Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

DESTINY

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

“You don’t play fair.”

“No,” Vigadó agreed softly. “I never do. Because I always have to win.”

And he kissed her.

For a moment Mariann clung to his warmth and then pushed away, her eyes dark with confusion. “You’re an accomplished lover, I’m sure,” she said unsteadily. “But sex and lust have nothing to do with hearts and souls.”

“So spend the night with me and teach me all about love,” Vigadó challenged mockingly.

DESTINY awaits us all, and for Tanya, Mariann and Suzanne Evans—all roads lead east to the mysteries of Hungary.

Tangled Destinies

As Tanya arrives in Hungary for her younger brother’s wedding, her older brother, István, lies in wait after four years. He’s the only man she’s ever loved—and he’s hurt her. But what he has to tell her will change the course of her life forever.

Unchained Destinies

Editor Mariann Evans is on a publishing mission in Budapest. But instead of duping rival publisher Vigadó Gábor, she is destined to fall into his arms.

Threads of Destiny

Suzanne Evans’ attendance at the double wedding of her sister Tanya and her brother, John, presents a fateful meeting with mysterious gate-crasher Lásló Huszár. He’s the true heir to a family fortune and he has a young family of his own. He is about to make sure that his complex family history is inextricably linked with hers, as all the elements of this compelling trilogy are woven together.

A Note to the Reader:

This novel is the second part of a trilogy. Each novel is independent and can be read on its own. It is the author’s suggestion, however, that they be read in the order written.

Unchained Destinies
Sara Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘BULLSEYE!’

Mariann paused in the doorway of her new boss’s office, taken aback by his cry of triumph. Oh, good! she thought. He’s a bit zany! She saw he’d been playing darts—a healthy sign, she reckoned, in a man she’d judged to be under stress.

But when he turned there was a startling malevolence in his expression and she took the dart he thrust towards her with a wary concern. Ordinary bosses were difficult enough; she wasn’t too keen to play games with a maniacal one! What was his hang-up?

‘I’ll pass on the darts,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I came to—’

‘Throw it,’ he growled, jerking his head at the wall opposite.

Her sister Tanya had always said publishers were mad! Mariann stifled a giggle and balanced the dart between finger and thumb to humour him, turning her attention to the large photograph which had been skewered to the noticeboard by three other darts.

For a moment her hand wavered. Staring back at her was a man who seemed to burn holes in her. ‘At him? Who is he?’ she murmured in awe.

‘You must know Vigadó Gabór!’

Now she understood! Like many other publishers, Lionel had suffered because of this man. For several seconds, Vigadó’s intense animal quality held her quite still. It was the eyes that mesmerised her, glowering out black and full of malevolence from under lowered brows, capturing her, drawing her to him as surely as if she were being tugged on a rope like a slave!

‘Extraordinary guy!’ she managed, quite unreasonably disturbed. How infuriating! Her self-respect, her female pride was ruffled. Men never had that effect on her.

‘You said it.’ Lionel sounded strangely pleased.

‘Where’s his nice toothy smile for the photographer?’ she asked wryly, and studied the rest of him. Wide shoulders. An expensively toned torso beneath that expensively tailored navy suit. Dark as the devil. And a scar that slashed into an inch or so of his Slavonic cheekbones, lending him a disquieteningly exciting air of wickedness. ‘Wow! How did he get that?’ she murmured.

‘Duelling, they say.’ Her boss seemed to be watching her reaction like a hawk.

She laughed in disbelief. Too romantics ‘Oh, yes?’

‘He’s a wild, impetuous Hungarian with a vile temper——’

‘Fighting over a woman?’ she hazarded, seeing the possibility instantly.

‘Women,’ answered Lionel scathingly.

She wasn’t surprised. He had a mouth to make bones liquefy and a jaw…She smiled. That jaw told everything: his ruthlessness, the tenacity, the way he’d swept through the publishing world like a scourge. He’d been the talk of the Frankfurt Book Fair.

Her dart flew arrow-straight and lodged between a pair of wickedly sculptured lips. ‘Will that do?’ she said, giving a small laugh to clear the effect of Vigadó’s dynamic eroticism on her.

‘Till you skewer him in person,’ said Lionel bitterly.

‘I’m your new editor, not your hit-man,’ she grinned.

Entirely against her will, she found herself looking at the photograph again. Two-dimensional or not, Vigadó looked ready to leap out from his glossy paper prison at any moment and tear his many enemies apart with his teeth.

‘I think it’s time someone made a stand against him.’ Lionel slumped in his chair. ‘He’s devoured half the publishers in Europe. What do you know of him?’

Mariann considered. ‘Gossip, mostly. I know he’s a street-fighter and not a gentleman by any means. He head-hunts authors. He’s taken some of yours—and he has an agent in Hungary, like you.’

‘He’s trying to ruin me,’ said Lionel quietly.

Her sympathetic eyes noted the despair in every line of his body even while her own apprehension made her heart beat faster. This was her first editing job. Her first step on the ladder. If Lionel went under, so would she. More interviews. More lecherous bosses. She sighed.

‘He can’t want a small publishing house,’ she began.

‘It’s a matter of vindictiveness!’ Lionel raised a face consumed with hatred. ‘I could kill him! He’s threatening the existence of this precious company I’ve built up from nothing—nothing!’

‘You still have Mary O’Brien,’ Mariann soothed hastily.

‘Not any more!’

‘What?’ she cried in dismay.

Her boss poured out a large whisky and Mariann realised with concern that it was about to follow the route of several others. ‘Last week I went to Cork,’ grated Lionel, ‘to discuss the editing of Mary’s final six chapters. She’d vanished—gone into hiding, God knows where. Her letter said it all. Vigadó’s poached her!’

‘That’s unethical! Outrageous!’ gasped Mariann. ‘Mary’s your best-selling author—’

‘And without her I’m finished,’ her boss said grimly, hurling the last dart wildly at Vigadó’s merciless face.

‘Why?’ asked Mariann, appalled.

‘Let me spell it out for you. The bank knows Mary’s done a bunk. That swine must have told them. They’re reluctant to continue my overdraft and I can kiss goodbye to any hope of venture capital loans. This business eats money! I might as well slit my throat and be done with it!’ he yelled.

And he looked as though he might, given any more blows to his professional pride. ‘You can’t throw in the towel! Don’t let him win!’ she cried hotly. ‘I’ll stand by you, I’ll do anything I can.’ Her voice softened with sympathy and became coaxing. ‘OK, Vigadó’s stolen your authors—so what? He doesn’t have the one thing that made this company successful: you. If you built up your publishing house before, you can do so again.’

Lionel gave a mirthless laugh, looking more haggard than ever. ‘You don’t understand! I need Mary,’ he insisted. ‘She’s one blockbuster author that even the banks have heard of. She guaranteed our loan merely by being on our list. Mary can make a fortune for us. We nursed her, encouraged her, saw her through all her crises and published her first book, then the rest…’

‘What about her contract?’ said Mariann quickly. ‘She must be in breach of it. We can—’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘She was in between contracts. We’d been…discussing fresh terms.’

Mariann groaned. ‘What awful luck! But…perhaps one of those manuscripts on my desk will turn up another Mary—’

‘You know the odds!’ he said, impatiently dismissive. ‘I can’t afford to wait for the unlikely. Mariann, you’re my only hope!’

‘Me? I’ll read till the words blur for you, but I’ve been an editor’s secretary for the last two years. You only interviewed me for this job a few days ago! I’m not exactly your most experienced member of staff!’ she protested.

‘You’re the most beautiful, though.’ He clamped a sweating hand on hers, his expression that of a desperate man.

Her mind whirled uncomprehendingly and she drew back, her eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say?’ she asked coldly.

‘I have a job for you. A very important one. Get Mary back.’

She blinked, not seeing the connection. ‘How—?’

‘You speak a little Hungarian. You’ve not long come back from Hungary.’ He looked at her for confirmation.

‘Yes. I went for my brother’s wedding. John works there,’ she said, frowning—and omitting to say that the wedding never took place. ‘My sister Tanya is marrying a Hungarian—István Huszár.’

Suddenly she picked up his drift. Vigadó worked for Dieter Ringel, the vast, international publishing house. He’d risen sky-high in that organisation via his wife’s bed, marrying Dieter Ringel’s only daughter. But Vigadó was Hungarian by birth.

She slid her hand away. ‘I suppose you’ve heard somewhere that István is a pretty influential guy,’ she said slowly. ‘I want to help, but I won’t use him to—’

‘It’s your own talents I want!’ broke in Lionel. ‘Vigadó’s moving the fiction department of Dieter Ringel from London to Hungary. That means the records will be on their way to Budapest. Mary O’Brien’s hideaway address will be in his office files. Charm your way into the office. Make tea, service the drains, anything! My agent will give you every assistance. He knows his job is at stake too. When you’re alone, search for that address. Mary has always liked the intimacy of our small company and scorned conglomerates. If I can get to her, I can persuade her to return, I’m sure.’

Drains? He was raving! ‘Everyone knows that Vigadó works all night like a vampire,’ she pointed out. ‘Even if I did gain access, I’d never be alone long enough—’

“The Bookseller says he’s not leaving London himself till the end of the month. That gives you three weeks.’

‘Good grief! You’re serious! Commercial espionage!’ Gracefully she lowered herself into a deep chair and looked at him in amazement from under her thick, dark brows. ‘Lionel, the chances of my getting work in his office is nil—’

‘Don’t you look in a mirror?’ he snapped irritably. ‘God, Mariann, they’ll take you on just so they can look at you! You’d tempt a whole monastic orderly’

Putting his exaggeration down to stress, she flicked a glance down the neatly waisted scarlet jacket and brief coral skirt. ‘I look good,’ she acknowledged. ‘I get eyed up, but—’

‘No. Not good, That’s the point. Oh, I’m sure you say no more often than most women brush their teeth, but that’s not the impression you give out,’ said Lionel impatiently. ‘I don’t know what’s in your background, but it sure isn’t goodness! You’ve got legs a man could dream about, wondering where they ever end, a mindboggling body that sways with invitation whenever it moves and eyes that would lure an ice-man to his fate!’

Her mouth gaped open. He’d given no hint of the way he saw her. She’d virtually taken the job because he seemed preoccupied with other concerns and not the length of her legs.

‘Lionel!’ she said sharply, stiffly. ‘This is my second day. I’ll make it my last if—’

‘Oh, god!’ he groaned, burying his head in his hands. ‘You don’t know what I’m going through. He’s sleeping with my wife!’

Mariann’s eyes widened. No wonder Lionel was at his wits’ end and suggesting this hare-brained scheme! A believer in constancy where marriage was concerned, she glared indignantly at the photograph. Vigadó was evil— and looked it. A modern-day pirate, burning and sinking companies, press-ganging the crew and taking hostages. Poor Lionel, to be up against that monster!

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said gently.

‘Adding insult to injury,’ muttered Lionel, ‘he’s given my wife a job as senior editor!’

She gasped, pained by such a cruel betrayal, and thought how good it would feel to pay Vigadó back for his double-dealing. Crazy! Or was it? Her head lifted high on its long, honey-skinned neck, a reckless smile curving the lush lips with their permanently uptilted corners. Supposing she succeeded? What a coup! Ideas piled into her head.

Hi! I’m your local, friendly plumber…I’m checking your telephones…Rat-infestation inspector here….

Amused by her inventiveness, she glanced at the malefic Vigadó, felt a jolt of raw sexuality and resented him for producing it. He was ripe for his come-uppance. And perhaps she could deliver it by helping Lionel to steal back his brilliant author.

It was a terrific gamble—but rather exciting! And if it came off, her job would be secure. Her dream profession would be solid reality. Even if she were caught searching the files, she could find some excuse like… What am I doing? Why, I’ve lost one of my eyelashes! she imagined herself saying, with a blandly innocent smile. Mariann’s bold sense of the dramatic leapt with the prospect of a full-blown, real-life part to play.

And she’d see her dear sister Tanya, István, John, and the fizzing, exotic city of Budapest again…She grinned, conveniently sweeping obstacles away and dreaming of gorgeous pastries, the magic of the snow, the passionate arguments with husky-accented Hungarians over Turkish coffee…

‘OK,’ she said impulsively, her eyes glistening with anticipated pleasure. ‘The sticky buns clinched it. I’l give it a go—and we’ll beat the brute at his own game!’

‘Oh, bless you, bless you!’ breathed Lionel triumphantly.

Involuntarily, she slanted her sloe eyes to the watchful Vigadó. His gimlet stare was directed straight at her in challenge. ‘Viggy, sweetie,’ she murmured, hoping to cheer Lionel up, ‘are you in for trouble!’

‘Oh, a-dabbin’ it here, a-dabbin’ it there, a-sloshing itWhoops!’ Feeling immensely exuberant now her fellow decorators and the staff of Vigadó’s Budapest office had gone home and she was alone, Mariann halted her raucous song in mid-roller stroke. ‘Drop the “g”,’ she reminded herself with a giggle. ‘Keep in character!’

A dollop of paint dropped on to her bare shoulder and she remembered that she’d been tempted to leave Vigadó’s office reeling from a rash of purple spots, but had overcome the urge!

Her peal of infectious laughter echoed around the empty room as she sidled barefoot along the plank between two ladders. ‘A-sloshin’ it here and a-sploshin’ it there…’

She’d done enough. Operation Search, begin! she thought, and a thousand butterflies suddenly took flight inside her stomach. That was natural, she grimaced.

She’d never done anything criminal before. So far, she’d only skirted the fringes of deception. Now she was breaking and entering. It was still a lark—and she hoped it would remain so. Lionel had seemed thrilled at her clever deception, eagerly demanding to know every detail of her plan.

Carefully she flicked some paint over herself in a few strategic places in case the janitor came in and clambered down. Everything had gone so well! Lionel’s agent had come up trumps. Impersonating Vigadó, he’d ordered two decorators to start work on the offices immediately—and to take on Mariann to help them. Here, the agent had made his voice husky with a few dropped hints.

‘I’m sending her to Budapest ahead of my amival, giving her a job, somewhere to stay and…well, I hope she’ll show her gratitude,’ he’d purred.

Glad of the highly priced job, the decorators hadn’t seen through the deception and had willingly agreed. Why should they care who she was? They had work.

They’d swept in that morning, full of confidence, and no one in the panic-filled building had dared to question ‘Vigadó’s’ arrangement. The staff were too taken up with organising order out of chaos, ready for Vigadó’s arrival—and the manager was more than busy grumbling that he was having to give up his beautiful, spacious office to his boss. She and the decorators had shifted out the antique furniture and spent the rest of the day rubbing down the paintwork and washing the walls while she’d simpered and wriggled seductively out of her boiler suit to lend credibility to her story by displaying a few assets.

Whenever possible, she’d made it clear to anyone who’d listen that Vigadó had picked her off the streets and she was immensely grateful. And when she’d prettily begged to start the ceiling that evening so she could ring Vigadó later and tell him how well she’d done, no one had liked to refuse. The Great Man obviously terrified them all!

Cowards! Her eyes gleamed. In the adjoining office, and now facing her, was the manager’s desk—and the keys to the filing cabinets. She’d particularly asked him to lock them up before they were moved out and had seen where he’d put the keys.

Stealthily she took the keys, slid the small one into the lock and heaved out the ‘B’ drawer…Nothing there about Mary! And before she had time to push the drawer shut and try the ‘O’s, she heard a sound outside and was forced to scamper back up the ladder and on to the board again. Shaking with nerves, she ran the roller up and down the tray, picking up a load of flapjack-coloured paint.

“Oh,’ she belted out noisily, ‘a-dabbin’ it here, a dabbin’ it there—!’

‘A beautiful intruder, I do declare,’ came a dry male drawl.

‘Wooahhh!’ yelled the startled Mariann, seeing who it was and wobbling perilously as a result, her whole body lurching about from the shock. Vigadó! she thought wildly. Why? How—?

‘Watch the—’

‘Oh, lor’!’ she wailed. Paint sloshed out from the shallow tray and hurled flapjack stains all over her shorts but with the dreaded Vigadó around she knew her priority: the ridiculous Marilyn Monroe wig that Lionel had proudly chosen and insisted she wore.

‘Hold on!’ rapped the harsh voice.

‘I—am!’ she grated irritably. Darn him! Why was he here? He was ten days early! The dart-riddled face in the photograph flashed before her eyes. The glacial stare. The menacing expression…‘Ohhh! Help!’ she cried, teetering precariously as her uneven weight tilted one of the ladders.

She heard his luggage hit the floor and the sound of his quick strides heading towards her. But her centre of gravity had given up the unequal struggle and, with both hands jammed on the wig, she toppled helplessly towards Vigadó Gabó’s waiting arms.

He caught her with effortless ease, as though he practised twice a night—which he probably did, she decided angrily, since he’d turned her around deftly and slid her to the ground to face him with the skill of a man accustomed to arranging scantily clad women where and how he pleased. She blushed at the carnal images she’d conjured up.

‘Stupid female!’ he growled, pushing her away. She almost crumpled to the floor on infuriatingly boneless legs so he caught her again, reluctantly folding her limp and shaking body to his rock-like chest, his open coat snuggling around her of its own accord. ‘Why the hell did you grab your hair?’ he added, with irritatingly masculine exasperation.

She grinned. Because it would have fallen off otherwise! With her face pressed hard into his vicunacoated shoulder, she searched her frantically spinning mind for an explanation.

‘I paid a fortune having’ it done,’ she gasped breathily, saying the first thing that came into her head.

‘God! Women!’ he grunted contemptuously and she sensed that he’d raised his eyes to her flapjack ceiling.

But he did pat her back soothingly so she obliged him and his prejudices with a trembly, ultra-feminine sniff. Lionel had told her on the phone to seem innocent, ignorant, a tart with a heart. Initially she’d protested, intending to play it straight—and only slightly over the top. Then she’d listened to Vigadó’s staff talking and her qualms about deceiving them had vanished. They were so proud of their boss’s ruthless, piratical tactics that she’d decided they were equally guilty of unfair business practices.

And now, unexpectedly faced with the dangerous viper himself, dumb stupidity might be a wise move!

‘My heart’s goin’ nineteen to the dozen!’ she breathed, waiting to see how he was going to react. Like a healthy male, she hoped, diverted by a pretty face.

‘So it is. Kind of you to draw my attention to the throb in your breast,’ he said mockingly, his Hungarian accent enhanced by the deep and husky timbre.

Mariann blushed at his directness. ‘I meant—’

‘Your acrobatics were dangerous. You could have broken your neck. How very foolish.’

She suppressed a smile of triumph. It was obvious he thought she was a dense, fluffy-headed female, and she wasn’t going to disillusion him! Fluffiness suited her in the circumstances; he’d never suspect her of any greater crime. And…it would be amusing to pull the wool over the eyes of such a womaniser, for Lionel’s sake…

‘Oh, my! I never thought of that!’ she cried in simulated horror, her voice muffled by his shoulder. ‘You’ve got to admit, though, if I’d ended up as dead as frozen chicken in a freezer, my hair would have looked nice,’ she reasoned idiotically, dying to laugh out loud and share the joke with someone.

His chest heaved up and down at her logic and Mariann realised to her amazement that he was trying not to laugh too. A monster with a sense of humour? she marvelled.

‘Can’t argue with that,’ he said evenly. ‘Now who…?’

He paused and went quite still for several seconds while the hairs on Mariann’s neck lifted in sheer apprehension. He was facing the other office. Could he see the open cabinet from there? She began to shake.

‘Somethin’ wrong?’ she croaked, feeling the quick rise and fall of his broad chest. And she also sensed an increased alertness; he was suddenly on guard. Surreptitiously she tried to check the wig.

‘Yes,’ he answered softly and Mariann tensed. ‘There’s paint on your hair.’ She breathed again. Paint! And she’d been afraid that he’d been putting two and two together, had looked right inside her head and read the words ‘Commercial Spy’ written there! ‘Looks like a repeat visit to the hairdresser,’ he mused, trying to lift one of her hands which was still locked rigid on her scalp.

‘Don’t!’ she said hastily, afraid he’d pull the wig askew. ‘I don’t like it being mussed up. The paint’ll wash out,’ she added, lifting her face from the shelter of his expensively soft coat and pushing herself back a little. Thinking she’d been a bit abrupt, she gave him a ‘my hero’ smile. ‘Thanks for catching me,’ she said politely, and met his gaze properly for the first time.

Wow! she thought in stunned admiration. What ruinously liquid eyes! Melting chocolate, she missed, and then recoiled in alarm because the chocolate seemed to be darkening and thickening as though he found her attractive. He shouldn’t have eyes you could dream in! she thought crossly. He should be cold and vicious with an icicle gaze, jagged teeth and foul breath!

Lionel had shown her articles and told her tales about this man to make her stomach turn. Staff meetings in rooms without chairs so no one waffled. High pay, long hours, ruthless sackings. Phone-tapping and bugging of his competitors’ offices and a no-hands-barred policy of seducing any woman who might aid his head-hunting expeditions. Secretaries in hysterics. Desperate husbands, suicidal wives whom Vigadó had loved and left.

A man with no morals. Furthermore, a man with only one aim: a driving need that amounted to an obsession to dominate everyone he came across, reducing strong men to quivering wrecks, tough editors to tear, boardrooms into submission.

He was certainly intent, she noticed angrily, on making the most of having a blonde fall like manna from the skies I En panic, she fought down a rush of sinful sensation as his mouth almost nuzzled her cheek. Her hands pushed the broad shoulders but she was locked in place by his immovable arms and all that happened was that her spine arched back and she was staring at his mocking lips.

‘I had no choice but to catch you,’ said his lover-close mouth, letting the lover-husky voice wash warm breath over her dizzily sensitised skin. ‘I walked in, saw a pair of provocative bare legs waving around at eye-level, and then a beautiful blonde fell into my arms. And she began to tremble appealingly, virtually asking for…I wonder what?’

Mariann stiffened. He’d changed from showing anger at the intrusion to acting like a hunter who’d found his dinner wandering provocatively around his lair. That was a deliberate opening gambit—but how to handle it? she wondered. Should it be the usual joky, gentle let-down, or a quick nipping in the bud? Infuriatingly, she couldn’t risk annoying him!

‘I had a shock,’ she confided. ‘Me past life zipped past me eyes.’

‘Oh! That must have been a dreadful experience to go through. I sympathise,’ he murmured insincerely.

‘Ta. I’m okey-dokey now,’ she assured him. ‘Give a girl a bit of breathin’ space, there’s a duck!’

‘No,’ he said succinctly.

Mariann was taken aback. ‘No?’ she repeated.

‘I’m hanging on to you till we establish what you’re doing in here,’ he said in a brittle voice, his grip tightening. ‘These are my premises and it’s after office hours, even Hungarian ones.’

‘I know,’ she said as cheerfully as she could, comparing him mentally to his photograph. He looked much more dangerous in the flesh, as if he’d flick their darts back and deliberately pierce a few of her vital arteries. Darn it, she’d have to soften him up and lull his suspicions by being moronic! And bluff like mad. ‘You’re the home-grown whiz-kid!’ she said with girly admiration.

‘I reckon I am,’ he agreed, his cynical gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘Vigadó Gab6r. And you?’

‘Mimi,’ she supplied and flashed a witless smile, deeply disappointed that she dare not risk saying, Call me Mimi!

‘Mimi,’ he repeated and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Mariann didn’t blame him. It had seemed a harmless and appropriate choice when she’d been confronted by Vigadó’s lecherous office manager. Being ‘Mimi’ had made her feel coy and less inclined to ruin everything by crushing him with well-directed scorn when he’d suggested bringing a bottle of wine around to wherever she was staying.

Now, with this worldly-wise, laser-sharp tycoon dwelling on the likelihood of the name—instead of being mesmerised like the office manager by the way her vital statistics moved—she sensed she’d made a mistake.

So she grimaced and shrugged. ‘Daft name, ain’t it?’ she chirruped.

‘Yes. Very.’ To her dismay, Mariann’s body betrayed her, tightening with apprehension at his increasingly cynical glance. ‘You’re extremely tense. Women usually relax in my arms. Are you afraid of me?’ he asked with apparent innocence. But his voice had a steely edge to it.

‘You’ve got such…extraordinary eyes!’ she admitted huskily. ‘All glinty, like butcher’s knives. Give me the shivers, they do!’

‘My eyes are telling you what I’m thinking,’ he said tightly. ‘You see, I don’t take kindly to intruders, Mimi.’

‘Intruder?’ She bristled. ‘I’m legit!’

‘Legit what?’ he drawled.

Her head jerked confidently in the direction of the ladders. ‘Decorator, of course! Have paint tin and sandpaper, will travel!’

‘Really. Then why the nerves?’

Annoyed with herself, she tried to ease her tension and widened her eyes in simulated awe. ‘Dunno. But I’ve never been this close to a millionaire before!’

‘Billionaire,’ he corrected, reaching out unexpectedly to smooth her hair back off her face.

‘Ooh! Don’t! Tickles!’ she gurgled in panic, arching away. He’d find the join!

His mouth thinned. He was quite unaffected by her girly appeal, she realised in dismay. ‘How did you know who I was when I first walked into the office, Mimi?’ he asked with a sudden, devastating softness.

For a fraction of a second, she didn’t know what to say, then managed to pull herself together. ‘I’m not daft!’ she replied scornfully. ‘Who else would have a key?’

‘The janitor.’

‘In a vicuna coat? What do you pay janitors in Hungary?’ She laughed. ‘And would he be so bossy?’ she asked wickedly. Vigadó gave her a shrewd look. Divert him! her brain screamed. All she could manage was a simpering look of the utmost stupidity.

‘Mimi, I do believe you’re up to no good,’ he said softly. The glint in his eyes looked lethal.

She did a mock ‘who, little me?’ expression because she was temporarily lost for words, her throat dry with fear. It could be her paranoia that sensed a sinister meaning behind that remark. Or…Her heart somersaulted. There was a chance, a remote chance, that he’d glimpsed her at the Frankfurt Book Fair in October.

Except…No! That had been the month she’d had long hair the colour of coal-tar—and had flown home early with flu. How could he recognise her? As a mere assistant to her last editor, she’d been one of the insignificant crowd, far from Vigadó’s glittering entourage. And she’d been power-suited, immaculately made-up and wearing her frigid ‘no-dice, hands-off expression to keep three lusting authors at bay—and cursing her editor for entrusting them to her care.

Today, she was a blonde waif in cut-off, ragged shorts and a vest T-shirt and no make-up. He was being naturally suspicious, nothing more—and it wasn’t surprising.

Cautiously, pretending to be fussing with her hair, she checked that no conker-coloured strands were escaping from Marilyn and then tried a resentful look on him. She had to fight this to the last ditch. It was all or nothing, sink or swim!

‘I think you’ve got a nerve! I’m doin’ everyone a favour, being here!’ she declared stoutly.

‘By waving your legs around enticingly? By launching yourself prettily into my arms?’ he purred. It was like the caressing purr of a contented tiger, who was about to pounce…devour flesh and crunch bones!

‘I told you. Me and my mates is decoratin’ the place,’ said Mariann, her perkiness not too successful because of the shake in her voice.

‘I haven’t seen them, but I’ll agree that you decorate it very prettily,’ he husked, his smoky accent deeper, more distracting than ever.

‘Ta. Mind you, if I’ve still got me looks, it’s no thanks to you,’ she reminded him, putting him firmly in the wrong. ‘It’s a miracle I’m in one piece at all, what with you comin’ in without warning.’

‘Why is an English girl working as a decorator in Budapest?’ he asked reasonably, but sardonically.

She simpered and launched into her story. ‘I’m helpin’ a couple of fellers I know. András and János. They’re fittin’ this job in as a favour. My mum’s Hungarian. I got family over here,’ she added truthfully. ‘Not a crime, is it? I got to eat, you know.’ A mischievous impulse, born of desperation, made her launch into wild, inventive improvisation to establish her credentials before making a quick exit. ‘I hope you know you’ve ruined me snake ‘n’ adder!’

His eyebrow rose quizzically, as well it might, she thought ruefully. And then she caught an excitement running through her veins and realised that playing risky games with the master of deception was rather enjoyable!

‘Snake and…adder?’ he drawled, his eyes narrowing.

‘Cockney rhyming slang. Adder—ladder!’ she explained sweetly, reasoning that it was rather unlikely that a Hungarian would be any kind of an expert.

‘I’m fascinated by your barrow-boy wit!’ he marvelled sarcastically. ‘This is almost like My Fair Lady.’

‘It is?’ A little puzzled, Mariann let her eyelashes do a bit of overtime and prayed that that was admiration gleaming in his eyes.

‘The simple Cockney girl in that particular musical turned into a raving beauty with a shrewd mind and a cut-glass accent,’ he murmured and she smiled uncertainly.

‘Oh, yeah. Audrey Hepburn. ‘Scuse me,’ she said, trying to ease out of his vice-like grip. Her hand looked decidedly white. Didn’t he care about hurting women? ‘I’d better give me ladder the once-over before I clean me brushes and go—’

‘I was intending to give you the once-over, after your fall down the…’ he paused, delicately, his mouth ironic ‘…adder!’

Mariann squirmed, not wanting to risk having a handson experience with Mr Bedroom Eyes himself and wondering what it would take to free herself.

‘You tryin’ to stop the blood flowing to me fingers?’ she asked in pointed objection.

‘Is that what I’m doing? Dear me! No wonder I’m known for breaking butterflies’ wings on wheels,’ he said in a low, unnervingly cruel undertone. He smiled unpleasantly, as though contemplating a few butterflies he’d destroyed, and Mariann’s pulses lurched erratically. ‘In certain circumstances, I use more force than necessary.’

‘What circumstances?’ she asked hoarsely.

His sharply sculptured lips curled into a calculating smile that coincided with the pressure of his hips against hers. ‘When I’m aroused in one way or another.’

Aroused. Mariann swallowed hard. Was that anger or passion in his tone? She found it confusingly hard to tell. ‘You come to the boil a bit quick!’ she observed, her jaunty tone belying her fear.

‘Depends how high the heat is turned up,’ he said meaningfully. Mariann took the hint. She’d overdone it. This guy needed no encouragement for his sexual urge to take over. ‘Now let’s find out all about you, shall we?’

‘I’m better at talkin’ when I can breathe,’ she husked. His thumbs were now massaging in an irritatingly rhythmic way over her flesh. Her tingling flesh. How could it tingle? she thought in mortification.

‘And I’m better at getting information out of people when I have some kind of a hold over them,’ he replied coolly.

She gasped at his blatant threat and decided it was time this trickster experienced a dirty trick or two in return. So she inhaled deeply. Vigadó’s avid eyes fell to her T-shirt, which he watched with close interest as it rose beneath the strain of her lifting breasts.

And then, ‘Read all about it!’ she yelled, approximately two inches from his mesmerised face.

‘What the devil—?’ he roared, flinching violently.

She was free!’ ‘Just checking my lungs work all right,’ she said with bright innocence, taking a precautionary step or two nearer to the sanctuary of her outdoor clothes. A bit of bleached-blonde Marilyn slid seductively over one eye and she decided to leave it there. Her giggle surfaced at his pained expression. ‘I haven’t gone mad.’ She grinned. ‘That was-—’

‘I know,’ he grated irritably. ‘I’ve heard newspaper venders shouting that phrase in London. You bring the city sounds vividly back to me,’ he added in icy sarcasm. ‘You’ll be doing the Lambeth Walk and impressions of Big Ben chiming next.’

She flung him an amused look and then her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘Oh, my!’ she gasped. ‘The paint’s gone all over your nice pin-stripe!’

His gaze followed hers. ‘Dammit!’ he cried irritably, slipping his arms out of the expensive coat—mercifully untouched—and passing it imperiously to her. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

Annoyed by his arrogant manner, she flung the coat in the general direction of his luggage and decided to have a dig at him. ‘I didn’t ask you to clutch me to you like a drownin’ man grabbin’ a lifebelt!’ she argued indignantly.

‘I was steadying you, after your launch into space,’ he said in chilling tones. ‘And I don’t quite see myself as a drowning man.’

‘Like a leech, then,’ she said in a kindly way, because he was, having sucked the life blood from her boss’s business.

His lips compressed. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand what you’re trying to convey,’ he said caustically. And suddenly she saw that he looked tired, as though his journey had been a long one. Tired was good news, she thought, giving a sigh of relief. He’d be less of a menace. ‘Have you got any turps?’ he snapped.

‘Sure,’ she chirruped. She strode over to She tool box and solemnly handed him the bottle and some rags.

‘You?’ Curt and barely civil, he held out the bottle.

Thanking him politely, she took the worst of the stains off her shorts and then turned her attention to the spots on her legs, aware that his eyes kept flicking over to watch her movements. No harm in that. Plenty of men had ogled her legs before—but this time she felt more uncomfortable than usual so she gave one hasty, make-do rub and waited anxiously for the chance to leave.

Her heart was racing at an all-time high. That would be due to the danger, of course. But being found out was far less worrying than the air of sexual violence he was projecting. And also worrying was her extraordinary pagan response to it. What had happened to her immunity, her sense of the ridiculous when men became doe-eyed and panting?

Unfortunately for her, this guy was light-years away from being doe-eyed or panting. She, however, had felt alarmingly close to sinking, with a mindless sigh, into his arms! Extraordinary—and humiliating that she was reacting to his leader-of-the-pack attitude by virtually rolling over in submission!

She darted a quick, resentful glance at him and he looked away. His strong but deft fingers worked at the cloth, stretching it taut across his well-developed thighs. In fact, he was very muscular all over. And she wished he were a seven-stone weakling. She’d feel safer. At the moment, she felt as safe as a rabbit in a trap. She shivered—and knew with a sinking heart that she had to abandon her attempt and try again the next evening. All she needed was a good exit line.

CHAPTER TWO

IN FRUSTRATION, Mariann began to pack up her things. While Vigadó worked doggedly at the stains on his trousers, her mind drifted to another man who’d always dominated his environment: István, her sister’s guy.

Fondly she contemplated the love-affair between istvá and Tanya—its ups and downs and eventual state of bliss. Whenever they’d looked into each other’s eyes, her heart had contracted with a wistful envy. A mutual adoration like that was very moving. But bitter experien perience reminded her that men like him were rare, very rare and the odds against falling in love with a man who met her special needs were virtually nil.

Marian smiled gently. Nevertheless, their happiness had given her hope. Things could turn out well after difficulties. The thought inspired her to persevere with her daring plan.

Maybe Lionel’s wife would return to him when she found out what a monster Vigadó really was. And Mary O’Brien—surely she wouldn’t approve of the working methods of a brute whose sole motive was profit and dam the consequences? All they needed was Mary’s secret address and they were home and dry.

‘Is the paint coming off?’ she enquired sweetly, her eyes lingering on the fine tailoring of his double-vented jacket and ferociously knife-edged trousers. Some of Lionel’s authors had probably funded that suit!

‘No. I hope the cleaners will have better luck. I hate waste,’ he frowned, dropping the cloth rag in. defeat. Foiled for once, and obviously hating the experience, he impatiently thrust back a hank of silky black hair that spoilt his impeccable appearance by daring to dip its wave on to his broad forehead.

‘Disasters will happen. I’m sure it’ll clean out,’ she said soothingly, screwing the top back on the turps. ‘Well, since you’ve arrived, I’ll get out of your way now.’

‘No, you won’t! You’ll tell me what you’re planning first,’ he said aggressively.

Mariann bit back her annoyance. ‘You’ll be dead surprised!’ she promised wryly.

‘You may be right, you may be wrong,’ he said in an ice-splintered voice, and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of the sharply tailored jacket. ‘Why don’t you show me what you have in mind?’

Later! she thought, hugging her secret to herself. ‘All right. Come and see.’ Serenely content to be deceiving the dreaded monster, she knelt on the dustsheet beside the stack of paint tins.

‘Here?’ he asked lazily. ‘How original.’

‘You’ve got a dirty mind,’ she reproved and grabbed a screwdriver, ignoring Vigadó’s mock-exclamation of lecherous surprise and levering open a tin. She’d cheerfully directed the decorators to some interesting shades, just for fun, pretending that ‘Viggy’ would ‘adore’ her choice. And she’d enjoyed picking out the colours, majestically arranging for the bill to be sent to the Dieter Ringel office. ‘Cantaloupe,’ she pronounced proudly, showing him and revving up her cheery Cockney impersonation to full throttle. ‘Bright, innit? Once it’s slapped on the walls, you’ll be real chipper! What do you think?’

‘Can’t say it’s been one of my life’s ambitions to work inside a melon,’ he grunted, crouching beside her on the dustsheet. His hand stretched out to her discarded boiler suit beside him and fingered the emblem on the pocket reflectively. ‘Kastély Huszár,’ he mused, flicking a quick glance at Mariann’s widening eyes. ‘The hotel…How did you get hold of this?’ he demanded sharply.

‘Monogrammed, is it? That’s posh for you!’ she exclaimed.

And inwardly she groaned. Oh, help! He might know the countess! She made a mental note to ring István’s mother and beg her not to reveal the family connection between them. Vigadó had to continue to believe that she was a simple, uncomplicated girl with nothing but empty space between her ears. If he got wind of the fact that she worked for a publisher—

‘Are you having trouble formulating an answer?’ he asked with sinister softness.

She blanched at the barbaric growl and sharpened her defences. Travel-weary he might be, but he was still more alert than most guys on their fifth cup of coffee.

‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said, much on her dignity. ‘The hotel supplied me with it,’ she told him truthfully, rather pleased with her evasion. ‘It’s had a revamp,’ she explained. ‘Decorators everywhere.’

His head angled on one side. ‘Everyone knows that. István Huszár and that English manager of his have made the hotel world-famous. You’ve worked there?’ he probed, his glacial eyes boring into her soul.

Her heart began to thump. Lying didn’t come easy to her, not after being brought up as a vicar’s daughter! ‘Did a few jobs,’ she answered with a vigorous nod.

She smiled ruefully, thinking of when she’d helped her younger sister Sue to soothe a few hundred guests when their brother’s wedding at the castle was dramatically cancelled. Or when she’d packed up the wedding presents. What a terrible day that had been! She could have wept—would have done—if Tanya hadn’t been relying on her support. But the apparent disaster had brought Tanya and István together after years apart. Crises were often turning points.

Vigadó had stood up smoothly and was running incredulous eyes over her rather skimpily clad body. ‘You’re telling me you really are a decorator?’ he asked in mild disbelief.

Mariann nodded blithely. After doing out their Devon home and her London friends’ flats, she reckoned she could call herself that. ‘That’s right,’ she said, thinking she was almost home and dry. A little more proof and he’d be convinced. Perhaps some colourful Cockney would help! ‘Okey dokey, swivel your peepers this way—’

‘Do you think,’ he interrupted with a heavy sigh, ‘that you could speak normal, undecorated English? I don’t think my jet-lagged brain can cope with riddles.’

‘I meant’ she said, cheerfully in command of the situation, ‘for you to see what else we were doing.’ Hoping to convince him by sheer self-assurance, she opened tins enthusiastically. ‘Sultana skirting boards, flapjack ceiling and cane-sugar door panels with a cream surround. What do you think? Come on, be honest.’ Mariann leapt up eagerly and her big smile broadened with delight at his shattered expression.

‘Sounds like a greengrocer’s shop in the West Indies,’ he said caustically.

‘Too right!’ she sympathised. ‘But there’s colour charts for you,’ she added, disclaiming all responsibility for the manufacturer’s wild fantasies.

‘This building is part of Budapest’s historic Castle district,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re working in what was once an eighteenth-century salon—’

‘But the colours would look stunning!’ she cooed.

‘If this is a joke…’ he began in stiff anger.

And she couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘Too unconventional? I thought it might be.’ She sighed. ‘Colours are supposed to reveal your inner character.’ She eyed his suit with a professional air and let her gaze linger for a fraction too long on the lines of the beautiful body beneath. Wasted on a man like that…

‘Enlighten me as to my character,’ he said in clipped tones.

With pleasure! she thought. ‘A guy who believes in straight-down-the-line commitment with no sideturnings, who’s organised, ruthless to a fault, with no grey areas and no maybe,’ she replied, sounding annoyingly husky. Conventional or not, he looked devastating. But then his earthy, raw sensuality would fight its way through anything he chose to wear. Stopping herself from wool-gathering, she waved an expressive hand towards her kaleidoscopic pile of clothes. ‘What do mine say?’

He scanned the heap of reds, oranges and shocking pinks. ‘They don’t “say”, they shout,’ he grated in disapproval. ‘They scream in raucous tones that you’re as fast and as brash and as exciting as a fairground ride. A chameleon landing on those clothes would have a nervous breakdown.’

‘You’re funny!’ she said in surprise. She was grinning good-naturedly at his assessment, not in the least bit bothered by it because she was proud of brightening a grey world, one hand jammed into her tiny waist above the womanly swell of her hip, her long legs and bare feet planted assertively apart.

‘Hilarious. Stick your tongue out,’ he commanded abruptly.

She almost obeyed. ‘What?’ She gaped in astonishment.

Suddenly he was as close as a tango dancer, looming over her, his snazzy-suited body authoritative and slightly menacing. A faint quiver of nerves rippled from her head to her toes. When his hand enclosed her bare arm like an iron manacle again, she wondered seriously whether she could actually get away with deceiving him. Those eyes of his could penetrate flaws inside iron girders.

‘Stick your tongue out,’ he repeated softly, and Mariann found herself swaying towards him, helplessly mesmerised by his smoulderingly sexy eyes.

She fought the urge to lift her mouth to Vigadó’s inviting lips. He was even more wickedly sexy in the flesh than on paper, and of course that was how she had expected him to stay—a paper threat. It hadn’t been her intention to be around when he arrived. If he’d stuck to his schedule, she thought resentfully, like any normal businessman, whose life was run by his Filofax, she would have extracted all the information she needed and been on her way before he ever knew he’d been invaded by decorators!

Or tempted her with his undeniably enticing mouth.

He lifted an insistent eyebrow. ‘Your tongue,’ he murmured.

Her head cleared a little. What could he do to it? she reasoned. Cut it off? Intrigued, she obliged, her eyes challenging his while she stuck out her tongue with an energetic thrust that turned the gesture into an out-andout insult.

‘Awrr righ’?’ she enquired insolently.

A square of beautifully soft linen appeared in his hand and was gently moistened on her outstretched tongue while she covertly watched him—his long black lashes curling like a child’s on his cheeks, his come-and-kissme mouth flowering before her eyes in a shockingly sensual enjoyment. Her heart began to thud faster and hastily she retracted her tongue, aghast that she was responding with such primitive eagerness to his compelling, raw sexuality.

She liked men. She liked kissing. Perhaps a cuddle. No more. More led to expectations, to commitment, to ‘going steady’. And then obsessions, which she feared. Her sister Tanya’s happiness, her mother’s, father’s, brother’s—all had been nearly destroyed by obsession. And even the powerful István had been scarred by its denial. It was frightening, to be possessed by emotions.

To kiss this man would be an experience. But Vigadó gave out the impression that he’d never settle for less than complete surrender in return for his time and effort. Pity. She’d have liked to know what it felt like to have that amazingly carnal mouth on hers. It looked so wickedly, excitingly mobile…

She stiffened. He’d taken her face in one hand and slowly, solemnly rubbed at the paint splashes on her forehead, beneath the dip of her Marilyn waves. She jerked back and he continued on less dangerous areas of her brow. Snow from the sub-zero blizzard outside had dampened his hair and the freezing wind had given his face a healthy glow. He was so near, she mused, that she could feel the icy chill rising from his skin.

He smiled. It looked rather calculating to her and she sought to break the tension between them with a merry quip, but he got there first. ‘Now we’ve cleared up the flapjack, we can proceed,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I wonder which of us is the hungriest? Who will devour whom?’

Mariann blinked. Did he mean the paint, or her? Dark eyes burned into hers. And then she felt the tip of his tongue touching her jawline and all hell broke loose inside her. Something odd had happened to her stomach. She shook her head slowly till she had some control over her voice—confused as to why her throat had closed up in collusion with her body.

‘You can’t eat me. You’d get poisoned,’ she managed to croak out.

‘Oh?’ he murmured, his eyes mocking. ‘Venom in your blood?’

‘Lead in the paint,’ she countered shakily.

He chuckled in a sinister way. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said silkily. ‘I will look out for all the dangers when I’m tempted by beautiful and mysterious decorators putting in a bit of overtime.’

Mariann lowered her eyes modestly, her heart fluttering like crazy. There’d been a wealth of hidden meaning in his words. Tread carefully, she told herself. This man would be suspicious of his own mother.

‘Flatterer!’ she accused, feeling the desperation clouding her brain.

‘Don’t flirt,’ he warned in a low tone. If I want a woman, I take her—without any need for coy messages of encouragement.’

She tried to force her throat to open again, deciding to make a stand. Because she mustn’t fail! So a big smile and, ‘Who’s flirting?’ she defied.

‘You were,’ he said curtly.

‘Why would I do that?’ she shrugged.

‘Why indeed,’ he stated starkly.

Mariann licked her lips nervously. Fencing with this Don Juan was a tactical mistake. She must make her exit soon, find a way to close that incriminatingly open filing cabinet and carry on the decorating farce for another day.

‘If you don’t like the colours,’ she babbled, ‘we could do mango and cocoa-brown with fudge…’ The look in his eyes—beech-nut brown, or Havana? she wondered a little breathily—told her that it was time to stop. As usual she’d gone just a little too far. Her sense of fun had run away with her.

“Don’t push it,’ he said tightly. ‘You’re on dangerous ground.’

The beech-nut browns took another swift tour of her body. This time he made her feel so alarmingly naked that she wished she’d worn overalls. By now, the T-shirt was clinging rather indecently to her hot, damp breasts. The shorts weren’t much better. When she’d cut the hems for ease of movement, she’d been sublimely indifferent to states of the office staff—after all, she was playing a part and András and János knew better than to even glance below her neck, because she was ‘Viggy’s’. But this was Viggy himself. And he not only stared, he had a way of igniting her flesh and making it seem…more fleshy, more sexy than ever before. And that scared her.

‘Sorry. Tell me what colours you want and I’ll do them,’ she said contritely, every inch of her aware of him—and hating the magnetic pull he was exerting over her. ‘It’s a shame,’ she said, struggling for normality. ‘I reckoned my scheme would look terrific——’

‘You reckoned?’ he interrupted sharply. ‘My office manager should have made that kind of decision, not you. Sándor Millassin.’

‘Antal,’ she corrected, watching him closely.

‘Of course,’ he replied, as bland as milk. ‘I forgot.’

She knew that was an out-and-out lie. Vigadó Gabór had the reputation of having a memory like an elephant. He was checking up on her! Must do better she told herself angrily.

‘Look, Antal was in a flap,’ she said, giving him an edited version of the truth. In fact, it was because the manager had been in so much of a flap, with his office in such chaos and the dreaded Vigadó due that month, that her bluff had worked. Antal had swallowed everything she’d told him about ‘Viggy’s’ generosity towards her. ‘Apparently you’d suddenly decided to switch your headquarters to Budapest and he wanted everything to look smart for you. He was far too busy making offers for the building next door and ordering equipment to bother with minor details like colour charts.’

Vigadó wandered to the window and stared out at the broken ice patterning the Danube below. The converted mansion stood high on a dramatic rocky outcrop above the city. Now the blizzard had stopped it was possible to see the whole panorama of the snow-blanketed city across the white-flecked river.

Mariann edged a little closer to glimpse the dazzling beauty of romantic Budapest. Her face softened. There was the vast Gothic parliament building, its severe facade turned into an elaborately decorated wedding-cake by the snow icing. And on its balcony, she mused, a Hungarian Prime Minister had once made a plea for freedom from Soviet occupation. How awful, to have been oppressed—

‘What’s the name of the people you work for?’ asked Vigadó with a sudden verbal lunge.

She blinked, dragging her mind back to a present-day oppressor, and told him. He checked the phone book, wrote down the number on a pad and faced her again, the jet-black hair stark against the leaden skies, his face a dark, unreadable blur in the fading light. ‘I’ll ring them in the morning.’

‘No point. They’ll be here,’ she said, worrying that he’d find out someone had impersonated him.

‘Why aren’t the men working overtime? Why you?’

Suddenly Mariann felt trapped. His body language was telling her that she was being very astutely judged and found wanting. ‘I—I badly need the money,’ she said huskily. ‘I begged and coaxed them to let me carry on.’

‘Clever.’

She thought so. Living on her wits was becoming a way of life and life was a series of opportunities. ‘We’re doing a good job, and doing it fast. We’ll be out of your way before you know it.’ True! He scowled at her and stayed silent. ‘Well?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, it isn’t “well”. Far from it. Get out of here,’ he said with a sudden, brutal finality. ‘Don’t bother to come back. I’ll get my own man in.’

Mariann stared at him in dismay. Her careful plans, all her work, had come to an abrupt end! She’d failed! Helplessly she watched Vigadó sling his coat over his shoulder and pick up his briefcase. His dark, steely eyes flicked back contemptuously to her as he paused in the door that led to the next office. She froze.

‘I told you to go!’

‘But you can’t mean that! What about my mates?’ she wailed, moving forward to head him off. The image of the open cabinet burned in her mind.

‘For God’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation? Don’t you know what a dangerous man I am?’ His voice became a low, savage growl, his eyes petrified her with their intense black anger. ‘Stay,’ he said menacingly, ‘and you risk more than a little damage to that beautiful face of yours.’

Her eyes flipped automatically to his scar while his glance swept from her toes to her head, slowly, measuring her inch by inch. With every flicker of his thick, dark lashes, Mariann felt weaker, the caress of his eyes on her lips making them part, the contempt, when their eyes finally met, rocking her on her heels. And it was the first time that she’d ever felt so scared for her own safety that she was close to being physically sick.

‘You have ten seconds to move, two minutes to clear the mess!’ rapped Vigadó.

‘Impossible! I need to clean—’

‘Go!’

There was no sense in inviting an explosion of that simmering temper. Mariann sullenly shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’re the boss.’ What on earth was she going to do? ‘I think you’ve dropped your wallet or something,’ she said, pointing back vaguely to her heaped clothes. When he grunted and strode over to check, she slipped past him into the next office and quietly pushed the cabinet shut.

‘Nothing there,’ he said softly, returning. ‘Now what are you doing?’

‘Checking there’s nothing of mine in here,’ she said breathlessly.

Cold and hard, the sinister dark eyes lingered on hers for a few scary seconds. ‘I believe everything in there belongs to me,’ he said tightly, and strode to the desk, sifting through the mail as if she didn’t exist any more.

Thinking savagely that half the authors in that cabinet rightly belonged to their original publishers and not him at all, she stalked out, racking her brains for a way out. It seemed awful just to walk away and admit defeat. He shouldn’t always get whatever he wanted, she thought resentfully. He bullied people, using whatever means he could—power, the that of violence, sex. Angrily she pushed cleaning rags into a carrier bag and wrapped the roller.

She didn’t want him to win. She never abandoned anything she’d set out to do. It had been so easy for him, to arrive, snap out a few questions and decide he didn’t want to be bothered with a perfectly good gang of decorators.

A small voice inside her urged her to go, that arguing with him would be imprudent and staying would be risky. But she’d always been more stubborn than wise, making things work for her. Throughout her life, her policy had always been to go that extra mile, push harder, further than other people to reach her goal and never to show weakness.

That was how, she mused, she had won the reputation of never being troubled, of always being happy and sunny. Even her family believed that. But early on she’d seen that they’d had enough troubles of their own without hearing about hers—and they, like everyone else, had come to see her as the one bright and cheering ray of sunshine in their lives.

Only her younger sister, Sue, knew that there were dark days too. That the constant effort to show the expected sparkling face had become part of a role she didn’t always want to play.

Mariann grimaced and slowly dunked her brushes in the turps jar before suspending them in their clips. Her elder sister Tanya was warm, motherly and deeply committed to them all. John, well, he was a kid brother, eager, enthusiastic, romantic. Sue was sensible and downto-earth.

Smiling, Mariann thought that it was odd how easily she’d drifted into being the glamorous, carefree one. Men went out with her for those qualities—her ability to enjoy life, have fun, make them laugh—and not because she looked homely or could bake feather-light sponges.

Sometimes she wondered if anyone would ever see deeper than the external face she showed the world. But when she’d once revealed some of her real self, everyone had thought she was fooling around and had laughed at her hesitant confidences.

A smile, a quip, a witty remark…they’d never wanted any more. And increasingly everyone had come to think that she was so tough, she could work miracles. Like now. She straightened, her eyes on Vigadó’s dauntingly broad back. ‘England expects…’ she thought, and smiled wryly.

And then a thought popped suddenly into her head uninvited: how lovely it would be to have a relationship with a man who had a stronger will than she! Mariann grinned. No, it would be awful! Too many fights! Talking of which, this Vigadó was one guy she didn’t want to get the better of her!

Action stations! Re-form! Charge!

Giggling to herself, she padded over to the open door of the next office, watching his body move lithely around as he emptied his briefcase.

He hadn’t noticed her, her bare feet making no sound on the dustsheets. On the brink of speaking, she checked herself. He’d stiffened all his muscles in tension. Bending over his case, he picked up a framed photograph of a woman and stared at it. Slowly and deliberately, he pushed it back into the briefcase with a gesture that suggested he loathed the very sight of the woman.

Vigadó’s wife? she wondered. It hadn’t been Liz— Lionel’s wife—because the photo she’d seen had shown her boss with a dark woman. The one in Vigadó’s photograph was ash-blonde. He squared his shoulders as though coming to a decision and turned. Her eyes widened at the expression of dark despair that filled his face with a vulnerable, human quality she hadn’t seen before.

But instantly his face tautened into a mask, smoothing away the bitter sorrow of his mouth, the bleakness in his eyes, the heart-tugging lines of strain.

Mariann was fascinated. He did have doubts, worries, problems, like normal men! And that meant he was accessible. There was something inside him she could appeal to if necessary. It gave her hope.

‘You still here?’ he shot.

Bullies backed down if you stood up to them. She’d known enough men who’d grabbed her and crumbled when she’d assaulted them with scathing words. And this one, apparently, had a wounded core. Inspiration came to her.

‘Just wanted to say that you’ll be hearing from me.’ Stiff and proud, she turned, collected the two largest paint tins and carried them to the outer door.

‘You’re not trying to coax me to let you stay or…anything else?’ he asked in surprise, stepping forward to stare after her.

‘No. See you in court,’ she answered crisply.

‘Court?’ He gave a small, incredulous laugh.

‘Yup.’

The laugh came again. ‘Suing?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Did you have a written agreement, a contract?’

‘Yes,’s she said, unperturbed. There had been a generous price for the job and she knew there’d been a backhander arranged for Antal. Disapproving of such corruption, she’d pretended not to see the money change hands, telling herself that Vigadó cheated so many people, he shouldn’t be surprised if his staff cheated him too. She prayed her father would never find out what she was doing.

‘I hope you’ve got a work permit,’ he snapped.

‘No.’

‘Well! You personally don’t seem to be on very firm ground,’ he said scathingly. ‘How are you intending to sue me? By claiming sexual harassment?’

At the low, meaningful probe, she gave him a mysterious smile and turned her back on him. ‘Now. Where did I put my flat brush…?’

‘Try a charge like that and my lawyers will expose your background and your case will fall through,’ he said contemptuously.

‘I’m not trying it,’ she said, calmly taking one ladder at a time to the corridor outside.

Vigadó moved further into the room. ‘Then what the hell are you playing at?’ he asked with exasperation steaming from every word.

Mariann grinned to herself. She’d successfully captured his attention. Tycoons hated mysteries and they had to be in control. ‘I’m not playing. It’s not a game to me. I’m trying to make a livelihood,’ she said, weaving elements of truth into her answer. How could this be a game, when her job as editor depended on it? ‘I care passionately about my work. I’m just starting out and I need to get more experience—’

‘You will,’ he drawled. ‘With a body like that, you will, I can assure you.’

She ignored his taunt. ‘You have no reason to break the contract,’ she said with dignity. ‘We’ve worked darn hard, hour after hour without proper breaks, to get the job done fast. My arms ache, I’ve been inhaling paint fumes so I feel nauseous, I’ve spilled paint all over me and I’m fed up with your bad-tempered behaviour just because you turn up earlier than expected yet you want everything to be perfect!’ She risked an indignant glare. ‘Oh, no. Neither I nor the firm will be suing you!’

‘No?’ he prompted, his brows drawn together in puzzled lines.

‘No. you’ll be suing me,’ she said simply. And she picked up her Thermos flask and sandwiches with a purposeful air.

‘Wait a minute! I’m riveted, Tell me why and maybe we can short-circuit this proposed court appearance,’ he said drily.

‘Well, I’ll be telling my story to a newspaper, of course!’ she said, wide-eyed and artless.

‘You’ll what? Which story?’ He’d taken two quick strides and caught her beneath her armpits, lifting her in the air till she was Devel with his thunderous face. ‘Which story?’ he snarled.

‘Put me down and I’ll tell you!’ she gasped. ‘Unless you want a Thermos and a packet of cheese and pickle smashed over your head!’

‘Your hand wouldn’t get that far,’ he growled, but dumped her roughly on the floor nevertheless. ‘Speak.’

She stood her ground, whereas she would have preferred to move back from the alarmingly angry rise of his expanded chest. ‘I’d tell them the story I’ve just told you. How hard I’ve tried to please their home-grown whiz-kid’s imperious demands, slaving my fingers to the bone, going without sleep—’ She caught a malevolen flicker in his eyes and hastily scrapped the rest of her litany. ‘Basically, I’m going to appeal to the Hungarian people’s sense of fair play, and their empathy with people who work long hours, and tell them how badly you treat your employees—’

His hands stayed her. ‘Oh, no. I won’t let you do that. There are enough lies flying around about me as it is. I’m impressed,’ he said slowly. ‘No wonder you landed the job.’ Mariann kept her eyes lowered and held her breath. ‘What a clever woman you are! You do know how to get what you want,’ he murmured, tucking blonde strands behind her ear. ‘That kind of perseverance and dedication deserves some kind of reward.’

‘Oh!’ He was weakening! ‘You’re so right! I am relieved you see it my way at last!’ she cried happily, deciding to flatter him. ‘I knew there was a decent heart inside that ruthless exterior—’

‘Please,’ he protested mockingly. ‘You’ll ruin my reputation for tyranny.’

‘I won’t tell,’ she grinned. ‘And…I’ll do my best—’

“I’ll make sure you will,’ he said softly and smiled a thin, unnervingly venomous smile as though he meant to examine every inch of paintwork and pronounce judgement on it. ‘I can well imagine that you’re very good at your job. You can understand my suspicion. You’re the most unlikely-looking decorator I’ve ever seen.’

‘I know. It’s the outfit, isn’t it?’ she said innocently, catching his glance wandering hungrily over her bare legs again. The sultry expression in his dark eyes suggested he wanted to work his way up from her feet, tasting every inch of skin. She quivered and quickly suppressed the deliciously curling sensation that had come with that thought.

‘And your reason for dressing like that is…?’

‘Sweat!’ she said, hoping to kill all thoughts of sex— her own thoughts as well as his—with her bombshell directness. ‘If I don’t strip off the layers, I get overheated. Your offices are awfully hot with the central heating turned up all day and it’s too bitter outside to open the windows. I like fresh air. I’m a country girl myself, you see.’

‘Is that so?’ he stated flatly. ‘I had no idea the East End of London was considered to be the country.’

She gazed at him in consternation and then recovered herself. ‘It isn’t. My family live in Devon,’ she explained hastily. ‘Dad retired there.’

‘Is that how you got the job at Kastély Huszár?’ he queried in a tone of mild curiosity. ‘The English manager comes from Devon, I believe.’

She blinked. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, wondering what Vigadó would do if he knew ‘the English manager’ was her brother John! ‘You have to use all the contacts you can,’ she said disarmingly.

‘No doubt you’ve made some worthwhile contacts with my staff too,’ he purred.

‘Well, you see me here, so I suppose I did. So we can carry on working?’ she said, checking, just to be sure.

‘Shall we say…I would like you to turn up tomorrow?’ he replied carefully.

‘Oh! Wonderful! Th-ta!’ she cried in delight.

‘Not dressed like that, though,’ he drawled. ‘I’m sure my staff would be delighted if you clambered up and down ladders in those clothes, but I’d prefer them to keep their eyes and minds on their work.’

‘OK. I’ll wear overalls,’ she assured him earnestly. ‘I won’t even sing. Can’t say fairer than that!’

‘I was surprised to hear singing,’ he mused. ‘Most people only sing in the bath.’

Something in his tone brought a warm curling glow to her insides. She knew enough about men to realise that he’d look fabulous nude, the water gleaming on those pass and biceps…Her muscles tensed at the disturbing and tantalising image of soap-suds gliding down his narrow hips and she ruefully gathered up her hysterical hormones and confined them to barracks again.

‘I sing in the bath too. Got to keep our plastic ducks amused, haven’t we?’ She grinned, but her voice was creakier than it should be.

His slow glance sent unwanted shock-waves up and down her spine. ‘I prefer something a little more tactile,’ he replied huskily.

Several hormones went AWOL again. ‘Uh-huh. Loofahs.’ She nodded sagely and was rewarded with a flash of amusement in his dark eyes.

‘I do believe,’ he murmured softly, ‘that my jet-lag has suddenly vanished.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ she cried merrily and then her brows drew together in a dark line. ‘Did you say jetlag?’ she queried in surprise. ‘Don’t whiz-kids fly Concorde?’

‘Naturally. But back-to-back meetings in Sydney, Hong Kong and New York take their toll nevertheless.’

Her hazel eyes were filled with well-simulated awe. ‘I’ve never talked to a tycoon like you before, she said in admiration, her mind working furiously. He’d relaxed a little and seemed willing to talk at last. She was more than willing to listen while she finished clearing away because she might break down the barriers between them. ‘Here. Have some coffee. A cheese and pickle sandwich,’ she offered, generously passing him the remains of her lunch before ferrying the equipment back into the room. ‘And tell me what you do at these meetings,’ she said earnestly as she did so. ‘Do you talk about sales figures and thump the table and gee people up?’

Declining the food, he hesitated before answering and, hoping to encourage him, she adopted an attitude of fascinated attention. ‘Mainly we were talking about authors,’ he replied casually.

Her body tensed with excitement. ‘Gosh! Isn’t that thrilling? It’s one heck of a glamorous world. I read historical novels,’ she told him eagerly, deliberately not choosing to mention the subject she was most interested in. ‘Do you do those?’

‘We “do” everything.’ His dark eyes flickered. ‘Travel books, reference, mystery and suspense, romance… sagas…’

To Mariann, there seemed to be an increasing tension between them, a waiting, as if each of them was assessing the other, circling, throwing a wary punch or two. And she knew she dared not pursue the avenue he’d left open to her. Every fibre of her being might be directed towards tracing saga-writer Mary O’Brien but this wasn’t the way to do it. She’d have to be patient till tomorrow.

‘Must make your eyes tired,’ she said sympathetically, ‘doin’ all that readin’. He smiled faintly. ‘Speaking of tired, my mum said I should never outstay my welcome so I’d better get my things on.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He shut the door and she was left gazing at its heavy panels, feeling a sense of anticlimax. It had all been easy after all. Too easy? Her brow furrowed in anxiety.

Trudging through the snow back to the Budapest Hilton a short distance away, she mentally reviewed her position. She thought she’d allayed his suspicions, but wasn’t sure. In the morning, she’d have to ask her two fellow decorators not to refer to the fact that she was ‘Viggy’s’ girl.

Despite her predicament, she had to smile. This was the kind of crazy, impossible situation she loved as a challenge to her ingenuity—though several times she’d felt she’d been sailing a little close to the wind!

Lionel rang her and she told him what had happened. ‘The next night, I’ll get that address if I have to set the office on fire and stay on to ransack the cabinet while the flames are leaping about my ears’ she joked.

‘Do that,’ he said hysterically. ‘I can’t hold the bank longer than a couple off days!’

‘Tell them Mary’s as good as yours again,’ she said gently, worried about Lionel’s state of mind. ‘Rely on me. I’ll do everything I can.’

They all worked hard the next day—she, her two ‘mates’ and everyone in the office. Vigadó had either worked all night or had begun at some ungodly hour because when she arrived at eight he was already into a third cup of coffee and barely looked up when she was let in by the janitor.

The reaction of the staff when they saw their boss had arrived unexpectedly was quite amusing. Horror, panic, then a frantic appearance of work—as in a speeded-up film. And Vigadó had said virtually nothing to produce this effect. This was all on the strength of his formidable reputation.

Beneath the boiler suit she boiled. But she didn’t dare strip off. Not with eagle eyes flicking her the odd glance every now and then. So she slaved on the ceiling while her colleagues did the more difficult gloss-work, her neck aching more and more as the endless hours wore on.

Tonight, she told herself. She’d get those records tonight. And prayed that he’d go to bed early after such a long day.

‘Staying on again?’

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He’d crept up behind her. ‘Just want to finish this bit of cantaloupe,’ she said, ‘and you can decide if you like it or not when you get the whole effect.’

‘I think I’ll call it a day,’ he murmured, jingling coins in the pocket of his dark grey business suit. She stiffened. Or were they keys? ‘Perhaps I’ll decide tomorrow.’

Terrific! ‘If you like,’ she said politely. And he’d gone. Mariann waited for her thudding heart to slow down and listened. He was slowly walking up the marble stairs to the penthouse apartment above. A few agonising moments later, she let out a long breath of relief and put the roller down on the huge tin.

Silently she slipped into the office he’d been using. It was dark and she couldn’t find the keys anywhere. It was several seconds before she realised that they were no longer in the drawer. Closing her mind to the fact that they were in his pocket, she whirled and heaved ineffectually at the drawers of the filing cabinet. Locked. So she methodically worked through everything in the office but found no keys of any kind.

Leaning against the cabinet, she forced her brain to come up with ideas. The keys were almost definitely in his possession. Either tonight or some other night she’d have to get them. They’d be still in his pocket, or on his dressing-table if he changed from the formal suit into something more casual for the evening.

Mariann bit her lip. But how to lay her hands on them? This wasn’t some backwoods lad she could fool. However…people said she was sexy. Her sex-appeal had always been a terrible burden and she’d never turned on its full voltage because of the trouble it might get her into. So far she’d always had a tongue sharp enough to cut groping men down to size. She knew exactly how to cool their ardour. Maybe this was the time to test her quick wit to the limit. If she could get into Vigadó’s apartment, perhaps find some excuse…

She gulped. It would be a case of getting close enough to pick his pocket, or search the bathroom and his bedroom. Risky. But she didn’t have any choice. Lionel was relying on her.

Could she be frightened of something? Scream, run upstairs and claim an intruder had come in…? No, the janitor would come running. And a straightforward, Can I see your etchings? approach would get her into his bed quicker than she could say Picasso. But if she were in trouble…

She remembered how paint had stained his last pair of trousers and he’d been fastidious enough to get annoyed. Her face lit up with a broad grin. If he was still wearing the charcoal-grey gear, she could ruin it and make sure he removed it. If not, she could get into his bathroom by the same plan that had formed in her mind.

‘You’re brilliant!’ She giggled to herself.

Hurrying back to where she’d been working, she impatiently tore off her boiler suit, pushed the roller off the tin and slopped cantaloupe paint down her shorts. It slid in satisfying melony rivers all down her bare legs. Perfect!

Trying not to laugh, she allowed it to stain her golden skin for a few moments, let out a loud yell, paused, and ran up the marble steps to Vigadó’s apartment.

CHAPTER THREE

VIGADÓ had changed into casual beige trousers and jacket, as she’d hoped, and cradled a drink in his hand. It worried her that he didn’t look surprised to see her at all.

‘An accident!’ she wailed, displaying her legs.

‘Yes?’

‘My legs are turning marmalade!’

‘Yes.’

Men must have been kidding her about her sex-appeal! she thought irritably. Here she was, all legs and heaving bosoms, and throwing herself on his mercy, and he wasn’t affected at all! Her lip quivered mutinously. ‘I can’t put my clothes on over this!’ She waggled a bright knee about. He didn’t even look down. So she caught his arm and moved in closer, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. ‘I know it’s a cheek, but can I…could I use your shower?’

‘There’s a staff washroom downstairs.’ He made to close the door.

Her knee jammed in it quickly and she leaned all her weight against it, finding herself almost falling into the apartment when he let the door go. ‘There’s no scrubbing brush,’ she explained. ‘I’ve run out of turps—’

‘You want to use my bathroom.’

‘Yes,’ she said demurely, hoping he’d dumped his suit there.

His mouth looked rather cynical. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing.’

It seemed to Mariann that his voice was charged with husky indolence, as though he had plans, and she felt the nerves curling her toes. ‘Of course,’ she answered, not at all sure.

‘Come in. I’ll show you the bathroom.’

‘Thanks,’ she said brightly. ‘I’d better get that loofah workin’ smartish!’ she joked, a little worried about his motives. ‘In there? I can manage from here.’ Accelerating her pace, she strode into the bathroom and made to slam the door—but he was there, behind her. ‘I can manage,’ she said again, pointedly, and scanned the room. No discarded clothes. Darn’

‘Please allow me.’ Reaching past her, he turned on the bath taps and sprinkled exotic oils into the water. His courtesy was all wrong but she’d known the risk she’d be running. Searching for some diversionary remark, she leant forward and let her fingers ripple through the scented water. ‘Smells nice. Like Christmas pudding.’

‘Perfumes and spices of the Orient,’ he murmured, his voice betraying a suppressed laugh.

Her spirits lifted considerably. If she could keep him amused, she’d be all right. ‘That explains it. My first time in a sunken bath, you know!’ she confided, trying to sound dazzled by the experience. ‘I won’t hog it for long. Please carry on with whatever you were doing——’

‘Thank you. I will. I was about to have a bath and turn in for the night,’ he said smoothly.

‘Oh! Yes…well, I expect you’re still tired from all those meetings and never sitting down—’

‘What was that you said?’

She ground her teeth with self-anger. There was no reason why she should know that he never allowed people to sit on chairs at his meetings! Who’d tell a decorator’s assistant that? ‘Lucky guess. I can see you now,’ she said, her eyes glazing with a far-away look, ‘striding up and down, telling everyone what to do while they sit riveted. Now,’ she continued, turning off the taps and anxious to escape his interrogation, ‘I’ll be quick,’ she promised breathily. ‘Then you can come in—’

‘Can I just clarify this?’ he said silkily. ‘You’re inviting me to have a bath with you?’

‘A—a bath?’ Shocked, she swallowed away the lump in her throat. ‘I—I—’

You’re very generous. Thank you. I accept, he drawled, loosening his tie.

Mariann’s eyes grew enormous. ‘Whoa there!’ she rasped. ‘I meant I’d clean myself up quickly so you could settle in for a quiet night!’

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