The Right Side of Mr Wrong

Jane Linfoot

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Jane Linfoot

I write fun, flirty fiction with feisty heroines and a bit of an edge. Writing romance is cool because I get to wear pretty shoes instead of wellies. I live in a mountain kingdom in Derbyshire, where my family and pets are kind enough to ignore the domestic chaos. Happily, we’re in walking distance of a supermarket. I love hearts, flowers, happy endings, all things vintage, most things French. When I’m not on Facebook and can’t find an excuse for shopping, I’ll be walking or gardening. On days when I want to be really scared, I ride a tandem.

For M and D <3

Prologue

Brando Marshall catapulted out of the lift, and cursed that he was late for his midday summons to Bryony’s flat. He rapped on her door, and braced himself for whatever was coming. Only one thing was certain – with baby sister Bryony, there was no such thing as a free lunch.

‘Brando!’ Tall, blonde, beautiful and air kissing, Bryony grinned, then grappled him into a hug that squished his breath away. Definitely a bad sign.

‘So. Long time, no see.’ She patted his arm as she released him.

What the hell? She was the one who’d been avoiding him.

‘Not still cross about Country House Crisis are you Brando?’

No, not cross. Incandescent, more like.

They both knew she was the one person in the world he couldn’t refuse, but letting the TV crew into Edgerton Manor to fill a gap in her schedule, was a huge favour she should have respected.

‘There’s a lot to answer for Bry. You said a few shots to show the downside of owning a stately home, and a few business ideas from the presenter.’ Not that he needed business advice, but that was the point of the thing. ‘I play along, then instead of gruesome Gloria coming out with her usual bed and breakfast in the stable block bollocks, she says what I need is a wife, and invites the world to apply for the job! Tell me, what part of that would I not be fuming about?’

The whites of Bryony’s eyes contained more desperation than her coaxing tone. ‘Come through, have some lunch…’

He followed her into the lofty living space, with its spectacular view of the Thames, and she gestured towards the long granite breakfast bar.

One corporate sandwich platter which screamed television company expenses, one showy vase of flowers and he had her rumbled.

‘You hate sandwiches at lunchtime Bry, and you’d never choose orange lilies. What’s going on?’

He watched her face crumple. Damn the way that expression always made him feel responsible.

‘Jeez, what’s he doing here?’ He grimaced as a guy with a camera on his shoulder emerged from behind the giant fridge.

‘Please Brando … ’ her squeak became quietly urgent. ‘We’re making a Country House Crisis follow-up, and I need you to give me one more Lord of the Manor shot. That’s all, it’s not much to ask, but there’s a huge amount at stake for me here.’

No emotional blackmail at all then. He counted to ten under his breath.

Then caved. ‘Okay, dammit! I knew I could smell a waxed jacket!’

Plucking a coat from behind a sofa, she tossed it towards him. ‘Put the Barbour on and come to the table. We’re ready to go, as soon as you are.’

Nice ambush Bryony.

Dragging on the coat, he sidled forwards, aware of the cameraman behind him now.

‘The table’s perfect for this shot, because we’ve had such a huge response … you remember Brando? A wife needed for Edgerton Manor, applications on a postcard.’

Gloria Rutherford trying to bounce him to the altar on national TV would be etched upon Brando’s memory until the end of time. But he wasn’t about to admit it.

Bryony arrived beside him, arms wrapped around a wide box. With one flip, she sent a cascade of postcards whooshing across the table. ‘There were over five hundred entries, you really caught the public imagination – in terms of viewing figures, it’s sensational.’

‘What the … ’ Brando winced as the array of potential brides fanned out in front of him, and made his head swim. ‘This is insane.’

Bryony cut in hastily. ‘No Brando, it’s successful TV, and you have to help. Just choose one!’ The note in her voice slid upwards. ‘And don’t you dare run out on me!’

He’d heard that note before, when they were kids, practically those same words, making his chest twang the same way it did now. That one note of desperation spun him right back to when he was about to walk out and leave her, simply because he couldn’t stand to stay at home any more. He had saved himself, and left her behind, and the guilt still burned fresh, which was why he could never say ‘no’ now, whatever she asked him. Although that didn’t mean it didn’t drive him round the bend every time it happened.

‘Jeez, what sort of woman would want to do this anyway?’ He swallowed hard to dispel the distaste.

‘Go on then.’ Chivvying beside him, Bryony’s voice was lighter, now she sensed she was about to get what she wanted.

As she reached over to swirl the ocean of colour, he caught sight of a card. One image. Incongruous. Nothing to do with brides or weddings.

He leaned in, plucked it from the pile, held it in his palm. A blast from the past. For a fraction of a second his face cracked into a smile, then he tossed the card back on the table.

‘Thanks Brando. I owe you.’ She flashed him a grateful smile which melted into a slow grin. ‘You know Gloria’s right though?’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re thirty five, a wife would be great for you.’

‘You have to be joking?’

One blink of Bryony’s clear blue eyes said she was not only serious, but back on his case. ‘And a little bit more footage from Edgerton, would make all the difference too. You with your trial wife perhaps?’

Now he’d heard it all. Would she never back off?

‘Okay, Bry, I’ll say this one time only. This far I’ve done what you wanted, but as of now I’m through with this, out. That’s O-U-T as in ‘I’m having zero involvement.’ Understand?’

‘I’m only thinking of you – and your long-term happiness.’ Bryony, as usual, giving it everything she’d got.

‘For happiness, read TV rankings?’ He gave a bitter laugh. Deep down he knew her concern was genuine, but she had to butt out. ‘I’m a lost cause, you’re wasting your time.’

‘Brando … ’

He gritted his teeth, hardened himself to her wail. ‘Sorry Bry, but I’m done here.’ He screwed out of the jacket, making a lunge for the door. ‘And that means, no more Country House Crisis, no TV crews, but most of all, NO WIFE!’

Chapter One

Sorry, no matrimonial ambitions whatsoever, but great at organising …

For the ninety-ninth time that afternoon Shea Summers wondered how those few short words she’d scribbled on a postcard had catapulted her into the air. Private helicopters didn’t happen every day, even in affluent North Cheshire, at least not to her.

Brando Marshall, of Edgerton Manor, in need of a wife, applications on a postcard. Women had been fighting for the opportunity apparently. It seemed ironic that she was the one the TV company had chosen, when she didn’t give a damn about it, and had zero intention of becoming anyone’s wife.

She clutched her stomach as it gave another unnerving lurch. Beneath her white knuckles it was performing the same impromptu tango it had before her first ever dancing exam when she was seven, the same one it did every time she psyched herself up now, as a wimpy twenty four year old, for the misery of a bikini wax. And she had an idea that a bikini wax might be a walk-in-the-park compared to what she had let herself in for here. She delved into the pocket of her tailored jacket in search of fortification, and gesticulated wildly, in the direction of the co-pilot.

‘Fancy a sour worm, or a pink shrimp?’

The co-pilot, turned, ran an eye swiftly up her legs, then winked as he gave a half shake of his head. She returned his grin, slipped a sour worm into her mouth, and shuddered as the sugar hit zapped her taste buds. Then she shuddered again as she took in the panorama below. Worryingly green. Green as in rural, rolling countryside. Green as in miles from anywhere.

Damn. She definitely hadn’t expected a middle-of-nowhere scenario. Her insides squished as she recalled all the stuff she hadn’t asked. Bryony, the nice girl from the TV company, had been very persuasive and reassuring, but she hadn’t let her get a word in edgeways.

‘Just a bit of that organising you’re obviously so good at and a few pieces to camera … a new angle for the follow-up programme … Brando is very rarely there … you could make it your holiday … ’

‘Closing in now Miss Summers!’

The pilot’s gruff tones hauled her back to the present with a jerk that caused her to gulp her last pink shrimp practically whole. A weird shiver of déjà-vu slithered down her back as she peered down at the collection of stone-tiled roofs flashing gold in the autumn sun, took in a classical facade of the elegant house with its perfect rhythm of Georgian sash windows. The same spinning view of Edgerton Manor she’d last seen on the closing credits of the Country House Crisis programme. As she took in the real-life extent of the property her heart faltered. She hoped she hadn’t over-exaggerated her organisational skills. She was used to working in big houses, but this one was something else.

Dragging her eyes away from the view below, she brushed the sugar dust off the pleats of her skirt, slipped her feet back into the patent stilettos she’d eased out of earlier, and dug the spike of the heel softly into her ankle. Just enough pain to remind her she wasn’t dreaming, without the nightmare of a ripped stocking. She wasn’t sure that helicopters mixed with towering court shoes, but she knew if she could only nail that all-important first impression, the rest was usually easy-peasy.

‘Almost there now, I’ll be bringing us down on the grassy area in front of the house, Miss Summers.’

She hurled a mental pillow over the voice in her head which was yelling ‘Eeeeeeeek’, snatched up her bag and made a grab for her lip gloss and her heavily framed Dolce & Gabbana glasses.

‘Oh, lordy, look at that!’ She stifled a groan of dismay. Grassy had to be a man’s way of describing the expanse of mud where they were about to land.

Mud and high heels. Not the best combination.

Wriggling her skirt into place, she tugged her jacket into submission over her cleavage, and widened her smile to the max. So much for her impressive entrance, it was going to take a miracle just to get her to the front door.

* * *

‘Dropping women onto me out of the sky is not going to make me settle down!’

Brando Marshall’s loud protest down the phone to his sister was simultaneously heartfelt and indignant. ‘What part of ‘I don’t do relationships’ don’t you understand Bryony?’ Not that he was about to enlighten her, but as far as women went he had three rules: plenty of them, never at home, and no repeats, although recently he’d put business before sex too often. He raked his fingers through his hair, shuddering at the fleetingly awful thought that Bryony might have any idea of the hard, hot sex he enjoyed, or worse, the hard, hot women he enjoyed it with. Slamming a mental door on that one, quickly, he shook his head at the realisation that this time she’d almost out-witted him. He could already feel the vibrations of the approaching helicopter.

‘I’m only going to say this once, Bry! Regardless of what your motor-mouthed TV presenter boss with the hideous pink lips might have told the nation, I do not need a wife! And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be hooking up with some fortune-seeking low-life who writes in to some down-market TV show!’

‘Okay. Take a chill pill Brando … ’

One vault took him over the sofa and to the window. He peered at the lawn in front of the house, scrutinising the descending helicopter through a flurry of leaves, as it nudged to the ground.

Damned cheek of the girl! Bryony was only flying the woman in, using his chopper!

His face cracked into a slow smile. Giving him the perfect means of escape.

He vaulted over the sofa, and grabbed the phone again.

‘Nice of you to borrow my helicopter without asking, but handy – I’m out of here! I’m off back to London right now, and you can get rid of the woman … ’

He was going with the split-second decision.

Belting along the landing, he halted for a nano-second as he reached the top of the stairs. He knew the staff went apoplectic when he did his parkour moves around the house, but what the hell? He wouldn’t be around to catch the fall out. He bent his knees, and flung himself into the air.

Whoosh. Nothing like the rush of carved balusters and deep pile carpet spinning past your face at forty miles an hour.

Three flick-flacks, an equal number of thumps and groans from ancient timbers, and he was streaking across the hall, only stopping to hurl open the huge front door.

Tearing wind slapped him head-on as he dashed into the late October cold, his t-shirt flapping wildly. With one leap, he’d cleared the stone steps outside the front door, then the gravel crunched beneath his converse as he sped on towards the grass. He pulled to a halt as he saw a figure alight from the helicopter. Someone slight, bending down now, waving their arms, holding onto their flapping jacket. A woman.

The woman.

Struggling.

He grimaced. She straightened to standing and he got a view as she spun. He clocked a suit and hair pinned back securely enough to resist the turbulence. A cabin bag-on-wheels.

‘Damn you Bryony!’ He was muttering under his breath now. ‘Why the hell have you sent an air hostess?’

He took in endless legs, heels, a nipped-in waist. His eyebrows shot upwards in immediate appreciation, and he heard himself let out a long, low whistle, with no apparent input on his part.

And wow, she was stacked. An air hostess, who was stacked!

Quick re-assessment. ‘Nice work, Bryony!’

But he was still out of here.

He dragged himself back to the scene unfolding in front of him, in apparent slow-motion. The air hostess turned. Huge black glasses, dwarfing a delicate face, took him by surprise, then a smile at least as wide as the Atlantic whacked him somewhere in the solar plexus, and surprised him some more. He felt his hand rise and he gave himself a mental kick as he realised he was waving to her. She lifted her hand off her thigh, and gave an enthusiastic wave in return.

For crazy sakes don’t grin at her you fool!

The last thing he needed to look was welcoming, dammit.

She held her hand aloft, as if she were waiting for his smile before she let it fall, but Brando had stopped thinking about smiling, and instead had his eyes fixed on the hemline of her skirt, flirting in the buffeting wind.

Bingo!

A freak gust tore at the pleats and blasted them skywards. Before she had time to react, the air hostess skirt had twisted inside out, and was billowing, wildly, somewhere around her ears.

‘Nice one!’

Brando’s face cracked into an, involuntary smile. Just what a guy needed to brighten a dreary afternoon. Maybe there was a god after all. Stocking tops, delicious dark knickers, he had enough time to make out the pattern of the lace. He gave a nod of appraisal.

‘Twelve out of ten for that bottom – at the very least.’

A tug at the base of Brando’s stomach, and a constriction of denim in the groin area, indicated that the skirt wasn’t all that was rising.

Resist the urge to help a damsel in distress.

Given he would be leaving as-soon-as, there was no point in complicating the issue. He looked away. Next time he looked she was bent double, her arms wrapped around her knees, skirt firmly in place, feet solidly planted, but her body was gyrating.

She almost looked as though her feet were …

It took two blinks for Brando to know she was about to lose her balance, and one more for him to shoot across the grass, and grab hold of her before she crashed to the ground.

‘Watch out!’

It was a shout, but the helicopter blades spun his words away.

The fact that he’d ended up cradling her bottom in his crotch was incidental. The important thing was he had saved her the embarrassment of a face-plant. Her body jack-knifed against him, stiffened, then the warmth of her soft buttocks passed straight through her skirt pleats, and set his groin on fire.

‘Sorry about … ’

Damn. Now he was pulling her onto a huge hard-on, and the fact that he could feel her breasts folding onto his hands somewhere round her front was making matters worse. From the vibrations in her torso, she was obviously saying something. Still grasping her tightly he pressed his ear closer to her mouth, struggling to hear what she said over the roar of the engines. He was rewarded with a brush with a pillow-soft cheek, and a spiky jab in the eye from her specs.

‘What are you playing at?’

Was that what she was saying?

He couldn’t be sure. He tried to disentangle himself, but felt her lean into him. What the hell? She was pointing to her feet now, twisting, gesticulating, shouting words he still failed to grasp.

He looked down.

Lots of mud, all over her shoes. And those surely had to be eff-me shoes, if ever he’d seen them. And right this moment, his blood was all heading one place, making damn sure he was ready to oblige. Yes Siree!

He needed to get a grip here. A grip of the situation, rather than the woman would be useful. It took a moment to disengage his brain from his libido, then it hit him.

‘You’re stuck?’

She grimaced at him, stuck fast and unable to move with both hooker-high heels firmly impaled in his lawn.

Through the huge lenses of her glasses, her panicky eyes were smoky purple. And she smelled of summer. That was it. Summer.

Summer and sex.

‘Hang on to me!’

He dipped down, shivered as her hands closed around his head to steady herself, then he prised one foot at a time out of her shoes.

And not just any sex, hot sex.

His libido thrust into overdrive, and once more he made a valiant attempt to disengage it, as he wrenched her shoes out of the ground, stood up fast, and rammed them into her hand.

‘I’m just leaving … ’ He was yelling, but she shrugged back at him.

Jeez, he’d come here to get in the chopper, get the hell out of here, or better still, to wave the woman back to wherever she’d flown in from. So why wasn’t he pressing ahead and doing just that? He blinked away the miniscule twitch in his left eye. That tiny giveaway. His unfailing, gut-fuelled instinct kicked in.

‘Looks like this is the only way … ’

As he bent his knees, braced himself, and grasped hold of his air hostess, he saw her eyes go bright with surprise.

When the hell had she become his air hostess?

Up close now, he clocked the strawberry curve of her lips as they parted in astonished protest, and knew he was on the right track. He swung her easily into his arms, and turned, and strode towards the house, with his jaw set. Whatever was happening to him, he was determined to shake it off fast.

* * *

Feet dangling.

Cheek rammed unceremoniously against the rocky shoulder of a man who smelled delectable, and seemed in no hurry to put her down.

Not quite how Shea had planned her entrance to Edgerton Manor.

Her heart was still pounding from the shock of being literally swept off her feet, but at least that had solved the immediate problem of how to cross the sea of mud and reach the house without damaging her shoes further.

‘You can put me down now, thanks.’

For a fleeting moment she was dizzied by the whole male proximity thing. She’d almost forgotten how it felt. Come to think of it, she’d never been man-handled like this. There was something appalling about the raw thrill vibrating through her. She didn’t have herself down as a sucker for caveman tactics.

‘I said you can put me down!’

She forced her eyes beyond the line of the sensuously stubbled jaw inches above her face, and caught a view of a ceiling as high as the sky, and the twinkliest chandelier she’d ever seen. When she looked back again, he was motionless, staring down at her, and her gaze locked onto slate-hard grey eyes and a quizzical smirk that made her stomach flip.

‘If you insist on putting your head in the wolf’s mouth, you can expect to get bitten!’ His growl was rough as bitter chocolate. ‘Your choice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

Before she had time to work out what he meant by that, the world swung, and he lowered her legs, setting her down gently. Then backed away.

So much for keeping a professional distance.

Shea wriggled, took a minute to wrestle her crumpled jacket into approximately the right places, smooth her box-pleats into order. Muddy feet, or muddy shoes? She went with the stilettos, and gained the immediate five inch boost she needed.

‘That’s more like it!’

She flicked a tentative smile at the guy who had retreated a pace or two, but was still watching her with chilling determination, a large dose of disdain and an even larger dose of mental undressing. And the way his eyes locked onto her boobs brought her nipples out to graze the inside of her bra cups. She gave a shudder, as she looked back at him. Her eyes took in a broken-down t-shirt which she already knew covered the hardest of bodies, jeans ripped through in places, and low-slung, pretty much to the point of indecency. She pulled herself up sharply for letting her gaze linger a second too long on the most indecent bit, chided herself for the shiver rush that zinged down her spine when she took in the size of things in that area, becoming more defined by the moment. She shuddered again when she remembered she might be slightly responsible for that.

Crikey! Shea didn’t know where this lusty inner woman had appeared from, but she needed to be slapped back into line, and fast.

‘And what an amazing chandelier!’

She flipped a random space-filler comment, and a sparkly smile in his direction, hoping to nudge a response, as she assessed him. Way too good looking for his own good, and everyone else’s, not that his threadbare appearance fooled her. Not only was there the flagrant mental undressing thing going on, but there was a super-arrogance to his swagger, the kind of major, understated confidence, that was only ever claimed by hugely successful men. Whatever promises had been made to her about his absence, the vagabond who studied her now, with that mix of veiled animosity and contempt, not to mention the double dose of white heat, had to be Brando Marshall.

So. Now she had the measure of him – to be handled with extreme care, keeping boobs and bottom out of his sightline if at all possible – she could afford to introduce herself. Let’s face it, someone had to make the first move here, and it didn’t look as if it was going to be him.

‘Hi, I’m Shea. Shea Summers.’

She checked the brightness of her smile, extended a slim hand towards him, giving it a little rub in passing to make sure she’d got the mud off.

He tilted his head slightly, slid those dark-lashed, lingering eyes off her chest, and up to her face. And dammit for the way that made her stomach lurch. But otherwise he didn’t move.

A strange confidence, founded on familiarity, was seeping through her, filling her with warmth and strength.

Wealthy, and reluctant?

Brilliant. Something she encountered on a daily basis, apart from the flagrant sexuality obviously, which frankly she couldn’t remember meeting anything like, ever. Dealing with that disarming and alarming trait was something she’s have to think about hard. Later. A lot later. But she’d cut her teeth on stroppy Manchester footballers, regularly won over billionaires who had more attitude than sense, loved nothing more than the challenge of a recalcitrant businessman. Here was someone she could handle without a problem. In theory. So long as she got his out of control libido into line. She noted the sullen curl of his far too sensuous lip, and couldn’t help smiling more. Stamping on the tiny part of her brain that asked what it would feel like to be snogged by a guy with a mouth like that, she wondered where the hell her professionalism had gone. Probably left beside the helicopter, along with her self-respect, when she got dragged off by a caveman.

‘I’m Shea,’ she carried on, infusing her voice with a cheery ring of confidence, ‘that’s S-H-E-A, as in day. And I’m here to help!’

She could hardly keep the laughter out of her voice now, as she noted his left eyebrow arch in surprise above his deepening scowl. She readjusted her expression to hide her delight. Boy, was she going to have fun here. She gave her mouth-obsessed brain another sharp kick. It was all too much to keep in line here; this guy, his illegal body, not to mention her own totally out of character reactions.

He leaned nonchalantly on the elegantly turned newel post at the bottom of the expansive staircase now, rubbing a thumb absently across his chin. Quite why that made her think of stubble rubbing across the tender skin of her inner thigh was beyond her. At least he couldn’t see her thought bubbles, although from the way he was scrutinising her, she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of that. When he made no move to greet her, she forced herself to push on, airily.

‘You’re Brando, I presume? I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the next few days.’

She waited, watching to see his reaction, and saw a wicked grin spread across his face, obliterating all traces of bad temper, simultaneously doubling up on the lust. ‘Whatever you say, Miss S-H-E-A-rhymes-with-day! I’ll look forward to that, very much, especially bearing in mind that some of us have seen quite a lot already, by way of a preview!’

His left eyebrow shot up, and he gave her a meaningful nod, and another blast of undiluted lust. Men who were this hot shouldn’t be allowed out in public. She was usually impervious, but this was something else.

Shea felt the flush burn across her cheeks as she mentally rewound, flashed back to see her skirt flapping around her elbows. Damn. She’d walked into that one.

She whipped her brain into gear, searching desperately for a snappy reply, but before she’d found one, he’d sprung forward, and seized her hand, his strong, broad fingers wrapping around her own for a second.

‘No worries!’ His hand landed on her arm for a fleeting, searing moment. ‘What’s a stocking top between friends, after all?’ His grin had spread, and he was laughing now, showing beautiful, not-quite-perfect teeth, but along with the laughter there was something else brooding in those dark, sooty eyes.

Shea reeled, as she took in the smoulder. Pure unadulterated desire, if ever she’d seen it, oozing, from each and every delectably rugged pore. Then she reeled again, as an electric aftershock zigzagged up her arm where he’d touched her hand.

‘So, I’m here to … ’ Before she could claw herself out of the cavernous hole she was in, he interjected.

‘We all know why you’re here.’ He sounded almost belligerent now. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to be needed, but given what I’ve seen thus far, I’ll make an exception. That’s if you’re up for a couple of days of play before you leave?’

The way he growled the word play sent a shower of anticipation down her spine. Anticipation? She wasn’t an anticipator, dammit, because she didn’t participate. Full stop. In fact the merest thought of participating sent an undertow of guilt to tug at her stomach. So what the heck was going on? Something in the way he narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reaction, told her he was pushing her. She blocked out the messages in her brain that were urging her, or rather commanding her, to hurl her body straight into his arms. Instead she watched him carefully, sizing up the opponent, knowing he’d already twisted this into some sort of game. One she wasn’t completely sure she was winning right now.

‘So, let’s get this straight. I’m here to tidy – tidy and organise. That’s all. And from what I hear there’s a lot to go at. As I understand it, that’s what I’ve been engaged to do … ’ She noted the tiniest flinch of his cheek as he heard the word ‘engaged.’

Perhaps it was that flinch, that miniscule indication of weakness that made her do what she did next. That, combined with her instinct for reading difficult men, and her ability to bring them, whimpering, to heel, in record time. Mr Intense Hunk here was so far outside her experience she didn’t feel confident to lump him in that manageable category, but whatever, there was no other explanation for what happened next. She heard her voice, loud, confident, and resonant, echoing around the hallway before she even knew she was going to speak.

‘And of course, I’m also here to try out to be your wife!’

Where that lie had come from, she had no idea.

Wham!

She watched in triumph as his face jack-knifed as he heard the word ‘wife.’

And she’d got him! That was the body blow. Manageable after all, perhaps. Phew! She’d located his Achilles heel in record time, though it hadn’t been difficult, given it was one shared by most of the other thirty-something males she’d come across in his socio-economic bracket.

So, the man was entirely allergic to the idea of a wife, was he?

This suited her perfectly, given that the last thing she was looking for was a husband. She relished the power this scrap of insight gave her. It was useful ammunition, should she need to defend herself. But best of all, goading him gently was going to be very enjoyable.

Bring on the fun!

She rubbed her cheek, adjusted her glasses, and tried to hide her smile, as she waited for his reaction.

‘Mrs McCaul! Come and meet Shea.’

Shea jumped at his unexpectedly hearty shout. Beyond him a straight woman with a softening smile was coming towards her, pulling a briefcase on wheels.

‘Mrs McCaul is our housekeeper here at Edgerton.’ The curl of his lip suggested that he would have happily added ‘and resident pain in the behind,’ as he extended his arm in a half-hearted presentation.

‘Shea rhymes-with-roll-in-the-hay Summers, meet Mrs McCaul. Shea, by the way, is hell-bent on finding herself a husband, and has apparently set her heart on a spot of gold-digging here at Edgerton.’ He flashed a mocking look at Shea, who inwardly shrank at this blistering introduction, but held her head high.

Mrs McCaul whisked past Brando, shaking her head, and handed Shea the case with a solid smile.

‘Don’t listen to him, Shea, we know what you’re here for, and everything’s ready for you in the annex, as Bryony asked. So if you’d like to follow me … ’

Mrs McCaul’s lilting Scottish tones lapped over Shea, as she rifled through her handbag, shed her stilettos, pulled out a pair of brown suede pumps, and slipped them on.

‘Not so fast!’ Brando’s voice was biting now. ‘Shea will be staying in the Snowfield Wing with me. No arguments.’

‘But … ’ The women’s protests chimed together, but Brando chopped them short.

‘Didn’t you hear, I said ‘No arguments!’ If you want to stay at all, Shea, this is how it’s going to be. It’s non-negotiable. There’s plenty of space up there.’ He shot her a smirking that’ll teach you look. ‘No point coming to hook a husband, then hiding away from him, is there?’

Shea blanked the shiver his look sent down her back, and opened her mouth to reply – not that she had decided what to say – but found there was no chance of chipping into the battle hotting up before her.

‘Very well, Brando. Luckily for us, you’re not here often, with manners like that!’ Mrs McCaul jutted her chin at him. ‘You should take lessons from your sister. Bryony may be younger, but she’s the perfect lady!’

Wow! Shea clocked Brando’s silent grimace. One big revelation there! Bryony was more than just the TV girl. That explained a lot.

Mrs McCaul dismissed Brando with a snort, though as she turned, Shea caught a long-suffering twinkle of affection in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry Shea, he won’t be bothering you for long. He rarely graces us with his presence for more than one night at a time, so he’s already well overdue to leave.’

‘Thanks for sharing that, Mrs McCaul.’ His tone was caustic. ‘I’ll show Shea up to her room myself now. By the way, we’ll be having supper in the west wing dining room later, if that’s okay with you. I take it you’ll have time to remove the dust sheets.’

Mrs McCaul looked perturbed. ‘Perhaps not the best choice Brando. You’d be much more comfortable eating in the kitchen, as you usually do. That dining room is very … ’

He cut in abruptly. ‘Very whatever! It’s my choice, and that’s where we’ll be eating, thank you!’

Shea heard the polished oak boards creak gently as Brando turned and sauntered casually towards the staircase.

Wow! Rear of the year, or what? She let out a silent gasp of appreciation. Not that she was in the least bit interested, but a view like that could hardly go un-applauded.

‘Shoes, Brando!’

Mrs McCaul’s curt instruction flew after them, and Shea stood open mouthed and watched as Brando kicked off first one then the other sneaker, flipped them, and nonchalantly caught them as he walked.

‘Are you coming or am I going to have to wait all day?’ He was calling to her impatiently over his shoulder now, already halfway up the stairs, mounting them three at a time.

Shea wavered, chewing her thumbnail and not entirely sure what she was doing. She’d come in feet first, feeling thoroughly shaken, and even more thoroughly stirred. And she didn’t do stirred. Never. Brando was the rudest guy she’d met, and he wasn’t even supposed to be here. And now she was following this commitment-phobe up to his ‘wing,’ when he obviously saw her as some money-grubbing opportunist, who he was determined to wipe the floor with.

And just five minutes ago she’d thought this was a walkover.

‘If you don’t come now I can guarantee you’ll get lost, and I won’t be responsible if the wolf gets you!’

His gravelly words spiralled down from the landing, and sent goosebumps down her spine …

And what the heck was all this about wolves anyway?

All a million miles away from what she’d been expecting. But then …

‘I can always come back and carry you.’

Glancing up, she saw him watching her coolly over the balustrade, eyes narrowed and calculating, poised for action.

Cripes, he wasn’t joking either.

Grabbing her muddy shoes in one hand, and her bag in the other, she bolted towards the stairs.

Chapter Two

‘It’s eight thirty pm, I hope you’re ready!’

Brando’s shout outside Shea’s door was loud enough to make the handle rattle, and it matched his mood.

Ready? Who was he kidding? When had a woman ever been ready?

He’d spent the remainder of the afternoon fuming. Fuming with Bryony for landing him in this situation, and fuming with this damned woman who’d helicoptered her way into his private domain. After years in the music business, he reckoned he was unshockable. But what kind of woman would be pushy enough to pull a stunt like this to grab a husband? And what the hell had he been thinking to go along with it? He must have had some kind of consciousness blackout.

He let out one disgusted snort, and raised his hand to add a knock, but before his knuckle made contact, the door flew open.

Bang. Hot sweet woman. His head reeled as her scent hit him full on.

‘Absolutely ready Brando! Or I will be in two minutes … ’

So he was right. Of course she wasn’t ready!

He leaned on the doorframe, and drummed his fingers idly, as she spun back into the room. Took in a shapely little black dress. No sleeves. A brave choice at Edgerton, in late October. High, high heels. And black lace stockings that made the backs of her calves look delectable as she walked away from him, then propelled his libido into the stratosphere as she knelt down in front of the fireplace. Yanking his lust firmly into line, he noticed that whatever the fire in his groin was doing, the fire in the grate wasn’t blazing.

‘I’d better help with that. Much as you need to learn about the rigors of life in a stately home, I’d hate you to be cold tonight.’ As he strode over, he caught the chestnut glint in her swept-up hair, then the exposed nape of her neck, as she bent over the hearth.

White and vulnerable. His gut gave a twist of guilt at the thought of using and dispatching her. Except she’d walked into this, dammit, and hell, he knew better than to be taken in by downy napes of necks. This woman was here to play for high stakes. A swift dispatch was nothing less than she deserved, and if a tumble in the manorial bed was what was needed to achieve that, he was more than willing to go down that road, but the more he saw of those curves, the hotter that end game was shaping up to be.

As he knelt down next to her by the fire, he let his thigh bump lightly against hers. She jerked away from him, and the poker she was holding clattered onto the hearth.

Jumpy or what?

Picking up the poker, he riddled the embers back to life energetically. He knew Mrs McCaul always checked the fires, but what the heck? It was worth it, for the tease – and the insanely sexy blast of lace stretched taut across Shea’s knees. Perhaps his judgement hadn’t been so clouded after all. The promise of what was to come was looking sweeter by the second.

‘Thanks for helping with that! I’m not used to coal fires. I’ll just get my phone.’ She stood up, and the grateful smile she flashed down at him as she unfolded those glorious legs sent his stomach into a crazy freefall for the second time that day. He regularly threw his body through corkscrew twists and flips, but hauling Shea Summers into the house earlier that day had sent his insides spinning like never before. And now it had happened again, dammit.

‘Forget your phone. There’s no signal at all here. Another of the wonders of Edgerton! Are you coming then?’ he snapped, before he jumped up, marched through the doorway, and strode off down the landing.

No way was he looking back. The floorboards, creaking under her uneven high-heeled lurches, told him she was following closely behind, and he only slowed as he reached the dining room door. As he threw it open, stepping back to let her pass, a freezing gale slammed him in the face. Ha! Just as he’d expected. Despite the roaring fire, the lofty room was bitterly cold and inhospitable. Miss Shea made-in-a-day Summers was about to experience the full glory of the west dining room.

‘Come on in! I see you lost the glasses then!’

He’d noticed in her bedroom, but the full effect floored him now, as he saw her head-on. High cheekbones, gently turned-up nose, and the fullest lips. Disarmingly pretty. Very different without the big frames. He’d had her down as pushing thirty, but now, despite the confident jut of her chin, he doubted she was even twenty five.

She skimmed past him into the room, and he heard her gasp as the cold hit her, saw pale goosebumps springing out on her arms as he moved to pull out a heavy mahogany chair for her. Across the white damask tablecloth the candle flames stuttered in the draught, and suddenly, showing her the uncomfortable reality of life in a stately pile was starting to feel like poor judgement. Arriving opposite her, he got the full effect of her ample chest complete with erect nipples, sticking prominently through the thin fabric of her dress, no doubt whipped to attention by the chill.

Double jeopardy.

Definitely a bad call. He felt his blood surge south. Damn. He was in for an uncomfortable evening all round.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go and get something warmer … ’ She’d gone before he had time to reply, and when she returned she had added a sharp tailored jacket. Marks out of ten for passion killers? He’d give an eleven. At least that sorted the immediate too-exciting nipple problem.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that!’ She flashed violet eyes at him, and something in their mocking glint told Brando she was ahead of his game. ‘Sorry about the style clash, but I haven’t brought my arctic gear with me. I’d have taken the time to put jeans on, but we wouldn’t want dinner to get cold, would we?’

Back in the room, and looking like someone from a head office boardroom, complete with an identity name-tag hanging from her lapel.

‘You really haven’t brought anything warmer with you?’ He watched in disbelief as she shook her head. What kind of numbskull would rock up to a draughty hole like Edgerton without so much as a sweater?

‘Nope. Sorry. I’m a central heating girl, and I wasn’t expecting glacial, so you’re stuck with me in my O 4 Organise work gear.’

‘I’ll go and find you something more … ’ He left the room before bothering to finish.

Suitable, hot, sexy? Warm maybe?

Any of the above – he wasn’t fussy. Sure, he didn’t want her here, and yes, he did suspect her motives, but hell, he wasn’t completely heartless. He’d meant for her to understand that country houses weren’t always luxurious, not for her to catch pneumonia. As for what the whole O-4 thing was all about, he was still praying she wasn’t some high powered dominatrix when he came back moments later, and dropped two cashmere sweaters in her lap.

‘There you go, Madame Chairman, they’re mine, but they’re warmer than anything else you’ve got here. Put them on, and tell me what the heck O 4 Organise is.’ He watched intently as she peeled away her jacket, and pulled on his own jumpers. How could she look so sexy wearing two men’s sweaters?

‘Thanks, that’s much better.’ She was rolling the sleeves back now, pushing dislodged pins back into her hair. ‘O 4 Organise is the exclusive personal organising company I work for. I run the Manchester end. I thought I was going to be able to put my expertise to good use here, but to be honest it all looks a lot less chaotic than the shots I saw on the programme.’

He had a vague memory of the TV crew deliberately trashing the annexe to get the shots they needed, when views of endless rooms under dust sheets had failed to excite them.

‘Never believe what you see on TV.’ He spat the words out with a rueful shake of his head.

‘But Bryony said … ’

He jumped in and cut her short. ‘Rule One when dealing with Bryony: Never believe what she says.’ Then he kicked himself for not waiting to hear exactly what Bryony had said. No doubt it would make for interesting listening, and he may well have asked, but just then, Mrs McCaul arrived with dinner.

Brando dug into the steaming beef stew and dumplings with gusto, hoping to mask his unease. He usually ate on the hoof, snatching a sandwich in the office, or grabbing a takeaway in front of the TV. Formal meals didn’t figure on his agenda, and he never ate with women. Strawberries and liquid chocolate consumed from a platter of bare flesh aside, if he was with a woman it was for sex, not food. So the double assault on his system, of Mrs McCaul’s substantial supper and a hot woman eating opposite him, was throwing him off. Between forkfuls he tried to decide if Shea was mentally undressing him with those scathing looks of hers, or simply trying to peer into his soul.

It was some time, and a lot of stew later, when she finally struck up meaningful conversation. ‘So where in Scotland are we exactly?’

Brando gave her a hard stare. ‘Who told you Edgerton was in Scotland?’

‘I’m not sure, didn’t it say that on the programme?’ She hesitated, her fork halfway to that delectable mouth of hers.

‘There you go, what did I say about not believing everything you hear on TV?’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘To be fair, they did keep the location a secret, but I’m damned sure no-one said anything about Scotland. The only Scottish thing about here is Mrs McCaul and her full-on Edinburgh accent!’

‘Okay … ’ He watched Shea’s eyes widen, then her brows furrowed as she processed this nugget. ‘So where are we then?’

‘Classified information here, I hope you can be trusted. Edgerton is in the Cotswolds.’ He bit back his smile as he tried to contain his laughter.

‘Sorry. Not helpful.’ She shook her head and looked blank. ‘You’ll have to be more specific. Cotswolds doesn’t mean anything to me. Where’s it near?’

This he found hard to believe. Had to be a wind-up, but he’d play along. ‘Cirencester, Cheltenham, Gloucester?’ She still looked blank. He’d try something easier. ‘Oxford?’

She thought hard, scrunched her lip, shook her head. ‘Still not helpful. Maybe if I saw it on a map?’

Brando stopped chewing, put down his knife and fork. This he found hard to believe.

‘What?’ Shea’s shriek was high and defensive. ‘So! I don’t have the geography gene! I can’t help it! I don’t know where anywhere is, unless I’ve been there, if I don’t see it on a map. We can’t all be perfect and know everything. I don’t have the history gene either come to that, but there are a lot of things I can do, and do very well, so back off!’

So Shea-what-do-you-say might have a great ass, but she didn’t have the first clue where she was, and what’s more she wasn’t trying to hide the fact, nor did she feel the need to apologise. Interesting combination. And boy did she look feisty when she did angry!

She lowered her eyes for a second, and when she looked up at him again it was with a half smile that spread to a wide grin. ‘When you warned me about getting lost in the house earlier, you were closer to the mark than you thought!’

Zap!

That smile caught him off guard, and smacked him square in the stomach.

‘I think we’ve done enough dining room penance for one day. I’ll get Mrs McCaul to serve pudding by the fire in my sitting room, and I’ll show you a map. We’ll be much cosier there.’

Jeez, had he really just said that!

He asked himself a) where that had come from and b) why the heck he’d used the word cosy. He never said cosy! It was like someone else was operating his mouth. Jeez again! He needed to stop panicking, remember this was his infallible instinct, working to push the situation to a quick conclusion. Hell, a frosty dining room was hardly conducive to the moves he had in mind, and he was aiming to get this whole thing over at break-neck speed. And there was something else he’d noticed. Sure this Shea was sexy enough, with her curves and lively nipples and splashy smiles, but he’d seen the way she flinched when he came anywhere near her, and he’d sensed a curious pent-up tension. Uptight didn’t begin to cover it. A quick tumble in the sack with a man with his taste for wild and wicked was just what was needed to send this woman running for the hills. See her off for good. Job done.

A sudden crush in his groin suggested his libido was in definite agreement.

* * *

Peach cobbler, egg custard, coffee and liqueurs. All in the comfort of the boss’s private sitting room. Cosy was his way of describing it. Too damned intimate was hers.

Shea wondered how she’d let it happen, which part of her active mind hadn’t been functioning. She could only blame the cold for her brain freeze.

Pudding in the snug would have been beyond the limit of her professional boundaries at the best of times. But peering over maps in flickering firelight, with a hunk who set her heart banging horribly every time his arm stretched across and grazed hers? That was in the way-out-of line category. Just the memory of it was enough to make her cringe with guilt. Thank goodness she’d had the sense to make a quick exit.

Back in the safe haven of her room, she stripped off her dress, dragged some shorts over her tights, and slipped one of the borrowed sweaters over her bra, definitely not because it smelled of raw man she assured herself, but because after an hour of wearing it, she was completely addicted to the softness and the warmth. As she pulled the pins out of her hair and dragged her curls into submission, she noticed her useless mobile on the coffee table. A phone call with her mum wasn’t going to happen tonight. No bad thing. She needed time to work out what the heck was going on here.

It wasn’t so much what she’d been doing, but how she was reacting. It should have been completely possible to have got through this evening in a detached, professional manner. Her work constantly put her into intimate environments with men. She regularly marched in, pulled some guy’s bedroom to pieces, put it all together again, and marched right on out. She’d always assumed her ability to freeze advances before they’d even happened was because of her past hanging around her like an invisible force field. That coupled with her ‘no-nonsense’ attitude. She’d worked alongside a whole bunch of clients with less than perfect reputations and had always sailed through unscathed.

Until now.

Which was why she knew the fault here was completely her own.

She’d never been remotely attracted to anyone she’d worked for before, and she’d worked for some very attractive men. But there was a world of difference between recognising that someone was hot, and the full-blown force of attraction itself. And right here it was full-blown force. And she needed to get a grip. Quickly.

Brando Marshall might be good looking, but in every other aspect he was a total nightmare – bad tempered, rude, arrogant, treating his long-term employees with very little respect, and he obviously despised her … Quite a list. Any attraction to him was wrong, wrong, wrong, not to mention crazy. Lucky she’d got a handle on it from the start. Now all she had to do was stamp it out. Starting now.

A sudden rap on her door jolted her to her feet, and set her heart pounding.

‘Shea, your mother’s on the landline for you!’ Brando’s voice rose gruffly over his knock, and sent her stomach into a cartwheel. ‘Take it in my sitting room, or my office if you prefer.’

Damn.

She hadn’t thought her mum would ring tonight, or that she’d be back in the lion’s den so soon, putting her new resolve to the test.

‘Mothers, who’d have them? Sorry about this!’ She shot him an apologetic grimace.

If she went at break-neck pace, if she didn’t look at him, didn’t stop, there wouldn’t be time for anything misplaced or wrong. She threw open the door, whipped past an open-mouthed Brando, and bolted into his sitting room. ‘My mum must be worried that she can’t get through on my mobile and … ’

Damn. She’d got ahead of him here. Now where should she go?

‘Straight on … ’ He arrived behind her, close enough to engulf her with that dangerously delicious scent she so shouldn’t be noticing, and waved an arm towards an open door on the other side of the room, beyond the sofas. She shot through it, and screeched to a halt.

Pink shrimps! She was in his bedroom!

Her heart did a double flip. She’d seen some imposing beds in her time but this one took the biscuit. She tried to ignore how inviting it looked.

His voice came from behind her now ‘ … straight on to the office – the phone’s on the desk.’

Could have been worse. She slammed up to the desk, and grasped the receiver. At least he wasn’t in the bed.

* * *

Brando stood in the sitting room, raking his hands through his hair, watching the minutes tick by on his Rolex. How could a phone conversation with a mother could take so long? Hell, he’d have sat down if he’d realised. He tried to remember the last time he’d spoken to his own mother, and failed. All he needed to say had been said years ago, and none of it good. No need to revisit that one. He hauled himself back to the present again, as the creaking floor suggested Shea was finally about to emerge from the bedroom.

‘Welcome back to the land of the living! Your mother must be a riveting conversationalist – remind me to say ‘Hi’ to her sometime when I’ve got a free day or two!’

She was hurtling towards him with a scared-rabbit look on her face and her legs a blur.

He hadn’t noticed the detail as she’d flashed past him earlier, but he’d caught enough lace and thigh to make his pulse pound, and he moved to catch a full-frontal view.

Oh man!

How the hell had he missed that? He was going to miss it again if he didn’t move, given that she was hurling herself at the door.

‘Not so fast.’ One swift sidestep, and he’d cut off her escape. Her sweet scent wafted around him as she pulled to a halt, narrowly avoiding landing on his toes. He felt his lips stretch into a broad, unscheduled smile, as he took in the long, curvy lace-covered legs rising to a scant inch of shorts showing below his pale grey sweater. And his lips weren’t the only thing stretching here. With an almighty effort he screwed his smile from ecstatic to sardonic, and watched her push a tangle of hair out of her eyes, grab the v-neck that was sliding way beyond an already exposed shoulder, and turn on him with a wonderfully defiant pout.

This girl was good. Brazen even. Out for what she could get, and not scared to grab it. On principle, he despised her for the grasping audacity that had brought her here, but right now, there was something in her blatant ambition he had to admire. What he had to do next would be so much more enjoyable if he was dealing with an opponent who could hold her own. He liked to play hard-ball, and this girl looked like she’d be whacking them back. Shea Summers had put herself in his firing line and he was going to take her down, fighting and resisting. All the more fun.

He let his eyes play on her breasts, as they pushed prominently through the gauze of cashmere. ‘Are you wearing a bra under that?’

If he’d shocked her with his direct question she didn’t let on. She hesitated, but only for a second. Playing for time, perhaps?

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

Nice reply. Batted straight back. That was good. He bit his lip hard, to distract himself from the fact that in his head his teeth were already grazing those nipples. He watched her brush away a stray curl. She had him fixed with her violet eyes now, her head inclined slightly. Weighing him up? Perhaps. Challenging him? Definitely.

Nothing he liked more than a challenge.

‘So I take it you’ll be sleeping with me tonight.’ Two firm rules going out of the window there, but what the hell, if it brought this to a close. He slid it out casually, then waited for the reaction. He couldn’t hold in a last jibe. ‘It’s what you’re here for, after all, isn’t it?’

The purple of her eyes darkened to indigo.

‘That’s what you think.’

Her tone was defiant, but her amused smile took him aback. She almost sounded dismissive. Not bothered. He’d see about that!

‘Going to all this trouble to try for the position of my wife? Surely the try-out has to start in the bedroom? No time like the present, so why not now?’

She gave a light shrug. ‘Maybe I prefer to know more about a man before I sleep with him, even if he does own a whopping, country house!’

He let out a snort of surprise.

Was this a brush-off she was giving here, or was she simply playing hard to get? He couldn’t be sure. The way he usually operated, involved him eyeballing a woman he wanted, and she was his. He played, and he caught. End of. Afterwards he discarded.

That was the way it was for him. He’d never known it any other way. Not since … he throttled that thought, fast. Enough to say that as far the last decade went, he’d surfed the double aphrodisiac of wealth and power to the max. This reluctance, this rebuff was new, and he baulked momentarily, before his confidence kicked back into play.

‘You’ll soon change your mind.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked up and down every last explosive inch of her, his testosterone-fuelled growl low and husky. ‘Give you a day or two, and I guarantee you’ll be begging.’ Let’s face it, they usually would.

He flashed her an arrogant grin, and tried to ignore the fact that right now he was the one who felt like doing the begging. She’d thrown him off balance here, and he needed to regroup. Damn the woman, damn her soft inviting thighs, and those breasts he ached to bury himself in. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t do soft in any shape or form, either in his life, or in the women he chose. And he definitely didn’t do begging. Dammit! It was so long since he’d been with a woman, he’d made himself vulnerable. He was heading for a long hard cold shower. Time to take himself in hand, in more ways than one. And then he’d have an endorphin-blasting rip over the rooftops.

‘Begging? You think I’d beg?’ Her voice, high with incredulity, scythed into his thoughts. She hit him with a polar stare, and her voice dropped to a derisory hiss. ‘Don’t count on it, mate. If you’re thinking I’ll beg, you’re liable to have a long, lonely wait. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I’d like to get back to my room!’

So that was his dismissal, for this evening at least. He was ready to go with that. He slid aside, flung the door open, and soaked up the view of her bum cheeks wiggling beneath his sweater, as she marched on past him, and across the corridor.

Just before she disappeared, she whipped around to face him, arching her back against her door, and sticking out her chest in a way that finally flashed his smouldering groin into pure naked flames. Somewhere beneath the curtain of chestnut hair, he caught a rosy flush in her cheeks. She shot him a dimpled yet defiant grin, then, with a jut of her chin, added one resonant, parting thought.

‘I’m not even sure you’re my type!’

And then she was gone.

Brando gave another choke of derision.

Hah! This coming from a woman who’d happily thrown herself at an unknown guy to bag a stately home and a loaded husband. Successful billionaire, with a manor house and an estate was exactly her type.

Never a man to forgo the last word, he waited. Long enough for her to be was sure he was finished. Only then did he put his mouth to her keyhole, and shout.

‘Not your type, eh? I think we both know me and my bank balance are exactly what you’re looking for.’

And then he stormed back to his sitting room, and slammed the door hard enough to make the chandelier jangle.

Damn. Had he just committed to the long game? What the hell had happened to his plans to leave?

* * *

Shea spread a large dollop of home-made raspberry jam on her toast next morning, and pinched herself one more time to make damn sure this was really happening as she sipped her coffee in front of the fire. Waking up this morning she was surprised at the sense of relief she felt that she’d finally got away. It was strange to think she’d almost missed it altogether. If she hadn’t come home early that Sunday evening she wouldn’t be here, and she probably wouldn’t even have known about the existence of Edgerton Manor. So like her zany housemates to be obsessed with some weekend TV show about country piles, so like them to be ridiculous enough to get out the glue and scissors and start making postcards of themselves in various states of wedding dress – and undress – just because the presenter they loved to hate suggested some guy on TV needed a wife. And how weird it was to think that guy was Brando Marshall. It was all very well throwing herself into her work, but there were times when she knew she missed out. And although this trip was work related she was pleased she’d dared to come, even though she’d seemed the least likely candidate out of all of her friends to be chosen. To her mind even Guy was more suitable than her. At least his card made claims to him having a pert bum, a frilly apron, and superb washing up prowess, and at the time she assumed the disclaimer she’d scrawled on hers would put her out of the running completely. Whereas in fact when Bryony from the TV company had contacted Shea, she hadn’t seemed particularly bothered about the ‘wife’ part at all.

Rule one: never believe what Bryony says … Brando’s words from last night echoed round her head. Brando Marshall. She sighed, rolled her eyes at the way he’d wormed his way back into her thoughts despite her best efforts to keep him out, then glanced at her watch. White mice! Eight o’clock, and still in her pyjamas? Nothing to be proud of there. Okay, her excuse was she hadn’t had the best night’s sleep, but as far as getting her professional head into order and putting Brando Marshall back in the feel-no-attraction-whatsoever camp where he belonged, she was doing well. Last night she’d even managed to walk through the man’s bedroom without a qualm. Dashing through, hurtling back.

Doing every action incredibly fast around Brando had worked.

She’d felt nothing. Who was she kidding here? Well, not quite nothing. But she had plans to work on that today. The point was, she was firmly back in control, of herself and the situation, which was exactly where Shea Summers always needed to be.

She’d mostly managed to stave off his rudest queries, and suggestions, obviously designed to shock her.

So I take it you’ll be sleeping with me …

The words echoed in her brain. She was still appalled by the way they’d made her skin dance, the way they’d set her heart clattering on her ribs. The twangs of guilt about her reaction had been reverberating round her head all night. She still felt ashamed that in that moment, some dark and hidden part of her was desperate to agree.

He was pushing her; he had to be playing a game.

No stranger in their right mind would ask you outright if you were wearing a bra, unless they were goading you. But somehow the completely outrageous nature of his behaviour made him easier for her to handle. She’d finally got him nailed. He was back in her Easy-to-Manage box. And that was where she was going to keep him.

She took another bite of toast, and thought how strange it felt to begin the morning so calmly, even if the thought of what Brando might do today had her stomach fluttering. Unless she was doing one of her famous dawn starts, breakfast invariably involved slopped tea and half asleep housemates, and always an early morning chat with her mum.

As if on cue, she heard Brando, calling from the corridor.

‘Mrs Summers, in the office on line one, for you Shea!’

Right. One sickening tummy flip later, and she’d go with the flow. This wasn’t a problem.

She primed herself to move fast, and, once again, had the door open before he’d finished knocking.

‘Nice PJs.’ His low laugh bounced off the panelling down the landing.

She was ready to outdo any quip he threw at her. Not quite so ready for the goosebump rash, or the way he smelled so deliciously of man, though. She braced herself.

‘Yep, they’re Wonder Woman pyjamas, and before you ask, yes, I am wearing knickers underneath. Phone still in the same place?’ She was already halfway to his sitting room, aware of Brando standing gawping in her doorway, when she realised he was speaking, and she thudded to a halt.

‘Help yourself to the phone, I’m off out. Bryony’s been on already, says a film crew’s on its way. I guess you’ll know what she means by that?’ He paused and raised one quizzical eyebrow.

Her stomach gave a telltale lurch.

Damn. She knew she shouldn’t have stopped, definitely shouldn’t have met his gaze. Although looking him in the eye was preferable to staring at him in the other place her eyes were invariably drawn to. Not that she made a habit of ogling men’s groins, but his was particularly …

Particularly what? She shouldn’t even be going there!

Attractive? Promising? Illegally sexy?

Yes to all of the above. Riveting. And also entirely off limits.

What was she thinking?

Her brain had been well-behaved when she was moving. If she didn’t get going she’d have mentally undressed him before she knew it.

Damn. Too late.

The carpet pile spread beneath her bare toes as she propelled herself forwards into a gallop. ‘Okay, great, thanks Brando! See you!’

Forward, as far as possible, as fast as possible.

Then she’d be okay.

Sour worms, there was his bed again!

Already made. Almost looking as if it hadn’t been slept in, she decided as she flew by, heading towards the office.

His teasing tones echoed after her as she scuttled away.

‘Give my love to your mother!’

* * *

In her immediate panic to flee from Brando, and fit in an early morning check-in with her mother, there’d been no time for Shea to worry about the film crew, which turned out to be one understated guy called Pete, looking for a couple of shots, on his way to another location.

So much for the whole ‘lights-camera-action’ team she’d been fearing.

All he’d done was to point a large video camera at her for ten seconds whilst she pretended to sit and drink coffee over the remains of her breakfast tray. And now they were going down to the terrace to take a shot of her approaching the front door.

She looked out of the window to check the weather. Blustery, but dry, judging by the whirling leaves. A movement in the distance caught her eye; a figure, running through the parkland, seemingly hurling themselves at every tree, then flipping back over, and landing on their feet again.

The pure exuberance of it made her smile.

There was something mesmerising about the relentless repetition, and although she was supposed to be following Pete downstairs, she hung on to watch until the person disappeared from view behind a distant copse.

Hurrying down the gracious staircase, she sighed ruefully, still thinking of the bouncing figure, as she wound her scarf around her neck. How great must it be to feel happy and carefree enough to want to do that?

* * *

Brando cursed as his feet hit the gravel at the top of the drive.

He’d been out running for an hour now, had already done two hours before his very early breakfast, and he’d been throwing himself over roofs in the dark last night, yet he still felt no sense of release.

He never slept well. He’d long since given up the hell of sleepless tossing and turning in bed, getting by on snatched naps in the office chair, but last night he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. What was it going to take to make him feel better? The sheer concentration and physical effort his free running took were usually enough to wipe out his tension within minutes. But he wasn’t usually this hyped up.

Damn this country life.

Nothing wound him up like a day at Edgerton, but he didn’t usually suffer this much. He suspected it had something to do with the blasted woman Bryony had dropped on him, but he certainly wasn’t going to let a woman take credit for landing him in this state. Okay, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his damned brain since he set eyes on her, but where women were concerned he was immune and untouchable. End of.

He approached the avenue of trees along the south drive. Sixty-three trees each side. He’d do all hundred-and-twenty-six of them. Somehow he doubted he’d feel unwound afterwards, but at least he’d achieve the oblivion of exhaustion.

He bounced on the balls of his feet.

Damn Shea Summers.

Then flung himself at the nearest tree trunk.

* * *

Seventy two trees in, sensing movement in front of the house, he broke his rhythm to pause, and watched two people emerge, then walk around in animated discussion.

Bingo, it was her!

Had to be. And a guy with a camera.

Without thinking, he veered off across the park towards them, sprinting over the grass. He prided himself on his low heart-rate, but right now his pulse was banging through his body. Springing up the steps onto the terrace, he vaulted over a wooden seat, and arrived beside the pair with a grin, his hands stuffed as far into the pockets of his low-slung jeans as he could reach.

‘Nice morning for filming!’

Shea and the cameraman turned to include him now. He met Shea’s glance, and gave a wide, unrepentant, laid-back grin. ‘I hope you’re wearing … ’

But she was too fast for him. Before he could finish, she’d jumped in.

‘Yes Brando, I do have underwear on.’ She gave him a glib smirk. ‘I’d ask if you do, but given that half your Y-fronts appear to be on public display already, the question seems unnecessary! Good to see you shop at Calvin Klein.’

Nice one! Who’d have thought Miss Frosty-morning would have had that in her.

Feisty he could deal with.

Her hair was scraped back and he found himself wanting to pull it free, shake it loose, bury his fingers in the strands.

‘Pete just wants to get a shot of me walking into the house. It shouldn’t take long and then we’re done here.’ She was speaking to him brusquely now, her elbows by her ears, as she fiddled to replace a pin at the back of her hair. He caught a blinder of her breasts as she spun around.

‘Fine! Whatever you say,’ he chortled, chewing his thumbnail absently, aware that his eyes had locked on target as if they’d been superglued. ‘It’s a bit chilly out here, even for cashmere. You may want to add some nipple shields before you do the final take, but then what do I know?’

Shea glanced down, swung her arms around herself quickly, then recovering with enviable speed, turned her back on him firmly.

‘Not a problem, Pete’s mostly filming my back in any case, so it seems you’re the only one here worried by my nipple status.’ She flashed him a smile over a carefully positioned shoulder. ‘Shall we carry on, Pete?’

Blast. He shot himself in the foot there, now she’d be keeping her back to him for sure.

Yes Pete, no Pete. He gritted his teeth, and rocked on his heels as he watched her walk towards the door. Then she walked back, tilting her head towards that darned cameraman as they shared some joke, then she went again, this time shooting a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the house. Then she reappeared, and it looked like they had a wrap.

‘You do realise this is all bull, don’t you Pete.’ Brando knew he was sounding belligerent now, but somehow he couldn’t stop, and he didn’t give a damn. ‘It didn’t happen like this at all. I know you guys aren’t big on truth, but you might as well go one more time, and get close to what really happened.’

Brando stepped towards Shea, and had her scooped up, caught fast in his arms, before she had time to let out so much as a squawk. ‘There you go, that’s a lot more like what happened yesterday, if it’s an action replay you’re after.’ He clasped her close to his chest. ‘Shea Summers being carried over the threshold, I hope you’re getting this Pete!’

Jeez, she felt soft …

With long steps, he strode across the terrace with her in his arms, her bottom bouncing all the way on his rapidly growing erection, pausing only to throw the door open. He bounded into the house, kicked the door, and it slammed resoundingly behind them.

Chapter Three

Time seemed to stand still in the echoing calm of the hall. Shea was lying, completely passive in his arms. He stole a glance down at her, and met her expression of long-suffering disgust.

‘Well done, Brando. Great shot, which I’m sure the viewing public will no doubt appreciate. Now will you please put me down.’ That was a fierce, no-messing command.

Suddenly reluctant to give up her warm yielding curves, he gripped her more tightly to him, took in the fullness of her mouth.

‘No, as it happens, I’m not going to put you down!’ He flashed her a defiant grin.

Not before he’d taught her a lesson.

As the pattern of his breathing broke, he felt the echo of a shudder pass through her. The slightest tremble of her bottom lip sent a twang through his chest.

Not before he’d had his fun.

No point delaying what had to be done. No point at all. He dragged her closer to his face, brought his mouth crashing down onto hers.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.