Risqué Business

The fun starts after hours with these three deliciously sexy stories of mixing business with pleasure…

Sydney lawyer Jason Lombard was simply delicious, but when Sophie discovered she’d only been hired as a distraction, she was furious! With emotions running high, could they resist an office affair?

Shauna couldn’t believe her arrogant new boss Max Ryder and she was determined to keep her distance. Then they started working and living under the same roof…

Joanna had never before felt the raw magnetism that drew her to Clay Thackeray. She was falling in love, and he was falling in lust—but was Clay really after Joanna, or her company shares?

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Risque Buisness: No Escaping Love

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

For Ken and Robina, with love.

CHAPTER ONE

SHE might just—just—make it.

Shauna flung her suitcase and holdall into the empty compartment, clambered in and slammed the door shut just as the train began to move away.

She’d made it with seconds to spare, but, glancing at her watch with a grimace, Shauna realised that, although this might be the express train from Dover to London, it would need to sprout wings and fly if it were going to get her to her interview on time.

She looked out of the window and cursed the stormy skies which had made her ferry crossing so turbulent, before pulling the now crumpled advert out of her holdall. Oh, please—if anyone up there is looking down on me—let me get this job, she thought, as she read it for the umpteenth time.

WANTED

Assistant to businessman in Central London. Hours erratic. Salary excellent. Accommodation available. Initiative and enthusiasm a plus—along with conventional office skills. Languages essential, including fluent Portuguese. Apply in writing to Box No.4204

She had applied, and had received a type-written reply, requesting that she attend for interview at Ryder Enterprises at sixteen-hundred hours today. The letter had been signed ‘Max Ryder’ in a firm and rather flamboyant signature.

Some luck, she thought ruefully. It sounded a peach of a job—and she was going to be late.

Exactly three hours later Shauna arrived at Ryder Enterprises, feeling as if she’d been run over by a steamroller. Two years of working in the relatively laid-back atmosphere of Portugal had left her ill-equipped to cope with the frantic bustle of the London Underground.

Struggling with her baggage, she pushed open the heavy glass door and sank into an opulently deep-pile cream carpet. A waft of cloying perfume hit her like a solid wall and her heart sank as she saw the other women in the room. She was in the wrong place! She must be. There was no way that she had anything in common with the other occupants of the room. She stood out like a sore thumb.

The three females sitting around a glass table the size of an ice-rink who had been laconically chatting with each other all froze in unison as they looked her up and down. Their assessment lasted less than five seconds before they gave a group demonstration of superior dismissal, then renewed their conversation, ignoring her completely.

Shauna stood stock-still, frozen with indecision, momentarily debating whether or not she should simply turn right round and leave, when she heard a polite cough, and stared across the room into a pair of smiling eyes. The smiling person wore spectacles, had a slick, dark bob and was seated behind a desk. She was speaking now, and it took a couple of seconds for Shauna to realise that she was addressing her.

‘I’m Mrs Neilson,’ she said. ‘And you must be…?’

‘Shauna,’ she said clearly. ‘Shauna Wilde. I’m so sorry,’ she walked forward and put her case down by the desk, ‘but I’m late.’

Mrs Neilson looked down at a list of names before her. ‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed. ‘And by over an hour, too.’ She looked up, her eyes apologetic. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that Mr Ryder won’t tolerate unpunctuality.’

‘Oh, but he must!’ said Shauna hastily. ‘Please?’ She smiled at the receptionist, a pleading look in her eye. She had a lot riding on getting this job. ‘I’ve come straight from the Continent—all the way from Portugal. I was making brilliant time but then my ferry was delayed. Can’t I just wait until he’s interviewed the others? He might see me then.’

‘He might,’ said Mrs Neilson doubtfully, then gave a small smile. ‘You can try. Take a seat—but I can’t promise anything.’

‘Thanks.’ Shauna walked over to a chair, dropped her belongings defiantly on the ground beside her and sat down. The eyes all turned in her direction. Well, she decided—this is a game that more than one can play, and she began to stare back.

The more she saw, the more uneasy she became. The three women looked so much older than her, and confident. And assured. Very assured. Apart from one elegant creature with short hair—and that must have been cut by someone with a degree in technical drawing, judging by the precision and angles of the style—they had the kind of untamed lion’s mane of hair which every woman knew took at least an hour in front of the mirror to achieve. Tousled, yet perfect—while Shauna’s was scraped back like a schoolgirl’s.

Shauna’s hair was undoubtedly her best feature, but black curls which tumbled waistwards were hardly practical for everyday wear. Maybe she should have had it cut to a more manageable length, but she had long since given up going to a hairdresser’s for just that purpose. Every hairdresser she’d ever met had managed to talk her out of it.

Shauna looked at the women again. Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to put some make-up on? Because you slept on the boat and it would have smudged, spoke the voice of reason—and a tiny loo on the train was hardly the place to accurately apply your mascara!

As she waited she considered furtively scrabbling around in her holdall and going off to try and camouflage her shiny face, when a final despairing look at the group convinced her that she would stand no chance against them. They were band-box neat and perfectly co-ordinated. As sleek as well-groomed pedigree cats with their up-market clothes, and Shauna felt like a moggy who’d been left out in the rain all night.

Had things in England really changed that much? she wondered. Was this kind of high-powered dressing really de rigueur for a job as a businessman’s assistant? Nervously, Shauna tugged at the cuff of her suit.

A door behind the woman at the desk opened, and a blonde sashayed her way out of the room without a word.

Mrs Neilson looked up. ‘Would Miss Stevens like to go in next?’

The woman with the short hair headed for the inner sanctum, and Shauna dived into the bottom of her holdall, seriously worried now. Was the job all she had supposed it to be? Had she missed something? Been more naïve than usual? Did these women really look like your run-of-the-mill PAs? Suppose the advertisement was a cover for something else—what had she thought about it sounding too good to be true?

She located the letter nestling against a railway timetable and the remains of an apple-core and read it again. Twice.

No. If there was some subtle message in it then she, Shauna, was too dense to fathom it out. And let’s face it, she thought, if you go in there and some guy offers you a job in his massage parlour, then you smile politely and head for the door.

Shauna’s fingers, when they replaced the advert, were trembling. She had read about places like this in the Sunday papers. Her imagination began to run away with her. What if they wouldn’t let her out? What if a strong hand were to snap itself over her wrist with steely strength…? Don’t be so ridiculous, reprimanded an inner voice. Everyone else is getting out, aren’t they?

The last woman—a luscious-looking strawberry blonde—went in and the phone on Mrs Neilson’s desk bleeped. She picked it up and listened.

‘Yes, Mr Ryder—she is the last, but Miss Wilde has turned up.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I know she’s late, but apparently she’s travelled a long way to get here…’

Shauna could hear an angry-sounding voice at the other end of the phone.

‘I realise that,’ interjected Mrs Neilson. Another pause, while she listened to the voice. ‘In my opinion—yes.’ She replaced the receiver and looked at Shauna. ‘He says he’ll see you after the last applicant.’ She stood up. ‘I must go—I’ve got a hungry husband at home, champing at the bit,’ she grinned. ‘Mr Ryder will escort you down to the entrance when the interview’s over.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Shauna watched her retreat out of the glass door and began to twist at the black corkscrew curl by her ear, a habit which she’d had since childhood, and one which invariably made her look about sixteen, instead of twenty-three.

She must be crazy! She’d be alone in this building with this man Max Ryder—someone she didn’t know from Adam! Get out now, the voice urged her. Out of this office, into the lift—press for ground floor, and you’re away. She picked up her holdall, and her heart sank to see the strawberry blonde striding out, her eyes glittering, her face a mask of fury.

‘Bastard,’ she muttered, scarcely audibly, and tottered out of the room on high heels like stilts.

Shauna, now seriously alarmed, sprang to her feet and began walking after her, when a deep voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘Going somewhere, Miss Wilde?’

Her heart in her mouth, she turned round reluctantly. ‘I don’t think I’m suited for the job,’ she blurted out, and then her mouth stayed open. She had been conjuring up an image of a small, squat man, with olive skin—possibly with a patch over one eye—and stubby, fat fingers covered with a tasteless display of ostentatious gold rings, but the deep-voiced Mr Ryder couldn’t have been more different.

Initially, because he was wearing a suit, she decided that he looked respectable, but closer inspection convinced her that respectable was not the right description at all. Respectable men weren’t that good-looking!

Every cliché in the book could have been used about this man. Intense. World-weary. Brooding. She’d often read about eyes being like chips of ice and had wondered what that meant. Now she knew. The narrow green eyes which were studying her so closely were as cold as glass. His skin was lightly tanned and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line. She tried to imagine him laughing, and failed.

He was tall. I mean—I’m tall, she thought. But this man made her feel like some tiny little thing, which was an entirely new experience for Shauna. He had dark, dark hair with just a bit of a wave in it—a wayward lock curled darkly on the collar of a shirt which even she could tell was silk. The tie was silk too—a pale grey affair which toned perfectly with the darker grey of his suit, a suit which fitted superbly, falling in folds from the broad shoulders, folds which hinted at hard muscle and sinew…

‘I beg your pardon?’ he was saying.

Shauna’s grey eyes were like terrified saucers. ‘I don’t think I’m suited for the job,’ she repeated. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’ And proceeded to stare open-mouthed at him again, like a terrified young kitten who had just chanced upon a jungle cat.

‘Do please stop gaping at me like an idiot,’ he said impatiently. ‘And how on earth do you know you’re not suited for the job, when you don’t know what the job entails? Unless you do know what the job entails, in which case you must be clairvoyant.’

Recognising the heavy sarcasm, she shut her mouth hastily and gave him what she thought was a sweet smile. Humour him, she thought.

He began to look worried. ‘You’re not about to be ill, are you, Miss Wilde?’

She shook her head. So much for charm! ‘I feel fine,’ she lied.

‘Good,’ he said curtly. ‘Then, as you’ve been so good as to give me your time, and I—’ here he broke off to glance at a discreet pale gold watch on a tanned wrist ‘—have set aside mine—then perhaps we could conduct the interview on more formal lines?’

She gulped. ‘Sure.’ She hooked the holdall over one slim shoulder and picked up her suitcase.

He gestured with his arm. ‘After you?’ he suggested.

Knowing at once how poor Androcles must have felt as he walked into the lion’s den, Shauna stepped unwillingly into the inner sanctum and her eyes lit up.

‘Oh, but—it’s beautiful!’ she exclaimed, as she slowly took in her surroundings.

There was a huge window which took up almost a complete wall, filling the room with a bright, clear light. London lay mapped out before them like a painting. Then other details of the office began to register—the black ash table, a tiny oak bonsai tree and a sheaf of neat papers its only adornment. And the thickness of the pale coffee-coloured carpet in this room made the deep pile of the one in the outer office seem positively threadbare. She’d never seen such an obvious display of wealth, and her earlier misgivings returned to assail her.

‘The view I mean,’ she finished tamely. ‘The view is beautiful.’

The green eyes narrowed. ‘I like it,’ he said gruffly. He indicated a chair with a wave of his hand, obviously expecting her to sit down, but she remained standing.

‘Just a minute,’ she blurted out. ‘I want you to know that I would never consider doing anything—illegal.’

Dark brows shot up. ‘Illegal?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Would you care to elucidate?’

She felt on slightly shaky ground, but it was too late to back off now. Assert yourself, some inner voice urged her. Don’t let yourself be intimidated by your surroundings. ‘I’m afraid that I’m just not interested in escort work,’ she managed. ‘Or—massage.’

‘Massage?’ he enquired faintly. ‘Massage? Pray tell me, Miss Wilde—has the front of my building changed dramatically within the last few hours? Am I the victim of a practical joke? Is there now some lurid neon flashing “Girls! Girls! Girls!” outside?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then why on earth should you think that I’d be running some kind of cheap racket like that?’ The green eyes glinted ominously.

‘Because—because of the other applicants,’ she burst out. ‘They just didn’t look like the type of women who’d be applying for secretarial jobs.’

‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific—what exactly was wrong with them?’

She squirmed a little under his scrutiny. ‘They looked far too glamorous for that kind of work.’

His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Not glamorous, Miss Wilde. I don’t consider glamour to be the over-application of perfume, coupled with a wholly inappropriate use of make-up. Tacky is the adjective which springs to mind. Whereas you…’

She didn’t know what description he might have considered suitable for her, because he broke off in mid-sentence to study her even more closely than he had done before.

She was glad that the Mediterranean sun had tanned her skin—at least it camouflaged the slight rise in colour which his perusal brought to her cheeks. She knew that she looked clean, and fairly neat, but that was about all that could be said. The black ringlety curls which fell almost to her waist had been pulled back into a french plait, the neatest way of wearing it, but already another corkscrew-like strand had escaped and kept streaking across her face in a dizzy spiral. Her face was completely free of make-up. The legacy of her background had given her naturally long black lashes which fringed the unusual grey eyes.

She wore a navy linen suit, plain and simple. Perhaps not the best colour choice for her, but eminently the most practical. Unfortunately she had had it for several years, so the skirt was the wrong length—it brushed to just below her knee instead of this season’s style which was several inches above. Her navy leather shoes were completely flat—when you were as tall as she was you didn’t wear heels!

She met his eyes mutinously, her chin lifting fractionally, peeved at such a leisurely appraisal.

His next words, however, were completely unexpected. ‘Gostaria de se sentar, agora?’

‘Obrigada,’ she said automatically, pulling out a chair from one side of the desk and sitting down, her legs tucked neatly together.

His eyebrows shot up somewhere into the dark hair, as he walked round to the other side of the desk and sat facing her. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You actually speak Portuguese?’

‘Of course I do—the advert specified it.’

‘It may have specified it, Miss Wilde—but I’ve been interviewing for three days now, and you’re only the second person who has understood and responded to the simplest statement in that language.’

Shauna’s eyes widened. ‘You mean none of the others today …?’

The tone of his voice bordered on contemptuousness. ‘There’s one thing, and one thing only, that the assorted bunch I saw today had in common, and that was their avid interest in that ridiculous article—as opposed to the job I’m offering.’

‘What article?’ asked Shauna in bewilderment. ‘I’m not with you.’

The green eyes viewed her with suspicion. ‘Then you must be the only woman in the country who hasn’t read it.’

‘But I haven’t been in the country,’ she pointed out.

He mentioned the name of a well-known women’s magazine. ‘They decided to do a piece on the fifty most eligible men in Britain,’ he growled. ‘And since then, it has caused nearly every female coming into contact with me to display even more of the ripe-plum syndrome than usual.’

Shauna had had enough. True, she hadn’t exactly warmed to any of her fellow interviewees, but his words were a slur on women in general. She began to rise from her seat. ‘What a disgustingly arrogant thing to say—’

‘Oh, do sit down, Miss Wilde—you’re not in the running for an Oscar, you know. You object to the truth, do you—however unpalatable?’

‘I object to your colossal ego,’ she said primly. This rejoinder actually brought a wry half-smile to his lips, the first since the ‘interview’ had commenced, and Shauna was taken aback—his whole face had softened for a moment. The thawing of the glacial green eyes was a definite improvement, she decided.

‘My ego may be colossal,’ he stated. ‘But facts are facts. I’m rich and I’m powerful, and I’ve known enough women to recognise a blatant invitation when I see it,’ he told her arrogantly.

I’ll bet you have, she thought fiercely. This man was so big-headed that she was surprised he could walk through the door! ‘Well, you needn’t fear any “blatant invitation” from me,’ she said crossly.

He leaned right back in his chair, his head resting in the palm of his hands, with the careless grace of some jungle feline just before it pounced. ‘In that case, Miss Wilde—you could be just what I’m looking for.’

She sat upright in the soft leather chair, meeting the bright green gaze with a candid stare of her own. ‘Just what are you looking for, Mr Ryder? Your advertisement didn’t make it very clear, I must say.’

The green eyes had narrowed to alarming slits. ‘Oh, must you? And how would you have worded it?’

‘I would have thought it was fairly obvious—if you wanted only fluent Portuguese speakers, then the advert should have been written in Portuguese.’

There was a pause. The look he gave her was very measured. She half thought that she saw the merest hint of humour twitch at the corner of his mouth, but then decided that it must have been a trick of the light.

‘You are, of course, absolutely right, Miss Wilde. If only the young woman from the specialist staffing agency who came here to take “details” of what I required had been credited with your common sense.’

She ignored his sardonic tone. ‘Didn’t you tell her what you wanted?’

‘Of course I told her!’ he barked back. ‘But she wasn’t listening. She spent the whole time wittering on about “what a beautiful house you have, Mr Ryder” and “your photograph didn’t do you justice at all, Mr Ryder”,’ he mimicked.

Shauna gave an almost imperceptible click of disapproval. How could she have done? she wondered. Women like that gave women in business a bad name. Quite apart from the fact that you wouldn’t need a degree in psychology to recognise that a man like Max Ryder would be completely turned off by such an obvious approach. A man like him would have women in their hundreds, if not thousands running after him.

He was still looking at her. ‘Am I to understand that you don’t approve of women using sex appeal at work?’

Her grey eyes were cold. ‘Certainly not. I hope you complained to the agency?’

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I just shan’t use them again. Let’s hope I don’t have to.’ He stared at her consideringly. ‘You seem very interested in this staffing agency, Miss Wilde—perhaps you have an affinity for that kind of work?’

‘But I’m being interviewed for this job, Mr Ryder,’ she answered sweetly. She knew that ploy of old. People in power wanted nothing less than one hundred per cent commitment—give them any indication that some other job might suit you more, and you’d be out on your ear. And besides, this job offered her a roof over her head. ‘Would you like to tell me a little about it?’

A spark of humour glimmered in the green eyes. ‘How about “Tyrant requires PA. Hours long, pay lousy”?’ He began to chuckle quietly.

‘And is that the truth?’ Shauna asked.

A tanned hand moved forward to tap a pencil on the surface of the black ash desk. ‘No, I lied about the pay—that’s good! The tyrant bit you’d have to make up your own mind about—but I don’t suffer fools gladly. I’ve been called some rather unflattering names in my time,’ he said softly. He leaned over to push the bonsai tree a fraction to the right, and then, as if satisfied, settled back in his chair again.

‘I buy and sell,’ he explained. ‘And I deal mainly in property. Since the market has flattened out in this country I’ve diversified a little, and I’m doing several deals in Europe. At the moment I’m in the process of buying a plot of land in the Algarve which I intend turning into a golf and holiday complex. The project is estimated to take two years minimum, hence the need for an assistant who can speak Portuguese.’

‘But you speak it yourself!’ she protested.

He shook his head. ‘Enough to get by—and I’m very good at ordering in restaurants—but the subtle nuances of the language all go over my head, and I need to understand what is being said. I certainly can’t get to grips with legal jargon. Which reminds me—just how good is your Portuguese?’

She needed no second bidding. This bit was easy. She wanted to make it clear to him that she, at least, was not here on false pretences. That unlike the others she was—as she had stated in her application—perfectly fluent in Portuguese. She spoke rapidly, deliberately making her speech both formal and colloquial—impossible for anyone but the seasoned linguist to understand. When she had finished, she saw that another wry smile had appeared. ‘How much did you understand?’ she queried.

‘Very little,’ he admitted. ‘You speak very quickly, and your pronunciation is superb.’

She inclined her head, relishing what she accurately assessed was a rare compliment. ‘Thank you.’

The eyes were curious. ‘How come?’

‘How come what?’

‘That you’re so fluent?’

She hesitated just a little. ‘Well,’ she said lightly. ‘I have just spent two years working as a PA in Portugal.’

He waved his hand in the air dismissively. ‘I know that. But you must have been pretty good before that? You wouldn’t speak it as well as that after just two years.’

He was probing, and she resented it. She didn’t want to have to give him a potted history of her life, see pity cloud those enigmatic eyes. She indicated the papers which lay on the desk before him. ‘As you’ll see from my résumé—I studied languages.’ Her grey eyes instinctively flashed a warning.

There was an answering flash in the dark emerald depths. ‘To which the same argument applies.’

He was not, she decided, the kind of man to be put off. He was the kind of man who would take a prize for getting blood from a stone. She made up her mind to give him the barest facts possible. ‘My mother—was Portuguese,’ she stated baldly.

‘And your father?’

‘Irish.’ A flat statement, which dared him to pursue the subject further.

‘Unusual combination,’ he remarked.

‘So I’ve been told.’ She cleared her throat. ‘So what you need primarily, Mr Ryder—is an interpreter?’

If he’d noticed that she’d neatly steered the subject away from her parents, he didn’t show it. ‘Mainly,’ he replied. ‘But as well as shorthand and typing, I need someone to be my right-hand man, so to speak.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or woman, I should say. Someone who will know exactly what I know, and will therefore know how to deal with any urgent business should I not be available. I employ a great many staff not only in this country, but all over the world. Every time some trifling little problem arises, I don’t personally want to have to deal with it.’ The green eyes held her directly in their full, magnificent gaze.

‘I need cables sent,’ he continued. ‘Documents translated, airline tickets booked, business associates met at the airport. I may need you to travel abroad with me.’

‘That sounds like very long hours,’ she observed.

‘Absolutely. But in return you will be paid handsomely. You’ll have first-class accommodation in London, if you want it, and extremely generous holidays. So what do you think?’

‘And how much is the salary?’

The sum he mentioned almost made her fall out of her chair.

‘Will you be needing accommodation?’ He looked at her quizzically.

‘Yes, I will,’ she nodded. ‘Could you tell me what that consists of?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘There’s a large penthouse flat at the top of this building—part of that will be yours.’

It took her precisely ten seconds to mull it over. He would have to be the worst tyrant ever created to justify her turning a deal like this down. Yes, he seemed a big-head of the worst order, and he himself had admitted that he’d been called some ‘unflattering names’ in his time. She could think of a few herself! She stared into those unusual green eyes. Surely he couldn’t be that bad?

And the job—the job was everything she wanted. A secure base, with money to save until she decided what she really wanted to do with her life. But then again, he hadn’t offered it to her, had he? No doubt it would be the old, old story of ‘I’ve several other people to see’.

‘It sounds very—adequate,’ she said cautiously.

This last remark inspired a throaty laugh. ‘Adequate? What a ghastly word! Miss Wilde, if you’re going to work for me you must promise me faithfully that you will never use the word “adequate” ever again.’

She let the flippancy go. ‘You mean—you’re—you’re offering…?’

His face was quite serious again. He gestured to the sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘I’ve seen your references, which are excellent—though you, Miss Wilde, would probably have said “adequate”. You satisfy all my other criteria—your Portuguese is fluent, you seem bright enough—oh, and you don’t fall into the man-eating tigress mould.’

Meaning, thought Shauna acidly, that I’m a plain Jane.

‘And one other thing,’ his voice was lower now. ‘You need this job, don’t you?’

Yes, she needed the job, but she wasn’t desperate. She knew that nothing was a bigger turn-off than desperation. ‘There are other jobs,’ she said coolly.

He smiled. ‘The job’s yours if you want it.’

She had actually been reaching for her holdall, when she stared at him, not believing her ears. ‘Pardon?’

‘The job’s yours,’ he repeated. ‘If you want it.’

She still didn’t believe it. ‘Just like that?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Just like that.’

She pretended to hesitate, but she got the impression that he wasn’t fooled for a minute.

‘In that case,’ she said, resisting the temptation to leap up into the air, ‘I’d be happy to accept.’

‘Good.’

‘When would you like me to start?’

He frowned. ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

She wanted to make amends for her earlier flights of fancy. ‘Tomorrow’s fine.’

A piercing look came into his eyes. ‘Today, you were late,’ he accused.

‘There was a…’ she began, but he held his hand up.

‘I’m not interested. I’m prepared to overlook it once—it won’t happen again.’

‘No,’ she said quietly—she wouldn’t dare!

He closed his eyes briefly for a moment, and yawned. She noticed how intensely weary he looked, and wondered whether that was work, or play. When he opened them again, he found Shauna staring at him intently.

He blinked. ‘What is it?’

‘Your last assistant,’ she ventured. ‘Why did she leave?’

He stiffened, and the green eyes became cold again. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, ‘For—personal reasons.’

Repressing hysterical thoughts, she forced her voice to sound casual. ‘Oh? And what were they?’

He paused for a second. ‘I’m afraid it was the old story—she fell in love with her boss. That by itself isn’t a sackable offence, but I’m afraid she let it affect her work.’

There was no mistaking the warning in his voice. Don’t make the same mistake, it seemed to say.

Resisting an urge to comment on the girl’s mental state at the time, for surely she must have been loopy to fall for such an insufferably arrogant man, Shauna gave a prim smile. ‘Well, don’t worry, Mr Ryder—I can assure you that I will not fall into the same trap.’

‘Good,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

But Shauna thought he didn’t sound one little bit convinced.

CHAPTER TWO

MAX RYDER’S next words were, however, brisk and businesslike. ‘I assume that you’ve clothes and stuff to collect?’ He looked down at Shauna’s rather battered suitcase. ‘Or do I take it that’s the sum total of your worldly goods?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘No, you do not!’ she retorted indignantly, pushing away a dark curl which was tickling the corner of her mouth. ‘Don’t forget—I have just come off the boat. As a matter of fact—I’ve got two more suitcases.’

‘So where have you left them?’

‘They’ve been in store at some friends’ flat.’

The green eyes beneath the dark brows were looking at her questioningly. ‘Local?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘In London.’

He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse, Miss Wilde?’ He glanced at the pale gold watch. ‘I’m expecting a call from Paris at eight—I can give you a lift to collect your belongings, then when we get back I’ll show you over the flat.’

She shook her head, so that two more curls wiggled out. For some reason, she was reluctant to be driven there by this man. He was her boss, and—she had to admit—dangerously attractive. She didn’t want contact with him spilling over into her private life. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I can manage on my own, honestly.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘I’m not trying to unlock the secrets of your soul—I’m simply offering you a lift. Why struggle on the Tube when you can do it in comfort? And if you’re worried about some boyfriend—ex or otherwise—rushing out to hit me on the jaw, then don’t. Like the proverbial wise man—I’ll hear, see nor speak evil!’

The very idea was laughable. She simply couldn’t imagine anyone having the temerity to hit this man on the jaw! Quite apart from anything else it looked as though it were fashioned from granite.

‘I happened to share with two lawyers, not cavemen,’ she retorted. ‘And they live in Hampstead.’

To her surprise, the questioning ceased. ‘Hampstead’s miles away,’ he said briefly. ‘It would take you all night to get there. Come on—we’ll take the car.’

She followed him in silence out of the office and into the lift. At the ground floor he introduced her to Charlie, the commissionaire. Then he ushered her through heavy revolving glass doors and outside, where the light was fading rapidly from the sky. The typically October temperature had plummeted rapidly now that the sun had disappeared and Shauna shivered involuntarily, her linen jacket seeming totally inadequate. She hadn’t thought he’d been looking, but he noticed immediately.

‘I hope there’s a thicker coat among your things?’ he commented.

‘Yes, I’ve got an overcoat.’ She didn’t like to say that all her things would probably look to him as if they’d come out of the Ark! Two years was a long time in fashion, and department stores had only recently begun to realise that not all women were of medium height and build. Shauna, being tall and very slim, had always found it notoriously difficult to find clothes to fit her.

Their steps led them to the back of the building, where he unlocked a cunningly concealed car-port to reveal the low, sleek lines of a Mercedes. He was a good driver—confident, but not over-confident. He drove the powerful machine well within the limits of the city’s speed restrictions. She thought it rather a waste to have such a powerful car if he lived in town. They headed north.

‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘how on earth you managed to survive two years working in a foreign country on your own.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she declared indignantly.

He shrugged, the glimmer of a smile playing on his lips. ‘If you thought I was running a massage parlour and escort agency, then your imagination must have been working overtime when you were abroad.’

She flushed. Her daydreaming had got her into trouble on more than one occasion. ‘I’m surprised you gave me the job.’

A brown hand expertly and swiftly changed down into second gear as a taxi shot out of a side-street and into their path. ‘I had a strong gut feeling about you, and I tend to rely on my instincts—where business is concerned, at any rate,’ he finished.

She began to wonder how he might respond where his emotions were concerned. If indeed he had any! She remembered his conceited remark about women displaying the ‘ripe-plum syndrome’—meaning, presumably, that they all fell eagerly into his arms, she thought acidly. But he’d been nothing but disparaging about her fellow job applicants, so he obviously wasn’t desperate for scalps to notch up. She sneaked a surreptitious side-glance at him in the darkness of the car. How old would he be? Early thirties? Involved? Someone as eligible as Max Ryder would be bound to be involved. Except that she couldn’t recall seeing any photographs in that vast office of his. Come to think of it, it had been one of the most impersonal rooms that she had ever been in. Stark and dramatic. Even the bonsai tree on the plain black desk had given nothing away. Stunning, but impersonal. A bit like him, really.

‘So you managed to spend two years on the Continent without getting yourself into any scrapes?’ he probed.

The way he said it made her feel about ten years old. ‘I’d been used to working in Portugal,’ she defended. ‘After two years I knew the job inside out and back to front. I got back to England and suddenly I felt like a stranger in my own country. When I walked into your building I felt totally out of place—it was so outside my experience that I imagined the worst possible scenario.’ She tucked one of the errant curls behind her ear and looked at him slightly nervously. ‘Do you understand what I mean?’

Unexpectedly he said, ‘I believe I do.’

The curl sprang back. ‘Can we forget it, and put it down to travel fatigue? By the way—it’s left here.’

The car swung up the tree-lined road. The trees were beginning to lose their leaves now. It seemed such a long time since she had lived here—a lifetime ago, really. Nick and Harry had been great flat-mates to have—kind and protective, just like the brothers she’d never had.

‘Nice area,’ he commented.

‘Yes, it is. Could you pull up here? It’s the second house, behind the van.’

The powerful car pulled smoothly to a halt. He turned to face her in the semi-darkness. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘Let me know if you need a hand with anything.’

‘Thanks.’ She climbed out of the low car, walked to the front door and pressed the bell.

She had to wait several minutes, and was contemplating leaving a note, when the door was opened and a tall, tousled-haired young man stood stock-still, and then a grin split his face in two.

‘Shauna!’ he said in surprise, and then, ‘Shauna!’ again in a tone of delight. ‘You dark horse, you! Why didn’t you say?’

‘Because I didn’t know until recently,’ she laughed. ‘And you know the advert you sent me? I got the job!’

‘You got the job!’ he echoed in delight, and before she could stop him he had caught her up in his arms and whirled her round and round.

‘Put me down, Harry,’ she giggled. ‘You’ll give yourself a hernia!’ But as he carefully lowered her back on to the step she saw over his shoulder that Max Ryder was no longer sitting in his car, but lounging against the bonnet—his expression in the darkness unreadable, but, even in that outwardly relaxed stance, there was no mistaking the coiled tension in the long limbs. Obviously, he must have seen Harry embrace her, and she wondered why she should mind that he had.

Harry looked at her closely. ‘You look fabulous, Shauna,’ he said quietly. ‘But pensive. Come in. Have a drink?’

She shook her head regretfully, eyeing the familiarly shabby hall with affection. ‘I can’t. I’ve got someone waiting. He’s offered me a job and accommodation. I’m here to collect my stuff.’

‘So? Invite him in, too.’

Shauna took in the overflowing books, the half-empty wine bottle, last Sunday’s—and the Sunday’s before that!—newspapers littering the floor. She could just imagine the minimalist, bonsai-loving Max Ryder fitting in here!

‘I don’t think so, Harry,’ she smiled at him fondly. ‘He hasn’t even shown me the flat, yet—and he’s expecting a phone call from Paris. But I’ll come round another night—you can cook me one of your famous Bolognese sauces, and we’ll catch up on all the gossip.’

Harry frowned. ‘If only we hadn’t let your old room out.’

‘I would hardly have expected you to hold on to it for two years!’ exclaimed Shauna. ‘That would be stretching friendship a little too far!’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘It was good of you to keep my stuff for me.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Listen, I’d better not keep—’

‘No, of course not. I’ll get your stuff.’ He retreated into the larger bedroom. ‘Nick will be sorry to have missed you,’ he called out. ‘Did you know he’s in love?’

‘He wrote and told me! What’s she like?’

He reappeared, carrying two large suitcases. ‘Great—when she’s not sitting gazing at him like a lovesick puppy!’

‘You next, then,’ teased Shauna.

‘Is that an offer?’ he smiled.

They heard a loud toot from outside before she had a chance to reply. Shauna knew immediately who it would be.

‘That’ll be my new boss,’ she explained. ‘I’d better go.’

Harry pushed the curtain open a crack. ‘Flash car,’ he observed. ‘What’s he like?’

Shauna peeped out—he was still standing there. ‘The kind of man your mother told you never to go out with—well, most mothers,’ amended Shauna.

‘Lucky devil,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘I have the opposite trouble—instant parental approval—very boring!’

There was a momentary pause. ‘Thanks for my free holiday,’ he smiled. ‘I had a great time.’

He’d travelled out to Portugal in the summer, and her boss had put him up for the fortnight.

She grinned her agreement. ‘Me too. And thanks again for finding me the ad.’

They stood for a moment, hands clasped like the old friends they were—their brief and youthful romance long forgotten. ‘I’ll carry your cases to the car for you,’ he said.

A dark figure loomed up out of the shadows. ‘There’s no need for that,’ contradicted a deep voice, and Shauna started to see Max Ryder standing there, automatically moving away to break the contact, wondering what had caused the faint upward curl of his lip.

She performed the necessary introductions, but she thought that her new boss was decidedly lukewarm in his greeting, and Harry was uncharacteristically taciturn. In fact, for some reason neither man seemed to like the other very much.

Amid promises to call soon, Shauna and Max roared off down the street. There was silence for a moment. Then he spoke.

‘I thought I asked you not to be long,’ he said tetchily as he put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘I hope I’m not going to miss my call.’

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically.

Max gave her a sideways glance. ‘After such a fond reunion, I’m surprised your lover doesn’t want you to stay with him.’

So he had seen them embrace. ‘He is not my lover,’ she said, in an angry voice. Not any more, she thought. An attempt at young love years ago which had fizzled out almost as soon as it had started. Not that she was going to explain that to him. He was her boss, and he had absolutely no right whatsoever to comment on her private life. ‘And even if he were, it’s none of your business.’ Which didn’t come out at all the way she had intended it to.

She saw his hands tighten on the steering-wheel, as if he was not used to being spoken to in such a way, and she might have tried to amend her snapped response, but a glance at the cold, hard profile told her that she would be wise to say nothing, so she stared out into the night as Hyde Park swept by them.

He didn’t speak again until they had arrived back in Mayfair. He was not, Shauna decided, the type of man to engage in meaningless pleasantries.

‘I’ll show you the apartment now.’ He frowned as he glanced again at the pale gold wristwatch. ‘You must be hungry.’

So he was back to being civil. ‘Starving,’ she admitted.

This time, the lift went right past the third floor where he’d interviewed her, and the doors opened straight into an enormous sitting-room. The carpet was white, and littered with Persian rugs. The walls were also white, with several large modern canvases which fitted in perfectly with the simple leather furniture.

Shauna suppressed a gasp. Surely he couldn’t mean that this was her flat? Compared to the dark cubby-hole she’d had in Lisbon, this place was like a palace.

‘The kitchen’s through here,’ he was saying. ‘There’s a bathroom off that passage over there, but of course your room has its own, en suite. This is your room here.’ He pushed open a door to reveal a sumptuously appointed bedroom, decorated in palest eau-de-Nil. ‘You’ll find that—apart from work—we’ll hardly see one another.’

Shauna’s mouth fell open. ‘We? What do you mean “we”?’

He sounded impatient. ‘The flat has three bedrooms, and a great deal of living space. We’ll hardly be on top of one another.’

Suddenly the tall, dark figure of Max Ryder appeared very slightly menacing, and involuntarily she took a step back. ‘But I didn’t know I was going to be sharing with you!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! We are living in the twentieth century, you know!’ he retorted. ‘Men and women do share flats these days—as you’ve obviously done yourself before. Or perhaps you consider yourself such a little sexpot that you think I won’t be able to keep my hands off you?’

‘No, I don’t!’ she parried, a blush creeping into her cheeks as her mind became alight with vivid images that his words had conjured up.

‘Well, that’s something,’ he said, with a kind of grim satisfaction. ‘Because, believe me, the last type of woman to attract me is some tall, skinny kid who doesn’t look old enough to be out of gym-slips!’

Shauna glared at him. It was one thing to decide that the man before her was the last person she’d ever fall for—it was quite another to discover that he felt exactly the same way—and his disparaging remarks made her bristle with indignation. Share a flat with him? Why, she’d rather share with a gang of escaped convicts!

‘And what about—privacy?’ she asked primly.

He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Privacy? Will you stop acting like the original vestal virgin? Slightly redundant anyway, since we’ve just collected your stuff from your ex-lover.’

He managed to make a young love-affair sound so sordid, she thought, her grey eyes sending out sparks of indignation.

‘You’ll have all the privacy you could possibly want,’ he continued. ‘For a start, I’m away in the country most weekends. Secondly, your room is on the opposite side of a very large flat, and it has its own bathroom. So does mine. So the chances of your coming across me in the raw are pretty remote.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The good news for both of us is that I’ll shortly be having the flat divided into two completely separate apartments. It would have been done already if I had been here to sort the damned builders out. Unfortunately, I’ve been out of the country.’

That explained the tan, thought Shauna.

His eyes were mocking as they surveyed her. ‘Now, are those arrangements secure enough for your Victorian sensibilities, or would you like me to throw in a chastity belt while I’m at it?’ He gave an unexpected grin as he saw her colour heighten yet again.

‘You know, you really are going to have to do something about that blushing, if you’re going to work for me. And you a woman of the world!’

His teasing immediately defused the atmosphere. ‘I am not a woman of the world, if that means what I think it means.’

He was staring at her curiously. ‘Tell me, you didn’t lie about your age in your letter, did you?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she flung back at him. ‘Of course I didn’t lie! Do you always think the worst of people, or are you just used to people lying to you?’

‘All the time,’ he mused. ‘Particularly women, and particularly about their age. Except that they usually lop a few years off, whereas in your case …’

There was something distinctly unsettling about the way those green eyes bored into her, she thought, but, refusing to rise to this, she stared steadily at him. ‘Will you be needing me this evening?’ she asked pointedly. ‘Because I’d like to unpack and—’

He shook his head. ‘You’re free until tomorrow morning at ten sharp. Oh, and there’s one more thing—house rules.’

‘I am very tidy,’ she interrupted. ‘And I do not leave dirty dishes in the sink.’

‘There’s a dishwasher, actually—and the maid comes in twice a week. No, I’ve only one rule and that’s no overnight guests. I don’t care who you go to bed with—just don’t do it here. I don’t intend to have my sleep disturbed.’

She went white beneath her tan and glared at him. He was obviously going out of his way to shock her, but he was going to be disappointed—she had absolutely no intention of rising to his challenge, or of offering him any information on the current state of her love-life. The question was whether she could put up with working for a man who could be quite so contentious. She continued to stare at him as she contemplated the only alternative, which would be to walk out of here right now.

She couldn’t. It was a brilliant job—she’d never find another like it. And if the only fly in the ointment was the conceited Max Ryder—well, surely she could put up with that? And at least he had made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t dream of making a pass at her, so in that sense, at least, she was quite safe with him.

The green eyes had been observing her with the faintest touch of amusement. ‘Changed your mind, have you?’

She pretended to look perplexed. ‘Changed my mind? About what?’

‘Staying.’

Her wide mouth closed in a determined line. Roll on the day when the builders arrived! ‘Certainly not, Mr Ryder. I look on it as a challenge.’

The glimmer of a smile. ‘Call me Max. And there’s plenty of food in the kitchen. Help yourself.’

‘Thank you very much,’ she answered politely, but, as she closed her bedroom door behind her, she reflected that her voracious appetite of earlier had mysteriously disappeared.

CHAPTER THREE

SHAUNA unpacked her cases and her holdall and hung everything up in the vast mirrored wardrobe, deciding wryly that she would really have to invest in some new clothes. What she had was OK, but there was so little of it. In Portugal she’d lived mostly in lightweight clothes which were totally inappropriate for the approaching English winter. At least the stuff she’d picked up at the flat was warmer, but, even so, it now looked terribly dated.

The bathroom looked like something out of an ideal home advertisement—all mirrors and lights and expensive-looking glass-topped bottles. She took a long, luxurious bath, which was heaven after all the travelling, and finished off in the shower, untying the rampant black curls and smothering them with shampoo, then conditioner. It took her almost half an hour to dry them, and by that time she was exhausted and barely had the energy to brush her teeth and climb into the king-sized bed. It had been a long day.

She had thought that she wasn’t hungry, but her stomach obviously thought differently since she woke up in the night feeling distinctly empty. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her fist, her heart sinking when she saw that her watch read only four a.m.—hardly the proper time to eat. Her stomach rumbled loudly in protest. Perhaps if she was very quiet, she could go and raid Max’s larder—he’d told her to help herself, after all.

She climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe. Barefooted, she quietly opened the bedroom door and listened for a moment. She could hear nothing other than the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Max Ryder’s bedroom door was closed, thank goodness. Silently she padded over the thick pile of the carpet, the soft woollen strands tickling her toes. She reached the kitchen and gently opened the door.

Whatever else he might or might not have done, Max Ryder certainly ate well. The fridge was full of salads, cold meats, cheeses, fruit, and an expensive-looking box of Belgian chocolates. Further hunting produced a bread-bin, and she cut herself two enormous slices of brown bread, buttered them, and layered salad and ham between them.

She had just found a full carton of orange juice and was about to open it when she heard a sound behind her and whirled round to find Max Ryder standing at the door, wearing nothing but a pair of faded denims—and only half-zipped, she noted in horror before averting her gaze from them so hastily that the carton of juice slipped from her fingers.

At precisely the same moment, they both lunged for the juice, Shauna’s outstretched hand making her lose her balance, her bare feet slipping wildly on the shiny tiles. She would have fallen awkwardly had his arm not reached out automatically and, as she toppled, he caught her.

Winded, she sagged against him, momentarily too dazed to be aware of anything other than his strength as he held her, of the tingling warmth of his hand as it casually spanned her back, and then, as her senses returned, she realised to her horror that she was clasped close to him, that her breasts were jutting firmly against the warm skin of his bare chest—their shape clearly defined through the wool of her robe. A strange wave of dizziness assailed her and colour washed her cheeks as she saw that the way she was leaning against him had caused a bare breast to slip free of the confines of her robe, so that almost the whole of the milky-pale globe—untouched by the hot summer sun—was visible.

She heard him swear beneath his breath and she hastily pulled away, breathing rapidly, unable to meet his eyes for embarrassment as she pulled the gown tightly around herself, as if it were armour-plating. The thick maroon dressing-gown had been chosen with no concessions to fashion, warmth and hard-wearingness being its main function, but all of a sudden she might have been clothed in some feminine little wisp of satin, she felt so exposed under his gaze.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he grated, in a loud, harsh voice, and she noticed a small muscle working on his left cheek. He pushed her out of the way almost roughly, slammed the orange juice down on the work surface, and stood facing her.

‘Is this your idea of entertainment?’ he demanded. ‘Hurling things around the kitchen at this Godforsaken hour? Not to mention yourself!’

‘That was an accident—I slipped on the floor. You frightened me,’ she protested.

‘Frightened you? You’re bloody lucky I didn’t rugby tackle you to the ground,’ he snapped. ‘I heard noises, and I thought it was an intruder.’

The remark about the rugby tackle was a little too close for comfort. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Does this mean that every time I walk around the apartment you’re going to start throwing yourself at me like the caped crusader?’

The green eyes were cold. ‘As I recall,’ he said icily, ‘it was you who threw yourself at me.’

‘And I told you it was an accident! I am now sharing this flat with you, in case you’d forgotten, and that means that from time to time I will be making some little noise or movement,’ she said, sweetly sarcastic.

‘It sounded like Nelly the Elephant stomping around,’ he retorted. ‘And do you always make a habit of eating sandwiches at four in the morning?’

Boss he might be—custodian he was not! ‘I eat when I’m hungry—like now! So if you wouldn’t mind letting me get on with it…’

‘I’m going,’ he snapped moodily. ‘Just try and make less noise on your return trip, will you? And put the light out.’

As he stomped out of the kitchen, she had to resist a very strong urge indeed to stick her tongue out at him. She waited until she heard his door close quietly, before perching on a stool and shakily pouring herself some juice.

He had implied that he was a tyrant. Tyrant? That was the understatement of the century! She could have provided a far more colourful description! He was the foulest-tempered, meanest man she’d ever encountered. She bit into the sandwich viciously. He also had one of the best bodies she’d ever seen—and she’d seen hundreds, bronzed and posing on beaches all over Portugal. There hadn’t been a trace of surplus flesh on that frame, even when he bent down. He had also been perfectly at ease with his semi-clothed state, completely unselfconscious, which was more than could be said about her.

She bit into the sandwich again, wishing that she could dispel the sinking wave of disconcertion that washed over her as she recalled the way that her breasts had pressed against him. The way in which her robe had fallen open… She pressed her knuckles to the sides of her head, the sandwich forgotten. What if he’d thought it deliberate? His ego was so immense, his opinion of women so low, that he probably hadn’t put it past her to wake him up in the middle of the night, and then to drape herself provocatively all over him, like some amateurish femme fatale.

A small groan escaped her. Please don’t let him think that, she prayed. After all, hadn’t one of his criteria for employing her been that she didn’t ‘fall into the man-eating tigress mould’?

She finished off the rest of the sandwich and stacked her plate and glass in the dishwasher. As she tiptoed back to bed, she resolved that, unless there was a fire, Max Ryder would never again see her in any form other than fully dressed—that way there could be no misinterpreting her motives!

Although there wasn’t much of the night left, Shauna opted for sleep, and, much to her surprise, it came. When she opened her eyes it was nine-fifteen and bright sunshine was streaming in through a crack in the silk curtains.

Ten o’clock sharp, he had said, so she had to hurry, although, as she towelled herself dry after a brief shower, she decided that it wouldn’t come as any great shock to her to learn that he had reconsidered his job offer after the orange juice incident.

She dressed in a simple black tunic, but she relieved its starkness with a scarlet ribbon at the nape of her neck which loosely tied back the thick black curls.

Feeling ready to face the world—or, more importantly, him—she opened her bedroom door, hoping against hope to find the sitting-room empty, but she was out of luck, for he sat there at the table by the window, as large as life, with a coffee-pot steaming in front of him.

He looked up as she entered, and she braced herself for a barrage of abuse, or a cold dismissal, but there was neither—he barely glanced up from his newspaper, except to say, ‘The coffee’s fresh,’ gesturing to the pot before him.

She hesitated for a moment, and eventually he looked up at her, his expression as inscrutable as if it had been carved in marble.

‘About last night,’ she began.

‘Forget it,’ came the curt rejoinder.

What was it that made her persist, when his tone expressly forbade it? ‘But I…’

‘I said forget it!’ The green eyes looked as dark as jade.

‘I didn’t want you to think—’ she began stubbornly. What? That she’d been out to seduce him?

‘Listen to me,’ he interrupted exasperatedly. ‘I thought nothing. Do you understand? Nothing. You may have thought it appropriate to act like some damsel in distress—personally I thought your reaction was way over the top.’ A cynical smile twisted his lips. ‘Cowering in the corner, defending your supposed honour. Believe me, what I saw was less than I’d have seen on any beach anywhere in the world, and certainly nothing to get excited about. So can we please drop it?’ He picked up his newspaper summarily. ‘Now eat up your toast like a good girl,’ he finished sarcastically.

She forced her hand to remain steady as she reached out for the coffee-pot, scarcely crediting what she’d heard, too stung by his cutting put-down to be able to think of a suitable retort. Nothing to get excited about! What a nerve! Of all the high-handed, arrogant swines, she thought as she determinedly ate her way through one slice of toast and began a second—she was not going to let him see how angry his hurtful comments had made her, by being off her food!

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