“I need to go to bed.” About the Author Books by Carole Mortimer Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Teaser chapter Copyright

“I need to go to bed.”

“If that’s an invitation, it lacks finesse,” he drawled derisively. He was close. Much too close! “But what it lacks in finesse is more than made up for by honesty,” he added softly.

“I—you—I didn’t mean I needed to go to bed with you!” Surely she hadn’t given herself away so completely?

CAROLE MORTIMER says: “I was born in England, the youngest of three children—I have two elder brothers. I started writing in 1978, and have now written more than ninety books for Harlequin Mills & Boon.

“I have four sons: Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter, and a bearded collie dog called Merlyn. I’m in a very happy relationship with Peter Sr.; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live on the Isle of Man.”

Books by Carole Mortimer

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Wildest Dreams

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ARABELLA stared at the huge double gates that led up to the house beyond. Forty-eight hours ago she had thought this visit impossible. But as she continued to look down the long driveway she knew that not only was it possible, it was imperative, if she was to salvage any relationship with Merlin at all. Despite what her father and Stephen had done to damage that relationship, she knew she had to do what she could. She still cringed when she recalled the conversation she had overheard between the two men two days ago.

‘What do you mean, the man wouldn’t even listen to you? You must have—’

‘I’ve told you, Father,’ Stephen had cut in exasperatedly. ‘I didn’t even get in the front gates of the damned house. There were two huge dogs—’

‘Stephen! Father!’ Arabella had admonished breathlessly as she’d reached the open doorway, entering the room before closing the door behind her. T could hear the two of you arguing all the way down the corridor in my own office.’ She looked at both of them with questioning blue eyes. ‘What on earth is going on?’

Her father’s face was flushed, and she guessed that wasn’t only due to his undoubted anger; it was three-thirty in the afternoon, and he enjoyed nothing more than a leisurely lunch accompanied by a liberal imbibing of his favourite wine. In fact, it was surprising he was back in his office at all just yet...

As for her brother, Stephen, he certainly wasn’t supposed to be here, her father having sent him away on business yesterday, expecting him to be away for several days. Although, from the little she had heard of their heated conversation, it was Stephen’s lack of success on his trip that had triggered the argument between father and son.

Her father sat down behind his imposing oak desk, sitting forward to rest his elbows on the green leather top. He was still a handsome man in his mid-fifties, with only a distinguished sprinkling of grey at his temples amongst his dark hair.

His eyes were icy grey now as he looked across the room at his only son. ‘Your brother has the answer to that,’ he dismissed contemptuously.

Stephen’s youthful face flushed resentfully. ‘I told you it wasn’t my fault, that—’

‘“Give him more responsibility,” you said,’ her father accused impatiently. ‘“Let him show you what he can do,”’ he added scathingly. ‘And what happens the first time I try to put that advice into practice?’ He slapped his hand down flat on the leather desktop with resounding finality. ‘He’s sent away with a flea in his ear, that’s what happens, just as if he were some door-to-door salesman!’ He gave a disgusted shake of his head. ‘It’s not good enough, Arabella. You and I both know—’

‘Let’s all just calm down and discuss the problem sensibly,’ she cut in soothingly, her suggestion of calming down aimed at the two men; she was her usual unruffled self. She wasn’t absolutely sure that the problem under discussion was necessarily her brother’s fault; their father had a way of presenting him with impossibilities.

‘Stephen?’ She prompted him to sit down in the chair facing their father’s desk.

An action he chose to rebel against, deciding to sit in the leather armchair at the back of the room, a mutinous expression on his boyishly handsome face; his hair was as dark as their father’s, and his eyes were normally a warm blue, like Arabella’s own. Normally because, at this moment, Stephen’s were stormy with rebellion.

Arabella sighed as she contemplated the two stubborn, arrogant faces, sitting down in the chair opposite her father herself. She loved these two men enormously, but she had to concede that, despite the thirtyyear difference in their ages, they very often behaved as childishly as each other. She was often called in as arbitrator between the two, her father impatient with Stephen’s impetuous youthfulness, Stephen considering their father old and set in his ways, with a code for business that smacked of the Victorian.

Stephen might have been right in that last accusation, but as owner of a prestigious publishing company that had been in the family for almost a hundred years her father’s old-fashioned values made Atherton Publishing what it was. Up here, on the third floor of the building that housed the company, far removed from the rush and bustle of the editorial department of the two lower floors, time seemed to stand still; the furnishings in this office, as in all the executive offices on this floor, looked as if they had come straight out of Victoria’s reign.

Which was just the way her father liked it. Arabella too, if she were honest. It was only twenty-five-year-old Stephen who found it all claustrophobic, having left university three years before with a degree under his belt and a lot of new ideas to pull Atherton Publishing into the twentieth century, kicking and screaming if necessary.

Their father’s answer to that had been to put Stephen where he could do the least harm: the poor boy had been bogged down for the last three years with the acquisition and distribution of textbooks for schools. It was because Arabella couldn’t bear to watch her young brother going quietly insane that she had encouraged her father to give him something more interesting to do. It had taken months of gentle persuasion on her part to get her father to agree, and, from what she had gathered so far from the conversation between the two men, it had not been a successful endeavour.

‘Now, exactly what happened?’ she prompted her brother soothingly, having great affection for her sibling, although she often felt that her two years’ seniority in age was more like twenty! That was probably due to the fact that their mother had died fifteen years ago, leaving Arabella, at only twelve, to become the mother of the family, a role she had taken over all too successfully, if her father and brother’s dependence on her were anything to go by.

Stephen’s expression lost some of its sulkiness as he looked at her. ‘Well, I did as Father asked, and went to see this Merlin chap—’

‘Father, no!’ She couldn’t hide her shocked outrage. The author they all knew only as Merlin was well-known for being one of their most uncooperative, and appeared to be a recluse into the bargain. To have sent Stephen to see him was not only unfair, it was ridiculous. Besides, Merlin was one of her authors... ‘Did you send Stephen to talk to him about the film rights to one of his books?’ she challenged tensely.

Her father looked a little uncomfortable now, knowing by the glitter in Arabella’s deep blue eyes, behind the glasses she habitually wore, that her own temper was beginning to manifest itself. ‘You were the one who said Stephen needed to prove himself—’

‘But not with Merlin!’ She stood up, too agitated to remain seated any longer.

Stephen had been to see Merlin, a man she had been wanting to meet for years, a man who steadfastly refused to agree to such a meeting...!

‘Why didn’t you tell me where Stephen had gone?’ she demanded of her father—although she already knew the answer to that; her father hadn’t told her where he had sent Stephen because he had known that if he had, she would have vehemently objected to Stephen going anywhere near ‘her’ author. All the editors had assigned authors, and Arabella was no exception, although her number was kept to a dozen or so. But Merlin was one of them... ‘If anyone was to go and see Merlin, then it should have been me,’ she told her father indignantly.

His handsome face creased into a pained expression. ‘I’m beginning to agree with you,’ he said harshly, shooting another scathing glance at his son.

Arabella knew this wasn’t strictly true, that her father was merely hitting out at Stephen again. Because, much as her father valued her, it was as his hostess, the woman who ran his house and social life with such efficiency, rather than as a professional colleague. Oh, she worked at the family company, had an office of her own on this very same floor that was almost as plush as her father’s. Nevertheless she had always known her place here was viewed with a certain amount of paternal indulgence, that her father didn’t really believe the world of business, especially the cut-throat one that publishing had become in recent years, was the place for a woman—especially a woman as delicate as he preferred to think of Arabella as being.

His view was old-fashioned to say the least, but then, up here in this office, a room that didn’t seem to have changed much since her great-grandfather’s time, it was easy to see why her father felt that the world of business was strictly for men. Wasn’t the fact that her father had sent Stephen to see Merlin proof of that?

She was well aware, no matter what her father was now saying to the contrary, that he didn’t believe she should have gone to see Merlin; it had merely been another test for Stephen, one that her brother seemed to have failed. The fact that it had been completely against protocol for Stephen to go to see one of her authors had nothing to do with her father’s regret. And she knew it didn’t have anything to do with Stephen’s either. Her brother, unfortunately, had been brought up in his father’s image, and that was primarily to believe a woman’s place was in the home, keeping a man’s life running smoothly and with as little discomfort as possible.

Arabella had been the one deemed indispensable at home when the time had come for her to go to university nine years ago. The carrot of an office of her own at Atherton Publishing had been merely a sop to keep her living at home. She remembered how pleased she had felt at the time that her father thought her responsible enough for such a position in the company. She should have known better! Within a matter of days it had become obvious to her that the office, and position as assistant editor, was merely an indulgent pat on the head from her father, and that he rarely expected her to be there, usually only during the times when it didn’t inconvenience the smooth running of his own life.

No wonder her father had never remarried, she realised now; she had made life altogether too comfortable for him since her mother died for him to need to bother with the permanence of marrying one of the women he had been discreetly involved with over the last fifteen years!

But for the main part she had been aware of what her father was doing and hadn’t particularly let it bother her, because in her own quietly stubborn way she had made her mark on Atherton Publishing, and now had several successful authors to her personal credit.

Merlin was one of them, a chance discovery from an unsolicited manuscript submitted five years ago. Merlin—he had refused from the beginning to be known under any other name!—had written a swashbuckling tale of a secret agent working for the English during the Napoleonic wars. Not only was this one of Arabella’s favourite periods of history—hence the reason she had been given the manuscript in the first place—but it was also, she’d realised from the very first page, a tale well written: its hero, a Major Palfrey, was a devilishly handsome man who struck a man through with his sword and swept women off their feet into his more than accomplished arms with the same ease, while at the same time allowing neither incident to deter him from his real cause—to aid England.

It was all a Boys’ Own adventure, Arabella had freely admitted to her father, but, at the same time, the book was so well written it was a pleasure to read; the historical facts, so easily intertwined with the main story, were unquestionably correct.

In fact, Merlin’s books were a joy to edit. He had submitted a manuscript a year since that very first one five years ago, all with the same hero, Palfrey. A hero, if Arabella was completely honest, with whom she was half in love...

Robert Palfrey, the gentleman hero of an age long gone, was tall, with over-long blond hair, wicked blue eyes, and a lithe body that he seemed to use to full advantage, whether he was killing the enemy or caressing a beautiful woman. Arabella hadn’t been in the least surprised when a Hollywood film company had approached Atherton’s several months ago with the idea of putting Robert Palfrey on the big screen. There had been a most successful television series only last year with a similar main character, and the film company had obviously looked around for their own hero to try and cash in on this wave of nostalgia. The Palfrey books were an excellent choice.

Unfortunately, so far, Arabella hadn’t been able to convince the author of that. In fact, the two letters she had written to him on the subject had remained unanswered.

Although that was probably an answer in itself. From the acceptance of his first manuscript five years ago, Merlin himself had proved elusive, refusing to come up to London from his home in the south of England to talk with them in person, while at the same time refusing all advances from them to go to his home and speak with him there.

Reclusive hardly began to describe the man, and in five years none of them had ever found out anything about him other than that his name was Merlin; the negotiations over his contract were all done by mail, and always directly with the author himself, the man refusing to employ an agent to act on his behalf. Not that there was ever too much negotiation involved with Merlin; the monies paid were agreeable to both parties.

It was only the use of the single name, Merlin, that had caused some dispute. But the author was adamant, and in the end Arabella had managed to convince her father that this only added to the man’s mystique, and therefore to sales of his books. And that could only be good for all of them.

But over the years Arabella had built up a picture in her own mind as to what their author looked like: an irascible old man, with over-long grey hair, a ruggedly tanned face and a wiry body-with a temperament to match the stubbornness he had shown in abundance over the years.

But despite his bad-temperedness Arabella had always thought of him affectionately, a bit like a long-distance grandfather-figure. Having dealt with him personally over the last five years, albeit by mail only—his telephone number was always omitted from his own correspondence—she now deeply resented her father’s decision to send Stephen instead of herself to see the man.

‘You misunderstood me, Father,’ she told him stiltedly as she stood up stiffly. ‘By my remark, I meant you had no right sending Stephen to see one of my authors without my permission.’ She looked at him challengingly with steady blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses; she was a tall woman with a delicate stature, her fiery red hair which she had inherited from her mother secured back in its usual restrictive bun at her nape, her features striking rather than beautiful. At the moment, her small, pointed chin was set at a determined angle.

‘Don’t go getting on your high horse, Arabella.’ Her father sighed impatiently as he saw the angry glitter in her eyes. ‘It sounds as if we have enough problems with Stephen being forcibly ejected from this fellow’s place, without—’

‘Merlin was perfectly within his rights to throw Stephen out,’ she said in defence of the author, noting the way her brother winced as he was once again reminded of his humiliating experience. ‘Merlin doesn’t even know Stephen—’

‘He’s my son, damn it!’ Her father bridled indignantly.

‘And who are you to Merlin, either?’ she prompted impatiently.

Her father drew himself up to his full height in the high-backed leather chair. ‘I own this publishing company!’

She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it. For the last five years Merlin has been dealing exclusively with A. Atherton—’

‘For the last five years the man has been a damned nuisance,’ her father interrupted irritably. ‘He is without doubt the most difficult author we have ever had to-deal with, a hermit to the point of being invisible. In fact, I’ve a good mind to—’

‘For the last five years Merlin’s books have probably been the mainstay of this company.’ Arabella quietly cut in on her father’s bluster, sure he was going to come out with a totally nonsensical statement about dropping Merlin from their list.

It was nonsensical even to think along those lines; without Merlin they probably wouldn’t have a list at all. Oh, they had other, less successful authors, lots of them, but the Palfrey books had been worldwide bestsellers from the very beginning, and they had remained so.

Even to consider telling an author of that magnitude to find a new publisher simply because he didn’t fit in with her father’s old-fashioned belief that it was the publisher who mattered and not its writers would be financial suicide at this particular time in the publishing business. Especially with a film contract in the offing. Her father’s idea of publishing was about twenty years out of date, and she somehow doubted he would ever catch up.

‘There are other authors—’

‘Not as good, and you know it,’ she said wearily. ‘I wish you had told me what the two of you were doing,’ she added with a heartfelt sigh. ‘I could have predicted the outcome!’

One thing about which Merlin had been consistent in the last five years was his desire for absolute privacy. Stephen’s just arriving at his home like that, from Atherton Publishing or otherwise, would not have gone down well at all. In fact, they would be lucky if Merlin didn’t tell them he was changing publisher! And that would be disastrous.

She sighed again. ‘Someone will have to go down and soothe the poor man’s indignant feelings—’

‘I’m not going!’ Stephen instantly protested, a look of horror on his face, and appearing so much like their father at that moment. ‘The man isn’t sane.’

‘Well, I’m certainly not getting personally involved in this,’ their father dismissed arrogantly. ‘I’ve always thought the man was odd, tolerable only because he’s so successful.’

They both turned expectantly to Arabella. Something else- she could have predicted. They were so much alike, these two men, with no foresight to speak of; over the years the two of them had come to expect Arabella to be capable of bailing them out of any difficulties they might have dug themselves into. The problem was, she had always managed to do it, too. Although they might just have gone too far this time!

‘I’ll write him a letter—’

‘Do you think that will be enough?’ Stephen frowned. ‘I—er—I’m afraid I was slightly—vocal, before I left his premises.’ He looked uncomfortable now, ‘In fact, I may have implied something to the effect of what Father said just now.’ He grimaced self-consciously at Arabella’s censorious look. ‘He was just so damned rude, Arabella,’ he said defensively. ‘I couldn’t let him talk to me that way.’

No, of course he couldn’t; he was Stephen Atherton, son of Martin Atherton. God, when would these two learn that the days of champagne parties had passed, that it was the authors that mattered nowadays, for without them there wouldn’t be the money to pay for the way her father and Stephen liked to live? It was as well there was one practical member of this family. Although salvaging something out of this mess was going to strain even her efforts at tact and diplomacy!

She shook her head. ‘I’ll send a letter, but I intend following it up with a visit of my own,’ she decided firmly. ‘I’ll do the first today,’ she added decisively, ‘before Merlin can come at us with all guns blazing after your cavalier attitude.’ With an impatient look at the pair of them, she left the room to return to her own office, intent on writing that letter right away, determined to get it in the post this evening.

Although what she was supposed to say by way of an excuse for her brother’s behaviour she wasn’t exactly sure. In the end she decided that whatever she said in the letter was sure to be wrong, so she kept it simple, merely informing Merlin that she would be calling on him herself two days hence, unless otherwise notified by him. She knew that the only way Merlin could be sure of reaching her in time to put off the appointment would be to telephone her office, and as the two of them had never so much as spoken on the phone in the last five years she somehow didn’t think there was much likelihood of him making that call.

And he didn’t. Probably he just intended waiting until she arrived at his home so that he could throw her out too!

But, after the mess her brother and father had made of things, she didn’t have too many options left. Besides...she had to admit she was secretly rather curious about Merlin herself. And maybe, just maybe, he would be gentleman enough, like his character Palfrey, not to use brute force on a woman...

She had been intrigued by the character of Palfrey from the first, probably too much so, because over the years he had become the yardstick by which she judged the men who occasionally tried to enter her life. They were invariably found wanting. Oh, she wasn’t silly enough to believe the interest of those men was solely in her, anyway; the Atherton publishing company, and the wealth that went along with it, was a natural draw for any ambitious young man, the spinster daughter of the family an obvious catch.

But Arabella had her own ideas about the man she wanted to spend her life with—unfortunately he had lived almost two hundred years ago, and was entirely fictitious, as he existed only between the pages of a book and in the imagination of the man she was hopefully about to meet.

The thought of never again receiving a Merlin manuscript, or losing herself in the life of Robert Palfrey, was enough to harden her resolve to talk to Merlin herself. As far as she was concerned, he could dismiss the idea of a film about his character, as long as he continued to submit those manuscripts about the man with whom she was half in love...

And now here she was, sitting at the bottom of Merlin’s driveway, Stephen having given her instructions on how to find the house once she reached the village near which it was situated. In fact, Stephen had been falling over himself to be helpful for the last forty-eight hours, obviously aware he had made a complete hash of his own visit, and anxious to try and make amends.

As she had expected, there had been no telephone call from Merlin in response to her letter, and so she had made her own arrangements to drive down to see him, at the same time hoping she wouldn’t have to book into a local hotel for the night; what she really hoped was that she wouldn’t be physically ejected from his home, as Stephen had been two days ago.

‘Watch out for the two large German shepherd dogs when you get to the gates,’ had been Stephen’s final warning when she had left the house this morning.

She could see now exactly what he meant by ‘large’!

They must be two of the biggest of their breed Arabella had ever seen, with almost identical black and brown coats which seemed to imply some sort of relationship between them. But it wasn’t their size, or their loud barks, that kept her firmly enclosed inside her car. It was the fact that they weren’t behind the tall gates at all, but leaping up and down outside her car window, the two gates at the entrance of the house having been left open, and so allowing the two dogs their freedom.

Obviously Merlin had been expecting her, she decided ruefully as she watched the two huge beasts slavering on the other side of her car door.

They didn’t give any indication of stopping their cacophony of noise. Or of going away. She had a feeling that if she tried to back out onto the road the dogs would follow her, possibly go under the wheels of her car. And, much as she found their behaviour irritating, she didn’t want to injure either of them. To drive down the driveway would probably produce the same reaction. Or worse! Which left her with a dilemma: what should she do now?

She had seen a film once in which the leading character had confronted some dogs on their own territory and thereby succeeded in totally disarming them, throwing them into confusion. After all, dogs of this size would be more used to people running away from them than going towards them. It had worked in the film, anyway...!

But this was real life, and both dogs looked to have large teeth and wide jaws, the former, she would imagine, able to do great damage to soft human skin in a matter of seconds. But, by the same token, she couldn’t sit here all day just looking at the beasts, and they certainly didn’t look as if they were tiring of the game!

Taking a deep breath, she took the bull by the horns—or rather, she challenged the two dogs. She didn’t get out of the car slowly or apprehensively but simply thrust open the door, and two seconds later she was standing on the gravelled driveway confronting the animals.

If the situation hadn’t been so fraught with tension, the look on their faces might have been laughable; the two huge beasts dropped back several feet in surprise, although their barking continued intermittently. But, as Arabella continued to stare at them, even that died down, and after several minutes they viewed her with what she could only describe as puzzlement. If dogs could look surprised! These two certainly did.

‘Where’s all the noise gone now, then?’ She spoke to them derisively, although inwardly she was mightily relieved still to be in one piece. ‘Now, are you going to take me to your master, or do I have to find him myself?’

The dogs continued to look at her quizzically, obviously wondering what she was saying, but seeming to accept, for the moment, that she spoke with a certain amount of authority. Although quite what she should do next she wasn’t sure. Would the dogs continue to keep their distance if she made an attempt to walk down the driveway? After all, at the moment she wasn’t quite inside the property; maybe the two of them would decide to become protective again if she took a step in the direction of the house?

Well, she could hardly stand here all day hoping someone would come along and rescue her, or that the dogs wouldn’t attack. In the circumstances she decided to risk it. The worst they could do was tear her limb from limb.

What a cheery little thought!

She began to walk, the dogs trotting along behind her down the driveway, seeming confused after her audacity in daring to challenge their authority. Which was what she had hoped for.

It was a longer walk than she had thought, though, and as she finally approached the house the two dogs were walking one at either side of her, like escorts, although, to give them their due, they hadn’t made any threatening moves.

Arabella could hear the sound of male voices as she neared the house, which became even louder as she turned the last corner.

She came to a gasping halt as she rounded that last bend and saw the house, not impressed by the building itself, but by the two men in the garden outside. Merlin was exactly as she had always imagined him, seated on a low veranda overlooking the garden: a wizened old man well into his sixties, his hair long and grey, skin weathered brown by the many seasons he had seen in his lifetime. Although she had omitted his raggedy beard in her imaginings, a beard as grey and unkempt as his hair.

But it wasn’t Merlin who made her gasp, it was the younger man working in the garden below hint—a tall man with over-long blond hair, the muscles of his shirtless golden-brown torso rippling as he struggled with the roots of a tree stump that seemed to be proving stubborn. His only clothing, as far as she could see, was a pair of faded denims that rested low down on his hips.

As he became aware of her presence in the driveway he slowly straightened, looking at her with a pair of the deepest blue eyes Arabella had ever seen in her life, and she found herself face to face with the man she was already half in love with. A man straight out of the pages of Merlin’s books. Obviously not a complete figment of his imagination, either.

Robert Palfrey was Merlin’s gardener!

CHAPTER TWO

‘PALFREY’ recovered from the unexpected encounter a lot quicker than Arabella did, his eyes narrowing questioningly as he looked at her warily. Well, it wasn’t surprising he had got over his amazement quicker than her, he hadn’t just been confronted with a live, flesh-and-blood hero—more flesh than blood!

Arabella had been instrumental in commissioning the illustrations for the covers of the Palfrey books—and if she had met this man beforehand, and given the illustrator a description of him, she couldn’t have been more accurate. He—

‘Who the hell are you?’ he suddenly rasped, the harshness of his voice bringing her out of her dazed stupor.

Although not enough to actually be able to answer him, as she was still tongue-tied by all this glistening male beauty. He was beautiful, completely secure in his own maleness. And so he should be. He—

‘Daisy, May—heel!’ he instructed the dogs tersely, and the two animals trotted obediently over to sit at his feet, salivating for a different reason now as they gazed up at him, adoringly.

Arabella knew how they felt; she could cheerfully have sat at his feet and done the same thing herself. He was real! Robert Palfrey, alive, and standing just feet away from her.

‘I asked you a question,’ he rasped again. Those deep blue eyes narrowed flintily as he stood almost protectively in front of the house and its occupants.

‘Daisy and May?’ Arabella mused, aware that she still wasn’t answering his question as to who she was. But she found the names of the dogs so incongruous for two such fierce-looking creatures. They were obviously guard dogs, and yet it was doubtful that calling them Daisy and May would put the fear of God into anybody. Stephen would be mortified when she told him he had run away from Daisy and May!

‘Palfrey’s’ mouth tightened at her slightly mocking tone. ‘Don’t be fooled by the names,’ he bit out sharply. ‘They guard what they’re meant to guard!’

Merlin! Arabella realised, her mind suddenly returning to exactly why she was here. Coming face to face with this man had just thrown her totally.

‘I’m sure they do,’ she dismissed smoothly. ‘I’m actually here because I have a business appointment with Mr—er—Merlin,’ she amended awkwardly, peering around ‘Palfrey’ to where the elderly man still sat on the veranda.

Those deep blue eyes narrowed even more. ‘You do?’ He sounded sceptical.

Didn’t she look the part? She had checked her appearance very carefully before she’d left the house this morning to drive down here. Admittedly, the jacket of her dark grey pinstriped suit was still in the car at the end of the driveway, but, even so, the smart white blouse and straight skirt that reached just above her knees, the neutral-coloured tights and moderately heeled black shoes were surely quite businesslike? Her hair was in its usual bun at her nape, her glasses rested firmly on the bridge of her nose; in what way didn’t she look the part?

‘I do,’ she assured the younger man briskly, recovering a little now from the shock of actually meeting the real, live Palfrey; after all, she wasn’t here to see this man at all, but the elderly one seated behind him. Having got this far without actually being thrown out, she intended to make the most of her opportunity. Especially since she had been so angry with her father and Stephen two days ago; it would be too humiliating if she ended up being treated the same way. ‘I wrote to him and told him of my arrival this afternoon,’ she added pointedly, wishing he would get out of the way so that she might speak to Merlin himself.

The younger man scowled frowningly. ‘You did?’

Much as she had initially been bowled over by this man’s devastatingly good looks, she was now starting to find this conversation with him irksome. After all, it was Merlin she had come here to talk to, not his gardener! ‘If I could just have a few private words with Merlin.’ She tried to look around the younger man to where his elderly employer sat listening to them unconcernedly.

‘Concerning what?’ the young man prompted tersely.

There was something very odd going on here. Merlin hadn’t spoken a word since her arrival, and the blond man was distinctly hostile; surely the gardener was overstepping his duties by speaking for his employer in this way? Unless he also acted as security guard to the older man? But even so...! ‘My name is Atherton—’

‘It’s the publisher, boyo.’ The elderly man spoke for the first time, his voice gravelly, as if he didn’t use it very often. He stood up, moving to stand beside the younger man, the two of them looking slightly ridiculous together, one so tall and golden, the other shrivelled with age. ‘Is that right, miss?’

‘Quite correct.’ She nodded in confirmation, at last feeling as if she was making some sort of progress. ‘I wrote to you—’

‘You’re A. Atherton?’ Again it was the younger man who spoke to her.

Irritation flickered in her eyes as she gave him a brief glance. ‘Arabella Atherton, yes,’ she dismissed impatiently, looking at Merlin with some surprise as he began to chuckle throatily. The chuckle soon became a fully fledged cackle.

What was so funny about her name? Admittedly it sounded as if it came from another century, but her mother had loved to read historical novels, her father often saying he thought his wife would rather have been born in earlier times. But, even though Arabella had found her name a bit of an encumbrance when she was younger, she now found it rather attractive. It was certainly different.

‘I realise the two of us have never been formally introduced.’ She held out her hand, taking a couple of steps closer to Merlin, careful of the dogs as they began to growl low in their throats. ‘But we have been writing to each other for the last five years.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I’m Arabella Atherton. And you’re—’

‘Andrew, the gardener.’ The chuckling had stopped, although the elderly man still grinned his amusement. ‘The aged family retainer,’ he added pointedly.

‘Your age only comes into it when it comes to uprooting stubborn tree stumps,’ the younger man said dryly. ‘The rest of the time you take pleasure in telling me how fit you are!’

‘But I am, boy.’ Andrew grinned at him before turning back to Arabella. ‘He’s Merlin.’ He nodded in the direction of the man Arabella had come to regard as Palfrey.

This young man, his muscular body still glistening and golden after the exertion from his efforts with the tree stump, a man who might have posed for the Palfrey book covers himself, was actually the author of those books? Merlin was Palfrey? No, Palfrey was Merlin! The two were one and the same person?

The elderly gardener chuckled again as Arabella and Merlin stared at each other. ‘I think you may have come as much of a surprise to her as she has to you, boy,’ he murmured wryly.

Merlin’s mouth tightened, his gaze flinty as it swept scathingly over her businesslike appearance. ‘I had assumed A. Atherton was a man,’ he finally acknowledged contemptuously.

He wasn’t pleased to discover his editor was actually a woman, Arabella realised, her cheeks becoming flushed.

‘I think the two of you made some erroneous assumptions concerning each other.’ The elderly gardener still sounded amused by the situation.

Merlin shot him a look of irritation. ‘Go and ask Stella to put the kettle on, and we’ll all have a cup of tea.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Andrew pulled on an imaginary forelock. ‘Right away, sir.’ He nodded before turning to walk around the side of the house, disappearing into what Arabella assumed must be the kitchen.

Merlin’s irritation had deepened to a scowl. ‘I think I’ve allowed him too much familiarity over the years,’ he muttered with a shake of his head.

Familiarity breeding contempt? Somehow she didn’t think so. The two men obviously liked and respected each other very much; an easy affection existed between the two.

‘A cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you,’ she said, smoothly changing the subject. And it wasn’t a lie either; she had been driving for several hours and a cup of tea certainly wouldn’t come amiss.

He frowned across at her and then reached down to the ground to pick up a pale blue denim shirt, pulling it on over the wide width of his shoulders before buttoning it up the front.

Arabella’s breath left her in a gentle sigh. She hadn’t even been aware she was actually holding it until that moment, able to breathe a little easier now that Merlin was more formally attired. Although she was still stunned at his physical likeness to his character. She was always advising would-be authors to write about what they knew, but it was the first time she had actually found that the author and the hero of his books were one and the same person!

‘I told your husband the other day that we have nothing to talk about,’ he bit out coldly.

It took Arabella a couple of seconds to realise exactly whom he was referring to. ‘Stephen is my brother,’ she corrected him, smiling at the thought of someone like Stephen being her husband; there were only two years’ difference in their ages, but to her Stephen had always been a child. He had done nothing since joining the company to make her think any differently of him.

Merlin regarded her thoughtfully, head tilted to one side. ‘There’s no family resemblance,’ he finally murmured ruefully.

She knew that, had always been aware of the fact that Stephen had inherited their father’s undoubted good looks, whereas she—well, she wasn’t sure who she resembled! She wasn’t like her tiny, beautiful mother. She wasn’t exactly plain, but she certainly wasn’t a beauty either. She seemed to fall short, somewhere in the middle of the two, not ugly, but having nothing remarkable about her features.

More than one man in the past had assumed that, as in the movies, if her hair were loosened and her glasses removed she would suddenly be transformed into a beauty. Those men had been bitterly disappointed! Her red hair was indeed a beautiful colour, but released about her shoulders it took on a will of its own, becoming completely unmanageable. And without her glasses her eyes ceased to be big, blue and intelligent, surrounded by dark lashes, and simply became myopic; it was obvious at a glance that she was as blind as a bat. So much for the transformation!

‘I can assure you, he is my brother,’ she replied without rancour. After all, she was what she was. ‘I can only apologise for the way he just turned up here unannounced a couple of days ago,’ she added with a frown. ‘I wasn’t aware he had done so until he arrived back at the office.’

‘Spitting fire at my rough handling of him, no doubt,’ Merlin guessed—accurately!—a wry twist to his lips.

Arabella smiled in return. ‘To put it mildly,’ she acknowledged.

The dark blue eyes narrowed. ‘And now you’ve been sent to calm the troubled waters,’ he derided mockingly.

‘I haven’t been “sent” anywhere.’ She gave a firm shake of her head. ‘I’m hoping that the only troubled waters we have are those back at the office; I left my father and brother in no doubt as to how I felt about their interference in our relationship,’ she explained grimly, having assured her father before she left this morning that if she couldn’t straighten this situation out he was going to hear more on the subject.

‘“Our relationship”?’ Merlin echoed softly.

She could feel the heat in her cheeks at the obvious mockery in his tone. ‘That of author and editor,’ she clarified sharply. ‘I—’

‘Tea’s ready, boy,’ Andrew called from the house.

‘Perhaps Miss Atherton has decided not to stop for tea,’ Merlin returned dryly, although his gaze remained firmly fixed on Arabella.

‘Of course she wants tea, boy,’ the gardener admonished tauntingly. ‘Do you think she’s driven all the way down here to be sent away without even a cup of tea?’

Arabella knew that her father would agree with Merlin’s earlier remarks about Andrew’s familiarity; the servants at their family home were rarely seen, never heard, and the household ran like clockwork. But it was obvious that these two were more than employer/employee, that they had a friendship that seemed to go back years. Merlin should consider himself blessed, not cursed, she thought.

‘Tea would be lovely,’ she accepted lightly; at least she was going to get inside the house! ‘Although perhaps I should go and get my bag and lock the car up before I do that,’ she added thoughtfully.

This might not be London, but she still didn’t want to leave her bag in an unlocked car some distance from the house. When she’d arrived earlier she had thought it best not to have anything in her hands that might look in the least threatening. But she had some paperwork in the car that she would need if she were to talk to Merlin.

‘Will the dogs be OK now?’ She still hesitated about making any sudden moves in their presence.

Merlin eyed her with a scowl. ‘You took a risk earlier, just getting out of your car like that.’

It had either been that or turn tail and run, as her brother had done. After her contemptuous anger towards the two male members of her family, she’d had no intention of doing that. Although she had a feeling that might have been the reason Merlin had left them loose in the first place...!

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she assured him lightly.

‘No hurry,’ he dismissed with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Just make your way back to the house when you’re ready.’ He turned towards the house, the two dogs trailing obediently at his heels.

Arabella gave a rueful smile to herself as she walked back to her car. Although things had certainly changed since her father had first taken over Atherton Publishing twenty years ago, a time when the publisher had wielded the power, most of their authors were nevertheless still thrilled at a visit from their editor. Merlin had made it obvious her being here was just an inconvenience to him. But then, he was one of the best-selling authors of today and would immediately be snapped up by another publishing company if he were to find they were invading his privacy.

After collecting her bag, she made her way into the house by the same way the gardener and Merlin had, finding herself walking straight into the kitchen. The two men were seated at a solid oak table that dominated the centre of the spacious room, while a lady in her sixties provided them with tea, cakes and scones. The latter looked mouth-wateringly home-made, but after her long drive Arabella had to admit it was the tea she was most interested in.

‘My wife, Stella.’ Andrew introduced her as Arabella came hesitantly into the room. ‘This is Rob’s publisher, Stella,’ he explained with relish, obviously still greatly amused that his employer’s editor had turned out to be a woman.

Arabella had hoped to discover what Merlin’s first name was; after all, not everyone could call him ‘boy’. Especially as he must be in his late thirties. Rob? She looked at him sharply. Could it be that his name was Robert, like his hero? He didn’t seem about to tell her!

‘Please call me Stella,’ the housekeeper invited warmly as she placed a steaming cup of tea on the table in front of Arabella, having seated her beside Merlin.

‘Arabella,’ she returned lightly, before gratefully sipping at the tea.

‘What a pretty name,’ the housekeeper said spontaneously. ‘Sounds like one of your heroines, Rob.’ She smiled at her employer; she was a small, plump woman, with hair almost as white as her husband’s, and brown eyes that twinkled as much too. Obviously this was a happy household, even if their employer was more than a little taciturn.

Merlin grunted at the comment, his gaze fixed morosely on the bottom of his teacup as he drank from it. Physically, Arabella acknowledged, he looked just like his hero, Palfrey, although there were no laughter-lines on this man’s face, no warmth or humour in his blue eyes, something the Palfrey character had in abundance. But Merlin wrote the Palfrey books, so he must be possessed of a sense of humour. Mustn’t he...? Not when it came to unwanted visits from his editor, obviously!

Suddenly he stood up abruptly. ‘Shall we take our tea and go through to my study?’ He looked at her with coldly compelling eyes.

‘Of course,’ Arabella agreed; at least he was going to talk to her. It was a step further than Stephen had got, and that had to be better than nothing. She directed an apologetic smile at the elderly couple as Merlin instantly turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Arabella with no choice but to follow him. She wasn’t apologising for Merlin’s behaviour—the couple must be used to that by now—she was apologising for not doing justice to the afternoon tea the housekeeper had provided; Merlin hadn’t given her time!

His study was like that of so many other authors she had seen: the desk was the dominating feature, a large leather-topped mahogany one in this case, behind it a bookcase full of reference books. The only difference she could see in this room was the lack of a word processor; most authors used them nowadays. But Merlin’s, manuscripts were always neatly presented, so he had to have one somewhere, making her wonder if this was actually the room that he used to work in.

‘Sit down,’ he invited curtly, already seated across the desk from her himself, the dogs on either side of him.

Now Arabella knew what it felt like to be a prospective published author seated across from her in her own office: a bit like being back at school and being hauled before the headmaster for some misdemeanour. And the dogs definitely added to the feeling of menace in the room. As the seconds, and then minutes, passed once she had sat down, that feeling didn’t diminish!

‘I take it you did receive my letter?’ Arabella was finally the one to speak.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed harshly, leaning back in his high-backed leather chair to look at her with narrowed eyes.

‘So my being here isn’t unexpected?’ she persisted determinedly; remembering the dogs and the open gates, she knew damn well it wasn’t!

‘A. Atherton’s presence here isn’t unexpected,’ he acknowledged coldly. ‘Your presence...’ He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I had no idea the A stood for Arabella.’

Or he would have asked for another editor years ago, the accusing statement implied. Did the fact she was a woman mean she wasn’t a good editor?

‘I had no idea your first name was Robert, either,’ she said lightly, but just as pointedly.

He was silent again for several long seconds, and then his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Touché.’ He nodded in acknowledgement of the challenge in her voice.

It was strange, really, but here, in the privacy of his study, Robert Merlin had taken on an even more familiar appearance. Of course he reminded her of his hero, Palfrey, but there was something else too, a definite feeling that she had seen him before somewhere. But where? And surely she would have remembered it if she had? With his golden good looks, and powerfully attractive face, he was a man who would be very difficult to forget Yet she knew she had seen him before somewhere, knew—

She straightened in her chair as she realised she was staring at him, and that he was returning that stare with questioning eyes. ‘Sorry.’ She blushed ruefully. ‘It’s just—you aren’t quite what I was expecting either.’ That had to be the understatement of the year! ‘But then we’ve agreed the feeling is mutual,’ she added briskly as she sensed a sarcastic reply was about to leave his lips. She put down her empty teacup. ‘I have some papers in my bag for you to look at—

‘If it’s about the filming of Palfrey, then I’m not interested,’ he interrupted harshly.

Arabella looked up from picking up her bag. ‘You can’t possibly know that until you’ve seen what the film company has to offer,’ she pointed out gently, not wanting to antagonise him further but at the same time aware of just how lucrative the film contract could be for him. For Atherton Publishing, too, she acknowledged ruefully, sure that he would lose no time in pointing that out.

It was obvious, from this house and the presence of the elderly couple who worked for him, that he was comfortably off. And she knew better than most how much money he earned from the Palfrey books. But the film company was talking major money for this author. It would be slightly reckless on his part, she felt, to say no to the idea without even looking at the contract...

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Palfrey would become a Hollywood caricature—with all the hype that goes along with it!’ he dismissed easily.

Arabella took out the offending contract before snapping shut her bag. ‘I’m sure the film company will be completely open to negotiation about your own amount of involvement in things.’ After his obvious reluctance to talk to them at all, they seemed agreeable to any terms he cared to make! ‘With a contract to match,’ she added encouragingly.

‘A contract they would instantly break, if and when it suited them to do so,’ he returned scornfully.

‘Of course they wouldn’t!’ she gasped indignantly.

‘Just how many Hollywood contracts have you, or your publishing company, been involved in, Miss Atherton?’ he said tauntingly.

Atherton Publishing was not that sort of publishing company; had made its name and money mainly from educational books. It had been Arabella who had introduced successful contemporary fiction to the list, and Merlin was definitely her most successful author to date. A fact which, looking at the intelligence in those blue eyes, she had a feeling Robert Merlin was completely conversant with!

‘How many have you?’ she returned somewhat tartly, knowing she was getting nowhere with this man.

The mockery left his face as his expression hardened once again, a tense stillness settling over his muscular frame. ‘I don’t have—’

‘Daddy, I’m in the swimming team!’ The study door had burst open, and the excited statement had come from the young lady who stood framed in the open doorway.

Despite her considerable height, she was young, Arabella realised, probably about thirteen or fourteen, poised on the brink of womanhood. Raven-black hair fell silkily past her shoulders, her glowingly lovely face had none of that puppy-fat that could be so annoying at her age, and her body was tall and slender, with the promise of curves yet to come. In another couple of years she was going to be a stunningly beautiful woman.

And she had called Merlin ‘Daddy’...

Arabella looked at him with new eyes. There was a Mrs Merlin somewhere, then...?

It was ridiculous of her to feel surprised, even faintly disappointed. Robert Merlin must be the most attractive man she had ever seen in her life; of course there would be a woman in his life, possibly even a wife. The latter was not just a possibility; the existence of his daughter was proof of that.

‘Daddy, did you hear what I said?’

‘Of course I heard you, Emma,’ he acknowledged indulgently. ‘But can’t you see we have a guest?’ He gave a pointed look in Arabella’s direction.

Eyes the same deep blue as her father’s suddenly became shy as the young girl looked at Arabella. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I couldn’t wait to tell Daddy my good news,’ she added determinedly.

Arabella smiled her sympathy, remembering occasions when she had rushed home to tell her own father equally exciting news from school. Unfortunately, it had only been exciting to her, her father listening with a complete lack of interest. Although Robert Merlin didn’t look uninterested; it was just that she happened to be taking up his time at the moment.

She smiled at the young girl. ‘I’m sure your news takes precedence over anything I have to talk to your father about,’ she assured her lightly.

‘What are you and Daddy talking about?’ Emma asked guilelessly, moving to perch her bottom on the side of her father’s desk.

‘Emma!’ her father reproved abruptly.

Arabella couldn’t help laughing softly at the young girl’s unrepentant expression. ‘I’m from your father’s publishing company, and—’

‘A. Atherton?’ The deep blue eyes glowed interestedly.

Robert Merlin sat up straighter in his chair behind his desk. ‘And exactly what do you know about A. Atherton?’ he said slowly.

Emma grinned at Arabella, completely unabashed by her father’s grim expression. ‘Are you A. Atherton?’ she persisted. ‘I always had a feeling you might be a woman.’

‘And just why the hell did you feel that?’ her father demanded impatiently.

She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘Just the tone of the letters.’

‘And what sort of tone might that have been?’ Robert Merlin frowned at his daughter in complete bafflement.

The young girl grinned unconcernedly. ‘Unfailingly polite and reasoning—even when you were at your rudest!’ She gave her father a mischievously teasing look. ‘I always thought another man would have given you back as good as you gave.’

Her father looked outraged. ‘I was never rudel’

Emma Merlin gave Arabella a conspiratorial grit mace. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find that you were, Daddy. Although I’m sure Miss Atherton forgave you,’ she added soothingly as he still looked furious at the accusation.

Arabella was impressed with the maturity of this young girl. And her perception! Her own father and Stephen had often been incensed by this man’s fanatical wish for privacy—as witnessed by the blundering way Stephen had tried to force his way in here two days ago! Arabella had always respected that wish for privacy, often diverting the attention of the media away from this popular author.

It was a view her father and Stephen didn’t share. In their opinion, if Merlin wanted the glory—and the money!—his writing brought, then he also had to accept some of the negative aspects, and that included interest in his private life. To her father it wasn’t a negative aspect anyway...

Yes, Emma was right; if Merlin’s editor had been either her father or Stephen, then he would have been handled very differently.

‘Of course,’ Arabella confirmed smoothly.

Robert Merlin looked far from pleased at the slightly patronising air the two females seemed to have adopted towards him, his blue eyes flinty and cold. ‘I was not—’

‘Your father is such a wonderful writing talent,’ Arabella continued conversationally to Emma. ‘He could be forgiven most things.’

‘Except killing off Palfrey,’ Emma returned disgustedly. ‘That has to be the silliest thing—’

‘Emma!’ her father exploded. ‘Will you kindly shut up?’ He glared at her fiercely.

Arabella looked from father to daughter, Emma appearing stubbornly determined in the face of her father’s anger. But it was to Robert Merlin that Arabella turned her full attention. She couldn’t have heard Emma properly.

He couldn’t possibly be thinking of killing off Palfrey!

CHAPTER THREE

‘WELL, Miss Atherton?’ Robert Merlin looked at her challengingly across the width of his desk. ‘Do you have something to say on the subject, too?’

Something to say? If it was true, she certainly did have something to say!

‘You can’t be serious!’ was all she could manage at the moment. He couldn’t—could he...?

His blue eyes remained flinty as his gaze raked across the shock that was so evident on her face. ‘I thought I was the “wonderful writing talent”, Miss Atherton?’ he finally drawled.

‘Y-you are.’ She spluttered the confirmation of her earlier statement. ‘But—’

‘Is there a “but”, Miss Atherton?’ he cut in with quiet intensity.

The way he kept so pointedly calling her ‘Miss Atherton’ was beginning to grate on her already frayed nerves. Of course there was a ‘but’; the Palfrey series of books were the most popular to appear on the market for some time—and Robert Merlin appeared to be about to kill off his hero!

‘Emma.’ The author turned to his daughter with raised brows as she watched the exchange with obvious enjoyment. ‘Don’t you have some homework you should be getting on with?’

‘I—’

‘Or something?’ he added determinedly, making it obvious he felt she had said enough for one day.

‘Not really,’ she replied, unabashed, obviously completely secure in her relationship with her father.

‘Then I suggest you go and find something,’ he told her bluntly, obviously just as secure in his relationship with her!

Emma stood up with a fluidity that would become graceful elegance as she got older. ‘OK,’ she accepted good-naturedly. ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ she told Arabella lightly, frowning as she saw the regretful look on her face. ‘Daddy!’ She looked at him incredulously. ‘You have invited Miss Atherton to dinner?’ She sounded shocked at the possibility that he might not have done so.

And Robert Merlin looked far from pleased at that censorious look. ‘I—’

‘You can’t possibly expect Miss Atherton to drive all the way back to London without even feeding her,’ the young girl admonished him. ‘After all, she came all this way just to see you.’

Arabella could see that not only did Robert Merlin not expect to have to feed her, but that he had no intention of doing so!

Again she had to admit that his response at meeting his editor wasn’t the usual one; most of her authors were only too pleased to have personal interest shown in them. But then, Robert Merlin wasn’t like any other author she dealt with!

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘I hadn’t been talking to Miss Atherton long enough—before your interruption! —to have the chance to make a dinner invitation,’ he snapped pointedly.

Emma again looked completely undaunted by her father’s abrupt behaviour. ‘Well, make one now, and then tell Stella we have one extra for dinner.’ She gave him a cheeky grin.

Two sets of deep blue eyes warred for several long seconds before Robert Merlin broke the battle of wills with another irritated sigh, and turned impatiently towards Arabella. ‘You’ll stay to dinner?’ he said harshly.

It was far from the most gracious invitation she had ever received, and if she had any sense she would turn it down. But on a professional level she knew she couldn’t do that, knew she had to at least try to persuade Robert Merlin that he was committing professional suicide by killing off his main character, Palfrey. She doubted very much that he could create another series that the public would take so much to their hearts. Or she to her own!

‘Thank you,’ she accepted, just as stiltedly.

He turned to his daughter. ‘Satisfied?’ he rasped irritably.

‘Of course.’ Emma grinned, moving to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you both later, then,’ she added with satisfaction.

Arabella was still too stunned by the news that Merlin was considering killing off Palfrey to respond to Emma’s conspiratorial wink as she left the study.

‘I apologise for my daughter,’ Robert Merlin murmured distantly. ‘She can be over-familiar at times.’

‘Unlike her father,’ Arabella replied without thinking, colour darkening her cheeks as Robert Merlin raised dark blond brows. ‘I’m only stating the obvious, Mr Merlin,’ she added awkwardly, although she had a feeling it was too late to worry about offending this man; he was so prickly, it was impossible not to offend him.

‘Unlike her father,’ he conceded dryly, looking at her with renewed interest, as if—unlike everyone else in this household!—he had just realised she was a woman.

Arabella felt her cheeks grow hot under that intense scrutiny, suddenly aware again of her own appearance—of how businesslike her clothes were, of her hair secured at the nape of her neck, and the glasses perched on the end of her nose. She wished she were blonde and stunningly attractive, and had the sort of body men looked at. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t have, and perhaps that was why she was still unmarried at twenty-seven...!

‘I’m sorry.’ She broke his gaze awkwardly. ‘That was extremely rude of me.’

‘Yes, it was,’ he acknowledged slowly. ‘But it was also honest.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m always honest, Mr Merlin—’

‘Robert,’ he put in mockingly. “The formality is ridiculous in the circumstances.’

She couldn’t have agreed more. But she had had the impression that formality was what he preferred. ‘And, as you know, I’m Arabella,’ she invited stiltedly.

He relaxed back in his chair. ‘As Stella remarked earlier, it’s a fitting name for one of Palfrey’s ladies.’

In view of the fact that in her mind he had become Palfrey, was the living image of him, that was a very unnerving thing for him to say. ‘If what Emma was saying earlier is correct, then there aren’t going to be any more Palfrey ladies.’ She turned the subject away from the disturbing thought of herself as Robert Merlin’s ‘lady’; the man, by the mere evidence of Emma’s existence, was married, for goodness’ sake.

He visibly bristled. ‘As well as being over-familiar, my daughter is also indiscreet!’

. ‘But also truthful?’ Arabella prompted guardedly; after all, he hadn’t actually confirmed yet that he intended killing off Palfrey.

‘Yes,’ he rasped.

The baldness of the statement was enough to tell her he really meant it; he was going to kill Palfrey! She couldn’t believe it; she felt as if she had just been told that someone she loved was about to die.

‘They must be traits she inherited from her mother,’ Arabella murmured distractedly.

‘Let’s leave Emma’s mother out of this!’ Robert Merlin was no longer relaxed in his chair; his whole body was rigid with tension as he sat forward, his mouth set in a grim line.

That she had touched on a sensitive subject was obvious. Perhaps there was no Mrs Merlin after all; divorce, unfortunately, was all too common nowadays, and Robert Merlin wouldn’t be the first man to have claimed custody of the children from a marriage. But that Emma’s mother had been beautiful could be in no doubt either. Emma’s colouring and looks were nothing like her father’s; only her height, perhaps, could be attributed to him, and of course the blue eyes.

But if Merlin found the subject of his wife a painful one Arabella had no interest in pursuing it either!

‘Certainly,’ she dismissed gladly. ‘I would much rather discuss Palfrey anyway.’

His mouth twisted impatiently. ‘I’m sure you would, Arabella, but, as I’m sure you must realise only too well, I don’t discuss my work with anyone.’

Being his editor for the last five years had certainly not involved too much work on her part; Robert Merlin had just periodically submitted manuscripts to her, never asking her for advice or guidance on the storylines as some authors did, and rarely did any actual editing need doing either: the manuscripts were always perfectly presented and written.

‘Except Emma, apparently,’ she pointed out lightly, still deep in thought as to how she could actually get this man to listen to reason over such drastic action where his hero was concerned. Arabella, for one, would be very upset if Palfrey were to die, and that wasn’t just from a professional point of view.

‘Not even with Emma.’ He shook his head. ‘She happens to have taken a computer course at school during the last year,’ he explained at Arabella’s puzzled frown, ‘and now insists on putting all my work on disk. I write in longhand, Arabella,’ he elaborated dryly. ‘I had someone come in to type up my manuscripts for me before Emma decided she could do it on her computer.’

That explained the lack of a wordprocessor or typewriter in this room. She had had no idea that Merlin wrote his manuscripts out by hand, still really knew nothing about him. Except that he was going to kill off Palfrey!

She frowned. ‘What are your reasons for killing off Palfrey?’

He shrugged dismissively. ‘It’s time.’

Time for what? How could she, and millions of other readers, not have the publishing of the Palfrey books to look forward to? ‘I don’t agree.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘In what way is it time?’

‘He’s outlived himself.’ Robert Merlin’s tone was implacable. ‘It’s time to move on to something else.’

Incredible. Palfrey wasn’t just a character in a book for her, he was real, and she was sure that millions of other people felt the same way.

But she was, after all, Merlin’s editor. ‘Do you have another series of books in mind?’ She kept her tone businesslike.

‘Possibly,’ he returned noncommittally.

Arabella bit back her increasing frustration at his lack of cooperation. ‘It’s going to be very difficult to follow a series as popular as Palfrey’s—’

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