Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

“You see, sweetheart, there’s one big difference between your twisted admirer and me, and this is it.”

Slowly Evan bent his head, oblivious to her sharply indrawn breath and the frightened widening of her blue eyes. His mouth touched hers very softly, as lightly as the drift of an autumn leaf falling to the ground. It touched, pressed, lingered for barely a moment, and then, just as Catherine felt herself respond helplessly, he broke the tiny erotic contact with brutal suddenness, lifting his dark head sharply and taking a step backward, away from her.

“You see, Cat, he would never be able to do this and walk away. But I can…”

KATE WALKER was born in Nottinghamshire, England, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots were there. She met her husband at university and she originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theater, and, of course, reading.

Flirting With Danger
Kate Walker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE sound of the doorbell rang loudly through the silent house, making Catherine tense instinctively. She froze in the middle of the room, her bright blue eyes wide with apprehension as her heart lurched into a heavy, painfully accelerated pounding so that she found it difficult to breathe naturally.

‘Who is it?’

She struggled to form the words but her voice failed her, becoming just a thin thread of sound that wouldn’t reach whoever was on the other side of the door.

‘Who are you?’ she tried again, with a little more success than before, but still not loudly enough to gain any response.

She would have to look through the peep-hole that her father had had installed, she told herself, ruthlessly squashing down the fear that held her paralysed. Only then would she know.

Know what? her mind flung at her, forcing her to face the brutal truth. How would she know if the caller at the door was the man she feared when she didn’t even know his identity, had no idea what he looked like?

She had only hesitated a moment or two, struggling to regain enough control to be able to turn and move towards the hallway, but that short time was quite long enough for a key to be inserted in the lock, and she had just taken a couple of steps towards the hallway when the door swung open.

‘Only me!’

Catherine’s slim shoulders slumped under the impact of the sudden wave of relief that broke over her at the sound of her father’s reassuring voice, her heart lifting in instinctive response, and the sense of dread vanishing like the mist before the sun at the sight of his smiling face. But almost immediately all her new-found ease fled as another man, big and dark-haired, stepped into the hall behind him, and all her tension and fear revived at the realisation that there was someone with her father— someone she neither knew nor recognised.

‘Dad!’

Her voice was tight with the panic that the sight of an unknown face—particularly an unknown male face— could spark off in her so easily these days.

‘Oh, I’m sorry darling.’ Recognising her fear, Lloyd Davies’ expression changed abruptly, apologetic concern showing in the blue eyes that were so like his daughter’s. ‘I should have thought—I asked Evan to come back with me, but I should have rung you first—’

‘No—it’s all right—’ If her father could vouch for him, then surely she had nothing to fear.

But her voice lacked the conviction of truth, betraying her uncertainty in the way that it shook revealingly, and her state of mind was not made any easier by the disturbing realisation that the man called Evan was studying her with an interest that was positively laser-like in its intensity. His eyes—strange coloured eyes, neither blue nor green, but with the cold changeability of the sea on a winter’s day—were narrowed assessingly as he watched her, and a frown creased the space between straight, dark brows.

‘H-hello-’

Her weak attempt at a smile met with no response, and she was further unnerved by the way his considering gaze raked over her, from the top of her shining ash-blonde head to the toes on the bare feet that peeped out from beneath the ragged hems of the well-worn denim jeans that she wore with one of her father’s old shirts, the faded pink cotton untucked at the waist and hanging loose around her narrow hips.

Her smile fading, she met that narrowed stare head-on, hiding behind a display of defiance the fact that she was quailing deep inside, her nerves twisting into tight, painful knots. She was used to public attention—in her job it was par for the course—but she certainly wasn’t used to being subjected to such a deliberate scrutiny— particularly not when it was accompanied by such a frowningly disapproving expression.

‘Evan who?’ she asked, her voice more in control this time, though the determined effort she was making to smooth out the earlier unevenness made it sound cold and distant, earning her another of those swift, critical glances.

‘Evan Lindsay,’ he supplied, and the first sound of his voice was something of a shock. It was low and slightly husky, surprisingly soft when one considered that it came from such a big man.

And this Evan Lindsay was big. Her father stood a good six feet in his socks, but this man topped him by more than three inches—four, possibly, Catherine hazarded. The imposing height was matched by a similarly powerful frame, with broad shoulders and chest and long, strong arms.

The smartly tailored navy jacket and trousers, worn with a paler blue shirt and understated tie, might mirror the formal business suit Lloyd wore, but that formality emphasised rather than concealed the fact that the body underneath the fine cloth was definitely not that of a man who spent his day seated at a desk in some modern, high-tech office.

His face had the same sort of impact—hard-boned and strongly carved, with a distinct bump in the nose that told her it had once been well and truly broken and had had to be reset. Altogether, there was something about him that spoke of danger, of a powerful but volatile force barely kept in check, like a half-tame tiger-on the surface apparently quiet and controlled, but never, ever totally trustworthy.

‘Evan’s been working on the alarm system at the office,’ her father put in in an obvious attempt to reassure her, ease the prickly atmosphere.

‘Oh, so you’re the new security man.’

She didn’t even trouble to try to inject a note of polite interest into her voice; as a matter of fact, her thoughts weren’t even on what she was saying. She saw now just why her father had brought this man home with him; exactly what had been in his mind at the time.

‘I’m involved in the work, yes—’

‘And I thought we could use some of Evan’s expertise—’

‘I don’t think so,’ Catherine cut in sharply. ‘I don’t need any burglar alarms or security cameras—unless, of course, you were proposing to act as a bodyguard?’

‘I wasn’t proposing anything.’ The low voice held a trace of something Catherine couldn’t interpret—something that worried her. It might have been humour, but if so it had a dark edge that tightened her nerves disturbingly. ‘Lloyd simply asked me back here—’

‘And I offered you a drink,’ Catherine’s father inter-jected. ‘But all I’ve done so far is keep you standing in the hall. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can sit down and be more comfortable? The conservatory would be pleasant—’

Catherine’s involuntary movement drew his attention, had him changing his mind.

‘No, perhaps the lounge would be better. Cathy, darling, why don’t you take Evan through while I ask Mrs Bentley to organise refreshments? Coffee, Evan? Or would you prefer something alcoholic? And what about something to eat?’

‘Coffee would be fine—but, no, nothing to eat.’

Pushing back his shirt-cuff, Evan consulted a work-manlike watch on a slim leather strap.

‘I’m meeting a friend in just over an hour. We’re having dinner together.’

And he had no intention of being late, his attitude said only too clearly. As she led the way into the lounge Catherine couldn’t help wondering a little about the friend he was obviously so concerned about. She— because it had to be a she—was obviously very important to him, and in spite of herself she found herself trying to imagine what sort of woman appealed to this man. Probably someone dark and fiery—exotically glamorous, very feminine, her looks the perfect foil to his forceful masculinity.

‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Lindsay.’

She spoke over her shoulder as she crossed to the large window in the far wall, pulling the blue velvet curtains more tightly shut with a swift, jerky action.

‘We have a perfectly efficient security system already installed, and it doesn’t need any improvements.’

‘I don’t think that was what your father had in mind, Miss Davies.’ The quiet voice mocked her deliberate, stiff formality. ‘I take it you are Catherine?’ he added with disturbing abruptness.

Taken by surprise, she swung round to face him. ‘Of course I am. Who else did you think I could be?’

‘A girlfriend?’

‘My father’s? Hardly! You can’t know him very well if you’d think that.’

The strong shoulders under the perfectly fitted jacket lifted in a nonchalant shrug.

‘You could have been. Or a nanny?’ A faint grin surfaced at her look of frank disbelief. ‘I never expected Lloyd’s daughter to be so—mature…’

The last word was loaded with so much deliberate irony that it had a rush of hot colour flooding into her pale cheeks, all the more so because it was accompanied by another of those insolent, assessing surveys, the cool scrutiny searing over the pale oval of her face, with its high cheekbones and full, rather wide mouth, before moving slowly down the length of her body, lingering at the soft swell of her breasts, the curves of her hips in the worn denim jeans.

He might just as well have added the word ‘physically’ to that ‘mature’—as it was, it seemed to hang in the air between them, making Catherine’s skin prickle in irritation.

‘After all, your father isn’t exactly the sort of man one would expect to have such a grown-up daughter—’

‘My misspent youth catching up with me,’ Lloyd put in from the doorway, his laughter holding a trace of embarrassment. ‘I was barely nineteen when Cathy was born, though her mother was older—almost twenty-four-’

‘Really, Dad,’ Catherine cut in hastily, ‘Mr Lindsay doesn’t want to hear all the details of our family history.’

‘On the contrary,’ Evan corrected smilingly. ‘I have to admit to being rather intrigued. I came here expecting to see someone who was perhaps six at the most, possibly even younger. Instead, I’m confronted by a glamorous blonde who is clearly not even an adolescent.’

‘I’m twenty-six, if that’s what you’re angling to find out.’

Catherine regretted the sharpness of her tone when she saw the way those sea-toned eyes turned to her, their regard coolly direct, clearly noting the raised colour in her cheeks, the spark of reaction in her own bright blue eyes. If that ‘glamorous’ had been meant to flatter, to make her loosen up, then it had failed; if anything, she felt even more uptight than before.

‘I would have said twenty-two—no more,’ Evan returned smoothly. ‘But then the clothes are very deceptive—and without a trace of make-up you look like a well-scrubbed young girl.’

‘I don’t like to wear make-up all the time. Having to—’ She caught herself up sharply, not wanting to give too much away. ‘I prefer to let my skin breathe,’ she corrected hastily.

‘My sister feels exactly the same way.’

It was a bland reply, easily spoken, but she knew that she hadn’t succeeded in distracting him completely from the way she had covered up what she had been about to say. The aquamarine eyes had narrowed sharply, and she could sense a watchful awareness about the powerful body before her that made her stomach twist in painful apprehension.

Her father never seemed to dominate the room in quite the same way, she reflected nervously. He never made her feel that the elegant blue and grey room was somehow too small to contain him—or perhaps that was just a reflection of her own inner feelings, the tension that now always seemed to torment her when she was in the presence of any man she didn’t know.

‘That coffee must be ready by now. I’ll go and get it.’

‘Mrs Bentley will bring it through.’

‘No.’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘I’ll go and fetch it. You rely too much on your housekeeper since I left home, Dad. It’s well after six, and she should have the rest of the evening off.’

She prayed that the words wouldn’t sound like the excuse they were as she hastily made her way from the room, grateful for the chance to escape from Evan Lindsay, whose presence in her father’s house had started to become distinctly unnerving, his watchful scrutiny disturbingly oppressive.

In the kitchen, her father’s efficient housekeeper had everything ready, but all the same, after she had dismissed the older woman, Catherine lingered needlessly—rearranging the layout of the cups and saucers on the tray, adding a plate of biscuits, some hot milk as well as the cream, and finally coming to a halt, staring sightlessly at the bright floral blind that concealed the window as she had to face the fact that she was trying to avoid going back to join her father and his companion.

Was her nervousness just a natural response to events? she couldn’t help wondering. Was it just the sort of fear that anyone else might experience if they had been subjected to the sort of pressures, the harassment that she had endured, or was it something more? Was it something more personal, more directly involved with Evan Lindsay himself?

She had acknowledged that shivering sense of reaction when she’d looked at him, the intuitive recognition of a streak of something dangerous in him that had lifted the tiny hairs on the back of her neck in the instinctive reaction of a wary cat faced with a hostile intruder into its territory, but could she trust that? Did that sense of recognition come from her own inner turmoil or some other, more primitive response to his own individual aura?

‘Can I carry something through for you?’

The voice sounded suddenly behind her, making her start violently and drop the spoon she had been holding, letting it fall from nerveless fingers to land on the tray with a clatter that sounded appallingly loud in the quiet of the early evening. Reacting purely spontaneously, she swung round sharply, blue eyes blazing furiously.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that? How dare you invade my privacy in this way? I—’

‘Hey!’

Evan’s hands shot out, catching her flailing arms in a powerful grip, stilling their wild gesticulations.

‘Calm down, lady! There’s no need for this.’

‘No need!’

If he hadn’t touched her then perhaps she might have been able to rein in her temper, get a grip on her self-control, but with the pressure of those strong fingers on her skin, sending electrical impulses shooting through every nerve, it seemed as if something had exploded inside her head, threatening to blow off the top of her skull.

Her vision hazed and she didn’t see Evan Lindsay as a man but as the personification of the male force—big and dark and ominously threatening.

‘No need! You creep in here—’

‘I said, calm down!’

He actually shook her—not hard, but firmly enough to drive the message home, sweeping the panic from her mind and replacing it with a calmer, more logical way of thinking.

‘You were a long time getting the coffee, and your father seemed concerned so I came to see if you needed any help. I wasn’t creeping around anywhere!’ he added more emphatically. ‘It isn’t my fault if you were so lost in a dream world that you didn’t hear me come into the room.’

If she needed bringing back down to reality, then the look in those cold, sea-coloured eyes was enough to do just that. It was like having a bucketful of icy water thrown straight into her face, and it shocked her out of her panic without a second’s hesitation, leaving her gasping in reaction.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was—thinking of something else.’

‘Obviously,’ was the sardonic response. ‘And something none too pleasant from the looks of things. Just what—?’

But Catherine had remembered exactly what she had been thinking in the moment that he had come up behind her, and with that half-formed fear of him still shadowing her mind she wasn’t prepared to reveal any of her innermost feelings to him.

‘My thoughts are my own, Mr Lindsay,’ she returned tartly. ‘I’ll thank you not to poke your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘Fine.’ The single syllable was cold and curt, like the smile that he switched on and off as briefly as a flashing neon sign.

It was only when he let go of her hands that she realised he had still held them, the jarring abruptness of the movement as her arms fell to her sides aggravating her already disturbed state of mind. But she was totally unprepared for the devastating and bewildering sense of loss that ripped through her as cold air reached the spot where the warm strength of his hands had been only seconds before, so that it was all she could do to keep herself from crying out in distress.

‘Would you like some help with the tray, or would that be an invasion of your precious privacy too?’

‘What? Oh, no-’

Catherine struggled to regain some composure, feeling as if the tattered shreds of her self-control were fluttering wildly round her like the remains of some torn and ragged garment.

‘Thanks—that would be kind…’

Her voice faded as Evan moved forward, coming into the full glare of the fluorescent light for the first time, his features being thrown into harsh relief as if someone had directed a spotlight full on to his face.

He was definitely not a pretty man, or even a handsome one, she reflected privately. That strongly carved bone-structure was too harsh, too forceful to be described in any such way. He was a very tough-looking man—a man whose face seemed to be carved out of hard, unpolished wood, all knots and angles and…

‘What happened to your nose?’ The question escaped before she had time to consider whether it was wise to show an interest in such a personal matter.

‘My nose?’ He looked as startled as she felt to hear the words on her lips. ‘Oh—that?

Strong brown fingers touched the definite bump that marred the straightness in the centre of his face.

‘I broke it.’

‘Obviously.’ She echoed his own sardonic tone of moments before. ‘Any fool can see that—but how did it happen?’

A grin curled the corners of his mouth, mocking her indignation.

‘In the army—on a training exercise.’

The smile grew, became devastating in its megawatt brilliance.

‘I had to climb a rope that I believed had been fastened securely—it hadn’t, and I fell—hard. Result—one broken nose and a badly bruised ego. Needless to say, I never trust myself to anything without double-checking now.’

‘You were in the army? When? For how long?’

‘A couple of years. I went in straight from school. My father felt I needed the discipline, and at the time I would have done anything to get away from home. It didn’t last long, though,’ he added drily. ‘Let’s say that the army and I didn’t exactly—suit one another.’

Catherine could well believe it. Even from the little she had seen of Evan she had gained an impression of someone who was too much his own man to submit willingly to the sort of unquestioning routine that was part of army life.

‘And I suppose that’s where you learned about security techniques—I understand that a lot of ex-army men go into that sort of job.’

‘The ones who don’t become night-watchmen or bodyguards.’

He was deliberately probing now; she knew that from the laser-like intensity with which those changeable eyes were fixed on her face. He was echoing her own comment earlier, wanting to push her into explaining.

‘We’d better get this coffee through to the lounge before it gets cold,’ she said, carefully ignoring his pushing. ‘Dad will be sending out a search-party for me.’

‘Is he always this over-protective?’

The question came deceptively casually, with Evan’s head turned away as he picked up the tray, but it was enough to stop her dead in her tracks, halfway towards the door.

‘What do you mean, “over-protective”?’ Her voice was pitched too high and she struggled to lower it a degree or two. ‘He’s just a normal, caring parent—’

‘Sure…’ Evan’s tone poured scorn on her indignation. ‘Look, honey, I don’t normally jump to conclusions about people, but you two don’t exactly have a run of the mill sort of relationship.’

‘I don’t know what you mean—’

‘No? Then let me tell you about this afternoon. I’ve been working with your father for days, and for some time it’s been obvious that his mind isn’t exactly on his job. Then today I called in at his office to discuss some things I needed to talk over with him. He made it plain that I’d have to make it quick—that he couldn’t be late home—and it wasn’t long before I realised that he wasn’t paying me any attention at all. In fact, his thoughts were miles away. In the end he just gave up pretending to listen and suggested that we continued our discussion at his home.’

‘So what’s wrong with that? Dad often brings work home if it’s late.’

‘It was barely five o’clock. His secretary hadn’t even finished work for the day, but Lloyd Davies, the boss of the whole outfit, says he has to go home—he’s worried about his daughter.’

The disturbing note in Evan’s voice scraped over Catherine’s exposed nerves, worsening their already raw sensitivity, and she found it impossible to meet that probing, searching gaze, concentrating instead on smoothing and folding a crumpled teatowel that lay on the draining-board, arranging it with over-meticulous care.

‘Naturally, I assumed from his concern that his daughter was a young girl—school-age at most, maybe even younger—so you can imagine my surprise when I find she’s not a child but a fully grown woman of twenty-six, someone well old enough—’

‘My father and I are very close,’ Catherine broke in on him, unable to face the prospect of the inevitable questions that she knew were coming. ‘It’s probably because the age-gap between us is so small.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘Are you implying—?’

‘I’m implying nothing—just curious.’

‘Look, my mother left when I was barely five, and Dad and I have been together ever since. Naturally, we’re very close—very dependent—though I don’t suppose you’d understand that.’

‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’ The very quietness of Evan’s words was ominous, sending a shiver of apprehension down Catherine’s spine.

‘Well, you said you’d joined the army to get away from home. Just because you and your parents—or at least your father—didn’t get on it doesn’t mean you can judge my relationship with Dad by the same standards.’

That was definitely below the belt, she admitted privately, but refused to let herself feel guilty. After all, he had only himself to blame—he had started this line of questioning.

‘And now, if you don’t mind, I think we’ve delayed long enough. I’d like to drink my coffee before it’s completely stone-cold—even if you wouldn’t.’

And, not giving him a chance to say any more, she turned on her heel and marched off down the hall, not daring to look back to see the effect her words had had on him.

She had left him with no option but to follow, but she was pretty certain that Evan Lindsay was not the sort of man to let things rest. And from the expression on his face as he set the tray down on the coffee-table in the lounge she was worryingly aware of the fact that, far from appeasing his curiosity, she had in fact only stirred it further.

Privately she cursed her own nervousness, the tension that had driven her to overreact, responding to his questions in a way that had fuelled his interest, fanning it from a slowly smouldering ember to a brightly burning flame that would not easily be extinguished. Her stomach twisted itself into tight, painful knots of apprehension, anticipating with a terrible sense of inevitability the interrogation that she was sure must come.

She didn’t have to wait long. She had barely had time to pour the coffee and hand a cup to Evan, serving him, as their guest, first, as courtesy demanded, before the moment she had dreaded arrived.

Leaning back in his chair with a deceptively convincing display of relaxed ease, he sipped at his drink, his expression thoughtful, then he turned those turquoise eyes on her face once more, the look in them alerting her to what was to come.

‘It’s been a beautiful week hasn’t it?’ he asked easily, and, taken completely by surprise because she had been expecting something else entirely, Catherine could only manage an inarticulate murmur that might have been agreement.

Her father, however, apparently oblivious to the dark, swirling undercurrents she sensed, nodded enthusiastically.

‘Summer’s finally here, it seems—and not before time. Last month was so wet and miserable—hardly flaming June! But it’s certainly making up for it now.’

‘So it seems.’

Catherine knew that she was actually gaping in confusion. She couldn’t believe her ears. Surely Evan didn’t actually intend to conduct a conversation about the weather?

‘And, of course, the light evenings are a real bonus.’

‘They certainly are.’ The darkly sardonic intonation in Evan’s voice grated on Catherine’s raw nerves.

‘Dad-’

Belatedly she had caught on to the path Evan was following, the way his mind was working, and she tried to inject a note of warning into the single word, signalling to her father with her eyes as she did so. But Lloyd seemed oblivious to her concern.

‘Would you like a biscuit, Mr Lindsay?’ she asked, the words hissing from between clenched teeth as she turned a fulminating glare on him.

‘No thanks,’ he returned blithely. ‘But I would like an explanation.’

‘An explanation?’ Catherine’s father frowned his lack of comprehension.

‘Mr Lindsay seems to think that we’re hiding something, Dad. Either that or we’re quite unnatural simply because we happen to care about each other.’

‘But, Cathy, don’t you think—?’

‘No!’ With difficulty she stopped herself from screaming the word at him. ‘I don’t think we should give Mr Lindsay an explanation of anything—not that there is anything to explain…’ She covered herself hastily and clumsily in nervous response to the gleam of triumph that lit up in Evan’s eyes. ‘And even if there was, then it’s none of his business.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ Evan inserted blandly, setting down his coffee-cup and leaning forward to emphasise his point. ‘You see, I think your father made it my business when he invited me here on the pretext of discussing matters that could easily have waited until tomorrow.’

‘Made what your business?’ Catherine made one last attempt at pretending that nothing was wrong.

‘I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. From the moment that I first set foot in this house, it’s been obvious that something is very wrong.’

‘Oh, come now, Mr Lindsay, surely you’re exaggerating? There’s nothing—’

‘Nothing?’

One dark eyebrow lifted in an expression of mocking disbelief, and Catherine had the uncomfortable feeling that even though Evan hadn’t moved from his chair he had, mentally at least, backed her into a very tight corner indeed.

‘All right, we’ll take things logically,’ he said in a dangerously quiet voice. ‘One—your father’s been like a cat on hot bricks all afternoon—barely listening to a word I’ve said, and certainly not giving his work the concentration it deserved.

‘Two—’ he ticked off each point as he made it, using the outstretched fingers of his left hand ‘—he had to rush home to look after his daughter—at five p.m. A time when even a schoolgirl would be safe in the house— especially with the housekeeper there.

‘But three—this daughter isn’t a child, or even an adolescent—she’s twenty-six, and someone who, by her own admission, normally has a place of her own.’

He didn’t miss a trick, Catherine thought despairingly. He’d even picked up on the fact that she had her own flat. It was no wonder that they hadn’t been able to hide anything from him. Oh, why had her father had to bring this particular man home?

‘Shall I go on?’

When Catherine and her father could only stare at him, unable to find a word to say, Evan nodded silently, his mouth tightening ominously.

‘All right—so you have your own home, but for some reason you’re hiding out at your father’s—’

‘I’m not hiding!’

‘No?’

Once more that raised eyebrow questioned the truth of her outburst.

‘Then why did your father feel it necessary to ring the bell—the bell to his own front door—when he arrived? And why did he call out as soon as he came in, if not to reassure you? Why do you jump like a scalded cat at the slightest sound, any unexpected movement?’

Catherine began to feel as if the quickfire questions were in fact blows to her head, making her reel sickeningly.

‘Why did you turn on me as if I was an intruder from an alien planet when I came up behind you in the kitchen? And—last but not least—why, when it’s the hottest week we’ve had all summer, when the temperatures have finally reached into the twenties and the rest of the country is enjoying the long, warm evenings-gardening, having barbecues, or simply sitting outside soaking up the sun—do you have every single curtain in every damn room pulled so tightly closed that a beam of light couldn’t get through if it tried?

‘Either one of you is a vampire and will shrivel up in the heat of the sun, or there’s some other, more disturbing reason for this obsession with privacy.’

He stopped at last, looking straight at both of them in much the same way that the counsel for the prosecution would survey the accused, Catherine reflected miserably, knowing that there was no way she could deny his assessment of events. His case was watertight—and he knew it.

‘So now,’ Evan continued more slowly, sea-green eyes fixed on her face in a way that made her feel worryingly certain that he could see right through her head and read everything that was in her mind, ‘are you going to stop playing silly games and tell me just what all this is about?’

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL?’

The single, harsh syllable fell into the stunned silence that was the only response Catherine and her father could make to the clear and terrifyingly accurate assessment of the situation he had just given them. There really wasn’t any way they could possibly argue against it, she reflected unhappily.

‘Well?’ he repeated, more emphatically this time.

‘I—don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Stubbornly Catherine clung to her determination not to reveal anything to him.

‘You must have a very vivid imagination,’ she went on, with a touch of airiness that didn’t quite come off, instead making her sound brittle and highly-strung instead of achieving the insouciance she had aimed for. ‘You seem to have cobbled together some sort of fantasy scenario out of a lot of perfectly ordinary facts…’

Her voice failed her as Evan, not bothering to answer her verbally, turned on her the sort of cold, contemptuous look from those aquamarine eyes that made her quail fearfully inside, wanting to curl her arms round her to protect herself. Her earlier impression had been right, she told herself on a wave of unease. If provoked, Evan Lindsay could be a very dangerous character indeed.

‘It’s no good Cathy.’ Lloyd Davies pushed a hand through hair that was just a couple of shades darker than his daughter’s. ‘We can’t keep pretending that nothing’s wrong—’

‘Dad!’

‘We have to tell someone.‘ Her father ignored the reproachful glance she turned on him. ‘And it strikes me that Evan is the sort of man who might be able to help. That’s why—’

‘I don’t think anyone can help!’ The tension that Catherine had been holding in check all evening finally got the better of her, and the words escaped in a despairing rush. ‘Even the police—’

She cut herself off sharply, swallowing down what she had been about to say as Evan’s reaction told her just how much she had given away. The relaxed, almost indolent pose vanished as he sat up straight in his chair, his blue-green eyes fixed on her face.

‘The police?’

Catherine’s heart lurched painfully in her chest, every trace of confidence burned away in the cold fire of those changeable eyes, and she could only nod silently, her tongue seeming to have frozen in her mouth.

‘Why are the police involved in this?’

If he had stayed where he was then perhaps she might have been able to answer him, but to Catherine’s shock and total consternation Evan got up from his seat and came towards her, leaning down to rest both hands on the arms of her chair as he looked deep into her face.

‘Catherine?’

God, she hadn’t realised just how big a man he was— big and imposing and frighteningly strong. He was tough too; the set of his features told her that—the hard, square jaw, the tightness of the muscles around his mouth, the fierce, unblinking stare of those eyes.

A few moments earlier she had wondered what he would be like with the calm, affable veneer he had shown them up to now stripped away and the real Evan Lindsay revealed underneath. Now she was beginning to get some idea of the reality. The civilised finish had worn a little thin, exposing glimpses of a very different man—a man who was very much a force to be reckoned with.

‘Evan—I—’ her father began, but Evan let him get no further, cutting him off sharply.

‘I’m talking to your daughter,’ he flung over his shoulder, sparing the older man only the briefest of glances before turning his attention back to Catherine. ‘Why are the police involved in all this?’

Catherine struggled for some degree of control, her eyes wide and brilliant as sapphires over pale, drawn cheeks as she fought against the panic that was welling up inside her, threatening to take control. Earlier she had been fearful of Evan simply because he was a man, one she didn’t know, but now it was more personal, more specific to him. She recalled how he had told her that he had been in the army, and her imagination conjured up images of all the interrogation scenes in any film she had ever seen, making her shiver in apprehension.

‘You’re frightening me!’ she managed on a shaky gasp.

Evan’s response was immediate and unexpected. His head went back sharply, his eyes darkening in something close to shock, and he looked down at his hands, realising the aggressive nature of his position, the implied threat in the way he towered over her.

‘I’m sorry!’ he said abruptly, moving back swiftly and raking one hand through the ebony sleekness of his hair in a gesture that spoke more clearly of his mental disturbance than any words could ever do. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his voice rough and slightly husky. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Catherine was shocked to find that his features seemed blurred, that tears had filled her eyes, obscuring her vision, and she blinked hard to try to clear them away.

‘I’d like you to go now.’ But even as she spoke the words she knew that she had little hope that Evan would do as she asked.

‘Oh, no.’

The hard voice confirmed her fears, the adamant shake of his dark head driving home the point without hope of reprieve.

‘You’ve involved me now. I’m not leaving until you tell me just what’s going on.’

‘But you have an appointment.’

It was a last ditch effort, the only card she had to play, and the desperation in her voice revealed how close she was to breaking.

Her hopes rose slightly when Evan looked at his watch and frowned in response to her words. An hour, he had said, and most of that time was already gone.

Catherine could hardly believe her eyes when he turned on his heel and headed for the door. Surely it couldn’t be all over; it couldn’t be that easy!

It wasn’t. In the hall she heard Evan come to a halt, and then the sound of the telephone receiver being picked up. Without so much as a by your leave he pressed the number buttons with firm decisiveness.

‘Sam?’ His voice carried clearly to where she sat. ‘About tonight—I’m afraid something’s come up and I’m not going to be able to make it. Can we arrange another time?’

This Samantha must be an amazingly tolerant woman, Catherine reflected. There had been no apology, no hint of contrition in Evan’s voice, only that laconic ‘Something’s come up.’ Or was it Samuel, and so a very different matter entirely?

‘Cathy, I think we have to tell him.’ Her father’s tone was urgent, pushing her to agree. ‘You need someone—’

‘Someone, yes—but not Evan Lindsay.’

‘But why not? It’s his line—his territory, so to speak.’

‘But we don’t know anything about him.’

Catherine couldn’t put into words the way she felt, the fear that the thought of venturing into Evan Lindsay’s ‘territory’ aroused in her. It smacked of stepping blindfolded into the lion’s den, if not precisely putting her head in its mouth.

‘We don’t know who he is—what he is.’

‘Fine.’ In the hallway, Evan was bringing his conversation to an end. ‘I’ll see you then.’

‘I know he’s very good at his job—came highly recommended—and he’s certainly been more than thorough. And you know that I can’t be here after this week—’

‘But I can.’

Catherine’s head jerked up, her gaze going to the doorway in nervous response to Evan’s low-toned interjection. Still standing just outside the room, he studied her for a long, taut moment, blue-green eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful.

‘You weren’t joking about the bodyguard,’ he pronounced at last, making Catherine draw in her breath sharply, wondering how she had ever hoped to hide anything from this perceptive, keenly observant man. ‘Don’t you think you’d better let me in on the secret? At least that way I’ll be on your side.’

‘Cathy,’ Lloyd prompted, ‘please…’

‘I—don’t know.’ Her blue eyes were shadowed and dull, looking faintly bruised above the colourless skin of her cheeks. ‘I don’t even know if you could help.’

Evan moved suddenly, coming to sit opposite her once more, his eyes holding hers all the time. Leaning forward, he took her hands in both of his, his grip warm and firm, the intensity of his gaze seeming to have the power to draw her soul right out of her body.

‘Try me,’ he said softly.

In that moment something happened—something strange and wonderful and totally inexplicable. In the second that he spoke the quiet words it was suddenly as if a huge weight had fallen from Catherine’s heart, as if all her doubts and fears had been taken from her, washed away on a new tide of hope and fresh confidence.

Here was a pair of strong shoulders onto which she could shift the burden that had blighted her days; here was a calm, intelligent mind that could find a way through the waking nightmare that her life seemed to have become. She no longer had doubts, no longer needed to hesitate, to be wary.

‘Help me,’ she said simply, and saw his eyes darken, saw the stunning gentleness of his smile.

It would be easy to fall in love with a man with eyes like that, whose mouth could curve in that way, lighting up his whole face, she thought dreamily, allowing the fantasy to take root for a brief, delirious second, before the realisation of the foolheardy direction of her thoughts had her blinking in sudden shock.

‘If I can, I will.’ Evan’s response was low and firm, the conviction in his voice enough to inspire confidence in even the most craven of hearts. ‘But first you have to help me. I need to know just what’s troubling you,’ he added when he saw her puzzled frown. ‘Do you trust me enough to tell me?’

Did she? Could she trust him? Who else could she turn to if she didn’t tell him? There was no one else; it was Evan or no one.

‘I don’t know where to begin…’ She had kept it to herself for so long that now it was difficult actually to let it out.

‘Is it a man?’ Evan prompted when she hesitated, shaking her head in despair.

‘Yes—at least, I think so. Oh, but not in the way you mean. I’m sorry—I’m not doing this very well.’

Evan’s silent shrug dismissed her apology as unnecessary.

‘Take your time. We have all night.’

Now we have, Catherine thought, recalling the way he had dismissed the waiting Sam. But there was something very reassuring about that ‘we’.

‘Perhaps a drink would help—something stronger than coffee,’ Lloyd put in, getting to his feet and heading towards the drinks cabinet.

‘I think not.’ Evan’s incisive command stopped him halfway. ‘We’d do better with clear heads—don’t you think?’

Those last three words were added purely for courtesy’s sake, Catherine realised. Evan’s words had had the force of an order, one he intended to be obeyed without argument, and her father had recognised that, sinking back into his chair without a protest. For better or worse, Evan Lindsay was now in charge. They had put themselves into his hands and there was no going back.

Into his hands—the words reverberated inside her head as she let her gaze drop to the fingers that still held her own, recognising their strength with a shiver of reaction that was a disturbing blend of relief and fear. She was painfully aware of the potential power in Evan’s hands— the force that, if it tightened just a tiny bit more, could bruise or break. Right now, she could only be grateful for the fact that that strength would be on her side.

‘I don’t know what my father told you about me…’

It was as if that thought had given her a mental push, and suddenly the words came tumbling out, like water pouring through newly opened floodgates.

‘But I work in television—children’s programmes, actually—and a couple of years ago I got a really big break when I was chosen to host a regular weekly show. It’s called Get Up and Go. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but—’

But Evan was nodding. ‘Tuesdays—five till six.’

‘You know about it?’

‘My friend’s kids love it. They wouldn’t miss it for the world. You have two very loyal fans there.’

‘That’s great. How old are they—your friend’s children, that is?’

She spoke quickly, needing to distract herself from the sudden disturbing lurch her heart had given. When he smiled like that it lit up his whole face, softening the hard lines and making the blue-green eyes glow like a rock pool when the sun fell on it.

‘Five and seven—a boy and a girl. Amy’s the seven-year-old—she’s the real fan.’

‘Well, five is perhaps a little young to take it all in.’

She wouldn’t allow herself to wonder whether the friend he had referred to was the same one he had spoken of earlier. Were these the children of the Sam he had been going to have dinner with? It was worrying to find that in spite of her attempts to drive it from her mind the answer to that question suddenly seemed very important.

‘I always like to hear firsthand that people enjoy what we do. Of course, we do get a lot of letters—’

‘But not all of them from kids.’

The faint shake in her voice had betrayed her; either that or some tiny reaction in her face that had not escaped those watchful aquamarine eyes.

‘No.’ Her voice was very low.

‘And not all just expressing innocent admiration.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘No.’ She shook her head, grateful for the way the movement made her fair hair fly around her face, concealing the vulnerability of her expression.

‘Cathy’s been the victim of a campaign of harassment,’ her father put in. ‘A stalker, I believe the current word is—an obsessive fan.’

‘An adult fan?’ Evan’s attention was concentrated on Catherine. ‘When did all this start?’

‘About seven months ago; just before Christmas. The first letter came in a bundle of ordinary mail, and really it was just very complimentary about my appearance.’ Catherine’s laugh was shaken. ‘He said I was just what he wanted in his Christmas stocking. But there was a tone to it—some rather sexual comments that made it plain it didn’t come from a typical fan. Your friend’s daughter and son are the sort who usually write.’

‘It was anonymous, I take it?’

‘Yes. There was another one the next week, and the next, and every week after that—sometimes two or three in a row. They started off mild enough, but they soon got more and more sexually explicit—more expressive of his personal fantasies—more disgusting.’ She shuddered, remembering.

‘But they just came to the television studios?’

‘No. I think I could have coped with that, but after a month or so they started arriving at my flat. He’d got my address from somewhere—where, I don’t know. And the letters were just the beginning. The next thing that happened was the parcels—’

‘Parcels?’

Catherine nodded miserably.

‘They contained underwear mostly—stockings, suspenders, G-strings. He’d write that he wanted to see me in them.’ She tried another laugh, one that broke up in the middle. ‘He must have spent a fortune.’

But Evan wasn’t laughing. As she’d told her story his expression had grown grimmer, darker, more dangerous—so that, looking at him, she could barely suppress a shiver of fearful reaction.

‘Go on,’ he prompted harshly when she hesitated. ‘I take it there was more?’

‘That was only the beginning…’

Now she wanted everything out in the open, wanted to pour the whole story out, as if by doing so she could purge herself of the horror, the fear with which she had lived for so long. So she told him how the letters had grown more and more sexually threatening, how the unknown stalker had declared that he believed she was his destiny, that one day they were meant to be together.

‘He even started to interpret things I’d said on the programme—things I’d said to children—as being messages just for him.’

Once again she shuddered, her blue eyes dark and shadowed.

‘He referred to them in his letters, giving them totally different meanings—making them disgusting and dirty. That was when we called the police, but of course there was no real evidence.’

‘The letters?’

Sadly, Catherine shook her head.

‘I burned most of them. Oh, I know I shouldn’t have done, but at first I just didn’t think it would last—I thought he’d soon get tired of pestering me. And then, later, they were so horrible that I couldn’t bear to have them around, and I destroyed them without thinking that they would be needed. Once I’d told the police they said I should pass the letters on to them unopened.’

‘Good advice,’ Evan put in quietly. ‘Did that help?’

‘I wish I could say it had; if anything, it made matters worse. It was as if he knew what I’d done and he changed his routine as a result. That was when the phone calls started.’

Evan muttered something violent and obscene in a savage undertone, drawing her pansy-dark eyes to his face. Seeing the cold fury etched around his nose and mouth, she hesitated, almost fearful of continuing. Immediately he made himself relax, wiping the harsh lines from his face with a speed that made her blink.

‘Go on,’ he encouraged with an unexpected softness, warm fingers tightening slightly on hers.

‘He started ringing me at my flat—sometimes in the evening, just after I’d got home from work, sometimes in the middle of the night.’

‘Did you recognise the voice?’ The question came sharply.

‘No—but I think he’d done something to disguise itput a handkerchief over the mouthpiece or something— and he always whispered, so that distorted it too. He seemed to be getting more obsessed—more angry. There was one time when he’d seen me on the show with another presenter. He thought I’d been flirting—“unfaithful” he called it! He said I was a two-timing bitch and if I didn’t change my ways he would punish me—’

Her breath caught in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she had to pause, struggling to control the panic that rose up in her. Evan waited silently, seeming to sense intuitively that to speak would be to destroy her composure completely, but those strong, warm fingers still intertwined with hers tightened in an eloquent communication of sympathy.

‘I’d had an answering machine installed, but I found that I was just standing by it, waiting to hear his voice, and he always seemed to know when I was there. He said that he’d make sure I never had a relationship with anyone else—he’d kill anyone I dated—and—and if necessary he’d kill me.’

Her voice broke again, her eyes flooding with tears, but it was as if Evan was passing his strength on to her through his touch on her hands, and in a moment she was able to continue.

‘The police did what they could. They tried to trace the calls, but they were all from payphones scattered all over London. They even offered to escort me to and from work, but I couldn’t take that—it was like being a prisoner—and I couldn’t rest in my flat, never knowing when the phone might ring again, whether it would be him…It all came to a head last week when I was out shopping. I’d just gone to the supermarket to get some groceries, but suddenly I heard someone running behind me.’

Once more she shuddered, reliving the fear she had felt in that moment.

‘It was only a man running for a bus, but it panicked me. I realised that he could be watching me all the timefollowing me. I just snapped. I came straight here, didn’t even go home to get any clothes. I was afraid he might be there waiting for me.’

Abruptly Catherine became aware of the fact that she was still holding onto Evan’s hands, her fingers clenched on his, tightening in response to her inner distress, and with a muffled exclamation she released them sharply, her confusion growing as she saw the red marks on his skin, the indentations where her nails had dug into his palms.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ She couldn’t believe her own thoughtlessness.

Evan barely spared his hands the briefest of glances, his shrug dismissing both the damage she had done and her apology.

‘And what’s happened since you came here? Have things been easier?’

‘Oh, yes. Only one person knows where I am and that’s my agent. I had to tell her, because she’s a special friend as well as working with me. And I rang work and told them I was ill—exhaustion due to stress. Well, it’s near enough to the truth. Luckily, we’ve just finished filming the last of the current series, so I’m not leaving anyone in the lurch—and I was due two months’ leave anyway. They probably realise something’s up; my mind hasn’t exactly been on my job lately.’

‘But what will happen when your leave is up? You can’t hide away here for ever.’

‘I know. I have to admit that I haven’t really thought beyond that. I suppose I’m just praying that something will be resolved before I have to go back—that the police track him down, or he loses interest in tormenting me and gives up. I just know I can’t bear the thought of him being out there—watching.’

‘Are you sure you’re not letting him win by giving in to him in this way—letting him ruin your life?’

‘Oh, you would say that! You’re a man!’ Catherine couldn’t believe she had actually trusted this man, poured her heart out to him, only to get this typical masculine response. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to live in fear-not to feel secure in your own home—’

‘It was a question that had to be asked.’

‘Of course you’d see it that way.’ Unable to bear that intent sea-coloured gaze any longer, she got to her feet in a restless, disturbed movement. ‘I don’t know why I ever told you.’

If she had expected that confiding in him would bring a sense of relief, then she had been desperately wrong. Instead, she felt even more vulnerable than before, frightened by the way she had let a complete stranger into the carefully restricted, protective world that had enclosed her safely until now.

‘You obviously can’t or won’t help me.’

‘Did I say that?’

It was his very stillness that shook her, making her stop dead in the middle of the room. Evan hadn’t moved an inch; he still sat in his chair, his hands lying loosely on its arms, his hard-boned face turned towards her. He was so big that even sitting down he didn’t have to tilt his head much to look up at her.

‘Don’t put words into my mouth, Catherine.’ The ominous quietness of his tone was somehow more disturbing than if he had shouted, and it dried Catherine’s mouth so that she had to swallow hard.

‘I—’ she began, not really knowing what she was going to say, but at that moment the shrill of the telephone slashed through her words. Immediately she froze, her eyes, dark with fear, going to her father.

‘Dad—’

But Evan had already reacted. Getting up and out of his chair in one swift, lithe movement, he was in the hall and had snatched up the receiver before Catherine had even registered the action.

‘Yes?’ he snapped. ‘Who do you want to speak to? Who shall I say? If you’d just hold the line a minute, please.’

‘Please’, Catherine noted, relief breaking over her like a fierce wave, so that she had to cling to a nearby chair for support. Obviously not anyone she should fear, then. The release from the tension that held her prisoner every day was so intense that she felt tears prick at her eyes.

‘Catherine?’ Evan had his finger on the secrecy button of the phone. ‘Do you want to speak to someone called Ellie?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The strength returned to her legs at the sound of the familiar name. ‘It’s my agent,’ she explained, taking the telephone from his hand, expecting that he would move away, at least to a discreet distance. But instead he lingered, leaning back against the wall, his arms folded. ‘Ellie—is that you?’ She forced herself to ignore him.

‘None other,’ her friend’s voice said clearly on the other end of the line, and Catherine smiled to herself, picturing the older woman’s smiling face, her once bright red hair, now fading to a sort of pepper-and-salt effect. ‘Though I’m not sure I dare speak to you after that cross-examination. Just who is the pit bull, and is he as terrifying as he sounds?’

‘The—? Oh—yes.’

As light dawned as to just what Ellie was talking about, Catherine couldn’t resist a swift, laughing glance across at where Evan stood, still very much on the alert.

‘Yes, he is,’ she managed, wondering if he had heard himself described as a guard dog.

‘All ripping teeth and vicious snarl?’

‘Hardly!’ This time her amused eyes met those watchful turquoise ones. ‘This is a private phone call, Evan,’ she added with a pointed glance at the door into the lounge.

She might have spared herself the effort. Evan simply ignored her reaction, returning her look with disturbing lack of reaction, all emotion blanked out as if he hadn’t heard a word, and settled himself more firmly against the wall.

‘Evan, eh?’ Ellie had heard her aside. ‘So who might he be? Anyone interesting?’

‘Not at all.’ Furious at Evan’s deliberate rudeness, Catherine no longer cared what he heard, and she deliberately turned her back on him. ‘He’s just some security man who works for my father.’

‘And now for you, is that it? Are you finally seeing sense and hiring yourself a bodyguard? About time, too. So tell me—’ a hint of wicked humour lit Ellie’s voice ‘—what’s he like? I mean, we’ve all seen the film…’

‘Forget it, Ellie!’ The knowledge that Evan was still there, a silent observer of her every move, provoked some imp of mischief in her to add, ‘This guy’s no Kevin Costner—you were closer with the pit bull terrier.’

‘All brawn and no brain, huh?’ Ellie didn’t sound too disappointed. ‘Oh, well, that type’s good for other things, I suppose. I mean, if you can’t enjoy his conversation, at least you can enjoy something else…’

‘Ellie!’ As her friend’s salacious laugh made it plain exactly what she meant, Catherine struggled to resist the urge to look over her shoulder and see how Evan had taken that comment. ‘No one would believe you were a respectable, mature married lady. Anyway, it’s not like that.’

‘Not your type?’

‘Definitely not.’ The sudden prick of her conscience, reminding her of the sensual awareness she had felt while alone with Evan in the kitchen and at other points of the evening, gave Catherine’s tone an unwarranted decisiveness. ‘Besides, I’m definitely off men at the moment, after all that’s happened.’

‘Of course you are, love.’ Ellie’s tone had sobered. ‘It must be hell to feel so hunted. That’s why I rang, to find out how things are on that front. Any news?’

‘If you mean do the police have any leads, then the answer’s no. And I daren’t go back to my flat—I reckon I’ll- Hey!’

She broke off on a cry that was a mixture of nervous reaction and outraged fury as there was a sudden movement from behind her and Evan’s strong finger came down hard on the disconnect button, cutting her off abruptly.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Blue eyes blazing, she swung round to face him. ‘Just what do you think you were doing?’

‘Stopping you from giving too much away,’ was the imperturbable reply.

‘But Ellie’s my friend, for God’s sake! She wouldn’t—’

‘No? Can you be sure of that?’

‘Of course I can. I’ve known her almost all my life; she was like a mother to me when mine walked out. She wouldn’t—you can’t think that!’

‘All I know is that you were about to tell her exactly what your plans are, and as far as I’m concerned the fewer people who know, the better. You did ask me to help,’ he pointed out, with an infuriatingly exaggerated reasonableness that set Catherine’s teeth on edge.

‘But not in this arrogant manner!’ Ruthlessly Catherine ignored the memory of her own voice pleading, ‘Help me,’ a short time before. ‘Ellie is my friend!’

‘In that case she’ll understand. And if nothing else, your friend has a very loud mouth. If you want my opinion.’

‘I don’t think I do!’

Catherine slammed the phone back down onto its rest and, turning on her heel, stalked back into the lounge, her head high. Right now, she felt that having to put up with Evan Lindsay’s high-handed behaviour was too high a price to pay even for protection from the menace of the stalker. In a moment of weakness she had turned to him, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to move in and take over her life!

‘I don’t want your opinion, or your help—or anything!’

‘But, Cathy—’ Her father’s concerned face showed his worried response to her outburst. ‘What will you do next week?’

‘Precisely what happens then?’ Evan asked from the doorway.

‘I have to go to Japan.’ Lloyd ignored his daughter’s furious glare, the message not to answer that she was trying to telegraph with her eyes. ‘I’ll be away for nearly a month. I don’t want to leave Cathy on her own.’

‘I can cope—’

‘Oh, sure.’ Evan’s tone was rich with sardonic disbelief. ‘You can cope the way you were doing before tonight—jumping at your own shadow, frightened by the least sound, imprisoned in—’

‘I’ll be fine!’

She would be, just to spite him. Give this man an inch and he took five hundred miles. She didn’t want him trampling all over her life with his great size elevens, putting his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, cutting her off from her friends.

‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want anything—’

Once more she was silenced by the sound of the telephone. Ellie, she thought, ringing back to find out just what had happened before. She actually had her hand on the receiver when it was wrenched away from her.

‘Yes?’ Even curter than before, if that was possible.

‘How dare you? It’s only Ellie—’

She was reaching out to snatch the phone back when she saw his expression change, the hardening of those strongly carved features, the cold light that came into his eyes, and a sensation like the shiver of icy water slid slowly down her spine.

‘There’s no one called Honey here.’

Honey. It was all she could do to suppress a moan of terror. The sound of the name had the force of a blow to her head, filling her mouth with a taste that was bitter as acid.

Honey. That was his name for her—the name he had written at the beginning of each letter, and, more recently, the way he always started each hateful, horrible phone call. She could hear it now inside her head, that terrible, terrifying whisper—’Hello, Honey.’

Every trace of colour drained form her cheeks, leaving them white and ashen, and she took a shaky step backwards.

At once Evan’s gaze went to her face, aquamarine eyes narrowing swiftly as he took in her reaction. His response was immediate, no questions needing to be asked.

‘There’s no Honey here, and there never will be again—not for you. Do you understand that? No, you can listen! You’re not dealing with Honey now; you’re dealing with me. No, it doesn’t matter who the hell I am. All you need to know is that I’m here, and I’m in charge, and I don’t take too kindly to—’

He broke off sharply, listening intently to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. To Catherine’s shock and consternation his response was laughter, but laughter that was so terrifyingly hard and humourless that it worried her almost as much as the knowledge that her tormentor had tracked her down once more.

‘Do that.’ The brutal satisfaction in Evan’s tone made Catherine’s stomach clench painfully. ‘And I’ll derive a great deal of pleasure from taking you apart, limb by limb. What? Oh, no, pal, I won’t be going anywhere. I’m staying right here, and I don’t intend to leave until you’re safely locked away. So if you want to get to your Honey, you’ll have to come through me first!’

Then, as Catherine watched with the sort of transfixed fascination that a rabbit displayed when confronted by a predatory snake, he grinned suddenly, with grim triumph, and let the phone drop onto the table with a clatter that to her overwrought nerves seemed as loud as thunder overhead.

‘He’s gone,’ he said, that dark satisfaction still lingering in his words. ‘He’s a man of limited vocabulary, isn’t he, your Joe?’

And if she had any doubts as to who the caller had been then that drove them away. Honey was what he called her; Joe was his name for himself. Joe as in Joe Public—ordinary Joe. She had no doubt that it was not his real name.

‘Oh, God!’ Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes deep pools of fear above her concealing fingers. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Do?’ To her consternation, Evan smiled with sudden, disturbing gentleness. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. Didn’t you hear what I said? I’ll handle things from here on in. I’m in charge now.’

If it was meant to reassure, then his harsh declaration didn’t have the desired effect. In Catherine’s mind there was not all that much to choose between Evan Lindsay and the stalker who was hounding her. And she couldn’t help wondering just what sort of a force she had unleashed by getting this man involved in her situation— in her life.

CHAPTER THREE

CATHERINE woke the next morning to a terrible sense of foreboding, and a feeling of having burned her boats, aggravating rather than improving her situation—which was all the more illogical when she considered that all she had actually done was enlist someone to help her. She should have felt more relaxed, a burden shared was a burden halved, they said, but that was very far from the case.

‘What have we done, Dad?’ she asked when, with her face pale after a disturbed night, she joined her father at the breakfast table. ‘Is Evan really the man we want?’

‘Of course he is, darling.’ Lloyd lifted puzzled eyes from his newspaper. ‘He’s a security expert—one of the top men in his field.’

‘Yes, but he’s so—tough.’

Recalling Evan’s behaviour on the previous night, Catherine couldn’t suppress a faint shudder at the thought of the hard-faced determination with which he had ignored her request for privacy, the controlled force behind his action as he’d cut off the phone call from Ellie, the ruthless, cold ferocity that had been in his face and his voice when he had spoken to Joe.

‘Don’t you think we need someone tough? Look, Cathy, this stalker is ruining your life, making each day a misery. You have to be protected from that, and to my mind it’s time he got some of his own medicine—time we started fighting fire with fire.’

‘But that’s just what I’m afraid of. Isn’t fighting fire with fire more likely to end up causing a raging inferno rather than actually extinguishing anything? After all, what do we know about this Evan Lindsay, other than that he’s some sort of security man?’

‘Personally, nothing at all. But he’s more than just a security man. As I said, he’s an expert, and the company he set up has won a worldwide reputation and respect. He doesn’t do this for the money, Cathy—he doesn’t need to.’

‘But I thought—’ And she had referred to him as just a security man!

‘That he was one of the workmen? Not Evan; he’s the big boss. He could leave everything to the men he employs, but that’s not his way. After all, he didn’t have to check those things through with me last night—though I must say that that turned out for the best.’

So, did this new knowledge change her perception of Evan? Catherine wondered. It certainly went a long way towards explaining the aura of arrogant power and command that seemed to permeate every bone in his body. But money wasn’t everything. He was still Evan Lindsay, who, apart from that arrogance and a total ruthlessness that had shown through the polite social veneer, was very much an unknown quantity.

‘After all, if he hadn’t suggested that he came back here with me then he wouldn’t have been around when that phone call—’

‘Evan suggested—but I thought he said that you invited him here.’

‘You must have heard him wrong, darling. It was all his idea.’

The sound of a car door slamming in the drive outside brought Lloyd to his feet in a rush, twitching aside a bit of the curtain to peer through the crack. Catherine watched tensely, her fingers tightening on the handle of her cup.

‘It’s all right—it’s Evan. Oh, come on, poppet—get rid of that glum face. He’s on our side, remember.’

Which was supposed to make her feel a lot better, Catherine reflected worriedly as her father left the room in order to let Evan in at the front door, but somehow it had exactly the opposite effect. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong. She knew she needed help—she had even, in a moment of weakness, turned to Evan and begged him to look after her—but that didn’t mean that she was happy about him taking over her life in the way he had done last night.

‘I’m in charge now,’ he had said, and had proceeded to demonstrate precisely how strongly he meant that, moving into action with a speed and force that had made her feel as if she had been hit by a whirlwind. He had checked every aspect of the house and gardens with a thoroughness that even she had privately thought excessive, and issued a stream of instructions to herself and her father before he had finally departed, promising to be round as soon as possible the next day.

‘But not this early!’ Catherine said aloud, belatedly becoming aware of the fact that, with no appointments planned for the day ahead, she had come straight down to breakfast in her nightclothes, pausing only to pull on a white, short-sleeved broderie anglaise robe over the matching baby-doll-length nightdress. As a result, she was hardly suitably dressed to receive an unknown man as a visitor, and she certainly didn’t want him getting the wrong impression.

Because that was where the problem lay. After all, Evan Lindsay was a stranger. He was every bit as unknown to her as the hateful tormentor who called himself Joe, and under normal circumstances there was no way she would have considered giving him a free rein in running her life.

‘Come along in, Evan. I’m sure you could do with a cup of coffee.’

Her father clearly shared none of her doubts—but then why should he? she asked herself with a touch of asperity. As she had told Evan last night, no man—not even her beloved father—could understand fully how it felt to be persecuted in this way, to look at every man who passed and wonder, Is that him?

‘It’s Evan, darling,’ Lloyd announced—quite unnecessarily as the younger man had preceded him into the room, seeming to fill it with his size and strength.

‘Obviously,’ Catherine muttered, embarrassment at her state of undress making her voice waspish. She hadn’t even combed her hair, she now realised as that cool sea-green gaze swept over her in a swift, assessing survey, and its usual sleek elegance was roughly tousled, falling in pale, disordered waves around a face that was shadowed from lack of sleep.

‘You’re not dressed!’ he said, not even bothering with a greeting, and she bridled at the sharpness of his tone.

‘And good morning to you too!’ she retorted, her earlier embarrassment evaporating in the heat of her flaring irritation.

Had she really been worried that Evan might read something she didn’t mean into her state of undress? She couldn’t have been more wrong. The cold fire of the look that had seared over her had held nothing sexual, or even anything that could be termed a response to her appearance. Instead, his eyes had blazed with an icy contempt that made her grit her teeth in fury.

‘No, I’m not dressed—but then we didn’t expect you to appear on our doorstep at the crack of dawn!’

She knew she sounded shrewish, but it was impossible to impose any degree of control on her voice because the anger that she felt had now combined with a sudden, unexpected sensual reaction that exploded in her mind, making her thoughts reel as she took in Evan’s appearance properly for the first time. Gone was the tailored suit of the day before, and in its place was a black T-shirt and black jeans that clung to the powerful lines of his body in a way that made her mouth dry simply to see it.

This was not the businessman of the day before—the man whose restrained, formal clothing seemed to belie the force of the body beneath it, whose sleekly conservative outfit was very much at odds with the powerful, primitively potent masculinity he possessed. This man had a lethally attractive, devastatingly sexual impact that was like a blow straight to her stomach.

‘I did say first thing.’ Evan turned a pointed glance on the clock on the mantelpiece—a clock which showed the time as being only just past eight. ‘I’ve been up for almost two hours.’

‘And I suppose you’ve jogged twelve miles, done a hundred press-ups and eaten a perfectly low-fat, highfibre breakfast—after you’d showered and shaved, of course.’

‘Something like that.’ A grin appeared briefly—so briefly that it was only when it had gone again that she realised how dramatically it had transformed his face, softening the hard lines and bringing a warm light to those aquamarine eyes. ‘Actually, I swam this morning, but the rest of your guess was pretty accurate.’

‘All right, so you’re perfect, but you’ll have to allow the rest of us mere mortals to be rather more humanly fallible. After all, I am usually up and on my way to work around this time, but circumstances are rather different these days—and this is my home.’

‘Your father’s home—in which you are currently hiding from a psychotic stalker who has threatened to harm you and anyone close to you,’ Evan returned bluntly, the cold incisiveness of his tone making the words seem all the more frightening. ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to be up and dressed, ready for any eventuality, rather than flaunting yourself in—’

‘I am not “flaunting” myself!’

‘No?’

Once more that changeable gaze swept over her, drawing hot blood into her cheeks and into the exposed skin of her arms and legs as it passed downwards, almost as if she had been exposed to the burning rays of the sun.

She might have been piqued earlier by the lack of interest in the way he looked at her, but that was no longer true of the scrutiny to which he subjected her now. There was no warmth in it at all, but nevertheless it was as blatantly sexual as any lascivious ogling she had ever endured, making her draw the fragile protection of her thin robe more closely around her—though she was well aware of the fact that there was so little of it that it had hardly any effect on the amount of her body that was exposed to those probing eyes.

‘No?’ Evan repeated, one eyebrow drifting upwards in sardonic mockery of her attempts at concealment. ‘From where I’m standing, that scrap of material looks calculated to inflame any red-blooded man’s erotic fantasies—and, believe me, that’s just how Joe would see it.’

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