Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Rich as Sin
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the thumping in his head that woke him. That, and the sour taste in his mouth, which was an unpleasant reminder of the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before. But what the hell? No one really cared whether he went to bed sober, or drank himself into a senseless stupor. He was unattached: a free agent. No longer the brunt of any woman’s dissatisfactions. He could please himself what he did; how he lived. And if the knowledge didn’t exactly please him, then tough! Given enough time, he’d get used to it.

Or would he? Rolling over in the tumbled bed, Matthew cast a bleary eye at the clock on the nearby table. God! he grunted ruefully. It was after twelve o’clock! No wonder his head was thumping. As he hadn’t eaten a thing since noon the previous day, he was probably starving as well as dehydrating.

Still, he defended himself, as he hauled himself into an upright position and sat for a moment, waiting for the sledgehammer in his skull to slow its pace, he had been working until after midnight. The new program he was devising was probably going to outsell all his other programs, and he shouldn’t be too hard on himself if he used alcohol as a stimulant. The fact that he hadn’t needed that kind of stimulation until Melissa walked out on him was something he preferred not to remember. Time would deal with Melissa as it had dealt with everything else. And at least he had his work to alleviate his misery.

Pushing himself to his feet, he paused again before lurching across the expensive shag-pile carpet to the bathroom. After attending to his most immediate needs, he leaned on the porcelain basin and viewed his stubbled features without enthusiasm. His eyes were bloodshot; there was a distinctly unhealthy tinge of greyness in his skin; and, to cap it all, it was two days since he had shaved, so that he resembled nothing so much as a derelict, one of those homeless vagrants who wandered around the country looking for hand-outs.

Which was probably unfair to them, reflected Matthew drily, rubbing a hand over his bristling jawline. At least they had a reason for looking the way they did. He had a decent home, and an occupation, and, because of his maternal grandfather’s business acumen, more money than he knew what to do with. No reason at all to behave like an alcoholic, and certainly no reason to look like one.

Grimacing, he turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower stall. Deliberately ignoring the temperature control, he allowed a stream of cold water to cascade down on to his shuddering body. God! For a moment, the iciness of it almost stopped his breath. But then, squeezing shower gel on to his hands, he began to lather himself fiercely, abrading his protesting flesh, as the water pummelled his head and shoulders.

He felt marginally better when he stepped out of the marble-tiled stall, and wrapped a huge cream bath-sheet about him. His head was still throbbing, but the dragging feeling of lethargy had dissipated somewhat. He didn’t feel good, and he knew better than to believe that he would improve as the day wore on. But at least he was awake and active. And the computer keyboard would take care of the rest.

His razor beckoned, and with a sigh of resignation he picked it up. He wouldn’t suit a beard, anyway, he consoled himself, as he concentrated on not turning his face into a mess of bloody cuts. Which wasn’t easy, when his hand tended to shake at the most inopportune moments. God, he should have had a drink before he started this. It was amazing how a shot of Scotch could stabilise his senses.

He managed to finish the job without creating too much havoc, and dropped the towel on to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Then, after another ironic grimace at his appearance, he walked back into the bedroom, wrinkling his nose at the sour smell of alcohol that hit him. Indifferent to the fact that he was naked, and the temperature outside somewhere in the low forties, Matthew unlatched the windows to his balcony and threw them open. Then, after withstanding the blast of cold air that hit him with what he considered was admirable fortitude, he groped for his denims and pulled them on.

He was rummaging in his closet for a clean polo shirt when there was a knock at the bedroom door. Turning, he surveyed the closed door for fully fifteen seconds without answering, and then, stifling his impatience, he called, ‘Yeah? What do you want?’

The door opened, just a crack, and a man’s bald head appeared. ‘Oh,’ he said, when he saw Matthew. ‘You’re up, sir. Will you be wanting some breakfast?’

Matthew’s mouth compressed. ‘At half-past twelve, Jeeves? I don’t think so. I’ll just have a sandwich. I want to get to work.’

The door widened to admit the intruder, a huge, giant of a man, whose massive shoulders and straining paunch were constrained beneath navy blue worsted and spotless white linen. The uniform of a gentleman’s gentleman sat oddly on such a big man’s shoulders, but Matthew knew better than to suggest an alternative. The other man was proud of his appearance.

‘Are you going to the office, sir?’ he enquired, his sharp eyes taking in the open balcony doors and the untidy state of the bedroom. ‘And I wish you wouldn’t call me Jeeves, Mr Putnam. I don’t like it, and you know it.’

Matthew gave the man a resigned look, and then, having no luck in finding a clean shirt, he reached for the sweatshirt he had discarded the night before. ‘No, I don’t plan to go into the office today,’ he was beginning, when the manservant snatched the sweatshirt out of his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Victor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Well, judging by your appearance, I’d guess you’d just had a shower, sir,’ declared Victor mildly, ‘and I’m sure you didn’t intend to wear this rather—odorous—item. You have a whole drawer full of clean shirts in the closet behind you. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it out for you.’

‘I can dress myself, thank you—Creighton,’ drawled Matthew, with rather less patience. ‘Why don’t you get out of here until I’m finished? Go and make some coffee or something. I don’t need a nursemaid.’

‘Did I say you did?’ Victor rolled the offending sweatshirt into a ball, and stood his ground. ‘But, as it happens, you look as if you need someone’s assistance. Your mother isn’t going to like this. She’s not going to like it at all.’

‘My mother?’ Matthew paused in the act of choosing a shirt from the drawer Victor had indicated, and turned to look at him again. ‘What does my mother have to do with anything?’

‘Have you forgotten? You’re meeting her for lunch in a little over half an hour.’

‘Oh, God!’ Matthew slammed the drawer with his hip, and pulled a black polo shirt over his head. The sombre colour only accentuated the pallor of his olive skin, and Victor’s tongue clicked his disapproval. But Matthew was indifferent to anyone’s feelings but his own at that moment, and the prospect of eating lunch with his mother and enduring her condemnation of his lifestyle was enough to make him wish he’d stayed in bed.

‘A sandwich, you said, sir,’ murmured Victor, evidently deciding it would be politic to give his employer a breathing space, and Matthew cast him a brooding look.

‘Nothing to eat,’ he snarled, the jaw he had shaved so inexpertly clenched aggressively. ‘Just fetch me a beer, and no arguments. Oh, and call me a cab. With a bit of luck there won’t be any available.’

Victor paused in the doorway, his broad features showing his dismay. ‘I can drive you, Mr Putnam,’ he protested, but his employer’s face was adamant.

‘I said I’ll take a cab,’ Matthew retorted. ‘Just do it, Victor. And hurry up with that beer!’

Three-quarters of an hour later, Matthew stepped out of the minicab and bent to shove a five-pound note into the driver’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said, without meaning it, waving away the change the man would have given him. Then, with a tight smile at the doorman’s proffered greeting, he vaulted up the steps and through the swing glass doors into the Ritz’s elegant foyer.

The dining-room was at the far end of the hallway, but guests took pre-luncheon drinks in the gilded splendour of the Palm Court. It was there Matthew knew he would find his mother, delicately sipping the Perrier water which was all she allowed herself in the middle of the day. Caroline Putnam—née Apollonius—guarded her appearance with almost as much reverence as her son disregarded his, and it was her proud boast that her wedding dress fitted her as well today as it had done more than thirty years ago.

Of course, the fact that the marriage she had worn the wedding dress for had lasted a considerably shorter time she considered of little consequence. She had married Joseph Putnam when she was only eighteen, much against her parents’ wishes, and had soon come to realise her father had been right all along. A penniless Englishman, of good stock but little business acumen, Joseph Putnam had lingered only long enough to sire their only offspring, before taking off on a round-the-world yacht-race that had ended in disaster off the Cape of Good Hope. Of course, Caroline had been suitably grief-stricken when the news was delivered, but no one could deny she had been relieved. It had saved her the publicity—and the expense—of a messy divorce, and Aristotle Apollonius—who preferred the sobriquet of Apollo, for obvious reasons—had been more than willing to take his errant daughter, and her small son, back to Greece.

But, from Matthew’s point of view, it had not been an entirely satisfactory solution. Despite the fact that ‘Apollo’ had had only one child, Caroline, and that therefore Matthew was the only heir to the enormous shipping fortune he had amassed, the boy grew up with a regrettable dislike of his grandfather’s use of his money. The politics of power didn’t interest Matthew; he saw no merit in controlling people’s lives for purely personal gain. And, because his father had left sufficient funds for him to be educated in England, at the same schools he himself had attended, where a spartan regime went hand in hand with a distinct need for self-preservation, he had acquired a cynical aversion towards wealth in all its forms. It was a constant bone of contention between Matthew and the other members of his family, and the fact that he had made his home in England was no small contribution to the continuing discord.

Which was why Matthew was not looking forward to this particular lunch with his mother. Ever since the split with Melissa she had been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to persuade him to come back to Athens. Despite the fact that he had now formed his own company, specialising in computer software, and had no interest in taking his place on the board of the Apollonius Shipping Corporation, Caroline persisted in pursuing her goal.

The trouble was, Matthew was very much afraid that sooner or later she might succeed. He might be able to evade the issue so long as his grandfather was alive, but Apollo was over seventy years old. In ten years, twenty at the most, he was going to die, and then what excuse would he have for avoiding his responsibilities? Whether he liked it or not, hundreds—thousands—of people relied on the Apollonius Shipping Corporation for their livelihoods, and there was no way he could sit back and let his grandfather’s relatives jealously tear to shreds what he had achieved.

The head waiter recognised him as he climbed the steps into the brightly lit atrium. It might be a dismal early April day outside, but the Palm Court of the London Ritz was as cheerfully brilliant as ever.

‘Good morning, Mr Putnam,’ the man said, his eyes moving from Matthew to the elegantly dressed woman at a corner table. ‘Your mother is waiting for you.’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Matthew bestowed another brief smile, and started across the room. ‘Oh—bring me a Scotch and soda, will you? I see my mother’s already on the soft stuff.’

The waiter smiled, and moved away, and Matthew continued on to where his mother was seated on a striped couch. ‘Mama,’ he greeted her formally, bending to brush his lips against hers. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Caroline Putnam viewed her son with reproof mingled with reluctant pride. Tall, like his father, and dark, like his maternal forebears, Matthew attracted attention wherever he went. Particularly female attention, Caroline admitted, somewhat irritably. Not surprisingly, he had the lean good looks that had attracted her to Joseph Putnam in the first place, but the weaknesses she had not initially recognised in his father had been more than compensated for by her own father’s genes. Matthew might not want to accept it, but he was far more like his grandfather than he would admit. He was arrogant, and stubborn, and absurdly independent. He made arbitrary decisions, and expected other people to abide by them. And, allied to that, he had the hooded eyes and muscled strength of a predator: an irresistible combination of sensuality and brute strength.

But he was letting himself go, thought Caroline tersely, viewing the slight thickening of his midriff that swelled above his belt. And jeans, and a leather jerkin! To have lunch with his mother! It was all that bitch Melissa’s fault. Announcing she had fallen in love with someone else! Probably because Matthew had been in no hurry to take her to the altar.

‘I should have thought you’d have had plenty of time to arrange your schedule so you wouldn’t be late,’ she remarked now, the attractive accent she still retained taking a little of the sharpness out of her tone. ‘I know you haven’t been into the office. I called earlier, and Robert told me you were not there.’

‘No.’ Matthew’s response was hardly satisfactory. ‘So—when did you arrive?’

‘Here—or in England?’ Caroline enquired in a clipped voice, jewelled fingers toying with the triple string of cultured pearls that encircled her slender throat, and Matthew’s mouth took on a lazy slant.

‘In England,’ he replied, humouring her. ‘I imagine you’re occupying your usual suite upstairs.’

‘Yes, and you might have taken the trouble to arrive in time to escort me down,’ retorted his mother, the dark eyes she had passed on to her son flashing angrily. ‘Honestly, Matt, I think you go out of your way to humiliate me! Leaving me sitting here alone! What if some undesirable lout had approached me?’

‘The Ritz doesn’t admit undesirable louts,’ remarked Matthew mildly, nodding his thanks as his Scotch and soda was delivered to the table. ‘You could sit here all day and no one would trouble you. But—I admit I should have phoned. As I said before, I’m sorry.’

Caroline sniffed, but her expression had softened somewhat, and although she observed the enthusiasm with which her son swallowed half his drink her reaction was more resigned than censorious.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, taking a sip of the iced spa water in her glass, ‘you’re here now, and that’s what really matters. For myself, I arrived last evening, and went straight off to that charity gala at the Albert Hall. Your Uncle Henry escorted me. Aunt Celia is still indisposed.’

Matthew nodded. His uncle’s wife had never enjoyed the best of health, although he privately believed that her many illnesses were self-induced. It was commonly known that Henry Putnam was inclined to enjoy the company of the opposite sex rather too well, and poor Aunt Celia had paid the price of being too trusting. Nevertheless, from his mother’s point of view, the situation could not have been more convenient. She had a ready escort, whenever she needed one, without the complications that an unfettered relationship might have created for someone in her position.

‘You, I imagine, were combing the less salubrious nightspots of the city,’ she added, as Matthew’s summoning of the waiter for a second drink reactivated her impatience. ‘Matt, don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly? For heaven’s sake, if you were so besotted with the girl, why didn’t you marry her, instead of just—sleeping with her?’

Matthew’s mouth flattened. ‘You know what I think about marriage,’ he answered, after issuing further instructions to the waiter. ‘Just leave it, will you, Mama? I’ll go to hell my own way, if you don’t mind. Now—tell me why you wanted to see me. Or was it just to voice your disapproval—yet again?’

‘Of course not.’

Caroline uncrossed her silk-clad legs and then re-crossed them again in the other direction. Watching her, Matthew had no difficulty in understanding why his father’s brother was so willing to squire her around. At forty-eight, Caroline looked ten years younger, and Matthew was quite prepared to believe that anyone here today who didn’t know them would automatically assume he was her lover, not her son.

‘You know it’s your grandfather’s birthday at the end of the month, don’t you?’ she went on now, and Matthew’s dark brow ascended in disbelief.

‘So it is,’ he agreed, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’d forgotten. How old is the old devil? Seventy-one?’

‘He’s seventy-two, actually,’ declared Caroline flatly. ‘If you remember, you couldn’t come to his seventy-first birthday because it clashed with—with Melissa’s parents’ anniversary ball or something. In any event,’ she hurried on, not wanting to linger over unwelcome memories, ‘we’d like you to join the family for the celebrations. Apollo’s inviting everyone, and it will look rather odd if you’re not there.’

Matthew regarded his mother tolerantly over the rim of his glass. ‘As it did last year, you mean?’

‘No.’ Caroline sighed. ‘Last year wasn’t so important to him!’ she exclaimed irritably. And then, as if regretting her candour, she added, ‘Never mind about last year. Will you come?’

Matthew frowned. ‘What’s so special about this year?’

‘Well—he’s a year older, for one thing …’

‘And?’

‘And—and—he’s not been well,’ admitted his mother reluctantly. ‘You know how he’s always had trouble with his chest. I think it’s been a little more troublesome than usual, and it’s made him aware of his own mortality.’

Matthew’s mouth turned down. ‘If he stopped smoking those damned cigars, he might give his respiration system a chance. How many does he get through in a day? Fifteen? Twenty?’

‘Oh, not as many as that, surely!’ Caroline looked appalled. ‘In any case, Apollo would say that if he couldn’t live his life the way he wanted to live it, there wouldn’t be much point in going on.’

‘Hmm.’ Matthew could see the subject upset her, and decided to desist. ‘Well, I don’t know about this birthday bash. You know family parties aren’t my style.’

Caroline snorted. ‘The way I hear it, social gatherings of any kind aren’t your style! You’ve become a hermit, Matt. A recluse. You don’t go anywhere—except into the office occasionally—you don’t see anyone—–’

‘And where’ve you got all this information from?’ enquired Matthew wearily. ‘No, don’t tell me. I can guess. The admirable Victor!’

‘I—may have had the few odd words with your major-domo when I called—–’

‘I’ll bet!’

‘—but you know Victor cares about you, too. He wouldn’t tell me anything if he didn’t think it was in your best interests.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ His mother gave a resigned sigh. ‘Matt, I don’t want to interfere—–’

‘Then don’t.’

‘—but I care about you as well. And—and I do wish you’d get this—this infatuation for Melissa Mainwaring out of your system.’

‘Right.’ Matthew lifted a hand to summon the waiter again. ‘Shall we look at the menu?’

Caroline opened her mouth to make a protest, and then closed it again. What was the use? she asked herself impotently, feeling all the pangs of frustrated mother-love as her son turned to speak to the restaurant manager. Matthew was such an attractive man; he had everything to live for. Yet he was allowing a spoilt little bitch, who hadn’t got an intelligent thought in her empty little head, to tear his life to pieces.

An hour later, as she was enjoying her second cup of coffee, Caroline risked broaching the subject again. As they ate—and she had noticed Matthew had only picked at his food—the conversation had ranged from the previous night’s gala to the preparations for the forthcoming birthday celebrations. It had been the kind of conversation she could have had with anyone. Certainly not the intimate těte-à-těte she had hoped to achieve. Which was why she decided to bring Melissa’s name back into the proceedings. Like a wound that was festering, her son’s infatuation with the woman wouldn’t heal until it had been thoroughly aired.

‘And—when are Melissa and her prince planning to get married?’ she enquired tensely. ‘They are going to get married, aren’t they? I’m sure I read something about it in last week’s tabloids.’

Matthew replaced the cup he had been holding back in its saucer. He should have known better than to imagine his mother would leave well alone. And, of course, she was right. There had been a report that Brigadier Alfred Mainwaring’s daughter was going to marry the prince of some unpronounceable Eastern European country. The nuptials were planned to take place in June, and no doubt Caroline knew that as well as he did.

‘Soon,’ he remarked now, meeting his mother’s innocent gaze with cool deliberation. ‘Why? Do you think you’ll get an invitation? How would they describe you? Oh, yes. The mother of the best man!’

Caroline’s lips tightened. ‘Joke if you like, but you are—or rather you would be, if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself. I never thought a son of mine could behave so mindlessly! Perhaps you are your father’s son, after all.’

Matthew’s mouth twisted, and with an exclamation of disgust his mother thrust back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she declared angrily, and then, conscious of the stir she was creating, she put a steadying hand on the edge of the table. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ she added in an undertone, as if regretting her hasty announcement. ‘And think about your grandfather’s birthday. Needless to say, he expects you to be there.’

Matthew did think about what his mother had said, as he walked back to his apartment. The luxurious penthouse he had bought with his own money occupied the top floor of a tall block of apartments in Culver Mews in Knightsbridge, and although he knew Victor wouldn’t approve Matthew enjoyed the unaccustomed exercise. It reminded him it was too long since he had been to the gym, and that Victor’s obsession with his personal protection meant he had too few opportunities to walk anywhere. And, although it was a cold day, with a threat of rain in the air, the daffodils were out in the park, and the early cherry blossom was already appearing on the trees.

It reminded him of what Greece was like at this time of the year, and most particularly Delphus, the island where his grandfather had his home. The sprawling villa where he had spent the early years of his childhood did hold some happy memories for him, and it would be good to see Yannis again, and Nicos, and all the aunts and cousins he remembered from his youth.

But it wasn’t just the idea of obeying his finer instincts, and pleasing his mother for once, that occupied his thoughts as he strode past Hyde Park Corner. It was what his mother had said about Melissa that stuck in his mind. And, although thinking of her with Georgio Ivanov still tore his gut, he was unwillingly aware that she had a point. He should have married her when he had the chance. Goodness knew, she had been eager enough to take the plunge. It had been the one sour note in their relationship, that he had been so unwilling to make their association legal. A lack of commitment was how she had put it, on those increasingly frequent occasions when she had accused him of not loving her enough.

Matthew pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket. Love! His lips twisted. He doubted Melissa knew the meaning of the word. No one who professed to love someone as much as she had always professed to love him could have fallen out of love so quickly. And he was cynically aware that Melissa’s ‘love’ was more probably available to the highest bidder. Oh, he might have been her first choice, both sexually and financially, but Ivanov was offering marriage, and that all-important ring on her finger.

For himself, he had never felt any urgency to seek that legitimising scrap of paper. What they had had—or rather, what he had thought they had had—was far more binding than a contract that could just as easily be broken. But he was becoming aware that what Melissa had wanted from him was more than his undying devotion. She had wanted security, the kind of security she could only get if he signed on the dotted line.

So, why should he be so surprised? he asked himself now. His parents’ marriage had fallen apart as much because his father was unambitious as through any character weakness on his part. He had long since learned how convenient his father’s sudden death had proved to be, for, although his mother might sometimes sentimentalise about his passing, she was not her father’s daughter for nothing. All his life, the great god Mammon had ruled his family’s actions. And he had been a fool to think that Melissa was any different from the rest.

Victor was waiting when the lift doors slid back at the twenty-second floor. As Matthew stepped on to the hushed luxury of the Chinese rug that virtually filled the panelled foyer, the man came to meet him in obvious disapproval.

‘You walked,’ he declared, brushing drops of rain from the soft fabric of the jacket his employer slung off, with an impatient finger.

‘I walked,’ agreed Matthew, heading for the inner hallway that led to his study. ‘Rob didn’t call, did he? He knew I was having lunch with my mother.’

‘Mr Prescott didn’t call, no,’ Victor assured him tersely, and then, with a change of tone, he added, ‘But you do have some mail. The lunchtime delivery came while you were out.’ He adopted an expectant expression. ‘Would you like to see it?’

Matthew paused, with his hand against the panels of his private sanctum. ‘Now, what’s that supposed to mean?’ he enquired shortly. ‘You know I always glance through the afternoon mail at dinnertime. It’s probably only bills, in any case.’ He hesitated. ‘Or do you know something I don’t?’

A trace of colour invaded Victor’s bullish features. ‘Now, how would I—–?’

‘Victor!’

The man sighed. ‘Well—there appears to be a letter from Miss Mainwaring,’ he admitted nervously. ‘I thought you might wish to see it. As—as—–’

‘As I appear to be drowning in self-pity, right?’ suggested Matthew, tamping down the unwilling thought that Melissa might have come to her senses.

‘No, sir!’ Victor was indignant. ‘I just thought—–’

‘Where is it?’

Matthew couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Even though his common sense told him that if Melissa wanted to come back, she would hardly write him a letter telling him so, he needed the proof. Damn her, he swore savagely. What could she want now?

Victor riffled through the small pile of business letters and advertising material occupying a silver tray placed on a polished, semi-circular hall table. The letter, with its unmistakable scent of rose petals, was at the bottom, and although he was impatient Matthew didn’t miss the significance.

‘Can I get you some tea, sir?’ Victor enquired, as his employer slid his thumb beneath the seal, but Matthew shook his head.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ he said, heading back towards his study. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m hungry.’

Victor looked disappointed, but Matthew couldn’t help it. He had no idea why Melissa might be writing to him, and the last thing he needed was Victor peering metaphorically over his shoulder. To emphasise this point, he went into the study and closed the door, before withdrawing the letter from its envelope. Then, noticing that his hands were shaking, he uttered another bitter oath.

Indifferent to the somewhat austere familiarity of his surroundings, Matthew rested his shoulder-blades against the door as he scanned the hand-written missive. Melissa’s handwriting had never been particularly legible, and in his present agitated state it was difficult to read the scrawling words. But patience eventually won out over stress, and he was able to translate the gist of the message.

Amazingly, it was an invitation. Melissa was writing to ask if he would come to a party she and her fiancé were giving, to celebrate their engagement. Apparently, although the announcement had already been made formally at the dinner her parents had given in their honour, this party was to be a much less formal affair, for close friends and acquaintances.

The air rushed out of Matthew’s lungs in a harsh whoosh. For a few moments, he stared at the letter in his hand, as if expecting it to self-destruct in his fingers. And then, tossing it savagely on to his desk, he bent forward to grip the scarred mahogany with clenched fists. My God, he thought disbelievingly, Melissa actually thought he might attend her engagement party! The idea was ludicrous! And insensitive to the point of cruelty.

It took him several minutes, during which time he wished he had asked Victor to fetch him a bottle of Scotch, to recover his composure. He should have known the letter was not going to be good news. Melissa wanted her revenge, and by God, she was determined to get it.

An expletive burst from his lips, and he straightened abruptly, his jaw clenching as he examined how it made him feel. For the first time since she had walked out on him, he felt a healthy sense of resentment. She was deliberately turning the knife in the wound. And she obviously expected him to refuse.

Poor Georgio, Matthew thought grimly. He doubted he knew Melissa had invited her ex-lover to their engagement party. What an irony! But what exactly was Melissa’s game?

Of course, it was possible she wanted him back. Matthew’s stomach muscles tightened at the thought. But not on the old terms, he acknowledged, with strengthening cynicism. She had made that plain enough when he’d implored her to stay.

So what was she trying to do? Play one lover off against another? He gave a bitter smile. It might be amusing to find out. There had always been a latent sense of masochism in their relationship.

CHAPTER TWO

‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’

‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’

Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’

‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’

‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’

‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.

‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’

Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’

‘Making other people’s meals!’

‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’

‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’

‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked reflectively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’

‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’

‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’

‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’

‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’

Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’

‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’

‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and in any case the nights are getting lighter.’

‘And what happens when the winter comes again?’ persisted Paul, though he had softened sufficiently to nuzzle her neck with his lips. ‘Still, we’ll be married by then, won’t we? You’ll have more than your hands full looking after me.’

‘Mmm.’

Samantha’s response was doubtful, but Paul was too busy nibbling her ear to notice. Nevertheless, when his hand moved to the buttoned fastening of her shirt, she stopped him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paul; she did. But, unlike him, she couldn’t switch moods so completely. And she didn’t share his willingness to use sex to mend their differences.

‘Hey—–’

Her protective grip on the lapels of her shirt brought a grunt of protest, but Samantha slid lightly off his knee, and adopted a rueful smile.

‘Do you realise what time it is?’ she exclaimed, running a nervous palm down the seam of her neat black skirt. ‘I’ve got to call at the wholesaler’s before I go home, and if I don’t hurry they’ll be closed before I get there.’

Paul regarded her dourly for a moment and then, as if controlling his impatience, he rose obediently to his feet. He was a tall man, solid and handsome, in a blond, Nordic sort of way. He liked outdoor activities, and played rugby regularly, which accounted for his rather stolid appearance. He liked to think he was very fit, though Samantha knew he sank rather too many beers in the clubhouse after the match to be in really good shape. Nevertheless, he was kind, and fairly even-tempered, and extremely loyal. And Samantha had known him for over six years, ever since they first got to know one another at the local sixth-form college.

‘You know,’ he said now, taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, and smoothing out its curl, and Samantha’s heart sank. ‘I must be the only man in Northfleet whose girlfriend is still a virgin. Whose fiancée is still a virgin,’ he corrected himself heavily. ‘Am I going to have to wait until our wedding night, Sam? Is that why you won’t let me touch you?’

Samantha suppressed an inward groan, and reached for her jacket, which had been lying over the back of a nearby chair. ‘I do let you touch me,’ she protested, wishing Paul hadn’t chosen this minute to start another conversation about their relationship. ‘But we’ve only been engaged for a little over a month. Give me time. Let me get used to the idea.’

Paul’s mouth tightened. ‘I could say that you shouldn’t have to “get used” to the idea,’ he retorted, with rather more heat. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, it’s almost the twenty-first century! As you’re so fond of reminding me, women want to be equal with men!’

‘Intellectually equal, not sexually,’ she countered, pushing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Her nail caught on the lining as she did so, and she emitted a sharp gasp of frustration. ‘Not now, Paul, please. I’m simply not in the mood.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you ever will be,’ he muttered, and although she had only heard the tone of his mumbled protest Samantha swung round.

‘What?’

‘Forget it.’ Paul wound his club scarf around his neck and headed towards the door. ‘So—when is this party supposed to be? And who did you say it was for?’

Samantha checked that all the lights were out and that the alarm was set, and followed him outside. ‘It’s an engagement party,’ she answered, locking the door behind them. ‘It’s next Tuesday, at a house in Eyton Gate. I dealt with someone called Lederer, but I think he was just a secretary or something.’

‘Eyton Gate, eh?’ Paul pulled a wry face, as they crossed the pavement to where his car was waiting. ‘You’re really hitting the big time, aren’t you?’

‘I hope so.’ Samantha endeavoured to sustain the feeling of excitement she had felt when she’d taken the call. ‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’

‘If my mother’s cooking isn’t too simple for you,’ remarked Paul caustically, swinging open the car door, and Samantha sighed.

‘Will you stop this?’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t you at least find it in your heart to be pleased that I’m making some progress? I don’t want to be a waitress all my life.’

‘I don’t want you to be a waitress all your life either,’ he retorted, levering his bulk behind the wheel of the sporty little Mazda. Then, with a shrug, he reached out and grabbed her hand. ‘OK. I guess I am pleased for you, really. Just don’t get too high-powered, will you? Or you may decide you don’t want to marry a hard-working estate agent, after all.’

‘Since when are estate agents hard-working?’ queried Samantha, her smile mirroring her relief. ‘OK, I promise I won’t. Now, I must go, or the wholesaler’s really will be closed.’

Paul nodded, and Samantha waited until he had driven away before crossing the road to where her own Mini van was parked. Although the back of the van was fitted with shelves to transport the food she prepared at home, she reflected that she would have to get a small transit if she planned to expand into catering in a big way. It was all very well using the Mini when all she did was ride back and forth from home, with an occasional trip to the Cash and Carry. But travelling the fifty or so miles from this small Essex town to London and back was going to put a definite strain on her capabilities. Particularly as sometimes she might have to take Debbie with her.

Her mother had a meal waiting when she finally got home. Although she worked with food all day, Samantha seldom ate anything at the café. Besides, the little restaurant closed at five-thirty, and by the time Samantha and her assistant, Debbie Donaldson, had scoured all the equipment, cleaned the dining-room and spread fresh cloths on the tables, she was quite happy to let someone wait on her for a change.

‘You look tired,’ said Mrs Maxwell frankly, setting a plate of home-made steak and kidney pie in front of her daughter, and Samantha’s lips twisted.

‘Do I?’ she said. ‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted to hear.’

‘Well, you do,’ declared her mother, seating herself across from her daughter and viewing the smudges beneath the younger woman’s eyes with some concern. ‘What have you been doing until this time? Your father and your sister had their meal over an hour ago. Don’t blame me if yours is dried up. It’s been in the oven since half-past six.’

Samantha smiled. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, unenthusiastically forking a mouthful of limp pastry into her mouth. ‘And you know I had to go to the wholesaler’s. I told you that this morning.’

‘Until this time?’

‘Well—I was late leaving.’ Samantha moistened her lips. ‘Paul came round just after we closed.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound surprised. ‘And what did he have to say?’

Samantha grimaced. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘He’s not happy about you doing these private dinner parties, is he? And quite honestly, I don’t blame him.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Don’t “Oh, Mum” me. You know how we feel about it. Your Dad and I, that is. I wish you’d never met that Jennifer Gregory again. She’s unsettled you, and I can’t forgive her for that.’

‘Mum, I met Jenny at university, remember? And it was your and Dad’s idea that I go there. And her name’s Spellman now, not Gregory. And whatever you say, I think she’s provided me with a marvellous opportunity.’

‘To cook for someone else. To be a servant, in someone else’s home.’

‘No!’ Samantha gasped. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Paul. It’s not like that. I just do the catering, that’s all. It’s what I do, Mum. What do you think running a café is all about?’

‘The café’s yours—or you pay the lease, anyway, thanks to that insurance your grandmother left you.’

‘And I’ll still be running the café, as well as providing a catering service for anyone who can afford me.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound impressed. ‘And do they know—these friends of Jenny’s, I mean—that you’re not a professional caterer?’

‘I am a professional caterer.’

‘I don’t think a night school diploma is the same as real professional experience,’ persisted her mother. ‘They probably think you’ve worked in some top London restaurant. I wonder what they’d say if they saw the Honey Pot?’

‘I don’t particularly care,’ exclaimed Samantha, pushing her barely touched plate aside. ‘But thanks for your support. It’s what I really needed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and take a shower.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as her daughter got up from the table. ‘Perhaps I was a little harsh. But I worry about you, Sam, I do honestly. Don’t you think you have enough on, running the café practically single-handed, without taking on more work, to add to the burden?’

Samantha hesitated. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that I’m going to be paid far more for the catering than I’ll ever earn in the café, does it? I don’t want to give up the café. I want to improve it. And, if I’m successful, I may be able to afford a full-time cook to work in the kitchen. That way, we could expand the menu, both for the café and the catering service.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Well, what does Paul say?’

‘Paul just wants me to go on running the café until we get married. Then—who knows? I don’t think he envisages me continuing with my career much beyond the first year.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound unreasonable to me. And, after all, until you met Jennifer Greg—Spellman again, you seemed happy enough doing what you were doing. Then she tells you she’s giving a dinner party, and that her caterers have let her down at the last minute, and before we know it you’re dashing off to London, and getting these big ideas.’

‘Mum, the dinner party was a huge success! Everyone said so. And, believe it or not, good caterers are worth their weight in gold to these people. Times are changing. The days when people could afford to employ a full-time cook are long-gone. Besides, people don’t want to do that kind of work nowadays; not for someone else, anyway,’ she added hastily. ‘That’s why people like me are in such demand. We come in, we cook the meal, and we go away again. And it’s much more intimate than taking your guests to a restaurant.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘All the same, I don’t think even you imagined what would happen?’

‘The phone calls, you mean?’ Samantha gave a rueful smile. ‘No, I didn’t. But isn’t it exciting? I could probably work every night of the week, if I wanted.’

‘But you’re not going to?’ Her mother looked alarmed.

‘No, I’ve told you.’ Samantha paused. ‘To begin with, I’m only going to take on one, maybe two nights’ work in any week. Then, we’ll see how it goes. At the moment, all I want to think about is next Tuesday’s engagement party.’

‘In Mayfair.’

‘Well, it’s Belgravia, actually,’ said Samantha evenly. ‘But yes. It’s in the West End. Apparently the female half of the happy couple is a friend of Jenny’s. And they’re having the party at her fiancé’s house.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘Well, you watch out, Sam. These people aren’t like us, you know, and you being an attractive girl and everything—just watch your step.’

Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well, you can laugh. But it’s true. Some people think money can buy anything.’

Samantha’s expression softened. ‘I know,’ she said, recognising her mother’s very real fears on her behalf. ‘But I am twenty-four, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

After popping her head round the living-room door to offer a belated greeting to her father and her younger sister Penny, Samantha trudged up the stairs to her room. She was tired. She freely admitted it. But it was more a mental tiredness, born of the arguments she had had with both Paul and her mother, than any physical weakness on her part. It was so hard to make them understand how she felt about this latest development in her career. When she left university, it was true, she had no serious plans for her future. Oh, she had always liked messing about in the kitchen, and trying new recipes on the family, but she had just regarded that as a hobby, until her father had put the idea of starting a sandwich-round into her head.

As the manager of a jeweller’s in the High Street, Mr Maxwell had got into the habit of going into the local pub for a sandwich at lunchtime, but, as he said, he didn’t always want the beer that went with it. He had encouraged Samantha when she had put forward her idea of using her car to deliver home-made sandwiches all over town, and Paul’s offer of the lease on what had previously been a rather sleazy café had just been an extension of that. She had still provided sandwiches, but her clients had had to come to her for them, and pretty soon she had branched out into quiches, and salads, and home-made cakes and scones. The Honey Pot had taken off, and during the past two years it had gone from strength to strength. She even employed a full-time assistant now, and her account books were beginning to show a healthy profit. But this latest development was something else, and it was hard to be enthusiastic when everyone else thought she was getting out of her depth.

Standing in the shower, she avoided looking at her reflection in the walls of the Perspex stall. She was half afraid of what she might see in the dark-fringed depths of her eyes, eyes that could change from green to grey, according to her mood. Was she being too ambitious? she wondered, scooping gel from the bottle and lathering her damp hair. Was that what Paul was afraid of? She had never thought of herself as being so, but she couldn’t deny she was excited. She would have to think of a name for the new service, she thought, determinedly putting all negative thoughts aside. Not the Honey Pot again. That belonged to the café. So how about ‘Honey Homemaker’, just to keep the connection?

The buffet looked perfect, even if Samantha had had a few small set-backs at the beginning. Finding that one of the smoked salmon mousses had lost its shape on the journey had been a minor disaster, but happily she had prepared more than she needed, and that obstacle had been overcome.

Then Miss Mainwaring, her employer’s fiancée, had thrown a paddy because there was no caviare. A buffet wasn’t a buffet without caviare, she had exclaimed, and it had taken a great deal of effort on her fiancé’s behalf to persuade her that it really wasn’t important.

He had been nice, Samantha reflected, as she gathered her belongings together, preparatory to leaving. A prince, moreover, although his title wasn’t one she was familiar with. But then, she wasn’t familiar with these people at all, she acknowledged ruefully. A fact that had been made clear to her by Melissa Mainwaring’s biting tongue.

All the same, it had been an edifying experience, and she had learned one or two salutory lessons. She had discovered, for instance, that it was far harder to organise a buffet than it was to arrange a formal sit-down dinner. And luck had played a part in saving her from ruining this unique opportunity. It hadn’t occurred to her, until she was unloading the pizza, that it was no use providing hot food when you couldn’t be assured the guests would eat to order. But thankfully her pizzas tasted just as good cold as hot, and instead of offering them in slices, as she had originally intended, she cut the juicy wedges into bite-sized squares, easily handled on the end of a cocktail spear.

Happily, the rest of the food offered no problems. Her tarts and quiches looked appetisingly rich against the backcloth of finely embossed damask. And Samantha threaded strands of asparagus fern between the plates of meats and salads, adding scarlet rosebuds to enhance the luscious trifles. When she left the tables to go downstairs and pack up, there was already a satisfying group of guests admiring her efforts. She just hoped everything tasted as good as it looked. One other difference between the buffet and a formal dinner was that she didn’t stay around long enough to find out.

Which was a pity, because she’d enjoyed working in this kitchen. With its quarry-tiled floor, and solid mahogany fittings, it reminded her of pictures she had seen of Victorian kitchens. However, no Victorian kitchen had ever had its standards of cleanliness, or provided such a wealth of gadgets to make cooking here a pleasure.

Upstairs had been impressive, too. Dividing doors had been rolled back to create a huge reception area, and although Samantha had only had a glimpse of the linen-hung walls and high carved ceilings as she and the waiters, hired for the occasion, carried the food up from the kitchen, it had been enough. Evidently, whatever else he was, Prince Georgio was not a member of some impoverished aristocracy. On the contrary, he must be extremely rich—and Miss Mainwaring probably knew it.

An unkind conclusion, Samantha reproved herself severely, as she packed plates and dishes back into the cold-boxes she had brought them in. Afer all, she knew nothing about Melissa Mainwaring, except that she was a friend of Jenny’s, and she was fond of caviare. And if she, Samantha, wanted to make a success of this business, she had to try and get on with everybody. Even spoilt little rich girls who enjoyed making scenes!

She was so intent on what she was doing, so absorbed with her thoughts, that when she turned and saw the man leaning against the tall freezer she started violently. She had thought she was alone, all the waiters hired for the evening busy circulating the champagne upstairs. But in the next instant she realised that this man was no waiter, and in the same breath she saw the half-open door behind him.

Until then, she hadn’t noticed the rear entry. The house, one of a row of terraced Georgian properties, had been designed to provide living accommodation on its three upper floors. The lower ground floor, where Samantha was now, was entered by means of area steps at the front of the house, and it had never occurred to her that there might be a back entrance on this level. Or that it might be unlocked.

Her mouth drying, she looked at the man with anxious eyes. Who was he? she wondered. A servant? A thief? He didn’t look entirely English, and although he wasn’t heavily built, like Paul, there was a muscular hardness to his lean body. She supposed he was about six feet; again, not as tall as Paul, but more powerfully masculine. His dark hair needed cutting, and there was a film of stubble on his chin. It added to the air of toughness and alienation that exuded from him, an aura that was strengthened by the fact that he was dressed totally in black.

Swallowing, Samantha decided she had no choice but to bluff it out. There was no way she could get round the table and make it to either of the other two doors without him catching her. Something told her he would move just as swiftly as the predator he resembled, but perhaps he would leave her alone if he thought she was no threat to him.

‘I—er—the party’s not down here,’ she said, stifling an exclamation as her shaking hands clattered two quiche plates together. God! She was trying not to do anything to agitate him. At this rate, he’d soon guess that she was scared rigid.

But, ‘I know,’ he remarked, in a laconic voice, making no move to budge from his lounging position. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he added. ‘I assumed everyone would be upstairs. I imagine Ivanov’s guests have arrived by now, haven’t they?’

Samantha blinked. Ivanov’s guests! So he knew whose house it was, then. Did that make it better or worse? She was too shocked to make a decision.

And his voice disturbed her. It had a low gravelly edge that scraped across her nerves. Yet it was a cultivated voice, as well. Hoarse, but not the broad London accent she would have expected.

He moved then and, in spite of herself, she flinched. She didn’t quite know what she expected him to do, but when her eyes alighted on the knife she had used to cut the pizza lying on the table beside her, her fingers flexed automatically.

‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?

‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’

A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’

Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?

‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’

It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.

‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’

‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!

‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’

His frown was thoughtful, drawing his straight black brows together. He had nice eyebrows, she thought, dark and vital, like his hair, and his nose was straight and well-formed, between bones that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks. Altogether, it was a disturbingly attractive face, she acknowledged, and then inwardly flayed herself for thinking so. For pity’s sake, the man was an intruder, or worse! How could she find him attractive? She must be losing her mind!

He moved again, approaching the table this time, and all thoughts of his appearance fled. All her old fears flooded back in full measure, and when he put out a hand to examine the nearest cold-box her nerve snapped. Snatching up the knife, she positioned it against her midriff, holding it with both hands, the handle towards her stomach, the blade pointing viciously outwards.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ she cried, unable to hold down her panic any longer. ‘Get—get away from the table. Or—or I’ll use this. Believe me, I know how.’

His expression was ludicrous. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed he was as shocked as she was. He stared at her as if she had really lost her senses, and his hands came out of his pockets to perform a soothing gesture.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘calm down—–’

‘Keep away from me!’ Samantha was shaking like a leaf, and her hold on the knife was desperate. Her palms were sweating with the knowledge that she had really burned her boats now. She had shown him she didn’t trust him, and there was no turning back.

‘Please,’ he protested, ‘put the knife down. You’re making a terrible mistake—–’

‘You made the mistake in coming here,’ she retorted, glancing behind her, measuring the distance to the stairs. ‘If—if you have any sense you’ll get out of here. If you’re still here when I get back, the police will—ouch!’

Her words were brought to an abrupt halt when he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration, he grasped her wrist and twisted sharply. The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and before she could turn away he jerked her hard against him.

Her first crazy thought was that she had been right: his body was much harder and tougher than Paul’s. And the second was that he was no gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t twist her arm up behind her back until it felt as if it might break, or hold her as if there was some danger of her laying a karate chop across the back of his neck. The only kind of chops she knew about were lamb, and pork, and if it weren’t so serious she could almost find it funny.

A sob escaped her, but it was as much a suppression of the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside her as an expression of pain. Nevertheless, he heard it, and his hold on her arm eased ever so slightly, as he drew back to look down at her.

‘Are you crazy, or what?’ he demanded, and she was relieved to see he looked no more menacing than he had done a few moments ago. But he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.

‘You—you ask me that!’ she got out, trying to free her other arm that was imprisoned by her side. ‘After—after breaking in here!’

‘Are you kidding?’ He blinked now, and she thought what absurdly long eyelashes he had, for a man. But she was making far too many personal observations about him, and she determinedly schooled her thoughts along with her expression. ‘I didn’t break in,’ he added impatiently. ‘Believe it or not, I have an invitation!’

‘You do?’ Samantha wasn’t sure whether she should believe him or not, but as he was holding the upper hand—in more ways than one, she acknowledged painfully—what choice did she have?

‘Yes.’ He let go of the arm he had been punishing, and transferred his hold to her waist. ‘Can I trust you not to pull another stunt like that, if I let you go?’

Samantha’s lips trembled, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I—I think so,’ she said, becoming conscious of the underlying intimacy of their situation. Whether he realised it or not, she was acutely aware of his lean hips inclined towards hers, and the muscled thigh that was threatening to part her legs. ‘Are you going to? Let me go, I mean,’ she appended, as the ambiguity of her words brought an embarrassed wave of colour to her cheeks.

Amazingly, the ebony eyes darkened. Samantha wouldn’t have believed they could, and it wasn’t so much an increasing definition of colour as a deepening of quality, a softening, that gave the pupils a curious lightness.

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked, and there was a distinctly husky timbre to his hoarse voice now that caused a feathering of flesh all over her body. Dear heaven, he was sexy, she thought, her senses racing out of control. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it, and her tongue appeared to wet her lips in unknowing invitation.

‘I—–’ she began, knowing how she ought to answer him, but hesitating none the less. And then a voice that she remembered rather too well broke over them in shrill accusation.

‘Matt! Matt, is that you? In God’s name, what are you doing down here?’

Melissa Mainwaring came down the stairs as she spoke, her short-skirted dress of crisp blue taffeta rustling as she did so. It also slipped enticingly off one white shoulder, drawing attention to the pearly quality of her skin, and the ripe, rounded shape it concealed.

The man stiffened. There was no other way to describe the sudden freezing of his body. With unhurried but nevertheless decisive movements, he released Samantha and stepped back, his expression twisting oddly in the harsh track of a spotlight. It gave her the opportunity to try and gather her own composure, though the expression in Melissa’s eyes as she looked at her was not encouraging.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and her high heels rang noisily against the copper-coloured tiles. But, her attention was all on the man beside Samantha now and, although she clearly hadn’t liked their earlier closeness, his subsequent withdrawal had mollified her somewhat.

‘You came,’ she said, her expression changing to one of extreme satisfaction. ‘I hoped you would.’

‘Did you?’

His response was scarcely enthusiastic, though Samantha sensed that he was holding his real emotions in check. There was a distinct tenseness in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. Something was going on here, something she knew nothing about, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could escape before his control snapped.

‘Yes.’ The woman’s gaze switched to the girl beside him, and Samantha thought how ironic it was that she and Melissa should have had that altercation earlier. It made the present situation so much more awkward, and she just wanted to pick up her boxes and leave. ‘I see Miss Maxwell let you in.’

‘I let myself in,’ the man contradicted her, but Melissa was not appeased.

‘But you know one another,’ she probed, crossing her arms across her midriff, and massaging her elbows with delicate hands.

‘No.’ The man—Matt?—shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Miss—Maxwell?’ He looked briefly at Samantha, and she quickly bent her head. ‘Miss Maxwell thought I was an intruder.’

Melissa frowned. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, and Samantha sighed.

‘Yes.’

‘It was my fault for coming in the back way,’ declared Matt sardonically. He bent to pick up the knife that still lay glinting on the floor, but although he glanced at Samantha as he did so he made no mention of it. ‘So—I believe congratulations are in order. You finally got someone to take the bait.’

If Samantha was shocked by his words, Melissa was more so. ‘You—bastard!’ she choked, and the look she cast in the other woman’s direction was eloquent of the fury she felt at Samantha’s being a witness to her humiliation. There would be no useful contacts from this dinner party, not if Melissa had anything to do with it, Samantha thought ruefully. But at the same time she felt a small sense of satisfaction that whatever was going on here, the man—Matt? Matthew?—was apparently quite capable of holding his own.

‘I—if you’ll excuse me,’ she murmured, deciding not to push her luck. It was one thing to be an unwilling witness; it was quite another to become a participant in their quarrel.

Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Where are you going?’

Samantha moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Like hell you are!’ Melissa shot Matthew a crippling glare. ‘People haven’t even started eating yet. It’ll be hours before the tables can be cleared. Go to the bathroom, or somewhere. Mr Putnam and I only need a few moments’ privacy.’

‘No.’ Samantha thrust the last of her belongings into the boxes, and fastened the safety clips. Right now, she didn’t particularly care if she smashed all her dishes. She just wanted to get out of there, for more reasons than she cared to consider. ‘I—your—that is, the prince knows I only—prepare the food. I don’t clean up afterwards.’

‘Why not?’ Melissa’s undoubtedly striking features were less than appealing at this moment. ‘You’re just a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing here.’

‘No,’ said Samantha again, snatching up her jacket, and grabbing hold of two of the cold-boxes. ‘I just—deliver the food, that’s all.’ It was easier than trying to explain. ‘And now, as I say, I must be going. It—it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive.’

Melissa looked as if she would have liked to try and stop her by force, but, instead, she contented herself with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Well, you can tell your employer we weren’t very impressed with the service,’ she declared spitefully. ‘Oh, and mention the caviare, won’t you? You have heard of caviare, I assume?’

Samantha gritted her teeth, intensely aware of the man standing listening to the proceedings, with a faintly mocking expression on his dark face. ‘I’ll remember,’ she said tightly, bumping the boxes against the cupboards as she struggled to the door. Just a few more yards, she thought, wondering how she could turn the handle without wasting time putting her boxes down, and then the man intervened.

‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching past her to pull open the door, and she gave him a grateful smile. ‘Drive carefully,’ he added, as she hurriedly ascended the steps, but any response she might have made died on her lips. As she glanced behind her, Melissa came to grasp his arm, and drag him back into the kitchen. Samantha’s last glimpse was of the two of them standing very close together, and of Melissa’s scarlet-tipped fingers spread against his chest.

CHAPTER THREE

THE HONEY POT was hectic, and Samantha was busy microwaving dozens of the individual earthenware dishes of her home-made lasagne when she saw him.

It was odd, that sudden awareness, but she noticed him the moment he entered the café. Afterwards, she told herself it was the stir his leather-clad appearance caused among the bank clerks, shop assistants, and other office workers, who made up the bulk of the lunchtime crowd. But, whatever it was, she knew an unfamiliar sense of panic, as he threaded his way between the tables.

Debbie Donaldson, her assistant, whose job it was to serve the customers and clear the tables, intercepted him before he could reach the refrigerated cabinets, where delicious plates of sandwiches and salads were on display.

‘A table for one?’ she enquired, her wide blue eyes assessing, taking in his dark attractive features and leanly muscled frame.

‘What?’ His eyes had been on Samantha, who was hurriedly preparing another of the pre-cooked pasta dishes for the microwave, and trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘Oh—–’ He expelled his breath on an impatient sigh, and glanced briefly round the small restaurant. ‘Yes. Why not?’ His gaze narrowed to enclose only Debbie. ‘Can you fit me in?’

‘I’m sure I can.’

Debbie’s lips parted to reveal a provocative tongue, and Samantha, unwillingly aware of how impressionable the eighteen-year-old was, felt a surge of raw frustration. What was he doing here? she wondered, stifling a curse as she burned her thumb on a hot dish. He was a long way from Eyton Gate and Belgravia. How on earth had he found her? And who the hell was he anyway?

A surreptitious glance across the room informed her that Debbie had seated him at a small table in the bow window. It was one of the only two tables left vacant in the café, and was usually reserved for Mr Harris, the manager of the local building society. But Debbie wasn’t looking her way, so Samantha couldn’t signal that that table was unavailable. Debbie’s attention was firmly fixed on her customer—as was the attention of most of the females present.

Not that she could blame them, Samantha admitted ruefully, trying to concentrate on what she was doing. He was clean-shaven this morning, and the hooded eyes and stark uncompromising features possessed a potent sensuality. Two sausages, one cannelloni, and two egg and cress sandwiches, she recited silently, struggling to remember the orders. But his presence disturbed her, reminding her as it did of that evening two nights ago, when he had invaded Prince Georgio’s kitchen.

She had tried to put the memory of that evening out of her mind. She didn’t want to think about her emotions at that time. She had told herself it was natural not to want to dwell on the scare he had given her. But the truth was, her fears had been superseded by the way he had made her feel when he’d disarmed her.

Disarmed her in more ways than one, she thought drily, trying to make light of it. And who would want to remember the things Melissa Mainwaring had said to her? No, the whole evening had been a disaster. She was actually having second thoughts about continuing that particular side of the business.

‘He says he wants to speak to you.’

Debbie’s vaguely resentful voice rang in her ear, and Samantha stopped spreading the egg and cress mixture on the bread and looked at her assistant.

‘Who?’ she asked, keeping her back firmly to the tables, and Debbie gave her a disbelieving look.

‘Who do you think?’ she exclaimed. ‘The joker sitting over there by the window. The one doing an imitation of Mel Gibson.’

Samantha blinked, really confused this time. ‘Mel Gibson?’ she echoed.

‘Mad Max?’ suggested Debbie shortly, in the tone of one explaining table manners to a five-year-old. ‘And don’t pretend you didn’t see him come in. You and half the female population of Northfleet!’

Samantha expelled her breath, and laid one slice of bread over the other. ‘Well—what does he want?’ she asked, praying he hadn’t told Debbie of their earlier encounter. But the younger girl only shrugged.

‘I don’t know. He just said he wanted to speak to you. Do you know him? Is he a friend of Paul’s?’

‘Hardly.’ The word was out before Samantha could prevent it, but she covered herself by adding swiftly, ‘I ask you: does he look like a friend of Paul’s?’

Debbie cast a glance over her shoulder. ‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t honestly see Paul buying leather gear, let alone getting into it.’ She turned back to look at her employer. ‘So what do you think he wants? Protection money?’

Samantha’s amused gasp had a trace of hysteria in it. ‘Protection money!’ she echoed disparagingly. My God! Debbie had some imagination. She sobered abruptly. But perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched. Maybe she did need protection. From him!

‘Well, are you going to go and see what he wants, or aren’t you?’ Debbie demanded, resentful that her idea had been dismissed so wholeheartedly. ‘I suppose he could have a message or something. You know, one of those express delivery services. It’s obvious he’s come on a motorbike.’

‘Is it?’

Now Samantha permitted herself another brief glance in his direction. To her relief, he was looking out of the window and didn’t see her. But her own reaction to his lounging figure was no less disruptive because of that.

‘I’d say so,’ Debbie declared now, edging Samantha aside, and taking over the slicing of the sandwich. ‘Go on. You’d better see what he wants. I get the feeling he’s not going to go away until he’s spoken to you.’

Samantha expelled her breath unevenly, and looked down at her bibbed apron. Her immediate impulse was to take it off, but of course she didn’t. So far as she knew, he was here to have lunch just like any other of her customers. He had asked her to serve him because he felt that their previous encounter entitled him to trade on their acquaintance. And besides, she could imagine Debbie’s reaction if she attempted to smarten herself up to speak to him. He had already caused enough of a stir by coming here. Paul was bound to hear about it anyway, so why exacerbate an already awkward situation?

In consequence, she felt a certain amount of trepidation as she made her way towards him. The smiles she cast at her regular customers were unusually tight, and the words she did exchange were short and to the point. It wasn’t that she never served the customers. On the contrary, sometimes she and Debbie were both practically run off their feet, particularly at weekends. But this was different, and she knew it. And with Debbie’s eyes upon her, it was difficult to behave naturally.

He half got out of his seat, as she approached the table, but then, as if realising it wasn’t the done thing, he subsided again. With his arm hooked across the back of his chair, and his ankle resting easily across his knee, he lazily resumed his lounging position.

‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up,’ he said, as she reached the table, and Samantha came to an unwilling halt.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked, carefully ignoring his attempt to be familiar. ‘The menu’s on the table.’

‘So it is.’ His eyes flicked carelessly over the plastic clip that held the printed card. ‘What would you recommend?’ He glanced about him. ‘The lasagne appears to be popular.’

Samantha thrust her fists into the pouchlike pocket of her apron. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, and they both knew she was not talking about the menu now. ‘I’m very busy.’

‘So I see.’ His dark eyes assessed her flushed cheeks, and the wisps of moist hair that clung to her forehead. ‘How long have you been running this place?’

‘Two years—if that’s any concern of yours.’ Samantha’s nervousness was giving way to indignation. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’ve come here, but I wish you hadn’t. Now, if you want to eat, OK. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate this table.’

Humour tugged at the corners of his lips, but he reached obediently for the menu. ‘I’ll have—a toasted cheese sandwich,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Oh—and a beer, too. If you have one.’

Samantha was fairly sure he knew they didn’t have a licence to serve alcohol, and her nails dug into her palms. ‘That’ll have to be a fruit juice,’ she informed him, resenting the fact that she had no excuse not to serve him. And, remembering he had been drinking the last time she spoke to him, she added tautly, ‘Perhaps you’d be better off at the pub!’

‘No. I’ll stay here,’ he responded, setting the menu back on the table. ‘Thanks.’

Samantha hesitated, and then, realising she had no further reason to linger, she turned and stamped back into the kitchen. But her normally even-tempered mood was shattered, and Debbie eyed her warily as she slapped two slices of bread under the grill.

‘What did he say?’ she asked, after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her, and Samantha cast her a scowling glance.

‘Nothing,’ she replied at last, realising she was going the right way to arouse the girl’s suspicions. ‘He wants a toasted cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. You can take it to him.’

‘Me?’ Debbie looked surprised, and Samantha couldn’t blame her. ‘So why did he ask for you to serve him?’

‘Who knows?’ Samantha flipped the bread over, and reached for the cheese. ‘Go and see if any tables need clearing. As you’ve commandeered Mr Harris’s table, you’ll have to find somewhere else to put him when he comes in.’

Debbie pressed her lips together. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Sam?’ she persisted, evidently feeling some responsibility for what had happened, and not happy with the result. ‘You look—sort of upset.’

‘Don’t be silly, Debbie.’ Samantha managed a faint smile, as she covered the bread with cheese, and returned it to the grill. ‘I’m just annoyed because there was no earthly reason why you couldn’t have—have taken his order, that’s all. Now, hurry up. This is almost ready.’

For the next half-hour, Samantha managed to keep herself too busy to pay any attention to her unwelcome visitor. There were meals to heat and serve, extra salads to be made, and plenty of dirty plates to load into the dishwasher. If Debbie thought she was less talkative than usual, she didn’t say anything. Besides, she was busy too, and it wasn’t until the café had practically cleared that Samantha noticed that he was still there.

It didn’t really surprise her. She guessed Debbie would have said something if he had departed. But seeing him still seated at the table, apparently engrossed in a newspaper someone must have left behind, still infuriated her, and she wished she had the strength to throw him out.

‘Go and tell him we’re getting ready to close,’ she murmured to Debbie, but the younger girl firmly shook her head.

‘You know we don’t close until half-past five,’ she said. ‘If you want to lie about it, you do it. He wasn’t too pleased when I brought his sandwich, so don’t expect me to do your dirty work.’

Samantha grimaced. ‘I’m only asking you to fib a little. He doesn’t know anything about this place.’

‘How do you know that?’

Debbie was looking at her with that curious look again, and Samantha expelled a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t—know—not for sure. But you haven’t seen him round here before, have you? It’s obvious he’s not going to know what our hours are.’

‘They’re written on the door,’ retorted Debbie flatly, and Samantha acknowledged that she had forgotten that.

‘OK,’ she said, giving in. ‘I’ll go and see if he’s finished.’

He looked up as she reached the table, and, seeing who it was, he folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Very nice,’ he said, and for a moment she was so nervous, she didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘The sandwich,’ he prompted, noticing her blank expression. ‘As good as any I’ve tasted. You had the consistency of the cheese just right.’

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