Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About The Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Copyright

“I’m not out of mydepth!”

“Oh, yes., my dear Angelica, you most certainly are,” Luke Cunningham murmured. “Why else should you be so determined to fight me every inch of the way?”

“You’re quite wrong…this really isn’t a good idea. Lust may be a reason to get married, but it’s not enough!”

Luke shrugged and gave a harsh, sardonic laugh.

“As far as I’m concerned, it will certainly do to be going on with!”

MARY LYONS

was born in Toronto, Canada, moving to live permanently in England when she was six, although she still proudly maintains her Canadian citizenship. Having married and raised four children, her life nowadays is relatively peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and, for a time, lived in a turbulent area of the Middle East. She still enjoys a bit of excitement, combining romance with action, humor and suspense in her books whenever possible.

It Started With A Kiss
Mary Lyons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘YES, I’m sorry. Yes, I do realise that I’m giving you very short notice.’

Angelica sighed, brushing a tired hand through her long ash-blonde hair and grimacing at the irritation in the voice on the other end of the telephone.

‘Look, I understand your problems, David,’ she broke in hurriedly. ‘But it’s hardly my fault if the men who’ve been replacing some tiles on the roof completely forgot to put a tarpaulin over a large hole when they left work yesterday. And after that heavy rainstorm last night…well, I’m now looking up at what’s left of my bedroom ceiling; there’s water and chunks of old plaster covering most of the floor, and since about one o’clock this morning Betty and I have been rushing around with buckets and mops, just praying that all the other bedroom ceilings wouldn’t cave in as well!’

‘Yes, I can see—’

‘Most of the carpets and bedding are completely soaked—not to mention all the clothes in my wardrobe, which seems to have taken the brunt of the deluge,’ Angelica continued with a heavy sigh. ‘Goodness knows how we’re going to get everything dried out. Honestly, David, it’s been an absolute nightmare! Even if we keep on working flat out, it’s going to take ages to clear up the mess. On top of which I’m now in the middle of an almighty row with the roofers; one of the trustees, who lives near by, has already been moaning away on the phone, and—’

‘OK, OK,’ David Webster interjected quickly. ‘Although why you want to keep on living in that huge barn of a house, crammed full of dusty old paintings and goodness knows what else, beats me.’

‘Because it’s always been my home—and I love it!’ Angelica retorted, well aware that most of her friends thought she was completely crazy. ‘Oh, come on,’ she pleaded. ‘You know all about the situation I’m in regarding the trust. Right?’

‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to sound so unsympathetic,’ he told her gruffly. ‘But it still doesn’t solve my problem. How am I supposed, at a moment’s notice, to find someone to take your place? II can just see all those people milling around outside the Houses of Parliament, and—-’

‘Relax!’ she said quickly. ‘There’s no need to worry. I’ve already phoned Greg, and he’s quite happy to swap his tour for mine. We’ve arranged that he’ll be doing my Historic Westminster walk this morning, while I take over his Famous Square Mile tour through the City later on this afternoon. OK?’

‘Yes… I suppose that’s better than nothing,’ David grumbled. ‘I’m not worried about Greg—he could find his way around London with his eyes shut. But you’ve never done that particular route before. In fact,’ he added with a gloomy sigh, ‘I’bet that what what you know about the London Stock Exchange, for instance, can be written on the back of a small postage stamp!’

‘Don’t worry—I’ll manage,’ Angelica told him firmly, quickly putting down the phone before her boss could think of any more objections.

She was very fond of David Webster, an old friend from her days at university. But why did he always have to be quite so pessimistic? Everyone knew that business life was tough these days. However, his agency, Footsteps in Time, which organised and ran various walking tours of London, appeared to be doing very well. Having been one of his part-time guides for the past two years, Angelica really loved showing foreign visitors and tourists the odd, unusual aspects of London. Especially since much of the city’s ancient past lay hidden behind narrow, twisting streets and alleys— virtually inaccessible by car, but ideal for a leisurely stroll on foot.

Her thoughts were interrupted as her old nanny and present housekeeper, Betty Roberts, bustled into the room. Standing with her arms akimbo, the plump woman glared up at the large hole in the ceiling, and then at the oil paintings which had been so hastily pulled down from the walls, their gilt frames casually piled high on a dry part of the floor, as if ready for a bonfire.

‘Well, this room is a right shambles, and no mistake! Your grandmother was always so proud of this house. She’d surely turn in her grave if she could see this mess,’ Betty muttered angrily.

‘I know,’ Angelica agreed, sighing heavily as she surveyed the chaotic scene. ‘It’s really depressing. There’s so much to clear up that I simply can’t seem to think exactly where to begin.’

“You look tired to death,’ the older woman told her brusquely. ‘Why don’t you pop down to the kitchen and make a nice pot of tea? I reckon that we could both do with a cappa.’

Realising that Betty was right, and that they both needed a break from cleaning up the storm damage, Angelica slowly made her way down the flights of stairs to the kitchen in the basement.

Hardly touched since the house was first built in 1723, the large cavernous kitchen still possessed an ancient black cooking range, which was still in working order—although Betty had long ago badgered Angelica’s grandmother into providing a modern, up-to-date cooker and refrigerator. Together with a tall Welsh dresser, holding row upon row of copper bowls and saucepans, and an enormous scrubbed pine table surrounded by comfortable, high-backed chairs, the old kitchen was a warm and cosy room, which had hardly altered since the days of her great-great-grandfather, Sir Tristram Lonsdale.

A very successful and wealthy artist, Sir Tristram had specialised in painting highly romantic scenes from medieval life, loosely based on ancient legends and fables. After inheriting a large private income, and being knighted by Queen Victoria—a great admirer of his more gloomy paintings—Sir Tristram had begun travelling far and wide across the globe, returning from his many journeys with a re markable assortment of weird and wonderful objects. To these he had added a collection of ancient Greek and Roman remains, which his wife had inherited from her family, the original owners of the house.

Although Angelica wasn’t too keen on some of the paintings, which she thought decidedly depressing, she deeply loved the eccentric house—and its even more eccentric contents. Because, as she frequently explained to visitors when the house was open to the public, the really marvellous thing about Sir Tristram’s legacy was not only that he’d been an uncontrollable collector of just about everything under the sun, but that he had never allowed anything to be thrown away! As a consequence, the large house still contained not only a very valuable collection of Victorian paintings, but practically every room was full to overflowing with an extraordinary assortment of strange objects.

Realising that there ought to be a proper catalogue of all the various items—instead of the original, dusty labels written in Sir Tristram’s spidery handwriting—Angelica had once attempted to compile a list of each room’s contents. But after spending three weeks on the job, she had been dismayed to find that she’d barely scratched the surface—and had abandoned what seemed a hopeless task. Quite apart from trying to describe all the Greek and Roman statues, Peruvian pottery, Egyptian mummies, Chinese ceramics, rough gem stones and various objects in silver and gold, Angelica hadn’t a clue where the collection of shrunken heads came from—Borneo, perhaps?— and she could only hazard a wild guess as to the use of some of those frightening, horrific-looking scientific instruments.

However, quite determined that his collection should be kept intact, Sir Tristram had formed a complicated trust—backed by a very large sum of money—to preserve the house and its contents for the interest of future generations. Unfortunately, almost one hundred years after his death, Sir Tristram Lonsdale’s legacy was providing considerable difficulties for both his trustees and Angelica.

‘Haven’t you got that tea made yet?’ Betty grumbled as she bustled into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know… a young girl like you, daydreaming all the time. What you need is a nice young man,’ she added, sighing thankfully as she sank down into a comfortable chair.

‘The last thing I want is a “nice young mian”, thank you very much! haven’t forgotten that rat, Nigel Browning, even if you have,’ Angelica retorted grimly as she poured boiling water on to the tea-leaves in the pot.

‘Yes, well…’ Betty muttered, two high spots of colour flaring in her cheeks. ‘I made a bit of a mistake there.’

‘Let’s face it, Betty—he charmed the socks off both of us,’ Angelica sighed, reaching up into a cupboard for some cups and saucers.

How could she have been so foolish as to fall, hook, line and sinker, for that smooth-talking bastard Nigel Browning? Even now, almost a year later, Angelica simply couldn’t understand why she’d been such an idiot. She’d had lots of casual boyfriends at university, of course. But her grandmother’s long terminal illness had left her very little time for any private life. So maybe it was her youth and inexperience which had led to her becoming so blindly infatuated with the attractive rogue? Although even Betty—who was normally a very shrewd judge of character—had also been captivated by the rotten man’s overwhelming charm.

Looking back at the distressing episode, she could still feel almost sick with embarrassment. It was humiliating to have to acknowledge what a fool she’d made of herself—and over a man who was, it transpired, nothing but a professional con man! So professional, in fact, that it had taken Angelica some time before she could bring herself to believe the police, when they’d told her that Nigel had been caught red-handed, trying to sell part of Sir Tristram’s valuable collection of gold snuff-boxes.

‘That’s the way it goes, sweetie. It was just my bad luck to get caught,’ he’d admitted with a shrug and one of his charming smiles when she’d rushed to the police station, quite convinced that he must be the victim of a terrible mistake.

But it was clearly she who’d made such a terrible mistake. Deeply scarred by the shame of having been so easily duped, Angelica was determined that she would never, never again allow herself to fall so disastrously in love with anyone—let alone Betty’s idea of a ‘nice young man’!

‘Do you know what I need at the moment?’ she told the other woman as she poured them both a cup of tea. ‘What I really need is to get my hands on a very large sum of money.’

Betty nodded. ‘All that work on the roof isn’t going to come cheap. Do you reckon you’ve got insurance cover for the storm damage?’

‘I hope so,’ Angelica sighed. ‘But now that a problem has also arisen over the roof timbers, I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that the trust will pay for the necessary repairs.’ She gave an unhappy shrug. ‘If only we could find Mrs Eastman, maybe she and I could get together and really put this house in order.’

Following her grandmother’s death over two years ago, Angelica had discovered that she was one of two heiresses to the property, sharing her inheritance with a very distant relative who apparently lived in America. Although the trustees had done their best to trace the woman—a Mrs Elizabeth Eastman, aged approximately sixty years of age, who was descended from a brother of old Sir Tristram—they had drawn a blank so far. However, until the other beneficiary had been found, the trustees had agreed that Angelica could continue to live in the house and receive a small income from the trust, providing that she maintain the house and open it once a week to interested visitors, as outlined in Sir Tristram’s will.

None of which was a problem, Angelica told herself as she sipped the hot liquid. Having lived in the large old house with her grandmother, ever since her own parents’ death in a car crash in France when she was only ten years old, she dearly loved the place which she’d always thought of as home. Unfortunately, keeping the old building in good repair seemed to take up virtually every penny of her income from the trust. Every day Lonsdale House seemed to become more and more expensive to maintain in good order. Although she’d managed to pay the bills so far, a large and worrying problem had arisen over the roof timbers, which were apparently in a terrible state and would have to be replaced.

How on earth was she going to find the money? The small amount of money she earned from working for David Webster wasn’t enough to pay for her food, let alone anything else. And Betty had only a small private pension. It had seemed, therefore, that the obvious solution would be for her to try and get a full-time job. However, since open days at Lonsdale House required at least two people to be in attendance, that idea had proved to be totally impractical, because any salary she might earn would only have to go to pay the wages of a curator. It seemed to be an insuperable problem, and one which she couldn’t seem to resolve however hard she tried.

‘If only you could sell some of those paintings,’ Betty said, echoing her own thoughts. ‘There’s one or two in the dining-room—nasty, gloomy things they are too!—which we could well do without.’

‘It’s no good.’ Angelica shook her head. ‘I’ve already tried to persuade the trustees to part with some of the minor paintings, which would certainly solve all our problems. But they simply won’t budge from the terms of old Sir Tristram’s will.’

‘Well, I’d better get back to work before my old bones completely seize up,’ Betty said, putting down her cup and easing herself up from the chair. ‘And you’d better get a move on. I hope you’re not intending to go out in those dirty old jeans?’

‘No, of course not.’ Angelica grinned, putting an affectionate arm around the elderly woman’s stout figure as they left the kitchen. ‘You know what your trouble is, don’t you? You simply can’t seem to understand that now I’m grown-up I no longer need a nanny!’

‘Humph!’

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ignoring Betty’s loud snort of derision, ‘I’ve still got a lot of work to do before deciding what to wear for the tour this afternoon.’

‘You’ll have trouble finding anything decent,’ Betty reminded her gloomily. ‘With the rainwater gushing through that wardrobe of yours, it will be some time before we can get anything dried out.’

Angelica shrugged. ‘Never mind—I expect I’ll find something to wear. And as a last resort I can always raid Granny’s old costume hampers. After all, it’s only a short two-hour walk around the City. And since the group is likely to consist mostly of young students, it really won’t matter what I look like,’ she added as they continued to climb up the old oak staircase.

Later that afternoon, over four miles away in the City of London, Luke Cunningham had just finished signing the papers in front of him.

‘OK, that’s it, Norma.’ He raised his head to give his middle-aged personal assistant a warm smile of approval. ‘Is there anything else I ought to look at?’

‘There is just one item. Mr Richards was anxious for you to see this, as soon as possible.’ She handed him a file.

Gazing down at her boss, who was swiftly scanning the papers in front of him, Norma reflected that the last two years seemed to have passed by in a flash. Ever since the dynamic, high-powered Mr Cunningham had won the fierce take-over battle for Cornhill International, merging it with his own private merchant bank, it had seemed as if the whole of this huge, seven-storey office block in the City of London had been turned upside-down!

Almost from the first day he’d arrived in the office, news of Luke Cunningham’s rapid expansion of the company had seldom been out of the financial press. With the newspapers full of stories about the ‘Hot-Shot City Financier of the Nineties’, Norma had been unsure about her ability to cope with such an energetic and vigorous man— who reportedly ate secretaries for breakfast! However, Mr Cunningham had seemed to be very pleased with her efforts. Quickly finding herself promoted to the post of his personal assistant, she’d also been given a massive rise in salary, and two extra girls to help share the workload in the office.

Despite being permanently run off her feet, she loved her job—even if her elderly, invalid mother was apt to become tetchy when Norma had to work late at the office. She also had the considerable satisfaction of knowing that she was deeply envied by almost every other woman in the building.

‘I’d kill for your job—Mr Cunningham is so gorgeous and sexy!’ one of the young typists had sighed the other day, before Norma had briskly put the silly girl firmly in her place.

However, as her eyes now flicked over his dark head, Norma couldn’t help recalling a phrase often used in her favourite romantic novels. ‘Tall, dark and handsome’ was a description which might have been coined for the new chairman. Not only was he much taller than most men, there was something powerful and decidedly dangerous about the way he moved. Beneath the exquisitely cut, handtailored suit his body was lean and hard, with broad, muscular shoulders and narrow hips. His thick, dark hair swept down over his well-shaped head, clinging seductively to the nape of his neck, while his hard, tanned features and firm chin were those of a man to be reckoned with. It was an impression reinforced by the glittering grey eyes set beneath heavy eyelids, which even her middle-aged heart found profoundly disturbing.

And so did a lot of other women, Norma acknowledged wryly. A single multimillionaire of thirty-six, living in a small penthouse apartment overlooking Hyde Park, was bound to have a full social life. And Mr Cunningham was clearly no exception. Every day there seemed to be one glamorous female after another on the telephone—while his astronomically large bills for bouquets of flowers must surely be keeping the local florist in business!

Luke closed the file, leaning back in his leather chair for a moment, gazing at the shafts of brilliant sunlight streaming in through the large plate-glass window at the far end of the room.

‘OK, Norma—tell Richards I’ll see him tomorrow morning,’ he said, before rising to his feet and walking slowly across the thick beige carpet.

Staring down through the window at the tall trees in a nearby churchyard, whose, fresh green leaves were dancing in the light breeze, Luke was suddenly swept by an almost overwhelming urge to quit this modern, multi-storey building of glass and steel. And why not? It was far too nice a day to be cooped up inside a stuffy office block.

Ten minutes later, Luke had left the large building. Relishing the rare opportunity to stretch his legs and enjoy the bright sunshine of a warm June afternoon, he walked slowly down Bishopsgate, one of the main thoroughfares of the busy City of London.

Always fascinated by the history and ancient customs of the city in which he worked, he decided to stroll in the direction of the Thames, from whose docks and wharfs had flowed the wealth responsible for making London the heart of a world-wide trading empire. Striding through Leadenhall market with its ornate, glass-roofed arcade and on past the Monument, he crossed over London Bridge.

But when, some time later, he was slowly retracing his steps over the dark waters of the Thames, the sight of a young couple walking hand in hand reminded him it really was about time he came to a firm decision about Eleanor.

The senior partner of a prestigious accountancy firm, Eleanor Nicholson was a clever, forceful and sophisticated woman who’d made no secret of the fact that she wished to marry him. And he was quite sure that Eleanor would make a perfect wife. She was cool, calm and collected, and there was very little that was capable of disturbing her unruffled composure. She was always beautifully dressed, cooked like a dream and was a marvellous hostess. As one of his oldest male friends had pointed out the other day, what more could he possibly want?

He certainly wasn’t looking for ‘true love’, Luke told himself with a wry, sardonic grin. Both he and Eleanor were in complete agreement on that score, neither of them having any time for such an untidy, juvenile emotion. It had been very different when he was younger, of course. Looking back at his callow youth, it seemed to Luke as if he’d been violently infatuated with one totally unsuitable woman after another! But now that he’d reached a reasonably sober age in life—without ever having permanently lost his head or his heart to any woman—it was clearly time that he settled down to a life of quiet, calm domesticity. And, since he was taking Eleanor out to dinner at Le Gavroche tomorrow night, that was obviously the ideal time and place for a proposal of marriage.

Pleased to have come to a firm decision regarding his future, Luke’s attention was drawn to an odd assortment of people standing around the base of the Monument. They appeared to be listening to an extraordinary-looking girl, who was pointing at the tall column behind her.

Despite telling himself that she was undoubtedly a crazy, left-wing rabble-rouser, Luke was intrigued by the way the girl was dressed—and the sight of her long and straight ash-blonde hair, shimmering and sparkling in the bright sunlight. A moment later, he found himself stepping off the pavement and walking slowly across the road.

‘And now we come to a very important point in the history of the city of London—the Great Fire of 1666,’ Angelica told the group standing in front of her.

Considering that she’d never done this particular tour before, she was pleased at just how well things had been going over the past half-hour. In fact, although she was carrying a clipboard, holding a map of the route and a few hastily scribbled notes, she’d hardly had to use it.

Of course, she was less than thrilled at having to wear these awful clothes, but they were the only garments she’d been able to find which hadn’t been soaked by last night’s rainstorm. Luckily, none of her group seemed at all perturbed by the weird ensemble of tight black and white striped leggings, topped by a gentleman’s crimson silk waistcoat over a fine white lawn shirt edged with heavy lace ruffles at her neck and wrists. So who cared if she looked like the principal boy in a pantomime? All that mattered was the fact that, despite the narrow city streets which made it difficult to keep track of the numbers in her party, everyone still seemed to be with her—and really interested in what she had to say.

Proceeding to tell her audience of young backpacking Australians, some bored housewifes, two inscrutable Japanese businessmen and several elderly American tourists all about the Great Fire which had destroyed over eighty per cent of London, Angelica found that even she herself was becoming caught up in the drama of the story.

‘The fire raged through the city for four days and nights, devastating over thirteen thousand houses and businesses, before it was finally put out. This column is known as the Monument.’ She turned to put her hand on the tall stone edifice behind her. ‘It was erected to commemorate the Great Fire, and—’

‘No, I’m afraid that’s not right.’

The sound of the deep voice, cutting across her flow of words, threw her into momentary confusion.

‘Um—-er—’ She blinked, her wide blue eyes

quickly scanning the group. However, since no one seemed disposed to say anything further, she decided to press on. ‘As I was saying, this column was built to commemorate the Great Fire of 1666, and—’

‘No! That piece of information is definitely not correct.’

The disembodied voice sounded much louder this time, causing her audience to swivel around to face a tall man standing at the back of the group.

‘Now, just a minute!’ she said sharply. It wasn’t the first time some clever Dick had tried to disrupt a tour, and she knew that it was fatal to allow them to get away with it.

‘I can assure you that the information I’ve just given you is quite correct,’ she informed the group firmly. ‘There was a Great Fire. It did destroy much of London. And this column commemorates that fact.’

‘I hope our charming guide will forgive me for correcting her…?’ the man drawled, raising a quizzical dark eyebrow as he walked slowly through the group towards her. ‘However, I’ve always understood that the Monument was erected to commemorate the rebuilding of the city—not the fire itself.’

‘That is nothing but a mere technicality,’ Angelica muttered, her face flaming with embarrassment as she realised that the irritating man was quite right.

All the same…she was sure that this man, whose deep voice was tinged with a faint American accent, hadn’t been with them from the start of the tour. Surely she wouldn’t have overlooked such a tall and obviously commanding figure? And what was he doing on a tour like this, anyway? Now that he was standing only a few feet away, it was obvious that from the top of his handsome dark head, right down to those expensive, hand-made shoes, he clearly belonged to a world of wealth and privilege. In fact, clothed in that deathly smart, dark city suit, he stood out from the other members of the tour like a sleek raven amid a crowd of dusty sparrows.

It was, of course, an occupational hazard of the business that the tours, passing through crowded streets, were apt to attract the attention of passersby. And if the guides didn’t keep their wits about them, people would often take part without paying a fee.

Unfortunately she’d been so tired from having been up all night—and so nervous about following an unfamiliar route—that Angelica couldn’t remember whether or not this man had been on their tour from the beginning.

Just as she was about to challenge his right to join them, Angelica was diverted by one of the Australian students. Noticing a door at the base of the Monument, he wondered if it were possible to climb up to the top.

‘Yes, it is,’ she told him. ‘Unfortunately, we can’t spare the time to do so today,’ she added quickly.

‘Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to come back some other time and have a go. By the way, how many steps are there?’

Angelica stared at him, her mind a complete blank. The only thing was to make a guess at the number and hope for the best. ‘Well—um—’

‘There are three hundred and eleven steps,’ a deep voice replied from just behind her shoulder, causing her to spin around to discover that the tall man was now standing just beside her.

‘But it’s a very tight spiral staircase—with definitely no room for a backpack!’ he told the young Aussie with a grin. ‘So if you want a good bird’seye view of London, I’d recommend the Stone Gallery in St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Do you mind?’ she snapped at the tall stranger. ‘I’m the one who is supposed to be leading the tour!’

‘Oh, really?’ he drawled sardonically, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Then why haven’t you mentioned the name of the architect who designed this column?’

‘I was just getting around to that!’ She scowled up at him. ‘It was Sir Christopher Wren, of course.’

‘Well done!’ he murmured sarcastically. ‘And now maybe you can tell us the height of the Monument?’

Angelica gritted her teeth. Why on earth would anyone want to know that piece of completely useless information?

‘No, as it happens, I’m afraid that I can’t quite— um—can’t quite recall the exact figure…’ she muttered, her face flaming as he gave a low, cynical laugh.

‘Oh, dear!’ he drawled, before turning towards the other members of the group. ‘It would seem that our guide is suffering from temporary amnesia. She appears to have forgotten that the column is two hundred and two feet high.’

‘Goodness me—isn’t that interesting?’ she exclaimed, determined to stop this man in his tracks, before he became any more of a flaming nuisance than he was already. ‘I’m sure that we’re all very grateful for that really fascinating piece of information,’ she added grimly. ‘And now I think we’d better get on with our tour, so…’

‘But you haven’t yet told us exactly why the column was built to that precise measurement.’

Simmering with fury, Angelica was swept by an almost overwhelming urge to slap that patronising, supercilious smile off the rotten man’s handsome face. In fact, it was only the group of people—all clearly waiting for an answer—which prevented her from doing so.

‘OK—you win. I’ll admit that I don’t know the answer,’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘But, since you obviously think you’re so smart, why don’t you tell everyone? In fact,’ she yelled, suddenly losing her temper as his grin widened, ‘why don’t you take over this entire tour? I’m sure that you think you can do a better job than I can. Right?’

‘I certainly couldn’t do any worse!’ he agreed with a bark of cynical laughter. ‘However, the answer is that it’s exactly two hundred and two feet from this spot to where the fire originally started, in the baker’s shop in Pudding Lane.’

‘Oh, wow—big deal!’ she ground out. ‘So—who cares, anyway?’

‘Aw, come on, honey…!’ An elderly American woman patted the girl’s arm. ‘We all reckon you’re doing a good job. But you’ve got to admit that those sort of facts are kinda interesting.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose so…’ Angelica sighed before taking a deep breath and trying to simmer down.

Determinedly ignoring the tall, dark stranger, she gathered the other members of the party together, warning them that they must hurry since the tour was now running behind schedule. However, as she led the group down Lower Thames Street towards the Tower of London, she couldn’t help wishing that they could be transported back to Tudor times.

What wouldn’t she give to see that truly awful man kneeling at the block on Tower Green—and an executioner with a deadly sharp axe standing by, ready to chop off his handsome head!

CHAPTER TWO

BY the time she was nearing the end of the walk, and approaching St Helen’s Church in Bishopsgate, Angelica was almost foaming at the mouth with overwhelming rage and fury.

There was absolutely no doubt in her mind. She knew—with total certainty—that she’d never hated anyone as much as she did this truly awful man, who’d somehow managed to hijack her tour.

Every time she’d pointed out some interesting facts about the streets and buildings they’d passed, he had either flatly contradicted her small store of knowledge, or he’d produced some far more entertaining or unusual information. When she, for instance, had taken them into Trinity Square Gardens, to view the Merchant Navy memorial to the ships and men lost in the two World Wars, the group had barely listened to what she had to say. They’d been far more interested in hearing from Mr Know-it-all that they were standing on the official site of bloody public executions, which had been carried out there until the seventeenth century.

Nor had the group cared a jot about Seething Lane, which had once held the Navy Office in which the famous diarist Samuel Pepys had worked, not when the dreadful man had loudly complained that the tour was boring, before leading everyone across the road to St Olave’s church. And then, adding insult to injury, the group had completely ignored her as he’d not only showed them around the churchyard where Pepys and his wife were buried!, but also told them that the gateway of this church— with its macabre decoration of skulls—had featured in one of Charles Dickens’s famous novels.

And so it had gone on. At practically every step along their route, the tall stranger had succeeded in making her look like a complete idiot. Goodness knew, that was bad enough—but what made it ten times worse was that he’d clearly been enjoying every minute of heir discomfiture! He also seemed to have taken a delight in asking her questions which he knew that she couldn’t answer. Quite honestly, she could quite cheerfully have throttled the man!

As she waited for the stragglers of the group to join the others inside St Helen’s church, which dated back to at least the twelfth century, Angelica knew that she must try to do something about the situation. But what?

Cudgelling her brains to try and think of some way in which to regain control of the final part of the tour, Angelica noticed that the loathsome man had moved away from the group, and was apparently absorbed in studying a beautifully carved Jacobean pulpit. Quickly realising that she might not have another opportunity to catch him on his own, she moved swiftly down one of the two wide aisles towards his tall figure.

‘Hey—I want a word with you, sunshine!’ she hissed, tapping him sharply on the shoulder, before leading the way around the side of the pulpit to a dark corner well out of sight of the group. Spinning around, she waited impatiently as he hesitated for a moment before moving slowly towards her.

‘I don’t know what you think you’ve been doing, you damned man!’ she ground out through clenched teeth. ‘But it’s going to stop—right now!’

For a moment he stared at her in complete astonishment, as if stunned that anyone could have the sheer effrontery to swear at him in public. Well, if so, that was just his tough luck! Because, by the time she’d finished with this man, Angelica promised herself grimly, he was going to be well and truly cut down to size!

‘Well, Miss…?’ He paused, but when she kept her mouth firmly closed he gave a casual shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, yes, you are! As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been nothing but a rotten pain in the neck ever since you joined this group.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes—really!’ she snapped, infuriated by the note of sardonic amusement in his deep voice.

Despite the lack of clear daylight within the large old church, Angelica had no trouble in seeing that, having swiftly recovered from her first attack, the man’s grey eyes were now gleaming with ironic laughter beneath their heavy lids. A fact which only served to increase her rage and fury.

‘Don’t you dare laugh at me!’ she spat through gritted teeth. ‘Because, to start with, I know that you didn’t pay to join this walking tour.’

‘Didn’t I?’ he murmured, leaning casually against the wooden pulpit, his lips twitching with amusement as he surveyed the furiously angry, trembling figure of the girl before him.

‘No, you damn well didn’t!’

“Tut, tut!’ He shook his dark head in mock-sorrow. ‘I’m shocked to hear a young girl swearing like this—and in church, too.’

For the first and only time in her life, Angelica had an almost overpowering urge to resort to real physical violence, a deep longing to vigorously slap that cynical, amused expression off the man’s handsome face. However, after a fierce internal struggle, she took a deep breath and managed to pull herself together.

‘OK… let me explain the situation in words of one syllable,’ she ground out. “If you haven’t paid to join this tour, you’ve got no right to be here with us.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that…’ he drawled slowly. ‘You clearly have very little knowledge about the City of London. In fact, since I’ve been doing your job for the past half-hour, maybe you should pay me, hmm?’ he murmured, moving closer to the rigidly angry figure.

‘Me? Pay you…?’ She gave a strangled, incredulous laugh. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘It’s no more ridiculous than taking money under false pretences—which is exactly what you’ve been doing,’ he pointed out coolly. ‘If I hadn’t come along to rescue you, this tour would have been a complete shambles.’

‘Rubbish’ Angelica retorted defiantly, raising her chin and refusing to be intimidated by the tall, handsome figure looming over her in the dark corner of the church. ‘I may not be a walking encyclopaedia, but I was getting along fine until you turned up.’

‘Now who’s talking rubbish?’ He gave a low, mocking laugh. ‘In fact, I’m not sure it isn’t my duty—as a moral and upright citizen—to report you to the authorities.’

‘I don’t care what you do!’ she stormed. ‘Just as long as you get out of my hair, out of this church, and that I never, ever have to see you again!’

Quite why she thought that she was strong enough to push the handsome, dark stranger away from her, and out of the church, Angelica had no idea. But of course there was no rational thought process behind her total loss of temper.

It was only when the fiery red mist in front of her eyes had begun to clear that she realised her hands were being gripped by firm, hard fingers, tightening about her wrists like bands of steel. Prevented from hitting the awful man, she instinctively resorted to the use of her feet. But, although he gave a slight grunt of pain when her shoe connected with his shin, he didn’t allow her to inflict any more damage. A brief moment or two later, Angelica found herself being pushed roughly backwards; the man’s angry, determined momentum only halted as she felt her spine jar against cold stone, with his tall figure pinning her to a buttress in a dark corner of the church.

Shocked and severely shaken by the speed with which he’d reacted to her assault, she gazed fearfully up at the man glaring down at her, his face only inches away from her own. Despite the dim light, she was able to see a pulse beating furiously at his temple, the tightly clenched jaw and glittering, cold gleam in his deeply hooded grey eyes.

‘Let me go!’ she gasped helplessly. ‘You can’t do this to me.’

‘No? Well, it seems that I can—and I have!’ he growled savagely.

Badly frightened by the situation in which she now found herself—which was solely due, she realised with a sinking heart, to her own totally foolish loss of temper—Angelica desperately tried to free herself from the man’s fierce grip.

‘Let—me—go!’ she panted, frantically redoubling her efforts to escape, and wincing with pain as his iron-like fingers tightened about her wrists.

‘I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense,’ he told her softly, the silky ruthlessness in his voice sending a shudder of fright through her trembling figure. ‘I have every intention of letting you go. But not until you’ve calmed down,’ he added, the dark anger in his face slowly subsiding as he gazed down at the struggling girl with an expression of guarded amusement.

‘You…you can’t keep me here!’ she lashed back angrily, almost weeping with frustration, and an overpowering sense of her own folly in attempting to confront this apparently invincible man. ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll call the police! I’ll scream and—’

‘Oh, no, you won’t!’ he retorted, responding to her wild threats by swiftly raising his arm, whose wrist bore a wafer-thin gold watch, and placing a large, tanned hand over her mouth.

‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing,’ he added grimly over her muffled protests, ‘but I’m not prepared to have my picture on the front page of the gutter press. Nor to have my career in the City ruined by some crazy, hysterical girl!’

Totally confused by the swift turn of events, Angelica glared up at the man looming over her. Effectively prevented from saying anything by the large, warm hand firmly clamped over her trembling lips, she could do nothing to combat his height and superior strength, which was keeping her immobile and silent until he chose to let her go. And where were the rest of the group? Why hadn’t someone come to her rescue? she wondered, her eyes desperately probing the darkness behind the man’s tall, menacing figure.

‘Are you going to be sensible?’ he drawled quietly, gazing down at the girl’s flushed cheeks, her wide blue eyes brimming with unshed tears of acute frustration. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t discuss any problems you might have like two perfectly calm, responsible adults. So, if I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream the place down?’ he added, waiting until she gave a reluctant nod before slowly lowering his arm.

With hindsight, Angelica might have been prepared to admit that maybe the man wasn’t entirely to blame for what happened next. It was, after all, just possible that he misunderstood the loud gasp of relief which she gave on the removal of his hand. But as she opened her mouth to take a deep gulp of air, he appeared to assume that she was about to break her promise.

As he ground out, ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ she found herself crushed tightly to his chest, the fingers of one hand burying themselves in her blonde hair, holding her head firmly against him. She barely had time to register the grim warning in his glittering grey eyes before he swiftly lowered his dark head towards her, preventing her from saying or doing anything as his mouth closed firmly over her lips.

It was a savage, ruthless kiss, clearly intended to stifle any sound or cry for help. Attempting to move her head or to escape proved useless. Becoming almost faint beneath the force of his lips and her own exertion, she drummed her fists against his broad shoulders in a vain and hopeless attempt to free herself from his tight embrace.

The next few minutes seemed somehow blurred in her mind. Shocked and totally disoriented by the speed with which she’d been assaulted, Angelica only dimly realised that the mouth which had so firmly possessed her own was no longer burning like a firebrand on her lips. Dazed and confused, she fluttered her eyelids open, to see him gazing down at her with a tense, strained expression on his hard features. The hands which had been gripping her so fiercely were now gently holding her face as his fingers moving softly over the contours of her pale cheeks.

‘I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I must be out of my mind!’ he breathed huskily as she continued to stare blindly up at him, her dazed brain unable to comprehend what was happening to her.

It seemed as though she was viewing the scene from afar—almost as if it was happening to someone else—her senses beguiled by the musky scent of his cologne, and the hard strength of the body pressed closely to her own. Her whole world seemed encompassed by the darkening glitter in the grey eyes, now staring down at her so intently.

Since she was mentally paralysed, there seemed nothing she could do as he lowered his head to brush his lips softly over her mouth. By the time she had begun to comprehend the almost impossible fact that he was intending to kiss her—yet again!—it was far too late for any effective protest.

As if in a dream, she became slowly aware of an insidious rising tide of sensual excitement, which flowed like molten lava through every part of her body, the wild beating of her heart echoing like a drum in her ears, her lips parting helplessly beneath the deepening force of his kiss. And then she was lost, responding blindly and with an increasing urgency to the taut, male body pressed so firmly to her softly yielding breasts and thighs.

Suddenly it was all over as she found herself abruptly released. Swiftly pushing her away, he took a step backwards, cursing harshly beneath his breath and brushing a hand roughly through his thick, dark hair.

Dazed and trembling, Angelica stared at him in complete confusion, her gaze only slowly following his as he turned to look behind him. What she saw then was enough to make her almost faint with embarrassment and deep mortification. Because not only had the tour group finally tracked her down, but, from the look of astonishment on some faces and the wide grins on others, it was obvious that they had been interested observers of all that had

just taken place!

Many hours after, as she lay In the comforting darkness of her own bedroom at Lonsdale House, Angelica could still feel herself going hot and cold with shame at the recollection of the humiliating scene. At the time, she simply hadn’t been able to cope with the acutely distressing episode, firmly closing her eyes for some moments and desperately trying to think what she could possibly say or do next. The realisation that she had no option but to continue with the tour had been almost more than she could bear. And yet, when she’d finally forced herself to open her eyes, she’d discovered that the group—possibly to save her any further embarrassment and chagrin—had melted away. And so, too, had the tall stranger.

In fact, although she’d somehow managed to reassemble her group of walkers, giving no one the chance of discussing what they’d seen as she led them swiftly through the remainder of the tour, she luckily hadn’t set eyes on the awful man again. It was almost as though he’d vanished into thin air. He’d certainly left the church before she did. And although Angelica had thrown cautious glances up and down the street, before turning right to cross the piazza towards the church of St Andrew Undershaft and on down Leadenhall Street, he’d been nowhere to be seen.

It would have been a comfort if she could have dismissed the scene from her mind, as if it had all been a bad dream or nightmare. Unfortunately, it was impossible to pretend that it had been a figment of her overheated imagination. Especially when she could all too easily recall the effect of his kiss on her emotions, the tide of sick excitement flooding through her body as she once more relived the feel of the hard, firm lips and body pressed so closely to her own.

With a groan, she turned over to bury her face in the pillow. She must… she simply must try and forget the whole hideous incident. It was stupid to be reacting in such a childish way to a confrontation which, if she was to be truly honest, had been partly her own fault. If she hadn’t so spectacularly lost her temper, the shameful episode would never have happened. Her only sensible course of action, therefore, must now be to try and dismiss the whole affair from her mind.

After all, she knew nothing about the man or where he came from—not even his name. Fortunately, there was no possibility of his knowing anything about her either. Since she’d never guided a walking tour of the City before—and she certainly wouldn’t ever attempt to do so again!—the odds on their ever meeting in the future must be about a million to one. It was a comforting thought that brought a measure of peace to her troubled mind, and one which enabled her at last to drift slowly off into a dreamless sleep.

The next few days seemed to pass by in a whirl. Angelica was kept so busy trying to sort out the deeply depressing problems concerning the roof timbers, and worrying about how to find the money to pay for the essential repairs, that she barely had time to think about her disastrous encounter with the strange man.

She wasn’t just concerned with problems about the roof, of course. Not only had it been a mammoth exercise to take most of her clothes to the dry-cleaners, but she’d also been forced to call in professional firms both to dry the large Persian carpets and to inspect the valuable paintings—all yet more unavoidable expense.

It didn’t seem to matter how many times she did her sums, the figures obstinately refused to add up. From the way the money was flowing out of her account, it wouldn’t be long before she found herself in serious financial trouble. In fact, after receiving two tough warning letters from her bank manager, it looked as if she was going to have to take some drastic action very soon.

Luckily there had been no fall-out from her tour of the City. Not wishing to look for trouble, she’d been very careful and guarded when talking on the phone to her boss, David Webster. Knowing just how pessimistic he could be, she was certain that he’d have informed her immediately of any complaints or comments about her proficiency as a guide. So it seemed as though the tall, unknown man. was every bit as anxious as she was to forget the whole distasteful incident.

It was, therefore, with a reasonably light heart that she prepared to set out, a few afternoons later, on her next tour of London.

Entitled The Village of Chelsea, it explored the highways and byways of what had once been a small village, surrounded by country estates and summer palaces belonging to royalty, and some of the most interesting men and women in the history of British art and literature.

It was a tour which she had personally designed and put together, taking place on the same day every week as laid down in the small printed brochures produced by David. With Lonsdale House situated in Cheyne Walk, overlooking the River Thames, the tour also had the great merit of taking place virtually outside her own front door. Besides which, guiding people around her favourite area of London for a leisurely, two-hour stroll in the warm sunshine, was nothing but a pleasure and a delight. And, since there was no possibility of being faced by the nervous apprehension which had overtaken her in the City a few days ago, Angelica was feeling happily confident as she ran downstairs into the large hall.

‘That’s a definite improvement,’ Betty said, eyeing the girl’s fresh summer dress, whose plain fitted bodice and softly gathered skirt emphasised her slim waist. Angelica had pinned her long, pale gold hair into a loose knot on top of her head, small tendrils of hair escaping to frame her face with soft curls, her wide blue eyes reflecting the colour of her blue cotton dress.

‘I don’t know what you think you looked like ‘the other day. It was a disgraceful sight, and I can only hope that you didn’t meet anyone we know,’ the older woman added grimly, before continuing her job of dusting the marble busts of long-dead Reman emperors, set on plinths in the hall.

‘Don’t be such an old fuss-pot!’ Angelica grinned. ‘You know very well that, with everything sopping wet, the only thing I could do was to raid Granny’s boxes of theatrical costumes.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Betty gave a heavy sigh. ‘I still miss your grandma so much, you know. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of all the fun times we used to have together in the theatre.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Angelica murmured sympathetically.

She, too, deeply regretted the loss of her grandmother. Even in her old age and during her last, long illness, the elderly woman had possessed a bright, sparkling mind and a vibrant personality. Angelica knew, from the trunks of old costumes, photographs and posters, that her grandmother had once been outstandingly beautiful, and a star on the musical comedy stage, before leaving the bright lights behind her to marry old Sir Tristram’s grandson. Betty, who’d been her dresser in the theatre for many years, had insisted on accompanying her to Lonsdale House where, as her old nanny had so often pointed out, they’d all lived happily every after.

‘Ooo… the parties we used to have!’ Betty murmured, pausing in her dusting to stare into space for a moment. “There always seemed to be so much life and laughter in this house. But nowadays it’s more like a morgue,’ she added with a heavy sigh.

Angelica had to admit that Betty was right. She herself could just remember the glittering dinner parties and crowded, exciting receptions which had taken place when she’d been a small girl. However, as her grandmother had grown older and more infirm, fewer and fewer people had come to the house. Following her grandmother’s death two years ago, the large building now seemed to have become nothing but a dusty museum. Although Angelica made sure that Lonsdale House was open to the public once a week—as she was obliged to do by the terms of the trust—they very seldom had more than one or two visitors.

She really couldn’t blame people for not coming to the house in droves, she told herself glumly. Sir Tristram’s collection might be an interesting and fascinating one, but even she could see that the whole place required a completely radical overhaul. But, in order to put a fresh approach into action, she knew that she would need both expert advice and a great deal of money.

‘You’d better hurry up. If you don’t get a move on, you’ll be late!’ Betty’s warning voice broke into her dismal thoughts.

‘Yes—you’re right,’ Angelica muttered with a quick glance at one of the many large clocks scattered about the hall. Swiftly gathering up her handbag, she ran towards the front door. ‘Oh, by the way, I won’t be back until quite late this afternoon,’ she added. ‘I’ve promised to go and have tea with old Lady Marshall.’

‘Rather you than me, any day. That old hag is a right battleaxe!’ the older woman called out, her scornful peal of laughter echoing in Angelica’s ears as she hurried down the street.

There was clearly no love lost between her old nanny and Lady Marshall. Unfortunately, Betty had known the imperious old lady when she’d been plain Doreen Summers, kicking up her legs in the back row of the chorus. ‘A very flighty piece she was, too,’ Betty had said. ‘If Doreen hadn’t caught old Sir Edward Marshall’s eye, and frogmarched him to the altar, goodness knows where she might have ended up!’

However, as Angelica got off the bus at Sloane Square, she was far less interested in Lady Marshal’s past than in her present position as chairman of the board of trustees responsible for the maintenance and upkep of Lonsdale House… Of course, Betty was quite right. There was no doubt that the elderly lady was an extremely tiresome and difficult womam. Unfortunately, with her very strong, forcful personality, she had become the dominant voice among the other trusts, who all weakly bowed to her will.

Having greeted the group of people gathered together for her tour, with some latecomers still arriving, Angelica was still preocaupied with wondering exactly how to dealt with Lady Marshall. It was vitally important that the elderly woman should fully understand the immediate, desperate problems she was now facing with Lonsdale House.

Collecting the small fee for the tour, and automatically handing back the small yellow receipts, plus any necessary change, Angelica was just wondering if she could put forward the idea of obtaining advice from the Victoria and Albert Museum, when a deeply voiced ‘thank you’ caught her attention.

Looking more closely at the long, tanned fingers of the hand into which she was just placing a receipt, whose wrist was clasped by a distinctly familiar, wafer-thin gold watch, she suddenly felt faint. All the breath seemed to have been driven from her body, as though she’d been hit by a swift, violent blow to the solair plus. Feeling quite sick, her eyes ’slowly travelled up the dark sleeve of the immaculately cut suit towards the broad shoulders and…

This couldn’t be happening to her! Angelica clamped her eyelids tightly shut for a moment, fervently praying that she was mistaken. Could she be suffering from a very brief, temporary hallucination? But when she opened her dazed blue eyes again she realised that she was way out of luck. Because standing there and regarding her with a mocking, sardonic smile was the man who’d caused her such distress and emotional trauma only a few days ago.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped breathlessly.

‘I thought it might be interesting to learn something about the history of Chelsea,’ he drawled coolly, his lips twitching with amusement at her expression of consternation and horror. ‘I’m also looking forward to seeing if you are any better informed about this area of London than you were about the City.’

Ignoring the hateful man’s slur on her competence, Angelica quickly tried to pull herself together. ‘Go away!’ she spat through clenched teeth. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with you!’

‘Well, I’m afraid that you don’t have any choice in the matter,’ he murmured sardonically, holding up the yellow receipt. ‘You have taken my money— which means that we now have a contract between us.’

What was it about this terrible man which could send her into a blind fury in just five seconds flat? Angelica asked herself wrathfully. And did paying his money really give him a lawful right to join

the tour?

‘So, OK—go ahead and sue me!’ she ground out defiantly. ‘Because you are definitely, absolutely not accompanying me on this tour today.’

The man raised a dark eyebrow, staring down at her blandly for a moment, before reaching Inside his expensive dark suit. Producing an equally expensive-looking leather wallet, he extracted a small white business card.

‘My dear girl, I have no intention of suing you,’ he informed her coolly. ‘However, if you continue to refuse to allow me to join this tour, I suggest that you give my card to your employer. You can tell him that he’ll be hearing from my lawyers— about a possible action for damages.’

‘A what…?’ Angelica stared up at him in dawning horror. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’

The man shook his dark head. ‘By using totally incompetent guides such as yourself, your employer is clearly responsible for taking money under false pretences,’ he drawled silkily. Placing his business card in her nervously shaking hand, he added, ‘I can assure you that it will give me great pleasure—plus the considerable satisfaction of performing a public duty, of course—to put both him and his ramshackle firm out of business.’

‘You…you can’t possibly do that!’ she protested angrily.

‘Would you like to place a bet on it?’ he drawled, the hard, confident note in his voice sending shivers of fright scudding up and down her spine.

He gazed past her, to where the other members of the group were clearly becoming restless.

“It would seem that you have only a few seconds to come to a decision, Angelica. If you delay any longer, it looks as though I’m not going to be the only client to complain about the way your employer runs his business!’

CHAPTER THREE

THIS was definitely not one of her better tours, Angelica told herself glumly, staring blindly at an oil painting on the wall, while the other members of her group inspected the ancient hammer-beam roof and oriel windows of Crosby Hall.

She’d had no choice but to give in, of course. Despite practically dancing with rage in the middle of Sloane Square, Angelica had quickly realised that the awful man’s dire threats to sue her employer, David Webster, had virtually settled the argument. She wouldn’t have minded standing up in the High Court and telling the whole world just how objectionable the man really was. In fact, she’d have relished the chance to do so! But she really couldn’t expose poor David to the possibility of legal proceedings. Especially when the conflict had absolutely nothing to do with the conduct of his business, and far more—if she was to be entirely honest— with an overwhelming personality clash between herself and the man, whose name appeared to be Luke Cunningham.

‘This doesn’t mean a thing!’ she’d snorted, grimacing at the small white business card which he’d placed in her hand. ‘It wouldn’t take you more than five minutes to have one of these printed—with any name you chose to put on it. For all I know, you could be Jack the Ripper!’ she’d added belligerently, squinting down in the sunshine at the small print, which merely stated in capital letters ‘LUKE CUNNINGHAM’, and in the bottom left-hand corner the words ‘Cornhill Bank, Bishopsgate’.

‘Don’t be so stupid—of course that’s my real name!’ he snapped, clearly annoyed and put out by her temerity in suggesting otherwise.

‘Oh, yes?’ she queried sarcastically, before giving a bark of jeering, scornful laughter which she hoped he would find profoundly irritating. Although Angelica was well aware, from the sounds of general unrest in the group behind her, that she couldn’t afford to stand here arguing with this man for much longer, she was quite determined to fight Mr Luke Cunningham every inch of the way.

‘If you think that I’m likely to be impressed by the fact that you work in a bank, you couldn’t be more wrong!’ she added scathingly. ‘Bank managers, are definitely not my favourite people at the moment.’

‘Well, in that case you will be relieved to hear that I most certainly am not a bank manager!’ he told her grimly, a stormy glint of anger in his hooded grey eyes.

‘So, OK, you’re a lowly worm, slaving away behind the till. So who cares?’ she exclaimed, before deliberately tearing up his business card and tossing the bits high up into the air.

Almost laughing out loud at the expression of indignation and outrage on his handsome, tanned face as the little white pieces fluttered slowly down on to the pavement about his feet, Angelica nervously stood her ground as he took a threatening step forward.

‘It’s clearly time that someone gave you a good hiding!’ he growled. ‘And, believe me, I’d be happy to volunteer for the job!’

‘I just bet you would, you… you pervert!’

‘What did you say?’

‘I can see it all now,’ she ground out furiously, refusing to be intimidated by his tall, dominant figure, or the dark brows drawn together in a startled, angry frown. ‘That explains why you assaulted me the other day, right? I might have known that you’re the awful, disgusting sort of man who gets his kicks from attacking strange women. Well, you’d better not try it again, sunshine—not unless you want to be arrested and thrown into gaol! Because I must have at least twenty witnesses back there.’ She gestured behind her towards the group of walkers impatiently waiting for the tour to begin.

Angrily defiant, she was both astounded and totally confused when he suddenly threw back his head, and roared with laughter.

‘Oh, Angelica! What an amazingly funny girl you are!’ he declared, his broad shoulders shaking with amusement. ‘However, just before you clap me in prison,’ he added with a mocking grin, ‘I’d be fascinated to hear your explanation of just why you responded so enthusiastically to my—er—assault the other day?’

‘I did no such thing!’ she gasped, her face flaming with embarrassment as he gave a low, taunting laugh.

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