Satan’s Contract
Susanne McCarthy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘MORNING Miss Pippa. Riding out on that young piece o’yourn, are you? You be careful—he’s a mite frisky this morning. Want a hand to saddle ’im up?’

Pippa responded to the gruff offer with a warm smile. ‘No, thanks, Miller—I can manage.’

The stables were at the side of the house. Half of them had been converted into garages long ago, and the only equine occupants now were Fury, her beautiful chestnut gelding, and an elderly grey mare who had retired from active service some years ago, and now lived out a peaceful existence between her warm stable and the meadow on the other side of the lane.

Miller, who did most of the heavy work in the stables as well as taking care of the gardens, had already put the two horses out into the paddock, and Pippa leaned over the gate, calling to them softly. With a whicker of joy they gambolled over, eager to see if she had brought them a titbit.

‘You greedy thing,’ she murmured fondly, stroking Fury’s sleek neck as he snaffled the apple she had brought him. ‘Why can’t you be polite about it, like Lady here?’

The magnificent horse nuzzled at her shoulder, as if in apology for his lapse of manners. She took his head-collar and brought him through the gate into the stable-yard, saddling him up quickly and leading him over to the mounting-block, pausing only briefly to fasten the strap of her hard hat before slipping lightly up on to his back.

He was full of frisk this morning, but she let him dance—she too was feeling restless. Not bothering to open the five-barred gate into the lane, she set him at it, and, sensing her mood, he soared over it with ease, lengthening his stride as she leaned low over his withers, feeling his powerful motion beneath her.

So what if people might think she was being disrespectful, riding on the day of Gramps’s funeral? It was a pity her parents hadn’t shown him a little more respect while he was alive, she reflected bitterly. True, he had been a little difficult to cope with these past few years, suffering increasingly from the dementia that had gradually robbed him of most of his mental faculties. But if you just took the trouble to be a little patient with him, instead of constantly scolding him for being so forgetful, it had still been possible to manage some kind of conversation with him.

It had been the cause of many of the rows between her and her parents, the way they treated her grandfather; she had always thought of him as that, even though he wasn’t really a blood relation—just her father’s stepfather. She had never known him in his prime, of course, but he must have been quite a man to have built up the small family company he had inherited from his own father into the huge corporation it now was. It was sad that his private life hadn’t been so successful.

Everyone always said that Pippa took after her grandmother; they probably thought it was a compliment—she had been quite a beauty when she was young, to judge by the portraits that still graced the walls of the house. She had certainly inherited her delicate features and fine porcelain skin, as well as eyes of so deep a blue that they were almost violet. And she had inherited that fiery red-gold hair that warned of a similarly fiery temperament.

But she hoped she hadn’t inherited her grandmother’s selfish, demanding nature. Lady Elizabeth Corbett Morgan, as she had never tired of reminding the world, had been the daughter of an earl; and her first husband, though not quite of the highest ranks of the aristocracy, had been a baronet of the most respectable lineage. Unfortunately, both these fine gentlemen having been inconsiderate enough to die without leaving her a farthing, she had been obliged to marry a common industrialist in order to ensure that she could be maintained in the style she considered her due.

She had led poor Gramps a dog’s life. He might have hoped that after her death, six years ago, he would have been allowed a little peace to live out the last years of his life. But his stepson had seen to it that that was never to be...

The sound of a powerful car, approaching fast, startled her out of her thoughts. She pulled Fury up sharply as it appeared, and he reared up in alarm. Pippa struggled to retain her seat, but the horse’s hoofs were slithering on the grassy bank that lined the lane, and with a small scream she felt herself slipping from the saddle.

She landed in an undignified heap, her hair tumbling from its neat coil at the nape of her neck to fall in a tangle around her shoulders. But at least Fury was all right—she had kept an instinctive grip on his rein, and the car had braked out of his way. Cursing furiously at her own dangerous folly in galloping in the lane, she struggled to sit up—and found herself confronted by a pair of tan cowboy boots, placed firmly apart.

‘Just what the goddamn hell did you think you were doing?’ an angry voice demanded. ‘You could have killed your horse, careering down the middle of the road like that.’

Her eyes flashed in sparkling anger—she didn’t need him to tell her that! ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to be driving up here like a bat out of hell,’ she retorted hotly. ‘Apart from anything else, it’s a private road—and you’re trespassing.’

‘So throw me off,’ he challenged, his voice a laconic drawl.

She lifted her eyes to glare up at him—and up; over long, lean legs clad in tight denim jeans, a thick leather belt buckled with half a pound of silver, to appreciate—in spite of herself—a pair of powerful shoulders under a casual blue-checked shirt. Maybe it was just the angle at which she was looking at him that made him seem so big—but she certainly wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated.

‘I’ll let my father do that,’ she returned with frosty disdain. ‘Or possibly the gardener.’

Unfortunately the dignity of her response was somewhat marred by the realisation that the wicked thorns in the hedge had snagged in the silk of her blouse, and pulled apart the buttons. She was affording this large stranger a very interesting display of the soft curves of her breasts, daintily cupped in white lace. With an exclamation of impatience she tugged at the fabric, but she was still caught up.

‘Allow me.’ Those hard eyes were glinting with lazy mockery as he bent over her, taking full advantage of her predicament to subject her to the most insolent survey before he deftly freed her from the thorns, and offered her his hand to help her rise to her feet.

Even drawn up to her full height, she found that she still stood at a considerable disadvantage to him—he must have been a good three or four inches above six feet tall. His light brown hair was streaked with blond from the sun—and his lean, hard-boned face bore such a striking resemblance to her grandfather that she stared at him in blank surprise.

She hadn’t known that Gramps had had any relatives—certainly none who had bothered to visit him while he was alive. Maybe it was inevitable that now he was dead anyone who thought they might have the least claim on a share of his fortune would come crawling out of the woodwork. But at least he could have had the decency to let the poor old man rest in peace for a few days!

He was still regarding her with that mocking gaze, taking an arrogant appraisal of her slender figure in the torn silk shirt and slim-fitting jodhpurs. She returned him a look of icy contempt, but that only seemed to tickle his sense of humour.

‘Well, I guess you must be little Pippa,’ he drawled in that lazy voice; she had assumed at the first that the accent was American, but she guessed now that it could be Canadian. But how did he know who she was?

‘That’s right,’ she confirmed, sharply suspicious. ‘But I don’t recall that we were ever introduced.’

‘Nor do I—I’m quite sure it’s an experience I wouldn’t have forgotten in a hurry. But you’re an absolute ringer for your grandmother.’

It was evident from his tone that he intended no compliment, but Pippa accepted it as if it was, smiling with all the old lady’s high-nosed condescension. ‘Thank you.’ She had managed to refasten most of her buttons, which made her feel a little better. ‘Might I ask who you are?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Obviously I don’t,’ she retorted with a snap. ‘Or I wouldn’t be asking.’

He laughed. ‘Quite a little hornet, aren’t you?’ he remarked with casual interest. ‘Hasn’t anyone ever tried to draw your sting?’

‘Several people,’ she retorted tartly. ‘But no one’s ever succeeded.’

‘Yet.’

That single word was both a threat and a promise, and she had to turn away quickly, her heartbeat oddly disrupted by the mocking look he had given her. To hide the deep tinge of pink that had coloured her cheeks she bent to examine Fury’s hocks. How dared he speak to her like that, look at her like that? She had never met anyone so downright arrogant in all her life!

‘Your horse appears to have escaped injury—no thanks to you,’ he commented drily. ‘How about you? No bumps or bruises?’

She flashed him an icy blue glare. ‘None at all, thank you.’

His sardonic smile never wavered. ‘I’m glad to hear it. If you’re proposing to remount, I’d better give you a hand.’

Pippa hesitated, caught in an uncomfortable dilemma. She would have dearly liked to disdain his offer, but with nothing convenient to use as a mounting-block she wouldn’t be able to get up on to Fury’s back by herself, and the only alternative was to walk back to the stables. And after all, he would only be touching the sole of her boot, she reflected with acid humour; there seemed to be something quite appropriate in that!

‘Thank you,’ she conceded, at her most haughty.

The provocative glint in his eyes taunted her as he bent and cupped his hands. For a moment she found herself gazing down at those wide, powerful shoulders, that crisp sun-bleached hair, and her mouth felt strangely dry. No one quite like this had ever come into her orbit before. And he was all man...

With an impatient shake of her head she dismissed the uncharacteristic reaction—there was no way she was going to let this...this cowboy think he could have any effect on her. But she had to put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he tossed her up into the saddle, and the sensation of powerful male muscle moving beneath her fingers made her feel suddenly hot all over.

‘Nice horse,’ he approved, running his hand down over Fury’s sleek neck. ‘Isn’t he a bit powerful for you?’

‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘I can manage him perfectly well. And he jumps beautifully—he’s descended from one of the finest hunters in the county.’

‘A hunter, eh?’ His expression of distaste made his opinion patently clear. ‘I guess I might have expected that you’d enjoy a barbaric pastime like that— “The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable”.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort hotly that he was mistaken; she loathed hunting—it had been one of the first and longest-running quarrels she had had with her parents when she had told them exactly what she thought of them for indulging in such a cruel ‘sport’. But obstinately she wanted no point of agreement with this irritating man, so she merely shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t give a damn for your opinion.’

He chuckled with cynical laughter. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ he countered. ‘After all, you’re a Corbett, aren’t you? I don’t suppose you give a damn for anyone’s opinion.’

She returned him a look of frosty disdain. ‘What would you know about my family?’ she enquired haughtily.

‘Oh, rather a lot,’ he responded with a strange, enigmatic smile. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Would I?’ She had deliberately infused a measure of indifference into her voice; if he wasn’t going to volunteer any information about his identity, she was quite sure she wasn’t going to gratify him by appearing curious.

‘Tell me,’ he went on in a conversational tone, ‘is your dislike of me personal, or do you just despise anyone who didn’t go to the right school or have the right accent?’

She slanted him a cool glance from beneath her lashes; evidently he was so arrogant that he assumed her lack of interest was due to snobbery. ‘Why should that concern you?’ she returned, seeing a chance to score a point.

His eyes glinted in sardonic amusement. ‘Oh, I just wouldn’t like to think I was losing my touch.’

‘I’m sure that would be a very novel experience for you,’ she countered, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘I dare say every other woman you meet falls at your feet on sight.’

‘Oh, not always on sight,’ he drawled. ‘But I can usually get ’em where I want ’em within a little while.’ He was holding Fury’s bridle, preventing her from escaping, and the dark glint in his hazel-brown eyes was having a very peculiar effect on the beat of her heart. ‘I wonder how long it’d take with you?’

‘I...I shouldn’t waste your time, if I were you,’ she forced out, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘You’re really not my type.’

He smiled slowly. ‘You know, a good-looking chick like you ought to know better than to issue a man with a challenge like that,’ he remarked. ‘It could turn out to be well-nigh irresistible.’

Her agitation was sending Fury skittering around, and she was having trouble controlling him. ‘Don’t call me a chick,’ she snapped hotly. ‘And let go of my bridle.’

‘It seems to me that’s just what you need—a hand on your bridle,’ he commented provocatively.

‘Well, it won’t be yours!’

‘We’ll see.’ But to her relief he let her go, the flicker of cynical amusement in his eyes infuriating her, so that she snatched a little at the reins as she turned Fury away, making him jib. Swiftly controlling her rising temper, she eased her grip, and urged the horse into a smart trot, sitting very straight in the saddle, her chin tilted up at a haughty angle.

‘See you later, then,’ he called after her.

‘Not if I see you first,’ she was betrayed into retorting.

He shouted with laughter. ‘Hornet! But I would have thought you could have come up with something a little more original than that.’

Ignoring the provocation, she rode on.

It was some minutes later before she had calmed down sufficiently to remember that he hadn’t actually told her who he was. So far as she knew, Gramps had had only one brother, who had been killed in the First World War, leaving no children. So he must be a pretty distant relative. How many more like him would be descending now, like vultures, to pick over the spoils?

Well, she wasn’t going to let him ruin her ride, she vowed decisively. Turning off the lane into the fields, she gave Fury his head, urging him into a full gallop. The weather had been glorious for the past few weeks, and the ground was firm—just the way he liked it. The countryside was green and open, rolling farmland with hedges that were perfect for the magnificent horse to jump. Only a few sheep and cattle were there to take any notice, and they didn’t care what she did.

She stayed out for over an hour; it was just what she needed to ease the lingering sadness in her heart and help her face Gramps’s funeral. She rubbed Fury down, and then let him out into the paddock again, where he could romp around with Lady for the rest of the day. Then she strode briskly up to the house—she had plenty of time to have a bath and get dressed before they would have to set off for the funeral.

But as she passed the open french windows that led into what had once been Gramps’s study but had been taken over in recent years by her father, the sound of her father’s raised voice caught her attention.

‘No will?’ Major Sir Charles Edmund St John Corbett, Bt, was glaring indignantly at Mr Gibbons, the elderly local solicitor whom Gramps had always preferred to any “fancy city suit.” ‘Don’t be preposterous. He must have made a will.’

Pippa paused, having no compunction about eavesdropping on her father. The solicitor was shaking his head. ‘I’m very much regret, Sir Charles, that he didn’t. I assure you that I did my utmost to persuade him—while he could still be considered to be of sound mind, of course—but he would only fob me off. To be on the safe side, I have checked with the Probate Registry, in case he may have employed the services of another solicitor for the purpose—though I have no idea why he should. But there is no trace of any will. I’m afraid it appears that your stepfather died intestate.’

‘The damned old fool!’ the major exploded. ‘Trust him to leave everything in such an awkward mess. Did it out of spite, I’ll bet! Well, so what happens now, eh? I suppose it’s all going to take much longer than it needed to sort it all out—which will make a nice bit of extra work for you. It doesn’t all go to the Crown, does it?’ he added with a forced jocularity, realising that he had perhaps allowed his natural irritation at this most unfortunate situation to lead him to appear unduly grasping.

‘No...’ The solicitor hesitated, clearing his throat with evident embarrassment. ‘The estate will be disposed of according to the rules of intestacy,’ he went on carefully. ‘The order of distribution is laid down in statute, in quite precise terms.’

As Pippa drew closer, intrigued, she suddenly noticed a familiar pair of tan cowboy boots, negligently crossed at the ankle, protruding from the armchair behind the curtain. How had he managed to force his way into this discussion? She was surprised her father had even admitted him into the house. Holding back so that he wouldn’t see her, she listened carefully to what was being said.

‘You see, where there is no surviving spouse, the estate passes to the children,’ Mr Gibbons was expounding solemnly. ‘As would apply in this case—’

‘Yes? Well?’ demanded Sir Charles impatiently.

‘You see...I’m afraid that, in this context, the word “children” is not taken to include stepchildren, unless there has been a formal order of adoption. But it does include illegitimate children—’

‘What?’ Sir Charles exploded. ‘But that’s ridiculous! I never heard anything so outrageous in all my life!’

Pippa’s eyes widened as she swiftly put two and two together. So that was who the mysterious stranger was—no wonder she had thought he bore a striking resemblance to Gramps! Well, whoever would have thought it of the old man? Had his wife known about it? It served her right if she had! It was probably her spiteful temper that had driven him into the arms of another woman in the first place.

Sir Charles had turned furiously on the man in the armchair. ‘If you think you’re getting one stick of this place, you’ve got another think coming,’ he blustered, dangerously red in the face. ‘I’ll see you in hell first.’

‘You really think it’ll be necessary to go as far as that?’ That mocking voice was implaccably cool. ‘I thought these matters were usually settled in Chancery, but I bow to your superior knowledge of English law.’

Pippa stifled a giggle, but her father was on a very short fuse. ‘Oh, yes—very funny,’ he growled. ‘But you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face before I’ve finished with you. You wait till you try to stake your claim. You’ll have to prove in open court that you’re the old man’s by-blow—and that might not be as easy as you think.’

‘My father acknowledged me from the moment I was born,’ came the icy response. ‘He registered my birth himself—it says so on my birth certificate. He gave me his name.’

‘You think that means anything?’ Sir Charles raged, forgetting every consideration of decency in his spluttering anger. ‘He wouldn’t have been the first man to have been made a fool of by some scheming little tramp—’

He got no further; his voice was choked off as the stranger moved swiftly from his chair, and gripped the front of his shirt in one iron fist. ‘I could knock you through the wall for that,’ he stated, his voice quiet with menace. ‘But it’s my wall now, and I don’t want to damage it. And if you don’t want me to damage you, I suggest you pack up what legally belongs to you as soon as possible, and get out of my house.’

Pippa started forward in horror. She was appalled by what her father had said—but she couldn’t let this much younger, much stronger man actually strangle him! But he had already let him go, brushing off his hands in a gesture of pure contempt.

‘Mr Gibbons—I’m sorry,’ he apologised, underlining the insult to her father by his meticulous politeness to the solicitor. ‘I think I’d better get out of here before I do something permanent.’

Pippa barely had enough time to step back out of the way as he strode through the open french window, almost colliding with her. He stalled briefly, casting her just one look of cold dislike, and then stalked away, leaving the air behind him crackling with the tension of his last warning.

Sir Charles had collapsed into a chair, mopping his face with a handkerchief. ‘I’ll contest this,’ he vowed, still raging. ‘There must be something we can do. Surely no court of law would uphold a situation like this?’

‘I’m afraid any challenge would be difficult to sustain,’ the solicitor advised in arid tones. ‘Under the terms of the relevant act, there is no intention for the court to reform the dispositions of statute unless it can be established that the applicant is in need of reasonable financial provision, and even then the amount would be only such as is deemed sufficient to meet everyday living expenses...’

‘Yes, yes—spare me all that legalistic clap-trap. Well, he needn’t think it’s going to be as easy as that. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. We’ll see what my solicitor in London has to say about the matter.’

Mr Gibbons bridled, plainly affronted. ‘I can assure you, Sir Charles, that I—’

There was a nervous little tap on the door, and it opened tentatively to admit a lady in her middle years who, in spite of the severity of her very correct black twin-set, still managed to look fluffy and pretty. Her fair, curly hair was untidy, as usual, and the flush of pink in her cheeks betrayed the fact that Helena, Lady Corbett had already been making inroads on the gin and tonic, though it was not yet mid-morning.

‘May I...? I just wondered if... Oh, Mr Gibbons, you’re still here?’ she twittered. ‘I heard raised voices, and I—’

‘He’s gone,’ growled Sir Charles to his wife. ‘Come on in. You might as well know the worst. He gets it all.’

‘All?’ Lady Corbett put her hand to her mouth, going slightly pale. ‘You mean...he didn’t leave you anything?’

‘He didn’t even leave a will! And according to some damned archaic law, that means he gets the lot.’

‘But... Whatever will we do...?’ She sat down weakly. ‘Surely... That can’t have been what he intended? Why, we’ve cared for him all these years—and heaven knows it hasn’t always been easy. Many were the times I’ve wondered if he might perhaps be better off in a home.’ She had turned her soft, appealing eyes on the solicitor. ‘But he was as close as our own flesh and blood. I never begrudged a moment of it.’

Pippa rolled her eyes heavenwards. Sometimes her mother’s capacity to alter the truth amazed her—and the incredible thing was that she really seemed to believe her own version. She had already surmised that both her parents had known the identity of their unexpected visitor; she had long suspected the existence of a skeleton in the family cupboard, something alluded to but never referred to openly. Well, he had certainly picked his moment to pop out!

Her father was still fuming. ‘You can bet your life that was exactly what the old fool did intend,’ he declared belligerently. ‘The ingratitude! But of course, it’s just what I might have expected of him. I’m only glad that my poor dear mother isn’t here to see it. God knows, she suffered enough, the way he used to flaunt that...that woman and her bastard brat right under her nose...!’

‘Hah!’ Pippa was betrayed into a snort of derision. ‘I wish I could have seen it! He would never have dared do any such thing.’

Her parents looked up in surprise, neither of them having been aware of her presence until now. ‘I thought you were out riding,’ her father grunted irritably.

‘I got back a while ago.’ She strolled in through the french windows, not troubling to pretend any trace of filial affection. It had been a long time since she had got on with either of her parents—sometimes it seemed that the only thing she had in common with either of them was that she had the same temper as her father; she was as unlike her mother as it was possible to be. ‘So, who is he, anyway?’ she enquired. ‘I’d never even heard of him before.’

Her mother looked embarrassed, but her father was blunt. ‘If you were listening, you know who he is. His mother was the old man’s secretary. How long their affair was going on, I don’t know. He was fifty when the boy was born—disgusting.’

‘What happened to the woman?’ Pippa asked, curious.

‘Oh, he took care of her well enough, while she was alive,’ Sir Charles responded dismissively. ‘She died about fifteen years ago, and Shaun went off to Canada. Thought we’d seen the last of him—I might have known he’d be back, like a bad penny.’

Shaun, mused Pippa. So that was his name—Shaun Morgan. If Gramps had been fifty when he was born, that would make him...about thirty-five now. And he had inherited everything—the house, the land, the company...

She smiled softly to herself. Good old Gramps! He’d contrived to do what he must have wanted to do all along—leave everything to his son, and nothing at all to his stepson. She could almost hear that secret chuckle of his, whenever he’d managed to get one over on his dictatorial wife—‘the Witch’, he’d used to call her behind her back.

Of course, she would be sorry to leave Claremont, the house where she had grown up. Set in the wide green countryside of the Heart of England, it was a lovely old house, with its ivy-clad walls and mullioned windows, and its spacious wooded parkland.

But it would almost be worth it, just to see her father’s nose put out of joint! He didn’t deserve a penny of Gramps’s money, not after the shabby way he had treated him. It was a shame her first meeting with Shaun had set them off on the wrong foot with each other, but it wasn’t too late to remedy that. The next time she saw him, she would go out of her way to be friendly, she decided grimly—just to spite her father!

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, I think that all went off rather well,’ Sir Charles remarked with satisfaction as the sleek black limousine pulled away from the small country churchyard. ‘Quiet, but very tasteful. I think George would have wanted it that way.’

‘You mean you wanted it that way,’ cut in Pippa acidly. ‘At least you did when you thought everything was coming to you. I bet if you’d realised Shaun Morgan was going to get it you’d have splashed out on the biggest bash since the launching of the Queen Mary.’

‘Oh, dear...Philippa!’ her mother protested, desperate to avoid a clash. ‘Please—you can’t start arguing with your father—not on an occasion like this.’

‘He’s such a damned hypocrite!’ she muttered, sitting back in her corner and shaking off her mother’s restraining hand. ‘He’s not the least bit upset that Gramps is dead. The only thing he’s bothered about is finding some way of keeping Shaun from getting his hands on the money.’

‘And that I shall succeed in doing, I assure you,’ Sir Charles insisted with arrogant assurance.

‘Oh, yes? How? From what he said, he’s got all the proof he needs that he’s Gramps’s son—and you’ll have a hard time proving you need maintenance out of the estate.’

The car was passing the railings of the cemetery, and through the trees she could catch a glimpse of a tall figure still lingering at the graveside, fair head pensive but unbowed. He had stood like that all through the service, not looking at her or her parents—except for just once, towards the end, when she had stepped forward to toss a spray of lilac, clipped from one of Gramps’s favourite trees, into the grave. Then those level hazel-brown eyes had caught hers, just for a brief moment, before she had turned away.

He looked very different in that well-cut grey suit he was wearing. When she had seen him this morning she would have sworn that he never wore anything but those faded, well-worn jeans, but she had to admit he looked good in the more formal attire—though the tailored elegance of the cut did nothing to tame the ruggedness of that powerful masculine frame.

It had been inevitable that people would notice his striking resemblance to Gramps, and there had been a considerable amount of whispering and speculation during the service—not entirely in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. Well, everyone would find out soon enough who he was, she reflected—though from what she had overheard, a good many people had already guessed.

What sort of life had he led in Canada? What line of business had he been in? Her father had told her that Gramps had paid his mother maintenance when he was a child, but she doubted that he had been able to give him much financial support beyond that—her grandmother would have seen to that.

In fact he had every reason for his bitterness towards her grandmother—she was more than ready to acknowledge that. Maybe it was little wonder that he should have assumed that she was tarred with the same brush.

* * *

Most of the people who had been at the church had come up to the house. There were only about twenty or so—representatives from the board of directors of Morgan & Co, and a few local people who had some claim to be called friends of the family.

As usual it fell to Pippa to act as hostess, circulating among the guests, accepting their conventional expressions of condolence—her mother had already resorted to the sherry bottle to sustain her through the ordeal, and was looking a little frayed.

A sudden hush in the conversation alerted her, and she glanced towards the door, catching her breath on a small shock as Shaun walked into the room. He had arrived with Mr Gibbons, the solicitor, who was looking rather less than happy at being involved in such an awkward situation.

Pippa glanced round swiftly to check how her father was reacting. Surely he wouldn’t be so crass as to make a scene in public? Unfortunately there was no guarantee of that—when Sir Charles Corbett lost his temper, he was inclined to forget all considerations of dignity and decency.

Shaun’s broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway as he stood for a moment on the threshold, the slightly sardonic curve to his mouth suggesting that he was faintly amused by the stir he was creating. Pippa heard her father’s hissing intake of breath, and moved swiftly to intervene, crossing the room to greet the newcomer with a smile of easy welcome.

‘Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. Can I offer you some sherry? Or something stronger, perhaps?’

Those hazel-brown seemed to regard her with a hint of cool mockery. ‘Thank you—sherry will do, so long as it’s not too sweet.’

‘Oh, no—this one’s quite dry,’ she assured him. ‘My mother has the sweet one.’

He slanted a speculative glance in that direction. ‘So I see,’ he murmured, a flicker of quizzical amusement passing behind his eyes. ‘Is she planning to go through the whole bottle?’

Pippa flushed slightly. ‘I expect so,’ she acknowledged wryly. ‘I don’t know how she can stand the stuff myself—it tastes like syrup.’

‘Each to their own taste,’ he responded drily. ‘I trust you’ve fully recovered from your fall this morning?’

Her smile wavered slightly, but she managed to keep it in place. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she responded lightly. ‘It was such a stupid thing to do, riding like that in the lane. I was lucky it was no worse.’

Now there was no mistaking the mockery. ‘The luck was all mine,’ he taunted, letting his eyes slide deliberately down over the ripe swell of her breasts beneath the silk of her blouse.

She caught her breath, her cheeks flushing a deep pink—she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt as to remind her of that. She turned to the solicitor, struggling to maintain her composure. ‘Mr Gibbons—some sherry?’

A heavy tread warned of her father’s approach. ‘Couldn’t wait five minutes to get your feet under the table, could you, Morgan?’ he grated belligerently. ‘Come to take inventory, to see we don’t remove anything we’re not entitled to, have you?’

Shaun turned slowly, his level brows lifted in sardonic question. ‘I’m quite sure you wouldn’t do anything like that,’ he responded, those hazel-brown eyes—the living image of Gramps’s—glinting with mocking humour. ‘I imagine it would constitute theft.’ He slanted an enquiring glance at the solicitor. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Oh...quite,’ that embarrassed gentleman confirmed quickly.

‘You’d better not start counting your chickens,’ Sir Charles advised in a blustering tone. ‘The battle’s not over yet.’

‘On the contrary—Mr Gibbons advises me that there should be no difficulty in obtaining letters of administration. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. And if you have any ideas of attempting to intervene,’ he added, his voice menacingly soft, ‘I really would advise you to think again.’

Sir Charles had turned an ominous shade of purple, ready to explode. Pippa was acutely conscious that everyone in the room was listening to the conversation with undisguised interest—everyone except her mother, whose attention was focused solely on the remaining sherry in her bottle. Her plaintive voice cut inconsequentially into the taut silence.

‘Charles, you really will have to bring up some more of this Oloroso,’ she declared, her careful diction not quite concealing the slur in her voice. ‘I really can’t think where it all goes.’

Someone tittered with embarrassed laughter, and Pippa closed her eyes for a brief moment, wishing devoutly that the ground could just open up and swallow her. With a snort of rage, Sir Charles turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door viciously behind him.

‘Oh...’ Lady Corbett blinked, startled. It had finally impinged on her blurred consciousness that something was amiss, but she wasn’t at all sure what it was. She glanced around rather anxiously, afraid that she might have committed some faux pas. ‘I...I didn’t necessarily mean right now...’ she protested vaguely.

Shaun’s eyes still held a faintly mocking smile. He handed his glass back to Pippa. ‘I guess I’ve already overstayed my welcome,’ he drawled, an inflexion of sardonic humour in his voice. ‘Mr Gibbons, if you happen to be going my way, I’d sure appreciate a lift.’

‘Of...of course.’ The solicitor looked as if his tie was too tight.

‘Thank you. Well, good afternoon, Miss Corbett.’ The smile was blandly polite. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. I look forward to meeting you again.’

For a moment Pippa could only stand rooted to the spot, staring after him as he left the room. But then suddenly it seemed as if she had been released from some strange spell, and, putting down the tray of sherry glasses on a convenient table, she ran out after him.

‘Shaun—wait!’

Halfway across the panelled hall he paused, glancing back, one eyebrow lifted in mocking enquiry.

She hesitated, awkwardly wondering how to follow up on her impulsive action. ‘I just...I wanted to apologise for what my father said to you this morning,’ she stammered. ‘It was quite abominable of him.’

The hard glint in his eyes as he subjected her to a lazy appraisal seemed to turn her blood to ice. ‘Well, Miss Corbett—this sudden change in your attitude towards me is very interesting,’ he taunted in that soft, laconic drawl. ‘What brought it on, I wonder? Trying to play your grandmother’s game?’

She stared up at him, bewildered. ‘I...I don’t know what you mean?’

‘Don’t you?’ His eyes hardened perceptibly. ‘The Corbetts never have had any time for anyone whose breeding didn’t match their own—unless they found themselves in need of funds. Your grandmother was more than willing to prostitute herself by marrying my father for his money—maybe it’s occurred to you to do the same.’

His words struck her like a slap in the face. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she protested, furious. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with a barge-pole!’

He laughed softly, taking her chin between his fingers and turning her face up to study it from several angles, as if she were one of the chattels of the estate he had just inherited. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured with an air of cool detachment. ‘The pedigree is unmistakable, of course—every inch a Corbett. It could be quite interesting to break you to bridle.’

She slapped his hand away. ‘You won’t get the chance!’

‘No?’ Those hazel-brown eyes were regarding her in amused speculation. ‘We’ll see. It would be good to take a little revenge on your family.’ A hard edge had crept into his voice. ‘Your grandmother’s behaviour prevented my father from ever supporting my mother properly—she had to struggle by on a pittance until the day she died. That’s something I won’t ever forget or forgive. And I’ve never been allowed to get to know him, either—the last time I saw him was more than fifteen years ago, at my mother’s funeral.’

‘Well, whose fault was that?’ Pippa retorted, refusing to let herself be swayed. ‘You chose to go off to Canada—’

‘Because it was more than obvious that I was a constant thorn in the old witch’s side—for which she made my father pay with every breath he drew.’

‘My grandmother died six years ago,’ she pointed out, cool blue eyes regarding him with disdain. ‘You could have visited after that.’

His eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I tried,’ he said. ‘I came to England two years ago with just that intention, but Charles wouldn’t let me into the house.’

She laughed in scorn. ‘If you’re trying to tell me you couldn’t have got past my father...!’

He lifted his eyebrows in faint surprise. ‘What do you suggest I should have done? Knocked him down? I must admit I considered it, very seriously.’

Silently reserving that she would have enjoyed seeing it, she shrugged one slim shoulder in a gesture of unconcern. ‘Well, you couldn’t wait to get here as soon as he was dead,’ she tossed at him coldly.

‘Of course,’ he returned, immune to her poison darts. ‘Wouldn’t you have expected me to come to my own father’s funeral?’

‘And to throw us out of our home,’ she added hotly. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not gloating over that.’

‘I don’t suppose you’re likely to believe that I had no idea of the way things stood—I hadn’t even given it any thought. But I have to admit, the situation does have a certain pleasant irony.’

She glared at him in impotent fury. ‘Well, I shouldn’t get too excited about it,’ she advised him, gritting her teeth. ‘Half of it will probably go in inheritance tax.’ And turning him an aloof shoulder, she stalked away.

* * *

Inevitably there could be no other topic of conversation at the Corbett dinner table that evening—it wasn’t exactly an aid to digestion. ‘Walking in here like that, as if he already owned the place,’ fumed Sir Charles, spearing a lump of kidney with his fork as if it had been freshly cut from the body of his enemy. ‘Looking around in that sly way, pricing everything up. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was planning to sell off the lot!’

‘What I simply can’t understand,’ his wife remarked for the fortieth time, ‘is how the law can even recognise a...a natural child in that way, let alone favour them. I mean, it’s virtually condoning...that sort of thing. I wonder if the Government is aware of it? I think perhaps I shall write a letter to the local party agent, just to draw it to his attention.’

‘Well, he’s going to find out that it isn’t going to be as easy as he seems to think,’ Sir Charles rambled on, ignoring his wife’s contribution. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law. That damned stupid old fool of a solicitor—I don’t trust a word he said. Good God, bringing the man here like that, quite openly—it’s easy to see whose side he’s on! Well, he’s burned his boats with me. We’ll see what a decent solicitor makes of the matter!’

Pippa ate in silence, the acrid taste on her tongue ruining her appetite. Shaun’s words were still bouncing around inside her head. How dared he interpret her simple gesture of friendliness as an attempt to make a play for him? As if she would lower herself even to consider marrying a man for his money! And least of all him! She had never met such an insufferably arrogant man in all her life, and if she did ever meet him again—which she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t—she would tell him exactly what she thought of him.

Although it would be disappointing if she never had the chance to respond to that...that outrageous insult he had handed her. At the time she had been too stunned to be able to think of a suitably cutting retort, but since then her mind had been occupied with nothing but honing and refining a few extremely choice words that would wither him into the ground.

‘He’ll know he’s got a fight on his hands,’ her father was still pontificating. ‘I’ll take it all the way to the House of Lords if I have to. You mark my words...’

‘Oh, can’t you leave it alone for five minutes?’ Pippa burst out irritably. ‘Even if you do manage to stop Shaun getting the money, that doesn’t automatically mean it’ll come to you. It’ll go to the Crown instead—so you won’t be any better off, and you’ll just have wasted a fortune on legal fees.’

They both stared at her, startled by her heated intervention. ‘And what would you know about it?’ her father demanded crossly. ‘You’d just better hope it does get sorted out right, my girl. It would have all come to you eventually, and if you’re telling me you’re happy to see a fortune whistled down the wind you’re a bigger fool than I ever took you for.’

Pippa rose to her feet. ‘I really couldn’t give a damn about a fortune,’ she snapped, her patience strained beyond endurance. ‘I’d just as soon be poor. And you’d better take that glass off her,’ she added with a wry nod towards her mother. ‘That’s her fourth brandy already this evening, on top of all that sherry this afternoon. She’ll be under the table by ten o’clock at this rate.’

‘Philippa! How dare you speak of your mother like that?’

‘Oh, come off it, Dad. You know she drinks, I know she drinks, everyone knows she drinks. Why don’t you try to get her to do something about it, instead of closing your eyes to it all the time?’

Sir Charles drew himself up in righteous indignation. ‘I won’t have that kind of talk at my dinner table,’ he pronounced pompously. ‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you’d better leave the room.’

‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do,’ she retorted. ‘I couldn’t stand to sit here with the pair of you wittering on a moment longer! Neither of you ever listen to each other anyway. I’m going down to the stables—at least the company’s a little more civilised down there!’

Her temper was still simmering as she walked down to the stables. She knew she shouldn’t have been so rude to her father, but she felt as if she had been stretched on a rack all day—and his posturing had been just about the last straw.

Of course, she shouldn’t be the least bit surprised at the way he was behaving, trying to thwart poor old Gramps’s wishes even after his death. It wasn’t as if he needed the money—he seemed to have business interests all over the place; there were always companies who were eager to pay for the kudos of his aristocratic links and public-school education, though she had the impression that they generally saw through him pretty quickly, and kept him out of any serious areas of responsibility.

The stables were warm and quiet. Fury wickered softly in greeting, nuzzling into her shoulder, hopeful that she had brought him an apple. She had, of course, and one for Lady too, then she perched up on the partition of the stall as she watched them munching contentedly.

‘Maybe it’s time I started to look for a place of my own anyway,’ she mused, idly stroking the horse’s thick mane. ‘After all, I’m twenty-two. The only problem is, what am I going to do with you two? I’ll have to find a livery stable for you somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. But it won’t be quite the same as having you at home.’

Fury regarded her with one liquid brown eye, completely understanding every word she said.

* * *

She had had the day off for Gramps’s funeral, but the next day found Pippa back at work behind the counter of the small flower-shop she owned, in partnership with her friend Marjorie. They had been in business for nearly eighteen months now, and the shop was proving so successful that they were thinking about opening another one.

Situated on the edge of Stratford-upon-Avon, close to the river, it was one of a row of medieval half-timbered houses that had been preserved and turned into shops—there was a tea-shop next door, and an antiques dealer, and a very smart dress shop at the end of the row. It was the kind of hidden corner that the tourists loved, stumbling across it unexpectedly and ever after convinced that they were one of an exclusive few who had found it.

It had been a busy afternoon. As closing time approached, Pippa was helping a customer select a bouquet for his wife’s birthday when she heard the door open. She didn’t bother to look up—Marjorie was already stepping forward with her polite, ‘Can I help you?’ on her lips.

‘Yes—I’d like some flowers to send to a young lady. Roses, I think.’

The sound of that familiar laconic drawl brought Pippa’s head round in astonishment. He must have seen her, though he was acting as if he hadn’t. But it was certainly no coincidence that he had chosen to come in here, out of all the florist shops in town, she reflected, her mind in turmoil—he must have done it deliberately, just to needle her.

But who on earth could he be sending flowers to? A girlfriend in Canada? He had hardly had time to get something going in this country—so far as she was aware, he had arrived only yesterday morning! Not that she cared, of course—it was none of her business...

‘Does that include VAT?’

‘Oh...’ She turned her attention quickly back to her own customer, annoyed with herself for allowing Shaun Morgan to distract her. ‘I beg your pardon.’ She smiled a swift apology. ‘Yes, that’s inclusive of VAT. And delivery within the local area is two pounds ninety-five. Tomorrow, you said?’

Shaun was chosing long-stemmed roses—a pretty expensive trifle, to be paid for out of his new-found wealth, Pippa noted acidly. At least he had chosen yellow instead of red—the significance of sending a dozen red roses would have been unmistakable, and she had no wish to see the girl he proposed to install as the new mistress of Claremont flying over here on the next 747.

Forcing herself to concentrate on what she was doing, she began to write down the address for delivery of the birthday bouquet. But she couldn’t stop herself listening to the conversation taking place at the other end of the counter.

‘What message would you like to put with them?’ Marjorie was asking, the way she was gazing up at Shaun betraying very clearly that that eminently sensible married lady had succumbed without a fight to his smooth masculine charm.

He smiled down at her, just a trace of sardonic humour in his eyes. ‘Let me see. I think just “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” will do,’ he said. ‘And you needn’t bother to put who they’re from—I think she’ll guess.’

Pippa had stiffened, her pen stilled. Marjorie was laughing. ‘Lucky girl,’ she sighed, comfortable enough to amuse him with a little meaningless flirtation. ‘You’d like them delivered this afternoon?’

‘If that’s possible?’

‘No problem,’ she assured him, smiling. ‘I’ll take them myself. Pippa, have you finished with the order pad?’

‘Oh... Yes.’ She pushed it casually across, far too busy with taking her customer’s payment to even notice whom Marjorie was serving—though her jaw was clenched with the effort of ignoring him as much as he was ignoring her.

‘Now...’ Marjorie held her pen poised expectantly. ‘Who are they for?’

‘Miss Philippa Corbett,’ Shaun dictated, only that slight smile betraying his amusement in the situation. ‘The address is Claremont...’

Pippa choked, her cheeks flaming a vivid scarlet as both Marjorie and the other customer stared at her in astonishment. Her eyes clashed with those deep-set hazel ones in a storm of anger—how dared he make a laughing-stock of her like this?

‘Don’t bother to take the order, Marjorie,’ she rapped, snatching back the pad and ripping off the sheet on which her friend had begun to write. ‘It’s just his stupid idea of a joke.’

Shaun put on an air of hurt surprise that wouldn’t have deceived a child. ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘Why shouldn’t I send you flowers?’

‘You can save your money,’ she fumed. ‘I’m not going to have dinner with you.’

His mocking laughter was a deliberate goad. ‘My, what a little hornet! You do change sides quickly—I can’t keep up with you. Yesterday afternoon you were batting those big baby-blues at me as if I were the answer to all your prayers!’

‘I was not!’ She caught herself up, furious with him for provoking her into such an undignified public argument. Tilting up her chin at a haughty angle, she responded with icy clarity, ‘Of course, if you chose to be conceited enough to interpret a simple apology for my father’s appalling rudeness as some kind of attempt to flirt with you, that’s up to you. All I can do is assure you that it was nothing of the sort.’

‘Ah, what a pity. And I thought I was beginning to make some headway.’ The regret in his tone was belied by the sardonic glint in his eyes. ‘I guess I’m out of luck.’

Pippa hesitated, lost for a sufficiently cutting response. She was all too uncomfortably aware of Marjorie’s burning curiosity, and the mild amusement of the other customer, who was still standing watching. With a snort of angry frustration, she flashed them all a glare that would have stripped paint, and, turning on her heel, marched out into the back room of the shop.

She was shaking with rage. No one, in all her life, had ever dared to treat her that way! Picking up the flower-scissors in a taut fist, she stabbed them into the wooden draining-board, wishing with all her heart it was Shaun Morgan’s damned handsome face.

Marjorie came in after her, laughing a little uncertainly. ‘Hey, careful,’ she protested. ‘Those are the best scissors. Here.’ She took the pair from Pippa’s hand with exaggerated caution, and substituted some old ones. ‘If you really must start stabbing things, use those. They’re blunt.’

Her friend’s gentle teasing made Pippa laugh at herself. She shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t be much good, then, would they?’ She put the scissors down. ‘I’m sorry, Marje. But I could just kill that man!’

‘Oh, surely not!’ Marjorie protested. ‘He’s gorgeous! What’s he done?’

‘His name’s Shaun Morgan,’ Pippa explained, a slight flush of pink colouring her cheeks. ‘He’s...Gramps’s son.’

Marjorie stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, I never! I never knew he had a son.’

‘Well, he did. Apparently his mother used to be Gramps’s secretary. I can’t say I blame him for going off and having an affair—my grandmother must have been hell to live with. Anyway, he came over for Gramps’s funeral. And according to the solicitor, because Gramps died without making a will, he’s going to inherit all his fortune.’

‘What—the house, and the company and everything?’ Marjorie queried, stunned. ‘But...what about your father?’

‘Oh, he’s hopping mad.’ Pippa confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘But there’s not a thing he can do about it. The law says it’s a child of the blood who inherits, legitimate or not, and a stepchild gets nothing at all.’

‘Well, I never!’ Marjorie sat down heavily on a convenient stool. ‘No wonder you’re mad at him.’

‘Oh, it isn’t that.’ Pippa pulled a wry face. ‘I’m not bothered about the money at all—in fact it serves my father right that he’s not going to get a penny. But he’s so arrogant! Do you know, he had the nerve to suggest that I was trying to...to get him to marry me, just as my grandmother married Gramps for his money!’

Marjorie laughed, but there was a wise glint in her eyes. She had known Pippa from her babyhood—her own mother was one of Lady Corbett’s closest friends. And although she knew all about the notorious Corbett temper, she was shrewd enough to guess that her young friend would normally have been able to dismiss any such ridiculous suggestion with all her usual sense of humour. This could lead to all sorts of interesting developments!

But the sound of the doorbell prevented her from exploring the situation any further. ‘Damn—there’s a customer,’ she grumbled, rising reluctantly to her feet. ‘Tell me the rest later.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘JEREMY, please—get down!’ Pippa begged, watching anxiously as the handsome boy teetered along the top of the high wall that surrounded the car park of the country club. ‘You’ve had too much to drink—you’ll fall off.’

‘No, I won’t—I can do it,’ he insisted obstinately. ‘Watch me—right the way to the end.’

Their friends were cheering noisily, egging him on. ‘Go on, Jer—attaboy! Go for it!’

Pippa sighed wryly, conceding defeat. Somebody had bet Jeremy fifty pounds he couldn’t walk the wall, and he had needed no second bidding. Considering that he was all of twenty-three years old, the Honorable Jeremy Hardwicke-Cooper frequently behaved like a little boy—especially when, as now, he was what he cheerfully called, ‘hog-whimpering’.

At last, to her profound relief, he reached the end of the wall safely, and swung himself down, caring not a jot for the scuffing of his already rather well-worn dinner-jacket. ‘There!’ he proclaimed in triumph, swooping his arms around her and dropping a lightly affectionate kiss on her forehead. ‘Safe and sound—told you so!’

To be fair, it wasn’t solely an excess of alcohol that accounted for the rowdy high-spirits of the group; having spent the earlier part of the evening dutifully attending a very stuffy charity ball, it was now as if they had been let off the leash.

But Pippa wasn’t really in the mood for their usual high-jinks tonight. As they crossed the car park, she gently detached herself from Jeremy’s casually embracing arm—though in the midst of all the merriment he didn’t seem to notice.

What was the matter with her? These were her closest friends, she had known them all her life—but lately she had begun to feel as though she no longer had much in common with them. The sons and daughters of the wealthiest and most distinguished families in the district, they seemed to take nothing seriously; was she the only one who ever wondered whether there was more to life than driving expensive sports cars too fast, or trying to ski backwards down the red run at Verbier wearing a fright-mask?

They had reached the wide steps that led up to the front porch when she suddenly became aware that she was being watched. Someone had just got out of a car on the far side of the car park—and some sixth sense had told her who it was before her eyes even met those deep-set hazel ones.

Shaun Morgan acknowledged her with a faintly sardonic smile, and she turned away quickly, an odd little flutter accelerating her heartbeat, her cheeks slightly pink. To cover her reaction she added her laughter loudly to someone’s childish joke, grasping Jeremy’s hand as she skipped lightly up the steps to the porch.

‘Come on—I want to dance all night!’ she declared, a little over-bright.

‘I’m game for that!’

It was a boisterous crowd that erupted into the elegant bar of the club. Pippa was perhaps the only one sober enough to realise that they were behaving very badly, expecting lesser mortals to steer out of their way, demanding and receiving first service at the bar. But some evil demon seemed to have got hold of her, goading her to even more outrageous extremes.

‘Champers!’ she demanded imperiously. ‘I won’t drink anything less.’

‘Of course not!’ concurred Jeremy, as if such an idea was unthinkable. ‘The very best. Hey, Kevin,’ he called out to the barman. ‘How about building us a couple of magnums of that Bollers down here—and make it snappy, eh?’

Pippa was acutely aware that Shaun had come into the bar shortly behind them. He had slanted just one disparaging glance in their direction, and then turned away to talk to his companions, totally indifferent to the juvenile antics of the beautiful young things at the bar.

Well, damn him—why should she care what he thought of her? Whatever she did, he was going to despise her. Besides, who needed Shaun Morgan anyway? There were plenty of other young men who seemed more than interested in winning her favour—wealthy, handsome, highly eligible young men like Jeremy.

But try as she might to deny it, she knew that she was doing all she could to make him notice her, even if in the most negative way. And the less she was succeeding, the more desperately she tried. He seemed to be totally absorbed in the conversation at his table; it hadn’t taken him long to get on social terms with the directors of Morgans, she reflected tartly—the party he was with consisted of two of the senior board members and their wives.

Without actually drinking very much, she was managing to give the impression of hogging a whole magnum of champagne to herself, waving it around as she laughed and joked, flirting outrageously with Jeremy and all the other young men in the crowd.

They had seemed at first a little surprised at her uncharacteristic behaviour, but were soon responding eagerly. A loud quarrel had broken out between Jeremy and Peter for the honour of drinking champagne out of her shoe.

‘It’s my prerogative,’ Jeremy was insisting, brushing aside his best friend’s protests. ‘It was me she came in with!’

‘But I thought of it first,’ Peter argued plaintively. ‘It’s really not sporting, you know, pinching another chap’s idea.’

Clutching the long satin skirt of her lapis-blue evening dress in one hand, Pippa skipped up on to a bar stool, slipping off one dainty shoe and dangling it above their heads. ‘I’ll settle the argument once and for all,’ she declared brazenly. ‘Whichever of you can reach my shoe can be the one to drink out of it.’

There was an immediate scramble as all the young men in their crowd—and several hangers-on—vied eagerly for the prize. She laughed teasingly, holding it just out of their reach; but too late she realised that she had chosen a precarious perch as in the mêlée someone knocked against the stool, and suddenly she felt herself losing her balance.

She fell backwards with a small shriek—into a pair of safe, strong arms. ‘Well, that wasn’t a very sensible thing to do,’ an all-too-familiar voice commented with dry humour as he set her on her feet. ‘You could have broken your ankle.’

She glared up at him, too resentful of his mockery to thank him for saving her. ‘So what?’ she pouted. ‘A short life and a merry one!’

‘A broken ankle wouldn’t be very likely to kill you,’ Shaun pointed out dampeningly. ‘You’d just have a couple of very uncomfortable months in a plaster. I can’t help but think that would cramp your social life somewhat.’

She shrugged in a gesture of haughty indifference, lifting her foot to slip her shoe back on, angry that he was still holding her in the circle of his strong arms, angry with herself for having given him the excuse to do so.

‘Let’s dance.’ Without troubling to ask her permission, he drew her out on to the floor.

She stiffened, alarmed at the prospect of being held close to him any longer. ‘No!’

‘Why not?’ The hint of challenge in those level eyes told her that he had recognised her fear.

‘I...I want to go back to my friends,’ she temporised, knowing full well that he couldn’t have prevented her if she had only resisted more forcefully.

‘Back to those idiots?’ He cast a scornful glance over her shoulder at the gaping crowd they had left behind. ‘Is that why you wouldn’t go out to dinner with me—because you prefer to hang out with a bunch of Hooray Henrys?’

‘They aren’t Hooray Henrys,’ she protested indignantly.

‘They sure look like it to me. And seeing you with them does absolutely nothing to improve my opinion of you.’

‘So?’ She was finding it difficult to keep her heartbeat steady, being held so close to him—his body was strong and hard, and there was a faint musky scent in her nostrils that made her feel strangely dizzy. ‘I told you before, I don’t give a damn for your opinion.’

‘True,’ he concurred. ‘But for the record, I’ll give it to you anyway. You’re a spoilt little rich bitch, and my strongest inclination is to put you over my knee and smack your bottom.’

She tried to return him a frosty glare, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes—and anyway the effect would have been ruined by the hot blush that sprang to her cheeks. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she protested breathlessly. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘Well, for a start, I’m the man who owns Claremont, however much you and your precious parents might dislike the idea,’ he responded, coolly provocative.

She tried to draw back from him, her anger at boiling point. ‘Why, you bast—’ She shut her mouth abruptly as she realised what she was saying, her colour deepening to a vivid scarlet.

‘Go on—why don’t you say it?’ he taunted, drawing her back even closer into his arms. ‘I’m a bastard. I’m not ashamed of that fact. I’d rather have been born out of wedlock than into the kind of marriage my father had with your grandmother.’

Her mind was struggling in vain for an answer, but deep down she was too inclined to agree with him to be able to retaliate. And anyway, it was impossible to think straight when he was holding her so intimately close, moving her slowly to the music, his warm breath stirring her hair.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the warmth of his arms was melting the ice in her spine, the musky male scent of his skin invading her senses, drugging her mind. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the spell he had woven around them, a spell that was causing everything else to fade to a dark blur, until it seemed as though he was the only real and solid thing in the whole world.

As the music changed, she made no further attempt to pull away from him. The whole length of her body was curved intimately against his, as if it had been cast as part of the same mould. She could sense a fierce male hunger in his embrace, but a tide of purely feminine submissiveness was flooding through her, filling her with a strange glow of warmth that seemed to be melting her bones...

A sudden loud roar of laughter from Jeremy snatched her back abruptly to the real world. He seemed to have already forgotten her existence—he had clambered on to a table, and was trying boozily to balance a half-full magnum of champagne on top of his head as he began to strip off his jacket.

‘I hope you’re not proposing to let that drunken lout drive you home?’ Shaun enquired, his voice laced with scorn.

She retreated swiftly into a pose of defensive disdain. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she countered with studied indifference. ‘What are you going to do about it? Report him to the police?’

‘If we were in Canada, I’d be the police.’

She stared at him in blank surprise. ‘You’re a policeman?’

His smile was grim. ‘That’s what I said. And I don’t find the idea of drunken driving at all clever or funny. You should see the consequences of a freeway accident some time, or maybe have to go knocking on some poor family’s door at one in the morning to tell them their kid’s been smashed up or killed. You might learn something about real life.’

His low, ferocious voice made her shiver, and she swallowed hard, ashamed now of the flippancy she had put on deliberately to annoy him. ‘I...I didn’t know you were a policeman,’ she stammered.

‘Detective,’ he amended shortly. ‘But I guess I’ll be handing in my badge now.’ She glanced up at him questioningly. ‘I’ve just inherited a pretty large chunk of an engineering business,’ he pointed out with dry emphasis. ‘I ought to see about learning how to run it properly.’

‘Oh... Yes, of course—I...suppose you’ll be moving back to England now?’

‘Naturally. I’ve also inherited a very nice house.’ His eyes were glinting with that hard, mocking humour as he deliberately taunted her. ‘It’ll make a pleasant change from a tenth-floor condo in Parkdale—though I do have a pretty decent view of the lake. I guess I might want to make a few changes, of course. Does the place have central heating?’

She clenched her jaw, her regrets already forgotten. ‘Some parts of it do,’ she returned caustically. ‘But please don’t hesitate to rip out the floors and the panelling to put it in the rest.’

‘Thank you. Your permission, of course, was essential.’

The most annoying thing about him, Pippa reflected acidly, was the way he always seemed able to return her poison barbs with interest. And the way he always seemed to be laughing at her. And the way he looked at her, with a kind of calculated insolence that reminded her all too uncomfortably of that first moment of meeting him, when her blouse had been all agape from her tumble into the hedge.

The memory of that incident was still vividly alive in her brain, a constant source of embarrassment. Maybe that was why she always felt so vulnerable when she was around him... You know it isn’t that, a small voice was whispering inside her head. It was something in the strange alchemy he wove—something in the glint of humour in those hazel-brown eyes, the lazy mockery of that soft drawling voice.

He was holding her very close, his hand resting intimately over the base of her spine, his cheek against her hair. Dancing in his arms, she felt as if this was where she had always belonged. She was floating, outside of time and space, all her anger at his insults forgotten, all her defences crumbling to dust. She closed her eyes again, wishing this moment would never end...

‘Hey, Pippa!’ Jeremy had spotted her from his vantage-point on the table and had remembered with sudden indignation that she had come in with him. He handed the champagne bottle to Peter, and jumped heavily down, scattering several dancers out of his way. ‘Who the devil’s this?’ he demanded, snatching at her arm and glowering at Shaun in drunken belligerence.

‘Jeremy,’ she begged in an anxious whisper, ‘there’s no need to make a scene.’

‘Oh, isn’t there?’ He pushed Shaun rudely on the shoulder with his hand. ‘Get away from her,’ he ordered, very much on his high horse. ‘Who do you think you are, dancing with my girl?’

For one awful moment, Pippa feared that there was going to be a fight. It would have been a very uneven contest; Shaun had several inches’ advantage in both height and breadth—and besides, Jeremy was far too drunk. But clearly Shaun had come to the same conclusion, and his look was one of mocking contempt.

‘She’s all yours,’ he drawled, releasing her from his arms. ‘I wish you well of her—you seem pretty well matched.’

Jeremy, dimly suspecting that they had both been insulted, stood with his mouth hanging rather stupidly open as Shaun turned and walked away. ‘Well, of all the bloody cheek!’ he protested. ‘I’ve a good mind to teach him a lesson. Who the hell does he think he is?’

‘No, don’t,’ pleaded Pippa, rather exasperated with him. ‘Leave it alone.’

‘Well, but...’ He conceded the point with a show of reluctance, but he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know he was likely to receive the worst of any physical confrontation—Pippa’s restraining hand had provided him with the excuse he needed to allow him to back down without losing face. ‘Who is he, anyway?’ he queried. ‘Do you know him?’

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