“Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do?”

“Maybe.”

Fran stared down at the silver gleam of the high-tech table, and thought of rich Sam Lockhart luring decent, hardworking girls like Rosie to his bed. When she eventually lifted her golden-brown head to meet her friend’s eyes, her own were deadly serious.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked at last.

Rosie didn’t even have to think about it. “Nothing too major.” She shrugged. “I’m not asking you to break any laws for me, Fran.”

“What, then?”

“Just pay him back.”

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…

Valentine Vendetta
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the only other literary agent as

gorgeous as Sam Lockhart,

the inestimable and inspirational

Giles Gordon

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘FRAN—I’m at my wit’s end! She seems to be having some kind of mid-life crisis!’

‘But she’s only twenty-six,’ said Fran.

‘Exactly!’

The memory of that phone call still burned in Fran’s ears. A dramatic phone call, from a woman not given to dramatization.

‘Just go and see her, would you, Fran?’ Rosie’s mother had pleaded. ‘Something has happened to upset her and I can’t get any sense out of her. But I suppose you girls don’t tell your mothers anything.’

‘So you’ve no idea what’s wrong?’ Fran had probed, thinking that it was rather flattering to be called a girl at the ripe old age of twenty-six!

‘I think it has to do with some man—’

‘Oh,’ said Fran drily. ‘The usual story.’

‘And that life isn’t worth living any more.’

‘She said what?’ That had been the statement which had brought Fran up short and had her booking the next London-bound flight out of Dublin. Not that she believed for a minute that Rosie would do anything stupid—but she was normally such a happy-go-lucky person. For her mother to be this worried, things must be bad.

Now she could see for herself that they were worse than bad.

She had found Rosie curled up like a baby on the sofa of one very cold flat. And the conversation had gone round and round in a loop, consisting of Rosie saying, Oh, Fran. Fran! Fran!’ Followed by a renewed bout of shuddering tears.

‘Ssssh, now. It’s all right.’ Fran squeezed her friend’s shoulder tightly as the tears came thick and fast. ‘Why don’t you take a deep breath, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.’

Rosie made a sound like a cat who was trying to swallow a mouse in one. ‘C-c-can’t!’ she shuddered.

‘Off the top of my head, I’d say it’s a man?’ said Fran, thinking that it might be wise not to mention the worried phone call. Not just yet.

Rosie nodded.

‘So tell me about him.’

‘He’s….he’s…oh!’

‘He’s what?’ prompted Fran softly.

‘He’s a bastard—and I still love him!’

Fran nodded. So. As she had thought. The usual story. She’d heard women pour the same sorry tale out countless times before and the more cruel the man, the more they seemed to love him. She wondered if some women were so lacking in self-esteem that they chose someone who would walk all over them. But she wouldn’t have put Rosie in that category. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘No, you don’t, Fran!’ Rosie shook her head in frustration. ‘You say you do but you don’t! How could anyone see? You just sit there with that seen-it-all-before look on your face—’

‘I’ve never seen you like this before,’ Fran disagreed immediately. ‘And I’ve known you most of your life! And before you insult me much more, Rosie Nichols—I might just remind you that I’ve flown over at top speed from Dublin, in answer to an urgent request from your mother that I find out exactly what’s wrong with you.’

‘My mother asked you to come?’

‘She wasn’t interfering, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was just worried, and wanted me to see how you were.’

Rosie looked at her defiantly. ‘So now you know.’

Fran shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she corrected grimly. ‘I haven’t even started yet! All I know is that I walk into your flat which looks as though a major war has broken out—to find you sitting in a pathetic heap looking gaunt and tear-stained—sobbing bitterly about some mystery man whose name you can’t bring yourself to utter—’

‘Sam,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘His name is Sam.’

‘Sam!’ echoed Fran with a ghost of a smile. ‘That’s Sam whose paternity you questioned just a minute ago, is it? And does this Sam have a surname?’

‘It’s Lockhart.’ Rosie looked at her expectantly. ‘Sam Lockhart.’

‘Sam Lockhart.’ Fran considered this. ‘Cute name. Catchy.’

‘You haven’t heard of him?’

‘No. Should I have done?’

‘Maybe not. But he’s rich and gorgeous and those kind of attributes tend to get you known—especially among women.’

‘Tell me more.’

Rosie shrugged her shoulders morosely. ‘He’s a literary agent. The best. They say if Sam takes you on, you’re almost certain to end up living in tax-exile! He’s got an instinctive nose for a best seller!’

Fran tried not to look too disapproving. ‘And I suppose he’s married?’

‘Married? You’re kidding!’ Rosie shook her head so that wild curls spilled untidily around her face. ‘What do you take me for?’

Fran breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, he’s not completely bad, then,’ she said. ‘Married men who play away from home are the worst. And I should know!’ She flicked Rosie another look. ‘Has he ever been married?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘No, he’s single. Still single,’ she added, and stared down at her chewed fingernails as tears began to splash uninhibitedly onto her hands.

Fran gave Rosie’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘Want to tell me all about it?’

‘I guess,’ said Rosie listlessly.

‘How long since you’ve eaten?’

Rosie shrugged. ‘I had coffee for breakfast—but there’s nothing much in the flat.’

Resisting the urge to remark that judging by the general air of neglect any food would probably carry a health warning, Fran shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said gently. ‘I’m taking you out for dinner.’

Rosie momentarily brightened until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. ‘But I can’t go out looking like this!’

‘Too right—you can’t,’ agreed Fran calmly. ‘So go and do something to your hair, slap on some warpaint and for goodness sake, lose those hideous baggy trousers!’

An hour later, they were installed in a booth at ‘Jacko’s!’—a restaurant/bar which had just opened up on the water’s edge at one of London’s less fashionable riverside locations. It had the indefinable buzz of success about it. Fran smiled up at the waitress whose skirt barely covered her underwear and ordered two alien-sounding cocktails from the menu.

She stared across the table at Rosie whom she had known since they were both fat-faced three-year-olds toddling into school on their first day at Nursery, where Rosie had demonstrated her ability for attracting trouble by losing her teddy bear down the side of a bookcase. And Fran had slipped her small hand in and retrieved it.

It had set a pattern for their school years. Rosie got herself into a scrape and Fran got her out of it! Since Fran had moved to Dublin five years ago, their paths rarely crossed, but after a few minutes back in her old friend’s company, Fran felt as if they’d never been apart.

Well, maybe not quite.

Rosie seemed terribly distracted, jumpy even—but maybe in the circumstances that was understandable. Her face looked harder, too. But Fran told herself that people changed—she had changed herself. She had had to. That was all part of life’s rich tapestry. Or so they said….

‘Now tell me,’ she said firmly. ‘Just who Sam Lockhart is—and why you’ve fallen in love with him.’

‘Oh, everyone falls in love with him!’ Rosie gave a gloomy shrug. ‘You can’t help yourself.’

‘Then it’s a pity I can’t meet him,’ observed Fran. ‘Since that sounds like the sort of challenge it would give me great pleasure to resist!’

‘I’d like to see you try!’

Fran liberated a smooth strand of hair which had somehow become all twisted up in the string of pearls she wore and fixed her friend with a stern expression. ‘In my earlier life as an agony aunt on a well-known Dublin radio station,’ she said, ‘I soon learnt that the easiest way to forget a man is to start thinking of him as a mere mortal and not as a god. Debunk the myth, that’s what I say!’

Rosie screwed her nose up. ‘Come again?’

‘Stop making everything about him seem so wonderful and extraordinary—’

‘But it is!’

Fran shook her head. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. Try concentrating on all the bad things about him instead!’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, I don’t know the man, so I can’t really help you with that. But instead of describing him as, say, utterly unobtainable, tell yourself that he’s arrogant and distant and nobody in their right mind would want to live with him! Right?’

‘Er, right,’ said Rosie doubtfully.

Fran winced as a silver beaker of what looked and smelt like cough medicine was placed in front of her. She took a tentative sip through the straw and nearly shot off the edge of her seat before a dreamy kind of lethargy began to melt her bones. Still, some light an-aesthetic might be just what Rosie needed.

‘Drink up,’ she instructed and leaned forward eagerly as she began to slide the drink across the table towards Rosie. ‘And tell me what happened. Like—where did you meet him?’

Rosie took a quick slug of the cocktail. ‘Remember when I did that stint as a secretary for Gordon-Browne—that big firm of literary agents? Well, Sam was their star player and we got kind of, you know…involved.’

Fran nodded, thinking how unusually coy Rosie sounded. ‘So how long did it last?’

‘Er, not as long as I would have liked.’

‘And when did it end?’

‘Oh, ages ago now,’ gulped Rosie vaguely. ‘Months and months. Longer, even. Over two years,’ she admitted at last.

‘Two years?’ Fran blinked. ‘But surely you should be getting over it by now?’

‘Why?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘How long did it take you to get over the breakup of your marriage to Sholto?’

‘Oh, no.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me. Surely you haven’t been like this since it ended?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t—but my life has never been the same since Sam. He brought me bad luck. I haven’t been able to settle into another job or another relationship. And now I’ve heard….’ Her voice tailed off into silence.

Fran hoped to high heaven that this man Sam hadn’t done something like announcing his engagement to someone else. That would be hard. Though maybe a brutal demonstration of his love for someone else might be just the cure that Rosie actually needed. ‘Heard what?’ she asked.

‘He’s planning to throw a ball. Which is totally out of character!’

Which immediately told Fran that he must be rich. And well connected. ‘And?’

‘It’s a Valentine’s Day Ball. And I want to be invited,’ said Rosie fiercely.

‘Well, you might be. Don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. But I would, wouldn’t I—if you were organizing it! You’d make sure of that!’ Rosie’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.

Fran shook her head as she saw which way the conversation was heading. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Fran, it’s your job! That’s what you do for a living, you plan people’s parties for them.’

‘Yes, you’re right, I do. But it’s also my livelihood, Rosie, and I have my reputation to think of. Huge, high-profile society balls aren’t really my thing. And I don’t just go around using these events to settle grudges for friends—however much I love them. Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do. Or is it just an invitation you’re after? You want to dress to kill and then knock his socks off, is that it?’

‘Maybe.’

Fran gave a wistful smile. ‘It won’t work, you know. It never does. If this man Sam has fallen out of love with you—then nothing you can say or do will bring him back. Nothing,’ she emphasised flatly. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid.’

Rosie bit down on her lip. ‘But he never was in love with me.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Fran’s eyes softened. ‘Well, in that case I’m very sorry, hon,’ she said gently. ‘What can I say?’

Rosie took a mouthful of Fran’s discarded cocktail, then looked up, her eyes two fierce burning stars in her face. ‘I was just another virgin for Sam to seduce,’ she said dully. ‘To pick up and discard once he’d had what he wanted!’

Something primitive cracked like an old bone inside Fran’s head. She remembered their schoolgirl dreams about men and rice and white dresses and knew she should not be shocked at what Rosie had just told her—certainly not in this day and age, and yet she was shocked. Deeply. ‘He took your virginity?’ she said slowly. ‘Did he know?’

‘Yes, of course he knew.’ Rosie gave a cynical laugh. ‘I saved it, Fran. I saved my virginity for the man I loved.’

But he didn’t love you back, Fran thought, flexing her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring the movement of a fat, ginger cat who lay sprawled across one corner of the bar. ‘And in spite of not loving you—he took the most precious thing you had to offer?’

‘That’s right,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘And I wasn’t the only one!’

‘You mean there were others?’

‘Hundreds!’

‘Hundreds?’

‘Well, tens anyway. Loads!’ Rosie spat the word out. ‘Women who adored him. Women he didn’t give tup-pence for! Women who were all too easy to trick into his bed!’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘I wish I was!’

Fran stared down at the silver gleam of the high-tech table, and thought of rich Sam Lockhart luring decent, hard-working girls like Rosie into his bed. A powerful man abusing that power to seduce innocent young women.

When she eventually lifted her golden-brown head to meet her friend’s eyes, her own were deadly serious. She remembered the scrapes that Rosie had managed to land herself in at school, scrapes that Fran had somehow always got her out of. But this was different. Was it her place to help, even if she could?

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked at last.

Rosie didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Nothing too major,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m not asking you to break any laws for me, Fran.’

‘What then?’

‘Just pay him back.’

CHAPTER TWO

FRAN’S fingers hovered uncertainly over the push-button telephone and she smiled at the irony of her situation. She was actually shaking. Shaking. She who was frightened of no man or no thing, was trembling like a schoolgirl at the thought of ringing Sam Lockhart.

Five minutes earlier she had already tapped the numbers out before hanging up immediately in a panic. Then thought how absolutely stupid that was! What if he had one of those sophisticated telephones which told him exactly who had called? He was probably used to lovesick women dialling the number and then changing their minds and hanging up. Did she want to arouse his suspicions by doing the same?

She punched the numbers out again, and listened to the ringing tone, certain that some minion would answer his mobile phone for him.

‘Hel-lo?’ The deep, velvety voice ringing down the line was as unexpected as it was irresistible. It had to be him—minions didn’t sound like sex gods—and Fran had to frown with concentration to keep her voice steady.

‘Sam Lockhart?’ she said.

‘Speaking.’

She drew a deep breath. ‘Mr. Lockhart, you don’t know me—’

‘Not unless you decide to tell me your name, I don’t,’ he agreed softly.

Mistake number one. Ring someone up to try and drum up their business, and then manage to sound as unprofessional as possible! ‘It’s Fran,’ she said quickly. ‘Fran Fisher.’

She could practically hear his mind flipping through its backlog of female names and coming up with a definite blank. But he was either too polite or too cautious to say so. Maybe he thought she was another in the long line of willing virgins offering herself up for pleasurable sacrifice!

‘Are you a writer?’ he asked in the wary and weary tone of someone who got more than their fair share of calls from would-be authors.

‘No, I’m not.’

A sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that!’ A note of caution returned to the deep voice. ‘So what exactly can I do for you, Fran Fisher?’

‘Actually, it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Mr. Lockhart.’

‘Oh?’

In that one word Fran heard resignation—as if he was gearing himself up to withstand a crude attempt at flirtation. Which, according to Rosie—was an occupational hazard when you happened to be Sam Lockhart.

And which meant there was nothing to be gained by playing for time. That would irritate a man like this, not intrigue him. She tried her most businesslike approach. ‘Mr. Lockhart, I understand you’re planning to hold a ball on Valentine’s Day—’

‘Are you a journalist?’ he snapped.

‘No, I’m not!’

‘Who are you, then?’

‘I told you—’

‘I don’t need you to tell me your name again! I’ve never met you before, have I?’

Well, it had taken him long enough to decide that and he still didn’t sound one hundred per cent certain! She wondered how he would react if she adopted a sultry accent and purred, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘No,’ she said stiffly. ‘You’ve never met me.’

‘Yet you know the number of my mobile?’

She was tempted to mention that he was stating the obvious, but resisted. ‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Er, your agency gave me the number.’

‘Well, they shouldn’t have!’ he snapped. ‘Certainly not to a complete stranger!’ There was silence down the line for a moment. ‘You’ve never met me and you’re not a writer,’ he mused. ‘So what exactly is your angle, Fran Fisher?’

If it hadn’t been for Rosie she probably would have hung up on him there and then. How absolutely ridiculous he sounded! Quizzing her as though she were some sort of second-rate spy and he the valuable prize within her sights! ‘My “angle”,’ she said sweetly, ‘is that I’m a professional party-planner—’

‘But unsuccessful?’ he suggested drawlingly.

‘On the contrary!’ she defended. ‘I’m extremely successful!’

‘So successful, in fact,’ he continued, ‘that you need to spend your time making cold calls to strangers in order to drum up a little business? I thought that your line of work relied solely on word-of-mouth recommendation?’

‘Yes, of course it does! Normally…’ She pulled a hideous face as she imagined him standing in the room with her. She wanted to dislike him, for Rosie’s sake—and the way he was speaking to her meant that she didn’t have to try very hard. But her dilemma lay in disliking him too much. Because if that happened, it would undoubtedly show in her attitude towards him, and then he certainly wouldn’t give her the job! ‘But I have to help things on their way. I’ve been working in Ireland, you see—’

He sounded weary. Like a man used to being bombarded with ambition. ‘And now you want to break into the market over here?’

‘Er…yes,’ she stumbled, caught off guard. No need to tell him that this was going to be a one-off! ‘Yes, I do. Actually, I’m quite well-known in Dublin. Ask anyone. And I’ve organised lots of fund-raisers—’

‘Have you really?’ he questioned, clearly not believing a word she said.

Fran bristled. ‘I expect that if I mentioned some of my clients, their names would be instantly recognizable—even to you, Mr. Lockhart,’ she told him stiffly.

‘For example?’ he shot back.

‘I did some corporate work for the Irish Film Festival a couple of years ago, and on the back of that I got quite a few private functions. Cormack Casey, the screenwriter—he recommended me—’

‘Cormack?’ he interrupted, in surprise. ‘You know him?’

‘Well, not intimately,’ she said, then wished she hadn’t because it was obvious from the faint and disapproving intake of breath that he had misinterpreted her words. ‘I organised the catering for the baptism of his first child.’

‘Did you indeed?’ asked Sam, in surprise. He’d been invited to that very same baptism, but a book tour in the States by one of his best-selling authors had put paid to that. ‘And if I rang Cormack—he’d vouch for you, would he?’

‘I certainly hope so. Triss—that’s his wife—’

‘I know who Triss is. I’ve known Cormack for years.’

‘Oh. Well, she told me they’d be happy to help with references.’ Fran suspected that the handsome Irish writer and his model wife had felt sorry for her. At the time she had been thinking about filing for a divorce from Sholto, and the baptism had been the only joyous thing in her life. She had poured her heart and soul into making the party match the moving ceremony of baptism, and she had been inundated with work ever since….

‘Did she?’ Sam Lockhart sounded impressed.

Fran cleared her throat, sensing that this was just the right time to appeal to his greed. ‘The thing is, Mr. Lockhart—if you hire me to organise your ball for you, then I guarantee we will raise more money than you ever dreamed of.’

‘That’s fighting talk,’ Sam commented drily, then added, ‘Who told you about it, by the way?’

‘You mean the ball?’

‘No, Man landing on the moon!’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘Yes, of course I mean the ball!’

This might have been tricky if she hadn’t anticipated the question. But Rosie had said that he was vain enough and realistic enough to know that everyone in his circle and beyond, would be clamouring for an invitation.

‘Oh, no one in particular,’ she said vaguely. ‘You know what it’s like. People talk. Particularly before an event has been organised—it gives them a certain cachet if they know about a highly desirable party before it’s officially been advertised.’ She drew a deep breath and added shamelessly, ‘And believe me, Mr. Lockhart—from what I understand—this is going to be the hottest ticket in town.’

‘I hope so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I already have someone in mind for the job, I’m afraid. Several women have already offered—’

She could imagine! ‘Amateurs?’ asked Fran sharply. ‘Or professionals?’

‘Well, all of them have organised similar functions before—’

‘You know exactly where you are with a professional,’ put in Fran smoothly.

‘Really?’ He sounded unconvinced.

It was time for a little feminine desperation. To see whether a breathy, heartfelt plea would get through to the man Rosie had described as a ‘virile robot.’ ‘Won’t you at least see me, Mr. Lockhart?’ she questioned.

‘I’m a busy man.’

‘Well, of course you are!’ She used the soothing tone of a children’s nanny, then added a little flattery for good measure. ‘Successful men always are. But could you forgive yourself if your hectic schedule meant that your ball didn’t fulfill all your expectations, simply because you wouldn’t make time to see me?’

He actually laughed at this—a bubbling, honeyed chuckle—and it was such a warm and sexy sound that Fran found herself gripping the receiver as though it might fly out of her fingers.

‘Determination is a quality I admire almost as much as self-belief,’ he mused. ‘Provided it is backed up by talent—’

‘Oh, it is!’

There was a pause. ‘Very well, Miss Fisher—I’ll give you exactly ten minutes to convince me that I’d be a fool not to employ you.’

Thank God! ‘You won’t regret it, Mr. Lockhart,’ she enthused, hoping that her voice carried no trace of insincerity. ‘Tell me where and tell me when and I’ll be there!’

‘Okay. How about this afternoon?’

‘You mean today?’

‘Well, I certainly don’t mean tomorrow,’ he purred. ‘I’m flying to Europe with one of my authors later on this evening. I can see you at home—briefly—before I leave.’

He managed to make it sound as though he was making an appointment for her at the dentist—and come to think of it, her adrenalin levels were as high as they might have been if he were a dentist! ‘In London?’ she guessed hopefully, since Rosie had already informed her that he had a flat in town and a house somewhere in the country.

‘No, in Cambridge,’ he stated.

‘Cambridge,’ she repeated faintly, her heart sinking as she thought of travelling to the flat, ploughed fields of the fens on a filthy cold November afternoon. Maybe on a fool’s mission.

‘Is getting to Cambridge going to be a problem for you, Miss Fisher?’ he questioned. ‘It’s hardly on the other side of the world, you know!’

Rule number one: a party-planner must be prepared for any eventuality! ‘Problem? None whatsoever!’ she lied cheerfully. ‘Just give me a few easy-to-understand directions and I’ll be there in time for tea!’

‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, and Fran could have sworn that he was laughing at her.

The light was already fading from the sky when the train pulled into Eversford station and the bleak, unwelcoming platform made Fran feel as though she was on the film-set of an old-fashioned murder mystery.

She knotted her scarf tightly around her neck and looked around. Sam Lockhart had told her where she could get a cab and she walked out of the station into the dreary afternoon, where a fine mist of grey rain clogged the air and slicked onto the roofs of the cars like grease.

There was no one else in the queue and the driver looked at her with interest as she told him the name of the house.

‘Sam Lockhart’s place,’ he commented, as he switched on his meter and pulled out of the station forecourt.

‘You know it?’

‘Should do. He brings us plenty of work. Thought that’s where you’d be headed,’ he said, smiling.

Fran, who was hunting around in her handbag for a mirror, paused, mid-search. ‘Oh?’ She smiled back. ‘Can you guess where all your passengers are headed, then?’

‘No. Just his.’ The driver stopped at some red lights and grinned at her in his rear mirror. ‘If it’s someone glamorous getting off the London train, then the odds are that she wants to go out to Sam Lockhart’s place!’

Fran bristled as the driver’s giveaway remark reminded her why she was here in the first place. Poor Rosie! ‘Oh?’ She thought how indignant she sounded! ‘He has a whole stream of women arriving here, does he?’

The driver shook his head hastily. ‘Oh, no! Never more than one at a time!’ he joked. ‘And we only notice because nothing much happens around here. It’s a pretty isolated place.’

‘So I see.’ Fran looked out of the window as the buildings and lights of the town began to get more sparse and the landscape began to acquire the vast, untouched emptiness of perfectly flat countryside. It could have been boring, but she thought that it had a stark, distinctive beauty all of its own. Even so, its very bleakness did not fit in with her idea of where a sex god would live. Why had he chosen to settle out here, she wondered, when he could be raving it up in London? ‘Is it very far?’

‘Another couple of miles,’ he answered, slowing the car right down as the lane narrowed. ‘Writer, are you?’

‘Not me, I’m afraid!’ she told him cheerfully, and picked up her hand mirror to see what sort of face Sam Lockhart would be greeted by.

Unexciting was the word which immediately sprang to mind.

Her skin looked too pale, but then it always did—and the green-gold eyes could have done with a little more mascara to make the best of them. But apart from the fact that she had left in a hurry, Fran had deliberately played safe, unwilling to look as though she’d spent hours in front of the mirror in an effort to impress Sam Lockhart. Apart from the fact that it just wasn’t her style—sex gods were used to women slapping on the entire contents of their make-up bags. She knew that from living with her husband. So she would be different. Because there was one other thing she knew about that particular breed of man…they were easily bored and something different always intrigued them.

So she had contented herself with a slick of nude lipstick which simply looked like she had been licking her lips. Just enough make-up to look as though she wasn’t wearing any at all—but only a woman would be able to tell that!

‘Here we are!’ said the driver. The car slowed down and began indicating right as a high, dark hedge began to loom up beside them. Before her stretched a long drive which curved off unexpectedly to the left, and impulse made her lean over to tap the driver on the shoulder.

‘Would you mind stopping here?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long drive.’

‘I can see that. I don’t mind walking. In fact I’d rather walk. I just want to get the…feel…of the place first.’ That first gut reaction to someone’s home was invaluable. Houses and owners taken unawares told you volumes about what they were really like—and the better you knew a client, the better you would be able to judge the perfect party for their particular needs. A car drawing up outside would alert Sam Lockhart to her arrival and that would not do. She wanted to see the face of the seducer taken off guard.

Ignoring the driver’s curious expression, she paid her fare and gave him a healthy tip.

‘Thanks very much, Miss. Will you be wanting to go back to the station…tonight?’ He put the question so delicately that Fran might have laughed if she weren’t feeling so indignant on Rosie’s behalf. What was Lockhart running here, for goodness’ sake? A harem?

‘Yes, I will,’ she answered crisply. ‘But I don’t know what time that will be—so if you’d give me one of your cards I’ll ring.’

She waited until the red tail-lights of the car had retreated before setting off up the wide path, her sensible brown leather boots sending little shoals of gravel spraying in her wake.

The grounds—they were much too extensive to be called a garden—wore the muddy, leafless brown of a winter coat, but the sparse flower-beds were curved and beautifully shaped, and the trees had been imaginatively planted to stand dramatically against the huge, bare sky.

The house was old. A beautifully proportioned whitewashed villa which was perfect in its simplicity.

And it looked deserted.

Moving quietly, Fran crept forward to peer into one of the leaded windows at the front of the house, and nearly died with shock when she saw a man sitting in there, before the golden flicker of a log fire. A dark, denim-clad figure sprawled in a comfortable-looking armchair, his long legs stretched in front of him as he read from what looked like a manuscript.

She came to within nose-pressing distance of the window and her movement must have caught his attention, for he looked up from his reading and his dark-featured face registered no emotion whatsoever at seeing her standing there. Not surprise or fright or irritation. Not even a mild curiosity.

Then he pointed a rather dismissive finger in the direction of the front of the house and mimed, ‘the door’s open.’

And started reading again!

How very rude, she thought! Especially when she’d travelled all this way to see him! Fran crunched her way over to the front door, pushed it open and stepped inside, narrowing her eyes with surprise as she looked around.

It wasn’t what she had expected.

On the wooden floor lay mud-covered wellington boots, a gardening catalogue, a pair of secateurs and a battered old panama hat. Waterproof coats and jackets were heaped on the coat stand and a variety of different coloured umbrellas stood in an untidy stack behind the front door. The walls were deep and scarlet and womblike and welcoming.

So where were the wall-to-wall mirrors and the shaggy fur rugs where he made lots of love to lots of different women?

It felt like coming home, she thought, with an unwelcome jolt. And it shouldn’t, she told herself fiercely. This was the house of the man who was responsible for Rosie’s heartache—not the house of her dreams!

She turned and walked along a narrow corridor which led to the study and stood framed in the doorway with the light behind her.

He looked up, all unshaven and ruffled, as if he’d just got out of bed. Or hadn’t been to bed. ‘Hi,’ he said, and yawned. ‘You must be Fran Fisher.’

His eyes were the most incredible shade of deep blue, she noticed—night-dark and piercing and remarkable enough to eclipse even the rugged symmetry of his face. With the jeans went untidy, slightly too-long hair, making him more rock-star than literary agent.

Yes, Fran thought, her heart pounding like a mad thing. No wonder Rosie had fallen so badly. He looked exactly like a sex god! ‘And you must be Sam Lockhart,’ she gulped.

He shot a brief glance at his wristwatch and she found herself thinking that she had never seen a man so at ease in his own skin as this one.

‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘That’s me!’

‘Nice of you to come to the door and meet me!’

‘If you can’t manage to navigate your way from the front door to the study, then I think you’re in the wrong job, honey.’ He yawned again. ‘Come in and sit down.’

Fran gazed around the room. ‘Where?’

Sam conceded that she did have a point. Just about every available surface was given over to manuscripts of varying thicknesses. Some had even overflowed from his desk to form small paper towers on the Persian rug.

‘Don’t you ever clear up after you?’ she asked, before she had time to think about whether or not it was a wise question.

‘If you tidy manuscripts away, you lose them,’ he shrugged, as he rescued the telephone from underneath a shoal of papers. ‘At least if they’re staring you in the face you can’t hide away from the fact that you need to get around to reading them sometime!’

The blue eyes glanced rather absently around the study. ‘Though maybe it is a little cluttered in here. The sitting room is just along there.’ He pointed towards a low door at the far end of the room. ‘Why don’t you trot along and wait for me in there. Make yourself comfortable. I’m expecting a call any minute, but I shan’t be long.’

‘Please don’t rush on my account,’ she gritted, irritated at being told to trot along—as if she was some kind of pit-pony!

This drew a sardonic smile. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

The first thing Fran decided when she walked into Sam Lockhart’s sitting room, was that there was no woman living in the house with him—or if there was, then she must be a very passive and insipid woman because the place had masculinity stamped indelibly all over it. Deep, bold colours and substantial furniture.

Fran was used to being in strangers’ houses; it was part of her job. She knew how much a home environment could tell you about a person, and over the years she had become an expert at reading the signs of domestic bliss.

Or turmoil.

The room had all the untidy informality of truly bachelor territory. For a start he seemed to be incapable of throwing away a single newspaper—since she could see Sunday supplements dating back from the previous month, and beyond. And there were enough books heaped on a low table and on the floor surrounding it for him to consider opening his own personal library! She crouched briefly to scan some of the titles and was alarmed to see that they shared some of the same taste in authors. Disturbing.

She rose to her feet and carried on looking. There were no photos scattered anywhere, but that didn’t really surprise her. Women were the ones who put photos in a room—reminders of great family occasions like engagements and weddings and christenings. Which were also a mark of possession and ownership—marks that men seemed to need less than woman.

She picked up a beautifully worked tapestry cushion which was lying on the chair, and was so busy examining it that she didn’t hear him come into the room. It was only when she turned around to find herself being studied intently by a pair of dark-blue eyes that Fran realised he was standing watching her.

Still holding onto the cushion, she blinked. As well as taking the phone call, he must have washed his face and swiftly shaved the blue-black blur of shadow away from the square chin. And run a comb through the dark tangle of his hair. He had put a dark sweater on too, and the soft navy cashmere clung to the definition of broad shoulders.

Suddenly, his blue eyes looked even bluer, so that their soft brilliance seemed to cut right through you, like a sword. Oh, my goodness, she thought weakly, he really is gorgeous. Fran clutched the cushion against her chest, like a breastplate, and saw him frown.

‘Planning to take that home with you?’ he queried softly.

Fran stared down at the cushion in her hands. On one side the single word Sam was embroidered, in a heart-shaped frame made of tiny scarlet flowers. On the other side was an intricately crafted message which said, A love given can never be taken away.

‘This is beautiful,’ she said politely, wondering who the maker of the cushion was. Someone who obviously adored him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’

So why did his face close up so that it looked all shuttered and cold?

‘Yes,’ he said repressively. ‘It is.’

Part of her job was asking questions; making connections. If she saw something she liked she tried to find out where it came from, because you never knew when you might want one just like it. ‘Do you mind me asking where you got it from?’

His eyes narrowed and Fran was surprised by the sudden appearance of pain which briefly hardened their appearance from blue to bruise. So he could be hurt, could he?

‘Yes, I do mind! I told you that I had a plane to catch,’ he said coldly. ‘Yet you seem to want to spend what little time we have discussing soft furnishings.’

Feeling slightly fazed at the criticism, Fran quickly put the cushion back down on the sofa and looked at him expectantly. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said lightly. ‘Force of habit.’

He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. ‘Why don’t we just get down to business.’

Standing there, with her sheepskin coat making her feel distinctly overdressed, Fran felt hot and out-of-place and very slightly foolish. He could have done with a crash course in common courtesy, she thought. ‘Mind if I take my coat off first?’

‘Feel free.’

She noticed that he didn’t attempt to help her remove the heavy, fur-lined garment and was irritated with herself for even caring. He was a future client—hopefully—not somebody she would be taking home to meet her mother!

She draped the coat over the arm of a chair and stood in front of him, feeling slightly awkward, and not in the least bit confident. So now what did she do? She found herself wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes of his. And what he saw when he looked at her in that curiously intent way of his.

Her clothes were practical and comfortable, in that order—it went with the job. Very short skirts which meant you couldn’t bend over without inhibition were out. So were spindly and unsafe heels designed to make legs look longer. But although Fran was a little curvier than she would have ideally liked, she was also tall enough to carry off most clothes with style. Today, her brown woollen skirt skimmed her leather-booted ankles and the warm, cream sweater cleverly concealed the thermal vest which lay beneath.

She glanced at him to see if there was any kind of reaction to her appearance, but Sam Lockhart’s expression remained as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Now why did that bother her? Because the arch-philanderer didn’t think she warranted a second look? For heaven’s sake, woman, she told herself—you’re here to avenge some broken hearts—not join their ranks!

‘So are you going to sit down?’ he murmured. ‘I’d prefer to stretch my legs before my flight, but there’s no reason why the interview should be uncomfortable for you, is there?’

‘Er, no, I’ll stay standing,’ she stumbled. ‘W-what interview?’

‘The interview which helps me decide whether to give you the job or not.’ A mocking look. ‘What else did you think this was going to be? A tea party? I have to decide whether I want you to work for me and you have to decide whether or not you could bear to.’ Another mocking look. ‘Or did you think the job would be yours the moment I stared into those great big golden-green eyes of yours?’

Fran blinked with astonishment. So, beneath that cool exterior he had been noticing the way she looked! ‘No, of course I didn’t!’ she retorted, feeling slightly reassured that he had started to flirt with her. It kind of reinforced what Rosie had told her to expect. ‘I’m a professional through and through and I’d never use sex appeal to sell myself!’

‘Not consciously, perhaps?’ he challenged softly. ‘But most women use their sex quite ruthlessly—in my experience.’

‘And that’s extensive, is it?’ she challenged in return.

‘That depends on your definition of extensive,’ came the silky reply. ‘But I would advise against making assumptions like that about a man you’ve only just met.’

There was nothing to be gained by irritating him, and clearly she was irritating him. Very much. ‘Sorry,’ she backtracked hastily.

‘So can I see your portfolio?’ he asked.

‘My…portfolio?’

‘You do have a portfolio showing me examples of your work?’

‘Of course I do,’ she said. She just hadn’t been planning on using it…‘But unfortunately I had to leave it with a client in Ireland. Anyway, word-of-mouth is the best recommendation—and the only way you can assess my work is to speak to some of the people who’ve hired me in the past.’

‘I already did.’

She shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was. ‘Who?’

‘Cormack Casey. His was the only name you gave me. Fortunately he’s the kind of man I trust.’

Fran blinked. On the phone he had said that he knew Cormack, but the warmth in his voice suggested a deeper relationship than mere acquaintanceship. ‘You mean you’re friends?’

‘Yes, we are. What’s the matter?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sound surprised?’

Well, she was. Because Cormack, for all his good looks and sex appeal, was fiercely loyal to his wife, Triss. A one-woman man. A man with morals. So how come he was matey with the arch-heartbreaker Sam Lockhart?

‘What did Cormack tell you about me?’

‘That you were good.’ There was a pause. ‘Very good.’

‘Now you sound surprised!’ she observed.

He shrugged. ‘People who are good don’t usually have to go out looking for business. Not in your line of work. Cormack was a little taken aback when I told him you’d rung me. In fact, he found it difficult to believe.’

Fran felt the first prickle of apprehension. ‘D-did he?’

‘Mmmm. He said it was completely out of character. Said you were cool and sought-after and he couldn’t imagine you ever touting for trade.’ He emphasised the words with a brief, black-hearted smile.

It was an offensive way to put it and Fran prayed that she wouldn’t start blushing. And not to be disconcerted by the intense question in those blue eyes. Maybe not looking at him was the only way to guarantee that.

‘So why start now?’ he mused.

‘Well, I’ve been working in Ireland,’ she defended, swallowing down her anxiety. ‘No one knows me here in England—and I needed to do something. Something big to get me established over here.’

‘And working for me will do that?’

She met his gaze reluctantly, feeling the erratic pumping of her heart in response. Did he have this effect on anyone with two X chromosomes in their body, she wondered? ‘You know it will,’ she answered bluntly.

There was a brief hooding of his eyes as he nodded, as if acknowledging her honesty. If only he knew, Fran thought, with the slightest shimmer of guilt. Until she remembered Rosie’s tear-stained face. And her damning list of just how many hearts he had broken along the way. Sam Lockhart deserved everything he was about to get! That is, if she got the job….

‘So my Valentine ball will put you firmly on the map?’ he observed.

Fran nodded.

‘That’s what I can do for you,’ he mused, and his voice was a soft caress which whispered temptingly at her senses. ‘Which leaves me wondering what I’ll get from you in return?’

It was blatant. Flagrant. Outrageous. Fran’s hand hovered above and then clutched onto her pearl necklace, her fingers sliding over the slippery surface of the lustrous jewels. Rosie had said he was rampant—but she had been expecting a little more finesse than that. ‘W-what exactly did you have in mind?’ she demanded hoarsely.

He frowned, and his gaze seemed to scorch her skin as he searched her face. He seemed to be keeping a straight face with some difficulty as he observed her reaction. ‘This is purely a business transaction, Miss Fisher,’ he reminded her wryly. ‘Not a sexual one.’

Fran’s face went scarlet. ‘I wasn’t suggesting for a moment—’

‘Oh, yes, you were,’ he contradicted softly. ‘It was written all over your face. And your body.’ His voice lowered. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Well, don’t be!’ she snapped. ‘Maybe I did jump to the wrong conclusion, but women have to be on their guard against innuendo. Against men coming on strong.’

‘Yes, I can imagine that you must keep coming up against that kind of thing,’ he commented innocently.

Fran looked at him suspiciously. Was he making fun of her? ‘Perhaps we should talk about the ball now,’ she said primly.

He gave a wolfish smile, aware that he was finding this verbal skirmish extremely stimulating indeed. ‘But that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do for the last five minutes. You do dither, don’t you, Miss Fisher?’

‘Not normally, no—it must be the effect you’re having on me!’ Fran took a deep breath as she forced herself to ignore his sarcasm and to inject her voice with enthusiasm. ‘Anyway, Valentine’s Day is such a fantastic date for any kind of party!’ she began breezily. ‘It gives us so much scope for decorations!’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, you know…. Hearts! Flowers! Love! Romance!’

‘Aren’t you forgetting originality?’ he put in, his face deadpan.

Now he was making fun of her. Fran frowned, forgetting Rosie, forgetting everything except doing what she was good at. And she was very good at pitching for a job…. ‘Mr. Lockhart—’ She gave him a patient look. ‘Valentine’s Day is just like Christmas—’

‘It is?’

‘It certainly is. As a traditional celebration—people expect certain customs to be adhered to.’

‘They do?’

‘Of course they do!’ she enthused, really warming to her subject now. ‘Its rituals comfort and reassure—because people don’t always want to be surprised, you know. They want the predictable—’

‘How very boring,’ he murmured.

Fran cleared her throat. That sizzling little glance of his was annoyingly distracting. ‘Wrong!’ she smiled. ‘I can assure you that while what I am suggesting may not exactly be ground-breaking stuff—’

‘Mmmm?’

‘It most certainly will not be boring! You will have the very best food and wines and the most wonderful music—all served up in a setting which will quite simply take your breath away!’

His eyes rested on her thoughtfully for a moment or two, before shooting another glance at his watch. ‘Right. Well, thank you very much for your time, Miss Fisher.’

Fran stared at him in astonishment. Surely that wasn’t it? Yes, he’d said ten minutes, but he’d barely let her talk for more than thirty seconds! She glanced at her own watch. No. A man of his word. It had been ten minutes exactly. ‘You mean, that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so. You see, it really is time that I was leaving for the airport. I can drop you off at the station on the way if you like.’

The words were as dismissive as the way he said them. So that was that. No job. No pay-back. She’d let Rosie down, but even worse, she’d let herself down, by stupidly jumping to the conclusion that he had been coming on to her. That was why he wasn’t going to give her the job. Acting naive and gauche round a man like this, as though she was still wet around the ears. Instead of a woman who had single-handedly built up a thriving business for herself out of the ruins of her failed marriage.

‘No, I’ll take a cab.’

‘Sure? It’ll be quicker by car.’ The lazy smile grew wider. ‘Or don’t you trust yourself to be alone in the car with me?’

Huh! She might be leaving without the job. She might have travelled halfway across the country on one of the filthiest days of the year. But there was no need for her to leave with him thinking that she was some kind of emotional hysteric. She had underestimated Sam Lockhart and her rather dizzy reaction to him, and for that she had paid the price. It was time to withdraw in a cool and dignified manner.

‘Don’t be absurd, Mr. Lockhart,’ she said, forcing a cool smile. ‘I’d love a lift. Just as long as it isn’t out of your way?’

‘No, not at all. Come on.’

He paused only to pick up a compact-looking briefcase in the hall and to engage in a complex locking-system for the front door. ‘The car’s out in the garage at the back,’ he said.

His long legs covered the ground at twice the pace she was used to, but she managed to keep up with him on their way to the stable-block which had been converted to house a clutch of cars. But Sam Lockhart was obviously not a man who collected wealthy toys—for there was only one vehicle sitting there. Fran had expected something predictable—the rich man’s phallic substitute of a long, low car in screaming scarlet or devilish black.

Instead she saw a mud-splattered four-wheel drive which had golf clubs and a tennis racket companionably jumbled around a tartan picnic rug in the back, along with a muddle of magazines and discarded sweet wrappers. An empty water bottle lay next to a pair of battered old running shoes. A large brown envelope marked Sam—Urgent! lay on the passenger seat.

This was the car of an action-packed life, whose owner had neither the time nor the inclination to vacuum the carpet, thought Fran. It did not look like the car of a playboy, she thought with mild confusion.

He saw her expression of surprise. ‘Excuse the state of the car.’

‘No, I like it,’ she said, without thinking. ‘Honestly. It’s homely.’

He smiled. ‘Mmmm. Messy might be more accurate,’ he murmured. He moved the envelope, threw his suitcase in the back and waited until Fran had strapped herself in before starting the engine.

His driving surprised her, too. That did not fit with the rich-man stereotype, either. No roar of accelerator or screech of brakes. His driving was safe, not showy—just like the car. Bizarrely, Fran even felt herself relaxing, until she reminded herself just who was next to her, and sat bolt upright to stare fixedly out of the window.

But he didn’t seem to notice her frozen posture, just switched on the radio and listened to the news channel. He didn’t speak during the entire journey to the station and neither did Fran. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Well, she could. But something simpered on the lines of, ‘I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea about me earlier’ would damn her even further in his eyes, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Not even for Rosie. But more especially for herself. Because for some unfathomable reason, she would rather have made a fool of herself in front of anyone than in front of Sam Lockhart.

She was desperate for the journey to end, yet her heart sank with disappointment as the car bumped across the station forecourt. I won’t ever see him again, she thought, wondering why it should matter.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ She owed him the brief glance, the polite smile, but was totally unprepared for the watchfulness in his blue eyes.

‘I don’t have your card,’ he said.

‘My card?’ she repeated stupidly.

‘Your business card.’

She scarcely dared hope why he wanted it, just fumbled around in her handbag until she found one. ‘Here.’

He glanced at it. ‘This is a Dublin code.’

‘Well, there’s my mobile number,’ she pointed. ‘You can always reach me on that.’

‘When are you going back to Ireland?’

‘I’m…not sure.’ She hadn’t decided, because her decision was based on whether he gave her the job or not. Somehow she doubted it—but she certainly wouldn’t find out by trying to read his mind. She tried not to sound either too nervous or too tentative. ‘Am I still in the running for the job, then?’

‘No.’ There was a pause as the word dropped like a guillotine, severing all her hopes. Poor Rosie, she thought fleetingly, until she realised that he was speaking again, but so quietly that she had to strain her ears to hear.

‘The job is yours.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The job is yours,’ he repeated, eyes gleaming as he enjoyed her startled reaction. ‘That is, if you still want it?’

‘Er, yes. I still want it,’ she answered, wondering why victory—and such unexpected victory—should taste so hollow. But she had to know. ‘But why? I mean, why are you offering it to me?’

He frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that it was particularly good psychology to sound so incredulous if someone offers you the job.’ His eyes narrowed critically. ‘It might even make some people reconsider.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t give the best interview of my life,’ she told him candidly.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But Cormack said you were the best—’

She gave a slow flush of pleasure. ‘Did he?’

‘Yeah, he did. And he’s the kind of man whose opinion people listen to—me included.’

‘And that’s why you’re offering me the job—because of Cormack’s say-so?’

‘Partly. But also because you’re a fresh face on the scene, and fresh faces bring enthusiasm. I’ve never hosted a ball before, and I want it to work.’ His blue eyes gleamed with a hard determination. ‘Really work.’

Suddenly all her old fervour was back. The ball would be a success. She would make sure of that. Rosie’s pay-back was merely an offshoot—an insignificant little offshoot. A lesson he needed to learn which would probably benefit him in the end! And who knew, maybe one day he might even be grateful to her! ‘Oh, it’ll work, all right—I can guarantee you that, Mr. Lockhart,’ she breathed.

‘Sam,’ he corrected.

‘Sam,’ Fran repeated obediently. It felt so right to say his name. Too right. Like having one long lean leg mere inches away from hers felt right, too.

Not since Sholto had she been so tuned in to a man’s presence. Only this seemed all wrong. This wasn’t just a knockout individual with searing blue eyes and a body which had been constructed in the dream-factory. This was the man who had robbed her best friend of her innocence.

So why did she find herself wanting to curl up like a kitten in his lap, instead of lashing out at him with her claws?

‘I’ll be out of the country all week,’ he told her. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back and we’ll arrange a meet in London to discuss details and budget, that kind of thing. Okay with you?’

‘Sure,’ she nodded, and was just reaching over to unlock the car door when he suddenly leaned over and caught hold of her left hand and turned it over to study it closely.

‘No marks, I see,’ he observed, tracing her bare ring finger with the pad of his thumb.

All she could feel was the rough warmth of his skin and the shock of the unexpected contact made every sane thought trickle out of her mind. ‘I b-beg your pardon?’

‘Marks. From your wedding ring.’

‘Who told you I was married? Cormack?’

The blaze from his eyes was like a searchlight. ‘Yeah. Who else? You don’t wear the fact tattooed on your forehead, that’s for sure!’

Fran shifted awkwardly on her seat. ‘Well, that’s past tense. I’m divorced now.’

‘So I understand. There’s a lot of it around,’ he drawled. ‘But even so…’ He let his thumb trickle slowly around the base of her finger in a gesture which to Fran seemed both highly suggestive and highly erotic and she shivered despite the warmth of the car. ‘Wedding rings always leave their mark—one way or the other.’

This was getting too close for comfort. Fran tore her hand away from his and pushed open the car door, her breath coming hot and thick in her throat. ‘I’ll see you when you get back from Europe,’ she croaked.

CHAPTER THREE

FRAN rang the doorbell and moments later a blurry-eyed Rosie peered out from behind the safety chain.

‘Wassa time?’ she mumbled.

Fran frowned and stared at her friend in horror and amazement. ‘Five o’clock. Rosie, have you been drinking?’

Rosie swallowed back a hiccup and then beamed. ‘I jus’…jus’ ha’ a small one. I was nervous, see. Knowing that you were meeting Sam.’ Her eyes focussed at last. ‘Did you? Meet him?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

Fran shivered. It had been a long and boring journey back on the train which had stopped at about a hundred stations between Eversford and London. She was cold and she was tired and frankly, not at all sure that she was doing the right thing in trying to teach Rosie’s ex-lover a lesson. From her brief meeting with him, he had not seemed the ideal candidate to have the wool pulled over his eyes. She was going to have to be very careful….

‘Rosie, do we have to have this conversation on the doorstep?’

‘Oh! Sorry! Come in!’ Rosie unhooked the chain and Fran followed her into the flat which seemed to have had nothing done to it in the way of housework since she had been there the day before yesterday. She wrinkled her nose. How stale it smelt.

Rosie turned to her eagerly. ‘So! Did you get the job?’

Again, Fran felt the oddest shiver of apprehension. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Oh, joy of joys!’ gurgled Rosie. ‘Well done! Let’s go and have a drink to celebrate!’

‘Haven’t you had enough?’

Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Maybe I have,’ she shrugged. ‘But that doesn’t stop you, does it?’

‘No, I’m fine. I had tea on the train. I just want to take the weight off my feet.’

Fran waited until they were both settled in the sitting room where dirty cups and glasses littered the coffee table, before she said anything.

‘The place could do with a bit of a clean-up, you know, Rosie.’

Rosie pulled a face. ‘Bet you didn’t say that to Sam! He’s nearly as untidy as me! God, I used to despair of the way he dropped his shirts on the bedroom floor!’

It was a statement which told how intimate they had been, and Fran clenched her teeth as she tried to block out the image of Sam Lockhart peeling the clothes from that impressive body of his. Surely she wasn’t jealous? Not of Rosie? But maybe it was that which made her plump for a home truth rather than sparing Rosie’s feelings any longer. ‘He may be untidy,’ she agreed sternly. ‘But at least his house is clean.’

Rosie, who was in the process of rubbing her finger at a sticky brown ring left by a sherry glass, looked up abruptly. ‘Are you saying my flat is dirty?’

‘I’m saying it could do with an airing,’ said Fran diplomatically. ‘And a bit of a blitz.’

Rosie nodded with the distracted air of someone who wasn’t really listening. ‘Tell me what Sam said first. Tell me what you thought of him.’

Fran chose her next words even more carefully. ‘He’s certainly very good-looking. I can see why you fell for him.’

Rosie squinted. ‘C’mon, Fran. You can do better than that. What did you really think of him?’

Tricky. ‘Well, he wasn’t what I was expecting,’ she said slowly.

‘Mmmm? What were you expecting then?’

Fran wriggled her shoulders as she tried to put it into words. ‘The way you described him, I thought he’d be kind of…obvious. You know. Mr. Smarm. But he wasn’t. He was…’ Now she really couldn’t go on. Being honest was one thing, but not if it had the effect of wounding the very person you were supposed to be helping. And if Fran told Rosie the truth—that she had been more attracted to him than any man since Sholto—then wouldn’t that make her look foolish? And an appalling judge of character?

‘Sexy?’ enquired Rosie.

Fran winced. It would not have been her first word of choice. ‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s because he is. Very. Fran, I didn’t have any real experience of men before I met Sam—but believe me when I tell you that he is just dynamite in bed—’

‘Rosie! I don’t want to know!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because other people’s sex lives should remain private, that’s why!’ Except that she wasn’t being completely truthful. It was more that she couldn’t bear to think of Sam Lockhart being intimate with anyone—and the reasons for that were confusing the hell out of her. ‘Change the subject, Rosie!’ she growled. ‘Or I’ll wash my hands of the whole idea!’

‘Okay, okay—keep your hair on!’ Rosie slanted her a glance from beneath the heavy fringe which flopped into her eyes. ‘So what’s happening about the ball?’

‘He’s ringing me when he gets back from Europe. That’s when we’ll discuss all the details. You know, the budget, the venue—’ she yawned. ‘That kind of thing.’

‘And the guest list?’

‘That’s right. Most of the planning I can organise by phone from Dublin, but I’m going to need a temporary base in London.’

‘Stay here with me!’ said Rosie impulsively.

Fran shook her head. She suspected that a few years down the line, sharing a flat might test their friendship to breaking point. ‘How can I, Rosie?’ she asked gently. ‘You live here. And Sam knows you live here, doesn’t he? I know it’s unlikely, but imagine if he saw me coming out of your flat. It would rather give the game away, wouldn’t it? No, I’ll ring my mother up—she’s got loads of rich friends and relatives. One of them might just be planning a winter holiday in the sun. I could do with a few weeks off—and I’m the world’s best house-sitter!’

She studied the finger that Sam had so softly circled, and swallowed. ‘You know, maybe this is the opportunity I need to make the break and get out of Ireland—’

‘I thought you loved it!’

‘I do. Just that Dublin is such a small city—’

‘And you keep running into Sholto and his new girlfriend, I suppose?’

Fran forced a smile. ‘Something like that.’ She stood up decisively. ‘Got any bleach?’

‘Bleach?’ Rosie blinked. ‘You aren’t planning to go blond, are you?’ she asked in horror.

Fran’s smile widened of its own accord. ‘Not that kind of bleach, stupid! I meant the kind that cleans floors!’

‘Oh, that!’ said Rosie gloomily, and went off to find some.

By the time Sam Lockhart rang her a week later, Fran had established a London base she could use whenever she needed. One of her mother’s many cousins was visiting her daughter in Australia for the winter, leaving a high-ceilinged flat vacant in Hampstead village—in a road which was apparently a burglar’s paradise.

‘She’d be delighted to have you keeping your eye on the place,’ Fran’s mother had said. ‘But I’d like to see you myself, darling. When are you coming up to Scotland?’

Fran prodded a neglected-looking plant which was badly in need of a gallon or two of water, and frowned. ‘I promise I’ll be there for Christmas.’

‘What—not until then?’

‘Mum, it’s only weeks away.’ Fran kept her voice patient.

‘Is Rosie any better?’

‘A bit. Still misses this man Sam Lockhart.’

‘Didn’t that all finish ages ago?’

‘Uh-huh. I guess some broken hearts just take longer to heal than others.’ But Fran deliberately omitted to mention the fact that Sam was one of her new clients. The information would be bound to set her mother thinking, and for some strange reason Fran was convinced that she would try to talk her out of getting involved in some kind of vendetta.

There was a long and loaded pause followed by a question which was studiedly casual. ‘So how’s Sholto?’

The pause from Fran’s end was equally loaded. ‘How should I know, Mum? I don’t have anything to do with Sholto anymore. Why would I, when we’re divorced now? Apparently, he’s got a new girlfriend—’

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me—’

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