying to look casual and not to let him see how much his comment had hurt her.

So was that what this had been about to him? An exercise in male dominance?

She’d thought they’d shared something special and all the time he’d been putting her in her place. And she’d fallen for it, hadn’t she? She’d gone along with the whole tough macho seduction routine without so much as a ‘wait a minute.’

She’d been so desperate she’d begged him.

Bella blinked furiously. Suddenly she felt frighteningly empty, emptier than ever before. ‘I’m not submissive.’ It was a struggle to keep her voice light but she was determined she was going to do it. Determined that he wasn’t going to know. ‘Just lazy. I lay on my back. You had to do all the work.’

He stared down at her for a long, disturbing moment and then rolled away from her and sprang to his feet. Everything he did was confident. Sure. Catching her first proper glimpse of his naked body, Bella stared. Wide shoulders, golden skin, long strong legs. She gazed after him hungrily as he prowled to the far side of the tent.

Away from her.

Everyone always walked away from her.

He dressed without once looking in her direction. Which was a good thing, because it meant that she could remove a stray tear without him noticing. The lump in her throat was harder to shift.

The sudden urge to talk to her twin sister almost flattened her. That wasn’t an option, was it? Not only had Olivia been banished to Australia, her sister wouldn’t have wanted to talk to her. They hadn’t spoken since the row. Since that awful night.

Bella watched him in numb silence. What had she expected? That she could fill that gap inside her with a moment of passion? Had she thought it would be something more? She was useless at relationships. All relationships.

Bella thought she wanted to be on her own and then she saw him finish dressing and realised that she really didn’t.

‘Where are you going?’ She blurted out the question before she could stop herself and he lifted his head and looked at her. For a moment they just stared at each other and then he reached for his dagger and secured it in his belt.

There was something about the cold, hard set of his profile that made her stomach quake and suddenly her insides were a mass of insecurity.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ The moment the words left her lips she wanted to drag them back in, but it was too late and she cringed as she listened to herself.

Talk about needy.

Without answering, he strode towards the opening of the tent and Bella felt the tears burn her eyes.

‘Don’t you dare just walk out on me,’ she flung at him, and he turned then—this man with whom she’d shared the ultimate intimacy—and gave her a look that froze her blood.

‘That was—’ he inhaled deeply ‘—a mistake.’

‘Finally we agree on something.’ Trying to keep her dignity, Bella reached for the thin sheet and covered herself. ‘It was your fault.’

Something flared in his eyes. ‘You could have refused me.’

‘How? You weren’t exactly taking no for an answer.’

His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. ‘If you’d said no, I would have stopped.’

Bella’s face turned scarlet. Was she supposed to confess that she hadn’t been able to think, let alone speak? Was she supposed to confess that she hadn’t wanted to say no?

‘You’re the Sheikh,’ she said flippantly. ‘I didn’t think I was allowed to say no to you.’

‘Since when has that stopped you?’ His mouth tightened. ‘It will not happen again.’

Bella’s ego crumbled into the dust. So much for feeling sexy and wanted. So much for thinking they’d shared something special.

‘That’s fine by me,’ she snapped but she was talking to the thick, oppressive air in the tent because he’d walked out, leaving her alone.

Chapter Five

‘I’VE never had a one-night stand, Amira.’ Bella leant her forehead against the mare’s sleek warm coat and rubbed her hand gently over her back. ‘The newspapers print all those fictitious stories about me because it sells their papers and I play up to it, but if they knew how little experience I’ve had, they’d die of shock. I’m nothing like your master, who must have had quite a lot of experience if his virtuoso performance was anything to go by.’

The horse whickered softly, turned her head and nudged her gently.

‘I can’t take you for a ride,’ Bella said humbly, warmed by the animal’s response to her. ‘Remember what happened last time? I almost killed you and I’m not risking that again. I don’t care about me, but you’re really special.’ She kissed the horse and then tensed as she heard the sound of hooves from behind her. Wary, she turned and saw the Sheikh, and her tummy clenched.

Even on the horse, he looked spectacular—sleek, handsome and totally in control.

Reining in the stallion he sat still, looking at her, his hands steadying the powerful horse. Remembering how those hands had felt on her body, Bella felt an unwelcome rush of heat.

‘Nice ride, Your Highness?’ She’d pulled on her tunic again, but now she was regretting having cut it so short. For once, she wished she was covered up. Determined not to let him see how uncomfortable she felt, she made a fuss of the horse, aware that he was watching her.

‘My name is Zafiq.’

‘Ahh, and I get to use your name because we had sex, is that right? Special privileges.’

The breath hissed through his teeth and he vaulted from the horse and strolled across to her. ‘You are very flippant.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if I don’t please you, but I have no idea what to say in this situation.’ Self-conscious and angry, Bella pushed her hair away from her face, wishing she could have spent three hours being pampered in a spa before meeting him again. Facing him bare of make-up required a confidence she didn’t possess. ‘If this had happened in the city we wouldn’t have had to see each other again.’

‘This would never have happened in the city. In the city I don’t forget who I am,’ he gritted, ‘nor do I forget my responsibilities.’

‘Your life sounds like a laugh a minute.’ Bella brushed sand from her tunic. ‘I’m sorry I made you forget your responsibilities.’

There was a long protracted silence and then he sighed. ‘Don’t be. You were incredible.’

For a moment she thought she’d misheard him. She stared at a point somewhere in the centre of his chest and then slowly lifted her head to look at him, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. ‘Sorry?’

‘You have to understand that I am a very disciplined man,’ he said fiercely. ‘I am not accustomed to losing control.’

‘Really? I’m hardly ever in control. I’m more of an impulse person.’

His smile was wry. ‘That, I have no trouble believing, habibiti. You’re extremely emotional.’

‘Whereas you are frighteningly unemotional.’ Remembering how he hadn’t touched her after sex, Bella felt her cheeks flush and turned away from him. ‘So we’re imperfectly matched, then. Having finally realised that, I suppose you’ve decided you’re finally ready to take me back to the city.’

He inhaled deeply. ‘That isn’t what I have decided.’

‘Look, this is supposed to be your week of rest and relaxation so you hardly want to be tiptoeing round an awkward situation, do you?’

‘Precisely. This is my week of relaxation, therefore I shall spend it as I please.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She rubbed her hand over the mare’s neck. ‘What pleases you?’

‘You please me.’

Bella’s stomach tumbled and she turned her head, her eyes wide. ‘What did you say?’

‘You please me greatly. You’re extremely passionate and responsive and once you’re in my bed you stop fighting me.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Therefore I intend to keep you in my bed for the rest of my time in the desert.’

‘So I’m going to be your personal harem while we’re here, is that it?’

The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘One woman does not constitute a harem, habibiti, although you certainly have enough spirit to share generously between at least ten women.’

‘Now wait just a minute—’ Flustered, her face burning, Bella backed into the horse who threw up her head and nudged her hard in the back, pushing her straight into Zafiq.

Strong hands closed around her arms, steadying her, and Bella moaned as she felt the immediate explosion of chemistry.

‘You’re not my type. I’m not your type. This goes against my better judgement.’

‘Mine too—’ his mouth hovered close to hers ‘—but I think we’ve suspended judgement at this point.’ Without warning he swung her up into his arms and Bella thumped him on the shoulder.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Back to bed,’ he drawled, striding into the tent. He deposited her gently on the mattress and yanked her tunic over her head without giving her the chance to resist. ‘When you’re underneath me you’re soft, compliant and all woman so that’s where you’re staying while we’re here.’

Bella gave an outraged squeak and made a grab for the tunic. ‘That was a one-off performance, caused by too much sun and the fact that you bulldoze your way over everyone.’

He threw the robe out of reach, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he stripped off his own clothes. ‘Why do you fight me?’

Averting her eyes from temptation, Bella glanced past him, trying to gauge her chances of making it out of the tent without him catching her. ‘Once was a mistake—twice would be a disaster.’

‘If you run, I’ll just bring you back.’

She looked at him then and was trapped by his devastating smile and the unmistakable look of raw sexual intent in his eyes. Her body melted with a desire so intense that it was impossible to breathe. He was unreasonably, unfairly gorgeous. ‘I’m not your prisoner.’

‘No.’ He retrieved the knife from the folds of the robe. ‘You’re an aggravating, feisty, defiant woman. And I find that unbelievably erotic.’ There was an elemental primitive strength about him that made her shiver and Bella was suddenly acutely conscious that she’d never dealt with anyone like him before in her life.

Wary, Bella eyed the knife. ‘What’s that for? Are you planning to threaten me into submission?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he purred softly. ‘When I take you a second time, you won’t be fighting me any more than you did the first time.’

Bella’s heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. ‘My brain is back in working order now. And this whole Neanderthal caveman routine doesn’t really do anything for me. I like a man who can hold a conversation.’

‘And I like a woman who knows when to remain silent.’ He dropped the dagger onto the ground. ‘I’ve watched you since the moment you arrived. And I was still watching you when you were writhing underneath me. It was a very satisfying sight.’

Squirming at being reminded of how easily she’d succumbed to him, Bella lifted her chin. ‘That was all an act to protect your ego.’ She tried to scramble to her feet but Zafiq gave a half-smile, caught her round the waist and dropped her back on the mattress.

‘You are talking because you are nervous, and that is good because it shows that you are vulnerable. But you don’t need to be afraid.’ His expression thoughtful, he sat down next to her, every muscular curve of his bronzed torso so breathtakingly perfect that Bella found it almost impossibly distracting.

‘I’m not afraid…I’m—’ His mouth silenced the rest of her sentence and she felt her head swim, but she was determined not to make a sound. He already thought he was a god; there was no need to feed his ego by letting him know he was an exceptionally good kisser. Ignoring the rush of heat that swept through her body she pulled away and tried to look bored.

‘Sorry, was I supposed to feel something?’ But the husky note of her voice betrayed her and he gave a slow, masculine smile, closed his hands over her shoulders and pushed her back against the mattress.

‘Are you ever honest about your feelings?’

No, Bella thought helplessly, thinking of the number of times she’d been hurt in her life. Never. ‘I don’t have feelings,’ she whispered, and he lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers. Their eyes held, the connection between them pulsing, intimate and deliciously exciting.

The heat in the tent went from oppressive to stifling and Bella sucked in a breath as his thigh brushed against hers and his breath mingled with hers. ‘Last time we took things too fast. This time will be different. This time we will drive each other crazy.’ His burning gaze slid slowly down to her mouth, and then to her throat and finally to her breasts. Bella moaned as she felt her nipples harden against the flimsy fabric.

‘Stop looking at me like that.’ But her words lacked conviction because she didn’t want him to stop looking at her. She loved the way he was looking at her.

Not as if she was Bella Balfour, party girl, but as if she was an incredibly desirable woman.

‘If you didn’t want me to look, you shouldn’t have made yourself an object of interest,’ he drawled, the deliberate movement of his hand sending another spasm of sensation arcing through her body.

Bella sucked in a breath. ‘Take your hands off me.’

‘Fine. No hands.’ With a devastating smile, he lowered his head and drew her nipple into his mouth and Bella whimpered with disbelief as excitement flooded her pelvis in a heated rush.

‘You really can’t—’

‘Yes, I can.’ His voice husky, he covered her body with his in a decisive movement and took her face in one strong hand. ‘Tell me no, and I stop. Is that what you want?’

Bella stared up at him helplessly. She felt trapped, feminine and deliciously aware of the hard press of his powerful body against hers.

Zafiq slid his hand down her bare thigh. ‘If there’s a no coming, make it soon, habibiti, because I’m a very hungry guy.’

Bella was hypnotised by the look in his eyes. She ought to say no. She really, really ought to say no. But right at that moment she didn’t care that he wasn’t suitable. She didn’t care that they had nothing in common, that this wasn’t real.

She wanted him so badly it was embarrassing.

Reading the desperation in her eyes he gave a slow smile of masculine satisfaction and her last coherent thought was that it was a good job the British tabloid press were never going to get hold of this story.

Zafiq brought his wide, sensual mouth down on hers with the assured confidence of a conqueror claiming the spoils.

Exactly as she had the first time, Bella went up in flames. He demanded everything from her, the erotic slide of his tongue stealing the last of her self-control. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, lingering on sleek bare skin, feeling the play of male muscle under her fingers.

He muttered something against her mouth and shifted slightly, his hand removing her bra with a single movement of his long fingers. Bella felt a sudden urge to cover herself and he must have sensed her sudden doubt because he shifted his body again, holding her pinned beneath him.

‘You have a fabulous body,’ he breathed, lowering his mouth and claiming the straining tip of one breast. ‘A temptation for any man.’

Taking advantage of the fact he was distracted, Bella put her hands on his chest and pushed him onto his back. Then she straddled him, her blonde hair sliding over her shoulder and tickling his chest.

‘Now we’ll see who is in charge,’ she said smugly, gasping suddenly as she realised where she was sitting.

He gave a slow smile of appreciation as he registered the same thing. ‘Make no mistake, habibiti—’ he groaned thickly ‘—you may be the one on top, but I am still the one in charge.’

‘You think so?’ Leaning forward, Bella trailed the tip of her tongue over his shoulder and felt his sudden tension. Smiling to herself, she continued to lick her way down his body until she heard him give a deep, earthy groan.

Relishing the shift in the balance of power, Bella drove him wild with her mouth and tongue, pinning his arms down with her hands and holding him there. Her prisoner. The delusion lasted all of a few minutes and then he flipped her onto her back with embarrassing ease and shifted above her, flattening her to the mattress with the weight of his body.

‘You just have to be the one on top, don’t you?’ Bella gasped, her hair tangling with his arm as their bodies connected from shoulder to thigh. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a power complex?’

‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredible?’

The breath caught in her throat. ‘No.’ No one thought she was incredible.

Pushing that thought away, Bella slid her fingers into his silky hair and dragged his head down to hers. She wanted to forget, and if there was anyone who could make her forget, it was this man—and if there was a price to pay tomorrow, she’d pay it.

‘So why do you keep a knife by the bed?’

‘It isn’t by the bed. It’s by me. This is the desert, habibiti—’ Zafiq turned to look at her and she saw that his eyes were actually a deep, dark brown rather than black ‘—there are always risks.’

And he was the biggest risk of all, Bella thought weakly, hardly recognising herself. This couldn’t possibly be her, could it? Lying compliant and quiet next to a virile, dominant male. The desert must finally have affected her brain.

But this time she didn’t make the mistake of trying to snuggle.

She couldn’t face another rejection.

Just looking at him was enough to make her want him again and when he leant forward to deliver a lingering kiss to her mouth, her tummy tumbled and she waited in a fever of anticipation.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Bella groaned and then realised that he was talking about food. ‘I—Great. Yes. Food.’

He looked at her for a long moment and then pulled himself up on his elbow. ‘This is not how I usually spend my time in the desert.’

Bella gave a faltering smile. ‘Am I supposed to say sorry?’ Suddenly he seemed remote and intimidating. ‘Can you stop acting like a sheikh? You make me feel uneasy.’

‘How do you want me to act?’

‘Like a man.’ Her eyes lingered on the dark stubble that shaded his jaw. ‘You’re off duty.’

‘I’m never off duty. Responsibilities don’t go away just because you are not looking at them.’

Unsettled by the topic of conversation, Bella gave a saucy smile. ‘You’ve got to learn to relax and have fun. Talking of which—’ She pounced on him, pushing him onto his back, using the element of surprise to her advantage. ‘Now you’re in my power.’

He looked at her with mocking, slumberous eyes. ‘You think so, habibiti?’

‘Surrender or be punished.’ She nipped his jaw with her teeth, loving the rough texture—helplessly, hopelessly attracted to his raw masculinity. ‘By the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t need a harem.’ A girl could become addicted to his mouth.

‘You are a one-woman harem.’ He groaned, cupping her face in his hands and bringing her mouth down to his with determined force. ‘And you are driving me mad.’

‘I have that effect on people,’ Bella murmured against his mouth, her hair sliding around them like a gold curtain, locking them into their own private world. ‘Just lie still while I drive you even madder.’

Zafiq poured milk into a cup and stared at the sunrise.

What was he doing?

An entire day and night had passed and the only time they’d left the tent was to cool down in the still waters of the oasis. How could he have lost track of time? Since when had he had so little self-control that he couldn’t resist a beautiful woman?

He’d forgotten duty, responsibility—everything except the vivacious, feisty, incredibly sexy girl in his bed.

‘Don’t tell me—’ her voice came from behind him ‘—you’re standing there thinking we shouldn’t be doing this.’

Zafiq turned and almost dropped the milk. Despite the lack of bathroom facilities her hair hung smooth and sleek over her shoulder, like honey poured from the jar. Her eyes were the same blue as the cloudless sky and they sparkled with life and happiness. He’d never met a woman so vital and energetic. ‘For someone who can’t wait to escape from the desert, you look remarkably content.’

‘I am content.’ Ignoring the cup of milk in his hand, she wound her arms around him, completely uninhibited. ‘The desert is growing on me. I like some of its inhabitants.’

His senses overwhelmed by the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body, Zafiq stood stiffly, bemused by the feelings that besieged him. Accustomed to people treating him with the appropriate degree of deference and distance, he found her tactile, affectionate nature faintly disturbing. She had no idea how she was supposed to behave with him.

And he had no idea how to behave with her.

Struggling against his natural tendency to keep people at a distance, he finally lifted his hand to stroke her back but she’d already pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes suddenly guarded, as if his lack of response had injured her.

‘So—’ her tone was a shade cooler than it had been a moment earlier ‘—what are we going to do today?’

What he wanted to do was drag her back against him but his years of ruthless self-discipline acted like chains, preventing him from freely expressing his emotions. He took refuge in the practical. ‘You need to eat—’

‘Is this breakfast? I’ve lost track—’ She gazed at the mug in his hand and her lips curved into a cheeky smile. ‘What’s that you’re holding? Milk-sheikh?’ Glancing at his face, she shrugged. ‘Sorry. That’s my last sheikh joke, I promise. And I’ll behave. I know you want solitude so I’ll just stay here for the rest of the day and you can go and do whatever it is you do when you’re by yourself.’

Zafiq looked up at the position of the sun and gauged whether he still had time to ride before the sun grew too hot for the horses.

‘We will eat and then ride together.’ He had no idea what made him make the suggestion but suddenly solitude seemed less appealing than having this gorgeous, spirited woman by his side when he rode.

‘Do you only ever give orders?’ Taking the milk from him, she knelt down on the rug with easy grace and helped herself to a date from the bowl he’d prepared. ‘Mmm. I love these. They’re completely different from the ones at home.’

‘Are you a confident rider?’

She nibbled the rich, dark flesh of the date and licked her fingers. ‘Is that a serious question?’

Blinded by a sudden vision of her straddling him, Zafiq tensed, shocked into silence by the sheer force of his response to her.

She looked at him expectantly. ‘I won’t fall off the horse if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Her expression was slightly puzzled, as if she was trying to work out what he was thinking. ‘I’ve ridden since I was a child.’

‘Your last experience on the back of a horse wasn’t a huge success.’

‘The riding was fine—it was my sense of direction that was at fault.’ Her fingers closed round another date. ‘Well, the horse’s sense of direction wasn’t anything to write home about either, but I suppose that’s not her fault. The desert looks the same in every direction.’

‘On the contrary, it is a varied landscape if you keep your eyes open.’

‘That’s where I was going wrong…’ Bella finished her milk and ate a piece of the bread he’d prepared. ‘I collapsed unconscious and I haven’t yet learned to do that with my eyes open. This food is absolutely delicious, thank you.’

Zafiq found it impossible to look away from her. Kneeling on the rug she was like some pagan goddess—lean and supple, fit and strong, her long limbs a warm honey gold under the hot desert sun. Even without access to a bathroom mirror and a bag full of cosmetics, she dazzled. And she was a woman who knew how to use her looks. The fact that, right now, she was too busy gorging on dates and licking her fingers to worry about seduction made her all the more seductive.

Zafiq felt the heat streak through his body. And he’d ordered her to spend the day with him. Was he mad? ‘The trousers you were wearing yesterday are dry now. Put them on. It will be more comfortable and protect your legs.’ And his sanity. ‘And stay in my tracks.’

‘What happens if I don’t?’

‘Amira goes into deep sand and breaks a leg,’ Zafiq said bluntly and saw horror cross her features.

‘Right. I’ll follow you, then.’

‘So you will behave for the horse, but not for me?’ He was once again forced to rethink his initial assessment of her as selfish and shallow. Whether she realised it or not, she was constantly revealing glimpses of the soft, caring woman under the defiant, independent exterior.

‘I’ve always been better with horses than people. I find them more straightforward.’

Zafiq paused with his hand on the stallion’s head, wondering what she meant by that remark. Curious, he turned to look at her but she was making a fuss of the horse, her profile revealing nothing. She looked young. Vulnerable.

Reminding himself that there was no room in his life for a woman like her, Zafiq turned back to his horse. ‘You need to change your clothes.’

He heard the soft tread of her footsteps as she walked away, but she was back only moments later, dressed in the cotton trousers she’d been wearing when he’d rescued her, her long hair now falling in a thick plait between her shoulder blades, secured by another strand taken from a date palm. For ingenuity, he couldn’t fault her.

‘Wear a scarf over your mouth and nose.’ Handing her a length of soft cloth, he showed her how to wind it around her face so that it protected her from the sand.

Just when he was confident he had his reactions firmly under control, she lowered her eyelashes seductively. ‘Do I look mysterious? Is this where I do the dance of the seven scarves?’

Heat ripped through him, sharp and dangerous as a blade. Gritting his teeth, Zafiq secured the fabric and stepped back from her. ‘You are obsessed with harems and dancing.’ But the scarf simply accentuated her beautiful eyes and he caught her by the waist, virtually flung her onto the back of the mare, before turning away abruptly.

Never before had he struggled to stay in control. He’d taken it as an indication of his own strength but now he realised that his control had never been truly tested. Until now.

Vaulting onto his stallion, Zafiq gathered up the reins and turned to look at her. She sat easily on the horse, as lean and athletic as she’d been in the pool. And she watched him with those dangerously beautiful eyes.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘I’m going to show you that there’s a world beyond your laptop and your iPod.’ His eyes clashed with hers and for a disturbing moment the future loomed in the background, a stark reminder that this wasn’t his life. Or hers. Just an interlude. And then he reminded himself that the future had no place in what they shared. This was about the moment. This was about now. ‘I’m going to show you the desert.’

Chapter Six

BELLA urged Amira faster, screwing up her eyes as the horse’s hooves pounded the sand into a golden mist. Ahead of her, the Sheikh’s powerful stallion thundered across the desert and she gave a shout of laughter because each time she did this it gave her the most incredible high.

It felt fantastic to be back on a horse, and riding in the desert was the most exciting, exhilarating experience to be had.

She’d ridden out with Zafiq every morning and evening for the past three days and she couldn’t remember ever being so happy. When they weren’t riding they were making love or cooling off in the still waters of the beautiful pool or nibbling dates and talking.

She’d never felt so free.

Leaning forward against the mare’s neck Bella shifted her weight and drove the animal forward, closing the distance. Over the past few days she’d watched and learned. No deep sand here, she thought, anxious not to harm the horse in any way, remembering everything Zafiq had taught her. The horse was fast, so fast that the scrap of silk protecting her face unravelled itself as she drew alongside the Sheikh’s stallion. Thrilled that she’d matched his speed for the first time, Bella challenged him with a smile and saw his mouth tighten in disapproval and exasperation.

You’re going to pay the price for that one, Bella, she thought to herself and then his eyes gleamed and he pulled away from her, squeezing every last drop of energy from the horse with his skilled riding. The black stallion seemed to float across the sand, his tail high, his neck arched—strength and power visible in every muscle of his sleek body. Watching the power unleashed, Bella thought to herself that horse and rider were well matched.

Finally Zafiq urged the powerful beast round the base of a sand dune and Bella followed, coughing as sand flew into her mouth.

She was still choking when a bottle of water was pushed into her hand.

‘Drink.’

Bella drank, the water soothing her dusty throat. ‘My scarf slipped. I’ve been swallowing sand for the past five minutes.’ Despite the lateness of the day, the sun was still a fiery ball in the cloudless sky, the intense heat shimmering over the surface of the sand.

But she was protected now—hat, cream and the knowledge that the cool waters of the oasis waited for them back at the desert camp.

Glancing at him, she saw that his eyes were fixed on the horizon. ‘You love it here, don’t you?’

For a moment he didn’t answer, and then he looked at her. ‘It is the one place I can be myself without answering to anyone.’

‘I thought you were the one giving the orders. Can’t you just tell them to leave you alone?’ The moment the words left her mouth she was embarrassed by her flippant response. Squirming on the back of her horse, Bella shrugged apologetically. ‘I mean, you are the Sheikh. You make the rules.’

‘My responsibility is to my people, and also to my family.’

Family. Responsibility.

Bella wiped her brow with the back of her hand, uncomfortably aware that the feelings inside her had nothing to do with the heat. ‘But you have to think of yourself too.’

‘That is why I allow myself five days in the desert.’

‘Five days.’ Bella took another sip of water, ignoring the lurch in her stomach. One more day to go. ‘Wow. As holiday entitlements go, that’s pretty stingy. You ought to have a word with human resources and renegotiate your working conditions. And why are you responsible for your family? Can’t they look after themselves?’

‘Our parents died when they were young. My brothers and sisters rely on me.’

‘Everyone seems to rely on you. So if you like family so much, why haven’t you married?’ Bella handed the water back to him, distracted by the shadow of stubble that darkened his strong jaw. ‘Don’t you want kids of your own?’

‘My wishes are secondary to the needs of my people. If it were my personal choice, I would never marry.’ Zafiq sat relaxed on the stallion, his expression unreadable as he studied the wind patterns in the sand. ‘But at some point I will take a wife, yes. And we will have children. It is necessary.’

‘Wow. With that much enthusiasm behind it, how can it fail?’ Bella felt a stab of emotion she didn’t recognise. ‘So when the pressure gets too much, you’re going to pick a suitable wife. Someone with the right breeding.’ Someone completely unlike her—someone who didn’t have bad Balfour blood and an uncertain temperament.

‘Of course.’

‘What if you don’t love her?’

He frowned. ‘Love isn’t a requirement. I will make sure that I pick someone I can respect and admire. That will be enough.’

‘And she’ll marry you for the status. Not because she loves you but because of who you are.’ Her thoughts shifting to the discovery she’d made the night of the Balfour Ball, Bella couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone. ‘And what about your kids? How do you think your children will feel about that when they grow up? Do you think it’s good for a child to know that her father never loved her mother? And what about your wife? Aren’t you afraid she might fall in love and have an affair?’

‘My wife would never have any reason to stray.’ He spoke with utter conviction, his hand steady on the bridle as he watched her curiously. ‘Are you going to tell me why this subject upsets you so deeply?’

‘It doesn’t upset me,’ Bella snapped, and Amira gave a nervous whinny and sidestepped into Zafiq’s stallion. With a show of superb horsemanship and controlled strength, Zafiq calmed both animals and Bella stroked a shaking hand down her horse’s mane, horrified by her loss of control. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘None of my business. Let’s ride, shall we?’

‘You seem to have strong views on marriage.’ His tone was a shade cooler. ‘Have you been married?’

‘No! That’s one mistake I haven’t made.’ Probably the only one, Bella thought bleakly, turning the mare and urging her back towards their desert camp. Why, oh, why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? The last thing she wanted to do was think about the mess she’d left behind at home.

Ironic, she thought to herself, that four days ago she couldn’t wait to get back to civilisation. Now, she was dreading it.

Zafiq was by her side, holding the stallion firmly, refusing to allow him to surge ahead. ‘You’ve never been married, and yet you have had men.’

‘No, I was a virgin until I met you,’ she said flippantly, wondering why she should care that his face darkened with masculine disapproval.

Since when had she needed anyone’s approval?

She’d grown up disappointing everyone.

She should be used to it by now.

Horrified by the sudden weakness that had her tempted to confess her whole messy life history, Bella urged Amira forward.

What was the matter with her? Why would she want to spill her guts to this guy who wouldn’t understand anything about her life? And anyway, she didn’t want to think about being Bella Balfour. She didn’t want the name Balfour intruding on their few days of desert bliss.

Bella was so shocked by that thought, she pulled the mare to a halt again.

Bliss?

She looked around her as if she were seeing the desert for the first time. She studied the strange swirling patterns on the red-gold sand, the steep rise of the dunes and the sheer magnitude of the scenery around her. She thought of the sunsets she’d seen—of the blazing red ball of fire sinking down below the horizon and the incredible stars, shining in the night sky like diamonds against dark velvet in a jeweller’s window.

‘Now what’s wrong?’ Zafiq was by her side, his expression concerned. ‘Are you hurt? Is the sand bothering you?’

Yes, the sand was bothering her, but not in the way she’d expected.

‘I-it’s beautiful,’ Bella said huskily. ‘We could be the only two people on earth.’

‘A few days ago that would have horrified you, along with the absence of conditioner and a mirror.’

‘I know. Worrying, isn’t it?’ Bella gave a humourless laugh and swiped a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘Now I know I need a therapist.’

‘Time for reflection in the desert is as good as a therapist. Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you?’

She didn’t dare admit it was the thought of going back to civilisation. ‘Do you ever wish life could just stay this simple,’ she blurted out and saw his eyes narrow.

‘I don’t allow myself to think like that because I know it’s not an option.’

‘Don’t you ever think about yourself?’

‘Yes.’ His gaze held hers. ‘This week, I have pleased no one but myself.’

‘You’ve pleased me,’ she whispered, and Zafiq hesitated and then reached across and took her hand.

‘Tell me what is wrong.’

It was the first time he’d touched her in a way that wasn’t sexual and the moment was all the more poignant because she knew the only reason he was offering her comfort was because he didn’t know her. Not really. Once he discovered she was Bella Balfour—once he heard all the scandal and gossip—he’d walk away without looking back.

She removed her hand from his. ‘What could possibly be troubling me?’

‘You have told me very little of your real life.’

Because it was an empty, useless life. A life that mattered to no one…

‘I’m here to get away from my real life, like you.’ Bella stroked the mare gently and the horse snorted and stamped at the sand, sensing her rider’s tension.

‘You said your father sent you here—’

‘Wasn’t that kind of him?’ She treated him to the dazzling smile she always used when she wanted men to lose the thread of a conversation, but he shot her a warning glance.

‘Unless you wish to end up flat on your back in the sand, do not play your tricks on me.’

‘I’m not playing tricks,’ Bella lied, piqued that she was still unable to penetrate that iron control of his. Even though he was flatteringly attentive when they were in bed, she didn’t fool herself that she was able to manipulate him. ‘My father sent me here because he thought I needed a break. Tell me why the horses don’t seem to mind the heat and the dust.’

Apart from a lingering look, he accepted the change of subject without argument. ‘The Arabian horse was bred to cope with the demands of this environment. The Bedouins were the Arab horse’s first protectors.’

‘So Batal has a good bloodline.’

‘As does your mare.’ Zafiq glanced across at her. ‘To the Bedouin, yours would be the more valuable animal. They preferred mares. They rode on horseback to attack neighbouring tribes and steal their cattle, and a stallion would be more likely to make a noise and alert the enemy.’

‘Girl power,’ Bella said with delight, stroking the mare’s neck. ‘I had no idea Amira is so valuable. No wonder you were so angry when you saw me riding her in the desert. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I may even have reason to thank you for your impulsive actions that day. The security at the stables was lax.’ His eyes darkened like a menacing storm cloud. ‘And I have my suspicions as to why…’

Bella looked at him expectantly. ‘Well? You can’t say something like that and then not finish the sentence! Why was security lax? To be honest I thought it was weird—one minute there were guards, and the next there was no one there. The place was empty.’

His jaw tightened. ‘Amira is the most valuable animal I own.’

‘If she’s that valuable, why was she stuck in stables in the middle of nowhere?’

‘Precisely because she is that valuable.’ He hesitated, as if he were making up his mind whether she could be trusted or not. ‘Breeding and racing Arab horses is a passion of mine. A lucrative passion. Unfortunately, some are jealous of the success I’ve been enjoying. The Al-Rafid Cup approaches and tensions are running high.’

‘I presume the Al-Rafid Cup is a horse race.’

‘It is a world-famous desert race that will be run a month from now. The winner of that race achieves much international prestige.’

Bella was intrigued. ‘And my Amira is going to run in that race?’

‘No, Batal will run in the race. And he will win.’

‘So what’s that got to do with Amira?’

‘The tradition is that the winner receives the best mare in the loser’s stable. If I lose, they will choose Amira.’

Bella felt a flash of horror at the thought of this beautiful horse going to a nameless stranger. ‘So what are you going to do about that?’

He gave a deadly smile. ‘I don’t intend to lose. However, I suspect that someone out there is exploring more creative ways of obtaining Amira. She is one of the most coveted mares in the world. She has already produced three Derby winners.’

Bella bristled. ‘Then you should have had security!’

‘There was security—’ Zafiq gave a humourless smile ‘—but clearly something went badly amiss. If you hadn’t wandered in when you did…’

‘You think they were about to steal her?’ Faint with horror, Bella tightened her grip on the reins. ‘Poor Amira. That’s so shocking—I wish I’d met them!’

Zafiq inhaled sharply and shot her a horrified look. ‘That would not have been good for you.’

‘It wouldn’t have been good for them if I’d known they were stealing a horse!’

‘You were stealing a horse,’ Zafiq pointed out drily, and Bella shrugged defensively.

‘Actually, I wasn’t. Not really. I was borrowing her. Short-term. That’s completely different.’

‘Your moral code seems a little confused.’

‘Blame it on two weeks in the Retreat. It drove me to a life of crime.’ Bella rubbed her hand down Amira’s mane protectively. ‘So you hid her out here in the desert so that she’d be safe. But someone found out. And they were going to steal her. But the simplest thing would be to make sure that Batal doesn’t win the Al-Rafid Cup, wouldn’t it? So basically, both horses are at risk.’

‘It would seem so.’ Zafiq’s eyes hardened and his tone was cold.

Bella tightened her fingers on the reins and glanced over her shoulder even though she knew they were the only people for miles. ‘If you know who this person is, can’t you stop them? Arrest them or something?’

‘Not without evidence, although I do have people working on that.’

‘You could just pull him out of the race.’

‘No. Batal deserves to win. He will win.’ The stallion swished his tail, as if he were agreeing with that statement. But Bella was still worried.

‘But if they’re willing to resort to theft—if Amira’s that clever and valuable—I shouldn’t be riding her,’ she said humbly, and Zafiq laughed.

‘Do you think I would have let you if I had not been confident in your skills?’ His eyes warmed slightly. ‘You have an amazing bond with her. I saw that when I rescued you from the desert. She didn’t leave you. And you ride well. You have a natural gift with horses.’

Ridiculously pleased by his praise, Bella gave a half-smile. ‘You think so?’

‘Yes. And you are less self-conscious when you are around the animals. You have stopped looking at your reflection in my dagger and worrying about your appearance.’

Had she?

Stunned by that observation, Bella frowned and realised that it was probably true.

And she knew why. He made her feel beautiful. For once, she didn’t need a mirror because she didn’t feel judged.

‘Before I was sent off to boarding school, I never thought about how I looked.’ It was something that hadn’t occurred to her before. ‘I just spent my whole life in the stables. With the horses.’ And being forced to exist without them had been torture.

‘You owned a horse as a child?’

Thinking of the stable full of horses at Balfour Manor, Bella flushed. ‘Well, I…rode quite often, yes. But not lately—’ Lately she’d been too busy messing up her life. ‘As a child it was my hobby.’ She hesitated, looking back on those days with a slightly sick feeling. ‘Three-day eventing—I don’t know if you have that here. Dressage, cross-country and showjumping.’

Should she have told him that much about herself? Bella stared at Amira’s mane, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut but then she reassured herself that Zafiq didn’t know anything about her past. He wasn’t going to know she’d been selected for the junior eventing squad when she was sixteen. He wasn’t going to have seen the newspaper coverage about her blowing her big chance.

‘Eventing takes considerable all-round skill.’ He looked at her with new respect. ‘Here, our passion is flat racing. It is a tradition that goes back centuries.’

‘On a racetrack?’

‘We have a famous racetrack in Al-Rafid, but the Al-Rafid Cup is raced in the desert.’

‘Isn’t that tough on the horses?’

‘It is a short race, run in the early morning when the air is cooler.’

‘But if someone really is trying to steal Amira, how are you going to keep her safe?’

‘She is safe here, with us.’

Us.

Bella wondered if he even realised what he’d said. Somehow over the past few days, they’d become a pair. A unit.

She concentrated again on the horse’s mane, terrified by what she was feeling. This man wasn’t right for her and this life wasn’t real, so why was she suddenly wishing she could stay in the desert forever?

Shaken by the thought, she glanced at the black stallion, who was prancing along the sand sideways, desperate to be allowed another burst of speed. ‘He’s so beautiful I’m surprised no one has tried to steal him too.’

‘Batal is infamous for his uncertain temper,’ Zafiq said drily. ‘No one who prefers their bones to be attached to one another, would steal this stallion.’

‘I think he’s a very genuine, gentle horse.’

‘With you he does seem to be astonishingly well behaved.’ Zafiq gave a faint smile. ‘It’s a compliment. Batal isn’t renowned for his people skills. If he were human he would have been sent to anger-management classes long ago.’

‘I think he’s sulking because Amira almost beat him in the race.’ Bella watched as the stallion’s ears twitched. ‘Are you afraid of being beaten by a woman, Batal? Just like your master. That’s why I had to let him win in the pool. To protect his male ego.’

‘My ego needs no protection,’ Zafiq drawled, and Bella narrowed her eyes and shifted in her saddle.

‘Race me again, then. No favours. The gloves are off.’

‘You are incapable of racing fairly. I can guarantee that the moment I’m about to start, you will remove your top or smile at me.’

Bella laughed. ‘Am I that bad?’

‘You are the most maddening, infuriating and seductive woman I’ve ever met.’

Her stomach flipped. They weren’t words of affection, but hearing that he found her seductive was better than nothing.

Flustered, she changed the subject again. ‘So shouldn’t we tell the stables that Amira is safe with you? They’ll think she’s been stolen.’

‘They know she’s with me.’

‘How can they possibly know she’s with you? Does she have a homing beacon or something? Satellite tracking device?’

‘I used the phone.’

Bella frowned in confusion. ‘But you told me you didn’t have a phone!’

‘No. I said I wouldn’t contact anyone to have you taken to civilisation.’ He delivered the facts in typically masculine style. ‘Unfortunately my position makes it impossible for me to be truly out of contact. The phone is for emergencies.’

‘Your horse was an emergency?’

‘She is a valuable animal. If I hadn’t contacted them there would have been a search party and many people would have been inconvenienced—’ he hesitated ‘—also, they would have come looking for you. And that would have led them to me.’

‘So people really don’t know exactly where you are.’

‘No, but they know they can contact me in a crisis.’

‘Can’t they handle it without you?’

‘I hope so.’ Cool and unconcerned, he guided the stallion to the right, reading the ground and avoiding potential dangers. ‘My brother is in charge—’

‘Don’t tell me—he’s always been jealous that you’re the eldest,’ Bella improvised wildly, ‘and while you’re away he’s gathering together all his supporters so that he can overthrow you. Maybe he’s the one who wants Batal to lose the race.’

Zafiq’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘My brother feels nothing but relief that the burden of responsibility is mine. He is a mild-mannered, overly sensitive, generous-spirited young man who lacks confidence. And he has charge of my stables.’

‘Sensitive and lacking in confidence? And he’s related to you?’ Bella rubbed her hand over Amira’s neck, a smile on her face. ‘You’re obviously at different ends of the gene pool.’

‘He is my father’s son by his second wife.’

‘Oh—’ Her smile faded. ‘I’d forgotten you had a wicked stepmother too.’

‘You had a wicked stepmother?’

Bella thought of Tilly and Lillian and flushed. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Not wicked.’ But neither had loved her, had they? Even her own father struggled to look at her. And now she understood why. Everything had been revealed on the night of the Balfour Ball. ‘So he’s your half-brother.’

Zafiq frowned, as if the term somehow offended him. ‘I think of Rachid as my brother in every sense of the word.’

Bella’s heart fluttered as she thought of what had happened the night of the ball. ‘So, you don’t think it matters that you have different biological parents?’

‘We were brought up together. We were raised as brothers.’

It was a different situation, Bella told herself numbly. His family didn’t involve lies and deceit. ‘You were really fond of your stepmother, then.’

Zafiq’s mouth tightened. ‘Didn’t you suggest that we drop this topic?’

She glanced at his profile, stunned by the sudden change in him. He was remote and intimidating, very much the ruling sheikh. Clearly things weren’t as smooth in his family as she’d first thought.

‘Sorry, I thought—’

‘Enough talking. I agree with your earlier suggestion—let’s ride.’ Without waiting for her response, he urged the stallion into a gallop, and Bella’s mare threw up her head in excitement.

‘At a guess I’d say he wasn’t that fond of his stepmother,’ Bella muttered, letting Amira have her head. ‘Which just goes to show that families have a lot to answer for.’

She rode into the camp just a few seconds behind him, the heat closing in on her and her mouth dry from the dust. Sliding off the mare, she patted her and took her across to the water.

Almost immediately she felt Zafiq behind her. His strong hands closed over her hips and he wrenched off her tunic and trousers, his mouth on her neck as he stripped her naked.

‘I have been waiting to do this all evening. Watching you on the horse has been driving me mad.’

Bella gasped, liquid heat pouring through her body and pooling low in her pelvis. Her knees buckled and she felt a rush of embarrassment because she wanted him so badly and she knew she shouldn’t. She turned in his arms and kissed him hungrily, her hands sliding over his bare torso, her mouth locked against the fierce demand of his. They fell to the ground, onto the rug that still held the remains of their earlier meal, not even bothering to make it the last few metres to the tent.

In the background Bella could hear the horses drinking and a faint splash as something fell and disturbed the stillness of the pool. Somehow the sounds of the open air were more evocative than any romantic music had ever been.

I’m never going to forget the desert, was her last coherent though before he sank into her in a single determined thrust that joined them completely.

She groaned his name and his hand cupped her face.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded huskily, and Bella stared up into his eyes and realised she’d never experienced intimacy before this moment. Never before had she stared into a man’s eyes as he made love to her, never before had she felt what she was feeling now. It was so real.

And yet how could it be real when they both had to return to their real lives?

How could it be real when he didn’t even know who she really was?

ZAFIQ stood with the satellite phone to his ear, listening to the panic in his younger brother’s voice. After making a few soothing noises, he sorted out each problem one at a time, issuing instructions and commands with cool authority. Only once did he falter and that was when his brother asked if he could cut his trip short by a day and return home early.

Zafiq’s hand tightened on the phone, the fact that he didn’t want to cut it short saying a great deal about his current state of mind.

Weakness, he thought grimly, cutting the connection and staring at the white canvas of the tent. The fact that he’d succumbed to her in the first place was a sign of weakness.

‘Who were you talking to?’

Her voice came from behind him and Zafiq felt a stab of guilt as he turned.

She was standing in the opening of the tent, watching him with a smile.

The fact that her smile made him want to strip off her tunic and flatten her to the bed reinforced the decision he’d made.

‘My brother needed to speak to me urgently.’ He knew he was going to hurt her and he was surprised by how badly he didn’t want to do that.

‘What about? Is something wrong?’ She strolled across to him, her feet bare, the dampness of her hair telling him she’d been enjoying the pool while he’d been on the phone. She slid her arms around his waist and Zafiq felt his body respond with predictable force. Heat erupted through him and he closed his hands around her arms and lowered his head.

Staring into those gorgeous blue eyes, something hard and uncomfortable formed inside him.

Was this how it had been for his father?

With a rough curse he put her away from him, like an addict denying a fix.

‘Zafiq? What’s happening? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘You’ve achieved your wish.’ Stunned by the need gnawing at him, Zafiq reached for his robe and drew it over his head, forcing himself to ignore the urge to tumble her back onto the bed. ‘I’m taking you back to civilization, habibiti.’

Silence greeted his announcement and when she did speak there was a frantic note to her voice. ‘What? When?’

‘Right now.’ Before he gave in to the wild, ravenous craving that was threatening to snap his self-control.

‘But I thought we had another day.’ There was panic in her voice and the hand that pushed her hair away from her face was shaking. ‘It’s just—you said you were here for five days.’

She’d been counting.

Zafiq picked up his knife, his knuckles white as he grasped the handle. ‘I am needed at the palace.’

‘But—’

‘I am needed!’ He didn’t look at her and it shamed him to admit even to himself that her influence over him was so great that he didn’t dare look her in the eye in case he gave in to temptation.

Life gave you difficult choices, he reminded himself grimly, and the important thing was to make the right ones. ‘We’ll return to the city before dark.’

‘That soon? We could stay one more night and go in the morning—’ Her voice faltered and Zafiq took a step backwards, battling a powerful urge to take her in his arms.

‘I’ll prepare the horses.’ Determined that this was one test he was not going to fail, he forced himself to ignore her slumped shoulders and strode out of the tent.

Chapter Seven

THE horses walked through dusty streets, past a souk selling brightly coloured silks, spices and jewellery and finally through an arched gateway that took them within the palace walls.

From the moment they’d entered the magnificent desert city of Al-Rafid they had been accompanied by mounted guards and Bella felt a rush of nostalgia for the simple life they’d led by the oasis. Astride his prancing black stallion, Zafiq was unmistakable as a man of power and authority and Bella had never felt more removed from him than she did now.

It didn’t help that he hadn’t once glanced in her direction since they’d reached the city.

Consoling herself that she was at least still by his side, Bella stroked Amira, taking comfort from the warmth of the mare’s shiny coat.

Zafiq rode into a beautiful courtyard dominated by a central fountain and swung out of the saddle. Reluctant to leave Amira, Bella stayed on the mare but he turned to look at her, his dark gaze unreadable.

‘The Retreat have sent your things. Your passport and travel documents are all intact. You have your wish—you are back in civilisation. There will be no charges for the theft of the horse. You are free to go.’

Go? Bella felt her insides drop. He was sending her away?

For a moment she thought she must have misunderstood him.

He couldn’t possibly be saying it was over, could he?

For the past four days they’d been as close as it was possible for a man and a woman to be. They’d shared everything.

Well, almost everything, she thought uncomfortably, thinking of all the things she hadn’t told him about herself.

But this couldn’t be about that. He couldn’t have found out yet, could he?

And Bella admitted to herself that she was dreading that moment.

For once she’d been able to live her life outside the persona that the media had created for her.

And she’d never been happier.

Perhaps he didn’t realise that she didn’t want to leave. After all, she’d gone on and on about hating the desert and wanting to get back to civilisation, hadn’t she? Perhaps he didn’t realise that she’d fallen in love with the desert—and him.

Bella froze with shock.

No. That couldn’t be right. Not love. She didn’t do love. Men fell in love with her. Men made fools of themselves over her. It didn’t happen the other way round.

With a shiver of panic, she touched the mare’s neck, feeling the animal quiver in response.

‘Miss Balfour?’

Hearing her name, Bella turned automatically and saw an elderly man studying her. He knew who she was. Her eyes flickered nervously to Zafiq but he was surrounded by people and she suddenly realised that up until this point she’d had no real sense of just how important he was. In the desert he had seemed like a strong, powerful man. Here, he was a ruler.

For a moment her mind flickered back to the unsmiling, cold man who had rescued her and then she remembered how he’d laughed with her, how they’d held each other in passion.

Suddenly she was desperate for him to smile at her again—

‘I am Kalif, His Royal Highness’s chief adviser. If you come with me, I can make the necessary arrangements.’

Still staring at Zafiq, Bella craned her neck to get a better view through the crowd, only half listening to the man. ‘Necessary arrangements for what?’

‘For your journey home.’

Arrangements to have her removed from the Sheikh’s life like some diseased piece of flesh.

She wasn’t a suitable woman for a sheikh to consort with in public.

Knowing that she was not being given a choice, Bella swung her leg over the horse and dismounted. ‘Thank you.’ Determined to maintain her dignity, she followed Kalif across the courtyard, struggling not to look back. It felt as though someone was pulling at her head and it was almost a relief when Kalif led her through a heavy door and into an ornate corridor.

‘Your things were forwarded from the Retreat, Miss Balfour. I have them here.’ He led her into a large airy room, dominated by an antique desk and large, colourful tapestries depicting desert scenes.

Bella stared at her designer suitcase, feeling as though it had come from a different life. A few days ago she would have been desperate to lay her hands on it, but now?

Wordlessly, she crossed the room and yanked the zip down. Inside was everything she’d been craving. There was her laptop, her phone, her iPod, a mirror, make-up—all the things she’d learned to live without.

She had everything. She stared at the contents blankly, realising that the only thing she wanted was Zafiq.

That feeling of being wanted. That feeling of being connected with someone.

Confronting the unpalatable fact that for him it had just been sexual, Bella gave a twisted smile. When had men ever wanted anything else from her?

Kalif cleared his throat. ‘The owner of the Retreat asked me to deliver a message to you.’

Staring down at the stark reminder of her real life, Bella barely heard him. ‘What was the message?’

‘He said that he hopes you will find peace.’

‘Fat chance,’ Bella muttered, zipping the bag closed so violently that the mechanism jammed.

‘Bella Balfour?’

Zafiq’s hand whitened on the newspaper article. Dropping it on his desk, he picked up the next one, this time a glossy gossip magazine with a stunningly beautiful blonde snapped arriving at Balfour Manor for the annual ball. The headline was Bella of the Ball and the girl was wearing a shocking dress so short that it barely skimmed the top of her incredible legs. Her blonde hair gleamed like a sunflower on a summer day and her bold blue eyes flirted with the camera.

She was so impossibly glamorous he barely recognised her as the girl who had plaited her hair and tied it with the leaf of a date palm. The girl who had galloped across the sand, an expression of sheer happiness on her face.

Kalif cleared his throat. ‘As you can see, Your Highness, she is extremely high profile.’

Zafiq gave a hollow laugh as he flicked through the magazines.

Fashion icon.

Party queen.

He only needed to briefly scan what was in front of him to know that the woman he’d become obsessed with bore a striking similarity to his late stepmother.

With no qualm or conscience, Bella Balfour had flirted with him and slept with him. He couldn’t even blame it on misunderstanding because she’d actually given him a false name.

None of the emotions she’d expressed had been genuine.

Shock held him rigid, the raw tension in his powerful frame the only outward manifestation of his inner pain.

For the first time ever, he’d let a woman close. And not any woman—this woman.

‘The newspaper editors must have felt as though they’ve been operating in their own desert over the past few weeks without Bella Balfour to give them material.’ Somehow he kept his voice level. ‘There must have been a panic when she disappeared. It’s fortunate I contacted the Retreat. I’m surprised her family didn’t have a search party out looking for her.’

‘It appears that Miss Balfour has a reputation for being involved in somewhat wild goings-on,’ Kalif murmured, his expression neutral. ‘Her disappearance caused nothing more than a few raised eyebrows.’

Digesting that piece of information, Zafiq stared sightlessly out of the window. Wild goings-on.

It was like listening to the complaints he’d heard about his stepmother.

‘Where is Miss Balfour now?’

‘I have had her taken to a bedroom suite, Your Highness. Given that there is no flight to England until tomorrow afternoon, it seemed like the best plan. Miss Balfour seemed rather subdued.’

‘Subdued?’ Zafiq gestured to the newspapers with a sweep of his hand. ‘Are we talking about the same woman?’

Kalif hesitated. ‘She looked pale after the ride through the desert. I took the precaution of asking the palace physician to examine her.’

Clearly she was worried that her lies had been exposed.

And the fact that she was still in his palace disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

Somewhere, right now, she was probably standing naked under a shower, letting the water cool her beautiful body as she’d done so many times over the previous few days.

Picking up another newspaper, Zafiq stared at the headline in blank silence.

Balfour Family in Ruins.

‘This woman appears to make the front pages with monotonous regularity. Clearly she is an inveterate attention seeker. Thank you, Kalif,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t let me delay you. I know you have things to do.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

As his chief adviser melted out of the room Zafiq stood without moving, his eyes fixed on the gorgeous, glamorous girl on the pages in front of him.

Was it any wonder he’d behaved like a sex-starved adolescent? He was a red-blooded male and Bella Balfour was a distractingly beautiful woman.

But it hadn’t just been her beauty that had appealed to him—it had been her spirit, her vitality, her lack of deference.

There had been times when he could cheerfully have throttled her and other times when he’d relished the challenge she’d presented.

She’d excited him as no other woman ever had and she hadn’t been afraid to stand up to him. Nor had she been afraid to lie.

Not once during the intimacy they’d shared had she told him who she really was.

And that, he thought grimly as he scooped all the papers up and deposited them in the bin, said everything that needed to be said about her. Bella Balfour was a wild child with no sense of responsibility or duty.

Holding that fact in his head, Zafiq swiftly showered, shaved and changed into a suit and tie, ready for his meeting.

Knowing she was there, in his palace, placed an almost intolerable burden on his self-control.

He wasn’t going to go and see her, he told himself savagely, striding through the palace, oblivious to the anxious looks people were casting in his direction. Tomorrow she’d be back in her old life, and the temptation would be removed.

The one thing he did not need in his life was a wild child.

Bella sat at the ornate window seat, staring into space.

Her face was wet with tears and when she heard the door of her room opening she quickly turned her face towards the window, not wanting anyone to see her crying.

‘I honestly don’t need a doctor,’ she muttered thickly, ‘but thanks for the thought.’

‘If you are told to see a doctor, then you’ll see one,’ Zafiq said coldly, and Bella tensed, anger shooting through her like the flame from a blow torch.

‘Go away! I don’t have anything to say to you. You’re a complete and utter bastard, Zafiq.’ She heard the door slam shut and wondered for a moment if he’d stormed out of the room, but then she heard his firm, confident tread as he walked towards her.

‘I could have you imprisoned for that remark.’

‘Is that how you dump women you don’t want any more? You throw them in your dungeon?’

‘I don’t have dungeons,’ he gritted, ‘any more than I have a harem.’

‘Careful, Zafiq, you’re on the verge of losing that precious control of yours.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest, not looking at him, devastated by his rejection. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

‘I want to know why you lied to me.’

‘I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you the truth.’

‘Stop acting like a spoiled child,’ he thundered, ‘and answer my question!’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Why are you sulking?’

‘I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.’

‘A whole new experience for you, I should imagine.’ His acid tone stung and she gave a hollow laugh.

‘Ahh…I see you’ve been reading about me. My life story in headlines.’

‘Why did you tell me you were called Kate?’

‘Because for five minutes of my life I didn’t want to be Bella Balfour, OK?’ Her voice rose. ‘Try having a surname like mine and maybe you’d understand.’ Overwhelmed by emotion, Bella turned her head and looked at him for the first time and immediately regretted it. He looked spectacular, his powerful shoulders emphasised by the cut of his expensive suit, his tie a bold splash of designer silk.

‘Nice tie,’ she said flatly, turning away quickly but not quite quickly enough. He’d seen the tears on her cheeks and he gave a soft curse and strode over to her.

‘Make me understand,’ he ordered in a thickened tone. ‘I want to know what you were doing at the Retreat. I want to understand why you ran away and I want to understand why you lied to me.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bella said wearily. ‘Why don’t you just go and do whatever it is you do. It’s over. I get the message. You don’t need to hammer it home.’ She heard him catch his breath.

‘You are on the front page of every British newspaper,’ he growled. ‘You are “Bad Bella.” You’re the “terrible twin.”’

Bella flinched—each ghastly headline felt as though he were throwing a brick at her. ‘So why are you asking me? It should be quite obvious to a man of your intelligence why I didn’t tell you who I was.’

‘Why were you at the Retreat?’

She gave a hollow laugh. ‘You obviously weren’t concentrating when you read the newspapers.’

‘There were rather a lot of them.’

‘My father sent me away to think about my life.’

‘A task at which you were clearly a spectacular failure.’

Feeling attacked, Bella drew her knees up to her chest. ‘Absolutely. I’m pretty much a disaster at everything I touch. But that’s what everyone expects and I hate to disappoint them.’ Her flippant tone concealed oceans of agony and suddenly she was afraid she wasn’t going to hold it together in front of him. She needed to drive him away. ‘Look, this thing between us—it was just a fling. We both knew it wasn’t anything else. You’re not my type.’

‘And you’re certainly not mine.’

She gave a half-smile. ‘Finally we agree on something. So let’s just move on with our lives, Your Highness.’

There was a long, protracted silence. ‘I expected to find you on your laptop. You were desperate to be taken back to civilisation. You used every trick up your sleeve to persuade me to bring you to Al-Rafid.’

At the beginning. Bella had to bite her lip to stop herself from reminding him that by the end she’d used every trick she knew to persuade him not to bring her back.

How did she tell him that she felt utterly defeated? That nothing that had happened in her life so far had felt a fraction as painful as the fact that he was sending her away.

‘Look at me, Kate!’ He muttered under his breath and jabbed his fingers through his hair. ‘I mean, Bella.’

Something in his tone made her turn her head and, in that single painful look, they shared something so honest that the feeling drove the breath from her lungs. The seconds stretched into a minute and still the tension pulsated between them until Bella lost her grip on control.

‘Zafiq—’

‘No.’ He snarled the word like an animal in pain and stepped away from her as if she were infectious. ‘That is not possible.’

Bella felt as though someone had crushed her heart with a brick. ‘Right. No. Of course it isn’t. Silly me.’ The pain in her throat was almost intolerable and she swallowed hard, trying to dispel the lump as he strode towards the door.

‘There is a flight to England tomorrow afternoon. You’re booked on it.’

Bella’s heart dropped and she felt a sudden rush of panic. It suddenly dawned on her that he actually was sending her home. ‘No!’ For a moment she forgot to be cool or dismissive. She forgot to pretend she didn’t care what was happening. She forgot everything except the fact that he was sending her back to England.

And suddenly she realised how calm and relaxed she’d felt in the desert with Zafiq. She’d discovered a side of herself she hadn’t known existed. And now he was sending her back to her old life. There would be mirrors and bottles of conditioner, make-up and the whole of her wardrobe. Even without her allowance, she knew she could earn money. A single magazine shoot would make her enough money to survive for several months.

She’d be back to being Bad Bella Balfour.

And the paparazzi would hound her. It didn’t matter what she did, everyone would think the worst of her because that’s what they always did.

And the thought sickened her.

She didn’t want to use her family name to make money.

She didn’t want to use her family name at all.

‘Whatever we shared is over.’ Zafiq spoke with a brutal frankness that cut like the lash of a whip but Bella was past caring about pride and dignity.

‘Don’t send me back!’ She jumped off the window seat and sprinted across to him, grabbing his arm with her fingers.

He shook her off, his eyes cold. ‘We had sex, Bella. Nothing more. And don’t pretend you’re a stranger to that type of relationship.’

She didn’t bother correcting him.

‘You don’t understand—’ Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I—I’m begging you, Zafiq. Don’t send me back.’

His gaze was hard and unsympathetic. ‘What? No flirtation? Have you decided to go straight to feminine tears and bypass your usual seduction routine?’

‘I don’t blame you for thinking that way,’ Bella whispered, ‘but this is different. I’m not putting on an act. I—I can’t go back. The press will destroy me, and my family has had enough bad publicity because of me. I just want to stay out of the way.’

‘Then go and visit Europe.’

‘I don’t have the money—’ Her face was scarlet and Zafiq made a contemptuous sound.

‘So you don’t care about your family. And you’re asking me for money.’

‘No!’ Her voice rang with passion and her fingers shook as she rubbed the tears from her eyes. ‘That isn’t what I’m asking. I—Will you—I want you to give me a job.’

Stunned silence greeted her outburst and she didn’t blame him. She was as shocked as he was.

‘A job?’ Zafiq looked at her with incredulous disbelief and then started to laugh. ‘What sort of job? Chief troublemaker?’

His lack of belief in her stung, and she lifted her chin. Now he knew she was Bella Balfour he was making the same assumptions as everyone else. ‘I wouldn’t cause trouble—’

‘Bella, you just have to walk into a room and trouble walks up and smacks you on the cheek,’ he said wearily. ‘And there is no job in my palace that would encompass your unique skill set.’

Suddenly she was determined to show him. To show everyone. ‘You need someone in your stables,’ Bella blurted out, catching his arm as he turned to leave. She felt the muscle flex under her fingers and removed her hand instantly, stung by the sudden physical connection that threatened to burn her alive. ‘Please, just listen to me for a moment. I’m good with your horses, you said so yourself. Let me look after Amira. I’ll be her groom. I’ll train her. I’ll sleep in her box. Anything, but let me stay here.’

‘A job in my stables requires hard work and discipline. I have seen no evidence of either quality in you.’

‘I can work hard!’

‘When did you last get up at five in the morning and muck out a stable?’

‘Never,’ Bella said honestly, ‘but—’

‘Bella, you wouldn’t last a day in my stables.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Give me the job and I’ll prove you wrong.’

Zafiq stared at her in brooding silence and Bella swallowed, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he must be able to see it. This was a different man from the one she’d teased and laughed with in the desert. This man had never veered from duty and responsibility and she had no doubt that his authority was absolute. ‘Please, Zafiq. Don’t send me home.’

She saw indecision shadow his handsome face, saw his eyes flicker to her mouth, and then instantly move away as if the glance might have fatal consequences.

‘My Master of Horse is called Yousif,’ he said coldly. ‘He has complete authority over the running of my stables. If he mentions to me once, just once, that you have been anything other than an asset, then you will be on the first flight out of Al-Rafid Airport.’

‘Thank you,’ Bella muttered, her legs melting with relief as she realised he’d actually agreed to her request. She told herself that it didn’t matter that she’d probably never see him again—at least, not alone. The only thing that really mattered was that she didn’t have to go home to her old life. ‘Thank you.’

‘You get one chance, Bella, and then you’re out.’

It was back-breaking work.

Up at five every morning, Bella dragged herself down to the stables, so tired that it felt as though someone had attached lead weights to her limbs.

It didn’t help that all the other grooms and trainers viewed her with nothing but suspicion.

Yousif, Zafiq’s Master of Horse, was civil enough to her but she knew he was waiting for her to slip up.

They were all waiting for her to slip up.

And she was concentrating so hard on not slipping up that she was like a cat on hot bricks.

But she’d promised Zafiq that she’d prove him wrong, and she was determined to do that, no matter how many nails she broke in the process.

She was allocated four horses to look after, including Amira and Batal, and she was horribly conscious of the responsibility she had caring for the Sheikh’s favourite and most valuable horses.

But to her surprise, she loved the work. It reminded her of her childhood, when life had been so much less complicated.

She cleaned out stables, she groomed the horses but her real responsibility was Amira and she lavished the mare with love and attention.

‘You’re the only person who isn’t waiting for me to slip on a banana skin,’ she told the mare as she brushed the horse’s coat, two weeks after she’d begged Zafiq for the job.

She wondered if anyone had mentioned to Zafiq that she was doing a good job.

Had he even asked after her progress?

‘You are caring for Amira?’

Hearing an unfamiliar male voice behind her, Bella pushed her damp hair away from her eyes and turned, automatically braced to defend herself.

Had she made a mistake? Was there something she’d overlooked?

A young man stood watching her, admiration in his eyes.

Recognising the Sheikh’s younger brother, Bella rubbed her hands over her trousers self-consciously, knowing she was filthy. ‘Your Highness.’

‘Do you know Amira has bred several Derby winners?’ He strolled into the stable and stroked the horse’s neck. ‘Batal had better win the Al-Rafid Cup for us this year, or we will lose her, and Zafiq would be devastated.’

Bella felt her mouth dry. She wondered whether it was the mention of the Sheikh’s name or the thought of losing Amira that made her feel so sick. ‘Batal will win. He’s the fastest horse I’ve ever seen.’

‘Fast and difficult. He has just thrown Kamal, his jockey.’

‘No!’ Horrified, Bella dropped the brush she was holding and Amira threw her head in the air, picking up the sudden tension. ‘He fell? Why?’

‘Batal spooked and threw him. Kamal has been taken to the hospital. He won’t be riding in the Al-Rafid Cup.’

Horrified by that news, Bella curved her arms protectively around Amira. ‘Is he seriously injured?’

‘Broken bones. Not life threatening, but enough to make sure he can’t ride Batal for the foreseeable future.’

Bella thought of what that might mean for Amira. The black stallion was the only horse in the Sheikh’s stables sure of winning the race. ‘Someone else will have to ride Batal!’

‘Batal is a killing machine,’ Rachid said flatly. ‘It is unlikely that any of the other jockeys will volunteer. Especially with Kamal now in hospital. He is the Sheikh’s top jockey. If he can’t stay on the animal, no one can.’

‘The Sheikh has no trouble riding him.’

‘Sheikh Zafiq is an exceptional rider. But he is not allowed to ride Batal in the race.’

Bella kissed Amira, unable to bear the thought of losing her.

What was Zafiq thinking at the moment, knowing that he was going to lose his favourite mare? She knew how much he loved Amira…

He must be devastated.

She tried not to think about the fact that two weeks had passed and he hadn’t even come down to the stables to see how she was getting on. He’d visited sporadically, but always when she was off exercising one of the horses. And she was reduced to straining her ears to catch snippets of conversation that involved the Sheikh. And she heard nothing but praise. After two weeks of listening to gossip, it was obvious to her that Zafiq was universally adored.

It was also obvious that he was making sure that he didn’t bump into her.

It was as if their relationship had never happened.

A mirage, Bella thought miserably. A fantasy conjured up out of the burning sands and desert heat.

She wondered if Zafiq’s brother realised he probably wasn’t supposed to be talking to her.

A terrible commotion came from the stallion’s stall and Bella stopped thinking about Zafiq and hurried to the door with Prince Rachid right behind her.

‘Batal is in a bad temper. He has only half killed one rider today and he wants another victim.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘He reminds me of my brother. He has also been in a volatile mood since his return from the desert.’

‘You probably shouldn’t be telling me that,’ Bella muttered, watching with a frown on her face as Batal kicked his box hard and squealed with fury. ‘I’d better go and see if I can calm him down. What’s the matter with him?’

‘He needs to be ridden properly,’ Yousif said wearily, hurrying across to the stallion who greeted him by flattening his ears to his head and showing the whites of his eyes. ‘But His Highness is busy with state business, Kamal is in hospital and the horse will allow no one else on his back.’

Bella bit her lip. ‘I’ll ride him.’ She put down the body brush she’d been using to groom Amira and wiped her shiny forehead with the hem of her T-shirt. Seeing Rachid’s eyes widen she blushed hotly. ‘Sorry. Look, you have belly dancers here, don’t you? What’s the difference?’ Hoping her thoughtless action wasn’t going to get her sacked, Bella hurried across to Yousif. After seeing the horrified reaction when she’d appeared in a pair of miniscule shorts on her first day, she’d been so careful to wear modest T-shirts and long trousers, reminding herself that it was better to boil to death in the desert heat than be sent back to England in disgrace. ‘Let me take Batal onto the racetrack.’

‘That is out of the question. It is too much of a risk.’

‘For whom? Me or the stallion?’

‘A girl of your little strength would be unable to handle such an animal,’ Yousif said stiffly, ‘and a woman riding alone would be inappropriate. Go to the main barn and order one of the other jockeys to come and ride him.’

Bella pushed her sweaty hair away from her face, tempted to stick her face in Batal’s water bucket just to cool down. ‘They won’t want to. Not with Kamal lying in hospital as a horrible warning.’

‘Go and tell Hassan. If he values his job, he will exercise the stallion.’

Bella opened her mouth to point out that Hassan probably valued his neck more than his job, and then closed it again. She couldn’t afford to fall out with anyone. She was all too aware that her own job security hung by a thread.

Nodding to the grim-faced Yousif, she walked over to the barn and found several of the jockeys together, discussing who would ride Batal in the race that was looming closer.

‘Hassan—’ Bella picked out the jockey who had become a friend. ‘Give me your clothes.’

The young man put his hands on his hips and grinned suggestively. ‘You are seducing me, no? You find my masculinity overwhelming?’

Bella sighed. Had everyone read the newspaper coverage on her? ‘No,’ she said wearily, refraining from pointing out that after four days with the Sheikh, she had a whole new take on masculinity. ‘I’m saving your job and your life. But I need a spare set of your clothes. Just do it, Hassan. I’ve been up since five, I’m hot and tired and my leg is sore because Amira just nipped me.’

‘Lucky Amira.’ One of the other jockeys offered her a bowl of dates and she helped herself with a smile of thanks, never able to say no to that particular treat.

‘Good job I’m doing all this exercise or I’d be the size of a palace. Hassan, go and hide somewhere for a couple of hours. The rest of you need to say you saw him riding Batal.’

‘I wouldn’t ride that monster if it cost me my job.’ Hassan handed her a set of clothes, his expression curious. ‘What are you going to do with these?’

‘Ride “that monster” so it doesn’t cost you your job.’ Her tone flippant, Bella walked to the back of the barn. ‘Turn your backs.’ Quickly she stripped off her trousers and T-shirt and pulled on Hassan’s riding clothes.

Then she twisted her blonde hair into a tight knot and secured it on top of her head, promising herself that tonight she was going to find time to wash it. Only when she was confident that not a single wisp of blonde hair was showing, did she pull on the racing helmet.

‘You’re riding the stallion? Are you mad?’ Genuinely concerned, one of the jockeys hurried over to her. ‘Bella, you can’t do that. You’re a woman.’

‘Oh, please—’ Bella shot him an impatient look and pushed her feet into a pair of riding boots. ‘Being a woman hasn’t stopped me getting up at the crack of dawn and slaving in these stables. I learned to ride before I could walk. And anyway, do you want to ride Batal?’

The jockey pulled a face. ‘No. I have a wife and children.’ His expression sheepish, he looked at the others and they all looked away.

‘Precisely.’ Bella fastened the helmet. ‘But one of us has to do it or Hassan will lose his job. Batal lets me feed him and clean him out without biting me. Hopefully he’ll let me climb on his back.’

Perhaps he’d remember her from the desert.

Perhaps he’d remember that, for a short moment in time, she’d had his master’s approval.

Walking back across the barn, Bella removed the scarf that Hassan was wearing around his neck. ‘No one is expecting me to ride, so they won’t notice. I just need you to cause a distraction while I fetch Batal from the stable.’

Hassan grabbed her hand. ‘Why are you doing this for me?’

‘Because you covered for me when I messed up at the beginning,’ Bella muttered, struggling to position the scarf effectively. ‘It’s because of you that Yousif didn’t go to Sheikh Zafiq, and don’t think I don’t know it. Can you help me tie this stupid thing?’

The jockeys looked uneasy. ‘A woman shouldn’t be riding alone…’

‘You’re forgetting—I’m not riding as a woman. I’m riding as Hassan. And anyway, I’m only taking Batal to do some track work. I’m not riding through the streets.’ Bella fastened the scarf across her face by herself. ‘How do I look?’

The men looked at each other.

‘You have breasts,’ Hassan muttered, his face scarlet, and Bella frowned.

‘Oh. I’d forgotten about that. That’s inconvenient.’

‘Wear this—’ One of the other jockeys gave her a silk jacket. ‘It’s the Sheikh’s colours. Anyone seeing you will know you’re riding for him and it covers your—’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘It shouldn’t draw attention and it might keep people away from you. Are you sure you want to do this?’

Bella thought about Amira. And then she thought how Zafiq would feel if he lost the mare he’d bred from a foal.

‘Absolutely.’ She helped herself to one more date for courage. ‘Go and distract Yousif and leave the rest to me.’

Chapter Eight

ZAFIQ tapped his fingers on the table, only half listening to the interminable discussion on oil prices and investment strategy. Never before had his responsibilities seemed more arduous or his palace more stifling.

Glancing idly out of the window he could see the racetrack he’d had built a few years before. Close to his stables, it offered a training facility as well as a world-class venue for international race meetings.

A lone horse and rider galloped over the turf and Zafiq’s eyes narrowed as he instantly recognised his stallion, Batal.

Batal, who had put Kamal in hospital two weeks earlier.

Having visited the young man daily, Zafiq had given Yousif strict instructions that no one but him should ride the horse.

He was resigned to the fact that the race was lost.

And if the race was lost, so was his beloved Amira.

But someone—he couldn’t see who—was training Batal.

Whoever it was rode well, coaxing an impressive performance from the normally fractious stallion, keeping that leashed power under control with a light hand.

‘That is Hassan.’ His brother Rachid followed his gaze. ‘He has been exercising Batal since Kamal’s fall.’

‘I gave instructions that no one was to ride him but me.’

‘You’ve been incredibly busy. You had good reason not to spend time in the stable.’

Knowing that his reason for not being in the stables had golden hair and long legs, Zafiq felt the dull ache of tension spread across his shoulders. The sweet pull of temptation had been a constant companion since his return from the desert. It ate away at him, challenging his self-control.

‘Hassan is to be praised,’ he said in a neutral tone. ‘I hadn’t realised he possessed such superior riding skills. Perhaps the race is not lost after all.’

‘He has surprised us all.’ Rachid frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it. I have seen him ride many times and he is competent, but not exceptional.’

Zafiq rose to his feet, intrigued by the sudden change in Rachid. Over the past few weeks his brother seemed to have grown in confidence, contributing to affairs of state in a way that he never had before.

Zafiq wondered idly what had caused the change.

Had being left in charge for a short time given him the confidence he’d lacked?

‘Batal has been acting up all week, kicking out his box and misbehaving—’ Rachid strolled to the window and watched the horse gallop around the track ‘—generally suffering from an excess of testosterone.’

All too familiar with the adverse effects of an excess of testosterone, Zafiq gave a grim smile and wondered whether a ride would relieve the almost unbearable tension.

Deciding that anything would be better than remaining in the palace for another day, he concluded the meeting.

He felt trapped. Stifled. The palace felt like a prison, his responsibilities like chains around his body.

‘Is everything all right, Zafiq?’ Rachid lingered behind after the others had left the room. ‘You seem distracted. Are you worrying about the race?’

‘Everything is fine.’ This was his life. This was his duty. And he realised that he’d been neglecting his responsibility towards his younger brothers and sisters. ‘I have not seen much of Sahra since I returned from the desert. She eats dinner in the fastest time possible and I’ve received no complaints about her behaviour for several weeks. Should I be worried?’

‘She has been making a huge effort not to upset you.’

That revelation turned Zafiq’s internal radar to full alert. ‘Why? What does she want?’

Rachid grinned. ‘You know women so well.’

‘Sadly, yes.’ Accustomed to his young half-sister’s tricks, Zafiq braced himself for a shopping list. ‘What is it this time? Diamonds? Dresses? Break it to me gently.’ Turning back to the table, he started to sign the papers that Kalif had left for his attention. ‘She is progressing well in her training to bleed some poor man dry?’

‘Not all women are like my mother,’ Rachid said quietly, and Zafiq felt an immediate spurt of regret that he’d allowed his feelings to show.

He put his pen down instantly. ‘My apologies, Rachid.’

‘You don’t have to apologise. I made the comment, not you. And you don’t need to protect me any more. I’m a man now, Zafiq, and part of being a man is facing the truth. You taught me that.’ Rachid straightened his shoulders. ‘I loved my mother, but that love did not blind me to her faults. I see now what trouble she caused with her extravagant nature. The fact that our people still support our family is because of their love for you.’

Stunned, Zafiq found himself struggling for the right thing to say. ‘Rachid—’

‘I know that my mother is the reason you are not yet married. I know you feel our father gave in to her, but Sahra will not be like my mother,’ Rachid said firmly. ‘She does want something, but not jewels or dresses. If you take time to talk to her, I think you’ll find she’s changed.’

Changed?

Everyone around him appeared to be changing and he hadn’t noticed.

Cautious now, Zafiq gave up signing documents. ‘If there is something she wants, why doesn’t she ask me herself?’

‘Because she thinks you will say no.’

Was he such an ogre? ‘What is it she wants?’

‘Her own horse.’

‘A horse?’ Zafiq couldn’t have been more surprised if Rachid had told him his sister had wanted his permission to ride naked through the souk. ‘Sahra is terrified of horses. I have tried repeatedly to encourage her to ride. I’ve hired instructor after instructor and not one of them has managed to persuade her to stay on the animal for more than two minutes. She hates it.’

‘She has been riding every day for the past few weeks. She has conquered her nerves.’

Genuinely astonished, Zafiq spread his hands in question. ‘So who is responsible for this transformation? Presumably Yousif has appointed a good-looking jockey that I don’t know about.’

‘Bella,’ Rachid said simply, his eyes softening. ‘She has spent so much time with Sahra, teaching her. And she’s so brave and beautiful—she has been an inspiration to my sister. Sahra wants to ride like her, and—’

‘Bella? Bella Balfour?’ Aggravated that the mere sound of her name had the ability to ignite a firestorm within his body, Zafiq gave a low growl of impatience. ‘So she has found a way to avoid working by spending her time with a princess. I should have guessed she’d do anything possible to avoid hard graft.’

‘You’re wrong. Bella works harder than anyone. She helps Sahra when she finishes work. They’ve formed a bond.’

Zafiq’s eyes narrowed because he’d never seen such strength in his younger brother before. ‘What can Bella Balfour possibly teach Sahra that I would want her to learn?’ His own discomfort made his tone chillier than he intended. ‘How to use her looks to manipulate a man? How to ignore duty and responsibility?’

How to be exactly like his stepmother?

‘She has shown great responsibility. No one looks after Amira and Batal but her. Do you know she even sleeps in Amira’s stall now because she’s so afraid someone is going to try and steal the mare? Yousif tried to persuade her to go back to her room, but she refuses.’

Zafiq ruthlessly dismissed an unwanted image of Bella curled up asleep in a mound of straw. ‘Yousif should have told me he was having problems with her.’

‘Yousif adores her. Bella has become a favourite with everyone, especially the stable lads. They all love her.’

Zafiq ground his teeth, perfectly able to visualise what skills had led to such a sudden burst of approval from the palace staff. He knew better than anyone how far she’d go to get her own way. ‘Clearly Bella Balfour is more talented then even I gave her credit for.’

‘Oh, she is,’ Rachid said earnestly, missing the irony. ‘She has made some training suggestions that have made a great deal of difference. And she is the only person Batal doesn’t kick.’

Zafiq made a mental note to pay an early visit to the stable in order to watch Bella work her charm offensive. ‘So where does Sahra fit into this?’ His fingers closed on one of the sheets of paper and he scrunched it into a tight ball. ‘Why has no one mentioned her friendship with Bella before now?’

‘Because of the way you’re reacting now! Mentioning Bella’s name in front of you is a sure way of putting you in a filthy mood. It isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you lose your cool before—’ Rachid flushed slightly. ‘I suppose it’s because you spent time with her in the desert. That must have been a difficult situation for you.’

Zafiq, who considered himself inscrutable, was stunned to discover that he’d revealed so much. ‘What do you mean, “difficult”?’

‘It’s obvious that the two of you didn’t get on, but you’re much too responsible a person to let her make her own way back through the desert so you were stuck with her. And I know she isn’t your type,’ his brother went on hastily. ‘She’s not exactly conventional, is she?’

Zafiq ground his teeth. ‘Conventional? No. She certainly isn’t conventional.’

‘And rescuing Bella meant you lost your few days of solitude. We all know you would have rather been on your own—’

Absorbing his brother’s interpretation of events in incredulous silence, Zafiq decided that it was better not to explore that particular topic in too much depth.

Rachid was still talking. ‘Honestly, Zafiq, she has added a great deal to Batal’s training. Before he threw Kamal she taught them something called a volte—it improves the horse’s balance apparently. Bella thinks if we can calm him down, it will help him win the cup.’

‘If we can find a rider who can stay in the saddle, then Batal will win the cup.’ Striding towards the door, Zafiq felt the tension spread across his shoulders.

‘Bella says it encourages engagement and power.’

‘Bella says, Bella says…’ Exasperated, Zafiq turned on his brother. ‘What qualifies Bella Balfour to change the training regime of my horses?’

‘She knows a lot about horses! Did you know she was selected for the British eventing team when she was sixteen?’

No, she hadn’t mentioned that. ‘Did she win a medal?’

‘No, because there was a scandal and she ended up being deselected—’

‘Now that,’ Zafiq drawled, ‘sounds like Bella.’

‘You’re so hard on her!’ Rachid flew to her defence. ‘She’s had a difficult life—’ He clamped his mouth shut as if he’d said something he shouldn’t and Zafiq’s mouth tightened.

‘What do you know about her life?’

‘Quite a lot. She’s very chatty in the stables. Really down-to-earth and normal.’

And clever, Zafiq thought grimly. ‘You’re infatuated with her blonde hair and her blue eyes, Rachid. Don’t let that blind you to who she really is.’

‘Perhaps you are the one who is blind to who she really is.’ Rachid spoke quietly. ‘She’s a really sweet, kind girl.’

Zafiq looked at him closely, suddenly questioning why Rachid appeared instantly more grown-up and mature. He’d gone from boy to man in the space of a few weeks. Reflecting on the possible explanation for a change within that time frame, Zafiq felt a chill spread through his body.

No.

‘Just how far has your relationship with her gone?’

Rachid straightened his shoulders. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Answer my question.’

‘She isn’t interested in me, but if she were—’ Rachid broke off, and Zafiq made an impatient sound, engulfed by a tornado of emotions, none of which he cared to examine too closely.

‘You could not find a less suitable woman than Bella Balfour if you searched the planet. She is bold, outspoken, fearless.’ Catching Rachid’s stunned expression Zafiq realised that he’d done nothing but list her qualities. ‘And she’s emotional,’ he added swiftly. ‘Dealing with Bella is like dealing with a child. She shows no restraint. She has no idea how to behave.’

‘That’s what I find so refreshing,’ Rachid said earnestly. ‘One of the drawbacks of our position is that people are afraid to be themselves around us. Don’t you find that, Zafiq? Bella is always herself. She says what she thinks. She isn’t afraid to challenge authority if she disagrees with something.’

Remembering all the ways she’d challenged his authority, Zafiq gave a low growl.

‘Enough talk about Bella Balfour!’

It was time he paid a visit to the stables.

Her limbs aching from another long day, Bella collapsed in the straw that lined Amira’s box.

The mare lowered her head and blew on her gently and Bella gave a groan and closed her eyes. ‘I’m so tired I could die. It’s riding that great brute Batal that finishes me off. He’s all muscle and I’m so worried that someone is going to recognise me that I can’t relax. Every time I ride him out, Hassan has to go and hide. It’s completely ridiculous that I can’t just ride as myself. I shall be glad when this stupid race is over. I’m only doing it for you, you know that, don’t you?’

Clearly oblivious to the enormous sacrifice being made for her, Amira started to munch hay and Bella smiled sleepily.

‘Ungrateful beast.’

She was drifting off when she heard the unmistakable crunch of a footstep in the yard outside.

Her senses on full alert, Bella sat up. Heart pounding, palms sweaty, she reached through the straw and closed her fingers around the heavy stick she’d buried there just in case.

They’d come for Amira.

Where were the guards that Zafiq had posted in the yard?

And then she remembered that the guards at the stables near the Retreat had been paid to be absent at the crucial moment.

Amira continued to eat and Bella stood slowly, holding her breath, careful to make no sound. She looked at the beautiful mare—the horse that meant so much to the people of Al-Rafid—and felt the full force of responsibility.

Once again she was all that stood between Amira and them.

Last time she hadn’t known the risk she was taking. Now she knew, and she was horribly conscious that she was no match for a group of organised criminals.

Reminding herself that she had the element of surprise on her side, she told herself that she had to act quickly. No hesitation.

If someone was going to harm Zafiq’s horse, they were going to have to go through her.

She watched, terrified, as a strong male hand grasped the bolt, shot it back and opened the stable door.

Her heart thundering, Bella grasped the stick with both hands and lifted it, inching to one side so that she could hit the man and not the horse.

In the shadowy light she could see that he was tall and powerfully built and her stomach cramped because her chances of defending Amira against someone as muscular as this man were remote. Swiftly she revised her plan.

As he raised his hand to the horse Bella gave a hiss.

‘Get away from her—slowly. I know exactly who you are and what you’re doing and I have a weapon pointed straight at you. Step away slowly or I will shoot you.’

‘If you know exactly who I am and what I’m doing, then why would you need a weapon? And it’s hard to shoot someone with a stick.’

Recognising Zafiq’s dry, sarcastic drawl, Bella’s knees flooded with relief and she dropped the stick and sagged against the wall. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart banging. ‘You frightened the life out of me!’

‘Is that why you were holding a stick?’ He flashed a torch in her direction and Bella turned her head away, squinting against the light.

‘I thought someone was after Amira.’ She slid back down on the straw, wobbly as a newborn foal. ‘What are you doing here? You wanted to give me a heart attack and finish me off altogether?’ Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could just about make out his features and she wondered why she hadn’t recognised him instantly when every contour of his body was indelibly printed into her brain.

‘I heard a rumour that you were sleeping in the stable.’

‘Why would that bother you?’

‘Party-girl Bella Balfour living in a heap of straw, no hot or cold running water?’

‘I lived in a tent with you for four days,’ she snapped, her body still weak from reaction, ‘and that wasn’t exactly a five-star experience. Where are the guards?’

‘Obviously they know better than to arrest the Sheikh.’

‘I thought they might have been paid off, like last time.’

‘The guards in Al-Rafid are fiercely loyal to me. They cannot be bribed. What is this about, Bella?’ His tone was cold and hard. ‘Rising at five every morning and working until your hands bleed? Sleeping with my horse? It seems you’ve gone out of your way to charm everyone, including my brother. What are you playing at?’

Taken aback by his savage tone and the injustice of what he was saying, Bella glared at him. ‘I’m working, not playing. I’m working a fourteen-hour day and then I’m sleeping here. You think I’m having sex with everyone in your stables, is that what you’re saying?’ Still overwrought from thinking someone was going to steal Amira, her voice was shrill. ‘You think that the only way anyone is ever going to have anything nice to say about me is if they’ve slept with me!’

He was across the stable before she could move, his hands lifting her in a single powerful movement, his body pressing hers against the wall. ‘I want to know how far it’s gone with my brother. Rachid is very young and he has no experience of women like you—’

Overtired, shocked to see him again and bitterly hurt by his cynical view of her, Bella exploded. ‘I can’t win, can I? I’ve been working myself to the bone to make sure no one could complain about me! I don’t have a single decent nail left, I haven’t washed my hair for a week and I’m covered in bruises from—’ She was about to say your stallion, but just stopped herself in time. ‘Frankly I wouldn’t have the energy for sex even if the opportunity presented itself so you can take your jealousy elsewhere!’

‘I’m not jealous.’ His thickened tone cut through the tense atmosphere and his hands tightened on her shoulders. ‘And your morals are your own business.’

‘Then why are you so angry? If you don’t care, why are you standing there yelling at me?’

‘Because Rachid can’t cope with a woman like you.’

‘Rachid can cope with a great deal more than you think.’ She thought back to the numerous conversations she’d had with the prince since that first day. ‘He wants more responsibility, Zafiq, but the problem is you’re so brilliant at everything he feels daunted! You need to praise him, make him feel good about himself! Not everyone is as confident as you are—being given responsibility helps confidence.’

‘What do you know about responsibility?’

It was a fair comment, but Bella was too wound up to be reasonable. ‘I know how it feels never to be given any! Your siblings aren’t children any more. Take a tip from me—if you believe someone will always screw up, then they probably will. Why don’t you try showing some faith in people and see what happens? You can practise on me for a start! I’ve been busting a gut here to make sure I don’t put a foot wrong and you haven’t once bothered to come down and say I’m doing well. You told me I’d last a day, and I’ve been here a month so stick that in your…your…Bedouin tea and drink it,’ she finished lamely.

He released her so suddenly that she staggered and Bella rubbed her hands down her arms, not because he’d hurt her but because being held by him had felt unbelievably good after all these weeks without him. She’d been in a different sort of desert, she thought miserably. A barren wilderness without Zafiq.

‘You seem to know a great deal about my family. You will tell me who has been gossiping about Rachid.’

‘No one has been gossiping! I’ve talked to him in person. Believe it or not, we have quite a lot in common! I know what it’s like to have a glamorous, high-spending mother. And I know how it feels to hear everyone around you criticising the person you were raised to love.’

Amira shifted in the box and Zafiq put out a hand to calm the animal. ‘Our family situation is extremely complicated—’

‘Don’t talk to me about complicated!’ Bella erupted, and suddenly all the emotions she’d been bottling up exploded to the surface, refusing to be contained. ‘Six weeks ago I discovered that my younger sister—my sister who I’ve lived with all my life, my sister who I went to school with and played with—isn’t my father’s child and that my mother wasn’t the saintly person I always thought she was. My father hates me, the whole world hates me, my younger sister hates me and even my twin has turned her back on me, so don’t talk to me about complicated!’

Damn, damn, damn.

Why couldn’t she be icily calm? Why couldn’t she ever keep herself together when she needed to?

Her outburst was greeted by a prolonged silence and then he raked his fingers through his hair, his own control clearly challenged.

‘You are so emotional. I am quite sure your father does not hate you,’ Zafiq breathed, ‘and perhaps it would be wise to consider the possibility that your sister has not turned her back on you, but been unable to get in touch. You’ve been marooned in the desert. And as for the world—the world’s opinion doesn’t matter.’

‘Try seeing your face splashed over every newspaper before you say that.’ Bella gave an undignified sniff and wiped her eyes on her T-shirt, furious with herself for crying. ‘And maybe my father doesn’t exactly hate me, but he certainly can’t bear to look at me because I remind him of my mother, and that’s pretty hurtful, I can tell you.’

‘Your mother died when you were a baby.’

‘Yeah—’ Bella’s voice was husky and she cleared her throat. ‘All I had was a memory and that’s not looking too good right now.’

‘Your mother must have been an extremely beautiful woman and extreme beauty often brings complications,’ Zafiq said quietly, and Bella flushed slightly, wishing she wasn’t so aware of everything he said and did.

‘Well, her beauty obviously didn’t make her happy. And that’s because she was stupid enough to marry a man she didn’t love.’

‘Like most women, you insist on linking marriage with romance.’

‘With good reason!’ Bella walked over to Amira and buried her face in the mare’s neck, seeking comfort. She felt angry with her mother, angry with her father and angry with herself. ‘My father thought she was in love with him, but she wasn’t. She just wanted the Balfour name and the money. If you don’t care about a person, you shouldn’t get married.’

Her hand still on Amira’s back, Bella turned to look at him. ‘It’s inevitable, isn’t it? If you marry someone you don’t love, at some point you’re going to meet someone you do love. You’re going to meet someone who makes you feel something you didn’t know it was possible to feel. And you’re going to realise that feeling is more important to you than money or status. And it isn’t going to matter that the relationship isn’t possible or that you’re totally unsuited—because once you realise you’re in love, you’ve basically got two choices. You go for it, and you wreck loads of lives along the way, or you decide you’re going to do the “right thing” and stay, making yourself and everyone around you miserable in the process because you know you’ve missed your one chance of happiness. So either way, getting married when you’re not in love means you’re going to wind up miserable.’

Zafiq said nothing and Bella turned back to the horse.

‘The funny thing was—there wasn’t any money.’ Her voice was muffled against the mare’s smooth coat. ‘It had all gone and getting everything back became an obsession for my father. And my mother hated that obsession. She hated everything Balfour. So she had an affair. And she died giving birth to that child. My little sister, Zoe. The one I messed up just before I came here.’ Crying now, Bella hugged Amira, past caring that she was making a fool of herself. ‘Do you believe in justice, Zafiq? Is that why she died?’

‘Are you crying for your mother or your sister?’ Strong hands prised her away from the horse. ‘You are torturing yourself—’ Without allowing her to resist, he pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly, and it felt so good to be held that for a moment Bella just stood there, breathing in his masculine scent, revelling in the feeling of being close to him again.

But it wasn’t real, was it?

Until she’d started crying, he hadn’t touched her. It wasn’t personal.

It was time she learned to stand on her own two feet.

‘Let me go, Zafiq,’ she muttered. ‘I know you hate crying women. Sahra told me.’

‘That is because Sahra uses tears like currency—she trades them for whatever she wants.’ Zafiq stroked her hair away from her face, forcing her to look at him. ‘Is this why you were in the Retreat? Escaping from the scandal?’

It horrified her that he’d obviously read what had been written about her. ‘Which headline did you like best? Blue Blood Turns Bad? Illegitimate Daughter Revealed at Balfour Ball?’ The headlines were engraved in her brain and she squirmed as she remembered the salacious, vindictive things that had been printed. ‘Balfour Family in Ruins was quite a juicy one.’

‘Stop pretending you don’t care.’

‘I shouldn’t care. I’ve had it for most of my life. I’ve been the “bad twin” since I was packed off to boarding school. I even lived up to the nickname the press gave me.’

He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Did it work?’

‘Did what work?’

‘The attention-seeking behaviour?’

‘No. To get attention, there has to be someone around to give you attention.’ Bella sniffed. ‘My mother died, stepmother number one dumped me in boarding school and left me to fend for myself and then a few months ago—’ she swallowed ‘—my second stepmother, Lillian, died. I didn’t spend much time with her but she was a good person. And she didn’t deserve my father. So you can see that it’s pretty hard being saintly in our family, with him as an example. And pretty hard being told to mend your ways by someone like him.’ She tried to pull away but Zafiq was still holding her firmly, his eyes fixed on hers as he prised the truth from her.

‘Are you telling me he sent you alone to the Retreat just after discovering that your sister was the child of another man and that your mother had an affair?’

‘I was supposed to think about my behaviour and memorise my Balfour rule. Dignity—’ She imitated her father’s voice perfectly. “‘A Balfour must strive never to bring the family name into disrepute through unbecoming conduct, criminal activity or disrespectful attitudes towards others.’”

‘You are supposed to follow that rule?’

‘Until I stole Amira I’ve never indulged in criminal activity,’ Bella muttered, ‘but I guess I’ve pretty much ticked all the boxes now. Still, I’ve made the newspapers a fortune.’

‘Your father was wrong to send you away with no support.’

Bella’s eyes burned but she felt a stab of guilt. ‘Actually, it was my fault,’ she whispered. ‘I behaved horribly.’

Zafiq curved his hands over her shoulders and she shivered because it felt so good to be touched by him.

Too good…

‘It was the afternoon before the ball.’ Anticipating rejection, Bella pulled away from him, rubbing her fingers over her face to clear the tears. ‘My father holds this charity ball every year, you know the sort of thing—glitz and glamour. Anyway, Olivia and I decided to go through our mother’s things. There were boxes of books, jewellery, ball gowns—I found a diary.’ She dug a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. Who would have thought he was capable of being such a good listener? ‘Being stupid, we read the diary.’

‘That’s how you discovered your mother’s affair?’

‘Yes. And immediately it all made sense. I was always proud that I looked like my mother. It was as if there was that special link between us—as if when I looked in the mirror, I was seeing a bit of her reflected there.’ Bella fiddled with a strand of her blonde hair. ‘But suddenly I discovered why my father can’t even bear to look at me. Every time he looks at me, he thinks of her betrayal.’

Zafiq inhaled sharply. ‘Bella—’

‘Well, obviously it wasn’t a great thing to find out. I wanted to keep the whole thing a secret—I didn’t want to tell anyone. Especially not Zoe—that’s my sister. I thought that would be a hideous, horrible thing to discover about yourself.’ She pushed the tissue back into her pocket. ‘Why stir up stuff that no one needs to hear?’

‘But your twin disagreed?’

‘Morally upstanding Olivia—always has to do the “right thing” even when the right thing is going to create carnage. You’d get on well with her. She’s big on duty and responsibility. Goes without saying we’re non-identical. Anyway, we had a terrible row.’ She rubbed her fingers across her forehead. ‘Olivia said we should tell Zoe the truth. I pointed out that telling Zoe meant telling everyone—I mean, our mother kept it a secret, I wasn’t sure it was our business to blurt it all out. You have no idea what a mess it was. Olivia said I was like our mother—’ the breath hitched in her throat, remembering just how badly that accusation had hurt her ‘—and I…I slapped her.’

‘You hit your sister?’

‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Bella whispered, lifting her hand to her mouth. ‘I even shocked myself with that one. I’ve wanted to call her but I don’t know if she’ll even speak to me.’

Zafiq sighed. ‘You were upset, Bella—’

‘That’s no excuse. Basically, I blew it. And the worst of it was, some paparazzi low life had wormed his way into the party and was standing outside the door. So the next day it was all over the tabloids, and that’s how Zoe found out.’ The guilt was like a heavy weight, crushing her, and her hands were shaking as she forced herself to confront the issues she’d been avoiding for weeks. ‘I didn’t want her to know at all, and in the end she found out in the worst possible way. Because of me. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’

‘It wasn’t your fault that the press had gained access to a private party—’

‘It was my fault.’ The tears scalded her throat. ‘I know what the press are like. Better than anyone. They’ve followed me since I was a child. If I’d been more guarded—but I’m not. I find it impossible not to just say what I’m thinking and I gave them what they wanted. I gave them the shots and I gave them the stories. And this was the story of the decade. My father thought I’d done it on purpose for the attention. That’s why he banished me.’

‘Did it occur to you that your father might have sent you to the Retreat to protect you?’

Bella gave a bitter laugh. ‘No. He sent me there to punish me. He knew that being on my own with my guilt would be the very worst thing. If I’d stayed at home I would have partied, got drunk—just tried to forget about it. He forced me into a position where I had no choice but to think about what I’d done. And I deserved it.’

‘You’re extremely hard on yourself. You found yourself in a situation that no one would have found easy.’

‘Olivia thought it was black and white.’

‘Life is never black and white.’

‘Especially not in the desert. It’s all red and gold.’ Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Bella wiped her cheek with the palm of her hand. ‘Do you know the funny thing? I’ve actually grown to love it here. I love the fact there are no press. I love the fact that people aren’t bugging me to attend their parties just so they get in the newspapers.’ She blushed. ‘That sounds boastful, but honestly, it’s what people do. They invite me to places just because they know the press will follow.’

‘And you never know who your real friends are.’

‘I guess you know that feeling.’ She looked down at herself, noticing the splash of mud on her cream jodhpurs. Even without a mirror she knew she must look a mess. ‘Do you realise how great it has been to know that I can muck out a horse and appear all hot and sweaty without having to worry about seeing myself on every front page tomorrow?’

‘Didn’t you like being on the front pages?’

‘I suppose I must have done for a while,’ Bella admitted, feeling her cheeks redden. ‘To start with, I liked the attention. I felt as though people loved me. And then I realised that of course they didn’t love me.’ She gave a twisted smile because it was hard being that honest with herself, let alone with him. ‘They liked watching me slip up. Bad Bella. But I’m not Bad Bella here. I’m not corrupting your brother, or your sister, or any of your staff, although I don’t blame you for thinking that—’

‘Rachid is half in love with you.’

‘Only half?’ Bella grinned through her tears. ‘I must be losing my touch. Maybe I need to wash my hair more often.’

Suddenly it was all too much for her. He was so, so unbelievably attractive and powerful and confident that she swayed towards him.

I’m like a feeble plant, she thought wildly, trying to wind myself around a strong stake.

Consumed by longing, she put out her hand, drawn to him by an invisible force and by feelings so intense that she was humbled. Nothing mattered but being close to him. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

He tensed instantly and his lack of response was more humiliating than anything that had happened to her before.

Aware that she’d just made a bigger fool of herself than ever before, Bella turned her face away. Her cheeks burned with humiliation and she wished she could just slide under the straw and hide.

She withdrew her hand. ‘As I was saying,’ she croaked, ‘I’ve missed you because I really wanted to tell you how well I’ve been doing. You’d be really proud of me. I’ve been helping to train Batal for the race, and—’ Once again she almost told him she’d been exercising Batal, but then she decided he’d probably have a meltdown if she told him that so she passed over that bit. ‘He’s going to do well, I know he is.’

She hoped he’d think he’d misinterpreted her first remark and that appeared to be the case because he relaxed slightly.

‘I admit I’m surprised that Hassan can handle him.’

‘Oh, Hassan is a good rider,’ Bella said glibly, focusing on Amira. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’ She still hadn’t got her head around who was actually going to ride Batal in the race itself. ‘There’s only one more week to go. It’s going to feel weird once it’s over. No one talks about anything else.’

He didn’t want her, she thought numbly. The one man she really wanted had rejected her.

‘It is an important event in our calendar.’ Zafiq stroked Amira gently. ‘Have you spoken to your father since you’ve been here?’

‘No. I’ve been too busy.’ She didn’t confess that she was nervous of phoning any of her family in case they rejected her.

She was in disgrace, wasn’t she?

‘What happened to your craving for your laptop, your phone and your iPod?’

Bella patted her pocket. ‘iPod here. I listen to music while I’m mucking out the horses. Amira really likes Linkin Park and Muse. Loud music sends Batal into orbit so I tend to listen to Mozart when I’m with him. Sometimes Schubert.’

He gave her a curious look. ‘So Bella Balfour really is turning over a new leaf.’

‘Looks that way.’ Bella held tightly to Amira’s mane to stop her reaching out to him.

She had to win the race, she told herself fiercely. There was no one else who could ride Batal. She had to find a way.

For once in her life, she wasn’t going to let anyone down.

Chapter Nine

‘BELLA, you can’t ride the stallion in the race! It’s too dangerous!’

The jockeys were gathered round her in one corner of the barn, all uneasy about the plan.

‘You have a better suggestion?’ Bella was squeezing her feet into her boots and trying not to think about Zafiq. Rumour had reached her ears that he’d been on a two-day trip to Europe, ostensibly to meet some ‘suitable’ princess and Bella had never known such agony. ‘I’m the same height as Hassan. Everyone thinks Hassan has been riding Batal—they have no reason to think it’s me.’

‘They’ll notice soon enough when you ride into the winner’s enclosure.’

‘I’ve thought about that—’ Bella tucked her shirt into the waistband of her jodhpurs. ‘Batal isn’t going to stop when he finishes the race. I’m going to make sure he keeps galloping. He tries to do it all the time, so no one will guess it’s intentional. They’ll just think he’s being his usual moody self. I’ll let him bolt all the way back to the stables. Hassan, you’ll be waiting back here in the stables so that when everyone arrives, you’re standing here holding the stallion, apologetic that you couldn’t hold him back and irritated that you missed the applause and attention.’

Connor, a jockey who had travelled from Ireland to take a job in the Sheikh’s world-famous stables, rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t like it. None of us think that Kamal’s fall was an accident. Something spooked Batal. What if they come after you?’

‘They can’t do much in front of an audience, can they? Not with the Sheikh there watching.’ Would he be with his princess? Ignoring the sudden spasm of pain in her chest, Bella crammed the hat on her head. ‘You lot go ahead. I’m going to appear at the very last moment so no one will have time to get a good look at me. You’re going to tell everyone that Batal has been acting up and we don’t trust him with the other horses for too long. I’m going to appear about thirty seconds before the race starts and hit the ground running.’

‘Let’s just hope you don’t hit the ground before you reach the finish line,’ Hassan said drily, but there was a look of respect in his eyes. ‘I really hope you don’t get hurt, Bella.’

She was already hurting so badly it felt as though she’d been dragged across the desert behind a horse. The thought of Zafiq laughing and smiling with another woman made her ache…

‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Irritated with herself, Bella glanced at her watch. ‘Just go, will you? You lot are making me nervous. How long have I got?’

‘Everyone has already gone to the starting line. You’re sure you know the course?’

‘I gallop flat out until I reach the marker, then I turn round and come back.’

‘And—’

‘And I have to cross the line first or Sheikh Zafiq loses his favourite mare,’ Bella snapped. ‘Yes, I know that.’ And the pressure was getting to her. Everything rested on her and the responsibility made her insides quake.

What if she let everyone down?

That was what she did, wasn’t it?

When it really mattered, she always messed up.

What if Batal lost because of her? What if she fell off before the finishing line?

Connor squeezed her shoulder. ‘Just ride. Don’t look left or right.’

And don’t think about Zafiq, Bella told herself, her courage faltering as she watched them all leave.

Now it was just her and the stallion—and Hassan hovering nervously in the background, ready to help her mount the powerful animal.

It didn’t help that Batal was in a foul mood, stamping his feet, showing the whites of his eyes, his head snaking forward to bite anyone who came near.

‘Oh, get a grip,’ Bella said wearily as she approached the snorting horse. ‘There’s no reason for you to be tense. You could win this stupid race with your hooves tied together. Just don’t let anyone give you a fright. You’re the boss, OK? Alpha horsey.’

Hassan gave her a leg up into the saddle and then retreated to a safe distance. ‘Are you ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ Bella felt the stallion’s muscles ripple and shimmer beneath her, as if he was coiled, ready to spring. Nerves fluttered in her belly. ‘I wish there was a seat belt. If you throw me off, we lose Amira,’ she reminded the horse and then grinned at Hassan. ‘Go and hide behind a hay bale. You’re supposed to be the one riding, remember?’

‘The whole of Al-Rafid is depending on you, Bella,’ Hassan said hoarsely, and Bella rolled her eyes.

‘No pressure, then.’ She sat tight as the stallion went up on his hind legs, sawing the air with his legs. ‘Here we go. Circus time.’ But the moment the stallion hit the ground she drove him forward and knew that she had to keep doing that. It was as if the horse knew what was about to happen and just wanted to get on with it.

She urged him along the track that led directly from the stables to the desert. Even before she arrived at the starting line she could hear the roar of the crowd.

‘Is this going to freak you out?’

But for once Batal was behaving himself, his ears flicking backwards and forwards like radar, listening to the cheers.

‘Attention seeker.’ Bella adjusted the scarf across her face, hoping that it didn’t fall. If it did, she was sunk.

Riding up towards the starting line, Connor took the bridle. ‘The Sheikh was starting to think you weren’t coming. I told him we didn’t want Batal to be in a public place any longer than necessary. Oh, no—’ His face paled. ‘Bella, he’s coming across to wish you luck! If he gets too close he’s going to know you’re not Hassan.’

‘Stop him,’ Bella said urgently, turning Batal towards the starting line. ‘Tell him I’ve got my hands full, tell him I don’t want to tempt fate—tell him anything, but don’t let him get close to me. How long have I got before the start?’

‘One minute.’

It felt like the longest minute of her life.

As Connor hurried away to head off Zafiq, Bella urged the stallion towards the rope, her hands shaking on the reins.

Batal threw up his head and squealed, as if to say, Who put this idiot on my back? and Bella gave a weak laugh because she was starting to agree.

And then she caught the vicious glare from one of the jockeys and her mouth dried. Trouble, she thought, but she didn’t dare speak, or do anything to reveal herself as a woman, so she had no choice but to keep her mouth closed.

Batal shivered with anticipation, and Bella stared straight ahead of her, determined to do this right. The horse could win; she had no doubt about that. Whether she’d still be on his back as he crossed the finishing line was another matter.

The roar of the crowd intensified and then the flag dropped and the horses sprang forward.

Batal flew into the lead and Bella allowed him to take the front position, knowing that she couldn’t risk being bunched by the others in case one of them tried to unseat her.

As the sand flew into her face, all she was aware of was the pounding of hooves and the pounding of her heart. She could hear horses behind her, but Batal’s long, effortless stride immediately lengthened the distance between her and the others.

She smiled, feeling a rush of confidence.

‘You are fantastic,’ she yelled as the wind and the sand flew past her face and the marker appeared in the distance. ‘If you win I’ll never say anything bad to you again. I’ll even let you kick me and bite me. Go on, Batal, go on!’

As she turned Batal around the flag and showed him the finishing line, she felt something yank her leg hard.

Taken by surprise Bella clutched at the stallion’s mane, but at full gallop there was no chance of recovery and the next moment she was on the ground, the sudden fall jarring her shoulder, her foot still jammed in the stirrup as her body was dragged bumping and twisting behind the horse.

Shards of agony shot through her body and Bella closed her eyes and prepared to die.

And then suddenly she stopped moving.

Squealing with impatience, Batal was looking down at her as if to say, All you had to do was sit there and you even messed that up.

Bella registered that she was still alive but the relief was only fleeting because the rest of the horses were thundering down on her.

Throwing his head in the air Batal reared up and Bella squeezed her eyes shut and prepared to die for a second time. It was obvious that the stallion was going to trample her.

When nothing happened, Bella opened one eye and found herself looking up at the belly of the horse.

The stallion had straddled her, his powerful legs forming a protective cage as the other runners raced past.

Choked with emotion and half crying with pain and gratitude, Bella struggled to sit up, but her shoulder was so agonising that it knocked the breath from her body. As the other horses galloped past her she registered the fact that someone had pulled her off deliberately because they didn’t want Batal to win. The same person who had landed Kamal in hospital? The same person who had tried to kidnap Amira?

Raw anger acted like an anaesthetic and Bella tried again to sit upright, this time using Batal’s legs as a frame.

The last of the horses had passed her and she knew there was no hope of catching the winner, but she was determined to finish the race.

Furious with whoever it was who had dragged her off the horse, Bella tried to mount but Batal was too big for her and she couldn’t use her hand to pull herself up because her shoulder was hurting too badly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m really sorry, Batal.’ Tears blurred her vision and then, just when she’d given up, Batal gave a snort and dropped down onto his knees next to her.

For a brief second Bella just gaped at him, and then she slid gingerly onto his back and Batal immediately sprang upwards and forwards, not giving her time to retrieve her stirrups.

Her shoulder was killing her, her hands were shaking and bleeding from her fall and she hung onto a clump of his mane and urged him on, knowing it was hopeless, knowing they couldn’t possibly win now.

But Batal had other ideas.

Outraged at having been passed by the other horses, he surged forward with such an astonishing burst of speed that it was as if she’d hit a button saying Turbo Boost.

They passed horse after horse and suddenly Bella felt a tiny flicker of hope come to life inside her.

‘Now I know why they call it horsepower. Come on, Batal,’ she croaked, wincing as her shoulder jarred again, ‘faster, faster, you can do this—’

Determined to be in the lead, Batal dug deep inside himself and found the extra speed he needed. Nostrils flaring, the whites of his eyes showing, he thundered over the winning line half a length ahead of the horse and rider who had tried to put them out of the race.

Remembering that she was supposed to gallop him straight back to the stables, Bella tried to turn him, but Batal had ideas of his own.

Ignoring Bella’s feeble attempts to control him with one hand, he slowed his pace and cantered straight across to the stand where the Sheikh and all the VIPs were standing watching the race.

‘No…please, no—’ Dizzy from her fall and feeling decidedly weird, Bella tugged weakly at the reins, trying to turn him, but the stallion gave an angry snort and came to a halt in front of Zafiq. He stood proudly, neck arched, tail held high as if to say, That’s how it’s done.

A smile spreading across his handsome face, Zafiq stepped down from the stand and walked over to them just as Bella felt darkness close in on her vision.

She heard voices far away—shocked voices—followed by an almost eerie silence.

Knowing that she was going to faint, Bella clutched at Batal’s mane but it was too late.

‘I love you,’ she muttered as she slid off the horse and plunged into darkness.

Zafiq paced the floor of the modern, well-equipped hospital room, his eyes never moving from the girl on the bed. ‘Fetch another doctor,’ he ordered. ‘I want another opinion.’

Kalif hesitated. ‘You have already had five opinions, Your Highness. All the doctors are in agreement. Miss Balfour banged her head in the fall, but the scan has shown no trauma. She has a mild concussion and is now sleeping. Her shoulder was dislocated and she has many bruises but—’

‘She fell from Batal at a gallop…’ And he’d never forget that moment. Even when he’d thought it was Hassan who was on the floor, his heart had been in his mouth. To discover that it had been Bella—

‘It is indeed a miracle that she survived,’ Kalif agreed. ‘Had Batal not stopped when he did and had he not protected her with his body…It was an astonishing spectacle. People are talking of nothing else. Not only that an animal of his reputation stopped for the girl, but that he then lowered himself so that she could mount. Quite remarkable.’

‘I can’t believe she rode the stallion.’ Zafiq ran his hand over the back of his neck, so tense that he felt as though he were going to explode. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t spot that it was her.’

‘She fooled all of us, Your Highness, but perhaps it was for the best. Had you known it was her, you would have stopped her. And then Batal would not have won the race,’ Kalif said logically. ‘After Kamal was injured, there was no one else to ride him. She is a very brave young woman.’

Staring at her still form, Zafiq felt suddenly cold as he considered what might have happened. ‘She is reckless,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She has always been reckless.’

A noise behind him made him turn and he saw a crowd of anxious faces in the doorway. His brother Rachid was in front and behind him his sister Sahra, Yousif, his Master of Horse, and at least fifteen of the palace staff.

‘Is there any news?’ Rachid spoke for all of them and Zafiq made an exasperated sound as he scanned the number of heads in the corridor.

‘She is resting!’

‘We are all worried. Even Batal is very unsettled,’ Yousif fretted. ‘He wants to see her.’

‘I’d like to see him,’ came a small voice from the bed, and they all turned and saw a white-faced Bella, struggling to sit up.

‘Don’t move,’ Zafiq commanded, but she ignored him, pushing her blonde hair away from her face with a hand that was scraped raw from her fall.

‘I need to sit up.’ She gave him a wary look, as if she sensed trouble, and then glanced over to the doorway where everyone else was gathered.

Watching her face brighten, Zafiq felt something tug deep inside him.

She’d made friends.

‘You were magnificent,’ Rachid said hoarsely, crossing the room in two strides and pulling her into a hug without waiting for Zafiq’s permission. ‘What a woman!’

Stunned by how badly he wanted to drag his brother away, Zafiq watched in tense silence as everyone poured into the room, all of them ignoring him, apparently too overwhelmed by the need to check on Bella to care about protocol.

Smothered in fuss and praise, Bella looked faintly uncomfortable and the only thing she said was addressed to Yousif. ‘Is Batal all right?’

‘He is very proud of himself,’ Yousif assured her immediately. ‘I think he knows he has achieved something quite extraordinary. No doubt he will be quite unbearable now.’

Bella grinned weakly and flopped back against the pillows. There was a bruise across one cheekbone where she’d fallen and Zafiq knew she must be aching from head to foot. But she didn’t utter a word of complaint; she just listened while everyone bombarded her with stories of the reaction of the crowd.

‘They all thought you were dead—’

‘—reared up, thought he was going to kill you—’

‘—formed a cage—’

‘—and when the horse knelt down—’

‘—the fastest race anyone has ever seen—’

‘—such a relationship between horse and rider—’

‘At least we kept Amira,’ Bella murmured happily and then frowned slightly as her words were greeted by an uncomfortable silence. ‘What? We won, didn’t we?’

‘You won. The rest of it doesn’t matter,’ Yousif said quickly, but Bella glanced between him and Zafiq.

‘What’s going on? What’s wrong?’

‘You are a woman,’ Yousif muttered. ‘The officials are saying that Batal must be disqualified because he was ridden by a woman.’

‘What?’ Her distress visible, Bella shot upright again, wincing with pain. ‘No, they can’t do that.’ She turned to Zafiq, her expression desperate. ‘You’re the Sheikh! Tell them they can’t do that! Batal won. He was a complete champion. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been ridden by a monkey, he still would have won. Oh, this is all my fault for fainting at the end. I was supposed to ride him to the stable and swap places with Hassan.’ With a groan she covered her face with her hands and Rachid pulled her into his arms.

Seeing her clinging to his brother for comfort was the final straw.

‘Out,’ Zafiq commanded in a low, dangerous tone. ‘All of you out. Bella doesn’t need this level of stress.’

But Bella was already struggling out of bed, her legs buckling as her feet touched the floor. ‘You can’t let them take Amira, Zafiq! Promise me!’

He caught her before she fell and lifted her back onto the bed. Letting her go was harder and he kept his arms around her for a moment, his body tightening as he felt the softness of her skin and the familiarity of her slender frame.

An intensely disciplined man, it exasperated Zafiq that all he wanted to do was flatten her to the bed and soothe her injuries personally. Apart from that one brief kiss in his stables, he hadn’t touched her since the desert.

‘Zafiq, you have to do something!’ Her fingers dug into his arm, her eyes a deep, fierce blue as she pleaded with him. ‘Batal won that race!’

Realising that they still had an audience, Zafiq threw a fulminating glance towards the doorway and intercepted his brother’s startled gaze. Whether the shock in his eyes was caused by Bella’s lack of formality or the fact that Zafiq was still holding her, he had no idea, but that glance was sufficient to ensure their privacy and Rachid coloured and ushered everyone out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

With a huge effort of will, Zafiq forced himself to release Bella. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he put a safe distance between them but the strain on his self-control combined with the anxiety of seeing her fall, added to his stress levels.

‘Once again you were reckless, wilful—’ His restraint snapping, he leant forward and kissed her, the softness of her mouth creating an explosion of sensation through his body. After weeks of self-denial he was on the verge of losing control and it was only her sudden gasp that made him draw back. ‘I am hurting you,’ he groaned guiltily. ‘You are bruised everywhere.’

‘No, it isn’t that—I don’t care about that.’ Her eyes were swimming with tears. ‘I wasn’t trying to be wilful or reckless. For once in my life I was trying to do the right thing. There was no one else who could ride him and we all wanted to save Amira—and I messed it up.’

‘You didn’t mess it up.’ Telling himself that it was perfectly reasonable to comfort her or she might make herself worse, Zafiq shifted position and lay down next to her, pulling her carefully into his arms. ‘You were ridiculously brave. Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw that it was you? And then when you slid off the horse a second time—’

‘You caught me. It’s becoming a habit.’ Her face rested on his shoulder, her voice muffled.

‘That is one habit I would gladly break.’ Zafiq moved onto his side so that he could see her properly. ‘You are the bravest woman I have ever met.’

‘And the most annoying.’

Zafiq gave a faint smile. ‘That too.’

‘What can you do about Amira?’

‘Do you really think I would let them take Amira?’

‘But if the rules say a woman can’t be riding—’

‘The rules don’t say that. There is actually no mention of women in the rules. It is time I rewrote them.’ Confident that this announcement would ensure an appropriate degree of gratitude, Zafiq was surprised when she pulled away.

‘But that won’t protect Amira! They’ve already tried to steal her once, and Kamal’s fall wasn’t an accident and then there was today…’

A red mist of anger descended on Zafiq’s brain as he saw the bluish tinge on her cheek. ‘Today,’ he said thickly, ‘you could have been killed. And the culprit is already in custody. There will be a full investigation but you can trust me when I say that there will be no more attempts to infiltrate my stables.’

‘Life’s hard, isn’t it? You think people are basically good,’ she mumbled, ‘and then this happens and you realise that some people are horrid.’

‘What happened to you was a symptom of greed and jealousy. The horse who came second is owned by the ruler of a neighbouring state, but it was his jockey who pulled you off Batal at the marker.’ The thought of what might have happened turned him cold. ‘You could have been killed. If the stallion hadn’t stopped—’

‘I didn’t realise you were watching. I thought we were too far away for anyone to see what happened.’

‘I had binoculars. And there were officials positioned at every part of the course. They saw what he did. They would have helped you, but you were back on the stallion before they could reach you.’ Zafiq drew in a long breath. ‘Did you not think that getting back on the horse was dangerous after that fall?’

‘I wasn’t thinking at all. All I was thinking of was not losing Amira and not letting you and everyone else down. But when I felt his hand on my leg, I thought that was going to be the end of me. With Batal galloping and my foot stuck in the stirrup—and then he just stopped. As if he knew.’

‘It was the most surprising, moving thing that anyone watching had ever witnessed. All the more surprising when you know what a bad-tempered, aggressive animal Batal can be. That he showed such gentleness towards you…’

‘It’s because of him I’m alive,’ Bella said simply, her eyes drifting shut. ‘I suppose next time he bites me in the stable, I’ll just have to put up with it.’

‘You will not be returning to the stable, habibiti.’ His mind made up, Zafiq delivered the news he knew would bring a smile to her face.

Her eyes flew open and the look on her face was one of horror. ‘You’re firing me?’

‘I am not firing you. You can spend as much time in the stable as you like, but the rest of the time you will be living in the palace,’ Zafiq announced, pleased with his solution to the problem.

She would live with him. Why not?

‘L-living in the palace?’

‘Yes. I have…’ Zafiq hesitated and her eyes widened.

‘What?’

‘I have…missed you.’ He found it almost embarrassing to acknowledge just how badly he wanted this woman. ‘I’ve missed having someone who…challenges me.’

‘Zafiq—’

‘We are not going to talk about this now.’ Zafiq sprang to his feet and pressed the buzzer by the bed. ‘You are to stay in hospital and rest until at least six doctors agree that you are well enough to return to the palace. Then you will be guest of honour at the winner’s banquet.’

She looked slightly dazed. ‘Six doctors?’ ‘Just to be sure that they know what they’re talking about,’ Zafiq said firmly. ‘I don’t want you being discharged and then collapsing again. The winner’s banquet is normally held the night of the race but, given what has happened today, I have given instructions for it to be postponed until you are well enough to attend. It is the social event of the Al-Rafid calendar. No more sand in your hair, no more improvised tunics and belts made from the leaves of the date palm. An excuse to dress up and party, which is something I’m sure you’ve been missing out here in the desert.’

‘You don’t like me with sand in my hair?’

He was so relieved to hear her sounding like herself that he smiled. ‘It’s time you were Bella Balfour again. And this time you will be standing by my side, habibiti.’

So what exactly did all this mean?

You will be standing by my side…

Did he mean by his side for one official banquet? By his side for a whole night? Lots of nights?

She’d been waiting for him to mention the fact she’d said, ‘I love you,’ when she fell off Batal, but he’d avoided the topic.

Bella stared at the delicate rose petals floating on the surface of the enormous bath, unable to contain the excitement fizzing inside her even though she knew their relationship had no future.

He’d been to see his princess, hadn’t he? He was already considering marriage.

‘You are very quiet, madam,’ one of the women said, and she gave a small smile, pushing away that thought. She was here now. That was what counted.

‘Just thinking. You have no idea how long it is since I wallowed in a bath.’ It had been weeks. First she’d been in the desert with the Sheikh and then she’d been living in the stables and was always far too tired to take anything more than a quick shower.

She was woman enough to be excited at the prospect of walking into the room and watching Zafiq’s face when he saw her wearing a dress.

Running her hand through the scented water, Bella suddenly found herself thinking about the swims they’d shared in the cooling waters of the oasis.

Feeling a sudden pang, she frowned. This was much better, she told herself firmly. It didn’t even compare.

She sat still while the team of women washed her hair and combed soothing, conditioning oils through each golden strand.

‘The whole country is talking about the way you rode the devil horse. It is no wonder that His Highness is so taken with you.’ One of the women rubbed oil into Bella’s shoulders. ‘You are brave as well as beautiful.’

‘I feel as though I’m being prepared for the harem,’ Bella muttered and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut when the women exchanged shocked glances. ‘Look…sorry, just ignore my big mouth.’

‘It is very unusual for the Sheikh to have such a public relationship with a woman,’ another of the women said quietly. ‘Since the death of his father he is a man whose sole focus has been his duty.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Bella leant her head back against the bath and closed her eyes. ‘To him emotions and love are a sign of weakness—blah, blah—I’ve heard it all before.’ It had been impossible not to hear some of the gossip that had hummed around the stables and the more she’d heard, the more surprised she’d been that he’d ever embarked on a relationship with her. Even though their’s had been a secret desert tryst, it was obvious to her that his own strict code of behaviour should have prevented him from succumbing to the chemistry that had connected the two of them.

‘He is afraid of being like his father,’ the woman said in a soft voice. ‘Sheikh Zafiq’s father was a good man, but he had no self-control when it came to women. The woman he married. She was—’

‘A mistake,’ her friend said grimly, rinsing the oil from Bella’s hair. ‘She thought only of herself. Everything she demanded, he bought her. She was wilful and extravagant and had no sense of duty.’

Bella blushed, knowing that some of that description could have been applied to her up until a short time ago. ‘I bet you don’t want to see him with anyone like her, then.’

‘You are nothing like her, madam.’ The women helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in soft, warm towels and started to dry her hair methodically. ‘Everyone in Al-Rafid is pleased to see the Sheikh smiling. These past few years have been difficult for him. Not only did he become ruler at a young age, but he had responsibility for his younger brothers and sisters. He has had little time to himself and that is not good for such a virile, masculine man.’

And what little time he’d had, she’d ruined, Bella thought guiltily, talk of Zafiq’s virility sending an excited shiver down her spine. She barely noticed as the women slid a dress over her head and adjusted the straps.

He didn’t allow himself to love, did he?

He was afraid that love would make him weak.

Which was why he was planning a formal arrangement with some princess he didn’t know.

So what was tonight all about?

Suddenly aware that they were all looking at her expectantly, Bella looked in the mirror and her mouth fell open.

‘Oh! That’s—You—How—?’

‘You are pleased? You have such beautiful, beautiful hair,’ one of the women enthused, ‘but it was in bad condition from the sand and the sun—’

‘And cramming it under a riding hat.’ Bella stared in disbelief at her reflection. ‘I used to spend hours getting ready for parties, but I’ve never managed to make myself look like this. What have you done?’ Her hair shone with health and her skin glowed. The subtle application of make-up accentuated her best features and her mouth was a tempting, subtle pink that could have passed for nude. ‘Clever. It looks as though I’m not wearing make-up.’

‘You hardly need make-up now the bruises have faded. And we have merely made the most of what nature has given you, madam. You are truly stunning. And Sheikh Zafiq is going to be pleased.’

Pleased.

As if she were some sort of gift, ready for him to unwrap.

Bella frowned at that thought and then pushed it away. No. She wasn’t going to diminish this. The fact that he’d invited her to the formal dinner as his guest was an enormously big deal. It showed that he cared about her.

She knew he cared about her. Why else would he have arranged for six doctors to check on her condition before allowing her to be discharged? Why else would he have moved her into the most ornate wing of his palace and bought her all these beautiful clothes?

After a month without him, a month during which she’d filled every waking minute with work in order to distract herself from the pain of not seeing him, Bella could hardly breathe with excitement.

She just had to get through the dinner, and then they’d be on their own and she’d have his luscious, gorgeous body all to herself.

Sliding her feet into elegant shoes, she walked out of her bedroom suite, following a deferential member of Zafiq’s staff along miles of ornate corridor and into a large opulent room where hundreds of eyes turned to look at her.

Instantly everyone rose to their feet as a sign of respect and Bella flushed scarlet.

‘Gosh—this is embarrassing.’

‘They are all thanking you.’ Zafiq was by her side, pulling her arm through his and leading her to the head of the table.

Bella shrank as everyone started to clap. ‘They’re clapping because I fell off a horse?’

‘They’re clapping because you put your life at risk for Al-Rafid. Amira is something of a national treasure, as I have explained to you. It is because of you that she is still with us. They are already celebrating future Derby winners.’

‘Batal was certainly giving her flirtatious looks this afternoon.’ Bella smiled awkwardly at everyone who was watching. ‘I think he’s hoping he might get lucky tonight.’

‘Not just Batal.’ Zafiq’s gaze lingered on her face. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘I’m glad you think so after all the effort those poor women put into making me presentable.’ In the past, dressing up had given her confidence but now Bella felt a thousand times more awkward than she had in the desert.

Why? She was used to huge, public gatherings and yet she felt as shy and conspicuous as she had at her first ball at Balfour Manor.

Sitting down next to him it was impossible not to be aware that she was the focus of attention. ‘They’re wondering what a guy like you is doing with a girl like me.’

‘I think it’s obvious to every red-blooded man in the room what I’m doing with you,’ Zafiq drawled, apparently indifferent to the gossip and speculation. ‘If it weren’t for protocol we would have skipped this part of the evening and gone straight up to my rooms.’

‘Wow. I must fall off your horse more often.’ Bella kept her tone light, but her heart was thundering like Batal’s hooves in the race. So it wasn’t going to end with dinner, then.

Unable to eat anything, she pushed her food around her plate. Every time Zafiq’s arm brushed against hers she jumped, and every time he turned to talk to her she found herself tongue-tied and gauche.

By the time he finally rose from the table and led her from the room, she was a nervous wreck. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was crazily in love with him.

She had no idea at all how he felt about her.

Grateful, obviously, because she’d saved his beloved Amira. But was it anything more than that?

As Zafiq guided her past the guards and into his private room, Bella caught his arm. ‘Wait a minute. I really need to ask you something.’

‘Anything.’ His tone indulgent, he removed his tie and stepped towards her, cupping her face in his hands. ‘But make it quick. I’ve already waited too long for this moment and I’m not prepared to waste what time we have together talking.’

‘Would you have invited me as your guest to the ball if I’d lost the race?’

‘What sort of a question is that?’

‘I—I just want to understand why I’m here.’ Say something nice to me, her brain was shrieking and he gave a smile of masculine appreciation.

‘You’re here,’ he said huskily, ‘because I have denied myself long enough.’

‘So what’s happened to duty and responsibility?’

‘Our relationship has no impact on my ability to perform my duties.’ He slid his fingers through her hair and trailed his lips along the line of her jaw and Bella moaned, feeling the immediate response of her body.

Suddenly she was on fire—his weeks of denial had been her weeks of denial, too. And during those weeks she’d thought long and hard about who she was and who she wanted to be.

‘Wait a minute.’ She pulled back slightly, remembering the promise she’d made to herself in the cold, dark hours of the night when she’d lain awake feeling lonely and reliving those moments in the desert.

She was going to change.

She’d promised herself that if fate ever threw him in her path again, she wasn’t going to just follow her instincts, she was going to use her brain.

If he’d wanted her for anything other than sex, then it would have been different, but now she was here, she was under no illusions about what was on offer.

‘I can’t wait.’ His hand came behind her neck and his mouth came down on hers, his kiss dark, forbidden and meltingly sexy, and a bolt of heat shot through her from mouth to toes. Only the memory of the emotional agony she’d suffered over the past few weeks gave her the strength to do what she had to do.

‘No! This isn’t—I can’t!’ She pushed against his chest. ‘I don’t want to be the one you have fun with while you’re finalising plans to choose your bride and do your duty.’

‘You’re saying you don’t want this?’

‘Of course I want this.’ Bella groaned. ‘I just don’t want what’s coming afterwards. I don’t want to have to drag myself out of bed every morning feeling as though the world has ended. I don’t want that awful ache in my chest. I felt bruised, Zafiq, like you’d gouged part of me away with a blunt instrument—it was worse than falling off Batal. I just don’t want to feel that way again.’

‘You’re saying no?’ Under different circumstances the disbelief in his tone would have made her laugh.

‘I know that isn’t a word you’ve heard very often, but if you look it up in the dictionary, it’s the opposite of yes. And I’m not saying no because I want to challenge your authority or be generally annoying, or do any of those things likely to make you want to overrule me on principle. I’m just trying to keep us both sane.’

‘Saying no keeps you sane?’

‘Yes…no.’ Bella groaned and dug her fingers in her hair, gritting her teeth with frustration. ‘I can’t have an on-off relationship. It’s like rubbing yourself over the teeth of a saw! It hurts too much.’

The breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Staying away from you has been driving me mad.’

‘So why did you stay away from me, Zafiq? Was it because of your father?’ She was taking a huge risk, but she had to ask the question. ‘Are you trying not to be like him? Is that why you’re denying what we have?’

‘What do you know about my father?’

‘I know you’re afraid to be like him. I know you’ll marry someone you’ve chosen with your head, not your heart. And—’ it took a supreme effort to force the words past her lips ‘—I don’t want what you’re offering. I don’t want to be the Sheikh’s mistress!’ Wrestling her self-control back into some sort of shape, she stepped back from him.

His hands moved and, for a moment, she thought he was going to reach for her and haul her against him, but then he stepped back too, his eyes wary.

‘You’re saying that you don’t want what we had in the desert?’

‘That was different,’ Bella whispered, pressing her fingers to her throat. ‘We were a million miles from our real lives. For a time we both escaped from who we really are. It was just the two of us.’

‘It is still just the two of us.’

‘No. You’re still the ruler of Al-Rafid, Zafiq. Do you think I don’t know how hard you’ve been struggling not to renew our relationship? That night when you came down to the stables to accuse me of sleeping with Rachid—’

‘That was not my finest hour.’

‘Don’t apologise. Honestly, we’re past that. I don’t even blame you for thinking it, given everything the newspapers have written about me. But that night taught me that, to you, I’m a temptation that has to be resisted at all costs.’

‘If that were true, you would not be here now.’

‘Really?’ She gave a lopsided smile. ‘Do you know what I think? I think even you aren’t quite as strong as you’d like to think you are. I think our chemistry is pretty hot and it would be all too easy to let it take over and for us to think, What the heck—let’s just have a good time and enjoy ourselves while we can. But there’s always a price for living in the moment.’

‘You are speaking from experience…’

‘Yes. And for once I’ve learned from that experience. I know you, Zafiq. You might be able to leave behind duty and responsibility for one steamy night, but you won’t leave it behind for long. It’s who you are. You’re a brilliant ruler and your people love you. They need you. And when the time comes you’ll choose a suitable woman to be by your side to give you children and all those other respectable, duty-like things.’ Bella swallowed hard. ‘And that isn’t going to be me, is it?’

There was a lengthy, protracted silence.

He took so long to reply that hope flickered to life in her heart.

Hoping desperately that she was wrong about him, she reached out her hand but he simply stared at it for a moment, a muscle working in his jaw. And then he looked her in the eyes.

‘I will not make the same mistakes in my marriage that my father made in his.’

It was like being stabbed through the heart and she pulled her hand back and rubbed it against her chest, trying to ease the pain. ‘Then this is goodbye, Zafiq.’

‘Wait! I haven’t finished.’

‘But I have.’ Bella ignored his command, her hand on the door handle. ‘Honestly, Zafiq, this is so hard—you have no idea how hard, especially for someone like me. I don’t do this, OK? I don’t behave for the greater good, nor do I act unselfishly, so you’ve got to give me some help here! It’s—it’s like tipping away a drink when you’re an alcoholic, or saying no to chocolate when you’re starving.’

‘I’m an addictive substance?’

She was embarrassed she’d revealed so much about her feelings for him. ‘We’re not good for each other! Why did you even invite me tonight? I was doing OK in your stables.’ Sort of.

‘You’re saying you would have preferred to continue working in my stables?’

‘In a way, yes,’ she said miserably. ‘I did it to prove to everyone that I wasn’t Bad Bella, that I

could be responsible. But I’d forgotten how much I love horses. And I’ve discovered that I love the responsibility. I love knowing I managed to win that race—well, Batal won it, I know, but I was on his back and I’m proud of that. It felt as though I’d achieved something.’

‘You achieved a great deal, and…I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman.’

Sensing his struggle, Bella stared at him with a lump in her throat. Hug me, she thought to herself. Drag me into your arms and tell me you can’t live without me.

But he stood rigid, as if he were hanging onto control by a thread. ‘I have never offered another woman what I’m offering you now. I’m inviting you to live in the palace with me.’

‘As your mistress. I don’t want that, Zafiq. You treated me to dinner because I won the race, but that’s over now. And now I’m going back to the stables.’ Her knees were shaking, her stomach was quivering and every nerve in her body was straining to touch him. She’d never, ever in her life wanted anything or anyone as badly as she wanted him and denying herself was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

Seeing his handsome features frozen in a mask of disbelief, she almost gave in to temptation and launched herself at him, and then she reminded herself that sooner or later he’d dump her.

And if life had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t want to be with a man who didn’t love her.

‘Thanks for this evening, Zafiq.’ Bella opened the door before she could change her mind, knowing that he wasn’t going to say anything with his guards listening to every word. ‘And thanks for the bath. You have no idea how good it felt to finally get my hands on a bottle of decent conditioner.’

Chapter Ten

RACHID was talking to Yousif when Bella emerged from Amira’s box the next morning.

Both of them stared at her as if she were a mirage.

‘What?’ She snapped the word and then instantly regretted it because both men had been good friends to her. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Not enough sleep last night.’ Then she realised how they’d interpret that remark and blushed. ‘I mean, because I still ache all over and, no matter how I lie, I can’t sleep. I’m going to have words with Batal.’

‘You can’t.’ Yousif gave her a strange look. ‘His Highness has driven to the State of Zamira. He has taken Batal with him.’

Bella removed a piece of straw that was clinging to her hair. ‘Well, I’ll have words with him when he returns. Big, macho brute.’

Rachid paled. ‘Zafiq hurt you?’

‘Not Zafiq, I was talking about Batal.’ Bella frowned at them. ‘I fell off his back, remember? And he’s a long way from the ground. It felt like falling from the top of the Empire State Building.’

The two men exchanged looks. ‘His Highness did not say when he would be returning,’ Yousif said in a strangled voice. ‘This was an unscheduled trip. He has gone to visit Princess Yasmina, the woman everyone is hoping he will marry.’

Bella felt as though she’d fallen off the horse again. Every single part of her ached. ‘Right. Well…’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘I have things to do. I’m taking Amira for a ride. On my own.’

‘But if you are still bruised from your fall—’

‘Kill or cure.’ Bella strolled back to the stable, her mind in a mess. After their conversation the night before, he’d gone to meet his future wife. Why did that hurt so much when she’d always known that was what he’d do?

Leaning her head against Amira, she closed her eyes.

Because she hadn’t expected him to do it quite so quickly.

Regret stabbed her hard in the ribs. Perhaps she should have taken what he’d offered the night before. She should have had that one last night together.

Reminding herself that one more night would have intensified the pain rather than lessen it, she saddled Amira and led her into the yard. She climbed stiffly onto the mounting block, grimacing slightly as every muscle in her body shrieked a protest.

She didn’t even know where she was going.

All she knew was that she wanted to be on her own for a while in the desert.

Bella gave a humourless laugh. ‘That bang on the head must have got to me,’ she told the mare, urging her forward out of the yard. ‘Two months ago I would have sold the contents of my wardrobe to escape from all that sand. Now, not only do I not have a wardrobe to sell, but I don’t even care, and I can’t think of anything more relaxing than riding in the desert. Do you think I need help?’

Amira gave a whinny and broke into a trot, but Bella reined her in with a groan.

‘No, no. That’s too bumpy. I feel as though I’m in cocktail shaker. Do you mind just walking?’

The horse didn’t seem to object, or maybe she sensed Bella’s fragile state because she walked carefully, picking her way over rough surfaces until she reached the sandy track that led into the desert.

A lizard scuttled across their path and Bella watched it with a lump in her throat, remembering the nights she and Zafiq had spent together staring up at the stars.

Talking. Laughing. Making love.

Was that why she was riding into the desert?

To torture herself with memories?

She’d grown to love the narrow, dusty streets of Al-Rafid with its colourful souks and high stone walls. She’d grown to love the stables and the friends she’d made. But most of all she loved Zafiq, in a way she hadn’t known it was possible to love another person. She wanted what was best for him and she could see that wasn’t her.

But could she carry on living here, and watch him marry? Could she watch him smile at another woman and lift another woman’s child in his arms?

‘It would be like falling on a cactus,’ she muttered to Amira, ‘and then getting up and doing it again. I’m not that much of a masochist. It would be easier to recover away from him.’

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have money now. Her father had cut off her allowance, but she didn’t need an allowance any more, did she? Zafiq paid his staff well and she’d been working too hard to spend any of the money she’d earned. As a result she had more than enough for a flight back to England.

Perhaps she’d go back to Balfour Manor and make her peace with her father. Then she’d go and get a job in a racing stable. Or maybe an eventing yard. Somewhere she could be part of a team and make a difference.

If she worked hard enough she wouldn’t have time to think about how much she was hurting inside.

Zafiq returned from the desert to find everyone in the stables electrified with anxiety.

‘Bella has not returned,’ Rachid reported as Zafiq led Batal out of the horsebox.

Having thought of nothing but Bella for the past two days, he felt colour streak across his cheeks. ‘Returned from where?’

‘The desert.’ Rachid filled the hay net and retreated to a safe distance from the stallion’s hooves. ‘She left the same day you did. She’s taken Amira into the desert. And the horses miss her. They keep putting their heads over the stable doors and calling for her.’

Feeling as though he was one step behind everyone else, Zafiq struggled to keep his tone patient. ‘You let her take Amira into the desert?’

‘She didn’t tell us where she was going and it was only when she was late arriving back from her ride that we found her note. It’s her final trip,’ Yousif said dismally. ‘She said she needed to go there one more time before she leaves us.’

‘She is alone?’ Zafiq felt the kind of fear he’d only felt once before—when he’d realised it was Bella on the back of his stallion. ‘You didn’t try and stop her? Do you have any idea how vulnerable she is out there? She knows nothing about surviving in the desert. Nothing!’

Rachid looked at him. ‘Has anyone ever managed to stop Bella doing what she wants? She rode Batal against everyone’s advice. She has a mind of her own, Zafiq.’

He knew that.

He knew all about the way Bella’s mind worked.

‘She is safe,’ Yousif said quietly. ‘She called us last night from a satellite phone, just to let us know she was OK. All she would say was that she was staying somewhere special. We think she’s probably at the Retreat but you know they never divulge the names of their guests. She’s probably making the most of her last few days. She said that she will miss us all,’ he said gloomily, ‘but nowhere near as much as we will miss her, Your Highness. She is the best groom I have ever had. How Amira will cope when she leaves, I do not know. I have four vets ready to care for her but I know she will pine dreadfully. The horses love Bella. Even the dogs love her.’

‘Everyone loves her,’ Rachid said, glancing towards the desert with worry in his eyes. ‘Perhaps I made a mistake. Kamal said I should have sent someone to follow her but she was most insistent—’

‘Kamal?’ Zafiq stared at them with growing frustration. ‘What does Kamal have to do with this? He is still in hospital.’

‘Bella has visited him every day since he’s been in hospital,’ Rachid told him. ‘Taking him pictures of the horses. She really makes him laugh. She tells terrible jokes.’

Zafiq knew all about her terrible jokes. ‘What do you mean, you will all miss her when she leaves—where is she going?’

‘Home to England.’

Zafiq felt as though he’d been thumped in the chest. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘She didn’t say. She just said it was the right thing.’

‘She should not have gone into the desert!’

Yousif cleared his throat. ‘Stopping Bella is a bit like trying to stop Batal when he is galloping, Your Highness. A lost cause.’

‘She will certainly be lost by now,’ Zafiq said through gritted teeth, and Yousif flushed.

‘You are worried about Amira, of course—what do you want us to do, Your Highness?’

Realising that his concern for Bella eclipsed his worry for his favourite mare, Zafiq dragged his fingers through his hair. They were waiting for him to make a decision and for the first time in his life cool, rational thought evaded him.

Driven by concern for Bella, he vaulted onto the back of his stallion. ‘I will ride after her.’

‘I will come with you,’ Rachid said immediately, but Zafiq shook his head.

‘No.’

Yousif and Rachid looked at each other. ‘At least take your guards. Do you want us to call the Retreat and say you are on your way?’

‘No guards. And I don’t want you to contact the Retreat.’ Zafiq knew she wouldn’t be there. At the thought of her sitting cross-legged, drinking herbal tea, he almost laughed. But his desire to laugh faded as he thought about how much danger she was in.

She thought she knew the desert…

And he knew that an assumption of knowledge could be more dangerous than an admission of ignorance. It was impossible not to think about what had happened last time Bella had ridden into the desert alone.

Nursing a clear memory of her lying in the sand, dangerously dehydrated, Zafiq urged Batal forwards and prayed that he wouldn’t be too late.

Bella was lying on her back in the pool when she heard the thunder of hooves and saw the growing cloud of sand. ‘Our peace is over, Amira.’

But her heart sank because she knew who was coming.

Would he arrest her for stealing his horse a second time?

Amira threw up her head and whinnied, her ears flicking forwards and her nostrils flaring.

Deciding that she didn’t have time to grab her clothes, Bella stood so that just her head appeared above the water as Zafiq rode into the camp like a warrior going into battle.

Watching him, Bella wondered whether the pain would fade once she was thousands of miles away from him. ‘What happened to the princess,’ she called lazily, hiding her agony behind indifference, ‘not pretty enough? Or did she answer you back?’ She skimmed her hands over the water and watched as the ripples spread across the surface.

‘Even after weeks in my country you have developed no respect for the harshness of the desert.’ His voice a furious growl, Zafiq sprang from the horse with an athletic grace that Bella found it impossible not to admire.

‘Calm down. You’re sheikhing yourself up over nothing.’

He cast her a warning glance and walked across to Amira. ‘Has the mare had water?’

‘No, I’m watching her slowly die of thirst.’ Bella wondered how long it would take her to drive him away in a temper. Not long, she hoped, because every word, every look, was killing her. ‘Of course she’s had water. You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?’

His eyes were on hers. ‘No,’ he said slowly, his accent thickening the words. ‘Not stupid. I think you are a very bright, very misunderstood woman.’

Taken aback, Bella stared at him. ‘Oh, well…in that case, I’m happy to tell you that I’ve fed her, given her water, kept her in the shade and kept a watch for snakes and scorpions like you taught me. I even slept next to her with a dagger last night, just in case. Did I miss anything?’

Zafiq’s gaze scanned the horse. ‘She looks well.’

‘Good. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘I’ve come to tell you that I’m getting married.’

Bella felt as though he’d punched her. ‘You came all the way out here to deliver that news in person?’ She wanted to howl with pain. ‘That was thoughtful of you.’

‘You need to know.’

Typical man, Bella thought miserably. Practical to the last. ‘OK, well, now I know, so you can go away again and leave me in peace.’

‘You are coming back with me.’

‘No!’ Bella bit her lip, too distressed to conjure up a flippant remark. ‘Please, Zafiq. I love it here so much. Let me have one more day. I promise I won’t let any harm come to Amira. I carried her food, I have loads of water—I thought it through, honestly.’ She was ready to beg, but his hard, handsome face showed no sign of softening.

‘I need you back in Al-Rafid.’

‘That’s completely unfair!’ She didn’t bother with formality. ‘What is it you want from me? A wedding present? You want me to buy you a bundle of towels and a toaster?’ Then she realised how ungracious she was being and blinked away the tears rapidly, cross with herself. ‘I wish you well,’ she said huskily. ‘I really, really hope you’ll be very happy. I mean that. I want this marriage to work for you and I’m sure it will because you have a way of making things turn out the way you want them to. I just can’t be there to see it happen. And you can’t expect that of me.’

‘I do expect it. And you will be there.’

Bella glared at him, wondering if he had any clue how she felt about him. ‘Are you dense or something?’

His head flicked back and shock flared in his dark eyes. ‘Are you calling me dense?’

‘Well, you’re either dense or monumentally insensitive and neither attribute is exactly something to boast about,’ Bella snapped, pushing aside a strand of weed that wound itself round her wrist. ‘If you can’t think about my feelings, at least think about your wife. How would she feel?’

‘I hope she will feel proud to be standing by my side.’

‘Well, I’m sure she will. And I certainly don’t want to spoil her day by being in the audience. Ex-girlfriends anonymous. Oh, go away, Zafiq! Go and torture someone else.’ Feeling the lump grow in her throat, Bella turned away and concentrated on the date palms that shaded the pool, furious with herself for not being strong enough to go to his wedding. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t be there when you marry.’

‘Then we have a problem, habibiti,’ he said softly, ‘because I cannot marry without you there.’

Tears blurred her vision. ‘Why?’

‘Because you are the woman I will be marrying.’

Bella heard the words from far away. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out, and Amira threw up her head and gave a whinny, sensing the change in the atmosphere.

‘Get out of the water, Bella!’ His voice roughened by exasperation, Zafiq paced to the edge of the pool. ‘Say something!’

He looked sensational with the sun turning his hair blue-black, the intensity of his gaze demanding that she look at him.

Shock turned to happiness and then faded away into the most agonising misery.

How could she?

‘That’s a heck of a sacrifice to make for sex, Zafiq.’

‘You think I’m asking you to marry me so that I can have sex?’

‘You haven’t actually asked me to marry you—’ Bella felt something brush against her ankle and gave a squeal. ‘Zafiq, there’s something in this pool. Ugh!’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘I thought desert creatures didn’t bother you?’

‘I like lizards but this was slimy.’ She was hopping around on one leg, whimpering, and Zafiq gave a masculine smile, stripped off his clothes and joined her in the water in a smooth dive.

He surfaced right next to her and lifted her into his arms. ‘It is a piece of weed.’

‘What?’

‘Around your ankle.’ Casually he flipped it away. ‘Not a creature. Not slimy.’

‘It felt slimy. Put me down, Zafiq—I don’t have any clothes on.’

‘That’s the way I prefer you,’ he drawled softly, his eyes on her mouth as he lowered her into the water and drew her against him.

Bella gasped as she felt the heat of his body against hers. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m proposing.’ He murmured the words against her mouth. ‘Could you say yes quickly so that we can cut straight to the exciting part?’

Mesmerised by the wicked look in his eyes and by the explosive reaction of her own body, Bella moaned. ‘No…I can’t—No.’ She had to be strong about this. She had to remember what she’d learned—how she was determined to live her life. ‘No, Zafiq.’

Zafiq sighed. ‘Now what?’

‘I said no.’

‘I heard you—what I want to know is why. I know you love me, so don’t try and deny it.’

‘Yes, I do love you. But you don’t love me. And that isn’t good enough for me. I don’t want to marry for money or status. I don’t even want to marry because I’m in love. I’ll only marry when it’s an equal partnership. When love is given and returned. When we both want the same things. When we’re a team because we have an emotional bond, not a paper one.’

‘Bella—’

‘Whatever anyone says, I’m not like my mother,’ Bella whispered. ‘I won’t marry without love. You taught me how it’s possible to feel, and I don’t want to feel less than that. And I want a man who feels the same way about me, otherwise what chance will we have? I won’t settle for less than a love match because I’ve seen what happens when you do.’

His dark eyes were locked on hers. ‘What makes you think I don’t love you?’

‘Er, possibly the fact that you’ve never said those words to me?’

‘You have never said those words to me either.’

‘I have,’ she said hotly. ‘When I fell off Batal into your arms, I said, “I love you.” And you never mentioned it. You never reacted.’

Zafiq let out a long, exasperated breath. ‘I assumed you were talking to the horse.’

‘You thought I was declaring my love for your horse?’

‘You are always saying things like that to the horses. The staff tell me you chat to them all the time, telling them how much you love them and how good they are.’

Bella blushed. ‘Well, that’s true, I guess.’

‘So you admit that I wasn’t likely to realise you were declaring your love for me when you landed in my arms.’

Bella pressed her hand against his chest, her fingers feeling the contours of smooth, hard muscle. ‘Are you saying—’ She cleared her throat, almost afraid to say the words in case she jinxed it. ‘Do you mean that—’

‘I love you,’ he said quietly ‘That’s what I’m saying, and yes, I mean it.’

Suddenly she felt light-headed. ‘You think love is a weakness.’

‘I think the relationship my father had with my stepmother was unbalanced, and yes, that made him weak.’ Zafiq frowned. ‘I was appalled that he seemed unable to resist her. Watching him succumb to the seductive temptations of that woman was the hardest thing I had ever done. I vowed that I would not make the same mistake.’

‘And that’s why you were so angry with me when I flirted with you?’

‘I was determined not to fall into the same trap.’

‘I thought you were arrogant and high-handed.’

He gave a faint smile. ‘And now?’

‘I still think you’re arrogant and high-handed,’ Bella whispered, ‘but you’re pretty cute too, and if you get too bossy I’ll just argue back.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ He groaned, sliding his arms around her hair and hauling her against him. ‘I love you, Bella Balfour.’

Bella winced and a stab of insecurity sliced through her happiness. ‘That’s the difficult part, isn’t it? My sister Olivia would be better for you. She’s practical and sensible. I called her, by the way…’

‘Good. And?’

‘She’d been worrying too. She felt guilty about the things she said. We had a good conversation. And I spoke to Zoe in New York—she’d been trying to get hold of me.’

‘So all your worries are finished.’

‘Not really. How are your people ever going to accept you marrying Bad Bella?’

‘My people think you are Brave Bella.’ He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth, his voice vibrating with sincerity. ‘To them you are Bold Bella and Beautiful Bella. You are a role model and an inspiration to all who meet you. There is not a bad bone in your body.’

The lump back in her throat, Bella stood still. ‘I say the wrong thing—I lose it quite often.’

‘I love the fact that you are passionate and honest about your feelings.’

‘I’ve never been anyone’s role model before,’ she croaked, and he gave a slow smile.

‘It’s always good to have new experiences in life. All the young girls of A1-Rafid will be watching you, copying you.’

‘They’ll read awful stuff about me,’ Bella mumbled, and he gave a sigh and his mouth tightened.

‘We do not censor the press, but nor do we allow the degree of intrusive reporting you have in your country. There will be no journalists climbing the walls of my palace or hiding in the stables.’

‘But the past—’

‘The past is called the past for a reason. My people care only about what they know and what they see, not about what has been rumoured. They saw a girl willing to put her life on the line for something that mattered to our country.’

‘Those stories about me—most of them weren’t true,’ Bella blurted out, desperate to defend herself for the first time in her life. ‘Half the stuff they wrote about me—more than half actually—was all lies. I never had those affairs, but they were determined to write what they wanted so I just let them get on with it. Every time I said hello to a man, it was supposedly a new affair!’ Her cheeks burned. ‘If I told you there was only ever one man, and that was ages ago, what would you say?’

Zafiq stroked her face with gentle fingers. ‘I’d say that he was clearly a fool,’ he drawled softly, ‘for letting a woman as special as you slip through his fingers.’

‘He was the reason I was dropped from the eventing team as a teenager,’ Bella confessed. ‘I realised that he was just using me and I dumped him, so he spread horrible rumours and the selectors decided I wasn’t a good example.’

‘I believe you.’

Bella’s eyes filled. ‘Really? You have no idea how that feels. And being here—’ she turned her head, looking at the red-gold sand rising majestically around them ‘—I feel as if I’m home.’

‘You are home.’

‘I found my way through the desert,’ she mumbled. ‘You’re right that it doesn’t all look the same. It isn’t just sand. I feel as though this is where I’m meant to be. I want to keep coming here every year. I want to look at the stars and ride through the dunes. I want to make a difference to the people of Al-Rafid—they treat me as if I belong. I feel as though this is the most special place on earth. Just like you do.’

‘For me, the most special place on earth is where you are, habibiti,’ Zafiq said quietly, pulling her into his arms. ‘And this is undoubtedly where you are supposed to be. With my people, with my horses, but most of all, with me.’

Her eyes glistening, Bella lifted her face to his, bathing in the truly amazing feeling of being loved for who she was. ‘Dignity,’ she said, sliding her arms round his neck. ‘That’s my Balfour rule and I’m going to live up to it, I promise.’

‘Dignity has its place, just as long as you don’t let it change who you are.’ Zafiq lowered his head and Bella smiled.

‘I’m yours,’ she whispered, and closed her eyes as he kissed her. ‘Yours, for ever.’

Olivia’s Awakening

Margaret Way

Margaret Way, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the sub-tropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing, initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the State capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony that overlooks a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft, from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, big graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky to little bay runabouts.

Prologue

No one and nothing is in a mad rush, so she finds the laid back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over a hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

I’M UP for the challenge. Of course I am! Nothing like a challenge to bring out the best in her. At the same time she was experiencing a definite sense of panic—the fear of finding herself in a strange land where she could conceivably be a lot unhappier than she already was?

You’re not a Balfour for nothing, girl!

It was natural to her to talk to herself—a practice that had started very early in life. Maybe around seven, when she had found it hard to get attention. Still, she had grown up courageous—not too self-congratulatory a word, she fancied—and with a capacity for adjustment. Only these days her idea of herself had been badly shaken, something she didn’t confide in everyone. Or she stopped herself in the nick of time.

She had always met her obligations, stood resolutely by her code of conduct which she firmly believed to be high, both in theory and in practise. Only problem now, she had lost her guiding star—her faith in herself—the ability she had always prided herself on to keep calm and in control. It was an ability she had learned the hard way, as surrogate mother to her siblings. Sadly that cherished ability had deserted her, bringing on her current sense of devastation. She who had always been such a stickler for doing the right thing had totally lost it. And boy did that hurt!

“Olivia, dear God!” Her father, the British billionaire, Oscar Balfour, using his steely blue eyes as a weapon, had reeled away from her in shock. “How could you? I just can’t believe how you of all people have let me down.”

Naturally a degree of resentment had erupted. Such criticism was hard to take after years of going all-out to please him.

Only the debacle wasn’t just a bad dream. It had really occurred at the Balfour Charity Ball, instigated by her illustrious family a century before.

“The Balfour Ball has become an absolute must for anyone who is anyone in society.” This from Greataunt Edwina Balfour, the perfect upper-class snob. “On a par with an invitation to the palace.”

Olivia could have responded she would throw over the Balfour Charity Ball any day for an invite to the palace, but had the great good sense not to. Nevertheless, the ball—the 100th no less—wasn’t the occasion where one would have thought anyone in their right mind would get into a catfight. But that was exactly what she and her twin sister Bella had done that fateful night.

“And screw you!” Bella had tossed at her crudely, landing a stinging slap on her twin’s cheek.

The silence thereafter had positively roared. Bella had never struck her, but the incident was now indelibly printed on their memories, possibly for a lifetime. Such a serious breach of etiquette was rarer than rare. Betrayal of family was not to be condoned. The only mitigating circumstance was both she and Bella had meant well. Their argument was all about the fate and future of their much-loved sibling Zoe.

Poor Zoe!

So there they were on that night of nights, all dressed to the nines, beautiful formal gowns and magnificent family heirloom jewellery, except for Bella, who always liked to be different, more daring, setting trends with avant-garde labels and loads of costume glitter. She, Olivia, the sensible, practical—might as well say it—sanctimonious one, the eldest of the “Beautiful Balfour Girls,” pitted against the highly volatile, sparkling Bella, who in retrospect could be judged as the one having the most heart. She could no longer blind herself to that telling fact.

Having laid all her cards on the table she recognised that, as much as she loved and cherished her twin, she had always been inclined to patronise Bella, regarding her sister as someone who, though very beautiful, perhaps lacked intellectual depth. Bella didn’t read books or ponder issues as she did. Bella had not completed her university degree as she had to some distinction. Bella had no great interest in the arts generally.

Their tastes weren’t the same. In fact, they were opposites. Bella played up her stunning beauty. Olivia deliberately played hers down. They weren’t identical twins, but fraternal. Bella closely resembled their dead mother, the exquisite Alexandra. Bella was more the Balfour, with the Balfour blue eyes.

Olivia was far more responsible than her twin. Bella was the first to admit that. She didn’t have Bella’s kind of freedom. Bella’s sole interest was to have a good time, leaving her, the elder by a few minutes, to toe the line. It was Olivia who often acted as her father’s hostess, kept up the Balfour charity work, supervised and instructed when necessary her younger siblings—her half-sisters—coped with their dependency on her, while Bella led her glamorous, very hectic social life always pursued by a conga line of admirers.

Be that as it may, their calamitous fight had been their only real argument.

“As twins we stick together! One for all and all for one!” This was their childhood swashbuckling mantra when they were heavily into Alexandre Dumas. She and Bella loved each other. They loved Zoe, who as it turned out was not their father’s child, but their late mother’s indiscretion. Their mother of all people! She, who they had regarded as being right up there with Mother Teresa.

“Mother must have been a saint. They say only the good die young.” She had actually said that once to Bella in an effort to curb her sister’s wildness, which went far beyond high spirits. Both of them at the time had believed it to be entirely true.

Now she had to pinch herself hard to remind herself that darling Zoe was therefore illegitimate. She and Bella had argued over whether to tell Zoe or conceal the fact from her. Their fiery debate had had devastating consequences for the entire family.

“If only I could go back in time!” She often found herself breaking the silence to lament. They hadn’t been foolish enough to conduct their argument in public. They had had the sense to retire to a private room to hurl insults at each other, but not the continuing good sense to shut the door firmly. Their heated discussion over Zoe’s legitimacy, a matter that consumed them, had been overheard by an unscrupulous member of the press.

The press and the paparazzi were forever hot on the trail of the Beautiful Balfour Girls, Bella in particular. The journalist must have thought all his coups had come at once. He got off a starkly telling photo of the two of them in the heat of their fury—hers self-righteous, Bella’s impassioned—plus all he had overheard of their argument which was practically verbatim. Next morning, story and photograph had been splashed across the front page of a national newspaper.

Another Illegitimacy Scandal Rocks Balfour Family

Even as she thought of it Olivia cringed in mind and body. When would the soul-searching stop? When would her disgust with herself begin to abate? She had to face the fact she could be left with eternal regret or, as Bella had said lying limply across her twin’s bed,

“Sooner or later, Olivia, we have to pay for our sins. When it comes down to it we’re no different from anyone else.”

What nonsense! Of course they were different. They lived in a stately home for one thing. The family was mentioned in Debrett’s and Who’s Who. To top it off their father was a billionaire. This time they were all paying, from her illustrious father down, when it was she and Bella who had finally toppled the grand Balfour edifice. How shocking was that?

Was it any wonder their father had reinstituted the Balfour Family Rules, a code of conduct that had been passed down from generation to generation within the Balfour family? All eight of Oscar’s daughters through their father’s three marriages, and both their mother’s and their father’s misalliances—had accepted his decision to send them away from the scene of the family humiliation.

“You need to face your limitations, my daughters, and hopefully find your strengths,” he had exhorted with as much gravitas as a hanging judge.

They could have refused. She had certainly considered it. But they didn’t.

“A point very much in your favour,” Oscar Balfour conceded.

Bella had been handed rule one. Dignity.

She had been given her own rule. Rule eight. Humility.

When their father had first handed her rule eight, she had looked back at him in blank astonishment.

“Humility, Daddy? What can you mean?” She felt enormously hurt.

He had taken up valuable time to explain.

Now in a moment of self-clarity she saw she just might have a need to develop that overrated virtue. She knew what people thought of her: aloof, cool to the point of glacial, supremely self-confident, self-assured, really a snob and a bit of a prude, the least approachable of the Balfour girls. Not true. At least, not entirely. The cool bit was in order. She was a private person. Indeed she had a passion for privacy. But at the heart of it she couldn’t do without her defence mechanisms any more than Bella, both of them cruelly robbed of a mother and a mother’s love and guidance when they had barely mastered the trick of abseiling down their cots.

“Doesn’t anyone realise what losing a mother does to a child? The effects are felt forever.”

“God, tell me something I don’t know!” Bella, clad in a gorgeous imperial-yellow silk kimono decorated with richly embroidered chrysanthemums and mystical birds, had cried. In many ways Bella was a bit of a drama queen.

So in the end she and Bella, who really didn’t have a personality disorder as she had so wrongly accused her, accepted their banishments.

“Both of us have to master the rule, Olivia.” Bella, for once, showed meekness.

It was certainly their father’s directive. A cue for obedience if ever there was one. “It will get you safely through life so you never again bring shame on the family name.” He had spoken as if he was throwing them all a lifeline. For herself, she had to confess she ever so slightly resented the fact he had omitted to mention his own part in the debacle. It was his “girls” who had to take the direct hit.

“We have to work out our punishment,” Bella had said, apparently not feeling the same degree of betrayal. “Take it on the chin.”

“Punishment? I prefer to look on it as a challenge.”

A challenge—far, far away from their comfort zone.

“Good grief, Daddy, not Australia!” She had a vision of that very large island continent not all that far off the South Pole. Surely they had sent convicts there?

“Australia, it is!” Her father had fixed her with the piercing Balfour eyes. “You’re to work in whatever capacity is required of you, Olivia. At least you have the Balfour good business head on your shoulders.”

She should have reminded him that had already been established. But to be obliged to work for a man she had only met briefly and had cause to intensely dislike? Could she even do it, much as she was made of stern stuff?

Clint McAlpine, Australian cattle baron, had been the only person in her life outside Bella who had had the temerity to tell her to her face—she had only been showing him her normal demeanour at the time—that she badly needed taking down a peg.

“Come down from your high ivory tower, ice princess,” he’d advised, a satirical twist to his handsome mouth. “Mix with mere mortals. I promise it will do you a power of good.”

She winced at the memory! Just because he was a billionaire like their father didn’t give him the right to tick her off. Maybe for that very reason his image, incredibly vivid, had stuck in her head. It had never diminished. Something she didn’t understand.

There was some distant family connection on her father’s side; that’s how they had met up. Functions, a family wedding. The McAlpines often visited London on business or pleasure or a mix of both. A few years back, her father had bought a large block of shares in the McAlpine Pastoral Company which must have prompted his decision to send her into the McAlpine stronghold. Evidently her father trusted McAlpine as he had trusted McAlpine’s late father, a man of good British stock. He must have been a much nicer man altogether. So now, a scant two days after the Balfour disaster she was on the threshold of taking up her challenge.

At the end of the earth.

Australia.

Chapter One

Darwin, capital of the Northern Territory, gateway to Australia

NEVER a good traveller—her privileged lifestyle had ensured a great deal of international jet-setting—Olivia had come to the conclusion this had to be the epic journey of all time. First there was the flight from London to Singapore. Horrendous! Well over fourteen hours of claustrophobia. She had tried, largely in vain, to gather her resources with a one-night stopover at Raffles. Lovely hotel with a unique charm. She fully intended to revisit it at some future date, but for now on to Darwin, the tropical capital of the Northern Territory of Australia, yet another four and more hours away.

She couldn’t read. She couldn’t sleep. All she could do was dwell on her disastrous fall from grace. She knew she had no alternative but to fight back. And not take an age about it either. She and her siblings were due back in London five months hence to celebrate their father’s birthday on October 2. Nothing for it but to pull up her socks! Re-establish her aristocratic credentials.

Could be hard going in Australia.

Looking wanly out the aircraft porthole she could see the glitter of the Timor Sea. It was a genuine turquoise. That aroused her interest sufficiently to make her sit up and take notice. They continued their descent, and Darwin City’s skyline rose up.

Skyline! Good grief!

She craned her neck nearer the porthole. After London, New York and the great cities of Europe, all of which she had visited, it looked more like something out of a Somerset Maugham novel—a tropical outpost, as it were. It was bound to be sweltering. She knew the heat of the Caribbean where her father owned a beautiful private island, but she had a premonition the heat of Darwin was going to be something else again. And she the one who had often been described as the “quintessential English rose”! Anyone who knew the slightest thing about gardening would know roses hated extreme heat.

Yet her father had sent her here and she had obeyed his decision. But then hadn’t she obeyed him all of her life? Struggling to always be what he wanted, while Bella was out enjoying herself, men falling around her like ninepins.

“Only flings, sweetie! Something to get me through a desperately dull life.”

She had thanked Bella for sharing that with her. Far from being the quintessential English rose she was starting to think of herself as the quintessential old maid who, far from bedding lovers, burnt gallons of midnight oil reading profound and often obscure literature. She even dressed like a woman ten years her senior. Or so Bella said. How had that developed? Her father’s fault for expecting way too much of her, especially from an early age. Bella’s taunt aside, she thought she always looked impeccably groomed—that was her duty—but she saw now with her perfect up-do, her whole style could be too much on the conservative side for a woman of twenty-eight.

Twenty-eight! My God, when was she going to start the breeding process? Time was running out. Bella had had dozens of affairs and countless proposals. She’d had exactly two. Both perfect disasters. Geoffrey, then Justin. They had only wanted her because she was her father’s daughter. Bella’s men wanted just Bella. Wasn’t that a bit of a sore point? But could she blame them? Bella was everything she was not: sexy, exciting, daring, adventurous, not afraid to show lots of creamy cleavage, whereas she was as modest as a novice nun. She could see herself now as being as dull as ditch water. That image bruised her ego. Or what was left of it.

What would she make of Australia? The Northern Territory she understood was pretty much one sprawling wilderness area. She hadn’t wanted Australia. Too hot and primitive. But in the end she had accepted the commitment. She was a Balfour, British to the bone.

Darwin City. City? She could see a township built on a bluff at the edge of a peninsula surrounded on three sides by sparkling blue-green water. It overlooked what appeared to be a very large harbour. Being her, she had made it her business to read up on the place so she knew the city had been destroyed and rebuilt twice. Once after the massive Japanese air raid in February 1942 during World War II, when more bombs were dropped on an unprepared Darwin than had been dropped on Pearl Harbor. Then again after the city was destroyed by a terrifying natural disaster, Cyclone Tracy, in 1974. She rather thought after something as cataclysmic as that she would pack up her things and move to the Snowy Mountains, but apparently the people of the Top End were a lot tougher than she.

She well remembered McAlpine as projecting a powerful image: tough, aggressive, a man’s man, but women seemed to adore him. It was a wonder his body didn’t glow with the force of that exuberant energy. Not that he wasn’t a cultured man in his way. Rather he projected a dual image. The rough, tough cattle baron with an abrasive tongue, and the highly regarded chairman and CEO of M.A.P.C., the McAlpine Pastoral Company. Her billionaire businessman father wouldn’t have bought into the company otherwise.

Much as she loved and respected her father she realised there was some ambivalence in her towards him. He hadn’t been what she and Bella had wanted. A doting, hands-on dad. Their father, always in pursuit of even more power and money—throw in women—hadn’t been around for his daughters most of the time. In a sense that had left her and Bella, in particular, orphans, mere babes in the woods. She had detected the same kind of brilliance and that certain ruthlessness in McAlpine.

Her father had worked his way through three wives, a catastrophic one-night stand and more than likely a number of affairs they didn’t know about. She chose to ignore the fact that her and Bella’s mother, Alexandra, had cheated on him—who knows for what reason? Might have been a good one. Their mother was their mother after all. They had wanted their memory of her to remain sacred. Ah, well! Sooner or later one had to face the realities of life.

She knew of McAlpine’s marriage to an Australian heiress with an unusual name. It had ended in an acrimonious divorce. She wasn’t in the least surprised. He was that kind of man. Probably he had treated his ex-wife badly, had affairs. There was a young daughter, she seemed to recall, who no doubt would have been swiftly dispatched to her mother to look after. One couldn’t expect a tycoon to work out a little girl’s problems. She and Bella hadn’t enjoyed much of their father’s attention or problem solving.

With an effort she shook herself out of what Bella liked to call “Your martyr mode, darling! There it is again!” She didn’t recognise it herself. She was no martyr even if she was practically a saint with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She had noted the cattle baron was big on sex appeal. Something women drooled over. He was devilishly handsome. In her view in an overtly sexy way. But she had to concede real sexual presence. She was prepared to grant him that but she, for one, had had no trouble combating it. Such men shrieked a warning to a discerning woman like herself. She preferred far more subtle English good looks and style—like Justin’s, even if he had turned out to be an appalling cad. Bella had called him a “love rat.” She couldn’t see McAlpine as a rat. But then what did she know? She, who appeared to be incapable of one lasting relationship with a man.

What she did know was, she neither trusted nor liked McAlpine. She didn’t doubt her ability to keep him in his place. She was a Balfour after all. A sensible, stable person who had never required being kept an eye on. Maybe she had blotted her near-perfect copybook, but she’d had the grace to accuse herself of her failures. Her task now was to regain her self-esteem and emerge as a more nurturing, more compassionate, more liberal-minded person willing and able to accept advice.

But not from McAlpine.

Inside Darwin International Airport she looked around her in disbelief. Was Darwin a beach resort? The atmosphere was torrid even for May when it surely should have been cooling down. The hot humid air was fitfully swept by cooling breezes off the harbour. Overhead domed a burning blue sky. Northern Hemisphere skies didn’t have that intensity of colour. Soaring coconut palms and spreading flamboyant trees were everywhere. She had to wonder if ever a stray coconut fell on some unfortunate head. She supposed one could always sue.

The vegetation was rampantly tropical, full of strong primary colours that assaulted the eye, the air saturated with strange fragrances. Sunlight streamed down in bars of molten gold. As for the quality of the light! Even with her sunglasses on her eyes were dazzled. So much so in the middle of her ruminations she nearly collided with someone.

“I’m so sorry.” She was tempted to tell the man who had accosted her he couldn’t have been watching where he was going.

“No worries, love.”

She registered in amazement his incredible outfit. Navy boxer shorts with a frog-green singlet.

“You need help, little lady?”

That, when she was some inches taller than he. She momentarily closed her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you. Someone will be meeting me.”

“Lucky devil!”

Olivia’s Balfour blue eyes glinted. Why did it have to be a man? She could have been meeting a favourite aunt. She continued making slow progress through the swirling throng, marvelling at the sights around her.

She had never seen such flimsy dressing in her entire life, nor so much bare skin. Not even on the Caribbean islands. Nor so many marvellously attractive children, girls and exotic young women with startlingly beautiful black eyes, and skin either gilded honey, café au lait, light fawn or chocolate. They were all petite, with lovely slender limbs. Not for the first time in her life she felt like a giraffe, more pallid than she really was. Even Bella might have a job being singled out here. She didn’t know if these people were part aboriginal, part Indonesian, part New Guinean, part Chinese—anywhere from South-East Asia.

She didn’t know this part of the world at all. But they were all Australians, it seemed. They spoke with the same distinctive Australian accent, so much broader than her own and—it had to be said—the voices so much louder. No comment seemed to be offered quietly. She recalled her own voice had often been referred to as “cut glass.” But then they all spoke like that, the Balfours.

Heavens, was it possible she was a snob after all? For a moment she wondered if she had caught herself out. Looking around her she saw Australia’s proximity to Asia was well in evidence. This was a melting pot. Fifty nationalities made up the one-hundred-thousand-strong population and they all seemed to be waiting for flights out or meeting up with relatives and friends. She remembered now Darwin was the base for tourists who wanted to explore the World Heritage-listed Kakadu National Park and the great wilderness areas of Arnhem Land. She could readily believe such areas would be magnificent, but she couldn’t think how they would find the strength to go exploring in such heat!

She hadn’t thought to take off her long-sleeved Armani jacket. No chance of her ever getting about in floral bras, halter necks and short shorts like the young women around her. Not that there was anything wrong with her legs. Or her arms. Any part of her body for that matter. The jacket she wore over a slim skirt and a cream silk shirt beneath. Now she wished she had taken off the jacket. She was melting with little chance to mop her brow. The humid heat was far beyond anything she was used to. By Darwin standards she realised she was ridiculously overdressed. Absolutely nobody looked like her. Even her expensive shoes felt damp and clonky.

She was fully aware of all the curious glances directed her way. She also had quite a number of pieces of luggage to be off-loaded—all necessary, all bearing the famous Louis Vuitton label. Now she wished she had bought some ordinary everyday luggage. It was starkly apparent she didn’t fit in. Worse, she must have looked helpless.

“All right, love, are you?”

Olivia turned, astonished. Obviously she did have helpless or hopeless tattooed on her brow. For out of the milling crowd had emerged a pretty dark-skinned woman somewhere in her thirties, a little pudgy around the tummy, wearing a loose, floral dress alight with beautiful hand-painted hibiscus and some kind of rubber flip-flops on her feet. Despite that Olivia could see with her trained eyes that this was a woman of consequence, albeit in her own way. She had that certain look Olivia recognised, the self-assurance in the fathomless black eyes. She also wore a look of kindly concern. Olivia valued concern and kindness. Olivia liked her immediately. Something that happened rarely with strangers.

“Thank you for asking, but I’m quite all right.”

“Don’t look it, love!” The woman flashed a smile, still observing Olivia closely.

Did all these people speak their thoughts aloud? Olivia felt giddy and terribly overheated, as though the sun had bored a hole in her skull.

“Yah pale, and that lovely porcelain face of yours is flushed and covered in sweat. What say we sit down for a moment, love.” She paused to look around her. “Long flight, was it? You’re a Pom, of course. No mistakin’ the accent.” The woman laughed softly. “No offence, love. Me great-grandad was a Pom. Sent out to oversee the Pommy pearling interest. Used to be big in those days. His family never acknowledged me but that’s OK. I never acknowledged ‘im. So come on.” She took Olivia’s nerveless arm in a motherly fashion. “Over here. Don’t want you faintin’ on us.”

Olivia’s laugh was brittle. “I’ve never fainted in my life.” Nevertheless she allowed herself to be led away.

“Always a first time, love. They reckon five out of ten people faint at some point of their life. I fainted when I got speared one time. Accident, o’ course, but I nearly died. Me and Rani were out fishin’ for barra—that’s barramundi, if you don’t know. Best-eatin’ fish in the world.”

“I have heard of it,” Olivia said, not wanting to be impolite. “It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?” She sank rather feebly onto one of the long bench seats arranged in rows.

“This is cool for us, love. By the sound of it you wouldn’t want to be here in the wet. It’s just over.” The woman took a seat beside her. “What are you doin’ here anyway? Don’t look like a tourist to me. Look more like the wind blow you in, the wind blow you out. A bit spooky!”

“Spooky?” Olivia felt what was left of her self-confidence ooze away.

“Something about you, love.” The woman looked searchingly into Olivia’s blue eyes. “Your spirit bin wounded. Somethin’ happened you weren’t countin’ on? Don’t worry, yah spirit will heal here, far, far away from what you left behind. You’re gunna be able to display your real colours.”

Olivia, who fancied she had something of a gift, recognised a prophecy when she heard one. “Oh, I hope so!” The strange woman continued to stare directly into her eyes. Just as hypnotists do. Probably she was one. Or a sorceress. Then again she might discover the woman wasn’t real.

“Yah bin like a bird in a cage strugglin’ to escape,” the woman continued, her tone at lullaby pitch. “Beatin’ yah wings and flingin’ yourself against the bars. You have to have the will to escape.”

“Maybe I’ve been frightened to fly alone?” Incredibly Oliva found herself divulging that startling piece of information.

“Escape is within reach.”

The one thing she hadn’t reckoned on was an airport clairvoyant. “I’m waiting for a Mr Clint McAlpine to pick me up,” she confided in another strange burst of friendliness. “I’m to work for him.”

It was the woman’s turn to be astonished. “Clint hired yah?”

“You call him Clint?” Olivia was somewhat taken aback. No one, for instance, outside of family and close friends called her father Oscar. Dear me, no!

“Now, now, love, don’t come over the Pom.” The woman tapped her hand lightly. “We all call him Clint. We love him up here. He’s the best fella in the world. A fittin’ heir for his dad, who’s up there in the Milky Way, the home of the Great Beings and our ancestors. I’m Bessie Malgil, by the way. I shoulda told yah. Everyone knows me around here. I paint.”

“Pictures?” Olivia stared at her with quickening interest.

“Not your kind of pictures, love. We’re talkin’ indigenous art. Now how about you? What’s your name? Lady Somethin’, I’ll be bound!”

“Olivia Balfour.” Olivia gave the Good Samaritan her hand. “No title.”

“Don’t need one. Written all over yah. Nice to meet yah, Livvy,” Bessie said, giving Olivia’s elegant long-fingered hand a gentle shake.

Livvy! She had waited all her life to be called Livvy.

“My golly, girl, you’ve taken on a challenge comin’ down here to this part of the world. You look like you belong in one of them fine palaces.”

“No, Bessie, no!” Olivia shook her head, a movement that only increased her dizziness. “I’m just an ordinary person but I am interested in challenges.”

“Not today you ain’t!” Bessie pronounced firmly. “Look, love, let’s get you out of that straitjacket. Not that it ain’t dressy but we need to make a start. You’re overheatin’, that’s for sure. Clint’s comin’, yah say?”

“Oh, I do hope so.” Olivia rose in a rather wobbly fashion to her feet, while Bessie helped her out of her linen jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the bench.

“If he said he bin here, he’ll bin here,” Bessie stated with the utmost faith. “Blow me down if that’s not ‘im coming now!” Her whole face lit up. “Bin out on a muster by the look of it.” She chuckled. “Last week he was sellin’ two of the Queensland stations in the chain. People are lookin’ for cheaper beef. Global recession an’ all. We can deliver better up here in the Territory. Your worries are over, Livvy. Here he comes.”

Olivia started to her feet again, for once in her life standing awkwardly. McAlpine was coming. From where? What direction? Even as her eyes swept the crowded terminal she became aware of a ripple of pleasure, of recognition and excitement, in the crowd. She even detected a sprinkle of clapping. Something that always happened when royalty was around.

Bessie’s indicating hand came up. “Here he is, love. Right on time.”

Olivia followed her gaze helplessly. McAlpine?

All she could see was a strikingly tall, wild-looking man striding towards them. Some character that embodied the great outdoors, or the hero of a big-budget adventure movie set in the desert sands of Arabia or the jungles of the Amazon, the ones she avoided. This man was dressed in what she took to be the ultimate in bush gear. Khaki shirt, khaki trousers, a surprisingly fancy silver buckle on the leather belt he had slung around his lean waist. Polished high-heeled cowboy boots made him even taller than he already was. A wide-brimmed cream hat, the Australian slouch hat, was set at a rakish angle on his head. His hair, a dark auburn in colour, was almost long enough to pull into a ponytail, for God’s sake! When had he last visited a hairdresser? Most of his darkly tanned face was covered by thick stubble that, left another few days, could turn into a full beard.

Just the sight of him rendered her fragile. In fact, she felt too shocked to move a muscle.

But the eyes were the eyes she remembered. Glowing and glittering like a full-grown African lion. She had no parallel for this. He hadn’t looked like this in London or at the family wedding in Scotland. Then he had fitted effortlessly into her world. But this was a far cry. Here in his own country he looked like a man who had never been tamed.

While she stared back in a kind of bemused horror, he suddenly put up his hand and swept off his wide-brimmed slouch hat in an extravagant gesture she interpreted as mocking. He looked quite extraordinary! A totally different breed. She could feel a blush further redden her face and neck. This was a dangerous man. Way outside her ken. And to think of it! She had put herself in his power.

Olivia did the only thing she could do.

She fainted.

A lot of things had happened to him in his eventful thirty-eight years, but he had never had a woman collapse in a dead faint into his arms. A beautiful woman no less—tall, elegant, with classic aristocratic features. His mind was suddenly filled with his irritating but surprisingly vivid memories of her. Olivia Balfour, ice princess, had only just arrived and already she was trouble.

“Poor little thing!” Bessie crooned, as he swiftly fielded the young English woman’s tall, too-slender body, lowering her so she lay flat along the empty bench.

“She’d be all of five-eight in her bare feet,” he pointed out drily.

“Yeah, but she looks kinda vunerable, don’t you think?”

“Vulnerable, Bessie,” McAlpine corrected, privately agreeing.

“Whatever!” Bessie shrugged. “I always say vunerable. Why don’t you never tell me before?”

“Never heard you say it, but you’re spot on.”

“’Course I am. Anyway, knew this was gunna happen. Too many clothes. I spotted that right off.” She leaned over to slip off Olivia’s low-heeled, very expensive leather shoes.

“Who wouldn’t?” McAlpine commented drily. He seemed to remember telling the high-and-mighty Ms Olivia Balfour to get off her high horse, pedestal, whatever. She had got under his skin and he hadn’t bothered to hide it. The divorce coming up. That was his excuse. Marigole had been giving him all the flack she could muster.

“Not used to our heat,” Bessie was saying. “How she’s gunna survive outback, boss, I dunno as yet.”

“It’ll come to you, Bessie, like it always does. You and I both know lilies thrive.” He stared down at Ms Balfour’s still, lily-skinned face. She had very long eyelashes. They were starting to flutter. A good sign. He moved his hand to undo a few buttons on her silk shirt. She had done it up almost to the neck despite the pressing heat which today was climbing to near forty degrees Celsius. Did she have no sense at all? Next he slipped the waist button on her tight pencil-slim skirt. “Cold water, Bessie, chop, chop.”

“Sure, boss!” Bessie spun on her thongs to obey, just as a terminal staff member hurried towards them, a very attractive brunette who had waited her moment to zoom over to them, physically beating off another female attendant in the process. She carried a plastic container of ice-cold water.

“Is she all right?” the brunette enquired, looking not at the faint victim as perhaps she should have, but full into the cattle baron’s extraordinary big-cat topaz eyes. They were stunning in his bronze face. She had been told he was a hunk. She wasn’t at all disappointed. Hunk was too tame. He was drop-dead gorgeous!

“She’s coming around.” Clint frowned slightly, taking Olivia’s pulse. A bit rapid but not overly weak. “Thanks for that.” He took the container from the attendant without really seeing her.

“No problem, Mr McAlpine.” Long heavily mascaraed eyelashes batted away, her fingers tingling deliciously from the brief contact with his. Gosh, he was awesome! And he was unattached. Everyone in the Territory knew his marriage hadn’t worked out. Unbelievable! The ex-wife had to be a blend of near blind and mentally challenged. “Could she need medical attention?” she asked helpfully. “I can arrange it.”

“I shouldn’t think so.” Gently Clint tapped Olivia Balfour’s cheeks. They were cool and damp and not worryingly hot and dry. “She’s exhausted from the long flight and she’s overdressed. The cold water will cool her down.” He realised after a moment the brunette was lingering on. He had got used to this kind of thing. Women worked hard at attracting him, often outrageously. Amazing how much more attractive having money made a man. “Thank you.” He gave her a smile that held a pleasant dismissal and reluctantly the airline attendant tore herself away, heading back to her mundane duties.

Olivia opened her eyes, trying desperately to reorientate herself.

Dear God, had she died and been transported to hell or what passed for it? She made a grab for someone’s shirt. Heat was swirling all around her. Surely she didn’t deserve this?

Full consciousness swiftly returned. She was looking straight into McAlpine’s lion’s eyes. She uncurled her fingers which were twined like tentacles of a vine around his arm. “God help me, did I faint?”

“Ah, the princess awakens from her slumbers!” he murmured suavely. “God help you, you did, Ms Balfour.” He rose to his impressive height. “Look, I’m going to lift you so your head is resting back against my shoulder. Then I want you to drink some cold water. Bessie will help.”

“Oh, good, Bessie…” She was enormously grateful Bessie, her Good Samaritan, hadn’t left her.

“I’m here, love, don’t you worry.” Bessie, who had already decided to take this beautiful, fragile lady under her wing, had moved in close, clucking like a mother hen. Why, the willowy creature had eyes as blue as a Ulysses butterfly’s wing and skin so white she might have been zoomed down from a celestial planet. Bessie took the container in hand.

“Really, I’m all right!” Olivia protested, when she felt like a rag mop.

“Really, you aren’t,” McAlpine drawled. He sat behind her, drawing her upper body against him. Immediately she slumped her golden head gratefully against his shoulder, clearly needing assistance. She might be terribly hot and bothered, he thought, but her skin gave off the most exquisite scent of roses. “Right, Bessie. Let’s get it into her.”

“Always wanted to be a nurse.” Bessie chuckled. “Like takin’ care of people.”

“Well, now’s your chance.”

“She’s lucky I sensed her,” Bessie said with satisfaction. “Not that me antennae bin flyin’ solo. The crowd had spotted her too. Never seen anyone so beatific in their whole lives.”

“Beatific?” Clint laughed. “That’s a good word, Bess.”

“Means angel, don’t it?”

“Looking like an angel.”

“Or mebbe a brolga in search of water. Jes’ standin’ there, she was.”

Brolga? Olivia felt a wash of panic. What was a brolga, for heaven’s sake? Some sort of slang for bird brain?

McAlpine’s body was disturbingly hot, hard and steely strong, the sweat on him clean—an arresting combination of pheromones and the vast outdoors, dead sexy in its way. For an insane moment she wondered what it would be like to know that body intimately. The next she wondered if it were possible she was on the verge of a spectacular mental breakdown. She had only set foot on this tropical outpost and already she was going troppo. She knew the term. Surely some Englishman who had spent too long in the tropics had invented it? She had never thought to experience it firsthand.

“Relax, no one is going to hurt you,” McAlpine said, as though humouring a fractious filly. “You need to cool down.”

“You’re gunna be OK, love.” Bessie gave her a big comforting smile, putting the plastic container to Olivia’s lips.

It was sooo good! Nothing in the world could have tasted better than pure cold water.

“Sip it,” McAlpine cautioned. “Don’t gulp.”

Even physically reduced, she bridled. “Hang on. I’m not—”

“Sip it,” he repeated, with a grimace of impatience.

Feeling childish, she slowly finished off the container of water, becoming aware she was the centre of attention. “Please, I can sit up.”

“Sure you can.” He was already in the process of helping her sit straight. Even with that loose wave of hair falling across her cheek, her shirt in slight disarray, the button of her skirt undone, she still managed to look elegant. No mean feat.

“How do you feel now?” Her eyes were the exact colour of the beautiful blue glaze on a Sung Dynasty vase at the house.

“Everyone is staring at me,” Olivia said worriedly. And so they were. Not rudely but sympathetically. She was sure the news had got about. The blonde lady fainted. A Pom. That explained it. Why wouldn’t she in the unaccustomed heat? The good news was she had Clint McAlpine, the Territory’s biggest cattle baron, to look out for her. The man might have been a national icon.

“How do you know they’re not staring at me?” he countered, watching yet another silky swathe of her beautiful blonde hair fall from her impeccable up-do. The few times he had seen her she’d always had her long hair pulled back tightly from her face and fashioned into some kind of knot. This was one repressed female. It would probably take a surgical team to get her out of her suit.

“So humiliating to faint!” Olivia murmured in embarrassment, as though it was on a par with jumping off a bridge only to land unhurt knee-deep in mud.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He was pleased to see a little of her colour had come back, warming her flawless skin. The fact her father had wanted to send her out to Australia, and to him in particular, had come as quite a shock and he didn’t shock easily. He knew about the scandal, of course. Even if it hadn’t made their newspapers, he had plenty of relatives, friends and contacts in the UK only too pleased to pass on the gossip. Frankly he couldn’t see her getting into a punch-up with her beautiful sister, the so-called “wild one.” Olivia was the ice princess, unwilling and seemingly unable to leave her marble pedestal. But for once she had lost it. From what little he knew of her she would be smarting badly.

He knew she needed a good long sleep. As a seasoned traveller—he was aware of her jet-setting—he had thought she would take the last leg of her flight from Singapore to Darwin in her stride. He knew she had made an overnight stay at Raffles. Only the best for Ms Balfour. He couldn’t chance flying her to the station. Not today. Another overnight stay was called for. He could take her to the harbourside apartment the family maintained. McAlpine money had built the luxury complex. Or perhaps it would be advisable to book them into the Darwin International Resort Hotel. It was only a short distance away.

On the face of it Ms Balfour didn’t seem right for any job he could easily set her. Probably she had never been inside a kitchen in her entire life. Not that any of the McAlpine operations needed a cook—even if he could send a woman like her to an outstation. Out of the question. He had Kath and Norm Cartwright, husband-and-wife team, running domestic affairs at Kalla Koori.

Maybe Ms Balfour couldn’t cook, or keep house, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be able to tackle the hardest game of all, mustering cattle, but she looked far from stupid. In fact, she looked highly intelligent. As she would have to be.

He knew she had often acted as her father’s hostess and done the usual things for a young woman in her privileged position: charity work, opening fetes and nursing homes, that kind of thing. If she could cut the swanning around bit, she would be quite an asset to him on the social side of things. He had functions to give, important guests to entertain. He fancied Ms Balfour would find acting organiser and hostess a piece of cake.

She would, however, have to lighten up on the upper-crust hauteur. He seemed to remember he had told her, among other things, she had elevated snobbery to an art form. Ouch! He could hardly expect her to like him any more than he liked her.

Yet she was here. Oscar Balfour had sent her. Oscar Balfour was a good man to have onside. His late father had liked the man immensely. Oscar Balfour did have patrician good looks and a great deal of charm. Also a great deal of money. Oscar Balfour was a significant shareholder in M.A.P.C. It followed that both of them, he and Ms Balfour, would have to make the best of things or kill off each other in the process.

Chapter Two

MCALPINE had to be a celebrity.

Everywhere they went he was waved at, smiled at, greeted with a mix of awe, respect and enthusiastic friendliness. He could have been a rock star in town for a huge open-air concert.

Overnight the stubble had disappeared. Morning found him clean-shaven but still with that “wild man” look, ensuring women never took their eyes off him. She was sure what she was registering was plain primal lust. She didn’t know whether to feel disgusted or deprived. She had never seen anything like the combination of his thick, lustrous dark auburn hair, bronze skin—she’d never seen a tan richer, darker—and confronting golden eyes. He had even found time to have his hair trimmed. One couldn’t have said “cut.” No regimental short back and sides. Oh, well, it was beautiful hair after all. Most women would give up a valuable eye tooth to have hair like it.

Why couldn’t the man have been ordinary? A good twenty years older? A father figure. Even uncle figure would have done. Her father’s choice of McAlpine was the worst of the worst. They had absolutely nothing in common. Even more upsetting was the fact they were basically hostile to each other. He certainly brought out the offensive in her. She was good for a joust. If one wanted peace, one prepared for war. But then again, war wasn’t good when she had to work for the man, and he no doubt would be reporting back to her father.

There was one good thing, however. She had slept like the proverbial log. And he had let her. Until 9:00 a.m., that is, when he had called her hotel room to instruct her to come down for breakfast without delay, after which they were flying on. At least he had had the decency to enquire whether she had slept at all.

“Thank you for asking about the quality of my sleep.” She willed herself to be cool. Not easy when there was some extraordinary heat at her centre. “I slept very well, Mr McAlpine.” Even as she answered she had thrown back the light bedclothes and leapt to her feet. “I hope you weren’t worrying about me?” She couldn’t prevent the note of sarcasm in her voice.

“Not in the least, Ms Balfour. But it’s time to put a little pressure on you. I’m sure being a Balfour you’re up for it. We’ll have breakfast—I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering—then we must be on our way. Business beckons. I’m sure you’re well used to that kind of thing from your father. See you in the foyer.”

She had showered, dressed and was downstairs in under twenty minutes, a positive record for her. Unfortunately she hadn’t had time to arrange her hair in its customary neat pleat. She had to knot the billowy blonde masses with a gold clasp at the nape. The foyer was surprisingly busy, people going back and forth, all acting happy to be there. No sign of McAlpine; he had to be dead easy to spot with his looks and height. But no, he was nowhere about. No fan groups circling in tight knots.

“Ms Balfour, I presume.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She actually backed into him. Or had he let her? She spun, acutely embarrassed, feeling the crescendo of heat that arose from his hands momentarily on her shoulders. A light pressure actually, yet she felt it right down to her toes. They instantly turned up.

“Let’s go in, shall we?” he suggested suavely.

He was appraising her with faint incredulity, as though she was made of strawberries and whipped cream, Olivia thought crossly. “It might have been an idea to meet up inside the restaurant,” she pointed out loftily, regaining her habitual cool.

“So what are you saying?” He rounded on her, so tall that for the first time in her life she felt dwarfed.

“Why, nothing.” She was determined not to let him rattle her.

An experienced traveller she had laid out what she would be wearing the next day before collapsing into the hotel’s very comfortable bed. White silk-cotton top with an oval neck, and long sleeves she had pushed up in a concession to the heat. White linen trousers—lovely flattering cut—and white-and-tan loafers. Borrowing a bit of Bella’s dash she added a studded tan leather belt to break up the all-white.

He was wearing an outfit only a notch up from yesterday. A torso-hugging black T-shirt with a white logo—I Love NY, of all things, the love represented by a red heart. She supposed he had been to New York many times. Brought the T-shirt back from a recent trip. Black tight-fitting jeans. He looked about as fit as a man could possibly get. Fit and disgracefully sexy. And goodness, the way he moved! She was right about the big jungle cat, she thought, swallowing on a slight obstruction in her throat.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he bid her, almost kindly, when they were seated. “I’m sure you’re fully expecting a giant Territory T-bone steak, sausages, fried eggs, fried tomatoes and a pile of hash browns?”

“I’m sure it’s a breakfast you frequently indulge in?” she countered sweetly. But how could he with that body? Next thought: as a cattle baron he would most probably work the calories off.

“You can hold the hash browns,” he said, with a twist of a smile. “Though I doubt very much if you could put such a breakfast together.”

Such a sensuous mouth! The four women at the table to the right of them couldn’t tear their eyes off him. “What do you know of me really, Mr McAlpine?” She concentrated her attention away from him.

“Hardly a thing,” he conceded. “Why don’t we get matters out in the open? I didn’t want you here, Ms Balfour, any more than you want to be here. But you can’t escape. Neither can I. Both of us are doing this for your father. I want to keep him on board and you want to redeem yourself as I hear it?”

“Redeem myself?” Her blue eyes glinted. “Spoken by a man who listens to gossip. I’m not here to redeem myself—”

“Take it up with your father,” he briskly interrupted, turning his arrogant head as a bestarched young waitress approached, wheeling a trolley.

“Good morning, Mr McAlpine,” the waitress trilled.

“Good morning, Kym.” That careless, megawatt smile. “What have you got for us there?”

He had a darn good voice too. Deep and dark, slightly grainy like polished teak, rather thrillingly vibrant, if one responded to that sort of thing.

“Just what you ordered, sir.” Pretty dimples flickered in the waitress’s cheek.

“No surprises, then,” Olivia remarked, utilising her caustic tone.

Only then did the waitress turn her big brown eyes on Olivia. “Hope you enjoy it, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Olvia allowed no one to see her reaction. She might have been taken for his maiden aunt. Cheek of the girl!

The waitress began setting out freshly squeezed fruit juice in frosted glasses—grapefruit for both—slices of a lush-looking papaya with quartered limes, leaving the remaining boiled eggs and piping hot toast under cover on the trolley. Tea or coffee would be served at the table. McAlpine had only to raise a lazy finger.

“Nice to see you again, Mr McAlpine,” the young woman gushed by way of farewell, injecting all she had in the way of oomph. As it happened, rather a lot.

“Another admirer?” Olivia enquired, after the waitress had gone, allowing the scoff to show.

“Do you mind, Ms Balfour?” He picked up his glass of fruit juice, toasted her with it. “Hope everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Thank you, yes,” Olivia admitted, deciding to be gracious.

“So eat up because we’re outta here!” His dynamic features tightened. Abruptly he had sprung into tycoon mode right before her eyes. Not that she hadn’t seen it all before. But had her father seriously considered in sending her to Clint McAlpine he had sent her in fathoms deep. Not that she wasn’t an excellent swimmer. She had come to Australia determined on setting her mind to the task and in so doing reaffirming her self-worth. It would hardly do to give up at the outset.

Onward Christian soldiers.

At school they had used to sing that in chapel. And, oh, yes. “Amazing Grace.”

Even so it would be a titanic effort.

He came to her room just as she was wondering what to do with all her luggage. In retrospect she had brought rather a lot. Probably what she really needed was some khaki bush clothes, a slouch hat and stout boots to ward off possible snake attacks. She had read all about the snakes, the dingoes, the wild buffalo and the wild pigs, not to mention the crocodiles. Maybe she should tell him she had some experience of the African bush, though the place she and Bella had stayed at—the owner was the father of one of Bella’s admirers—was extremely comfortable. No magnificent wild animals were shot when they had been taken out on safari. She couldn’t have tolerated that. But she and Bella had adored the sightseeing.

Now the Northern Territory, the Top End. Terra incognito!

She swung her head at the peremptory tap on the door, shocked that she felt nervous of the man.

“Do you usually travel so light?” he asked, his gleaming eyes on the pile-up of Louis Vuitton.

“Only when I’m on safari.”

“No chance, then, of seeing you naked?”

She reacted, if she thought of it, like an outraged virgin. “I beg your pardon!”

“Please, a joke, Ms Balfour.” He groaned, casting an eye on her luggage once more. “Might be an idea if you tried to lighten up a little. You’re not at home now. Bring a couple of the smaller pieces. What you most need. I’ll get someone to collect the rest and fly it back to the station.”

Olivia lifted a delicate shoulder. He was making her feel rather foolish. Pompous to boot. “As you wish.”

“Forget the safari—you couldn’t have brought more if you were boarding the QE2 for a trans-Atlantic trip.”

“I’ve brought nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.” She turned away, to save face, picking out two pieces of luggage and her small make-up box. She had brought lashings of sunblock.

“Right, now we can get under way.” He hoisted her two pieces of luggage—quite heavy, in fact—and tucked one under his arm, carrying the other as easily as if it were a cardboard box. “I have a city apartment,” he told her in an offhand manner. “We’ll take a cab there.”

She reacted with a frown. “What for?”

He gave her a brief, impatient glance. “Certainly not wild sex, if you had that in mind. There’s a helipad on the roof. The complex was built by one of the McAlpine companies. We’re going by helicopter.”

“Oh!” She gave a nonchalant wave of the hand to cover immense flurry. Wild sex? Lead me not into temptation. “That’s OK. I’ve travelled by helicopter before. My father owns an island retreat in the Caribbean.”

“Squillions could only dream of owning one!” he cried satirically. “Good, then you won’t be nervous. Your father is a very rich man.”

“I believe you are so regarded.”

Unexpectedly he gave her one of his slashing smiles. “How quaint! So regarded! But should that worry me?”

She abruptly exploded. He was looking at her as though she was stuck in a time warp. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Money is a powerful aphrodisiac,” he pointed out.

As though she needed to be told that. “You’ll be pleased to know I have absolutely no interest in you, Mr McAlpine, romantic or otherwise.” So why was she feeling decidedly hot. There was the possibility if he so much as touched her she could go up in flames.

“For the record, that makes two of us, Ms Balfour. Anyway, no offence, but you’re a little too buttoned up for me.”

She didn’t deign to reply. On the other hand she was unexpectedly dismayed. Buttoned up, was she? In her view she had always been so well behaved that she should have been given a medal. The lift arrived, unloading two smiling guests and a porter with a luggage trolley.

“I’ll take those Mr McAlpine,” the porter said. “You’re going to the helipad?”

“Yes, thank you, Arnold,” McAlpine said with a smile.

“Beautiful day for flying.”

“Perfect!”

“Good gracious!” Olivia burst out in surprise as she looked towards the waiting helicopter where a group of men were standing.

“You can’t back out now, Ms Balfour,” McAlpine told her with a mocking sideways glance.

“I didn’t mean that at all. I’m actually looking forward to the flight. It’s the helicopter. I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“Goodness, and I thought you’d seen everything. Maybe not done everything.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Her tone, had she known it, was cool on the way to arctic. Victorian, really.

“A fairly harmless remark, I would have thought. What you’re looking at—what we’ll be flying in—is the newest addition to McAlpine Aviation which has a three-state charter. The Territory, Western Australia and Queensland. You may not know—then again you might, as I suspect you’re a very well-read woman—Qantas, the national carrier, spells out Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Services. It was founded in 1920 and it’s actually the oldest continuously operating airline in the English-speaking world.”

“I did fly Qantas from Singapore,” she said, finding herself caught up in the story.

“At the time of our worst cyclone ever—Cyclone Tracy which devastated Darwin—Qantas established a world record when six hundred and seventy-three people were evacuated on a single Boeing 747. I was just three at the time but I vividly remember it.”

“The cyclone or the flight?” She shaded her eyes to look up at him. It was surprisingly good to have to look up at a man. Even if it was McAlpine.

“Both. My family has always had a keen interest in aviation. My grandfather, Roscoe McAlpine, established McAlpine Aviation. General air charter, jet charter, helicopter, freight. Supporting government agencies with fire and flood operations. That kind of thing. We’ve grown exponentially since Granddad’s day. He would have been so proud. The irony is he was killed in a light aircraft crash when he was a very experienced pilot who had flown hundreds of hours in very hazardous conditions.” He shrugged fatalistically, but Olivia could see the hidden grief.

“Am I the only passenger?” she asked, looking uncertainly towards the waiting men.

“Do you need reassurance? They’re not cattle rustlers. All three are company employees. They’re coming with us,” he supplied briefly.

And pray tell exactly where?

She had the sense not to ask.

Words simply could not describe her feelings as Olivia looked down at the primeval wilderness that was to be her home for the next five months. It would be fair to say she was shocked out of her mind.

Dear God! she prayed fervently. How am I going to be able to withstand it?

God answered very promptly. Buck up!

The famous early explorers of this continent—splendid, intrepid men of British stock—would have quailed at the prospect of having to transverse such a place, which looked to her distraught eyes like no other kind on earth. What lay beneath her had to be one of the last remaining great wilderness areas on the planet.

There was no sign of human intervention, let alone habitation, apart from the lonely cluster of white buildings that looked like an outback version of Stonehenge. Extraordinary as it may appear, she couldn’t think she would enjoy her stay at all. This vast landscape glowed as fiery as Mars, the red soil held together by what looked like giant pincushions in the most amazing shades of burnt gold and burnt orange. And she with the English-rose complexion! She would probably shrivel up in a matter of days.

Don’t allow yourself to get fazed.

She knew it was extremely important to maintain order of the mind. Order, after all, was the bedrock of her being. She was a Balfour and a Capricorn to boot.

The two men McAlpine had taken on board were fortyish, lean outback characters in cowboy regalia. Both looked as if they could easily wrestle a bullock to the ground, but they were most courteous and soft spoken when introduced. They sat up close to McAlpine, the boss, often exchanging remarks in unison. The “great minds think alike” syndrome, she thought.

She had been allotted a seat in the farthest row, deciding there and then she wouldn’t let McAlpine see how the sight of his ancestral home was affecting her. She realised everyone couldn’t live in a stately home but this rather beggared belief.

She wouldn’t have need of any of the nice things she had brought with her. They would be as out of place in these surroundings as one of Bella’s outlandish sequinned party dresses.

Bella, oh, Bella, what did we do? She hoped her twin—she was missing her dreadfully—didn’t feel as scared as she did.

What are you scared of? McAlpine?

Minutes later they landed, smooth as a bird, on the front lawn of the homestead, a green oasis in the fiery red wilderness that went on and on and on, so it seemed to fill the known world. Towering palms, graceful unfamiliar trees and a riot of prodigally blossoming shrubs offered all-round protection to the building which looked hardly bigger than a cottage. She could see a silver stream snaking away into the distance. She wondered if crocodiles, flourishing as a protected species, sunned themselves on the banks, using them for slipways.

Safely on the ground now, she looked around her with stoicism. Eventually it came to her.

He’s having me on!

Well, she could take a joke as well as the next woman. Even with her sunglasses on she had to shade her eyes from the fierce, glittering sun. She tried to focus on the homestead and its square white facade. It was a genuinely small timber construction set on very high concrete piers, probably for ventilation and to keep the building above possible flooding. Latticework closed the space in, acting as a trellis for a magnificent flowering vine with huge bell-like golden-yellow flowers. And such a fragrance! One could get drunk on it.

The roof of the homestead was corrugated iron painted green, as were the shutters on the French doors that opened out onto the broad covered veranda. Planter-style chairs were set at intervals along with huge pots of rather wonderful tropical plants. More astonishing plants with great curling fernlike waves grew profusely out of hanging baskets. Hot or not, with a little TLC and a drop of precious water one could maintain a dream of an indoor garden. A vision of Balfour Manor’s splendid English gardens—especially the rose gardens—broke before her eyes.

Home! Oh, God! More than ever she felt like a fish out of water.

On the thick springy grass, she soon discovered she was wobbly on her feet. “OK?” McAlpine broke away from his men to take her by the arm with what seemed genuine concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, somewhat intimidated by the vibrant male sexuality.

“That’s strange. I could have sworn you were thinking, Where the hell am I?”

“Then never distrust your intuitions, Mr McAlpine,” she returned coolly. “Where exactly are we?” Two could play at a joke.

“You’re on Naroo Waters.”

“And it’s charming.” She gave him a bright social smile, clearly feigned.

“I’m very fond of it too.” His eyes glittered pure gold as he looked at her. “I’ve visited it over and over since I was a boy. This is one of our outstations, Ms Balfour, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I’ve stopped to offload Wes and Bernie and a few supplies. Wes manages the place. Bernie is his leading hand.”

“You weren’t willing to tell me before?” she asked sweetly.

“I operate on a need-to-know basis, Ms Balfour.”

“While I think you were testing me out.”

He laughed. Far too attractive a sound. “OK, you passed. Totally unexpected, I have to say. Now, while I have a talk to Wes, you might like to go into the house. Heather will make you a cup of tea. Heather is his wife. I’ll be along presently.”

“And who shall I say I am?” she asked haughtily. He did bring out the worst in her.

“Let’s pretend you’re a friend,” he said and walked away.

As she approached the homestead a small woman with a mop of orange curls wearing a green tank top and cream shorts to the knee ran out onto the veranda to wave.

“You must be Olivia,” she called in such a way Olivia felt a most welcome visitor, not a total stranger who had just landed very noisily on the lawn. “Please come in.” Again not in the polite meaningless way Olivia had often been guilty of in the past, but as though she really meant it. “I’ve got a nice cup of tea for you and a slice of my raisin cake. Just baked it.”

The cake was excellent, with a delicious walnut crunch. The tea was just the way she liked it. Added to that the sheer niceness of Heather Finlay—a good Scottish name—and it all went a long way towards calming Olivia’s nerves.

They sat in the homestead’s small living room which was as comfortable and attractive as anyone could make the postage-stamp space. Large white ceiling fans whirred overhead. The furnishings were cane, the two sofas and the armchairs upholstered in emerald-green cotton patterned in white, maintaining the tropical look. The feature wall held four huge blown-up photographs of different tropical flowers set in a frame. It was cost effective as well as striking.

Close to Heather, Olivia could see that she was older than she first appeared. At a guess early forties, with a trim figure, a redhead’s freckled skin and green eyes with dancing lights.

“I take it you’re on holiday?” Heather’s eyes lingered on Olivia as though she were a creature from a fairy tale with fairy-tale clouds of golden blonde hair.

Olivia decided to tell the truth. Shame the devil. She almost—not quite—believed in him. “I’m here to help out Mr McAlpine in any way I can, Heather. A business arrangement, really. My father is a shareholder in the McAlpine Pastoral Company. I’m very interested in learning as much as I can about it and of course being helpful while I’m at it.”

Heather’s face lit up with what looked like a triumphant smile.

Why was that?

“You’ll be perfect to help with the big end-of-the-year functions Clint hosts,” Heather supplied the answer. “I suppose Clint had that in mind. You’ll have met Marigole, his ex-wife?”

“Actually, no!” Marigole? Ah, the unusual name. Olivia set down her pretty teacup. Royal Doulton’s Regalia. She suspected Heather had used her best, which was nice. “I don’t know Mr McAlpine all that well. We’ve met at a couple of functions in London and once at a wedding we both attended in Scotland. There’s some family connection between the Balfours and the McAlpines from way back. But his wife—his ex-wife, I should say—wasn’t with him at the time.”

Heather gave an eye roll. “Well, I suppose it’s getting pretty close on two years ago the divorce came through.” Heather poured them a second cup of tea. “Good Scottish names. Balfour and McAlpine. Balfour means pasture land, doesn’t it?”

“You’re very well informed, Heather.” Olivia was taken by surprise.

“Scottish background me ain self.” Heather laid on an accent. “Same as Wes. I daresay your family retain a good many pastures?” She flashed a teasing smile.

“Nothing on par with this, Heather! I wasn’t prepared for this!”

“You sound like you’re a wee bit scared of the place?”

“I’d like to say no, but actually it is daunting,” Olivia confessed. “The vastness, the isolation, the lack of human habitation and the floods of light! Nature is supreme here.”

“That it is,” Heather agreed.

“You must get lonely from time to time?” Olivia asked, even though she could see Heather was a strong spirit.

“Sometimes I do!” Heather freely admitted. “Especially since we sent our boys off to boarding school. That’s a couple of years back. They’re twelve. Twins! They’ll be home soon for the June vacation. If it gets a bit much for me or if Wes is away on a long muster, I take a trip into Darwin. I’ve got friends there.”

“So you’ll be looking forward to having your sons home.” Olivia didn’t doubt it.

“Alex and Ewan.” Heather’s green eyes lit up. “I adore them.”

“I’m a twin,” Olivia confided, feeling an instant of crushing loneliness for Bella and home. “My sister’s name is Bella. She’s very beautiful.”

“Well, she would be.” Heather laughed, still looking at Olivia with unfeigned admiration. “Like you.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia shook her head. “We’re fraternal twins, not identical. Bella takes after our mother. She was a recognised beauty. We lost our mother when we were toddlers.”

“Now that’s sad!” Heather’s expression sobered.

“One is shaped by it, I always think. At any rate one develops very finely tuned emotional antennae.”

“But you have your dad?” Heather was regarding her visitor keenly.

“Not as much as we would have liked,” Olivia found herself revealing. Her inner person as opposed to her outer person appeared to be emerging at a rate of knots. “My father is an important man and a workaholic.”

“Well, it does go with the territory, love,” Heather said consolingly. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you and Bella.”

Olivia further surprised herself. “Well, we hope to make him proud, Heather. We live to please him because we love him.”

Heather made a little face. “I can see I’m talking to a very modest young woman.”

They had slipped into conversation so easily it was obvious Heather was starved of female company and ready for a chat, if not a good gossip. What struck Olivia as out of the ordinary was that Heather appeared to have taken to her on sight, when she knew scores of people who called her standoffish and a lot worse behind her back. It would have shocked them to know how shy she really was when the layers of cool polished veneer were stripped off. The trouble was, as the years went by she got better and better at playing cool. But it was all a facade. All the people who loved her knew that.

So apparently did Heather. And Bessie, her Good Samaritan. She hoped to see Bessie again.

Heather spoke gently. “You’ll be a good mother when the time comes. I take it you’re not married?” She had taken note of Olivia’s elegant ringless hands.

Olivia sighed. “It would be fantastic to meet the right man.”

“But you must have heaps of admirers.” Heather wasn’t trying to flatter. She thought her visitor very beautiful and refined. Also, her upper-class English voice fell entrancingly on the ear. Heather was impressed.

“Bella is the one with the admirers.” Olivia’s smile held pride and affection. “She’s very quirky. Funny as well as being stunningly beautiful. I missed out on the quirkiness. I tend to keep a much lower profile. Bella is very much at ease with herself. I’m a bit on the bland side, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Heather, thinking her visitor anything but bland. Obviously the sister had a strong sense of her own beauty, whereas Olivia, for some unfathomable reason, did not. “Anyway, outback life instead of big-city life is guaranteed to bring anyone out of their shell. I know you’re going to love Kalla Koori. It’s one of the outback’s great showplaces.”

Of course it was, as befitting outback royalty.

“I’m looking forward to staying there.”

Heather leaned forward confidentially. “Just between you, me and the gatepost, which incidentally is a good few miles away, I should tell you Marigole still likes to pop in from time to time. Unannounced. As you don’t know her and you’ll be staying on the station, I feel a little word of warning mightn’t go astray. Marigole is very territorial, divorced or not. We’re all convinced she wants him back.”

“Really?” It wasn’t the discreet thing to do but Olivia decided to follow up Heather’s lead. Listening carefully, one always learned something interesting, or potentially useful. Just think of the journalist who had spilt the beans on her family. “How did they come to split up in the first place?” She knew her questioning Heather wasn’t the done thing but she really wanted to know. McAlpine wasn’t about to tell her a thing.

Heather leaned in. “Marigole put it about she was totally fed up with the lifestyle, the fact Clint was never there for her when goodness knows he has a huge job on his hands, but it was the other way around, I be thinking. You know they have a daughter?”

Olivia nodded and waited for Heather to continue.

“Georgina. Used to be a little honey but the divorce upset her terribly plus puberty hit her hard, as they say. Marigole pretty well abandoned her when this new guy came along. Lucas something, a merchant banker. Last year Clint’s aunt Buffy acted as his hostess and did a marvellous job of it but sadly her health has declined of recent times. It was a terrible grief and shock to her—to us all—when Mr McAlpine was killed. Lady Venetia—that’s Buffy—lost her brother and Clint lost his father.”

Olivia of the tender heart bowed her head. She had learned from her own father that Kyle McAlpine had been killed in a freak accident on a mining site. Clint McAlpine’s mother lived in Melbourne; one sister, Alison, had married a wealthy American business man and lived in New York. The other sister, Catriona, was a lawyer in London. Something to do with international law. She thought she had that right.

“Remember that character Joan Collins used to play on Dynasty?” Heather asked.

“I know of Joan Collins, of course. A beautiful ageless woman, but the series was before my time.”

“You should catch the reruns,” Heather advised. “Joan played a marvellous bitch, Alexis, the divorced wife, but I have to tell you, Marigole could give her lessons.”

Confidences were abruptly cut short.

“Hell, it’s Clint!” Heather turned in her chair so her eye was on the front door. “Not a word of this to him, love.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia was aghast. “Mum’s the word.”

“It’s really not like me to gossip, especially not about the boss, but I spotted you for an innocent right off.” Heather hastily demolished what was left of her raisin cake. “In my experience—and I used to be a nurse for the Flying Doctors Service—a timely warning never goes astray.” She spoke as though her confidences were strategic manoeuvres Olivia should have at the ready. “As soon as Marigole hears you’re on Kalla Koori, she’ll descend like a bat out of hell.”

Olivia, blessed and sometimes cursed with a highly visual imagination, half covered her face. She had visions of a Caribbean fruit bat sinking its teeth into her like a ripe mango.

Chapter Three

FROM the air she looked down on a great many deep pools of water that glittered an unearthly blue-green. Crocodile lagoons, she wondered with a shudder. Prehistoric monsters existing in such beauty. In the distance to either side were more pools of emerald green and a long winding river that cut through fiery low ridges and endless giant fingers of sand dunes.

A jagged cliff with sheer rock walls that glowed a range of dry ochres—pinks, reds, yellows, creams and blacks, with deep purple slashed into the narrow ravines—served as the most dramatic backdrop possible for Kalla Koori’s massive homestead. She had been expecting colonial architecture and the quintessential verandas. This was something completely different. More in keeping with a desert environment with a touch of Morocco. The house from the air had an endless expanse of roof line with a central two-maybe three-storey tower. It stood in the very centre of what looked like a fortified desert village.

Here at last was the McAlpine stronghold.

Presumably in times of torrential cyclones McAlpine could offer shelter to the entire population of Darwin beneath the homestead roof, Olivia thought, her breath taken by the spectacle beneath her. The base of the stand-alone cliff appeared to be in permanent shadow. It was marked by a border of lush green where water must gather and never entirely dry out. All else was a million square miles of uninhabited desert—a beautiful, savage place unlike anything she had ever seen. She could well imagine the most superbly engineered four-wheel drives sinking into the bottomless red shifting sands, never to be seen again. There was a great deal to be feared about this environment.

But goodness! One could well find passion and romance here.

Astounded by her flight of fancy, she endeavoured to get a grip even though her pulses were jumping wildly. It had to be one of her increasingly mad moments, or alternatively it could be taken as an indicator she had at long last become aware life was shooting by like a falling star. That’s what came of having to play the archetypal earth mother to her siblings. She was starting to imagine herself as a woman standing at the edge of a cliff like the one that towered beneath them. Either she could totter for ever as she had done all her life or take a spectacular dive. Truth be told, she was sick to death of being sensible. Bella was never sensible. Indeed a lot of her escapades had been hare-brained, but at least Bella had fun.

McAlpine landed the helicopter to the right of a giant hangar at least a mile away from the home compound. The interior looked as though it could well hold a fleet of Airbuses. The station insignia—Kalla Koori—was emblazoned in chrome yellow and cobalt blue on the roof. The Australian flag that stood on a tall pole nearby only moments before hanging limp suddenly whipped to attention, unfurling its length. Probably as much honouring McAlpine’s arrival as the buffeting from the chopper’s rotors, Olivia thought a touch sharply.

They were met by a tall bearded man in a check shirt and jeans, a huge white Akubra tilted back on his head. “Boss!” he said, straightening up. He had been leaning nonchalantly against a four-wheel drive, its metallic Duco throwing off iridescent lights. Again, the station insignia in blue and gold was on the door panel.

“Norm.” Briefly McAlpine introduced them. This was Norman Cartwright, who with his wife, Kath, ran the domestic affairs of the station—Kath with her team in the house, Norm with his team in the extensive compound grounds. She liked Norm on sight. She expected the same would go for his wife. Australians with the exception of McAlpine were warm and friendly. She bore in mind she was yet to meet the terrifying ex-wife, Marigole. Not that she hadn’t met her fair share of enormously pretentious women dripping hauteur. It was unsettling to remind herself McAlpine had called her an ice princess. She wasn’t an ice princess at all; she had simply perfected faking it.

McAlpine handed her into the back seat of a Range Rover, big cat eyes glistening, while he sat up front with his man, asking him a series of questions for which Norm very wisely had the answers. From long experience with her father she knew employees had all necessary information to hand or they were out the door.

Splendidly wrought iron gates hung on immense stone piers. They opened inwards as they approached, forming an impressive doorway in the ten-foot-high walls washed in a bright yellow-ochre that mirrored elements in the landscape. These walls surrounded the compound in a most protective manner; not from human invasion mercifully but the power of the elements. The massive height and the vivid desert colour put her in mind of Luis Barragán, the great Mexican architect and garden designer. An extraordinarily beautiful pink-tangerine bougainvillea of great arching sprays and green trailing vines all but covered them. She had never seen that exact colour in a bougainvillea before.

Inside the courtyard was paradise in isolation. Something right out of an Arabian romance.

Olivia looked about her in fascination. As her father’s daughter, she had been surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and power from birth, but she was quickly learning there were all kinds of excellence in architectural design. What confronted her was a far cry from Balfour Manor and its beautiful cool temperate English gardens. Balfour’s garden design had, in fact, been widely copied in Europe. Here the sun reigned supreme, just as it did in Arabia, the Middle East, Mexico, South America. What spread before her had a look of a garden the Arab world might have developed from unsurpassed Persian models.

Water rippled from a great stone central fountain and splashed over the edges of several large basins into a very long but relatively narrow water-lily-strewn pond almost large enough to be called a canal. A broad circular drive led to the desert mansion, allowing for multiple parking. The big house itself washed in a darker ochre than the walls, and could easily be taken for the Moroccan pavilion. A series of colonnaded arches, with beautiful coloured tiles wrapped around the columns, framed a two-storey central portico with the traditional arch that led to the front door.

Given such a large space to work with the designer had offset the broad drive with a series of irrigation channels, or rills, which formed a grid of sparkling water. The grid ran back and forth across much of the length and breadth of the great courtyard. She was aware the grid she was looking at was developed from an ancient tradition. The very sight and sound of the rippling waters was sufficient to cool the atmosphere.

Truly magnificent date palms had been perfectly placed, their enormous shooting heads in themselves resembled fountains. Looking up at them she recalled what the prophet Mahomet was said to have told his followers: Honour the date palm for it is your mother. In the desert fringes of the world that ran across North Africa through the Middle East to Pakistan, the date palm was life. It signalled oases and water beneath the sand, provided food, wine, sugar, oil, shelter, even stock fodder. The date palm obviously thrived in the great desert areas of Australia.

McAlpine broke into her train of thought, his voice as seductive as dark molasses. “I do hope everything is to your liking, Ms Balfour?”

She unbent sufficiently to show her pleasure. “This is a magical place.” She had to push away the thought he possessed more than a dash of magic himself, with his boundless self-confidence, and acute awareness as though he was reading her mind.

“High praise for a woman not easily pleased!” he said very drily. “When we landed on Naroo you kept throwing glances my way, suggesting I might at some stage be tempted to throw you to the crocodiles.”

“What nonsense!” She thought she had hidden her panic rather well.

“Well, don’t get too complacent,” he warned, observing the way her classic blonde head was perched so elegantly on her long swan’s neck. “We do have plenty of crocs on Kalla Koori, but I won’t introduce you to them until you’re ready. Now shall we go inside? You must find it hot standing the sun.”

“Oddly enough I’m getting used to it. That or the fountain and the running water are creating a wonderful illusion of coolness. The design, the massive walls and the vivid colours bring Moroccan architecture to mind. Then maybe the Mexican architect—”

“Luis Barragán?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you’ve visited Marrakesh, but have you ever been to Mexico?” It surprised him the odd unexpected pleasure she gave him. At their last meeting he’d as good as told her she was a genuine pain in the neck. She was in a way, but he realised even then he had wanted to know more. What lay behind the arctic mask, for instance? Except back then he was a married man on the verge of divorce.

“Not as yet,” she was saying in her lovely voice. A saving grace even when it was caustic. “But I’d love to go. I know the Caribbean where Daddy has his island. I’ve visited Cuba, stayed at a friend’s villa in Havana. But I do know the architect’s work. He won the equivalent of the Nobel prize for architecture?” She looked up at him for confirmation, surprising him studying her as intently as a scientist might study a rare butterfly.

McAlpine shifted his gaze. Even in strong sunlight she had the most beautiful flawless skin. “The Pritzker Prize. My parents and I were allowed to see his house and garden and one other, Casa Antonio Gálvez. Barragán treated the house and garden as one. My mother, in particular, fell madly in love with the soaring walls, the stunning colours and the marvellous sense of intimacy within the houses. She never did like huge plate-glass windows—‘glass boxes’ she called them. Inappropriate for here anyway,” he said. “We have all the nature we need right outside the compound gates. We don’t need it inside the house. My mother thought the vivid blocks of colour would be perfect for Kalla Koori. Colours that could stand up to the brilliant sunlight. When you think about it, Barrigán’s colours are echoed in the striations of the sandstone cliff up there.”

“So they are!” She pressed her hands together in silent applause. “The cliff is a wonderful landmark. It adds enormously to the atmosphere. Spiritual, I feel. Tell me, when was the homestead built?”

He took a moment to answer. “My parents started it,” he answered rather sombrely. “I finished it. My mother finds it too painful to visit often but she does come. The original homestead took a battering with Cyclone Tracy. What we have here has been built to withstand another cyclone of that magnitude.”

“And it’s splendid! I can’t wait to see inside.”

“Well, why don’t we do that now,” he invited smoothly. “You can’t imagine how happy you’ve made me.”

The mocking golden gaze stabbed her through. “Do not try to patronise me, Mr McAlpine, thank you very kindly.” She had the fearful notion he was hypnotising her, because everything else was being shut out.

“I’m not trying to patronise you, Ms Balfour,” he assured her suavely. “How could I when you yourself have developed it to an art form. I’m merely trying to colonise you on the run as it were. Turn you into an impromptu Aussie.”

“It might take longer than five months.” Her tone was back to lofty.

“Oh, my heaven!” Brackets offset the generous, sexy mouth. “I’d all but forgotten you were going to be with us for such a short time. What a pity! You might have blotted your copybook first up but I have to say you’re perking up.” They were moving beneath the tall double-storey portico lined with magnificent clumping palms with slender stems and pinnate-leaf plants in huge terracotta pots. “You ride?”

Near outraged by such a question Olivia lowered her head from inspecting the inlaid domed ceiling. “What do you mean!” she asked shortly. “Of course I ride.”

“I mean seriously?” He was teasing her. Couldn’t help it. She was incredibly starchy.

“Only something very, very quiet,” she returned sarcastically. “Oh, come on! Like you, I was practically born in the saddle. I know you’re only trying to take a rise out of me. Just like the other times we’ve met.”

“You remember, do you?”

His smile twisted her heart. In fact, the man was starting to make her feel as if she had been hibernating in a nunnery all her life.

Being a Balfour she was able to respond coolly. “I didn’t know if you hated women or it was just me.”

“More my ex-wife,” he supplied very bluntly. “She was making life very difficult at the time. If I made you unhappy, if only for a few seconds, I apologise.”

“Not to worry.” Olivia waved a hand, though she was experiencing an unfamiliar sensation of heat through her blood. “A few seconds can seem rather a lot.”

“And you don’t take kindly to any form of criticism?”

“It was rather more than that as I recall.” She needed a cold drink to quench the heat. It was coming from inside, not from out.

“Oddly enough I did like you.” He took her arm, moving with languid near-animal grace. “So what was Oscar thinking about sending you to me?”

She spoke tartly. “All I can say is he likes the weirdest people.”

“And that’s how you see me?” He burst out laughing—a genuine laugh, not in the least put out.

“No, not weird precisely. I do apologise. But you were provoking me which was rather terrible because I thought I did nothing to warrant it.”

“Maybe you need time to take a good hard look at yourself?” he suggested.

“Might I remind you of the same thing?” She looked pointedly away, taking the opportunity to study her surroundings. It was all so very, very unexpected. “This really is the most fascinating place. Its fascination is increased ten times over by the extraordinary location. I should tell you I haven’t the faintest idea what you require of me.” She brought her blue eyes back to him “You seem to have confirmed my strong suspicion to see me grounded.”

“As opposed to looking down from your lofty pedestal?” His tone was challenging.

“I don’t know why you had that silly idea. It’s talk. Just talk. I’m really a very down-to-earth person.”

A scoffing sound came from deep in his throat. “What you definitely aren’t is down-to-earth, Ms Balfour. And why would you be? You’ve lived a life of enormous wealth and privilege. You wouldn’t have the slightest idea how ordinary people live.”

“And I suppose you would?” she retorted, stung. She knew her blood pressure was soaring.

“Ms Balfour, the only way we’re going to survive the next five months is to try to be tolerant of each other.”

“And that’s your idea of tolerant, is it?” She had to shield her eyes from him. The man was so dazzling, he was dangerous.

“Well, you must concede I’ve had to work very hard to measure up to what my father expected of me. Harder still to take over from him. You, on the other hand, unless I’m mistaken, have been solely occupied opening a fete or two and drinking endless cups of tea.”

The blue blaze in her eyes spoke volumes. “I’d go much further than that. I’ve worked hard on my charities. As well, I’ve acted on any number of occasions as hostess for my father,” she pointed out icily. “No easy job either.”

“So there we have it, a starting place. As it happens I’ll be needing an experienced hostess to organise and run several functions I’ll be holding over the coming months. You could very well be roped in to that. Also—surprise, surprise—you might have to run the house for a while. Piece of cake after the manor. I’m planning on sending Norm and Kath off on a well-earned vacation. Don’t panic.” He held up a staying hand as she went to voice a protest. “That’s if they want to go.”

With an effort she calmed her rapid breathing. “You mean you expect me to take over as housekeeper?”

“Remind yourself you seek the common touch. No need to be outraged. Besides, you’re here to work for me, in any capacity I choose. I haven’t gone overboard and asked you to pretend you’re my English fiancée. Though that would solve a few problems. Possibly create a whole lot more. Anyway, you work for me. That was the deal. We have plenty of staff. I scarcely expect you to do the vacuuming, but I haven’t the slightest doubt you’re an excellent organiser.”

“I told you not to patronise me.” She gritted her white teeth.

“Need I patronise you? Oh, there’s another thing. You know I have a daughter?”

“I do. Georgina. I thought you might have told me long before this.”

“I’m telling you now. Georgy is beautiful. She resembles her mother. In looks. She’s my favourite person in the whole world. I love her dearly. But I have to warn you—she’ll be here a week on Saturday—that she’s going through a most difficult stage. But then you’d be used to that with all your sisters?”

All her sisters? Well, she did have rather a lot. “Do you want me to tick them off one by one?” she asked acidly.

“Not necessary. It’s just reassuring to me to know you’ve had all that experience playing the cool, competent, sensible big sister.”

“So you’re asking me—telling me—I’ll be your difficult young daughter’s babysitter while she’s here? She could well dislike and resent me.”

“What’s to dislike?” His mouth quirked. “I’m hoping you’ll be her friend. She’s had a lot of trouble accepting the divorce. She used to be a straight-A student but her grades have slipped of recent times. She’ll be staying on for a good month or so.”

Olivia frowned. “Given that her grades are falling why is she’s being allowed to have so much time away from school?”

His expression turned serious. “She hasn’t been all that well. Not eating. That kind of thing. The school counsellor thinks she would benefit from a prolonged stay. A study program has been arranged so don’t worry about that. The thing is, she’s missing me. She needs me around.”

“Why ever not?” Olivia huffed. “But then you would be an extremely busy man.”

His gaze narrowed. “One can easily see you’ve had big issues with your own father, Ms Balfour. Might I be allowed to put in a word for him? Oscar would have had to spend a great deal of his time rebuilding and greatly expanding the Balfour business empire. You may have felt neglected but I’m sure you realise you and your many sisters have reaped the reward.”

She swallowed hard at his tone. Obviously a reprimand. “Of course we do.”

“It’s not easy being the man at the top. Anyway, my ex-wife, Marigole, and her current partner will be bringing Georgy here to me. To make things easier all-round I’ve invited a few house guests to act as a buffer. They’ll be arriving on the Saturday morning and leaving Sunday afternoon. We’ll have a small dinner party, ten of us in all. Georgy won’t be attending. Too young.’

“And your housekeeper knows all about it?” Olivia queried. “I would think she’s superefficient?”

“Indeed she is,” he agreed, “but I’m sure she’d be delighted if you could impart some of your own splendid expertise. Menus, table settings, flowers and so forth. Kath isn’t quite in your league. She doesn’t need to be, of course. My mother was a wonderful hostess. So is my aunt Buffy aka Lady Venetia Massingham. But Buffy isn’t up to it these days and my mother can’t abide my ex-wife.”

“May one wonder why?” She couldn’t resist the touch of sarcasm. “You must have loved her when you married her?”

“I must have. God, it’s hard to remember.”

“That sounds very callous,” she offered censure.

“Don’t overstep the mark, Ms Balfour,” he warned with cutting suavity. “I was married when I was twenty-four. Marigole had scores of admirers but for some reason she only wanted me.”

“Perhaps you were more handsome and charismatic than the rest?” she suggested, making the comment as cool and clinical as she could.

“Do you find me handsome and charismatic?” He caught and trapped her gaze.

Major fluster. Balfour practised calm. “I’ve been used to handsome, charismatic men all my life, Mr McAlpine. My father is just such a man. It doesn’t mean such men make good husbands and fathers.”

“How harsh you are, Ms Balfour. Not surprising. I can see you’re overflowing with issues.”

Issues? She’d give him issues! “It may have slipped your attention, but so are you.”

“I guess so,” he relented. “It’s just I hate to see a woman as beautiful as you so frost bound. It can’t have been easy for you and your twin sister, left without a mother so very early in life?”

“We were taken excellent care of,” she said repres-sively, giving him a sweeping blue glance.

“Of course. We’ll leave that one for now. You might as well have a sign reading Do Not Disturb on your forehead.”

Don’t let him get to you.

“I’m a very private person,” she said with something of the old hauteur.

It didn’t seem to impress him. Rather the reverse. “In other words you fear to let yourself go? Let me hold out a skerrick of hope. Kalla Koori might be just the place for you to thaw out. Incidentally we can’t go on addressing each other so formally.”

“You started it,” she said, realising the moment the words were out of her mouth how childish they sounded. “You set the tone.”

“Then I’m unsetting it, Olivia. You may begin calling me Clint.”

“As in Clint Eastwood?” she asked with mock sweetness.

“As in Clinton. Clinton was my mother’s maiden name. I was baptised Reynold Clinton McAlpine. The Reynold—another family name—didn’t stay around for long. It was my father who started calling me Clint. My mother had no real objection.”

Fellow feeling abruptly smote her heart. “You must miss her.” She could hear it in his voice. That was what made her momentarily soften her stance.

He glanced down on her briefly, his eyes so golden they warmed her skin. “I do. Both of our lives have been shadowed by my father’s death. But I’m hoping that, in time, my mother will settle and come back here for long visits. Now enough confidences for today, Olivia. I need you to turn your exceptional skills initially to arranging the house party. It’s not a lot of time, I know, but I’m certain a young woman of your training and background will take to it like a duck to water.”

“Do I dine with your guests?” She had to remind herself she wasn’t, strictly speaking, a guest.

“Good God, yes.” He sounded startled. “Even though you’re enormously stuck up—at least with me—I’m sure you can modify it. Anyway, with your background you’ll be able to talk knowledgeably about many things of interest.”

“Thank you for that,” she said, sounding crisp and short. He was just so sarcastic with her! “May I ask, what about your wife? Correction, ex-wife. My presence couldn’t make her very happy.” That was a legitimate concern.

“What’s it got to do with her?” His black brows drew together. Impatiently he took her arm, leading her to the magnificent double doors of brass-studded dark-stained timber that opened into the entrance hall. “You’ll be acting as my PR woman. I can’t see you helping with the muster or breaking in a few brumbies. You’re Olivia Balfour, of the illustrious Balfour family. There’s a distant connection between our families. You may like to sort that out sometime. Your father is a major shareholder in McAlpine Enterprises. You’re here on a study tour. Part work, and partly to fit in as much fun as possible. How’s that?”

“Why should she believe it?”

He laughed hollowly. “Because I say so. You’re not feeling intimidated by the thought of my ex-wife, are you, Olivia?”

“Hardly!” Her voice dripped hauteur. “After all, I have no romantic interest in you.”

He looked down at her cool perfection. “You haven’t left yet, Olivia,” he reminded her.

She swung about swiftly; heat darkened her cheeks. “I think I can safely say it will never happen.”

“Never say never,” he mocked, his eyes never leaving her face. “For now, welcome to Kalla Koori. May your stay give you all the freedom you obviously crave.”

The heartbreak of it all was, he was so right!

The next few days put her on her mettle. She had always had a taste for hard work. Not perhaps in the physical sense. She had never been a genuine worker as in the endless domestic chores required of most women. Not that she didn’t know she was blessed. But in any case Kath Cartwright, the housekeeper, appeared to have any number of rotating staff, most of them girls who had grown up on the station and had never wanted to leave. She could hardly blame them. This was a whole new world. Even the blazing sunshine seemed to speak to her, though she took extreme care to look after her English skin.

“My gosh, aren’t you beautiful!” Kath Cartwright, a good-natured, humorous woman, had remarked when McAlpine had introduced them.

That felt good, even if McAlpine looked somewhat sceptical

These Australians with their warmth and their frankness—McAlpine apart, of course—were encircling her soul. The three women she had so far made contact with—Bessie, Heather and Kath—all bright, cheerful women, had apparently taken to her on sight. She had to notice because it didn’t happen all that often. Bella had once told her she was a “dragon in the making.” She hadn’t been sparing of Bella either with her response. Much as they loved each other she and Bella were very different in temperament. Bella simply sparkled with light. Here in Australia she felt her own dormant sparkle was going up a notch or two.

It certainly made things easy for her when she and Kath got on like a house on fire. No territorial resentments from Kath that a newcomer was about to invade her kitchen and perhaps take over the running of the household if only for a short period. Kath welcomed her input as if she actually needed it when Olivia was certain she didn’t. She even hung on her every word as Olivia told of her cordon bleu classes in London and Paris and her early mishaps, drawing lots of guffaws from Kath. When she was home and out on her official duties her teeth had often hurt from the number of times she’d had to clench them. Here she was being wrapped in a laid-back friendliness that required nothing of her but niceness.

No need to be on your high horse all the time, as McAlpine had so nicely phrased it.

“I can see you’re used to everything grand,” Kath observed, while they were enjoying morning coffee in the huge white kitchen characterised by order and function and outfitted with every conceivable modern appliance. “What about this menu for Saturday night? Let’s make them sit up and take notice. Even Marigole. Her social secretary used to chase her with a lettuce leaf. We can fly in whatever you want. Plenty here, of course. A stocked pantry, freezer room. It’s going to be exciting, the two of us working on this. I’ll line up my best girls. I’ve trained them well. I’m happy to leave the dressing of the table to you.” She gave Olivia a huge smile. “You look like you’re superartistic.”

“I hope I don’t seriously disappoint you, Kath,” Olivia said.

“Won’t happen, love.” Kath reached out with confidence to pat her hand. “I’ll let you take care of the wines, as well. OK?”

“No problem. Do you know the people who will be coming?” It would be a blessing to hear a bit about them.

“Sure. You want thumbnail sketches?”

“Go for it,” Olivia advised with a smile.

“There’s you and Clint, of course—”

Kath said it as though she and McAlpine were already cosy. “We’re not an item, Kath,” Olivia hastened to explain, annoyed there was a slight waver in her voice.

“Believe me,” said Kath, “He’s a splendid catch. You don’t have a certain someone back home? I suppose you do. A beautiful young woman like you.”

That she was being acknowledged as a beauty caught her by surprise. “No one special, Kath.”

“Don’t you worry. He’ll come along,” Kath promised in a motherly fashion. ‘Hey, you could even meet the man of your dreams here. Now where were we? There’s the ex-Mrs Alpine—that’s Marigole, as you know—and her latest, a rich guy called Lucas something. The Jamesons—Neil and Celine, you’ll like them—newly married, Pete and Barbara Corbett, ditto, and Brendan Fraser and his girlfriend of the moment, Chloe Sanderson. Brendan is a lot of fun, the perennial bachelor, and much sought after. He was Clint’s best man. It could be a great weekend,” Kath said, a note of real regret in her tone, “only Marigole takes a particular delight in trying to torment Clint. I hope you’ll excuse my speaking out, dear, but you definitely need to know. I don’t want you caught in the line of fire as it were. Naturally Clint’s friends—never hers—don’t like it. Brendan once called her a she-devil after Marigole had been particularly appalling. Jealous of anyone Clint liked, you see. She wanted his sole attention right from the start.”

“But he must have loved her, Kath.” Olivia was trying to figure the marriage out. Of course, she knew people sometimes fell out of love as quickly as they fell in. But could Marigole be that bad? Heather hadn’t taken to her. Now here was Kath warning her as well and obviously feeling the need. Whatever had McAlpine seen in her?

“Hey, he did for a while,” Kath acknowledged. “Not love exactly, more the state of being in love. Infatuation. Marigole is a stunner. As dark as you’re fair. Milky white skin, skinny as a rake, but a great clothes horse. Never seen in her in the same thing twice. Needless to say she made it her business to be charm itself until she fell pregnant. Didn’t like that at all. And the way she treated me!” Kath cast up her hazel eyes. “Never mind the staff! They might as well have been invisible. Since the divorce when she’s in the house she doesn’t say one word to me. Anyone would think I was responsible for the split up. But it’s poor little Georgy who has suffered the most.”

“Now that I can understand.” Olivia spoke from the heart. “No child would want their parents to divorce. It would be devastating. Especially at her age.”

“Well, there’s that, of course,” Kath said, “but it wasn’t the split so much. Georgy has always felt—with good reason—her mother never really wanted her. Marigole was cruel about that. Something Clint took violent exception to. Marigole made no bones about the fact it was a prized son she had wanted. Like she had to produce Clint’s heir right off. It was a point of pride with her. Daughters came way down the line.”

Olivia was utterly dismayed. Most women would be ecstatic to have a healthy child. Poor little girl. A good thing her own father didn’t think like that. “There are eight of us. All daughters,” she told Kath.

Kath, at the point of taking another sip of coffee, set her cup down with a clunk. “Eight?” Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Your mother must have spent her life in maternity clothes?”

Olivia sighed. “Suffice to say my father has been married three times. My mother was his first wife. She died in childbirth with Zoe, the third sister. I’m the eldest by exactly two minutes. I have a twin, Bella.”

“Upon my word! There’s bound to be a story there!”

“I’ll tell you sometime,” Olivia promised.

Kath nodded “Whenever you’re ready. Just remember, dear, I’m here if you ever feel like a chat. None of us want you to be lonely when you’re so far from home.”

A kind thought went a very long way. Olivia tucked that away for future reference.

Chapter Four

“HOW’S it going?”

McAlpine strode through the front door—a lion of a man—bringing with him such a rush of male vigour and vitality it created its own excitement. His eyes, skin and thick auburn hair gleamed with health. She supposed he had the best physique of any man she had ever seen in her life. At any rate, every pulse in her body had jumped to attention. She had been calmly minding her own business, walking head bent, across the tiled entrance hall, a beautiful damask-and-lace tablecloth draped over her arm—one she had chosen from a whole pile that would have been suitable for any dinner party, anywhere. Now this! She was well aware McAlpine had to be extraordinarily intelligent to do what he did, but the good fairy at his christening had really gone overboard with the largesse.

“I’m on top of it already,” she said crisply. The man always put her on her mettle.

“So I’ve heard.” His eyes roamed over her, amused by her businesslike attitude. So far as he could see, she wore it like a defensive shield. Obviously she had decided it was the way to go, protecting herself at every level. In rebuilding his fortune Oscar Balfour would have had to work extremely hard. What his daughter Olivia had seriously needed was a whole lot of undivided attention. He wasn’t being sarcastic when he had suggested she craved it. The deep reserve she manifested—the touch-me-not persona—was in his view a defence mechanism.

But the way she was getting on with Kath, Norm and the staff had come as something of a surprise. Obviously with them she had dropped her lady-of-the-manor guise. He took a moment now to give her his undivided attention. No difficulty there. She was something to see in informal dress—well-cut jeans combined with a simple white tank top. But she looked great! It was all in the height, the ultra-slim body, the long legs, pert butt, flat stomach. Her long elegant bones had a nice cover, unlike Marigole, who wasn’t happy unless her bones were painfully on show. “You’ve really got Kath onside,” he commended her. “I’m sure you brought your latent diplomatic skills to bear.”

Don’t let him take a rise out of you. Or failing that don’t let him see it, Olivia’s inner voice chirped up.

“Of course I haven’t!” she denied calmly, resisting the natural urge to flare up. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“Spot on.”

He moved to join her. Olivia found herself swallowing; her throat felt so constricted and dry. Everything about the man was mesmeric. She had never met anyone remotely like him before for sheer physicality. She held the tablecloth firmly to her, uncomfortably aware there was a glitter of amusement in his eyes. Of course he thought her ridiculous, damn him!

“The sale of one of our Queensland stations has gone through,” he told her.

Without looking back at him she said, “And you’re happy with the price?”

“Count on it.” His tone was buoyant. The big-cat gleam was in his eyes. “Your daddy will be too.”

“Oddly enough my father likes you,” she said in a tightly controlled tone.

“So you’ve said.” He wagged a finger at her. “Too bad about you, my lady. What have you got there?” He glanced at what she had in her arms.

“Tablecloth for Saturday night,” she returned briskly. She refused to be swept up by the power and magnetism of the man. “It’s quite beautiful. There are napkins to match.”

“Fine. I don’t need a progress report. I have every faith in you, Olivia.”

Most women would think the little brackets that framed his mouth were incredibly sexy. She opted to lower her lids. “That’s good to hear.”

“I’ve come back for something else entirely.” His tone turned as brisk as hers. Probably in mockery. “You’ve been so on the job, I thought you might like a run around the station. You’ve got the layout of the house and the office. Now you get to see the great outdoors.”

She couldn’t for the life of her control the spurt of excitement that raced along her veins. “You don’t mean to spring a crocodile on me, do you?”

A wicked smile slid across his generous mouth. “Not today. Maybe real soon. Do you know anything about guns?”

She grimaced. “I can shoot if that’s what you mean. My father and some of his cronies like to bag pheasant in season. So many pounds a bird. That sort of thing. I don’t care to join them. Not for a very long time. Guns are dangerous.”

“Of course they are,” he agreed shortly, as if he didn’t need her to give him a lecture. “But it’s necessary to be a fine shot out here. In some ways your world would have been the same as my own. One tends to get taught everything. Ride, shoot, play tennis, even dance.” He grimaced.

“I’m a very good chess player as well.”

Was that wry admiration that flickered in his remarkable eyes?

“I don’t doubt it. You’d excel at poker too, I would think. So I can safely take it you could handle a rifle if you had to?”

“If I had to.” She nodded. “Rather a croc’s funeral than mine. I don’t hunt, before you ask. No sport whatever in that.”

“I totally agree with you. We can safely rule the hunt out. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of you. You tend to react as if you grew up with Queen Victoria. Now, are you coming with me, or not? I’m off to Melbourne first thing in the morning. Business. I won’t be back until first thing Saturday morning.”

“So when do your guests arrive?” No need to panic. She could handle an outback party. Lord knows she had organised splendid functions at the manor.

“Could you possibly sound anxious?” He couldn’t resist the taunt, nor the near-overwhelming urge to pull free the yellow ribbon that tied back her billowing golden hair. It reached to her shoulder blades in sinuous curls and waves, unlike the evenings when she reverted to her smooth head-hugging arrangements.

“Do I sound anxious?” She put on her best formal tone.

“Actually, yes. I’m getting rather good at reading what goes on behind the high-born facade, Ms Balfour.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” He flushed with vexation. “I have no inflated opinion of myself or my class.”

“Of course you have,” he said. “A whole battery of airs and graces. Some of them I like. But humility is clearly not your scene. Anyway, to get back to business. All of my guests will be flying in by midday Saturday at the latest. I’ll be home by then.”

“Would you mind putting that in writing?” she said, fighting for her habitual dignity.

He gave a low laugh. “Why, Olivia—I really like that name—my word is not enough?”

She felt as though she was on strange new ground. “It’s just that I would like you to be here when your ex-wife and your daughter arrive.” She wouldn’t tell him she had the dismal notion Marigole would hate her on sight. For that matter so might Georgina, his troubled young daughter. Her father had never warned her about any of this, she thought bitterly. If things turned out very badly at Kalla Koori she didn’t feel she could forgive him.

McAlpine suddenly caught her arm impatiently as though he had had quite enough of her backchat. Every time he did it she had to catch her breath. “Though I’m absolutely certain you can hold your own with anyone, Ms Balfour, I give you my word I’ll be back before the others arrive.”

She dared to give him a sideways glance. Their eyes held. Neither of them looked away. She couldn’t. Much as he got under her skin—took delight in doing it—the man possessed fatal charm. It would throw any woman, even a woman of backbone like herself, off balance. Worse yet, it frightened her. She was a deeply reserved woman at heart.

Wasn’t she?

Before she could react, he stretched out his hand and grasped her hair ribbon, setting the masses free.

She gave a mortified little cry while he watched with evident satisfaction as her hair cascaded around her agitated face. “Tell me, why do you feel the need to tie your hair back all the time?” He could see her fluster. Dusky pink coloured her cheeks, increasing the beauty she opted to play down. God knows why! “It’s gorgeous hair. Darn nearly turns you into a femme fatale!”

He was making fun of her, of course. “Oh, stop that!” she ordered in queenly fashion, vigorously pushing her hair back over her shoulders. “It’s my hair and don’t you forget it. I like to be neat.” She held out an imperative hand. “May I have my ribbon back?”

“Not today,” he said briskly, jamming it into the breast pocket of his khaki bush shirt. “I know the stories about your grand manner are legion, Ms Balfour, but we’re going to have to make an effort to modify it. Reveal the less starchy you. Otherwise you’ll never get a husband. Now meet you outside in five minutes. We’ll take the Range Rover. Don’t forget your hat and your sunglasses.”

In the act of hurrying away she turned back, blue eyes burning defiance.

“Kindly allow me to look after my own wardrobe, Mr McAlpine.”

“Delighted to. Especially as it appears to be vast!” he shot back.

It was the most brilliant of days. Cloudless. So good, Olivia was starting to think she could love this place. Of course, it was hot—no denying that—and they had long records of cyclones, fires and floods, but it appeared to be taken by Territorians as on-again, off-again events. It was simply the power of nature at work. Even the fact that glassy-eyed saltwater monsters lurked in the beautiful lily-festooned pools and lagoons was something Territorians lived with on a daily basis. It didn’t appear to worry them. It was foolhardy tourists and the stupidly intoxicated most likely to ignore all the warning signs—posted in several languages—who came to grief.

McAlpine kept up a running commentary which she had to admit was both fascinating and engrossing. They had agreed to “lay down our weapons,” as he put it. It was oddly liberating. She had travelled much of the civilised world but Kalla Koori was something else again. As was the force of McAlpine’s presence.

“This is the crocodile’s natural habitat,” he said. “Man is the invader. From time to time there has to be a cull if they start becoming too much of a threat, but we rather like our crocs.”

“And to think they were probably around when the whole continent was jungle. A Jurassic Park when the great reptiles were dominant and the birds were only starting to appear.”

He nodded. “The outback is famous for its birdlife. If we can fit it in I’ll take you to one of our Channel Country stations in south-west Queensland. Legions of budgerigar without number colour the sky green and gold. As for the prehistoric reptiles, they may have disappeared—save for the croc—but we have miniatures of the mighty reptiles in our lizards. The Japanese in particular are fascinated by these little lizards. Even I think they look fantastic with their armoury of spikes. We have the frill-neck, the bearded dragons, thorny devil lizards, not to mention the geckos, snakes, goannas and skinks. You might as well call the entire region the land of the lizards. Goannas can look pretty fearless, especially when they rear up on the hind legs. The perentie, our second largest to the Komodo dragon, can grow up to seven feet and more.”

They were driving across open boxwood-studded savannah, with great flights of birds filling the sky with colour and raucous calls. The sheer vastness of the landscape was having a powerful effect on her. “In many ways I’m reminded of Africa,” she said, “especially this never-ending sea of tall billowing yellow grasses. Look at the way they sway this way and that in the prevailing wind.”

“African lions have the perfect camouflage in such grasses,” he said. “Just little glimpses of the dense mane. I’ve been to South Africa several times. We have great friends in the Cape Colony and Natal. Magnificent creatures, lions, though I’m glad we don’t have lion around here. We have quite enough to contend with. Those great spiky tussocks you see are the ubiquitous spinifex. This is cattle country. No sheep.”

“But you do have stations where you run both sheep and cattle.” She felt more settled as he was clearly determined on being pleasant. She couldn’t help knowing he found her—or her manner—an irritant. She didn’t actually like him either.

Did she?

“Read up a bit on us, have you?”

“Of course.” So he was back to the sarcasm! She glanced out the window.

“Well, you might know, then, there are fourteen stations in the chain. They’re spread right across the outback—the Queensland Channel Country with its mighty sand dunes and flood plains, the Kimberly in Western Australia and the Territory right up to the much cooler Barkly Tableland. I make it my job to look in on all of the stations and the permanent outstations like Naroo Waters from time to time.”

She realised he was driving with care over the rougher spots. For her benefit she was sure; he wouldn’t have done it on his own. He wasn’t a complete barbarian. His aim obviously was to protect her from the worst jolting. “The Americans call your stations ranches?” She turned her head to question. Or could it be just another excuse to study his striking profile. He was an extraordinarily handsome and charismatic man. It would be unnatural not to imagine what he might be like as a lover. She was woman enough for that. But not woman enough to get involved. Such men were difficult to tame, let alone handle.

So be warned!

“We don’t call our stations ranches.” He glanced across at her, probably catching her out assessing him and the dangers he presented. “It was our early British settlers—the McAlpines among them—who called their vast pastoral holdings stations. It simply meant one was stationed or situated there. Farm is for something on a small scale, not a few million wild acres. Station was in common use right through the 1800s. We don’t use the term ranch. It was the Americans who came up with stampede. Here a stampede is known—or was known—as a rush but stampede has caught on. One only has to live through one to appreciate how stampede says it.”

“I don’t believe I’ll ever ask that question again,” she said. “I’m on Kalla Koori Station.”

“You are. Does that account for the little tremble?”

“What tremble?” She was worried he would notice. He had.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re perfectly safe with me.”

She gave him a long look with her bluer-than-blue Balfour eyes. “I should jolly well hope so.”

“Then there’s no need to jump whenever I touch you.”

“I do not!” she protested strongly. All the more so because he was right.

“Of course you do. Then you become as awkward as a novice nun.”

“Well, I have to tell you I’m not used to men invading my privacy,” she huffed.

He only laughed. “Lighten up, Olivia. What say we take a rest?”

“Why not!” she retorted shortly. Out in the open she might be able to breathe freely again. She knew he was baiting her. Worse, he enjoyed it.

They had been driving over his land for the best part of two hours. Mile after mile of vast empty distances, broken by broad streams of Brahman cattle, silver to dark grey in colour, en route to the nearest waterhole. Brahmans were better able to withstand tropical heat than European cattle, he’d told her. She could easily identify them from the distinctive large hump and the big droopy ears. Only a few stockmen appeared to be handling these large mobs. She couldn’t imagine what might happen in a stampede.

“Brahmans are docile and intelligent animals,” he said, “but they can on occasion be excitable. A lot of cross-breeding has gone on to up beef production. These days with the world in recession the public want cheaper cuts of meat. One of the reasons I sold off the central Queensland property to buy another in the Kimberly. With vast areas to cover, the cattle on the boundaries turn into very cunning rogues. They only have to pick up the slightest movement or sound and they scatter, finding shelter in the sand hills. Mustering unmarked cattle is very tough work. We won’t ask you to do it.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t like to try? You underestimate me, McAlpine.”

“I don’t. Nor have I ever,” he said bluntly, throwing her a glittering gaze.

That effectively shut her up.

From savannah, they were traversing a landscape of short green grass that looked for all the world like an infinity lawn. Millions of tiny wildflowers, mostly dark blue to purple with black white-flecked centres, rode the grass. Olivia rolled her window down to see if the wildflowers had any fragrance.

They did. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She breathed in their fresh floral fragrance.

“Native ground cover,” he told her. “We can’t match the sublime displays of wildflowers our Channel Country stations put on after the flood waters subside. And 2009 was a bumper year. Lake Lady Eyre in the Centre received a massive in-flow from our three great rivers system. The best flooding in living memory.

“Right now in case you’re wondering, we’re heading for a cluster of billabongs called Noola Lakes. Back in the Dreamtime, so the local legend goes, an arrogant young warrior named Wapanga was captivated by a beautiful young girl of another tribe called Noola. Noola, promised to another, scorned him. Furious and humiliated Wapanga set fire to the dense scrub that surrounded the place where Noola was camped with her mother and sisters. The fire came down on them so fiercely and with such speed only Noola and two of her sisters were able to escape. When the fire was almost upon them Noola called out to the Great Spirits to help them with their magic. Whereupon she and her sisters were transformed into three lakes and Wapanga was turned into a black crow.”

“And that’s where we’re going?” Her face, usually so composed, lit up.

Glancing at her, he realised he was taking a surprising amount of satisfaction from seeing her open up a little. Spread her petals as it were. Here was a genuine nature lover. Marigole had not been one for the bush, although right up to the time he had married her she had kept up an amazing pretence. Marigole was the mistress of devious behaviour.

“Oddly enough, you can always count on a single black crow hovering around the lakes.” He gave the patrician Ms Balfour a half-smile.

To his surprise she returned it. It made him suck in his breath. She had a lovely smile. His hands on the wheel tightened imperceptively. Crisp-and-cool Ms Balfour could be a very sexy woman if she only knew it. Maybe she did know it and adopted the reserved front as the best way to deal with it. Her father had expected so much of her as his eldest daughter. Maybe too much.

The ground was becoming more marshy, Olivia saw. Strangely gnarled trees like living sculptures rose from shallow water. Around the trunks vivid green fernlike vegetation was sprouting, fanning out in great profusion.

“Noola Lakes are ponds of permanent fresh water,” McAlpine said. “They have the great advantage of being safe. No salties lurk there, though I’m not recommending a swim today. It’s simply a beautiful place on the station I want to show you. There are plenty of freshwater crocs in the Territory but they’re not in the same league as the salties. About half their size, for a start, with a narrow snout. We consider them harmless to humans unless provoked.”

“Well, I have no intention of provoking a single one of them,” she said with an uncontrollable shudder. “I’m not given to rash deeds.”

“My dear Ms Balfour, I would never have known.”

She coloured. “How you do love to tease. Of course you’re referring to my disgrace?”

“What disgrace,” he said. “Was it such a great scandal after all? Personally I think Oscar has been a bit hard on his daughters.”

“Maybe, but it wasn’t my finest hour,” she said quietly. “Bella and I just lost it.”

“Everyone loses it from time to time, Olivia. I sure have. So don’t keep beating yourself up about it. But surely it was Oscar who brought a lot of the trouble down on your heads. You and Bella meant well.”

She released a grateful sigh. “Only Bella proved more compassionate than I. I will have to make it up to Bella though—we parted in floods of tears. One would have thought we were never going to see each other again instead of in a few months’ time. I love my sister. I hated to row with her.” She shook her blonde head rather miserably.

“Get over it,” he said briskly. “What I saw of you and Bella, any number of rows wouldn’t break the powerful bond. Oscar told me you had been an exemplary daughter and a most caring sister to your siblings.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt him to tell me,” she said, shocked into showing her resentment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t criticise my father. He’s been wonderful to us all.”

“Sometimes men forget to say what needs to be said.”

Both of them were silent for several minutes pondering that.

“The land has a religious feel to it, hasn’t it? A quality of time immemorial,” she ventured.

Her perceptions, her sensitivity, pleased him a great deal, he suddenly realised. “Not so surprising when you think Australia is a most ancient continent. For the aboriginal people the land is sanctified ground.” He threw her a long glance. Her beautiful skin was glowing, as were her blue eyes. She might have been Sleeping Beauty coming slowly out of her trance. “Some areas the elders regard as too holy to walk on.”

They were on a winding track the colour of rust. “On the station?” she asked in surprise.

“We’re talking an area of nearly four million acres,” he said. “We can accommodate the holy spots. It’s a primordial thing. It goes a lot deeper than Christian belief. The aboriginal tribes have been on this continent for more sixty thousand years as far as we know. They know the power of the land. They believe the land is not always benign. They have their Great Ancestral Beings. There are nurturing spirits and destructive spirits. A person’s special essence, the soul, is a deeply held belief. Death and the afterlife are very important to them. Death is always associated with ritual, far longer and intense than our funerals and wakes. The elders on the station sing sacred songs daily. The chanting that went on after my father died—the sound of it, the wailing and the very real grief—will never leave me. To the aborigines on Kalla Koori my father has passed to the Sky World. He ascended on the bright rays of the setting sun.” Despite himself he released a pent-up breath. He missed his father greatly.

Very gently she reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I can see how much you loved him.”

The muscles along his jaw line tightened. Her compassion had both surprised and moved him. “I admired him, respected him. He was a magnificent man. My mother adored him. It was a real love match. They don’t happen as often as one might think.”

“Well, good men are somewhat sparse on the ground,” she observed with obvious regret.

He broke into a laugh. “Don’t turn into a man-hater, Olivia.”

“I can’t afford to,” she admitted. “I want children.”

“And you’ll make a good mother.” She had been an admirable big sister. “May you be blessed with a round dozen. Better get a move on though. Your biological clock is ticking away. You’re twenty-eight?”

“Not, I would have thought, over the hill,” she said, incensed.

“Forgive me.” The amusement was back. “Of course you’ve got time.”

“You’re at it again, are you? Can’t stop yourself?”

“I’m just trying to loosen you up. Anyway, I’m no one to talk. All the marriages in our family have been very happy. Parents, grandparents, great-grandparents. Wonderful love matches that lasted. I broke the mould.”

“Who said marriage was easy? You know my father has been married three times.”

“If you can’t make it at your third attempt I guess you never will,” he returned sardonically. “Oscar appeared to have been very happy with his Lillian.”

“She was a lovely, gentle person,” Olivia said. “She never had good health. We all mourn her but I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if my father remarries at some time in the future. He hasn’t run out of…energy.” She meant sexual as much as everything else. “People don’t really change.”

“I’m not about to agree. Not as yet. You won’t know yourself by the time you’re ready to fly home. Sometimes the mistakes we make in life serve to help us to see more clearly. Has any one man, outside your father, made you dreadfully unhappy?”

She gulped in a breath. “What do you mean, outside my father?” She wasn’t ready to confront the whole issue head-on with this big, powerful Australian. “I love my father.”

“Of course you do. But you did let it slip he wasn’t always there for you.”

She looked down at her hands. They were locked betrayingly in her lap. “I do recognise the fact he has always had to work extremely hard, as you made it your business to point out, but I would imagine you as your father’s heir were always kept in the loop. You were the heir apparent always in training. Men rule the world,” she said with sharp disapproval. “It will never change.”

“Oh, come on, Olivia!” he chided her. “More and more women in all parts of the world—where they’re terribly oppressed and go in fear of their lives—are standing up and fighting from their corners. Even when they stand alone they cry out for freedom and justice. A lot of them are winning, as they thoroughly deserve to. More and more inspirational women are coming into the forefront of public life. That is as it should be. I grant you the revolution is taking overlong but a lot of women are perfectly happy to let men run the world for them. It’s in the very nature of man to lead. In the nature of man to defend his own—his wife, children, family, country. Our women are joining the armed forces in greater numbers. They’re needed. They have special skills. They go into the war zones, but the brass don’t really want to risk pushing their young women into the front line.”

“Even so, they get killed,” she said sadly. “You think I’ve lived a useless, overindulged life, don’t you?”

His expression was serious. “The more I get to know you, Olivia, the more I realise it hasn’t been all that easy for you. But you know, as I know, you’re capable of taking on much more fulfilling work than what you’ve been doing up to date. I wonder you haven’t asked your father for a place in one of his many enterprises?”

“You think I haven’t?” It was a cry from the heart.

“And he said no?” His brows drew together. Marigole had never shown the slightest interest in McAlpine business affairs. A big disappointment to him. Her only interest had been to spend the money, which she did so lavishly he had been forced to rein her in.

“I don’t think he even heard me. It was sufficient for me to stay at home, perform my public duties and be there for my sisters. I was also on hand to act as his hostess when Lillian wasn’t well enough, which was often.”

“Poor little rich girl. One of the jeunesse dorée.”

“The gilded youth. That’s the way the paparazzi see us. Bella, in particular. She’s so beautiful and glamorous and out there!”

“So that’s why you play down your looks? So there’s no competition between you and your twin?”

She was genuinely shocked. “There is no competition. Why ever would you say that? I’m quite happy to see Bella shine. Bella can make or break a function simply by turning up or not.”

“I do understand Bella is the family wild child,” he said. “The ‘party queen’—don’t the press call her that? I spoke to her at the wedding. She’s very glamorous, but she’s no more beautiful than you are. The most significant difference is your twin goes all out to dazzle, while you settle for a very dense smokescreen. Maybe it didn’t help that you had to play big sister to your siblings? You should have been out and about enjoying yourself, not taking on much too demanding a role for your years and inexperience. Both of you could be crying out for attention and not fully realising it. Ever think of that?”

“If I have, I’m not about to say.”

“Don’t need to. Having everything material in life is no guarantee of happiness. I was blessed with a great childhood. I had all the love and stability in the world. That’s a priceless advantage in life. I’m very worried about my daughter. Georgy used to be a quiet, studious, very respectful child. Sadly that’s no longer the case. She’s full of anger and she’s taking less and less trouble to hide it.”

Olivia started wondering if she was going to be on the receiving end of adolescent rages. “Perhaps she’s still struggling with the divorce?”

“A powerful disruption. Sad to say, Georgy and her mother don’t have a good rapport. It has everything to do with Marigole, not Georgina. Marigole is one of those women who dote on their sons. Such women can’t seem to cope with daughters. Here, I think, Oscar shines. He loves you all. With my ex-wife and me, everything changed after Georgy was born. My family was thrilled with our perfect little girl. Marigole saw having a daughter as a failure. She wanted to bear a son and ‘get it over.’ Her words. She didn’t want any more children. She found childbirth an excruciating experience never to be repeated.”

“Perhaps she was frightened? Understandable.”

“What she was frightened of was losing her figure,” he answered grimly. “I’m telling you all this because you need to know. And there is the strong possibility someone along the way is bound to tell you.”

“She can’t be that shallow,” Olivia, the feminist, retorted. “Maybe you couldn’t love her the way she wanted?”

Try cutting him down to size.

“You’re quite right, Olivia.” He spoke as if applauding her. “I had a problem with that. We all want to love and be loved. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Love does make the world go round.” She wondered what it would be like to have an intense and loving communion with this man. Marigole was a bit of a mystery.

“It’s our loved ones we strive for. Men throw themselves into their work to look after their families. Women run the home and take on part- and even full-time jobs. It’s all for the common good. A man and woman plan their journey through life. I did believe myself in love with Marigole when I married her. I know you’ve got the wrong idea. It’s in the condemnatory way you look at me out of those blue eyes. You can imagine my shock when the period of infatuation wore off. How did the beautiful, charming young woman I married turn into someone else? Was it me? Were my expectations too high? When I came to the full realization Marigole didn’t love our daughter, it destroyed what was left. I hung in as long as I could. I had been brought up to believe marriage was for ever. But there was only one answer really. Divorce. We had to go our separate ways. Marigole doesn’t want any more children. But I certainly do.”

A swarm of butterflies fluttered in her breast. “A son, an heir?” What would it be like to go to bed with this man? Even the thought had the blood rushing to her head. To bear him a son! For a moment she was astounded at her own sensuality.

“A son, sure,” he said. “But I’ll take whatever heaven sends us.”

“Us? You have a woman in mind?” In the inner most recesses of her heart how she envied this woman. It came as a revelation, profoundly shocking her. She didn’t even like him.

Don’t give us that!

“I hadn’t until you showed up.”

She was so stunned, she stuttered. “You c-can’t mean…You c-can’t be—” She broke off in utter confusion as she encountered the wicked glitter in his golden eyes. “Why do I always fall into the trap?”

“I don’t know, Olivia.” He gave her a twisted smile. “But you do.”

Chapter Five

WHERE were they, the Garden of Eden before the fall? Olivia walked ahead of him, breathing in the crystal-clear air, so pure and bracing. This was the most romantic spot she had ever been in. The dappled sunlight on her upturned face was as warm and intoxicating as a kiss. Kiss? Kisses? Something had drastically altered her mindset. She was becoming extremely susceptible to the world of the senses. It had much to do with McAlpine. The sheer physical presence of him. She had the grace to admit that. He was the only man she had ever met who could dazzle her with his sexual radiance.

You should be very concerned about that.

She had taken her inner voice along for the walk with them.

For McAlpine’s part, he appeared to be enjoying wandering around with her. That alone was giving her a huge buzz. Hugely unfamiliar for her—it had to be said. Surely her responses, however ill-advised, went a way to proving she wasn’t frigid—or at least glacial. Hang on, he had called her that in Scotland. The cheek of him. Then as now the sheer audacity of the man took her breath away.

Of course, the tropical heat had to be factored in. It was luscious, thawing her cold-climate blood and causing her to act with unprecedented abandon. Before her, large brilliantly coloured butterflies sailed languorously. Her light footsteps crunched down on a thick ground cover of dry leaves, twigs and a wide scattering of tiny little wildflowers in the cool range of colours that showed their daisylike faces above the sandy white soil. Everything seemed so much more vivid than usual. She thought the scene would be forever etched on her mind. That and the man who so nonchalantly was following her up. He might have been a lion on the prowl her heart was pounding so fast.

She realised she was moving a bit too quickly, getting way ahead of him instead of walking companionably alongside. Why? It wasn’t a chase. She wasn’t being pursued. Yet even the thought of a pursuit thrilled her. One could turn into a totally different woman with the right man. She was worrying that that man was McAlpine. She dared not get involved with him. But in its way it was rather wonderful to feel the way she did.

You could be courting disaster. Think about that.

Impossible to get away from the warning voice. Her father had sent her here to get a more insightful view of herself. In other words, find enlightenment.

Does anyone actually do that? Did Daddy for that matter?

All she knew was that she was undergoing a rapid change.

For better, or worse, Olivia?

Oh, shut up!

It seemed inconceivable to her so much lushness could co-exist with the sun-scorched grasses of the savannah and the terracotta plains. One could acquire a horde of worldly goods but nothing could compare with the matchless beauty and the deep spiritual power of nature. The full shade was blissful. Surely her wounded soul was on the mend? Her fall from grace had upset her more than anyone could know. That terrible row with her dearest Bella, her other half, her twin. Their rows had been so rare that the way they had gone at each other that terrible night—one might almost call it a catfight—had shocked them both to the core.

Even the thought of her twin made the tears spring to her eyes. But today the tears were mixed with delight. What had happened to her, what had happened to her family—the public disgrace—was starting to fade. Kalla Koori was a new world, a different universe. The whole atmosphere freed her up.

“This place looks pristine,” she called back happily to McAlpine, waiting on his answer.

“Because of its extreme isolation.” He watched her fling out her arm in a sweeping gesture, her expression so joyous he caught his breath. It was like seeing the petals of a budded pink rose slowly unfurl. Here was a woman ready to undergo a transformation. All she had to do was throw off the constraints of the past. A wedge of sunlight fell across her, turning her hair to spun gold. In her animation, she looked staggeringly beautiful. He had to take several deep breaths. Complications simply weren’t on the agenda.

“Untouched since the Dreamtime!” Enchantment was in her voice. “I love that description—the Dreamtime—don’t you? What a beautiful way to express it.”

“I think so.” He was still a short distance behind her, aware he was experiencing a lightness of spirit he hadn’t felt in years. She might be overly conscious of her patrician background—a Balfour of Balfour Manor—but they shared similar feelings about a lot of important things. It was a source of deep gratification that she loved this place as he did. The beauty and power of nature had been quite beyond Marigole’s understanding. Marigole only found herself in the big cities of the world.

All around them were beautiful trees of different heights and foliage. Olivia studied the striking patterns of the various barks. Most of these trees were unfamiliar to her. Towering palms trees dominated, some with slender trunks, others more substantial, grander. She saw several species of acacia. Great spiky pandanus trees and tall aquatic plants framed the crystal-clear ponds that lay at their feet. The ponds now in clear view were surprisingly large, isolated one from the other by stretches of pure white sand and intermittent silver-grey boulders.

“Lubra Lakes.” An element of excitement was in her voice. She understood immediately this was a special place. Mystical in character. Each great pond glittered with a mirrorlike intensity, the colour a uniform deep emerald green. Some of the graceful gums that bent their heads over the pools were draped with vines bearing exquisite red-orange throated flowers that were so sweetly scented she thought the fragrance ought to be bottled.

“Enjoying yourself?” His tone was indulgent.

“I’m having a great time.” She turned back to him, her normally contained expression lifted into radiance. “This is the loveliest place. We might be visitors to an ancient cathedral.”

“Which is why I brought you here.” He moved with sure-footed grace down the coarsely grassed slope. “Tell me, do you still feel punished for being sent here?”

She felt her cheeks pink. “Actually, I’m asking myself why I ever worried.”

You should!

OK, she had to trust in her common sense. There was no future in this adventure as far as she could see. She was to return home. McAlpine would remarry, hopefully this time happily. She was as sure as she could be of anything that he wouldn’t have his work cut out finding another wife. Apart from the obvious wealth, he was such an arresting man with a presence and air of command that went far beyond his years. His powerful body, so athletic, gave off remarkable energy. In that way he fitted into the same mould as her father. Both of them magnetic men.

Even thinking it, she was overcome by an extraordinary indolence. She didn’t wonder at its source. He was standing right beside her. She wanted to crumple gracefully onto the sand, then lay back against its yielding warmth. Once there she would fix her eyes on him…lift a hand, beckon him, allurement in her eyes. She knew with every fibre of her being she could count on him to be everything a woman could want in a lover. She had given up hoping for that. In Scotland, increasingly thrown off balance by him, she had decided wrathfully he was anything but her type. How different it was here, on his own land.

Your physical attraction to him was always there.

Now came profound understanding.

Her inner voice crashed in with a warning.

Do you honestly think you’d be a match for him?

Probably not. But no other man had put her in a fever, or caused a tsunami of sensation. She was floundering in the giant swells.

“So what did you have to worry about?” McAlpine was asking. His expression suggested he recognised she was falling out of character. Or the cool, self-assured character she liked to present to the world.

Are you going to pull yourself together?

She chose not to listen. Instead she inhaled deeply, bending to pluck a wildflower. “I did entertain a few concerns we mightn’t get on. That and the prospect of loneliness, of course. The station is very isolated, vast and near empty of humans. I’ve been thinking of how the men and women on the First Fleet must have felt when they arrived in the Great South Land. A glorious blue harbour to confront them, but beyond that an enormous wilderness—an island continent unlike anything they had ever seen—only a handful of miles beyond their small settlement the impassable Blue Mountains. I call that daunting. I come from a small overcrowded island. Enormous open spaces such as you have here can be overwhelming. My life has been so very different.”

“Very structured,” he agreed. “But please don’t forget it was the men and women of the tiny British Isles that opened up this vast country and colonised it. My ancestors among them. That took real guts.” He removed the pretty little wildflower from her hand, then pushed it into her hair. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“In a way.” She wouldn’t have to work hard to turn him into the object of a hopeless passion.

Don’t show agitation. It means nothing. He doesn’t fancy you. This crazy rush of emotion is all on your side.

“What way?”

She didn’t know how to respond.

“Olivia?”

She shook back her hair, dislodging the flower. “Nothing serious. But I know I irritate you and you can’t deny it.”

His eyes gleamed pure gold. “All human beings irritate one another from time to time. I’m more impatient of the fact you underestimate yourself and your worth. The more I get to know you, the more I see beneath the ultra-cool pose, where may well lay chronic loneliness. You could throw in a dollop of insecurity.”

He was looking at her steadily, openly challenging her, but she could only feign a nonchalant shrug. “You must have defective reasoning powers if you think I’m lonely or insecure.” It seemed imperative to get back to her old form.

He appeared to acknowledge just that. “Olivia, I don’t want you to feel threatened by anything I say. I’m merely pointing out you spend a lot of time protecting your image. Be yourself. That’s my advice. Your real self, like you are today. Don’t shut life out. It has to be lived. We shouldn’t die pondering and mourning all the things we didn’t do for want of a certain courage. Reach out. Few amongst us haven’t been hurt, but we have no option but to live in hope.”

She could tell him she wasn’t managing to shut him out. He was getting to her at every level. Her hitherto impregnable defences were proving as flimsy as a set of cardboard boxes. “Shutting people out goes along with a fear of betrayal.”

“Tell me about it!” There was an edge to his voice. “So who are you talking about here, an ex-lover? Wasn’t there someone in tow at the wedding? I seem to remember a blond guy hovering in the background undecided whether to break up our little altercation or not.”

“That was Justin,” she said. “I’d become resigned to the fact I couldn’t seem to sustain relationships. Now it occurs to me I didn’t actually want to. I suppose that’s a step along the road to self-enlightenment, would you say?”

“Sure is. So you haven’t been in love?”

To her astonishment she answered truthfully. “Thought I was. But not for long.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

She believed in a storm of emotion. “Did you fall in love with your ex-wife on sight?” she countered. He probably had. Wonderful sparks right from the start. Something like she had experienced with him. Only they were sparks of sexual hostility.

“I’d known Marigole since we were kids. But as for the legendary coup defoudre, that hasn’t hit me. Tell me about Justin.” He stooped to pluck another purple wildflower. “Is he in or out?” He straightened, pushing the flower into her abundant golden hair, then standing back to admire the effect. “No, don’t touch it,” he said, as she put up a tentative hand.

“I was only going to tuck it in more firmly. I didn’t mean to throw away the last flower. It’s just that you have a way of rattling my cage.”

“And it’s dead easy. Why is that?”

The expression in his eyes appeared intense. “Because you’re Australian,” she said, offering an idiotic explanation. “Oh, God, let me rephrase that. You’re very frank. We British are inclined to be much more reserved.”

“You consider that a good thing?” He didn’t bother to point out his family’s British background. She would have known it anyway.

The fear of being mesmerised increased her desire to protect herself. “It’s always been my approach.”

“Could be one reason why you’ve led such a dull life. And you have had a dull life, haven’t you, Olivia, for all the material splendour? When we first came down here your responses were uncomplicated, spontaneous. Let’s stick to that.”

“You’re the boss!”

“And you can’t ignore it,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

She was grateful for the feather-light breeze that was cooling her flushed cheeks. It was a relief to turn away from his searching eyes. Eyes that seemed to divine she was an emotional mess. Each day it was becoming more apparent to her that the person she had striven so hard to create, the person she thought her father wanted, didn’t match up with her inner identity at all. McAlpine, almost a stranger, had plumbed that fact.

Why do you let him rouse you? Rouse you and rouse you. Not just your body. Your soul.

Maybe she was evolving far too fast.

The whole area was alive with bird song, punctuated by the odd startling cry. She continued on, to be nearer the water. The perimeter of each lake was festooned in glorious native water lilies. Very curiously with floating lilies of a different colour—one a gorgeous blue-violet, another the palest yellow with a gold-brown centre, the third so deep a pink they were almost lilac.

“Was the planting deliberate?” she turned back to ask in a conciliatory manner. If he suddenly disappeared she would be totally lost in this flowering wilderness. “Different coloured lilies in each lagoon?” She didn’t want to fall out with him. She wanted them to be friends.

Who are you fooling? Don’t you really mean, much more than friends?

He moved slowly towards her, looking amused. “Olivia, the blue lotus is found naturally all over our tropics. It’s common to Australia and North Africa. It was the sacred flower of ancient Egypt, as you probably know. Most of our pools and lagoons carry flowers of the one colour. After the rains on our stations in the Queensland Channel Country you have mile after mile of white everlastings that eventually run into mile after mile of yellow.”

“How lovely!” She was standing only a few feet from the edge of the emerald water. Shards of sunlight were hitting the transparent wings of dragonflies, iridescent blue and dark yellow as they darted from one stunning water lily to the other. “Are there fish in the lakes?”

“Nothing to make a meal of. In season the lakes are a haven for all manner of water birds, including the black swans. Be careful where you’re walking now.” The grass had turned coarse and grainy.

“I’m fine.” She was fairly suffocating with sexual awareness. In fact, he made her feel so hot she could break out in a rash. The tiniest miscalculation on her part and she could make an utter fool of herself. She feared that above everything. Staying in control had been an important component of her character. She knew she was incapable of handling a man like McAlpine.

Poor old Justin was more your speed.

How she would love to distance herself from that inner voice! It was even possible she had an over-reliance on it. Bella had no inner voice to prevent her from taking things to what she in her righteousness had often considered extremes. Maybe Bella had the better way of doing things?

There was a sudden loud, whirring sound. The beating of dozens of wings. She looked up to witness a great flock of brilliantly coloured parrots coming in to settle in the trees. She stood magnetised by the spectacle, throwing back her head to glory in the sight. The sun flashed off strong jewel colours—emerald, ruby, sapphire, topaz, garnet. Her head was flung so far back she felt a flicker of vertigo. To counteract it, she reached for a low-hanging branch, conveniently to hand. Only at the very moment she clutched it, it gave a sharp crack, then snapped off in her hand.

She let out a muffled cry, afraid she was going to skid down the bank into the water, crushing the carpet of native herbs as she went.

Only McAlpine was there to catch her.

Surreal! How had he done that?

A pouncing lion couldn’t have made it faster.

“Bravo!” There was a self-congratulatory note in his voice. They might have been a pair of trapeze artists and he had just saved her from a nasty nosedive.

One arm was locked around her waist in a steely embrace. She couldn’t stand straight. It was as if she had entered a state of total paralysis that compelled her to remain bent over his arm. Her two good legs offered no support whatever. Another huge difficulty was to get back her breath. Even the chatter of the birds had stilled in anticipation of her next move.

He turned her body, glowing now, in his arms. She couldn’t bear to look at him. The tight leash she habitually kept on herself had snapped. Were there no bones in her legs at all?

“Olivia?”

Was there a thread of mockery beneath the concern? She felt like whimpering. Wouldn’t that be shocking to whimper at the ripe old age of twenty-eight! There didn’t appear to be an iota of strength left in her body. God knows what a doctor would have to say about her condition. She only knew she was without enough breath to respond. Her hair had let her down as well. It was in total disarray, flowing everywhere, like it used to do when she was a child.

Surely this confirms you’re sexually repressed?

The danger was her real self fighting to get out.

Her mind might have been scrambled, but her body began to obey some fundamental need. It started to press into his. Male against female. Shocking, sensual pleasure. In one way she felt stunned; in another, the strange feeling was approaching euphoria. She imagined powerful circuits switching on in her brain…lighting up…dopamine pouring into her blood…He might have been kissing her all over.

Moments were stretching into infinity. Even McAlpine seemed to have lost direction. Her breasts rose and fell in agitation, nipples hard as berries. Human sexuality wasn’t all that different to the animal kingdom. Male and female were designed to mate. It wasn’t long intellectual discussions that brought it about. It was action. And action had been missing from her life.

He spoke first, his voice as smooth and golden as warm honey. “What can a man do when he finds a beautiful woman in his arms?”

Dredge up what’s left of your control, girl. Go on.

The voice was whispering as though it was all it could do to issue the husky warning.

She didn’t want to go on. God, his hands were grasping her hips. But she knew she had to make an attempt. “He could let her go,” she said into the fraught pause. She couldn’t think straight. Her stomach was doing somersaults in the way of a woman getting ready for a parachute jump.

“I will in a moment.” He was making best use of that mellifluous mesmerising voice. “It’s just that I have a hunch you badly need kissing. Not now and again, but constantly. I’m good with my hunches. Raise your head, Olivia. Be daring for once in your life.”

The challenge put her on her mettle. Overbearing, arrogant, incredibly sexy man. He needed putting in his place. “Don’t even think of kissing me,” she warned in her cut-glass voice.

He pulled back a fraction. “For a goddess to be scared of mortal man?”

“Scared? Good gracious, I’m not scared of you, McAlpine.” Scared of all the disturbances within her maybe.

“Scared of yourself, then?”

Spot on.

She threw up her head. “Look, I’m not getting into any situation when I’m forced to spend months with you.”

His expression was suave. “But my dear Ms Balfour, I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you. I’m probably more of a gentleman than your insipid Justin.”

“He’s not my Justin.”

“Glad to hear it. I thought he was a real wimp. You deserve a lot more. What we need to find out is what has gone wrong in the past. Why your love affairs haven’t worked.”

“You should talk!” she shot back, blue eyes flashing.

“I agree. But maybe that’s why I feel for you. First we need to know whether you can kiss. That’s a start. I have an idea you favour keeping your strawberry lips tightly shut.”

“Having fun, are we?” she asked loftily.

“I’m dead serious, Olivia. You’re twenty-eight. High time you were married. I know you want kids.”

“Surely that’s normal enough,” she returned with considerable heat. “I’m normal enough.”

“Let’s find out.” He moved her in closer.

God, girl! Time to act. Pour scorn on him. Freeze him out.

Hard to freeze anyone when you felt molten. “I’m thinking you’re a shameless man.”

“For wanting to kiss you?” His voice deepened.

“You want to kiss me?” She drew in a convulsive breath.

“You’re in my domain.” He slid his arms down her straight back to her waist.

“I’m well aware of that. But I came here on business, remember?” What her body desired was way too dangerous.

“Nonsense! Your dad shunted you out of the country. There’s a huge scandal on the front page of the world’s newspapers every other day of the week. You know that as well as I. It’s all part of the media cycle. Illegitimate children abound. Who worries about that any more? Children are a great blessing. Anyway, everyone gets their fifteen minutes of blame. I promise you, Olivia, this little experiment will be painless.”

She felt maddened by their proximity. “I don’t take kindly to experiments.”

“Trust me. I’m on your side. You fascinate me. You did from our first frosty encounter. Of recent times I’ve come to the conclusion you don’t actually know how to come down from your pedestal.”

“And you’re happy to hold the stepladder?” Her knees were sagging beneath her.

“Well, I’ve had far more experience than you. Why not pass a little of that expertise on. The big plus for me is you have such a beautiful, sensitive mouth.”

A sound like static was crackling in her ears. “Subtext—I don’t know how to use it to kiss? Is that what you’re saying?” She tried to disengage. Couldn’t. “My answer to your little experiment has to be no, McAlpine. I’m sure you don’t hear no often. This is one of your experiments that won’t work.”

“Only I’m thinking it will.” He was holding her as though he relished having her in his arms.

Would you just look at that challenging glint in his golden eyes! Are you going to stand for it?

More likely she was about to cast off her old moral code.

“You’re a seriously arrogant man.”

“I’m one of the good guys. I’ve suffered, Olivia. Just like you.”

All of a sudden her tender heart smote her. She was a woman who took no pleasure in people’s suffering. Even McAlpine. The acknowledgement that he had suffered sent her last defence crashing. Behind the all-conquering male front, he too could be in need of comfort.

Comfort wasn’t what she got. Or gave. Rather a raging excitement. Regrets could come later. She found herself breathing in the scent of him like a woman deprived of an essential powerful aphrodisiac. So extravagant was her reaction to it, she began to lose touch with the world around her. There was no drawing back, no flinching, no timidity—only wave after wave of pleasure. His mouth—such a firm generous mouth—came down on hers not hard or fast, but slowly…slowly…savouring the taste of her as though she was utterly delectable. It was astonishing to experience the wild burst of freedom. No need for him to prise her lips apart with the tip of his tongue. He had instant admittance. She who had earned a reputation for being cold had finally discovered the one man to turn up the heat.

The kisses altered in character…deepened, bringing forth her soft moans. “Your skin is like satin…as cool.” He turned his ministrations to her face, dragging his mouth across her cheekbones, her cheek, letting his lips trail down the column of her neck. A normal enough communication in lovemaking, only the way he did it was so erotic she had to bite her lips to prevent herself from crying out. The static in her ears was turning into a roar, like waves crashing up against a cliff.

“Clint?” Her voice quavered. He had to relent or she would be totally seduced.

He kissed her mouth again before answering. “You want me to stop? Or do you want me to really make love to you?”

She couldn’t mistake the powerful tension in him or his male arousal. He wasn’t nearly as much in command of himself as he might like to think. She reached to grasp his wrist. “What are we doing?” she asked frantically. This was no experiment. This was full-on sexual passion. “You’re not in love with me. You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

“Then how come we’re doing so astoundingly well?” He stared challengingly into her eyes. “I don’t play childish kissing games, Olivia. I do feel something for you. That’s pretty obvious. You feel something for me, so don’t bother to deny it. But you’re right. No seduction scene allowed. Just a sizzle. And I thought I was off women, would you believe?”

“Men of strong passions don’t go off women,” she said bluntly, thinking of her father.

Thump…thump…thump. Her heart was drumming so hard she had to hold a hand to it. He had aroused her to such a pitch. And so easily. God knows what would happen if they ever got into bed.

He released her, holding up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Well, you’ve certainly mastered the kiss and in only one lesson. What say we try again before we go to be sure? I’m fully aware you’re here on business, only this time give me all you’ve got.”

Her temper shot up in plumes of flame.

Give it all you’ve got!

She was so furious, she did.

The second time it was like plunging into a volcano with a billion lava-red stars to light up the darkness. She felt weightless. Except for her breasts that by comparison felt heavy. There was also an intense quivering between her legs, little knifelike plunges. She tried to clench her muscles to make it stop. It only made it worse. The action was painfully and massively erotic. And he was only kissing her. What if he started working her out of her clothes? What if he started kissing the most erogenous zones of her body? She didn’t know if she could stand the liberation. On the other hand, she was responding like a woman breaking out of a suffocating cocoon.

You were dying for this!

I know.

Only you could be giving your heart away. Remember, Houseman? Give crowns and pounds and guineas but not your heart away.

The abruptness with which he released her was startling. Mercifully he kept a hold on her shoulder because she was swaying like a willow in a high wind.

He gave her a taut half-smile. “That will do for today. Though to my mind, your education is complete.”

“Well, you’d know, McAlpine.” Her legs were wobbly, her breath unsteady.

“You can’t manage Clint?”

“McAlpine helps keep me on my guard.”

“You’ll have to call me Clint when my guests arrive.” He studied her with interest. Her blue eyes were ablaze, the cool classical features softened into an alluring womanliness. “Better go back to the jeep?” he said.

Before all control was lost.

She followed his cue, her manner, ludicrously under the circumstances, formal. “Thank you for showing me this wondrous place.”

“I trust you to come down here by yourself. I’ve accepted your word you’re an experienced rider.” She would be with her upbringing.

“Nothing to stop you from checking me out.”

He gave her his hand as the going got rough. “We’ll make it late this afternoon. I can fix you up with the right mount and saddle. I’d like you to wear a hard hat when you’re out. At least until you get to know the terrain. It would take us days to drive around the station. We’ve stayed close in, where I want you to remain.”

“Your wish is my command.” He could easily have let her hand go, yet he continued to hold it, smothering her in feeling. “Do you suppose your daughter will like me?”

“You want her to?”

“Of course.” She removed her tingling hand as they reached the top of the slope. “I don’t suppose your exwife will. Mightn’t it be a good idea if I called you Mr McAlpine while she’s around?”

“We don’t go in for such formality around here, Olivia. Clint is fine. My ex-wife has a new man in her life. With any luck at all she’ll marry him.”

“What is love?” she asked.

His expression turned bleak. “Whatever it is, Olivia, it’s in pretty short supply.”

Saturday morning Olivia was up at first light. She was nervous, although she’d had a great team to support her during the week—no lukewarm responses such as she’d been guilty of herself in the past, but enthusiastic approval. It occurred to her she had lived her life encased in her own private space. That wasn’t happening here. The team wanted in. Her “posh” accent brought forth many a chuckle from the house girls, as though she was doing a lot of it for fun.

Bessie came and went as she pleased. She was treated with great respect as befitting a tribal princess. This week she had returned from a painting trip into the desert, presenting Olivia with her first piece of what was a unique blend of aboriginal and western art. The canvas depicted a field of wildflowers, their faces with wonderful definition. Great storm clouds were massed in the background; in the foreground an aboriginal rain maker, naked except for a few strategic feathers, going about his ancient ritual, holding aloft a long stick which Bessie told her was a yamstick, always associated with magical powers.

“This is magic, Bessie.” Olivia felt moved to tears by such a splendid gift.

“Them fellas do the magic. I’ve seen ‘em make rain. The downpours make the desert bloom. All those wildflowers I paint are botanically correct.”

“I’m sure they are. Thank you so much, Bessie. I love it. I’ll take it home with me when I go. Value it always.”

“That’s if we let yah escape!” Bessie gave a big smile, showing her beautiful teeth. “Your heart has opened up, Livvy. You might not get to leave us at all.”

Again Olivia thought she was privy to a prophecy.

So many times in the past she had been challenged to show off her skills as her father’s hostess. Heaven knows she had done the rounds of all the major social events—the Balfours were invited everywhere—as well as formal and informal dinner parties. She had always felt confident of orchestrating a dinner party for anything up to forty people. She had made it her business to foresee everything her father might want and he was a very exacting man. Which people were fun, interesting, socially connected, influential, including those that were at the top of the political game.

Kath had been a tower of strength, making her famous bitter-chocolate mousse tart which Olivia had pronounced superb at their trial run. There was a time-honoured Moroccan orange tart—almost as delicious—for those who professed to have had their fill of chocolate. Honestly, could that happen? For starters she planned oysters in champagne with caramelised spring onions. For those who didn’t like oysters, there were artichoke hearts with foie gras.

Because she had spent so much time in Morocco and McAlpine knew it well, she and Kath had perfected a tagine of chicken with preserved lemon. It was to be served with piping-hot rice and garnished with tiny sprigs of watercress. She’d had lots of fun choosing the wines from an extensive cellar, of imported and domestic product. Nothing but the best!

Kath had thoroughly enjoyed being put on her mettle. The four house girls, with Bessie making up a highly vocal and sharp observer, were fascinated by the whole procedure. The house was full of the most beautiful flowers. The orchids that had been flown in from Thailand had cost an arm and a leg.

“You’ve got carte blanche!” McAlpine had assured her before he left.

“You sure know how to do things, Livvy,” Bessie gazed with pleasure around the formal dining room. “I never seen a dinner table look so beautiful. Clint’s mum and his aunty Buffy are known for their gracious tables. Just between you me and the gatepost, they’ve met their match.”

Olivia had to blush. The team were so full of unstinting praise. It would be terrible to come a cropper. Especially with the ex-Mrs McAlpine around. “I’m good at some things, Bessie,” she confided, perfecting the placement of a table setting. “Not terribly good at others.”

“Get away with yah!” said Bessie. “All you’ll ever need to be is yahself.” She rubbed her palms together as though the friction was the first move in creating a spell. “So what are you gunna wear?” she asked with interest, surveying Olivia’s ultra-slim figure. Olivia was wearing one of her silk shirts with linen trousers, her hair pulled tight off her face into a Grecian knot.

“Lord knows! I may need some advice.” Bessie had proved herself as a wonderfully artistic person. She had a great eye for colour.

“Just don’t go scraping yah hair back,” Bessie advised “Not that it ain’t nice. But for evenin’! I just love your hair. When it’s out you look like a princess in a fairy tale.”

“Except I don’t really go in for glamour, Bessie.”

“That’s because you’re always hidin’,” said Bessie. “Yah can’t stifle the person yah really are, Livvy. Not forever. I bin dreaming about yah!” Bessie’s liquid gaze was deep and mysterious. “I wanna see those dreams come true.”

Chapter Six

TRUE to his word, McAlpine was back at the homestead by 10:30 a.m. He strode along the portico feeling like a man with a renewed zest for life, entering the house in time to see the strange yet intensely familiar Ms Olivia Balfour tweaking an extravagant arrangement of flowers that wouldn’t have been out of place in the lobby of the Bangkok Oriental. True to her patrician style, she had commandeered the magnificent Chinese fish bowl that stood on its rosewood stand and filled it with every flower under the sun. He recognised masses of Oriental lilies, orchids of many varieties—flights of phalaenopsis like quivering butterflies, sprays of purple dendrobiums—Queensland’s state flower, roses, grasses, ferns, branches, lotus pods, you name it. No one had ever used the very valuable eighteenth-century fish bowl before for flower arrangements. Not even his mother. He had to say the effect was little short of sumptuous which wouldn’t have been a difficult task for a Balfour of Balfour Manor.

“How much did that little lot set me back?” He had to fight off the strong compulsion to catch her up and kiss her. Why not, considering their mind-blowing physical reaction to each other at Lubra Lakes. What had prompted him to kiss her? He had known perfectly well he was playing with fire and it didn’t exactly tally with his claim he was off women. Still he had steamed ahead. Even more of a folly was that she had never been out of his mind for the past few days. In fact, Ms Olivia Balfour had turned his ordered world upside down. It stunned him.

And yet! He had never felt so alive.

Olivia, for her part, turned her head slowly, pretending calm, when she ached with excitement. Even the sound of his voice caused her heart to go into overdrive and every cell in her body to vibrate. “I hoped you’d like it,” she said coolly, falling back on her long training. “Would you like to give the dining room and the reception rooms the once-over? My father always does.”

“By all means!” he answered crisply as he joined her. Why the hell didn’t he entwine her in his arms? She had to be nervous because she began to check her immaculate hairdo. “Let’s emulate Oscar. He recognised your value way back as a chatelaine. I’m sure he never meant to, but he treated you more like a wife than a daughter. Look after the children, run the manor and the various houses around the world, organise all the dinner parties, open the garden parties and the fetes, look after the charities, action groups, whatever!”

He had the shocking ability to hit on raw truths. Hadn’t the very same thing crossed her mind more than once, before being swiftly banished as disloyalty?

“All my life I’ve worked to be the person my father wanted me to be,” she confessed. “He always spoke of a father’s unconditional love but we all knew certain conditions went along with that love.”

He smiled wryly. “So now you’re coming around to thinking you’ve spent your life stifling the person you really are?”

“But that’s what you want me to think, isn’t it?”

“Don’t let’s waste time, Olivia. I do.”

“Well, at Balfour Manor, chatelaine is a very prestigious position.”

“There are better ways to go,” he pointed out sardonically.

“Did your business affairs go well?” She broke the lengthening silence. Why did he make her feel so foolish?

“They did, Ms Balfour. Thank you for asking.”

He gave her that mocking smile. Such an illumination of his handsome features that could sometimes look stern. She sucked in her breath, fluttery feelings in her chest and stomach. All the time he’d been away she had caught herself up, fantasising about having sex with this man. No one could have been more surprised than herself. She’d had the odd daydream in the past. Nothing like what was happening to her now.

Pitiful, Olivia. A huge mistake.

It wasn’t smart to ignore the voice in one’s head. Generally speaking it only gave good advice. The big trouble was, her body spoke a different language. McAlpine would be an adventurous, blindingly passionate lover. Very erotic. Her scant handful of lovers had never ventured past the time-honoured—maybe outdated?—missionary position. Every instinct screamed that McAlpine would run the gamut of positions that were mutually, ravishingly arousing.

She had to shake herself out of yet another reverie.

“All most ethical,” he was saying with satisfaction. “I’m stretching my horizons, Olivia. I want you to do that too. Get into new things. As far as business goes, even in the huge global downturn, there are strategies to keep afloat.”

“Well, my father seems to think you’re someone extraordinary,” she said, allowing the note of hauteur to creep back into her voice again. The last thing she could afford was to have him know he was occupying just about all her thoughts. It wouldn’t win her any points with his ex-wife and his daughter either to appear smitten.

“Can’t leave you alone for long, can I?” His gleaming eyes were brim full of mockery.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Simple, Olivia. You’re back to the divine aloofness. And you do it superbly. So tell me, what are you wearing this evening? Your best black?”

Best black! If there was one thing she hated it was a man who could read her mind. Suddenly her best black lost its appeal. “Perhaps I’ll surprise you,” she said tartly.

“That’s great! I so look forward to seeing different aspects of your personality emerge.”

“I have you under observation as well.” She turned away to adjust a dried lily pod that looked perfectly fine the way it was. “What right do you have to be so patronising about my wardrobe?”

“Not patronising, Olivia. I want to help you. I thought we’d agreed you would look upon me as your mentor.”

“I don’t know that I agreed to that!”

“Oh, you agreed all right,” he said very drily. “So don’t let me down.”

“Perish the thought! Shall we continue on our rounds?” she asked briskly.

He gave her a droll look. “By all means, Matron.” He gestured with his hand for her to lead on.

She called on her old claim to fame. Coolness under pressure. Blonde head held high she began to stalk away from him. “Thank God I’m only here for a few months.”

“Just bear in mind others have had an epiphany in less time,” he called, admiring the swish of hips and long slender legs. Ms Olivia Balfour would be a match for any man.

McAlpine’s guests, obviously not short of a shilling, began arriving by light aircraft not all that long later. Neil and Celine Jameson, a pleasant young couple; Peter and Barbara Corbett, who greeted her in a warm friendly manner; Brendan Fraser, McAlpine’s close friend, with a knockout young redhead many years his junior, Chloe, on his arm. Olivia recalled Kath’s description of him as the “perennial bachelor.” She also recalled he was the one who had called the ex-Mrs McAlpine a she-devil. What a ghastly description! Did Marigole really deserve it? She had the weekend to find out.

Brendan was tall, rugged, with a zesty way about him that made people laugh and relax. Olivia didn’t overlook the high intelligence and the piercing shrewdness in the humorous dark eyes. She didn’t have the slightest doubt Brendan had started summing her up from the moment they had been introduced. Obviously he was very protective of his lifelong pal. Not that McAlpine needed any protection. But men stuck together. That was the way of it.

The last to arrive, predictably, as Kath had warned her in advance, were Marigole, her daughter, Georgina, and Marigole’s new man in her life, Lucas Harcourt.

Everyone and everything had fallen so neatly into place, small wonder Olivia thought something just had to go wrong. It wasn’t such a great surprise, then, when it did.

Marigole McAlpine was just about as unfriendly as one woman could get with another. After a tip-to-toe rake of Olivia’s elegant figure, she assumed the expression of a woman intent on a cold war. No question, the ex-Mrs McAlpine still had an extremely proprietary attitude towards the man she had divorced.

Oh, right! She is a she-devil.

“How do you do, Ms Balfour.” Marigole, who appeared to have a great sense of fashion, fixed Olivia with an icy stare. Not all that easy with enormous dark eyes. They dominated a milky white face of small perfect features that somehow added up to hard. She might have suspected Olivia guilty of sleeping with her betrothed instead of her ex-husband.

And you’re not sleeping with him.

More’s the pity.

“Clint said nothing about your being here.” A rebuke was implicit in her tone.

“Didn’t know I had to.” McAlpine entered the conversation, one arm wrapped around his daughter’s shoulder. He was hugging her close and she was looking up at him adoringly. Olivia had an instant picture of herself with her father at Georgina’s age. The expression was pretty much the same. “Olivia is the daughter of one of my most valued business partners,” McAlpine was saying.

“Not Oscar Balfour?” Lucas Harcourt’s thick eyebrows shot up and the bonhomie he radiated escalated an extra notch. An urbane man in his early fifties, slightly rotund, he had a lined, clever face and a full head of silver-grey hair he was lucky to hold on to considering the paucity of other physical assets.

“My father.” Olivia smiled. Lucas, although he had given her a close but discreet inspection, was very much the gentleman, with a good firm handshake—just the right measure of formality—she liked. She didn’t mind Lucas at all. Marigole at close quarters was the sort of woman she normally avoided like the plague. Yet such women men seemed to find irresistible. She had seen it time and again. Loved him. Hated her. It did happen.

“Good Lord,” said Lucas, his lined, scored face lighting up. “Now there’s a man I’d like to meet.”

“I’m sure when you’re in London it can be arranged.” Olivia gave Georgina, who had said nothing beyond a muttered “hello,” an inclusive smile. She was a beautiful child. The image of her mother. Huge dark eyes, straight dark hair tumbling like a satin bolt down her back. One could only hope she hadn’t inherited her mother’s less than sweet nature. Considering her wealthy background Georgina looked painfully awkward, a mixture of shyness, insecurity and possibly a lot of seething inner rebellion.

“Kath has lunch scheduled for one-thirty,” Olivia told them, not overly bothered by Marigole McAlpine. She had met a lot worse. The Honorable Alice Beaufort for starters, and her marginally less offensive sister, Camilla. “So if you’d like me to show you to your rooms?” Olivia threw out a graceful hand.

“Don’t bother,” Marigole retorted rudely. She turned to her ex-husband, waving one arm about as though she was fighting to find just the right words. “You didn’t say Ms Balfour is here as your assistant.”

“Lots of things I haven’t mentioned, Marigole.” McAlpine’s answer was sardonic. “Do lighten up. Olivia is here on a study tour. She very kindly offered to act as hostess for the weekend and the various functions I have coming up. Buffy is out of action, I’m sorry to say.”

Marigole’s glossy bob swung back to Olivia, with a look that clearly said, And I hope you screw up big time!

“Extraordinary man, your father,” Lucas was remarking, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and returning to his theme. “Balfour! Now that’s a name synonymous with style and glamour.” He gave Olivia’s tall elegant figure a look of positive admiration.

“I’m assuming we’re in the same suite, Clint?” Marigole cut in, her expression reflecting a bottomless well of black thoughts.

“But of course!” McAlpine exclaimed, giving his daughter another hug. “You didn’t think I was going to move you into a hotel?”

Georgina was betrayed into a fit of giggles, quickly smothered as her mother turned a wrathful eye on her. Indeed she all but cowered against her father. Olivia felt an instinctive flare of protectiveness. So Georgina wasn’t the apple of her mother’s eye, then! How very sad! Thinking that, she held out a hand to the child, much as she had done all her life with her younger sisters. “So, Georgina!”

It was done so naturally, McAlpine thought with a rush of gratitude. Indeed beautifully. She hadn’t a thought in her head that her gesture would be refused.

“It’s down to you and me,” she was saying, smiling down at his daughter. “I thought you might like the Persian room? At least, I’m calling it the Persian room.”

“You mean the one with the dome and the doors?” Georgina looked mightily surprised.

“The very one,” Olivia confirmed. Surely Georgina hadn’t been expecting to be relegated to the old nursery. Always supposing there was one.

“Oh, goody!” Georgina surprised everyone, including herself, by holding tight to Olivia’s hand “You know what it means.” She fastened her eyes on Olivia’s serenely beautiful face. “It means I’m really grown up.”

“Of course you are.” Olivia gave the small hand in hers a reassuring squeeze.

Bessie came to her door with a beautiful, brilliantly coloured parrot sitting happily on her shoulder.

“Oh, there you are! Come in.” Olivia was setting out a choice of evening dresses on the bed.

“Don’t worry. He ain’t stayin’.” Bessie went to the open doors that led onto the garden, sending her feathered friend on his way. Bessie had no task for the evening. As a tribal princess she wasn’t expected to wait at table. Bessie’s job was to offer guidance in any number of capacities.

“So take a look,” Olivia invited, more at home in Bessie’s company with every passing day.

“Let’s see now!” Bessie carefully examined all three dresses, staying quiet as she did it. Olivia had chosen her “best black” despite McAlpine’s scoffing, a pair of silk-satin evening trousers—trousers suited her—in a deep amethyst that had a matching bloused top and, lastly, a sapphire-blue two-piece outfit that she thought was maybe a little overkill for tonight. After all, she was a girl who had spent her life trying to deflect attention from herself.

The third outfit consisted of a long skirt, and a camisole top that hung from shoestring straps. There was a wide sash to match. It looked very nice on her but the cami was a bit on the bare side. She really should have had the straps shortened so the vee didn’t dip into her cleavage. Not that there was that much of it. But enough. How many times had Bella told her she was jeopardising all her chances? What, by giving peeks of her breasts to potential admirers? Bella was the Lorelei. Not a role that suited Olivia.

“Why don’t we have a little fun?” Bessie suggested. She began to sing something that sounded like an advertising jingle and, in fact, was. “This goes with this and that goes with this…” As she sang, she began switching the two-piece outfits around on the bed. “You wanna look your best?” She shot a questioning glance at Olivia.

“I don’t want to put Mrs McAlpine’s pretty nose out of joint,” Olivia said wryly. “I’m the hired help.”

“What did yah think of her?” Bessie snorted like a brumby.

“Yes, well…”

“She don’t bring the best outta people,” Bessie said sagely. “Now, Livvy, there are two ways to go. My way. And your way. I can’t ever get to wear things like this in me whole life, but I know. I know colour. I say the amethyst evenin’ pants paired with the Ulysses-butterfly-blue top. Show off yah beautiful eyes. Yah got such a narrow waist…make a big bow with the sash.”

Olivia stood quietly considering. “Right-o, Bessie,” she said finally, tapping Bessie lightly on the shoulder. “I’m happy to go your way. I trust you.”

“Trust very important in life,” said Bessie. “By the way, got something for yah.” She dipped a hand into the voluminous pocket of her hand-painted skirt. “To you it’s a charm. To me it’s magic handed down from the Ancients. It’ll protect yah, my lovely Pommy friend.”

“From what, Bessie?” Olivia felt a tiny shiver of alarm. “Do you think I need protecting?”

“Jus’ to be on the safe side,” Bessie answered mildly, handing Olivia a highly polished oval stone, some two inches in length and almost as wide. It was flashing exquisite iridescent colours that included blue, blue-green, violet-blue and amethyst. Someone had set the piece in a silver bezel with a silver chain fixed to the back, so it could be worn as a necklace.

“But, Bessie, this is beautiful!” Olivia began to examine the crystal in detail. Obviously it had a spiritual quality for Bessie. She thought she felt some of it herself as she stroked the crystal with her forefinger.

“Come on. Show me. Put it on.” Bessie combined gentleness with what Olivia now recognised as inherent authority.

“Heavens, Bessie, you sound really worried.”

“Don’t want no one messing yah up,” said Bessie, standing back to scrutinise the effect. “That’s exactly right. Knew it would. Help yah go towards the light. Think of it as a spiritual guide. Touch it often.”

“But surely you want it back, Bessie.” Olivia was near moved to tears by Bessie’s caring and concern. “It must mean a lot to you.”

“I give it to you. Our paths cross for a reason, Livvy. Never doubt it.”

Olivia was beginning to think Bessie was right. She felt a mad urge to ask Bessie to arrange a magic spell so McAlpine would fall in love with her. She didn’t have the slightest doubt Bessie could.

Bessie wasn’t her only visitor. Georgina came to her room just as Olivia was planning on checking on the child to see if she was happy and had everything she needed. It had been a considerable coup choosing the Persian room, something she would have adored herself at Georgina’s age, for Georgina had shown great excitement at being allowed to occupy the room she saw “fit for an Arabian princess.” It had a remarkable domed ceiling, a mosaic of brilliant colours, wooden shutter doors carved with the Islamic-star grid, a very beautiful antique Persian rug, a huge four-poster bed and soft furnishings in a kaleidoscope of colours.

Of course, Olivia had checked with McAlpine when he was working in his study, which would have found favour with his father. It was so much the gentleman’s club in style and furnishings, it really demanded a dress code. He had lifted his dark auburn head as she entered, albeit with that big-cat gleam in his eyes. She’d had another daydream about him lately…pouncing…licking her all over…

“Now this is a pleasant surprise!” He closed a thick file and set it aside. “What can I do for you, Olivia? Race it by me. Not a lot of time.” He beckoned her to lose herself in one of the man-size leather armchairs.

“I propose putting Georgina into a different room,” she told him as though not expecting to encounter opposition. Neatly she crossed her slender legs at the ankle.

“Her usual bedroom not good enough?”

“It’s very nice,” she conceded graciously. “But at twelve years of age she would have outgrown it.”

He sat back, locking his two hands behind his head. “Marigole herself did the designing.”

“I guessed that. Your ex-wife is a woman of considerable style. Bu she would have designed it with her little girl in mind. Time passes. Georgina is now a young lady.”

“So what exactly have you got in mind?”

“I thought the Persian room. At least, that’s what I call it.”

Amusement bracketed his mouth. “That was my mother’s plan.”

“Really?” Her face turned incandescent. “I’d so like to meet your mother.”

“And it may well come to that, Ms Balfour. The Persian room, you say!” He took a moment considering. “Who am I to go against you? The room is strewn with valuable antiques. I’m sure you noticed, just as I’m sure you were used to a whole lot grander as a child.”

“You’re concerned your daughter might damage them?” She lifted delicately arched brows several shades darker than her hair.

“Well, she has been tossing a few things around of late, but everything can be replaced. My daughter can’t. As long as she’s happy there, that’s all that matters. I would have thought, myself, it was a bit overwhelming for a youngster.”

“Trust me. As you say, I’ve slept amid grandeur.” Olivia spoke entirely without pretension. That was the way her life was. “I’m sure your daughter is a highly intelligent, thinking child. If for some reason she doesn’t want to be there, I can make alternative arrangements. Her usual room needs to be done over from scratch. Georgina is ready to move on.”

McAlpine threw up his hands in feigned dismay. “If only you hadn’t mentioned moving on, Ms Balfour,” he cried. “I must tell you, I dread to lose you.”

If only that were true!

“Everything OK, Georgy?” Georgina, far from being difficult as Olivia had feared, was acting like a well-brought-up young girl, requesting Olivia call her by her nickname. “I was just coming along to see if you were happy.”

“Oh, I am! I love the room you’ve given me. I love what you’ve done with the flowers.” Georgina was dressed in a pretty white nightgown with a matching robe, her long hair brushed to a high sheen. “You’re really nice, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely!” Olivia smiled at her. “I have seven sisters, you know. All younger than me. That means I got the role of big sister.”

“I bet you’re a lovely sister. Very kind.”

“I try to be, Georgy. Do please sit down. What do you think of my outfit?” The child had begun studying Olivia like a dresser trained to give a very difficult mistress just the comment required. “Bessie helped me with it.”

“Bessie?” Georgy’s silky eyebrows shot up. “Was she here?”

“About an hour ago. I have great faith in Bessie’s sense of colour.”

“You’re honoured,” Georgy said sincerely. “Did Bessie give you that sparkling necklace? It’s some sort of crystal, isn’t it? It’s sending out coloured rays. Most probably, it’s magic. It looks amazing! Better than diamonds. Anyone can have diamonds. Bessie is a princess in her own tribe. Her real name is Eerina.”

“But that’s lovely.” Olivia looked up. “It suits her much better than Bessie.”

“I know. One of the elders in her family was a kurdaitcha man. Do you know what that means?”

“Sorcerer?” Olivia took an educated guess.

Georgy nodded, impressed. “They’re invisible to their enemies. They wear special slippers made out of emu feathers. The kurdaitcha man is very powerful. He’s like James Bond. He’s licensed to kill.”

“Good grief!” Olivia mimed a freak-out.

“A sorcerer can sing a man to death,” Georgy continued, thrilled with her captive audience. “He can send his spirit form anywhere in a whirlwind. They know all about magic. So does Bessie, but she won’t let on.”

“Good thing we’re her friends,” Olivia commented, enjoying the sound of Georgy’s silvery peal of laughter. “So what’s your verdict on my outfit? It was Bessie’s idea to mix and match.”

The brightness drained out of Georgy’s face. “Mummy is going to be very jealous,” she warned. “Are you Daddy’s girlfriend?”

She should be so lucky! “Lord, no! It’s just as your father said. I’m here on a study tour.”

“But everything about you says you’re rich!”

“My father is rich, Georgy.” Olivia didn’t mention her healthy trust fund. “I haven’t had a real job up to date. Listen, can you keep a secret?” Suddenly she wanted to be truthful with the child.

“A secret?” Georgy’s huge eyes turned to saucers.

“Trust is important. I trust you, Georgy.” Trust made vulnerable people feel stronger she had found.

Georgy looked greatly heartened. “Are you going to be Daddy’s girlfriend?” She sounded as if she didn’t mind.

She hoped Georgy wouldn’t notice her flush. “No, nothing like that. I did something that greatly upset my father. So I’m rather on the outer. My father wanted me out of the country for a while. Lying low, I suppose you’d call it.”

“I can’t believe you would make such a mistake. You look like you’ve never made a mistake in your whole life.”

“That’s only at first glance. I’m not nearly as sure of myself as I might appear. I’m two people really.”

“Oh, yes, I know!” Georgy began to rock herself back and forth. “So am I. There’s the person you want to be and the person you’re supposed to be.”

“Exactly. I knew you’d understand perfectly. So now you know my secret. I’m here to pull up my socks and do better. That was the challenge my father handed down.”

“He doesn’t sound like a pleasant man, your father?” Georgy advanced an opinion.

“He’s a very important man. A man of consequence. The head of a dynasty. It makes for being prideful, controlling. Much is expected of him. He expects much of us. Me, in particular, because I’m the eldest.”

“So what did you do?” Georgy cast around in her mind for a social disaster. “Did you fall down drunk at a nightclub?”

“Never got round to that one, Georgy. I’m a staid person, really. But I have a twin, Bella. We love each other dearly. We rarely have words. But one night at a big gala ball we got into a fight. Wrong time, wrong place. Sadly we were overheard by a journalist who managed to get it on to the front page of his newspaper. My father is a proud man from an old illustrious family. He doesn’t take kindly to being publicly humiliated.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Georgy was clearly on Olivia’s side. “You and Bella had a fight. Was it a catfight? Can’t imagine it with you. Were you pulling each other’s hair out, swearing, saying four-letter words?”

“Dear heaven, no!” Olivia shuddered. “But it was a family matter that should never have seen the light of day.”

“Rather like Daddy and Mummy’s divorce,” Georgy said sadly. “There was a lot about it in the newspapers. I hated it. All the kids knew. Mummy actually told a newsreader she was going to take Daddy for all he was worth. Isn’t that disgusting? One kid said he had too much anyway. Mummy said things about him I knew weren’t true. I love Daddy best in the whole world. My mother doesn’t need me or want me. She doesn’t like the way I’m twelve, nearly thirteen, and she’s thirty-eight. She hates getting older. I must remind her of what she used to look like. You’d think Mummy’s sort of woman would want a daughter. The girly-girly thing. But she doesn’t want me. She said if she had given Daddy a son the marriage would never have broken up.”

Dear heaven, fancy laying that on a child! Olivia was appalled. “Do you believe that, Georgy?” She gave thanks her father had never bemoaned the fact he didn’t have a son. Being her father he might yet get around to fathering one. Her father wasn’t cured of beautiful women by a long shot.

Georgy turned sad eyes on Olivia. “I don’t know what to believe. Why should she say such a thing?”

One possible answer was she was terribly callous. “But you asked your father?”

“Daddy always says the same thing. He adores me. He wouldn’t change me for anyone else in the world.”

Good for him!

“Well, then!” Olivia spoke bracingly. “You must believe exactly that.”

“But I still know I’m part of the problem,” Georgy mourned. “I’ve always loved Daddy best ever since I can remember. I don’t think my mother cares, Olivia.” She looked earnestly into Olivia’s concerned face. “She doesn’t. Daddy can have full custody. That’s why I’m here. She likes to pretend she’s not abandoning me, but she is. She knows Daddy will always love and care for me. That lets her off the hook. A lot of kids at school live with divorce. Usually it’s the dad that takes off with someone. That happened to two of my friends. I know my dad would never abandon me. But he’s an important man like your father. He doesn’t have a lot of time.”

But he is making time for his daughter.

That scored him a lot of points.

She met up with McAlpine as she was making her way along the vaulted corridor. It was hung with an astounding collection of paintings of the Red Centre. Once she would have thought the colours glorified, but now she knew better. She had actually seen these dry pottery colours—the pinks, the yellows, the rust red of the earth, the grape blue and the amethyst of the distant escarpments, the cobalt blue of the sky.

“Well, well!” He came to a dead stop as he accepted an undeniable truth. He wanted this woman. Yet he continued to play the suave bantering game. “May I say how absolutely stunning you look, Ms Balfour. Not that I didn’t know you could dazzle. The outfit is a master stroke.” His golden eyes assessed her from head to toe.

Much as a great couturier would inspect his favourite muse, Olivia thought. At least he really liked what he saw. She registered that from the flash in his eyes. It gave her enormous confidence. She wasn’t in any way nervous of this evening or his guests. Apart from the sometime she-devil, Marigole, who mightn’t be able to resist getting in a dig or two.

“And the goddess hair!” He headed towards her. “I believe there are dangers inherent in falling in love with a goddess.”

“Mockery, McAlpine?” She turned assessing blue eyes on him. He was wearing evening dress. He looked magnificent. Black tailored trousers, black collarless shirt, a midnight-blue tailored jacket over the top. It was a very sophisticated look and quite a change from black tie.

“Indeed, no. How modest you are. You have marvellous hair.”

“And it’s all mine.” She couldn’t help laughing. “No need of extensions, though you probably don’t know much about that.” Her voice was surprisingly steady when she felt sexual excitement working its way down from her throat through her centre to her legs. Bella had described him as “one sexy devil!” Bella was never wrong.

“I’m not that far behind the times,” he said, thrilling her by taking her arm as if they were paired for the night. “For a while I puzzled over how a lady friend of mine grew an impressive mane overnight.”

“So you’re telling me you have lady friends?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Olivia.” He glanced down at her, inhaling her subtle exquisite perfume. “You make it sound like a crime. I could have a whole harem if I wanted it.”

“No doubt!” She broke off, aware her heart was banging away like a set of drums. His golden eyes were fixed on her cleavage which didn’t seem terribly like him. There was nothing vaguely lecherous about McAlpine for all his sexual magnetism. “What are you looking at?” she asked unsteadily.

“The necklace,” he told her with the tiniest frown. “Bessie gave it to you?”

She clutched the glittering, glowing stone. “Bessie, yes. That’s a relief. I thought you were staring at my cleavage.”

“That too,” he purred, narrowing his golden eyes.

Heat enveloped her. “Bessie actually chose what I’ve got on, the top of one outfit and the evening trousers of another.”

“And she got it exactly right. Bessie has a great eye for colour.”

“Georgy insisted I leave my hair loose. I’ve been outnumbered on that score since I arrived. I’m honoured Bessie gave me this necklace. She said it’s a talisman.”

“To protect you from all harm.” He was well aware of the significance of the iridescent stone. “I’m glad you feel honoured, Olivia, You are. Bessie, Princess Eerina, outranks you.”

She surprised him by showing him a lovely, spontaneous smile. Her blue eyes danced. Her beautiful mouth curved. He was aware of the barriers she had built up through the years and fought hard to keep in place. Time they fell. Entirely.

“I had that feeling about Bessie from the moment I met her. It’s beautiful, the stone, isn’t it? So unusual.”

It looked magical, sitting perfectly between her creamy breasts, inviting a man’s worshipping hands. His, if he was going to admit to it. She was showing more of those high creamy breasts than usual. Not a lot. Just enough. Nevertheless his mouth went dry. Her appearance was wreaking havoc with his senses. He, McAlpine, who could have any number of willing women, had to get a grip. “It throws out a different light with your every movement.” He gave a nod of approval when he wanted desperately to be alone with her and hang all his guests. He couldn’t even prevent a sigh. “I suppose we shouldn’t linger. Our guests will be waiting.”

“Your guests,” she pointed out, trying to control a flush.

“You are the hostess.”

“Well, I hope I make you proud,” she murmured huskily, aware beneath the smooth layers of banter he was finding her as desirable as she found him.

Chapter Seven

PREDINNER drinks, then on to dinner.

Olivia willed herself to calm as Marigole broke away from the group to hurry towards her as though Olivia was her latest best friend. She had taken a minute to check on the kitchen. All in order, just as she knew it would be. Kath and the girls had given her the thumbs up.

“You’re a star!” Kath, the spokeswoman, had delivered the unanimous verdict.

But it was the golden flare in McAlpine’s eyes that had put her on cloud nine. She’d even caught a flicker of surprise in the knockout Chloe’s eyes. Didn’t think she had it in her? Well, she hadn’t until Bessie had stepped in as fashion guru.

In the end it was Marigole who wore the little black dress, a saucy number if ever there was one—very short to show off her dancer’s legs, the neckline curving in low. Killer black evening sandals with strapping adorned her small feet; radiant silver lustred pearls dropped in a shepherd’s hook hung from her ears. Olivia was impressed. Marigole was a very glamorous woman and she could obviously afford the best.

And, surprises for everyone—who obviously went back years with Marigole—she had greeted Olivia affably, complimenting her on her outfit and what great hair she had. “You can’t know how many times I’ve cried into my pillow about mine,” she exclaimed, waiting a second or two for someone to offer amazement. They didn’t. “Ever since I had Georgina it simply won’t grow.”

“The bob suits you beautifully,” Olivia said. It was no less than the truth.

“And it comes at a price!” Marigole tossed off a laugh. “I have to say I’m taken aback by the thing you have around your neck! A bit tacky, dear! Then I suppose you didn’t bring any of your jewellery with you?”

“Strange if I did.” Olivia had been prepared in advance for Marigole to bare her true self. As an insult, it didn’t carry a lot of sting. “I’ll only be here for a short time. I don’t share your opinion of the necklace. I think it’s beautiful.”

Marigole half cupped her hand around her mouth as though fearing she would be overheard. “My dear, it’s just a piece of junk you can pick up at street markets.”

Although the smile was bright, smile and tone didn’t match up. There was something vaguely threatening about Marigole’s demeanour, causing Olivia to do as Bessie had instructed—gently rub her flashing magic crystal.

Even afterwards she wasn’t sure what happened. Had she imagined it? A trick of the light? All she did know was a ripple of apprehension ran down her back. Pinpoints of blue light had manifested themselves in Marigole’s dark eyes like some weird phenomenon.

“God!” Marigole suddenly screeched. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Doing?” For the life of her Olivia couldn’t clear up that mystery. She watched transfixed as Marigole threw out her arm as if stung by a wasp. At the precise moment McAlpine swiftly closed in on them, alerted by his ex-wife’s all-too-familiar screech. He had been carrying a crystal flute of champagne, but the flailing of Marigole’s arm knocked the flute clean out of his hand. Sparkling wine flew out of the flute, splashing onto the carpet, giving Marigole a good spray on the way down.

“OK, so it’s not Krug.” McAlpine tried to make a joke of it but his ex-wife wasn’t having any.

“She shone something in my eyes,” Marigole erupted, to all appearances in dead earnest.

“You’re seriously asking me to believe that?” McAlpine looked at Olivia as if in apology. “Do not make a scene, Marigole,” he stressed.

“Let me get you a napkin.” Olivia, innocent of any wrongdoing, was feeling positively guilty. “I don’t think the wine did any lasting damage to your beautiful dress. I’ll get someone to mop the wine from the carpet.”

“And how would you know about the damage to my dress?” Marigole’s petite body was coiled in fury. “It cost a fortune. I’m appalled. You shone a light in my eyes. Enough to blind me.”

“As in some high-powered ray?” McAlpine’s expression was caustic. “Though where Olivia could be hiding it, I can’t imagine.” As he spoke he produced a snowy-white handkerchief, handing it to his ex-wife. “She can’t have shoved it down her camisole.”

Olivia took a deep breath. “Marigole, I did nothing but watch you throw out your arm. I thought something had stung you.”

“Then where’s the mark?” Marigole cried, holding up her right, then her left, arm for inspection. “What’s that?” Marigole couldn’t hold back her disbelief.

“I’d call that a bite,” McAlpine said, his voice a dark rumble. A red welt about the size of a five-cent piece had appeared on Marigole’s right arm. “You need to put something on it.” He wondered how any stinging insect had got into a room like this.

“I’ll get it.” Olivia turned away at once. She would have to put what she thought she saw out of her mind. It was a trick of the light. Nothing else. But the red welt made no sense at all. She’d had Marigole under close observation the entire time. There had been no red welt on her arm. It had only appeared when Marigole had demanded to know where the mark was.

Maybe there’s some ancient curse attached to the stone?

Don’t be silly!

The aboriginal people are much concerned with magic.

I’m not listening.

At least think about it.

By the time the main course was out of the way and dessert was being served by Kathy’s well-trained girls, Marigole had regained her equilibrium. Even more extraordinary to Olivia’s eyes was the fact the red welt had entirely disappeared. Was the local snake oil as effective as all that? She should order in a couple of bottles.

Much to her satisfaction, each course had been received with enthusiasm.

McAlpine caught her eye, raised his wineglass in a silent toast to her. He saw with pleasure how the lovely colour warmed her cheeks. Tonight she was as beautiful and serene as a swan. Breeding showed. She would make some man a splendid wife. He could have mourned the fact he hadn’t met a woman like her years ago, but then he reminded himself she would have been a student at Oxford. Just a girl. Selfless, devoted, overseeing too much for a demanding father. Not that Oscar wasn’t very proud of her. But Oscar had shaped the life his daughter was now finding she wanted to be free of. He didn’t fool himself that a woman like Olivia Balfour could settle in a desert kingdom, though his business affairs took him all over the world. He would want a clever woman like Olivia at his side. He was long past wanting an affair. He wanted her. Heart, mind and body. Only wanting and getting were two different things.

Marigole, unlike the others, wasn’t so much eating and enjoying the various dishes as rearranging what was presented to her into a more pleasing pattern on her plate. Either way she didn’t take more than a bite, demonstrating her awesome self-discipline. A very different story, however, with the wines. His ex-wife obviously rejected the theory that one to two small glasses of wine a day was enough for a woman as classic scare tactics from the medical profession. He genuinely wished Marigole well. But he wanted her out of his life. She had done enough damage. It was Georgina who had to be considered.

The conversation ranged easily and fluently over a broad number of topics, touching on the political and also, of great interest to Olivia, dressage, or as it was often referred to, “horse ballet.” Olivia herself had been an upper-level dressage competitor in her early twenties.

“Babs is a wonderful equestrienne,” Barbara Corbett’s husband said proudly, no mean horseman himself, having come second to his friend, McAlpine, in several top-notch cross-country endurance races.

Everyone at the table was a seasoned world traveller which provided an additional source of discussion. McAlpine and his friend Brendan juggled the conversational balls back and forth between them. Both were charming, witty and clever. It was McAlpine who started talking about the adventures they had shared since boyhood. And there were many, including an unforgettable trip to Antarctica.

“But if you want to know how the world began, you might try visiting the Galapagos Islands,” McAlpine said. “Bren and I once watched a volcano erupting from the deck of a yacht we’d chartered.”

“I do hope at a safe distance,” Olivia offered to general laughter.

“Safe enough.” McAlpine winged a smile in her direction. “You should have been there, Olivia, to hear the way the lava roared and hissed as it poured into the cold current. The violence of it, the shooting flames of molten red in the darkness! God, it was exciting! It’s volcanos like that and the others that make up the archipelago where Darwin cracked his code of evolution.”

Brendan picked up on that to add the disturbing news that the giant Galapagos tortoises were being senselessly slaughtered by pirates on floating fish factories.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t let’s talk about tortoises,” Marigole interrupted with great impatience, much put out by the way the superposh Balfour woman managed to shine throughout the evening. Worse, her ex-husband’s gleaming eyes were alighting on her far too frequently. “Save the whales, save the trees, save the tortoises! How boring! You weren’t being entirely truthful telling us you were here on a study tour were you, Olivia?” she accused, a teeny slurring to her words.

Lucas, who had been thoroughly enjoying himself, suddenly looked perturbed. His neck, half covered by an expensive silk cravat, went a deep red. It was apparent to all of them he was seriously worried about what Marigole was about to say.

None more so than McAlpine, who had survived his marriage for a relatively long period. “You have a great nose for gossip, haven’t you, Marigole? I’m sure, in this case, none of us wants to hear it. Certainly not Lucas, who is looking alarmed.”

More like freaked out! Olivia thought, strongly suspecting what was to come next. Her stomach muscles clenched in anticipation of an attack.

“My dear chap—” Lucas addressed McAlpine directly, apparently desperate not to be part of anything Marigole might say.

But Marigole, not to be denied her moment of triumph, cut in. “As I hear it, you were banished for bad behaviour.” The Bs were given full explosive throttle.

“If that’s the case, I’ll say a prayer for you, Olivia.” Brendan yawned, as if uninterested in anything Marigole might say.

But Olivia wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing. “Not the sentence I would have applied myself, Marigole,” she said, not losing her cool composure. “My father simply wanted his daughters out of the spotlight for a time. I’m certain there’s nothing unusual about that? Obviously you’ve been doing some checking. One wonders why?”

“Blue Blood Turns Bad!” Again the Bs shot out like bullets. It was obvious Marigole had no thought whatever for anyone’s feelings. “Wasn’t that the way the headlines ran? The high-and-mighty Balfours and their illicit affairs! Not one but two illegitimate daughters! I’m shocked. I don’t know if I want my daughter near you.”

It was Brendan who blew his top. He had worn best-man regalia for his closest friend and ever after wished he had expressed his heartfelt doubts about Marigole long before the event. “Marigole, what a vicious bitch you are!” There was a fierce scowl on his face. “What you really need—”

“Is an early night.” McAlpine held up an authoritative hand to indicate his friend should stop there.

Red flags mounted to Marigole’s cheeks. “And who do you think you are? You’re not God, Clint.”

“How would you know? You don’t speak to Him.”

Marigole was not to be deflected. “Why is this woman here?” She was displaying all the bitterness and sense of betrayal appropriate in a wife. “Are you sleeping with her?”

Brendan’s current girlfriend, Chloe, who wasn’t exactly renowned for her IQ, uttered a shocked four-letter word beneath her breath. She thought the ex-Mrs McAlpine, though still a stunner at thirty-eight, should keep well clear of the booze.

McAlpine gave them a taste of the dominant male. He slammed a fist onto the table. “That’s quite enough. Olivia is a guest in my home.”

“And I’ve been sleeping very soundly at night, Mrs McAlpine,” Olivia assured her. “Alone. Does that answer your question? Not that I can see it’s your business.”

“Damned right!” Brendan gave Olivia a look of stout support.

Only Marigole was staring back at Olivia, apparently oblivious to anyone else. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Olivia was debating whether to call on her magic crystal again. She had an urge to touch it but backed off in case it knocked Marigole clean out of her chair.

Her man of the moment, Lucas, wore the deep remorseful expression of a basset hound. One could only marvel at the contrast between McAlpine and his successor! “I’m so sorry, Olivia. I’m afraid in an unguarded moment—”

“Lucas, if you would escort Marigole to her room,” McAlpine asked suavely, “before she nods off?”

A bitter laugh from Marigole. “What a beast you are, Clint! I’m not a child to be sent from the table.”

“Off you go.” He waved a hand. “We’ll see you at breakfast perhaps.”

Such an embarrassing incident should have put paid to the success of the evening. With Marigole out of the way no such thing happened. They all adjourned to the great room for coffee and liqueurs, the subject of Olivia’s “banishment” dropped as if no one knew or cared what Marigole had been talking about. Alternatively they did know but didn’t consider it a big deal in the light of daily catastrophes and revealed illegitimacies. Even among the high and mighty. Lucas, however, did not return. Very possibly a lover’s tiff? Marigole would have seized on her new target with renewed vigour. It would have been obvious to a blind man—why not Lucas?—that Marigole was still deeply in thrall to her ex-husband. Love or hate? Lucas, nice as he was, could never in his life have inspired either. And he had been married twice.

The evening finally came to an end well after midnight with everyone deciding to meet up for breakfast around 8:30 a.m. A swim in a safe freshwater lagoon? Not for me, thought Olivia, feeling her stomach lurch. And who could blame her? The odd saltwater monster had found its way into a few peaceful havens. She didn’t know then that someone in the party always carried a rifle. Just in case.

Maybe take the horses out? More to her liking. All were accomplished riders, except Brendan’s girlfriend, Chloe, who claimed she didn’t know one end of a horse from the other.

“Then I shall teach you, little darling,” promised Brendan.

Everyone had retired when Olivia suddenly remembered she had left her crystal necklace on a table in the great room. She had taken it off so Barbara, who was fascinated by it, could examine the stone more closely. She had meant to put it back on, but had become distracted by a question from Chloe about life in London. She wasn’t anxious about the necklace. No one would touch it. Nevertheless she felt the urge to go get it as though she should always keep it by her side. The huge house was softly aglow. The main lights had been switched off, leaving on soft down-lights. No guest would be called on to wander about in darkness.

She had discovered she loved this house. Although she had lived all her life in a grand country house—very large, very dark, very old—much as she loved Balfour Manor and its great park, the house with its enormous panelled rooms and endless corridors could at times be oppressive. It was also crowded to the hilt with valuable furniture, paintings, tapestries, marbles and porcelains, dating back centuries, to say nothing of a couple of resident ghosts. Everywhere one looked at the manor, there were so many splendid things to behold it was near impossible to focus on any one object. Growing up as she had she had become quite a connoisseur of art and could speak very knowledgeably about it. So it came as something of a shock to realise, though born a Balfour, she could easily and happily move into this extraordinary house in its even more extraordinary Northern Territory setting. There were beautiful and valuable things here as well, but there was no danger of bumping into anything. And the air! The pure golden air, the quality of the sunlight, the colorations of the vast empty landscape! It was like living inside an Albert Namatjira painting.

She had lived a life of privilege, but it had its downside in constriction, relentless media attention, living up to her father’s very exacting standards. Really, she’d had none of the freedom she found here. She didn’t want to be disloyal but it was as if she’d been handed a get-out-of-jail-free card. And to think in a few months’ time she would have to pack up again and go away!

Doesn’t bear thinking about.

She was passing McAlpine’s study, necklace in hand, when the brass knob on the door turned. She jumped like a startled cat.

“Olivia!” He stood there, the most dashingly romantic-looking man in the world, delivering her name on a slow-drawn breath. “Were you about to knock on my door? Could I be so lucky! How did you know I was still up?”

Her heart started up its now-familiar thumping routine. For a moment she was too off balance to smile or even speak. “I haven’t been keeping tabs on you, if that’s what you mean. I left my necklace in the great room. I’d been showing it to Barbara. I thought I should come and get it, seeing as it’s my very special talisman.”

“It might very well be,” he said in a deepening tone. “You’re not going to sleep in it, are you?”

“Under my pillow,” she said. No wonder she was fighting to keep calm. He looked shockingly sexy, on high alert, very elegant but dangerous. He had taken off his jacket and slipped a couple of buttons on his black silk shirt for extra comfort. His skin, she saw, beyond the light mat of hair was like polished bronze.

“So what happened tonight?” he asked. “The stone arranged it?”

She was held by the force of those golden eyes. “Why ever would you say that? Marigole was stung. Wasn’t she?”

“She was stung all right, but not by any flying insect I know of. Do show me that stone again if you would.”

She opened out her palm.

“See. It’s duller and darker.”

Her head bent nearer his, golden blonde, a wonderful foil for rich dark auburn. “So?” She stared up at him perplexed. “Has it lost its powers?”

He gave a brief laugh. “I see we’re both in agreement it has powers.”

“Well, I’m not going to say it hasn’t and be struck dead.”

“Me either. I’ve seen too many extraordinary things in my time, all to do with aboriginal sorcery and magic. Your stone is governed by kinetic forces, movement, being close to your heart. Put it back on for a while.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why are you whispering?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know.” She was, in fact, caught up in high tension.

“Here, let me. If you’ll just grab that glorious mane and hold it out of the way.”

At the touch of his hands on her nape she felt her blood glitter. Her father would have frowned at her “glamour girl” look. The wrong look, he considered, for her. “I’ve been so accustomed to pulling my hair back,” she said shakily. “I don’t feel like myself with it floating around.”

“Your old self,” he stressed. “I love it! It’s the new you! Now turn around.”

She would when she could steady herself.

“OK, I’ll turn you.” His hands slid to her shoulders. “There! Your magic talisman has come alive again.”

Her eyes dipped to her breast. The sparkle had returned, along with the flash of iridescent colours. “I suspected Eerina was a sorceress the minute I met her. How does one get to be like that?” She lifted her eyes to meet his, felt a swift pulsing of sexual desire.

“You’re a sorceress in your own way,” he said, his tone low. “Right now I feel quite powerless.”

“You, powerless? To do what?” She was still whispering, trying to pull herself out of an erotic trance.

“Resist you,” he said. Dead serious. No flirtation.

He stood there, looking at her with such intensity that she felt herself swaying towards him. They were only a breath away.

You’ve found him! But what about the highly antagonistic ex-wife, Georgy’s mother?

“I should go,” she said falteringly.

“Don’t.” He caught the silky flesh of her arm, turned it, exposing her narrow wrist with its fine tracery of blue veins. While she held her constricted breath, he slowly raised her upturned hand to his mouth. “If I start anything more, I won’t stop,” he confessed. His voice sounded torched. Maybe tormented. Gently he touched his mouth to her wrist, his tongue a warm pulse on the blue veins. “I want you. You know that?” He lifted his head, casting aside all pretence.

Olivia felt a blinding rush of something beyond pleasure. All serenity had left her. She was adrift on a wild sea. She tried to explain. “This level of feeling is frightening to me, Clint. I’ve led such a quiet, contained life. No impressive collection of lovers. So please don’t lead me on if you don’t mean it. I couldn’t bear to be another victim.”

“Victim? I don’t lie.” The denial came out on a harsh rasp. He was still holding her hand, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her transparent wrist. “The truth is, I want you more and more every day. I acknowledge there’s terror in that. For both of us.”

“You fear to put yourself in a woman’s hands again?”

His stunning features had drawn taut with desire. “You could be the one exception. I want to scoop you up and take you to my bed.”

“But that doesn’t answer the question. We’re drawn to each other. We were from the beginning, I think, even though your way with me was infuriating.”

“I realise now I was spectacularly rude.”

“You were,” she said raggedly.

“Forgive me?” His smile was slow and heart melting. “Kiss and make up?”

Oh, God, yes!

She had been waiting for him all her life. Here was one man who wouldn’t let her hide away. Voluptuously she let her head fall back. Her eyes closed. Her senses were reeling. Rapture was flooding her brain and her body. That intense longing manifested itself in a sob that was muffled beneath the weight of his mouth.

She would never forget being kissed like this. Not if she lived until she was one hundred. The erotic splendour of it all drew her into its glory. No matter what happened—she was far from certain of what lay ahead of them—she would remember these moments out of time.

Involuntary tears rose to her eyes. An ache of yearning and anguish.

“Olivia?” He drew back, a sharp catch of concern in his voice. “Surely I’m not making you cry?”

“Women cry when they need to.”

Her tone stabbed at his heart. Was he rushing her, frightening her with the strength of his ardour? “Olivia, I’m here to take good care of you. You’re under my protection. I’m sorry if I’m moving too fast. I have to remember I’m older than you and far more experienced. I must apologise too if Marigole upset you tonight.”

“She did upset me,” Olivia admitted, drawing back very slightly. “The malice behind it! I’m rather good at hiding my upsets.”

“I know. But there’s nothing much I can do about Marigole,” he told her tersely. “She’s a tease and a bully, but she’s also Georgy’s mother. Sometimes I think I’ll always have Marigole in my life.”

“Because of the daughter you created together?” She spoke with the utmost gravity, mindful of that fact.

“Well, yes.”

“I understand.” She did. “But surely when you remarry?”

His golden eyes burned into her. “It has to be the right woman. Marriage can bring out the best in people and the worst. Only an idiot would make the same mistake twice.”

“So you’re not ready for commitment?”

He knit his dark brows together. It gave him a dangerous air. “Are you?” He badly needed to know.

She looked away towards a painting. Not really seeing it. “I want to get married. I want children. I love children. But, like you, I’m frightened of making a mess of my life, settling on the wrong man.”

“You want a safe man?”

She gave a broken little laugh, more like a sob. “When I first saw you coming towards me at the airport, I thought, My God, a wild man!”

His expression lightened. “I’m sure I looked like one after Justin.”

“Justin told me he was very fond of me.”

“God!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Couldn’t he do better than that?”

“Seems not!” She shrugged her creamy shoulders. “I suppose I’ve always appeared sort of ordinary beside Bella. Half the eligible men we knew were in love with her. And used me to get to her.”

“More accessible,” he said. “Bella is very beautiful and vivacious. I rather formed the impression Oscar enjoyed Bella’s wildness. She could get away with things you couldn’t. Ever think you proved too difficult? Too unassailable? That touch-me-not air. I like it. What I like better is touching you. But as I pointed out once before, there are inherent dangers in falling at a goddess’s feet.”

The way he was looking at her—surely with a marvellous tenderness—made her want to sob her heart out. Get rid of the pain. The pain of years of conforming to what her father wanted. He was right. As always. Their father had enjoyed Bella’s escapades, barring the last one. Bella was allowed to go wild. It was condoned. Olivia had been obliged to toe the line. A lone tear like a crystal drop trickled down her cheek.

“Olivia! Come here to me.” His mastery of her was running at full throttle. He drew her back into his arms, cradling her against his chest. It was extraordinary the way he made her feel small and deeply feminine. As much a woman as she could ever be.

She let him cradle her, revelling in his strength. “Don’t mind me,” she murmured. “I’m ashamed of myself really for breaking down like this.”

“But I do mind you,” he said tautly. “I thought we’d established that. For all your sophistication, your age, your beauty, you still carry around the grave child you once were. Lift your head.”

She was compelled to obey, driven by desire. His head bent over hers, the tip of his tongue catching up the teardrop that still lay on her cheek, taking it into his mouth. “I can’t waste one of your tears. Don’t let me frighten you away, Olivia. Sometimes I think of you as a gorgeous butterfly that’s alighted on my shoulder. One false move and you’ll fly off!”

“Clint!” Her voice broke with helpless emotion.

“I’ve never heard my name sound so good!” He dropped an exquisitely gentle kiss on her mouth. It pierced her with such sweetness she could have expired at the rapture. Fully aroused, he deepened the kiss, holding the back of her golden head to him so he could have more of her.

Little arrows of sexual yearning lanced deep into her body. They caused multiple involuntary contractions at the sensitive delta, as sharp and immediate as jabs of adrenalin. She didn’t attempt to break away, though the level of passion was extremely high. She remained locked in his arms, a woman desperate for his kisses…He could do what he liked with her. She was a woman on fire. Absolutely aflame.

A howl of feline rage split them apart.

“I knew it. I knew it!” Marigole stood several feet away, dancing with pure jealousy. Her large dark eyes were almost starting out of her head. She was wearing an exquisite cream nightgown with a matching peignoir, the flawless skin she prized wax white with outrage.

Olivia was too shocked to feel embarrassment. Kissing wasn’t a hanging offence. Even the passionate kissing that had generated such sizzling heat.

McAlpine predictably was swift to react. “Thank you, Marigole, for treating us to that howl. A wild dingo out there couldn’t have done it better. Couldn’t sleep?”

“You bastard!” she cried with ferocity, throwing back her peignoir so the outline of her body showed clearly through the near-transparent silk. “How could you? And with me in the house!”

Olivia came to her senses. These two people had been married for years. They knew each other intimately. Marigole had borne his child. He had admitted to an inescapable bond. Was it possible she was acting as a barrier to reunion? The woman still loved him. She even felt a pang of pity for her. It was a terrible thing to be unhappy whether one deserved it or not. And Marigole was dreadfully unhappy. So too was Georgy. She had been distraught at the divorce. Could she be in the way of causing the child further hurt?

Incredibly, even to her own ears, she sounded totally in command of herself. Long years of practise sometime came in handy. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Marigole cried, looking like a wild cat ready to use its claws.

“We shouldn’t be talking when you’re in this state, Mrs McAlpine,” Olivia said, not without pity. “Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, you know. I am not sleeping with Clint. That’s your ex-husband?”

Marigole took a dancing pace towards her. “Think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Only about some things.” Olivia stayed her hand from moving to her crystal. It was there for her to call on when needed. She could handle Marigole. At any rate, she thought she could. She had never figured in a love triangle.

“What say we call it a night?” McAlpine suggested briskly, apparently well used to Marigole, the drama queen. “Lucas no doubt is tucked up fast asleep in your bed, Marigole. I would remind you that both of you are guests in my house. And you’re looking to me to take full custody of our daughter. I have to say, if you’re looking to Lucas as your next husband, at least he’ll be able to keep you in style. Now I suggest you stop going ballistic at the thought I might remarry.”

Marigole’s great dark eyes flashed lightning. “You have to be very, very careful with this man.” White faced, she turned her attention back to the appalled Olivia. “He takes your heart, then he stomps on it. Why do you suppose I had to leave him?”

Was there something more to this than met the eye? Usually was. Sad to say.

“Not thinking clearly, Marigole.” McAlpine’s expression was frankly mocking. “If you haven’t realised it yet, you will. We’re divorced. It took you less than a week to take another lover.”

“And what about you?” Hot colour stained her slanting cheekbones. “What about angel face here with the golden hair and the sapphire eyes and the so-posh voice. You’ve really been giving her the rush, haven’t you? I bet it wasn’t the course of action her father had in mind when he sent her.”

Though rocked by Marigole’s jealous rage, Olivia considered she had the right to intervene. “Either way, it’s none of your business, Mrs McAlpine. My affairs are none of your business either. Let’s keep it that way. I’ll say goodnight.”

“Good night, Lady Olivia,” Marigole carolled after her. “Just don’t make the mistake of thinking Clint can make you happy. He’s a dangerous man. Believe me. You might have fallen for him hook, line and sinker—I’m not a fool—but you don’t know him well at all.”

Against the creamy skin of Olivia’s breast, the flashing iridescent colours of her crystal had shaded into a pearly silver-grey.

It made her feel uneasy. Frightened too.

Marigole had made her point. She really didn’t know McAlpine all that well.

Chapter Eight

FOR the first time since her arrival she slept very badly, turning this way and that, angry and miserable with Marigole’s bad behaviour which in her view was right off the scale, quite manic. She was tormented too by her intense, unresolved desires interwoven with a natural worry about where things were heading.

Admit it. You’re madly in love with him. Dangerous attraction.

But the question had to be asked. Was it the same for him as it was for her, given that men were even more sex driven than women? Only he would have had women falling at his feet from his teens. It couldn’t be possible he was trying to manipulate her. Could it? She was, after all, a Balfour heiress. Even Justin had admitted she was quite a prize. A prize he hadn’t acted on. But Justin was basically a society layabout, largely financed by his wealthy father.

McAlpine had turned his family fortune into the billions. Like her father he might be obsessed with making money. Again, like her father, a businessman first and last. Marriage in her world was too often a business arrangement with sex thrown in. Did McAlpine think like that? Marigole came from a wealthy family. He’d told her that himself.

Could history be repeating itself? It always did. No one actually learned from others’ mistakes, or if they did they didn’t put the learning into practise. Hadn’t her mother, Alexandra, been the most beautiful and glamorous debutante of her time, a prize her father had swooped on without a moment’s hesitation? Yet the marriage had been doomed to failure. Her father claimed Alexandra had betrayed him. Marigole claimed Clint had betrayed her. How exactly? Infidelity? Somehow she didn’t think so.

Her mother must have been unhappily married, neglected by her workaholic husband. Was that the reason she had drifted into that fateful affair that had produced Zoe and left her dead? Even with his heart broken, her father had swiftly moved on. To other women. There were always other women in his life.

Would there always be other women in McAlpine’s life? She couldn’t help drawing parallels between two magnetic men who had power over women.

Was it any wonder the old insecurity beset her?

Breakfast went well. Everyone was in good spirits. It restored a measure of normality Afterwards Georgy, who had not breakfasted with the rest of them, bounded through her open bedroom door, her beautiful face, so alike yet so unlike her mother’s, full of excitement. “Daddy said we’re going out to Carlee Waters to spot you a croc. That’s after lunch when the crocs take their siestas on the banks.”

“I’ll go on one condition.” Olivia smiled, having already heard about the expedition. “The croc doesn’t make me its lunch and you hold tight to my hand.”

“Of course I will.” Georgy went to her and gave her a spontaneous hug. “Please don’t be worried. We’ll be quite safe in the boat. Oh, Liv, it’s going to be wild! They’re so hideous, but so fascinating. Daddy would never let you come to any harm. Besides, the boat operator has the crocodile for his totem. That makes him the croc’s brother.”

“We don’t have crocodiles in England.”

‘No wild animals?” Georgy questioned, thinking there had to be one or two.

“Unless you count our fearsome hedgehogs. I think someone reported seeing a death adder in a forest one time. Personally I think he was having us on.”

“Where we’re going there’s tons of wildlife,” Georgy said. “You’ll be amazed at all the birds. Thousands and thousands of them. All the wildfowl. You know we couldn’t grow rice up here in the Territory for all the magpie geese. Even the air force couldn’t warn them off. You’ll see the water buffalo, great stupid things. They do a lot of damage. You won’t see a camel, although there are plenty of them on Kalla Koori, but we might get to see a pair of brolgas—that’s the blue cranes—dancing for us on the flats. You don’t have to be scared of the crocs, Liv. Did you know more people die every year from bee stings than they do from crocodile attacks? Anyway, we’re in the dry. It’s September through January when they get really hungry. They’re preparing to breed, you see.”

“I’ll remember that, Georgy,” Olivia said, enjoying the child’s excitement.

Georgy chatted on happily, clearly seeing Olivia as a friend.

“Have you seen your mother this morning?” Olivia asked in the first pause.

“Mummy never gets up early.” Georgy’s expression abruptly darkened. “She has to have her beauty sleep. Silly old Lucas is up though. He’s dying to go on the trip.”

Oh, dear! That could mean Marigole, whose image for Olivia was marginally less frightening than that of a crocodile, would be going along.

Wear your magic crystal.

No need to tell her that.

“You don’t like Lucas?”

“Don’t care for him at all,” Georgy said with a frown. “He’s smarmy and he’s fat and old. Always trying to get me to like him. I never shall. All Mummy cares about is money. She got millions out of Daddy, the house in Sydney, the penthouse at the Gold Coast, but it’s not enough. She wants everything in the world. Except me. Kids aren’t part of her world, you see. She wants to stay young and beautiful for ever. She told me.”

“But that’s not possible for any of us, Georgy. Life is a journey. We age and move on. Eventually we have to move aside for the next generation.”

“I know that,” Georgy cried with high emotion, showing Olivia another side of her, “but Mummy doesn’t. When I’m not hating her I feel very sorry for her.”

“You can’t hate your mother, Georgy,” Olivia said gently, having missed her mother all her life.

“I can!” the child shouted, then turned and ran out of the room.

They were out on the four-mile billabong, Carlee Waters, a great glittering sheet of water shaded on either bank by massive trees laced with the native honeysuckle, side by side with the ubiquitous stands of pandanus. Day after day, since her arrival, had dawned brilliantly fine, peacock-blue skies. This was, after all, the dry. And today was no exception. As Georgy had promised there were birds everywhere—flying, floating, wading, playing. Ducks, egrets, the infamous black and white magpie geese, the graceful blue cranes—though none danced for them—and legions of white ibis. There were great flotillas of blue lotus, the birds poking their long necks into the succulent bulbs. Lucas had his very expensive camera out, taking photograph after photograph, crying out after each, “Jolly good shot!” like a man on a golf course. On these occasions Georgy gave Olivia a conspiratorial smirk. Her good mood had been restored. Probably because her mother had elected to stay in bed and nurse her hangover.

Clint moved back to where Olivia, Georgy and Chloe were seated. His hand descended on Olivia’s shoulder, tightening over the delicate bones. She turned up her beautiful face to him, blue eyes shining. He was deeply involved with her now. Extremely concerned Marigole had caused her further upset. Mercifully she looked quite serene. He pointed towards a tree alight with scarlet blossoms. “Snake python. It’s just about to enter the water.”

Olivia followed the direction of his pointing finger. The huge python had to be at least fourteen to fifteen feet long. It slithered across the white sand and swam into the emerald-green water.

“That’s just a baby compared to the Queensland amethyst python,” Georgy piped up gleefully. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

Olivia watched with approval as he gave his daughter a loving smile. No man who could smile at his daughter like that could be bad. Or all bad. “They attain around twenty feet and more. One has to steer clear of them. But our snake python is harmless to man.”

“It’s still an awesome sight!” Chloe’s light soprano squeaked. In one way she was enthralled by the wild beauty of her surroundings, in another she was clearly terrified. She wouldn’t have come, only she wanted to please Brendan. But she had expected a much bigger boat. QE2 wouldn’t have been too big. This was a little boat, a fishing boat really.

Olivia, in her big-sister mode, was keeping an eye on Chloe. Brendan certainly wasn’t. It was Clint’s company he most enjoyed. Peter Corbett had come along too. Barbara had elected to stay at home and swim in the beautiful infinity pool. Neil and Celine had had to leave shortly after lunch. She saw Peter was laughing uproariously at one of Brendan’s jokes before beckoning to Clint to rejoin them.

Clint raised a lazy hand. “In a minute.” His golden eyes glittered in the sun’s rays. He let them roam over Olivia, his near-overwhelming desire for her just an inch beneath the surface. “Enjoying yourself?” His glance caressed her.

“This is a fantastic world.” The answering expression in her blue eyes was melting, vulnerable.

“And look, Liv.” Georgy made a grab for Olivia’s hand. “There are our salties! They’re having a snooze.”

“Don’t stand, or go to the side of the boat,” Clint warned with a note of natural authority. “Just sit quietly and look.”

They were about a quarter of a mile downstream, and there in the heat of the afternoon the giant saurians, the largest living reptiles and predators, armoured like tanks, were enjoying time out from snaffling everything in sight—mussels, crabs, fish, snakes, lizards, birds and their cohorts, flying foxes that lived in colonies nearby, all manner of unwary animals and the odd human crazy enough to invade their territory.

Chloe, scared out of her mind and filled with revulsion, muffled an involuntary four-letter word—she appeared to have a store of them—followed up quickly with, “They’re revolting!”

Indeed they were, Olivia thought. Then again they exerted a powerful fascination. These were creatures that had remained relatively unchanged for more than two hundred million years. They had roamed the earth with the dinosaurs. Probably ate a few of them along the way.

“Sit still, Chloe,” Clint repeated more sternly, thinking what a silly little thing Brendon had got mixed up with. “You’re perfectly safe. Crocs aren’t just good for expensive handbags, belts, shoes and luggage, the tails of the young crocs actually taste good. More like pork than fish.”

“I’ve read that.” Olivia took a hold of Chloe’s rigid hand, willing her to relax. Georgy, following Olivia’s example, took the other.

“We’re going to have a feast of fresh barramundi tonight,” Clint promised. It eased his heart to see his young daughter getting on so well with Olivia. Georgy had had little of her mother’s company growing up. Olivia obviously had great rapport with the young. She was a deeper, finer, more compassionate woman altogether. She would make an excellent mother. He knew, when the time came, he would struggle to let her go. The end of her stay was still a long way away, but the time would fly by on gilded wings.

“See all the little ripples in the water, Liv?” Georgy was crying. “Barramundi.”

“The finest-eating fish in the world!” McAlpine pronounced.

“But then you’re a Territorian, Daddy!” Georgy looked up at her father with great love and pride. He was simply the best father in the world. And the most handsome.

Olivia, looking on, realised she had felt exactly the same way about her father. McAlpine’s manner, however, was much warmer, much more openly loving. That was his great gift.

An hour on and they were ready to return to the waiting helicopter.

“I’ve enjoyed this afternoon enormously,” Olivia said, her expression mirroring the extent of her pleasure.

“Wish I could say the same,” Chloe whispered from behind her hand. “It’s way too wild for me. Those crocs! And the bats! Gosh, they stink, the ugly black things.”

It was Clint who was navigating at this point, taking over from the skipper. He was keeping close to the near bank, while the skipper and Peter took care of the splendid barramundi catch.

Chloe stood and stretched, enormously relieved it was all over. Ironic, then; it was at this point all hell broke loose. A great flight of white cockatoos, the sentinels of the wild bush, screamed down the billabong like jets at an air show.

“Sit down, Chloe,” Olivia cried out sharply as birds started to stream past the boat. “Sit down.” What a time to be standing there, shaken and breathless. Olivia felt a sick, sliding sense of disaster in her stomach.

Yet all would have been well had Chloe shown some common sense, but instead of obeying Olivia, as any sensible person would, she totally lost her head. One might have thought they were war planes screaming down the billabong, instead of birds. Chloe let out a terrified scream as several of the birds tuned into her scream, broke formation and shot through one side of the boat to the other. Chloe continued screaming, holding her hands over her head, as though she was in a Hitchcock movie. Not satisfied, she pitched forward, hands still clasped over her head, stumbled into some loose tackle and sent the feather-light Georgy, who had been staring at her speechless, to reel backwards and, from there, pitch over the side.

“God!”

Olivia scarcely heard Chloe’s horrified cry. She was taut with nerves and an in-flow of adrenalin. Without a moment’s hesitation she dived into the murky waters near the pier, making a grab for Georgy and urging her towards the dinghy that had been swiftly let down and was trailing in the water.

“Fast as you can!”

Georgy needed no urging. A good school-girl swimmer she took off at a pace she had never achieved in her young life, with Olivia, the much stronger swimmer, stroking hard alongside her as her escort, ready and willing to give assistance.

It was Brendan, a big man, who hauled Georgy single-handedly aboard. Olivia went for the dinghy, raising herself high on her arms and clambering in. Above her Clint stood, rifle in hand, his hands perfectly steady even under tremendous pressure, looking down the sights. He wasn’t firing. He was waiting. A heroic figure.

One bullet to the brain. He couldn’t miss.

It seemed to Olivia like an eternity. She dared not turn her head. She just knew a crocodile was propelling itself at great speed towards the vulnerable dinghy with her lying in the bottom of the small craft. Pure instinct told her to trust him. She knew he was a crack shot. She had to trust him to pick the precise moment. No time to pull her out of the dinghy. Her fingers found her magic talisman, closed over the stone. She didn’t feel in the least stupid muttering a prayer for help. This stone had infernal powers.

“Clint, Clint! It’s goin’ away!” The skipper, Milo, was yelling at the top of his voice. “Don’t shoot, man. Clint, please don’t shoot. Don’t kill ‘im. Ain’t his fault. There’s no danger ahead. We’ll get your brave missy into the boat now. Never seen nuthin’ like it. Look at that blue light on the water. Like a spear. Frighten old man croc away.”

It was impossible to get into the house without being met in the entrance hall. Kath was the first to greet them, eyeing the dishevelled party in shocked disbelief and concern. Marigole and Barbara made their appearance within moments, Marigole with her trademark shriek. McAlpine had stripped off his bush shirt to envelop his daughter, exposing a magnificent bronzed torso of lean, hard muscle. Even his flat stomach was clad with muscle.

Milo had found a sarong-type garment belonging to his girl friend for Olivia to wrap herself in. She looked, had she known it, a tantalising sight.

Marigole, as was to be expected, worked herself within seconds into quite a state. Shockingly she didn’t go to her daughter to hug her close. She stood aloof, starting to loudly assign blame. First and foremost to Clint, then Olivia, as though together they were responsible for the incident.

“Shut up, Marigole!” McAlpine turned on her in no uncertain terms. “You don’t think our daughter might need some comfort from her mother?” His whole demeanour was so daunting even the foolhardy Marigole backed off hurriedly.

The most extraordinary thing was Georgy appeared to be in high spirits as though their “adventure” had geared her up several notches.

“I can’t wait to tell my classmates!” she cheered. “It’ll make a terrific story. Liv was just so cool! I reckon she should be given a medal.”

But then Georgy was Territory born and raised and she hadn’t seen the crocodile surging towards the dinghy. Her head was buried against her father’s broad chest. Olivia hadn’t sighted the fearsome predator zooming towards her either, but no way did she find the incident cool. She was very much on edge. So too was McAlpine. Such a grim expression was on his striking face. His mouth was set tight; a muscle along his jaw jumped, those wild-cat eyes blazing away with menace.

Kath moved with alacrity, whisking Georgy away for a shampoo and shower. “Don’t worry about me, everyone,” Georgy called. “I’m definitely OK!”

Thank the gods for that! With special mention of the Ancient One who gave the crystal life! A blue spear, the skipper had said. That made her wonder. And Milo wasn’t the only one to see it. McAlpine had seen it too. Maybe only certain people could take mystic readings?

Brendan was gradually calming poor Chloe, whose tear-laden admissions of guilt Marigole had ignored entirely. Brendan was clearly regretting the fact he had allowed his girlfriend to go along for the trip. He led her away, one arm around her narrow, shaking shoulders. Brendan had arrived in his private plane with their friends Peter and Barbara in tow. Now he agreed to fly Marigole and Lucas back with them to Darwin. They could make their own way from there. Lucas had mentioned taking Marigole for a stay at Queensland’s glorious Port Douglas. Maybe he wasn’t so keen now?

Safely in her room, Olivia all but collapsed against the closed door. She had been fine up until now. Only to be expected that a reaction would set in. Like Georgy she would take a shower and shampoo the dank salt water out of her now-riotously curling hair.

A knock on the door brought her away from it. She turned, then tentatively opened it, prepared to see Marigole and have her start up her wild accusations again. Only McAlpine stood framed in the doorway, as splendid a wild man as any woman was likely to lay eyes on. He hadn’t even bothered to find a shirt. Obviously there were far more important things on his mind.

“I just had to check you’re OK?” he said tersely. His eyes were moving all over her—her face, her bare shoulders, her tall, slender body bound by the hot-pink sarong.

Sensation poured into her intoxicated heart. What chemistry this man had! “A little shaky, nothing more. You look angry?” In fact, he looked as fierce as any tribal warrior.

“I am angry,” he gritted with a clash of his fine white teeth. “Bren never learns. He lost the one woman he loved, now he goes from one lightweight chick to the other. He should have known Chloe had the potential to freak out.”

“Well, she’s suffering now,” Olivia said. “Poor Chloe. I have to feel sorry for her. It was a tough lesson.”

“Please!” He cracked one fist into the palm of his hand. “I don’t want to hear about, Chloe. She’ll be over it soon enough. None of us puts any blame on her. Georgy is handling this. Thank God kids are so resilient. They can pick up after escaping from the most dangerous situations. It’s you I’m worried about. Marigole is right. I have to take full responsibility for the whole sorry incident.”

“It’s over, Clint.” Always the peace maker, she sought to soothe him, recognising his extreme upset. Looking after people had been one of his great strengths. “All’s well that ends well, don’t they say?”

He turned on his heel. “I’ll go. You don’t need me here.”

She moved after him, impelled to do so. She placed a gentle hand on his broad, naked shoulder and left it there. “I might look a bit shaken now, Clint, but I promise you this hasn’t put me off. I will go out on Carlee Waters again.” And she meant it. Not quite as easy as getting back on a horse after a bad spill, but she knew she could do it.

He wheeled, high tension flashing off him in currents. “Not with me, you won’t!” he rasped. “Do you even know how I feel?”

“Tell me.” She stared up into his dazzling eyes, as passionate in her way as he was in his.

“Tell? Why don’t I show you?”

He spun her so she had her back to the door, hauling her up against him. His expression was a black scowl, as though he had lost his habitual control and been taken over by his own personal demon. His head, a tousled mass of deep waves, bent low over hers. “I want to make love to you,” he said harshly, in no way loverlike. “I want to make never-ending love to you. I want to make love to you on a scale you can’t even imagine.”

Fierce as he looked, so charged with testosterone, she wasn’t in the least afraid. She might have been as vulnerable to him as the antelope to the lion, but she had never felt so alive or so physically aware—sensations so new to her she found them as liberating as they were overwhelming. She wanted this from the deepest, most primitive part of her being—the part of her that operated on the most basic sexual impulses. God, hadn’t she waited long enough?

His strong arms were lashed around her, though she realised he was only using a small part of his strength. Even so, she twisted her body slightly to ease his hold, an involuntary little cry escaping her throat. Instantly he lessened the pressure. But he wouldn’t let go. She had no wish to break away. Rather, there was no conflict. She was revelling in the sensation of physical helplessness, woman against the dominant male.

Mouths and bodies were locked together in a passionate embrace, tongues probing, flicking, exploring, in incredible sensual pleasure. It was as violent a sexual confrontation as she had ever imagined. Elemental forces were at work. The knot on her sarong had worked itself loose. The cotton garment slid to her hips, where it rested precariously. There was the inevitability it would slip to the floor but she couldn’t seem to care. She hadn’t removed her sodden clothing totally. Wet or not she had kept on her flimsy briefs. They had dried out in less than ten minutes in the tropical heat.

Still holding her mouth with his, he let his hands move down compulsively over the satin-smooth globes of her naked breasts, caressing the contours, taking their weight in his hands, allowing her erect nipples to brush against his chest hair.

The pleasure was frightening and immense. “Oh, God!” she whispered frantically into his mouth, so sexually aroused she wouldn’t have made a move to stop him if he decided to take her there and then on the carpet. Nothing she had known was anything like this. This was the one thing that mattered and, so far, that she had missed out on. No wonder her development as a woman had been stunted.

Except he stopped dead. He jerked his head back, mentally if not physically distancing himself from her. She was amazed at the change in him, deeply at a loss. A great shudder ran through his powerful body. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” he groaned. “Forgive me. I’m losing it. I’m ashamed. So ashamed. I shouldn’t be touching you. Marigole is right. This isn’t what your father intended.”

His hands reached blindly for the sarong. He brought the hot-pink fabric up over her breasts, unchallenged by the way to tie it.

“I just had to see how you were. I was frantic. Things have got out of hand. The last thing I want is to destroy our friendship. I’ll never forget how you dived in after Georgy with no thought for your own safety. That truly proves your worth, Olivia, if it even needed proving. You’re a fine woman, a fine human being.” He lifted her right hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Forgive me?” he begged tautly, visibly pale beneath his dark tan.

She nodded, totally bereft of words.

After he had gone she threw herself down on the bed. Giving enormous pleasure didn’t require forgiveness surely? How did one go about forgiving the best thing that had ever happened to her? Such had been his influence on her that she had already undergone significant changes. She was warmer, more loving, more open. Less self-protective, less concerned with preserving an “image” at all costs. Her image was phoney anyway. She understood now that, to a large extent, she had been controlled. Her rewards had been her father’s ongoing approval. There had been no higher authority in her life.

Until now.

You love him, Olivia. You really love him.

Even if nothing could come from it—they lived in very different worlds—it was Clint McAlpine who had brought the real Olivia into being.

Chapter Nine

CLINT had told them he would be away for about a fortnight. The fortnight spun out into a month of tough business negotiations. Or was he taking his time about coming back to her? Olivia spent time agonising over that. Could he be determined on a clear break, perhaps finding his feelings too complex? He was right about one thing. Things between them had escalated in furious leaps and bounds. Relationships either went forward or they broke down and fell apart. That wasn’t happening here. Not yet. The great bonus for her was he had soothed her troubled heart. He respected her. His respect was important to her. But he had warned her he wasn’t going to rush into a second marriage.

“Only an idiot would make the same mistake twice!”

Who could blame him? From all accounts, sweet as honey at the beginning, Marigole had along the way developed into a very difficult, self-centred and totally unlikeable woman. Her biggest failing was she had cut off her only child, in all probability the major factor in the breakdown of the marriage.

As the days and nights passed, she moved from inner questions to a variety of possible answers, obsessing really, her whole being taken over by her deep feelings for him. Kath had refused point-blank to take the holiday Clint had promised her and her husband.

“It’s like a holiday having you around, Livvy!”

So Kath had stayed on, claiming she had as good as adopted Olivia. Certainly they were very easy on each other’s company. Olivia had made it her business to spend time with everyone on the station—the most powerful of all, Eerina aka Bessie, who showed herself from time to time. Bessie’s work as an artist was very important to her. It often took her on desert walkabouts.

Ever-conscientious Olivia had turned her attentions to Georgy. Maybe as daughters of powerful fathers with huge claims on their time and interest, their identification had come easily. Also there was the missing-mother factor. Olivia recognised her life would have been very different had her mother lived. Georgy had her mother, though her mother behaved as if her only child was somehow unrelated to her. Marigole, physically beautiful but spiritually lacking, had wanted a son, as a symbol of achievement. No wonder Georgy had moved quite a way down the path of maladjustment. In the time she was on the station Olivia was determined on helping Georgy work out strategies to cope.

First came the riding lessons. Georgy was terrified of horses. Initially Olivia had found that impossible to believe until Kath told her on the quiet about the sort of “lessons” Marigole had given her. That is to say, Marigole had been so sharp and impatient, so scathing of her daughter’s seeming lack of ability, the two of them reached the stage where Marigole stated flatly her daughter would never make a rider. It was adult intolerance of a child at the highest and worst level.

The first requirement of a good teacher is undoubtedly patience. And lots of it. Olivia had patience in spades. That one quality made all the difference in the world. With no Marigole to berate her and strip her of all confidence, Georgy was able to relax and proceed comfortably each day with her lessons. Olivia, who found horses the most beautiful of all animals, had little difficulty communicating that love to Georgy, who had progressed to reaching out, touching, petting, feeding from the hand and generally conveying her gentleness to the small, sweet-tempered mare Olivia had picked out for her.

“You’re a miracle worker, that’s what you are!” Kath declared happily over a companionable cup of tea. “You need kids of your own, love. You’ll make a wonderful mother. You’re so kind and patient and so understanding of children. I’ve never known Georgy to be so at peace.”

It was obvious to them all. Olivia, a woman with a strong academic bent, had been supervising Georgy’s study program which had been sent on to her by her school. Georgy was a highly intelligent child. She would be ready to start the new term in August. And the core area of conflict had been removed with Marigole’s departure.

“Clint will shape his daughter’s life,” said Kath. “The thing is, he has to work so hard. He has enormous responsibilities. He needs a wife.” Kath peered hard into Olivia’s blue eyes.

“Don’t look at me, Kath,” Olivia responded with a deep telling blush.

“I am looking at you, love. The two of you would be perfect, even if you can’t see it yet. You wouldn’t be stuck in the wilds, if that part is important to you.”

“But it isn’t, Kath,” Olivia protested. “I love it here.”

Kath’s eyes were thoughtful. “Clint leads a very busy social life from time to time and he travels a great deal. He needs a woman. A woman like you who can take her place anywhere. Buckingham Palace, I reckon.”

Olivia had to laugh.

“You know what I mean, love,” said Kath, patting her hand. “Now Bessie said an odd thing the other day.”

Olivia felt the onset of tingles. “What was it?”

“Can’t say, love. Bessie just run it by me. I wouldn’t want to be the one to break one of Bessie’s confidences. Gawd knows what would happen to me. Bessie’s a sorceress.”

“Tell me about it,” Olivia said, ready to accept it was Eerina’s magic crystal that had caused the blue spear to hurtle into Carlee Waters.

As it was, Clint surprised them. He hadn’t let anyone know he was returning, so when Olivia and Georgy came in from their riding lesson, faces glowing with achievement, there he was strolling down the portico towards them.

“Daddy!” Georgy’s voice rang out with happiness. She went into his outstretched arms, receiving a warm kiss and a hug. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming back?”

“The answer’s simple, sweetheart. I wanted to surprise you.” McAlpine lifted his gleaming head to acknowledge Olivia. “How are you, Olivia?”

Not showing it on the outside, inside she was aglow. “I’m fine, thank you, Clint. And you?”

“Missing my womenfolk.”

“You mean Liv and me?” Georgy looked up at him with startled eyes.

“Don’t forget Kath.”

“Oh, we missed you!” Georgy cried, hugging him again.

Over his daughter’s head, McAlpine’s golden gaze on Olivia was very intent.

He appeared to be checking off her features one by one. Relearning them?

Did he know his return had rekindled the blaze in her? He looked marvellous, radiating his special brand of male vitality.

“Liv has been teaching me to ride,” Georgy confided. “She’s a great teacher. Not a bit like Mum calling me stupid all the time.”

“You’ve been an excellent pupil.” Olivia smiled, transferring her blue gaze to Clint. “When you’ve got time, Clint, Georgy would love to show you what she can do.”

“What’s this, time?” he jeered. “Of course I’ve got time. I can’t wait to see you up on a horse, my darling.” He drew Georgy under his shoulder. “What say we have lunch and afterwards we can go back down to the stables? Suit you, Liv?” An amused smile played around his sexy mouth.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Don’t go back into your shell, girl. This is your time for transformation. Your time to rethink your life. Remake it. Look to the future.

One thing she was sure of. Her future wasn’t going to be along the same lines as her past.

For a few weeks McAlpine changed his routine so he could spend more time with them, though his workload was considerable. Olivia realised he was catching up long after the household had retired. The various McAlpine operations had offices everywhere, but McAlpine naturally made it his business to oversee everything, just as Olivia’s father did. It was very much hands-on.

“Look, I’m pretty smart actually,” Olivia said one evening over dinner.

“Sure is!” Georgy piped up. “She knows more than my teachers.”

“You’re biased, Georgy.” Olivia smiled. “I’ve been helping Georgy with her schoolwork,” she told McAlpine.

“I know.”

She couldn’t quite fathom the expression on his dynamic face. “I speak fluent French and Italian and I can get by with my German.”

“Good Lord, is there no end to your talents!” McAlpine exclaimed, refilling her wineglass.

“I told you she was clever.” Georgy nodded owlishly. “Can I have a drop of that, Daddy?”

“No, my darling, you can’t,” McAlpine told her firmly. “You’ve got a good few more years to go yet and then only in moderation.”

“Tell that to Mummy.” Georgy sighed. “Even silly old Lucas has told her to stop.”

“Good for Lucas,” said McAlpine crisply.

“I’d like to help if I could.” Olivia took up the thread. “I do have a good business head. All of us do, as a matter of fact.”

“Liv has a huge family,” Georgy told her father, clearly envious. “Her father, Oscar, sent them all over the world to find themselves. Isn’t that strange? I mean you’re you wherever you are.”

McAlpine’s eyes were on Olivia’s porcelain-skinned face. “Sometimes it’s easier to find one’s identity in a new environment. I hope Olivia will agree with that?”

“I do.” She met the searching eyes. “I love the freedom here. And I’ve loved being of help to you.” She reached out to touch Georgy’s hand.

“So why don’t you stay?” Georgy asked in the sweetest, winning way. “You don’t have to rush off home.”

“Olivia has to return to England for her father’s birthday,” McAlpine reminded her. “It’s going to be a big reunion party.”

“I don’t think I’m going to like it when you’re gone, Liv.” Georgy stood, abruptly pushing back her chair.

“I’ve promised you, you can always come and visit me, Georgy.” Olivia looked up with concern at the suddenly downcast child.

“I’m frightened I’ll never see or hear of you again if you go away.”

“You have my promise that won’t happen.” Solemnly Olivia crossed her heart.

“I know you mean it, Liv.”

“I do.”

“OK.” Georgy brightened. “That’s all right, then. May I be excused?”

“Of course you may, sweetheart,” McAlpine said.

“I’m going to finish my book—never get tired of rereading it, Jane Eyre—then I’m planning a deep sleep. I’m getting more exercise with my riding than I have in my whole life.”

“I’ll come and tuck you in,” McAlpine called after her.

“Bring Liv with you.” Georgy made off with a little wave.

Olivia started learning about McAlpine Enterprises that very night. Clint was working his way through endless piles of paperwork he didn’t entrust to anyone else. Just like her father. In many ways they were a pair. It struck her that her father would have given anything to have a son like McAlpine. Tradition, the father-son bond, all that.

“You can trust me.” She was peering over his shoulder as he sat at his desk. “Even if you only let me take charge of your personal life, a kind of confidential secretary. I could wade through all those invitations you receive, check with you, accept some, decline others, look after household accounts. Less for the office to do. I could remember family birthdays, send off cards, presents, that sort of thing. You get piles of letters, memos, documents, et cetera. Father does too. Why not let me wade through them?”

He turned his head to stare up at her. Her beautiful hair was loose, falling seductively from a centre part to curve onto her cheeks, then flow over her shoulders. He wanted to grab her and pull her down to him, only she coloured and straightened. “Why, are you bored?” He watched her round his massive partner’s desk to take a leather armchair opposite.

“Not at all!” she assured him when she could trust herself to speak. “But I was sent to help out in some way.”

“You’ve worked wonders with Georgy,” he told her quietly.

“It’s been a real pleasure.” The thought of having to leave here was indeed occupying much of her mind. The future was so indistinct. “Georgy’s a lovely girl. Highly intelligent. I meant what I said—I’ll remain her friend for as long as she wants. You know she has to go back to school. We’ve kept up with the curriculum, even gone ahead, but she has to return. The longer she stays at home, the harder it will be to go back. I think she’s ready.”

“I was getting around to discussing it with her, Olivia. She’s missing her friend, Kristy.”

Olivia smiled. “The one who sends all the emails?”

Clint’s hands locked behind his gleaming head. “They started boarding school together. Kristy used to holiday with us fairly frequently, only Marigole found her irritating. God knows why. Kristy is a great kid. By the way, we’ll have visitors for next weekend, a Texan rancher with his wife—David and Alexa Arnold. He’s a mining magnate, nice guy. He’ll be bringing a business associate from Hong Kong with his lady friend of the moment. It should be fun.”

“Leave it to me,” said Olivia. “So do I get to help you out or not?”

He pinned her with his brilliant gaze. “You’re helping me just by being here, Olivia. But OK, I have a lot of faith in you.”

“I’m not a Balfour for nothing.” Did he know how much his trust gratified her?

His laugh was brief. “Are you going to keep the Balfour when you marry, or lose it entirely?”

Olivia Balfour-McAlpine. Now that had a lovely ring to it.

Dream on.

“I’ll leave a pile of stuff for you to wade through,” he said, looking back at a stack of files. “See what you make of it. I’ll be flying to Darwin midmorning for an extended business meeting. Looking for investors for a new building project.”

“I’m sure you’ll rope them in.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. We have pearling interests too, as you now know. I may stay overnight depending on how things go, but I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Just a glimmer of his dazzling smile, but it made her heart contract. “Take care.” She meant it from the bottom of her heart. All this flying was worrying her. Here it was a way of life.

“A smile would be better.”

“Take care, McAlpine,” she repeated, eyes bluer than blue, a smile, unconsciously poignant, curving her lips.

You’re too far gone to ever, ever forget him.

“And you take care.” He rose as she did, coming towards her. “How I stop myself from coming for you in the night, I don’t know,” he muttered, something in his tone indicating enforced acceptance.

“But where would it get us, Clint?”

Only seething emotions, obliterating sensation.

“It would get us to confront what we feel for each other,” he answered in a clipped voice. “I can’t bear the thought of your leaving, yet I can see that you hear home calling. I realise you need to think long and hard about taking great risks.”

“And the risk is you?”

“You already know the answer to that.” His hands lifted to caress the slopes of her shoulders. “We didn’t choose each other. You had your life. I had mine. It was destiny that brought us together. The big question is, when you get home will you forget about even being here?”

“Never!” She spoke so softly it was almost under her breath.

“So it’s in my best interests to give you plenty to remind you.”

She lifted her face, knowing even the act of leaving him to fly home would be unbearable. But he was testing her. And testing her hard. He had had a bad experience. There could be no more of that.

He trapped her body against his, crushing her breasts to his chest. Then he was kissing her with great abandon, just as she was returning his passionate kisses with a hunger to equal his. It was a huge effort to break apart. A huger effort not to begin to throw off their clothes so they could glory in naked skin against skin.

He took his hands from her. Both of them were trembling. She whispered his name but it seemed to be a point of honour with him not to seduce her while she was beneath his roof. She was going home. Back to her old life. Neither of them could ignore that.

Least of all McAlpine. It was a huge temptation not to rush her. Take her to bed. He knew she would come willingly. His body was in a torment of sexual frustration but he saw clearly he had to protect her until she was very sure of her own mind. England was a long way off. She had to be given the opportunity to return to her glittering world. And only then would she be in a position to decide.

Her father had never allowed her more than a glimpse into his complex business dealings. He had been notoriously secretive. She knew the Balfour Foundation had an endless list of beneficiaries. Her father had to be one of the biggest philanthropists in the country. She met with a similar set-up with McAlpine Enterprises. The pastoral arm was only one of a wide portfolio of interests. When she found something a little difficult—these weren’t ordinary business affairs; this was big business—he found time to explain things to her. He not only directed her, he gave her reasons for what he was doing. He was even asking her opinion on a range of issues. One, a high-risk investment she thought mightn’t have been necessary given McAlpine Enterprises’ high rate of growth.

“Chip off the old block, Olivia!” He smiled, thinking she could become an enormous asset.

“Sons are expected to be chips off the old blocks. Not daughters.”

“Oscar should have started you off at a junior executive level. It wouldn’t have taken you long to rise to the top.”

“You’re joking!”

He looked back at her seriously. “Not at all. I’ve got top people who aren’t as sharp as you are. Your mind leaps so briskly ahead, you’ve been able to cover a lot of ground in a very short time. Oscar’s loss.”

When the time came, the two of them delivered Georgy to her prestigious girl’s college where she was greeted royally. Several of her girlfriends were on hand to welcome her back for the new term.

“I must say Georgina is looking particularly well,” the headmistress gushed, beaming on Georgina’s stunning father, a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. “She is one of our most promising students.”

“You won’t go home without coming to see me?” Georgy had made Olivia promise.

“Count on it,” Olivia said, returning the child’s emotional hug. “And you’ll be coming to see me in England.”

“Oh, I will! But I’m hoping you’ll want to come back to us, after you see your dad and your sisters. Bessie said you would.”

“When was this?” Olivia was startled.

“The day she called in with that great billabong painting she did for you.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“Gosh, no. You’re not supposed to know. Just slipped out. That’s why I’m so happy—you’ll be coming back.”

Physical pain started up in her chest. And an intense hope. However badly one wanted something it didn’t always happen. She was in love with McAlpine. She knew he was very strongly attracted to her. What would her father make of it? The relationship mightn’t suit him at all.

It’s your life, girl.

That evening she and Clint were to attend an art showing at one of the city’s leading galleries—a relatively new young artist who had been receiving serious attention from the critics. Supper at an art patron’s river-side mansion was to follow, the guest list drawn up with particular care.

Olivia spent a couple of hours of the afternoon having her hair done before choosing a cocktail dress at a boutique that had been recommended to her. She wanted to look her very best, as a woman wants to look her most beautiful for the man she loves.

Chapter Ten

OLIVIA loved art. She had been attending art showings all her life. Some of the world’s finest galleries were open to the English public and overseas tourists for free. From time to time one of her jobs had been to open certain showings.

The new young artist’s work was not particularly to her liking for all the critical acclaim. The canvases were huge. Maybe that was it. The bigger, the better? The style abstract. One could get away with nearly anything if one stuck to the abstract. These days “traditional art,” where one actually had to be able to draw and apply paint, was almost the kiss of death with some galleries and critics. She didn’t like the way the paint had been trowelled on either. Or the dreary monochrome colours.

“Our artist ought to hose it all off and start again,” Clint seconded her opinion. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look now.”

“What is it?” For an appalled moment she thought the artist might have been hovering near and overhead Clint’s comment.

“Marigole and Lucas,” Clint groaned. “I thought they were still at Port Douglas.”

“Not bothering you, is it?” She stared up into his handsome face. He didn’t look so much perturbed as disgusted.

“Not if it doesn’t bother you. I would guess they’ve been invited to the supper. Do you really want to go?”

“Not if you don’t.”

“How we are in accord.” He smiled down at her. In his view she was far and away the most beautiful and stylish woman in a room full of glamorous, expensively dressed women. But none had her finely wrought classical features or her taut, slender body. And those long legs! Her hairstyle was new to him, side parted, with layers that kicked up in deep waves. It was enormously sexy. Her dress was short, above the knee, one-shouldered. He loved the Grecian look on her, the colour a heavenly shade of blue to match her eyes. She wore exquisite drop earrings, oval sapphires set in diamonds. He had never seen them before. Had she recently bought them? Lord knows she was an heiress.

“Let’s beat it into the next room,” he murmured, taking her arm. “With any luck at all we may not run into them as there’s such a crush.”

No such luck!

Marigole, the consummate actress, with so many very curious eyes on her, greeted her ex-husband with a kiss on both cheeks, resting one small delicate hand on his black-jacketed shoulder.

“Lovely to see you!” She included Olivia in her bright smile. “Georgina’s back in school.” It wasn’t a question. She knew. “I’m dying to see her.”

“A pity, Marigole,” Clint said, his expression cool but hardening. “Because she doesn’t want to say one word to you. I’d advise you to stay away and wait until she wants to see you.”

“If you say so, darling. I only want her to be happy.”

“She is happy,” Clint said.

Marigole turned her ice-black eyes on Olivia. “Love the hair. And the dress. Go to Sonya’s, did you? She always stocks the best. Haven’t got long to go now.” She gave a throaty laugh. “When is your father’s birthday again?”

Olivia retained her social smile. It came easily after years of the most intensive practise. “I’m sure, Marigole, you already know.”

“So touchy!” Marigole pouted. “Anyway, I wish you well. I’m sorry we didn’t get off to a good start. If you were staying in the country we could start again. You’ve been very good for Georgina. I do appreciate it. She’s been sending me progress reports. Ah, there’s dear Lucas. I expect we’ll be seeing you at the supper?” She lifted her eyes to her splendid ex-husband.

“Afraid not, Marigole,” he said smoothly. “We’re moving on to another function. In fact, we’re leaving right now.”

Progress reports? Olivia pondered. Was it possible Georgy had been sending her mother progress reports? Lord knows she sent enough emails. Clint might have been eyeing Marigole with huge disbelief, but she felt a deep pang akin to desolation. A mother is a mother after all. Marigole mightn’t have been of much comfort to her young daughter with her abrasive ways and quick temper, but surely the mother-daughter bond could never be broken? She had friends who couldn’t stand their mothers, but all of them would claim to love them. Maybe liking one’s mother wasn’t strictly necessary? It was a terribly sobering thought. Georgy might, at the back of her mind, be hoping for a reconciliation between her parents. Why else send her mother progress reports?

Nothing is simple or straightforward in this life, Olivia.

If the voice turned to issuing emails, she would delete them.

It took quite a while before they were able to leave the gallery. Clint knew so many people who stopped him for a few words and to gain an introduction to his companion. Before they left he made his apologies to the society hostess who was genuinely upset he and Olivia—by now they all knew who she was, or rather who her father was—couldn’t join them.

It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. “Let’s go some place and have dinner,” Clint suggested. “I know just the spot. Nicely out of the way.”

“Don’t want to be seen with me?” Olivia asked, unaware her flawless skin was blooming in the street lights, her sumptuous mane like a halo.

“How could you even say such a thing! I’m terrified Marigole is going to chuck supper and follow our cab.”

Mercifully that didn’t happen.

It was one of those intimate little places that served wonderful food. Clint ordered a bottle of vintage Bollinger the moment they sat down. “If Marigole attempts to upset Georgy I’ll break her neck.”

“You think she will?”

Remember, love and hate go together.

“Oh, you don’t know, Marigole,” he said, a tautness to his expression.

“Do you think Georgy really has been emailing her mother? The progress reports she mentioned. Marigole is her mother after all.”

“After all, what?” he said disgustedly. “After all the rotten years? Don’t let’s talk about Marigole. I’m sick to death of the woman. Sorry if that sounds bad, but that’s the way it is.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve seen so much heartache in my life. My father has suffered and he has inflicted suffering in turn. But I love him. Nothing can change that.”

“Men aren’t in the race when it comes to devious behaviour,” he said tersely.

“Not true. I’ve known plenty of devious liars. All male.”

“I guess.” He turned his golden eyes on her and smiled. “If it’s worrying you, I’m certain Georgy hasn’t been sending her mother any progress reports.”

“I wish I could believe that.” A shadow fell across her face.

“Easy enough to check.”

“I wouldn’t spy on Georgy,” she said, horrified. “All of us love our parents no matter what they do.”

He made a little scoffing sound beneath his breath. “Georgy has a tougher streak than you. She’s lived in a different world. Kids these days question their parents’ morality. They’re bright, they’re outspoken, they’re not afraid to express their views. Georgy doesn’t hate her mother. No one wants that, least of all me, because hate is corrosive. But Georgy knows her mother doesn’t love her. Whatever your father’s ideas and the way of life he has in a sense imposed on you, he loves you. Huge difference there.”

It was a bit of a stretch—a couple of city blocks—but they decided to walk back to their hotel. It was a beautiful balmy night, the city humming with activity, tourists and locals strolling about. Lining the way were leafy trees decorated with tiny shimmering white lights. The huge picture windows of the shops, the upscale boutiques, the high-rises and the cars all reflected a kaleidoscope of colour and glitter. With so many milling around on the streets—happy, prosperous, well-dressed people—he kept her close to his side to avoid her being inadvertently knocked.

For all the cooling river breezes, she could feel the heat of desire spread over her skin like the heat off a fire. It seemed extraordinary to her she had to wait until she was twenty-eight before experiencing a true sexual awakening. And he hadn’t even taken her to his bed! Yet there was a bond between them that had grown stronger. Was it possible that bond would snap when she had to return to the other side of the world?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder—or out of sight, out of mind? Take your pick!

Such was her involvement with Clint McAlpine at all levels; her former life had all but faded from her mind. It seemed, all at once, incredible what had passed between them.

Lively conversation had flowed while they were out on the street, but inside their hotel both of them abruptly went quiet. Glancing at him in the elevator his striking face wore an oddly steely expression, as though he was forcing himself to do something he didn’t really want to do.

What exactly?

A man at war with himself? She felt a sense of foreboding. Did he have something to tell her? Something that might possibly break her heart? There was a woman. Not Marigole? A woman who might fit more easily into his lifestyle. Not a woman who bore the badge of the British aristocratic elite.

He saw her to her door, his handsome face a dark golden mask. Hiding God knows what? she pondered. “Sleep well, Olivia.” He dipped his head to lightly brush her cheek. “I’ll pick you up for breakfast, say eight o’clock? I thought we’d take a car tour around the city and its sights before we head back to Kalla Koori.”

What is he hiding from you? What is it he won’t say?

“Good night, Clint.” She gave him a real smile. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” There was something odd about his manner she couldn’t quite put a finger on. If only she were a more sexually confident woman she might have thought he didn’t want the night to end there. Only she had to make the first move.

You’re way out of your depth.

She watched him walk away down the corridor—tall, wide shoulders, slim hipped, his body the perfect male model. Though he would have hated to be told that. She knew his room number. She had made the bookings.

Why do you always abide by the conventions? Why do you always play it safe? You were up for all those passionate kisses. What sense is there in jamming on the brakes? You ‘re twenty-eight, for God’s sake! Such reticence is laughable.

She simply couldn’t believe a man could kiss one woman with so much ardour but have another woman in mind for a wife.

You know what Bella always says. Men are brutes!

McAlpine wasn’t a brute.

The true depth of your relationship is obviously bothering him.

He’s trying to minimise the dangers? For all the intensity of their attraction she might turn out to be someone transient in his life? Her father had sent her to him, believing she would be in safe hands.

Maybe he’s being extra-scrupulous? Maybe he’s holding himself under tremendous constraint? Damn it, girl, he could be waiting for some sign from you.

She couldn’t contain her restlessness. She threw off her beautiful blue dress, catching sight of herself in the long mirror. She touched her breast, staring back at herself. Her new self. It might have been a trick of the light but she looked beautiful. Rather like Bella.

What if you tippy-toed down the corridor and knocked on his door? Make up some excuse? Anything. Say you’ll be taking an early morning jog. Just wanted to let him know.

Before what little confidence she had collapsed, she pulled a long caftan she had brought with her over her head. She had thought at the time the silk was just begging to be touched. She was quivering with nerves, preparing to encounter resistance, possible humiliation.

By the time she was out in the hallway—mercifully no one was around—she was marvelling at her own daring. Anyone would think she was underage, instead of overage. She had stayed for weekends in many country houses, back home, but she had never been one for bed hopping. She had always been expected to do the right thing. It had enslaved her. And where exactly had it got her? Men soon lost interest in women who only did the right thing.

Time to find out!

By the time she reached his door she was nearly fainting with a great surfeit of emotion.

Pull yourself together. You can deal with it.

Only the hand she put out to tap on his door went limp. He could well be asleep.

Oh, don’t be so stupid.

Even the voice in her head was egging her on. Both of them sick of her procrastination. Yet she could hardly breathe. To her horror she stopped just short of pounding on his door such was the excess of adrenalin.

You ‘re on your own now, girl. Don’t make a mess of it.

He opened it, looked down at her, golden eyes blazing, then without a word slid a strong arm around the small of her back and pulled her with great urgency into his room.

“Clint, I…”

She felt the burn of his glance. “Hush.” He kissed her then, fierce and fiery, taking her breath away. He kissed her so deeply they were both left shuddering.

“I willed you to come to me.”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

All further words trailed away. She let herself be swept off her feet—totally without effort on his part—and carried to the already turned-back bed, thrilled out of her mind she could be the object of such passion.

“You had to come to me.” He stared down at her with his lion’s eyes, his strongly muscled, deeply tanned arms propped on either side of her highly aroused body, its contours clearly visible beneath the thin silk.

“It was a test? Did I do wrong?”

“Why don’t I just show you?” The words emerged from deep inside him like a deep, hungry purr.

“Clint, we know what are we doing? What it means to me?” She tried to raise herself up on her elbow, but had to fall back. She was so weak. Stripped of all strength by longing.

“I do know,” he confirmed. “I know you haven’t done anything like this before. But we’re doing what I’ve been wanting to do since I first laid eyes on you, my ice princess.” As he spoke he was stripping off his white dress shirt, pitching it unerringly onto a chair.

“And what about tomorrow? What about our old lives taking us over? Tonight will be perfect but we can’t see around corners, can we?”

He laughed deep in his throat. “Throw off your insecurities. You made it to my door. Hang on to that. In any case, I swear to you I’ll want you tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that…Want me to go on?”

“No time. Remember I have to be back in London by October 1.”

He groaned, then threw himself onto the bed beside her, turning on his side to stroke back the masses of her shining hair. “You want this, don’t you, Olivia?”

She felt the blood rush to her head. “Oh, God, yes!”

“So…we’ll take it slowly. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. First I’m going to kiss you through that shimmering silk, then, beautiful as it is, I’m going to take it off you. I want to know every little last detail of you. The tiniest thing. I want to listen to your heart.” He lowered the side of his face to her breast.

It was incredibly arousing, sending primal thrusts deep into her.

“It’s beating so fast,” he murmured, taking the nipple through the silk.

Full sex lay ahead. She couldn’t bear to disappoint him.

Call on your newfound powers.

Even her inner voice sounded frantic.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, in just the way I like,” he breathed. “More, you’re a clever woman, a kind and compassionate woman. So many admirable qualities. I need to tell you, you’re my ideal.”

Oh, God, let it be so!

She lay perfectly still while his hands and his mouth moved down over her with soft brushing and stroking movements. He made her feel so lush, so delectable, it was as though she was inhabiting the body of a different woman. A woman who knew all about inspiring passion. She grew damp with desire. Lying still became impossible. Her legs began to move. Slowly part. At first her lips moved soundlessly, then she began to make little keening sounds, moans that signified her endless yearning.

His powerful bronze torso rose steeply with his every deep breath. He made her sit up like a child, so he could strip off her beautiful silk caftan. His arousal was great. Finally he laid her back, marvelling at the perfection of her woman’s body. Her blue eyes were on fire for him. She appeared beyond caring that she was naked. Or she was revelling in it. What was left of her deeply entrenched inhibitions had flown away.

As naked as she, he returned to the bed, his expression exultant. “You can’t go back to your room tonight. I won’t have it.” One hand moved to cup her porcelain breast. “You must stay with me. I want to wake up looking into your desperately…desperately…lovely…face.” Each word was accompanied by soft, thrilling brushes to her mouth.

She held his head as he bent to take one rosy erect nipple into his mouth. Suckled it as though it was a delicious berry. His teeth very lightly nipped, causing her one convulsive shudder after another. Her back arched, then arched again. She could have died from the pleasure, excruciating in its intensity. “Tell me you’ll stay?” he demanded with great urgency, now fully astride her, like some pagan god.

Her arms rose to lock ecstatically behind his head. “You can keep me here for ever,” she said.

Those final weeks were the happiest Olivia had ever known, sharing the life of the man she had come to love—body, heart and mind. Clint’s frequent business trips couldn’t be put on hold. She understood that. A couple of times he took her with him, once to Darwin for a general meeting of M.A.P.C., of which her father was a shareholder. She had been greeted royally and invited to sit in. Whenever Clint returned home from a trip, even an overnight trip, they made passionate love, more attuned to each other than they thought possible. He even found time to make brief visits to Georgy, carrying some little gift for her, usually a book. Georgy was a great reader.

“It appears Marigole has taken it into her head to visit as well,” he told Olivia, his expression concerned. “Poor Marigole. She’s never known what she wants. Whatever she had going with Lucas has gone kaput!”

Georgy, in one of her emails, also passed on the message. “Mummy wants me to call her Marigole now. She has come to see me twice. Wonder what she wants?”

What indeed! Happy as she was, Olivia still felt a twinge of alarm.

Clint debated taking her with him to New Guinea, where McAlpine had large property holdings, but in the end decided it was a bit risky. “You’re close to returning home. Can’t have you catching a bug. Malaria is still a threat.”

He was to be gone for three to four days. “I’ll wind things up as soon as I can. If I can’t take you with me, at least I can take your image with me. It’s imprinted on my heart.”

The denouement had to come. It came fast. So pulverising a blow it nearly knocked the breath of life from her. To think it was another email from Georgy. She had smiled in anticipation as she brought up the message. What she saw froze the muscles of her face. No, no, it can’t be! She sat therein the grip of paralysis…

Dearest Liv,

Great news! Daddy and Mummy have been having reconciliation talks. It seems like we‘ll be a family again. Mummy admits she was the one at fault. She swears she is going to change. Daddy says…

She couldn’t read the rest. There was a thick grey fog in front of her eyes. She fancied she heard her heart crack.

Reconciliation?

Georgy wouldn’t lie to her. Georgy didn’t even know about the escalation of their relationship. It hadn’t started until Georgy had been back at school. So annihilating was the shock, she couldn’t seem to take it in, though her body was quaking and sobs issued from her throat.

This was the man who had told her over and over he loved her? His parting words were etched on her brain.

“When you’re back home, Olivia, my love, you must consider very carefully the future.” He had gripped her arms in his urgency. “I can’t live in England. I need to be here. You’re the one who will have to make the sacrifices. For our marriage to succeed, your tie to me must be the strongest tie in your life.”

“I marvel you could doubt that for a second,” she had said.

He had crushed her to him as if he would never let her go. Her life. Her lover.

Now in his absence…this monstrous betrayal. It beggared belief a man like McAlpine couldn’t find the nerve to tell her of a possible reconciliation with his ex-wife.

He has to be doing it for Georgy. He adores her. Parents do extraordinary things to benefit their children at the expense of themselves. Georgy comes first. But why live a double life?

The answer. Men did it all the time.

Bella was right. Men were beasts. And that included her father with his one-night stands. When she could work up the strength she would throw some things into a bag and get the hell out. She couldn’t remain another day under his roof. The supply plane was due in that afternoon. She could cadge a flight to Darwin, then pick up a flight to where? God, did it matter? Anywhere she could hide her head. Maybe lie down and die.

Singapore was close.

He was known in this part of the world. “Ms Balfour left the hotel about an hour ago, Mr McAlpine,” the receptionist at the world-famous Raffles Hotel told him. “I believe she was going shopping.”

Shopping? He felt another turbulent wave of grief carrying with it the debris of rage. When he had arrived back to find Olivia gone and Kath distraught, he had to struggle not to bellow his impotence from a cliff top. This was a woman he had thought a pure soul. Truth was at the centre of her. Or so he’d thought, poor deluded fool. He had willingly let her into his life, into every aspect of his being. He had totally let down his guard. This wasn’t another Marigole. This was a woman he could trust with his life. Wasn’t she the woman who had dived in after Georgy into crocodile-infested waters without a thought for her own safety? Could a woman like that feign love? It didn’t seem possible, unless she was schizophrenic?

She had left no note. Utterly gutless.

That’s not her. It isn’t the Olivia you’ve come to know and love.

“Good as gold one minute, packed and ready to go the next!” Kath’s pale face registered her own shock. “Wouldn’t tell me a thing, but kissed me goodbye like she loved me. I tell you, Clint, I don’t get it!”

And he was supposed to?

He took a seat in the foyer. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took. If she thought she was getting away without explanation she had another think coming. It had been a simple enough matter to track her.

Forty minutes later and there she was. Shining hair back to its smooth pleat, but she wore a very pretty summer dress, a wide turquoise belt cinched around her narrow waist. She wasn’t carrying any shopping bags. He let her get ahead, moving as graceful as a long-stemmed flower to the bank of lifts. Then he made his move, lithe as a big cat, getting a tight grip on her arm.

“Ms Balfour, what a surprise!”

He thought she was going to faint. He held her while she took good, deep breaths. “Clint, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t hide her distress or her massive shock. She didn’t look particularly well and he felt a thump of dread. Could she be ill? There were mauve shadows beneath her beautiful, treacherous blue eyes.

“More to the point what are you doing here?” he rasped. “No, wait until we’re in your room. I might feel like strangling you, but it would never do in the foyer of Raffles.”

Behind the closed door he loomed over her, a tall daunting figure. “Right!” he snapped. “Am I losing my mind or are you? When I left you a couple of days ago we were talking marriage. What’s happened since? Why the mad flight? God, Olivia, I could kill you.”

He looked angry enough. “Why don’t you?” From being on autopilot, powerful emotions now flooded her body. “You’re a liar and a cheat.”

And you love him. No matter what.

His eyes flashed a brilliant anger. He looked appalled. “Have a care,” he warned.

“You can’t deny it.” She reached for her handbag. Glittering tears stood in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of allowing them to fall. “How could you, Clint. I trusted you. You had become my world. But you’re a lying brute, just like other men.”

Every muscle in his powerful body tensed. “What the hell are you talking about?” He was about a beat away from losing it.

“Here, read it. An email from Georgy.” She pitched the crunched-up piece of paper at him.

He caught it, scanned it in a second, then lifted his head. “For pity’s sake, Olivia, this is utter rubbish.” He sounded deeply disappointed in her. “And it’s not from Georgy.”

“More lies? Who’s it from, then?” She picked up a silk cushion and hurled it at him, her body language frenzied. It was beyond her understanding. She could still love this man after what he had done to her. No logic to love. No reasoning.

But he’s come after you. Why?

She sobered briefly.

Doesn’t make sense, does it?

He had sidestepped the flying missile. “Who the hell do you think?” he grated. “Marigole, of course. It’s just her style, a malicious ploy to speed you on your way. I wouldn’t take Marigole back if she were the last woman standing.”

Her legs buckled under her. She sank down on the bed, not knowing what to believe any more. “Marigole? How did Marigole gain access to Georgy’s computer?”

He came to sit beside her, the man who had given her all those perfect Judas kisses. “Clearly you don’t know Marigole. If there are games to be played, Marigole is first class. How could a clever woman like you be fooled so easily? I’m just so angry with you. What sort of man do you think I am? You told me you loved me, yet you condemned me out of hand.”

True, Olivia! Shame. Shame. Shame!

She turned her head to stare into his unwavering eyes. He looked tougher, harder, than she had ever seen him. “I never thought Georgy would lie. She didn’t know about us. What used to be us.” She gave a broken laugh.

“She does now. There’s a genuine email waiting for you at home. Couldn’t you have waited until I got back?” He didn’t try to hide his pain.

“You don’t understand.” She shook her head violently. “I gave my whole self to you. I was at your mercy. I love you, Clint. But when I read that, I hated you. Just as you hated me. I couldn’t possibly accept—” she choked on it”—I’d exposed my heart…”

“And I hadn’t?” His fingers caught her chin.

“I can only say I believed it to be the truth. Now I feel shaken to my very soul. I thought you might be doing it for Georgy. She means so much to you.”

“Obviously you don’t realise what you mean to me.” With furious abandon, he pushed her backwards onto the bed, bending over her, a muscle working along his set jaw. “Was the relationship becoming too intense for you?”

“Are you crazy?” She sought to sit up but he held her back. “Don’t you get it? I’ve searched for love all my life. Then like a miracle I fell in love. You’ve illuminated my days and my nights. I thought you were the one person who saw through all the layers of self-protection to the very heart of me. Without you I felt my life was finished. Why are you here anyway?”

“For God’s sake, isn’t that obvious?” he exploded, his temper volatile. “I want you back. I refuse to let you go. I refuse the desolation of waking up in the morning without you. I refuse to allow Marigole her little victory.” He reached to pull the pins from her hair, ruffling it wildly around her face. His expression, his voice, the glitter in his eyes, betrayed his rocketing desire. Instant arousal at the very sight of her!

“I have to continue on home, Clint,” she pleaded. “I have an obligation.”

“I know that.” His response was terse. Then, like a driven man, he kissed her—not gently, not even with a measure of control. Full-on heat. He kissed her like a man starved of the woman he loved. Kissed her until she thought her heart was going to explode with joy in her chest.

What a fool you were!

Her inner voice was back to chiding her.

“Forgive me?” she begged, the moment she was able.

“It’s done!” He let go of his grief and helpless rage. She was where she was supposed to be. In his arms. “I’m coming back with you.” He made the decision on the spot. “I’ll make the time. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He gathered her up with exquisite strength. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you.” He gave a wry twist of a smile. “I’d been debating whether to strangle you. Now I think I’ll settle for making love to you instead.”

“And I couldn’t want for anything more.” She was filled with immense fervour. “I’m at peace now. The despair is over. I’ve been a fool. But you know as well as anyone I’ve been prone to bouts of insecurity.”

“Never with me. Never again,” he answered tautly. “We’re all fools in love. You’ve had me out of my mind and I thought I’d been through an emotional wringer in my time.” He held her eyes. “Now, my one and only love, I’m going to get you out of this very pretty dress.” He began to unbuckle her turquoise belt.

She arched her back to assist him.

“Are you really going to come back with me?” She felt over the moon at the prospect. To return home with Clint by her side! To show him off! It would make any woman ecstatic.

“I’m not the kind of guy who backs off big decisions,” he was saying. “I’m coming with you to England. We’re a team. We go together. I’m sure Oscar won’t mind. But right now I’m working on making love to you until you scream for help.”

“Won’t happen.” For the first time in days her face blossomed into radiant smiles.

“I haven’t started on you yet,” he only half joked. “Afterwards I thought we might pay a visit to a jeweller. I’m thinking an engagement ring. The most beautiful ruby they can show us. Ruby for the heart’s blood. You know you hold my heart in these lovely, elegant hands.” He raised one and then the other, kissing them devoutly, like a white knight of old. “So what do you think?” His brilliant eyes gleamed.

She released a long rapturous breath. “A ruby is perfect! I would adore it. You’re too good to me, Clint.”

“Well, that’s settled!” Exultation was written all over him “Some nearly forgotten lines of poetry have come back to me. Want to hear them?”

“I want to hear everything you have to say.” She pulled him hungrily down to her.

“You probably know it, scholar that you are. I think I’ve got it right.” He turned his marvellous face to her, beginning to quote: “‘Nothing in the world is single; / All things by a law divine / In one spirit meet and mingle. / Why not I with thine?’”

The tears flowed freely as Olivia picked up on the lines of her favourite poet, Shelley. How simply beautiful that Clint should think of them! She would never forget this moment.

“And the sunlight clasps the earth…’” She wrapped her arms tightly, lovingly around him. ‘“And the moonbeams kiss the sea: / What is all this sweet work worth / If thou kiss not me?’”

A tremendous rush of emotion freed Clint of the days of pain. “So let the kissing begin.”

It did in earnest while the whole world held its breath.

Unnoticed by either of them, lost among the stars, on the glass-topped table where Olivia had left her ancient crystal, its glorious sparkle dulled over, the stone suddenly began to radiate iridescent beams of blue light.

Unaccountable?

Magic can happen anywhere, at any time.

EPILOGUE

Article in SCOOP Magazine:

This Month’s Exclusive!

Splendour in Buckinghamshire…Patrician Eighteenth-century Balfour Manor…Oscar Balfour’s Brilliant Birthday Bash!

Coverage: Rainbow Beckwith Photographs: Bobby Berstein

Greetings, greetings, dear readers! Kisses, kisses—both cheeks—hugs, hugs.

What a scoop I have for you this month, so sit back with a cuppa and lap it all up.

The Balfour Black Tie Birthday Extravaganza. Engraved invitations (I kept mine) requested the ladies wear either silver, white or gold. Bellissimo! I can report everyone rose splendidly to the occasion. As we were to find out later, the particular palette was to complement the exquisite flower arrangements and the fantastic interior and exterior decorations.

Sumptuous buffet in the historic banqueting hall, enough vintage champers to top up the Thames, great music, romantic strolls in the manor’s magnificent gardens, dancing until dawn. Get the picture?

Anyone who is anyone was there. The blue-bloods, the upper crust, the celebrated, the movie stars and current celebs, plus a goodly sprinkle of the gilded international set. Glad it’s Oscar and not me footing the bill.

But enough of that! I know what you really want to hear. So here it is, first-hand.

Any of you who earlier in the year were set abuzz by cruel rumours that our very own dazzling Balfours were jinxed should have been so lucky as to receive a priceless invitation. When I received mine, I kid you not, I fell to my knees.

Power host, Oscar, was at his triumphant best, his distinguished face aglow with pleasure and family pride.

You will know from photographs of your Rainbow covering other big social events what a passion I have for fashion, so naturally I went all out on my gown. Glittering gold lace. But no way could I rival the tremendous glamour of the Beautiful Balfour Girls.

What an orchestration was their entry! Everyone gasped and fell about in genuine admiration. Whatever mastermind party planner thought it up is now assured of a full book from hosts and hostesses dead set to impress.

Oscar’s beautiful daughters—Olivia, Bella, Zoe, Annie, Sophie, Kat, Emily and Mia; could any father be so blessed?—came on with such dazzle and pizzazz that the two hundred guests gathered in the magnificent black-and-white marble-paved entrance hall burst into spontaneous applause.

Watching proudly was Oscar Balfour with his companion of the evening, the marvellously chic Lady Primrose Howard, while his daughters—“jewels in his crown,” as he later said in a wonderfully witty speech—commenced their spellbinding descent of the manor’s gloriously romantic grand staircase.

Utterly, utterly gorgeous, dear readers! It should be a tradition.

Olivia, as the eldest, led off. Talk about goddess worship! She wore a gleaming strapless column of white satin embroidered with crystals, pearls and silver thread—a gown so stunning you could pine away and die for it, that’s if you could ever manage such a willowy figure!

Following Olivia came her fraternal twin, our fashion icon, Bella, in an amazing asymmetrical gown featuring wide bands of silver and gold silk.

Must tell you before I report another word, I later witnessed a very touching moment between the sisters, lovely to see, that puts paid to any talk of an estrangement. Take it from me, I’m here to derail it. I’ve never seen two more devoted sisters. And why not? They’re twins. For the first time, I noted they’re actually very much alike.

Behind the twins, came Kat, Mia and Zoe, all three positively blooming. Pick up any clues, girls? Watch this space.

Sophie and Annie in lovely, lovely extravagant gowns were next in line to make their graceful descent.

Little Oliver also made a fleeting appearance, waving happily at the gathering before being promptly escorted off to bed.

And for the grand finale! Emily, soon to become Princess of the Principality of Santosa. Real live royalty no less. Could anything be more thrilling than a fairy-tale end?

But the real show-stopper of a truly fantastic evening was, as the sisters started their celebratory descent, accompanied by a fanfare of wonderfully sweeping music, they were joined, in turn, from the opposite side of the fabulous art-hung gallery by their strikingly handsome, elegantly attired partners, seemingly from all over the globe!

Let me be the first to tell you—and don’t you forget it—we can expect lots of wedding bells to ring out in the near future, so now is the time to renew your subscription to your favourite magazine.

To wave upon wave of delighted applause the Beautiful Balfour Girls, with their deliciously exciting Significant Others, moved down the stairs to join the throng for a round of introductions, Oscar right in the middle of it, loving every moment, his daughters all lit from within with the joy of reunion and their personal happiness that couldn’t have been more on show.

This was one of those evenings, dear readers, that forever remains in the memory. I had the greatest time, as did all of Oscar Balfour’s honoured guests.

Hot, hot news coming straight off the press: the upcoming engagement of the beautiful Olivia to her partner of the evening, Australian cattle baron and business entrepreneur Clint McAlpine. There’s some distant family connection, I understand. Olivia recently returned from an extended stay at Clint’s vast outback desert kingdom.

Wow!

At this stage of my reporting life, I think it’s fair to say I’ve never enjoyed a birthday bash more. I’m sure all of us who were there will long cherish the memory.

Until you hear from me again, keeping you, dearest readers, fully in the picture of what goes on at the best places…

Love and XXXXs,

Rainbow Beckwith

Mia and Nikos…

Article taken from Celeb magazine:

True Love Is Bountiful!

When Greek entrepreneur Nikos Theakis married one of Oscar Balfour’s daughters three years ago, no one expected the glamorous couple to settle into family life so enthusiastically. Yet here they are expecting their fourth child in three years!

Wearing blue chequerboard shorts, the deliciously handsome billionaire looked the picture of domestic contentment when he took a barefoot stroll along the beach at his fabulous oceanfront home outside Athens yesterday. Hand in hand with his beautiful half-Italian wife, Mia, Nikos kept a sharp eye on two-year-old twin sons, Ari and Oscar, as they played in the surf, while his year-old daughter, Giulia—the spitting image of her mother—rode contentedly on her father’s arm.

Forever the fierce competitor in all aspects of his life, “Nikos aims to beat Oscar Balfour’s record of eight children,” a close source to Nikos told us yesterday. “He thinks ten is a nice round number to work towards.”

With a wife who looks as stunning as Mia does in a skimpy red bikini while sporting a prominent baby bump, who can blame him?

Since marrying Nikos, the beautiful brunette has made quite a name for herself in the fashion industry as a gifted self-taught designer. Nikos, meanwhile, made world headlines recently when he bought out Mario Mattea, the founder of Mattea SPA, to become the major shareholder of the famous Italian sports car manufacturer in a deal purported to be worth £3.5 billion.

Next week the family will be flying into the UK to join the rest of the Balfour family in Buckinghamshire for the annual Balfour Charity Ball. With an international guest list that reads like Who’s Who in the business and celebrity world, you can guarantee the chosen charities the ball supports will be rubbing their hands with glee.

Kat and Carlos…

Villa Maravilloso

Dear Daddy,

I just wanted to write and tell you how wonderful it was to see you here last weekend and to thank you for your extremely generous christening present. Carlos and I were so glad that you stayed on after everyone else had left and that we were able to have some time alone.

It was great to be able to take that long walk with you, not just to show you the beautiful countryside, but also for the two of us to have a proper talk together—in a way I can never really remember doing before. But then, life here seems to give me the time to do the important things in life. It’s one of the things I love about it.

I know you had expressed doubts that I would find happiness living in rural Spain after my somewhat varied (!) metropolitan lifestyle, but I think you were able to see for yourself just how blissfully contented I am here in Andalusia.

Until our chat, I never realised how bitterly you regretted the past, and how you wished you could undo all the mistakes you have made. But we all make mistakes—every single one of us. That’s part of what makes us human. It’s what has brought us to the place in which we find ourselves, and I don’t think either of us would want to be anywhere else. You were simply following your heart, the way we all do. And you have so many amazing things to show for your life.

All your daughters are settled and you are now a proud grandfather many times over! You are remarkably tender with the little ones, and as I watched you hold my own Miguel, I could sense your pride (and relief!) to have another little boy with Balfour blood after so many girls! I can foresee him spending many happy hours with you in the future, although Carlos says to tell you (very sternly!) that he will be supporting a Spanish football team.

We both hope you will come out and visit us again (but for longer next time!) and we look forward to seeing you at Sophie’s next month.

Miguel sends you a big kiss, and I have enclosed a photo of the two of you sitting on the veranda as the sun is going down. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?

Well, take care of yourself, Daddy, and I’ll talk to you soon. With oodles of love, Your loving daughter, Kat. Xxxxx

P.S. That woman you’ve been reported dating seems very young!

Emily and Luis…

From the Jornal do Santosa, October 3, 2010:

His Majesty’s Secret Service!

Months of feverish speculation about the forthcoming Santosan royal wedding came to an abrupt end last night as it emerged that King Luis married his beautiful English fiancée, Emily Balfour, yesterday afternoon in a private, and somewhat spontaneous, ceremony near her family home.

The ancient church in the small village of Balfour, Buckinghamshire, provided the setting for the service, which King Luis apparently arranged at the last minute and without the bride’s knowledge, with special permission of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was attended by the bride’s close family—her seven sisters and their partners, all of whom had gathered at their childhood home to celebrate the sixieth birthday of their father, Oscar Balfour, the day before.

The king’s private secretary, Tomás Almeida, was one of the few Santosans present at the service. Speaking exclusively to our reporter from the private reception at Balfour Manor last night, he expressed the king’s regret for any disappointment the people of Santosa might feel about this most secret and private of royal weddings. “His Majesty felt that coming so soon after the death of his father, King Marcos Fernando, it was not appropriate to have a lavish public celebration. He also knew how much it would mean to Miss Balfour to get married at home, surrounded by her family.”

Wearing her late mother’s wedding dress—a simple, slim-fitting column of cream satin—Miss Balfour was given away by her father.

As bridesmaid, Princess Luciana wore an apple-green net skirt and glittery fairy wings which, according to one of the villagers who gathered outside the church, appeared to have come from the sisters’ old dressing-up box at Balfour Manor. “The little princess looked a picture and was clearly excited by the occasion,” she commented. “We all were. It was so unexpected, but as word got round the whole village came out to wish them well, and I know I wasn’t the only one with a tear in my eye. It was a beautiful golden autumn afternoon, with the leaves falling like confetti and the sun shining down on them as they came out of the church. The whole family was together again—smiling, crying, laughing—and Miss Emily looked so lovely that the king couldn’t take his eyes off her for a second.”

The king and queen are expected to enjoy a long honeymoon in a secret location before returning to Santosa for next month’s coronation.

Sophie and Marco…

Email from Marco Speranza to Oscar Balfour:

Oscar, please could you make excuses for Sophie and me at the party tonight?

Do enjoy yourself and raise a toast, not just to your beautiful daughter, but also your new grandsons, who, like their big sister, decided to put in an early appearance!

Mother and sons are fine. Actually, they are all perfect! Sophie was utterly incredible and so calm…Did I mention that Rafael did not wait until we reached the hospital? He was born in the back seat of the car. My hands are still shaking! Francesco—he has Sophie’s eyes—made his entrance on the steps of the hospital.

Keep the sisters away until tomorrow. Sophie needs rest and I need Sophie.

Regards,

Marco

Zoe and Max…

As seen in the New York Times “Living” section:

Mr. and Mrs. Max Monroe Announce the Birth of Baby Boy

John Oscar Monroe, to be known as Jack, was born at Lenox Hill Hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan on February 23. Mother and baby are both doing well.

Max Monroe, the baby’s father, experienced a tragic accident nearly a year ago, when his plane crashed on Long Island and he suffered nearly complete sight loss. After a brief respite from business, Mr. Monroe returned to investment consulting, and his private firm, Monroe Consulting, has seen incredible new growth in recent months.

Zoe Monroe, née Balfour, and the youngest daughter of Oscar Balfour, was featured heavily in the press last year when the story broke revealing her illegitimacy. Scandal briefly rocked the illustrious family, but has since disappeared almost completely. Since then she has been involved in various charities both in New York and London, and she organized the Midtown Pregnancy Support Center’s fundraising gala in December. She is also working towards a university degree in Natural Sciences.

The Monroes divide their time between New York and London, and, according to sources close to the devoted couple, look forward to “many more little Monroes.” We extend our warmest wishes to this new family.

Annie and Luc…

The de Salvatore Vineyard, Venice, Italy 10

December, 2010

Hello, Daddy,

Just a brief note—I know what an old traditionalist you are and hate receiving texts or emails from the family!—to let you know that Luc’s parents would love to come along with us to stay with you for the Christmas holidays. There is no way they are going to miss spending Christmas with Oliver, and with their second grandchild expected in the New Year, they want to be here—just in case!

They will be writing to you themselves, of course, to formally accept your invitation, but I just thought I would give you a heads-up.

Luc sends his love to you and Mummy, as usual. He also says to get the champagne on ice—the way this baby is kicking, Luc is sure that he or she is going to be born sooner rather than later!

See you soon, Daddy.

Lots of love,

Annie

Bella and Zafiq…

My Family by Yazlin Al-Rafid, aged 5:

My name is Yazlin. I am five years old. I live in a palace with my mummy and my daddy. My daddy is called Zafiq and he is the Shake. He is tall with black hair. He is very strong and clever. I like it when he tells me stories.

My mummy looks like a princess. Her name is Bella and she has lovely hair. Sometimes she wears sparkly dresses. She is kind and she hugs me. Sometimes she lets me eat chocolate. My daddy thinks he is the one in charge but really it is my mummy. When she wants him to say yes to her, she wears red lipstick. I am going to wear red lipstick when I grow up. The thing my daddy likes best is kissing my mummy. It makes her smile.

My favourite things are drawing and riding my horse. My horse is called Aliya, and her mummy is called Amira and her daddy is called Batal. I like to ride fast. My daddy says I am too much like my mummy.

Every year my mummy and daddy go to the desert. I stay with my Aunt Olivia. Last year when they went to the desert, Mummy got fat. Then my baby brother arrived. He cries a lot. Mummy says he cannot help it because he is a man and men often make a fuss. I like my family.

Copyright

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

First published in Great Britain 2009
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

Mia’s Scandal © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Kat’s Pride © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Emily’s Innocence © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Sophie’s Seduction © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Zoe’s Lesson © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Annie’s Secret © Harlequin Books S.A. 2010

Bella’s Disgrace © Harlequin Books S.A. 2011

Olivia’s Awakening © Harlequin Books S.A. 2011

Special thanks and acknowledgement are given to Michelle Reid, Sharon Kendrick, India Grey, Kim Lawrence, Kate Hewitt, Carole Mortimer, Sarah Morgan, and Margaret Way for their contributions to The Balfour Legacy series

ISBN: 978-1-4089-2836-3

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Excerpt

Family Tree

Mia's Scandal

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Kat's Pride

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Emily's Innocence

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Fifteen

Sophie's Seduction

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Zoe's Lesson

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Annie's Secret

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Bella's Disgrace

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Olivia's Awakening

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

EPILOGUE

Mia and Nikos…

Kat and Carlos…

Emily and Luis…

Sophie and Marco…

Zoe and Max…

Annie and Luc…

Bella and Zafiq…

Copyright