Table of Contents

Cover Page

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Bom in London, SOPHIE WESTON is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

The Latin Affair
Sophie Weston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

‘YOU’RE a fraud, Nicky.’

Andrew Bolton thrust himself away from her and stood up.

In the half-dark of her sitting room, Nicky Piper clutched her elderly dressing gown round her. Andrew had arrived at midnight, bearing flowers and champagne. High on the success of a new contract and several hours celebrating it, he had woken her up, danced her sexily round her sitting room and then, laughing, carried her to the sofa.

Where they’d both come face to face with a truth they had been avoiding for months.

‘Face it, Nicky. You don’t want me.’ The honesty was brutal. ‘In your heart of hearts, you never have.’

Nicky ran her fingers through her loosened hair. In the light reflected from the street lamp outside her window stray fronds gleamed like diamonds. Even with all the gold leached out of it, the soft, curly mass was spectacular. Andrew eyed it broodingly.

‘Oh, boy, did I want you,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Gorgeous blonde. Legs to your eyebrows. Figure like a paradise houri.’

Nicky said nothing but her jaw ached with tension. Although she said nothing Andrew picked up on it at once. The look he sent her was wry.

‘I know. I know. I’m not supposed to mention it.’ His sigh sounded as if it was wrenched out of him. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Nicky. Why don’t you want anyone to notice? Even when they’re making love to you?’

Nicky shaded her eyes. This was truth indeed.

‘I—tried.’

Andrew swung round on her. ‘That’s the point,’ he said, suddenly fierce. ‘You’re not supposed to have to try.’

Nicky knew he was right. She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling guilty. She had so wanted to be in love with him. Until tonight she would have said she was. But all he had to do was to come to her when she was not expecting him and the façade cracked to pieces.

And suddenly there was the real Nicky—tense as a drum and armed to the teeth against invasion. And that was Andrew’s problem—for all their shared laughter, when he took her by surprise, Nicky turned and saw an invader.

She said, half to herself, ‘I didn’t realise.’

He sat down on the bamboo chair under the window and looked at her. In the sodium light from the street lamp his expression was sombre.

‘Someone has given you a real pasting, hasn’t he?’

‘No,’ said Nicky, horrified.

It couldn’t still hurt. It couldn’t. Not after all these years. She had been a child then. Now she was a woman, independent and in control of her life. She couldn’t still be in the power of something so stupid.

She knelt down in front of his chair and looked up into his face. ‘Andrew, I’m so sorry.’

He touched her cheek, quite without his usual passion, his eyes searching her shadowed face.

‘Have you ever been in love, Nicky?’

Nicky shrugged evasively. ‘I don’t know what you mean by love.’

‘I mean,’ said Andrew drily, ‘has there ever been a man you wanted to make love with? Without pretending.’

And, fast as a lightning strike, Nicky thought, He knows about Steve. Her whole body juddered with the shock of it. And in that moment she gave herself away.

‘I see,’ said Andrew at length.

Nicky pulled herself together. She stood up.

‘One adolescent crush,’ she said drily. She was glad to hear she sounded more like herself at last. ‘Very adolescent and very short-lived.’

Andrew watched her. ‘Returned?’

Nicky gave an unamused laugh. ‘He despised me,’ she said flatly. ‘Very understandable. Looking back, I despise myself.’ Her voice rasped.

Andrew was taken aback. ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme? For a teenage mistake?’

Nicky had told herself the same thing a million times. It made no difference. Every time she thought about Steve and what she had so nearly done with him, she wanted to hide.

‘I made a fool of myself,’ she said between her teeth. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you and me.’

‘Hasn’t it?’

He got up and touched her shoulder. Nicky’s shoulders went rigid. His hand fell.

‘You see?’ said Andrew tiredly. ‘It’s got everything to do with you and me. And any other man who tries to get near you.’

‘Don’t say that’, protested Nicky involuntarily.

He said in a low voice, ‘Nicky, I love you to bits but this is getting us nowhere.’

‘But—’

‘No!’ he said forcefully. ‘I don’t want a girlfriend who braces herself every time I touch her.’

‘I don’t!’

He turned her round to face him. For a long moment, he looked searchingly into her eyes. Even in the half-dark his expression said as clearly as words that he could still hear what she could. High on his triumph, Andrew had been too excited to give her time, thought Nicky. And in that fatal instant when he had carried her to the sofa all the ancient horrors had crowded in. She did not know which of them had been more shocked by her animal cry of rejection.

Now, as she remembered, Nicky’s hands flew to her burning cheeks.

Andrew said quietly, ‘I deserve better than that, Nicky.’

There was a long, agonised pause. Nicky’s hands fell.

‘I know,’ she said almost inaudibly.

‘And, frankly, so do you.’

He looked round for his jacket. It was where he had thrown it, on the floor. The bottle of champagne he had brought lay on its side, half crushing the bright chrysanthemums he had found at the late-night store. Nicky blinked back sudden tears.

‘I’m sorry.’

Andrew had behaved well but he was still smarting. ‘So am I.’

He went to the door, then turned and kissed her cheek, quickly, with a new and awkward formality. Nicky leaned against him, burying her face in his chest so she did not have to see the pain in his eyes. He touched her hair fleetingly.

‘If you want my advice, you’ll find the guy. Get him out of your system. Or you’ll never be free.’

He went.

Nicky put the chain on the door and leaned her back against it. She was too shaken for tears.

She had thought she loved Andrew. Well—she was too shaken for dishonesty as well—she had thought that Andrew would take her as close to love as she was ever likely to get. She had thought it would be enough. It had never occurred to her that she was cheating Andrew.

‘Now what?’ said Nicky aloud.

She had no idea of the answer.

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE morning, of course, things looked different. They always did, thought Nicky. There was a job to do, her brother to meet for lunch, the last sunshine of autumn to savour. The small things, as always, would carry her through.

‘I will survive,’ Nicky told her mirror.

The gorgeous reflection stared back, only partially convinced.

Why on earth do I look like this? she thought. Andrew was right when he said she was a fraud. Even in her sober business suit she looked the original party blonde. What was more, she always had. Nicky winced at the thought.

Of course, there had been changes over the years. When she was sixteen her skin had been golden with a Caribbean tan; her untamed hair used to be a sun-streaked lion’s mane. These days she was city-pale and her daffodil hair shone. But, in spite of her best efforts, it was never quite immaculate. Soft tendrils always escaped to lie enticingly against her long neck. Add to that a kissable mouth and wide, longlashed blue-grey eyes and it was not surprising that men looked at her and thought they had found their dream babe. Nicky bared her teeth at her reflection.

‘Some babe,’ she said bitterly.

She was still brooding when she got to work.

‘Hey, what did I do?’ said Martin de Vries in mock alarm.

Nicky jumped, conscience stricken. Martin was the boss of Springdown Kitchens and she was late for work. Now she’d compounded her sins by glaring at him. She shook her head ruefully.

‘Nothing. It’s just one of those Monday mornings, that’s all.’

Martin nodded briskly. ‘That’s a relief. I need to get off to the exhibition hall soon.’ But he hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Damn, thought Nicky. Martin was an old friend of the family. Of course he could see right through the last twenty years to the six-year-old with scabby knees and pigtails. It gave him an unfair advantage.

She summoned up a bright smile. ‘I’m fine.’

Martin knew how to interpret that. He had daughters of his own. He nodded. ‘Boyfriend trouble,’ he diagnosed.

Nicky winced theatrically. ‘You sound like my mother.’

‘No, I don’t. I sound like a caring employer.’

‘My next job is going to be with a hard-hearted tycoon who doesn’t know a thing about his employees. And cares less,’ Nicky muttered.

Martin ignored that. ‘What’s happened, Nick? Did he do something unforgivable, like want to marry you?’

Nicky smacked her conscience back in its box and glared at him for real.

‘That’s my business. Get down to the Lifestyle Fair and sell some kitchens,’ she retorted.

Martin was torn. He was fond of Nicky. On the other hand he ran a vulnerable small business and the fair was the showcase of the year.

‘As long as it isn’t a crisis,’ he said, patently anxious to be reassured.

Nicky gave a small huff of fury. But then genuine affection took over.

‘No crisis,’ she said more gently. ‘Just something that’s been building up a long time. All under control.’

‘OK,’ said Martin, relieved. He went

Squaring up to the work on her desk, Nicky found that he had left her plenty to do. It was a relief. It took her mind off the uncomfortable truths Andrew had exposed last night.

Besides, she knew that what she was doing was worthwhile. Martin was an inspired salesman, whereas Nicky liked practical organisation. She had her head down over the specifications of a small hotel kitchen when a cup appeared in front of her.

‘Coffee,’ said Caroline Leith, Martin’s newest and most sophisticated assistant. ‘You’re going to need it.’

Nicky looked up. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Martin refused to take any phone calls before he left.’

Nicky’s heart sank. That meant clients who would already be annoyed when she called them back.

‘Who?’

Caroline consulted her notebook. ‘Two from Mr Tremain’s secretary. One from Weber Hotels. Three from Mrs Van Linden. All of them only wanted to talk to Martin.’ She grinned. ‘Mrs Van Linden positively refused to talk to you under any circumstances. What happened? You told her what you thought of her horrible kitchen? Or she’s seen how you look?’

Nicky raised her eyes to heaven. ‘What’s wrong with how I look?’ she said dangerously.

‘Nothing as long as you aren’t a trophy wife worried about the competition.’

Nicky frowned. Caroline chuckled, unabashed.

‘What do you expect, with a figure like yours?’ she said frankly. ‘It may be unfashionable to have all those curves but it sure as hell presses all the right male buttons.’

Nicky tensed. That was more or less exactly what Andrew had said last night. To say nothing of a man called Steve under a Caribbean moon… But the phone rang and broke that particular unwelcome train of thought.

Caroline answered it, listened, then put her hand over the receiver. ‘SOS. Sally’s in trouble. Sounds like she’s going to cry.’

Nicky frowned blackly. Sally was the ideal receptionist, unfailingly sunny even with the most difficult clients. Anyone who reduced her to tears needed to be put in their place without delay. She held out an imperative hand.

‘It’s Tremain,’ Caroline warned.

It gave Nicky pause for a moment. ‘Who?’

‘Tremain. Martin knows him personally. From the yacht club.’

Nicky scanned her memory. Nothing. She said so. ‘But he’s not going to bully Sally.’

‘Kid-gloves time,’ advised Caroline, surrendering the phone.

Nicky knew the warning tone was justified. She squared her shoulders and tried to remember the bit in her management course about dealing with difficult clients.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting—’ she began, uncharacteristically soothing.

‘Then don’t.’ It was impatient and very male. At once she knew why Sally had not been able to calm him down. Mr Tremain did not want to be calmed down. Mr Tremain wanted blood.

And, true to form, it made Nicky want to fight right back. She curbed her combative instinct but it was a close-run thing.

‘How can I—’

He did not let her finish. ‘Where’s de Vries?’

‘—help you?’ Sweet reason was not paying off. Well, then, she would give him a taste of her real reaction to a man who interrupted her twice. ‘What can I do for you?’ she finished, the frost showing.

Caroline did not go. Instead she propped herself up against a drawer of files and waited, prepared to be amused.

Mr Tremain was not impressed by Nicky’s chilly formality. ‘You can get me de Vries,’ he said grimly. ‘Now.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not poss—’

‘Now.’

Nicky could feel her fuse shortening. Caroline grinned. Nicky frowned her down and raised her voice. ‘If you would just let me finish—’

‘I haven’t got time to waste talking to lieutenants.’ Even allowing for the distortion of the telephone, the dismissive tone was an insult. Nicky’s fuse suddenly became very short indeed. And her frost dissolved into simple temper.

‘Then try listening,’ she flashed. ‘Martin de Vries is not here. I can ask him to call you when he gets back or you can talk to me now. Your choice. Frankly I don’t care which—but make up your mind. I haven’t got time to waste either.’

Across the office, Caroline raised her eyebrows. Oh, hell, thought Nicky, remembering the management course too late.

But at least her outburst seemed to give Tremain pause.

He said slowly, ‘Work closely with de Vries, do you?’

Nicky was all dignity. ‘Of course.’

‘So you’re fully briefed on everything that’s gone wrong with the blasted kitchen he sold me?’

‘Well, I would have to look at the file…’

‘And of course you’re empowered to agree on compensation?’ he went on sweetly.

Nicky knew quite well what he was doing. Silently she ground her teeth.

‘I would have to consult Mr de Vries,’ she conceded stiffly.

‘Quite.’ His tone was suddenly a lot less sweet. ‘So let’s stop playing games. We both know de Vries is ducking and weaving. Cut the feeble excuses, dig him out of wherever he’s hiding and put him on the line now.’

If Nicky did not like being dismissed, she positively hated being patronised.

She yelled, ‘I do not play games. I do not tell lies. And Martin isn’t here.’

And banged the phone down.

Caroline gave her a slow, mocking hand-clap. ‘That showed him.’

Nicky was steaming. ‘So it should. Bully,’ she threw at the phone, as if the man were there in person.

‘Esteban Tremain must be shivering in his shoes,’ murmured Caroline.

‘Quite right too,’ Nicky announced, militant. ‘He shouldn’t have tried to bully Sally. And he shouldn’t have talked to me like that I haven’t got the time to take a lot of rubbish from people who don’t listen. It’s too close to lunchtime.’

She glanced at her watch as she spoke. She had a date with her brother and Ben had been known to leave a restaurant if people kept him waiting.

‘Tell that to Martin when you explain how you handled his biggest problem client,’ Caroline said with feeling.

Nicky stared. ‘Biggest problem client? What are you talking about?’

‘You mean you don’t know who Esteban Tremain is?’

‘Never met the man in my life,’ said Nicky, adding darkly, ‘And, on present showing, I’ll be quite happy if that’s the way it stays.’

‘Stately home?’ prompted Caroline. ‘Cornwall? Try, gorgeous.’

‘Oh, please!’

‘You can’t have forgotten him. A Savile Row suit with muscles. When he came in to the showroom every woman in the place wandered by for a look.’

Nicky shook her head. ‘None of us is that sex-starved,’ she protested, trying not to laugh. ‘What is he? A film star?’

Caroline said in a practical tone, ‘No. Just tall, dark and smouldering with sex appeal. And threatening to sue Martin for every penny he’s got’.

‘What?’

She cocked a mocking eyebrow. ‘Come on, Nicky. The kitchen at Hallam Hall must have cost us more grief than any other contract this year.’

‘Hallam Hall!’ gasped Nicky, enlightened at last.

Now she knew exactly who Esteban Tremain was. And how much he could cost Springdown Kitchens if he put his mind to it.

‘Oh, my Lord,’ she said. ‘Get the file into my office now.’

Caroline ran.

Esteban Tremain looked at the suddenly buzzing telephone with disbelief. Nobody cut him off. Nobody. He began to punch buttons savagely. The door opened. ‘Er—’ said his secretary.

One glance was enough to tell her that he was in a temper. She did not think much of Francesca Moran’s chances of getting in to see him when he looked like that.

Esteban glared at her across the telephone.

‘What?’

‘Miss Moran,’ said Anne fast. Her tone was strictly neutral. ‘She’s been shopping. She wondered if you would like to take her to lunch.’

Esteban breathed hard.

Anne held her breath. When she’d come to work for him three years ago there had been plenty of people to warn her that Esteban would be impossible. He was a heart-breaker; he was a workaholic; he had a fiendish temper. She had learned that it was all true. Only he did not take any of it out on his secretary. Normally…

With an angry exclamation, he threw the telephone from him and flung out of his chair. Anne quietly restored the telephone to its cradle and waited.

Esteban strode up to the floor-length window. He thrust his hands into his pockets and glared out at the rain-lashed lawns. A muscle worked in his cheek.

Esteban wrestled with his temper. None of this was Anne’s fault, he reminded himself. He gave an explosive sigh and swung back to the room.

‘My regrets to Francesca,’ he said rapidly, not sounding regretful at all. ‘Anything else?’

Anne, the perfect secretary, did not protest. She just said carefully, ‘I’ll go along and tell her you’re too busy to see her, shall I?’

There was a small, sizzling pause.

‘She’s here?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But I told her last time—’ He remembered again that it was not Anne’s fault and stopped. ‘Damn. ’

Esteban thought, then took one of his famous lightning decisions. ‘OK. You’d better wheel her in for a bit But not long.’

He reached for his jacket.

Esteban never received visitors in his shirt sleeves, Anne thought. Not even a lady he regularly spent the night with. Though she was not sure that Francesca Moran was in that category these days, in spite of the gossip or, indeed, the hints that Miss Moran herself let fall so heavily.

‘I’ll just clear a space,’ murmured Anne, again the perfect secretary, advancing on a tower of papers.

Esteban looked around his room in faint surprise. Apart from the papers that covered his desk, there were two large books open on the floor beside him and piles of more papers that needed his attention on every one of his comfortable chairs. He looked amused suddenly.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘But she’s got to have somewhere to sit.’

‘Why? It will only encourage her,’ said Esteban wickedly.

He flicked his lapels straight. Looking up, he gave her a conspiratorial grin.

‘Buzz me in five, max. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Anne.

Francesca Moran, she thought with satisfaction, would be back in the rainy garden a lot sooner than she expected. Anne did not like Francesca.

It would have been impossible to tell from Esteban’s manner whether he liked her or not. He kissed her on both exquisitely made up cheeks in welcome. But he adroitly avoided her move to deepen the embrace and retired behind the bulwark of his desk. Francesca accepted the rebuff as gracefully as if she had not recognised it. She took up a perch on the arm of an ancient leather chair and gave him a sweet smile.

‘We need to talk,’ she said caressingly.

Esteban raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

Francesca’s myopic grey eyes made her look vague and fragile. It was misleading.

‘Yes. I was thinking all the time I was in Cornwall. It’s stupid for us to be like this. We ought to let bygones be bygones and pool our resources.’

Esteban’s poker face was famous. But for a moment he could not contain his astonishment. At once, he controlled his expression. But one corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Are you proposing to me, Francesca?’ he asked politely.

She was not disconcerted. She batted her eyelashes and gave him a smile of calculated charm.

‘Well, you’re not going to propose to me, are you?’

Esteban was surprised into laughing aloud. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed, watching her with fascination.

Francesca shrugged. ‘So it’s up to me,’ she said with no sign of rancour. ‘You need a wife. It would be ideal.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, you know,’ said Esteban. He was gentle but quite firm.

But Francesca, as he had learned in Gibraltar last year, did not recognise firmness when it meant someone not doing what she wanted.

‘It would be perfect,’ she said, unheeding. ‘The time is right for both of us.’

Esteban leaned back in his chair and surveyed her in disbelief. She smiled back, not discouraged. He decided to try another tack.

‘What makes you think I need a wife?’ he drawled.

She gestured round the untidy room. ‘You’re in a complete mess. You need someone to run the practical side of your life so that you can get on with your career.’

‘That’s what Anne does,’ he objected.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

‘Then explain,’ he said blandly.

Francesca refused to be annoyed. ‘You’re being silly,’ she said in an indulgent tone. ‘What about your private life? Where would you have been if I hadn’t gone down to Hallam Hall and sorted out those workmen?’

‘Ah. I wondered when that would come up,’ said Esteban with satisfaction.

Francesca frowned. ‘You would have been lost without me’, she said, her tone sharpening. ‘You were out of the country and those cowboys were getting away with murder.’

‘And I was grateful for your help but—’

Francesca regained her good humour. ‘I bet you haven’t even talked to the kitchen people yet.’

Esteban looked at the telephone. His expression darkened. He was not going to admit to Francesca that the woman had hung up on him. Why did women always have to play games?

‘I’ve got it in hand,’ he said brusquely.

Francesca got up and came over to him. A faint hint of expensive scent wafted as she settled herself on the corner of the desk beside him. She crossed one leg over the other and smiled down into his eyes.

‘Don’t you see, darling? Marry me and you would never have to deal with kitchen designers again.’

Her high-heeled shoe tapped at his thigh to emphasise her point

‘An alluring prospect,’ said Esteban drily.

He pushed his chair back, removing his immaculate suit out of range.

‘And you need a hostess,’ Francesca went on, her smile unwavering. ‘Someone to organise the dinner parties, make sure you meet the right people.’

He almost shuddered.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Of course you do.’

She would have gone on but Esteban put an end to it. He stood up and looked down at her, all vestige of amusement gone.

‘I thought I had been clear, Francesca. If you misunderstood me, I’m sorry. But the truth is that my stepfather needs a housekeeper. You said you wanted a job. A job is all that’s on offer.’

‘But—’

‘If you remember,’ Esteban said drily, ‘I said at the time I thought you would find Hallam very isolated. But you wanted to give it a shot’.

Francesca’s mouth thinned. For a moment the pretty face looked almost ugly.

‘Are you saying you used me?’

Esteban stiffened imperceptibly. ‘Excuse me?’

There were people—witnesses for the prosecution, say, or opposing counsel—who would have run a mile when he spoke in that soft tone. Francesca did not read the danger signals. She tossed her head.

‘Of course I adore Patrick,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘I was very willing to help—’

Esteban said quietly, ‘You wanted a job.’

Francesca did not like that. ‘You know quite well what I wanted,’ she said sharply.

It was a moment of total self-betrayal. There was a nasty silence. Francesca bit her lip.

Esteban said heavily, ‘I seem to have been very stupid. I thought you knew that all that was over. I told you so last year.’

‘Darling, just because of a silly article in a magazine—’

He stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘It was not about the article. I don’t care what some tinpot journalist writes about me.’

‘Well, then—’

‘But I care that someone I trusted talked to a tinpot journalist,’ Esteban went on softly. ‘About stuff I told you in confidence.’

There was another nasty silence. Francesca watched him, frunstrated.

At last she burst out, ‘It’s such a stupid waste. I could really help your career. Daddy’s contacts—a bit of networking—’

‘And what about love?’ he said wryly.

‘Love?’ Francesca sounded as blank as if he had broken into a foreign language. ‘Grow up, darling.’

‘You think love’s an irrelevance?’

“Oh, come on. We’re talking real life here.’

Esteban gave an unexpected laugh. ‘We are indeed. And we seem to have different views on it.’

‘Are you saying you’re looking for love?’ Francesca sounded disbelieving. ‘You?’

‘I don’t think you need to look for it,’ Esteban said coolly. ‘In my experience it tends to sock you in the eye.’

Francesca snorted. ‘Your experience? So now you’re the last of the great romantics?’

Esteban gave that his measured consideration. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I wouldn’t call myself a romantic.’

‘Thank God for that, at least,’ Francesca muttered.

‘On the other hand, I’m not fool enough to marry anyone I’m not in love with.’

Francesca pulled herself together. She moved close to him, though she did not quite dare to touch him again. She gave him a winning smile.

‘But if both parties agree—’

He bent towards her so fast she took a step backwards in simple shock. At once she could have kicked herself. He had not come so close to her voluntarily for over a year.

But it was too late. Esteban had seen her alarm. He gave her a mocking smile.

‘Agree to change my nature? How?’

Francesca recovered fast. ‘But you’ve just said you aren’t romantic,’ she reminded him.

‘No, but I am passionate and possessive and I have a nasty temper,’ Esteban told her evenly. ‘Believe me, you wouldn’t like being married to me.’

‘No woman would,’ snapped Francesca, unexpectedly shaken.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad we agree on the matter.’ He sounded amused.

The telephone rang. He reached behind him, not looking, and swept it up to his ear. ‘Hi, Annie. Now? Yes, of course.’ He put the phone down. ‘Sorry, Francesca. Busy morning. Goodbye.’

Francesca was looking poleaxed. His court opponents would have recognised the feeling. Esteban gave her an enigmatic smile and held the door open for her. She did not move.

‘You’re not going to treat me like this. I’m no little boat chick,’ she jeered.

Esteban went very still. Francesca knew she had made a bad mistake. That was one of the few confidences she had not spilled out to the handsome young journalist in the quayside café last year.

She nervously touched her hair but said defiantly, ‘It just slipped out. You told me about it yourself, after all. I couldn’t help it. You upset me so much I forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention it.’ A thought occurred to her. She lowered her lashes. ‘If you go on being nasty to me, it might happen again—and who knows who could be listening?’

Esteban’s watchfulness dissolved into unholy appreciation.

‘Threats?’ he said, his eyebrows flying up. ‘Very attractive. Just the stuff to get me to marry you. You’re really one on your own, Francesca.’

There was nothing she could say. Once again Esteban Tremain had taken her well thought out strategy and turned it on its head. Francesca was determined but she was not an idiot. She recognised defeat, at least for the moment.

“I’ll go.’ She gathered up her handbag and elegant serape but was not leaving without the last word. ‘Call me when you’ve got your head together. You need me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Esteban said quietly.

‘Oh, but you do.’ She had gone back to her caressing manner. She gave him a sweet smile. ‘You just don’t know how much yet. But you will.’

She left.

Immediately Esteban banished her from his mind. He flung himself back into his chair and reached for the Hallam file again. He picked up the telephone, his voice coming alive with the anticipation of battle.

‘Annie, get me that kitchen place again, will you? And this time I want to talk to de Vries in person.’

But when Anne put the call through it was the lieutenant again.

‘Hello?’ She did her best to sound composed but Esteban was used to reading the smallest nuance in his opponents’ voices and he recognised nerves. It was a lovely voice, Esteban noted, warm with an underlying hint of laughter. Currently, of course, the laughter was almost extinguished. Good, he thought.

‘What is your name?’ he demanded softly.

He did not have to say anything else. The tone alone intimidated opponents. Esteban knew it and used it effectively in court. If it could silence Francesca Moran, a judge’s daughter, it would make this obstructive girl crumble.

But, to his astonishment, it did not. There was a little pause, in which he could almost hear her pull herself together.

Then, ‘Piper,’ she said coolly. ‘Nicola Piper.’ She spelled it for him.

It disconcerted him. Esteban was not used to hostile witnesses spelling out their names and then asking kindly if he had got it all down. Where had she got that kind of confidence? Did he know her? Surely he would not have forgotten that golden sunshine voice?

‘Have we met?’ he asked slowly.

Nicky had remembered his visit as soon as Caroline had mentioned Hallam Hall. She had just come in from dealing with another client. And she had noticed him all right: a tall, dark man in the doorway of Martin’s office, watching her with lazy appreciation.

‘You could say that. In passing,’ she said frostily.

That startled him too. And intrigued him. ‘Where did we pass?’

‘At the office. We weren’t introduced.’

There was a thoughtful pause.

‘You’re the blonde,’ Esteban said on a long note of discovery.

He remembered now. She had shot in from somewhere, silk skirts flying, laughing. Her briefcase had bulged with papers and she’d been clutching it under one arm with decreasing effectiveness. He would have gone to rescue it, but Martin had detained him with some remark and one of her colleagues had got there first.

This picture was still vivid, though. Summer evening sun had lit her hair to gold. It had clearly started the day confined in a neat bow at her nape but by now it was springing free into wild curls about her shoulders. And her figure—Esteban found his mouth curving in appreciation at the memory. She had a figure to rival one of Patrick’s Renaissance goddesses at Hallam, lounging in naked voluptuousness among their sunlit olive groves. Add to that perfect legs, creamy skin—and, when she’d caught his eyes on her—a glare like a stiletto.

‘I remember,’ he said.

Alone in her office, Nicky winced. It was not the first time a man had called her a ‘blonde’ in that tone of voice. Or looked at her in blatant appreciation, as she now remembered all too clearly. It still stabbed where she was most vulnerable. Particularly this morning.

She hid her hurt under icy distance. ‘The name,’ she said with emphasis, ‘is Piper.’

‘Is it, indeed?’

Nicky could hear his amusement. She set her teeth and tried to remember that he was a customer.

He went on, ‘Well, Piper, you can tell Martin de Vries that I paid for a working kitchen and that’s what I expect to get’

Nicky was bewildered. In spite of what Caroline had said, the file had been clear. Admittedly, there had been complaint after complaint but they all seemed to have been dealt with. Moreover, the complainant was not Mr Tremain. The name on the telephoned demands was a Ms Francesca Moran.

In response, machinery had been tested and tested again, cabinets resited, floor tiling replaced. A month ago, Tremain had threatened legal action. But as far as Nicky could see all the disputed work on the Cornish mansion had been completed ten days before.

‘Do you have another complaint?’ she said warily.

‘Complaint!’ His derisive bark of laughter made her eardrums ring.

Nicky held the phone away from her head until he had finished.

‘Would you like to be more specific?’ she suggested sweetly, when she thought he might be able to hear her again.

‘Gladly.’ He launched into a list.

Nicky listened in gathering disbelief.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said when he finished. ‘That would mean every single appliance had gone wrong.’

‘Precisely,’ said Esteban Tremain.

In her astonishment Nicky forgot she had decided she loathed the man.

‘But they can’t have done. They’ve been checked. And they’re new.’

‘I certainly paid for new machines,’ he agreed suavely.

Nicky took a moment to assimilate that. ‘Are you suggesting-—?’

He interrupted again. ‘My dear girl, I am suggesting nothing.’

Of course, he was a lawyer, Nicky remembered with dislike. He knew exactly how to hint without actually accusing her or Springdown Kitchens of anything precise enough to be actionable.

Her voice shaking with fury, she said, ‘I object to the implication.’

‘Implication?’ His voice was smooth as cream. ‘What implication was that?’

‘Springdown Kitchens honour their contracts,’ Nicky said hotly. ‘If we charge you for new appliances, you get new appliances. You’re accusing us of installing substandard machines—’

‘Stop right there.’ It sliced across her tumbling speech like an ice axe. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Yet.’

Just that single word brought Nicky to a halt. She looked at her hand, gripping the telephone convulsively, and saw that she was shaking. Justified indignation, she assured herself.

But it did not feel like justified indignation. It felt as if she was a schoolgirl in a tantrum, not a serious professional dealing with an awkward client. Nicky breathed deeply.

She said, ‘You’d better take this up with Mr de Vries.’

‘As you may recall,’ Esteban Tremain said blandly, ‘that was exactly what I wanted to do in the first place.’

Nicky could not take any more. ‘I’ll tell him to call you as soon as I can catch him,’ she said curtly.

And flung the phone down before she screamed.

This time he did not call back.

It had made her late, of course. She had promised Ben she would be there at twelve-fifteen at the latest, before the little bistro filled up with the lunchtime trade. Ben hated to be crowded. Just as he hated to wait. Impatience ran in the family. Nicky gathered up her coat and bag with clumsy fingers. Caroline, having seen the phone call and its effect, wandered in.

‘Tremain again, I take it. That man thinks he only has to crook his little finger.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Have lunch,’ said Nicky, scribbling furiously on Martin’s notepad, just in case he came back during the lunch break.

Caroline was intrigued. ‘A date?’

Nicky tore off the note she had penned and stuck it over the top of Martin’s phone where he could not miss it, no matter how hard he tried. She looked up.

‘What price respect for personal privacy?’ she asked resignedly.

‘Never heard of it,’ Caroline said with a grin. Nicky bared her teeth and dived past her.

‘What will I do if Martin calls?’ Caroline yelled after her.

‘Tell him everything,’ Nicky called back. ‘It’s all in the note. Tell him I’ll deal with it if he wants. But not before lunch.’

She flung herself at the showroom door. Caroline followed her, grinning.

‘And what if the frustrated client turns up in person?’

A wicked light invaded Nicky’s eyes.

‘Tell Mr Tremain he’ll have to wait. I’m lunching with a man who won’t.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER brother was waiting outside the bistro, lost in thought Nicky broke into a run, calling his name. Ben looked up. He surged towards her, cleaving his way through the lunchtime crowd, and flung his arms wide.

It was an old joke. But Nicky felt oddly weepy as she ran full-tilt into them. Ben swung her off her feet with a rebel yell. Even on a rainy autumn street, dense with lunchtime crowds, heads turned; people smiled. He was so handsome, so full of life. He threw her into the air, looking up at her with a devilish grin.

‘Put me down,’ gasped Nicky. She was breathless, between laughter and unaccountable tears.

Ben only noticed the laughter. He returned her to the pavement and held her at arm’s length, surveying her appreciatively.

‘You look great,’ he said. ‘Even if you’re late.’

‘I know. I know,’ she said placatingly. ‘Sorry, I hit a natural disaster. Let’s eat.’

The waiter showed them to the small corner table for which Nicky had managed to wrest a reservation out of the management. He brought them water and menus and a carafe of wine while Nicky regaled Ben with the account of her battles with the difficult client.

It entertained him hugely.

‘Don’t know about a natural disaster. It sounds to me as if you’ve met your match,’ he said when she finished.

Nicky bridled. ‘Oh, no, I haven’t. He just—took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘It’s the only way,’ murmured Ben teasingly.

Nicky sent him a look that would have crushed him if he had been anyone but her brother. He laughed.

‘It’s good for you,’ he said hardily. ‘You’ve been getting downright bossy.’

Nicky laughed. They both knew what he meant.

Ben was twenty-eight to her twenty-six but sometimes she felt as if he was still a teenager. He had been in London for three years, living a rollercoaster life. One day he was living in the lap of luxury with an old mate and earning a fortune. The next, he was standing on Nicky’s doorstep at three in the morning without even the wherewithal to pay the taxi that had brought him.

Nicky always paid the cab, gave him a bed for the night and a loan to tide him over. It never took long. Normally Ben was on his way up again within a week.

He repaid her scrupulously and, as often as not, took her somewhere wildly expensive to celebrate the revival of his fortunes. And then she would not see him again until there was something else to celebrate or he was back at the bottom of the ride again. In fact Nicky had been wondering ever since he rang which it was this time.

But she knew him too well to ask a direct question. Instead, she let him pour wine for them both.

‘You know, sometimes I feel like a changeling,’ she said suddenly.

‘You?’ Ben paused, the carafe poised over his glass. He looked across at her in unfeigned surprise. ‘But you’re the only sensible one in the family.’

‘Quite.’

‘You mean the parents are rogues and vagabonds and I’m a financial disaster,’ he interpreted.

Nicky shook her head.

‘No. I mean you’re relaxed. Free. You don’t have to plan everything.’

Ben shrugged. ‘So you’re a planner. Somebody has to be.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘The parents didn’t do so well without you running the itinerary, did they?’

Nicky was startled into a little crow of laughter. When she’d moved to England eight years ago, her parents had announced that now, at last, they were going to sail round the world. But between one thing and another they had not quite set out yet.

Ben leaned across and patted her hand.

‘So don’t knock yourself just because you have some common sense.’ His expression darkened. ‘I wish to God I’d been as sensible.’

Nicky was concerned. ‘Problems? Can I—?’

But he shook his head decisively. ‘No. I can’t keep touching you every time I’m short. Anyway, I’ve got something to keep me going while I sort myself out.’

Nicky did not argue. She knew his pride. So she just said, ‘What do you think you’ll do?’

He pulled a face. ‘Winter’s coming. I’m tempted to go south, see if I can get some sailing. There’s bound to be a gin palace looking for a crew somewhere.’

Nicky could not repress her sudden shudder. Ben raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

‘You mean a boat like the Calico Jane?’

Ben grinned. ‘Hardly. Showiest boat in the Caribbean. Too many electronics for me. What made you think of her?’

She shrugged, regretting her unwary question.

But the name had awakened a forgotten mystery and Ben was not going to let it go.

‘Was she the one, then? When you went moonlighting?’ He laughed reminiscently. ‘God, Mum was furious.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Nicky said repressively.

The summer she was sixteen. It could have been yesterday.

Ben was intrigued. ‘What did happen? I never knew.’

Nicky shrugged again, not answering. She found that Ben was looking at her in sudden speculation.

‘You know, back then you were a babe to die for.’

That was more or less what they had said on board Calico Jane. Nicky could feel the colour leave her face. Fortunately, Ben was too taken up with his sudden memories to notice.

‘My friends were always on at me to bring you to parties.’ He grinned, remembering. ‘It used to drive me mad.’ He looked at her, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Who would have thought you’d turn into a wage slave? You were born to be a party girl.’

In spite of herself, Nicky choked. ‘I have a living to earn,’ she pointed out drily.

Ben put his head on one side and smiled the charming smile that had girlfriends falling over themselves to share his bed and do his laundry. ‘You can earn a living and still have some fun, you know.’

‘I do. It’s just that your idea of fun and mine is different.’

Ben flung up his hands.

‘I give in. You will live and die a businesswoman. And the wildest day of your week will be the girls night out.’

Since Ben had met all her friends and, indeed, made a spirited attempt to lure at least one of them into his sex and laundry net, Nicky did not take this slight too seriously.

‘I want wild, I’ll call my brother,’ she said tartly.

And that, for some reason, silenced Ben.

Their food came. Slowly they eased back into their normal easy gossip about family and friends and her despised job.

‘What’s Martin going to say when he finds you’ve savaged one of his customers this morning?’ Ben teased.

Nicky pulled a face. ‘Any savaging that took place was in the other direction. You should have heard the way that man called me a “blonde”.’

Ben laughed aloud. ‘But you are a blonde. And gorgeous with it.’

‘Not in the way he meant it,’ said Nicky, ungrateful for the compliment. ‘He made it sound as if all blondes are empty-headed nymphomaniacs.’

Ben waved his fork at her. ‘And too ready to go to war. All you needed to do was sweet-talk him a little. The man would be eating out of your hand by now.’

‘What a horrible thought,’ Nicky retorted. ‘Esteban Tremain is not the sort of man you sweet-talk lightly.’

The effect on Ben was electric. He sat bolt upright, his eyes narrowing. ‘What?’

Nicky was faintly surprised. She amplified, If I have to butter up some man, at least let it be someone I can like.’

Ben ignored that. ‘Who did you say?’

‘Esteban Tremain,’ said Nicky, puzzled. ‘Do you know him?’

That commanding voice had nothing in common with her erratic brother. She could not imagine how they could have met

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Ben, suddenly grim.

‘And you don’t like what you’ve heard,’ Nicky interpreted.

It did not surprise her. Ben was easygoing to a fault but he would not take kindly to Tremain’s habit of ordering everyone around. He was like his sister in that, at least.

‘I’ve never met the man,’ he said curtly. ‘But—’ He broke off, looking disturbed.

Nicky was intrigued. Not much worried her casual brother.

‘But—?’ she prompted.

He still hesitated, clearly torn.

At last he said, ‘He’s an ugly customer, from what I’ve heard. Steer clear of him.’ He sounded serious.

Nicky was touched. She reached across the table and covered the back of his hand reassuringly.

‘Don’t worry. He’s Martin’s client Martin can deal with him.’ But she could not resist adding naughtily, ‘So cancel the advice on sweet-talking him, then?’

Ben’s frown disappeared in a great shout of laughter.

‘Sharp,’ he said when he could speak. ‘Very sharp.’

The beep of Nicky’s mobile phone interrupted them. She pulled it out of her capacious bag and flicked the switch.

‘Hello?’

It was Caroline. ‘Told you,’ she said smugly. ‘He’s here. He virtually went through the broom cupboard looking for Martin.’

Nicky sniffed. ‘Well, at least now he knows I was telling the truth about Martin being out of the office. Did you call him? When will he be back?’

‘Not this evening,’ said Caroline with gloomy satisfaction. ‘Better get back here before Tremain starts throwing things.’

Nicky looked at Ben apologetically. He nodded.

‘Duty calls, eh? Fine. I’ll walk you back.’

He did. And then, to her surprise, he slid one arm possessively round her waist and strolled into the showroom beside her.

Caroline came towards them. ‘He’s in Martin’s office.’

Nicky looked across the showroom. A tall figure was pacing behind Martin’s glass walls. As she looked, he stopped, turned, went still… Their eyes locked.

Nicky felt her heart give an odd lurch. It was like catching sight of someone she recognised; someone very important Hardly knowing what she did, she removed herself from Ben’s encircling arm. She did not take her eyes off that still figure.

Behind her Ben said, ‘So that’s Esteban Tremain.’ He sounded as if he was committing him to memory.

The man left Martin’s office and came swiftly across to her. His eyes never left her face. Nicky thought, He knows me too. She felt as if the earth’s crust was suddenly gaping, leaving Ben and Caroline on the far side of the gulf, and Nicky and Esteban Tremain alone.

She blinked. Ben muttered something. She hardly heard him. Esteban Tremain paid no attention to anyone but Nicky. She shuddered under the intensity of those dark eyes.

I am not afraid, Nicky told herself.

Esteban Tremain said, ‘So we meet at last, Nicola Piper.’

It broke the spell. She shook her head and the world came back into its proper focus.

At her shoulder, Ben said warningly, ‘Nick?’

Esteban transferred his dark gaze. His eyes narrowed. He sized Ben up in silence.

They were a total contrast. In his well-cut suit, dark brows knit in frowning concentration, Esteban Tremain gave an impression of overwhelming power, only just contained. Ben meanwhile lounged against a pillar like a Greek god, all streaked blond hair and tanned forearms. Esteban Tremain stiffened.

Sheer panic found Nicky’s tongue for her. ‘Mr Tremain,’ she said breathlessly. She held out her hand to him with more friendliness than she would have believed possible an hour ago.

He ignored her hand.

‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt your social life,’ he said with awful courtesy.

Nicky frowned. She turned back to her brother.

‘See you soon, Ben,’ she said meaningfully.

‘What?’

Nicky resisted the urge to tread heavily on his foot.

‘I will be in touch,’ she said between her teeth. She backed him to the door and opened it pointedly. ‘Goodbye.’

Ben went reluctantly, with a long look over his shoulder at Esteban Tremain. It was almost menacing and totally out of character.

But Nicky had no time to think about that. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to deal with the most difficult client of her career to date.

Esteban Tremain did not acknowledge Ben’s departure. But his displeasure was dissolving, she saw. It was replaced by sheer interest. He looked her up and down.

‘So I was right,’ he said softly. And smiled. Not kindly.

Nicky watched the curve of the sensual mouth and felt a hollow open up in the pit of her stomach. She moistened suddenly dry lips. He was looking at her the way she imagined Victorian naturalists looked at a new species of penguin, she thought. Delighted, amused—and quite unconcerned about the feelings of the penguin.

How could a man make you want to run and hide from him just by looking at you?

Nicky cleared her throat. ‘Right about what?’

‘Blonde,’ Esteban said.

And smiled right into her eyes.

It caught her on the raw. But Nicky was not going to let him see that. She gave what was meant to be a light laugh. Then wished she hadn’t, as the dark gaze transferred, pleasurably, to her breasts.

Nicky resisted the desire to hold the lapels of her jacket tight up to her throat. She pulled herself together with an effort

‘I can’t deny it,’ she said lightly.

She realised that they were attracting an interested audience. Once again Esteban Tremain had proved an irresistible draw to every girl in the place. They had all found jobs which brought them into the main showroom and were now busily engaged in them, ears flapping. Sally was gaping unashamedly.

Hurriedly Nicky said, ‘Why don’t we go into Martin’s office?’

Esteban Tremain took in the audience with one comprehensive glance. He looked amused.

‘By all means, if it makes you feel safer.’

Nicky set her teeth and reminded herself that her management course had taught her how to deal with all sorts of difficult clients, even sexy and amused ones. She led the way, trying to ignore the fact that it felt as if every eye in the showroom was burning between her shoulder blades. She decided she loathed Esteban Tremain heartily.

He followed close on her heels. Too close. As she stood aside to let him precede her, she breathed in his cologne. A shocking wave of something like memory hit her. The sea, she thought. He smells of the sea.

She swallowed and shut the door of Martin’s glass case of an office with a bang that made the walls tremble.

Esteban Tremain frowned. He looked intrigued and annoyed in equal measure. But there was a simmering attraction there as well.

Out of nowhere the thought came: He’s going to touch me.

And, for no reason, the memory of Andrew’s words last night came back to her, disastrous in their clarity. ‘You’ll never be free.’

Nicky had a moment of pure unreasoning panic. He saw it. Startled awareness leaped into Esteban’s eyes. He seemed on the point of stepping towards her and her breath stopped in her throat.

Then steep eyelids hid his expression. He shoved his hands hard in his pockets. And Nicky’s famous common sense kicked in.

She said rapidly, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to talk to Mr de Vries yet. You can’t expect—’

He said abruptly, almost as if the subject now bored him, ‘None of those damned machines work. Sort it.’

Nicky clenched her hands. In her previous dealings with dissatisfied clients she was used to complaints about builders who did not work fast enough or colour schemes that their originators were now regretting. This sort of complaint about the appliances was a new one. She had not understood it when she’d read the file and she did not understand it now. Until she talked to Martin she did not know what to do about it.

Frowning, she said, ‘Did you read the instructions properly?’

Esteban Tremain looked at her for an incredulous moment. Nicky realised she had made a mistake. She added hurriedly, ‘I mean all the appliances going wrong. The statistical chances of that must be off the graph. Surely you can see that’

He gave her a sweet, poisonous smile.

‘Oh, I do. I can only conclude that it is not chance.’

Nicky was so bewildered by that, she did not even take offence at his tone.

‘No one else has had a problem. Martin uses only the very best suppliers,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘And even if one supplier has suddenly lost the plot on quality control we didn’t get everything in your kitchen from just one company. There were too many machines.’ She looked up. ‘You’re sure every one of them was bad?’

Esteban Tremain looked down his nose. It was a thin, aquiline nose and it made her think of a particularly dictatorial Roman Emperor.

‘I have not test-driven every waste-disposal unit and coffee-grinder, if that’s what you mean.’

Nicky began to feel a little better.

‘Well, which have you test-driven?’ she demanded. That did not come out quite as she intended either. It sounded downright truculent

His eyebrows, she noted irrelevantly, were very dark and fine. Just at the moment they were locked together across the bridge of his nose in a mighty frown. A Roman Emperor in a mood to condemn a gladiator.

‘I am informed,’ he said with precision, ‘that neither the dishwasher nor the fridge/freezer are in working order. As a result my companion did not have the opportunity to test the oven to its fullest However, her observation and my own lead us both to the conclusion that the oven is not working either.’

Nicky was not going to admit it but she was impressed. She also noted that Esteban Tremain delegated investigations of the fridge and the dishwasher to a female companion. She suspected that he shared Ben’s ideas about the relationship between women, laundry and sex. Though Mr Tremain would undoubtedly present it in a more sophisticated manner. She did her best not to glower at him.

‘Well, that is of course very serious.’ She riffled through Martin’s desk drawer for a notepad. ‘Let me make a note—’

Esteban Tremain strolled forward.

‘No more notes.’

He sounded quite pleasant But, looking up, Nicky realised that he was a lot closer than she wanted him to be. And that he was in a cold rage. It must have been that rage which made her heart lurch, then start pounding so hard she was sure he must hear it.

He said gently, ‘I didn’t take the time out to come here so you could take more notes. This kitchen has taken four months longer than de Vries estimated. Hasn’t it?’

The question somehow demanded an answer. Nicky could not help but nod. She knew from her reading of the file that he was right.

She could feel sweat breaking out along her spine. It was not fear. It was not, God help her, attraction. But it had some of the symptoms of both. She breathed carefully, praying that he would not notice.

‘So what do you want?’ she asked.

Esteban Tremain smiled dangerously and Nicky hung on to her pleasant expression, but it was an effort.

‘I want action,’ he said softly.

There was a sharp silence which Nicky did not entirely understand.

Struggling for normality, she said in a placating tone, ‘So do we all. But there has to be some planning—’

True to form, Esteban Tremain did not waste time listening to her.

‘I don’t just mean as a general principle, some time in the future,’ he explained, still in that chillingly friendly tone. ‘I mean here and now. Today.’

He sounded cool and amused and as if he did not care one way or the other. Which was odd, considering the trouble he had caused. And her own instinctive feeling that he was so angry he could barely contain himself.

It took real courage to say drily, ‘I don’t do magic.’

For a moment his eyes flickered. Then he gave her a charming smile. It really was chilling.

‘Then I won’t ask for magic,’ he said softly. ‘Just my kitchen working like it’s supposed to. Now, I suggest you personally get into your car and go—and—put—it—right.’

She was not deceived by the gentle tone.

‘I can’t do that at a moment’s notice,’ she protested. Esteban Tremain looked her up and down. Slowly. It was a deliberate put-down and they both knew it. Nicky felt the shamed heat rise in her cheeks. She hated him.

Her chin came up and she glared back at him, right into those dark, dark eyes. It amused him. One eyebrow rose enquiringly.

‘Do you mend machinery by remote control, then?’ he asked pleasantly.

Horribly conscious of her blazing cheeks, Nicky said curtly, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Then I suggest you do as I ask. And sooner rather than later. My secretary will sort out the arrangements.’

He paused, waiting. But Nicky was speechless. With a faint triumphant smile, Esteban Tremain walked out of the office.

On a surge of fury she had never felt before, Nicky picked up the Waterford ornament and threw it. Hard. It did not break but it brought in the watchers hot foot.

‘What did he say?’ demanded Sally, half shocked, half thrilled.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked the more practical Caroline, returning the small glass sculpture to Martin’s desk.

‘Is it damaged?’ asked Nicky. Restored to herself, she was a little conscience-stricken.

‘It bounced,’ Caroline reassured her cheerfully. ‘Tremain really got you wound up, didn’t he? Tea, that’s what you need.’

And while Sally went to get it Caroline produced a photocopied sheet from behind her back.

‘Read this,’ she said with relish.

It was a copy of a gossip column piece, dated nearly a year earlier. Headed ‘Heart Throb Wins Again’, it described a yacht race in the Mediterranean. Nicky read it aloud.

‘Brilliant bachelor barrister Esteban Tremain’s winning streak continues. After recent notable victories in court, he and his crew on Glen Tandy have won the Sapphire Cup. Famously elusive, these days the Latin Lover, as the Law Courts call him, is spending time with very good friend Francesca, the popular daughter of Lord Moran. Friends say that Esteban does not tolerate criticism but he will have to smarten up his client list if he is going to tie the knot with a judge’s daughter.’

Nicky looked up. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he’s made mincemeat of better adversaries than you. Let Martin deal with him.’

‘Do you know him, then?’ said Nicky suspiciously.

Caroline had been brought in by Martin when the business had begun to expand and she was older than the others by several years. As a result, she had become the office guru. She did not disappoint now.

‘Friends in common,’ she said airily. ‘He is some sort of Latin American by birth but he was quite young when his mother remarried so he was brought up in England and took his stepfather’s name. He’s as tough as they come. Always has to be in control.’

Nicky thought of those unfathomable eyes, so dark, so guarded. She shivered.

‘I can believe it.’

‘Don’t try and handle this one yourself,’ Caroline advised shrewdly. ‘It’s Martin’s baby. Make him come back and deal with it.’

Nicky tried. It got her nowhere. Oh, Martin came back from the exhibition hall, all right. But by the time Nicky got in to see him he had already returned Esteban’s calls and his expression was sober.

‘Do what the man wants, Nick,’ Martin said, before she had managed more than a couple of sentences.

Nicky stared.

‘Have you listened to a word I’ve said?’ she demanded.

‘All of them.’ Martin had had a hard day and it showed. He pushed a weary hand through untidy grey hair. ‘You don’t like Tremain and you think I should run him off the territory. Well, tough. For one thing, I haven’t got the time. For another—we agreed when I took you on that that was your job. You do the trouble-shooting.’

‘Not this sort of trouble-shooting.’

‘Any sort of trouble-shooting,’ Martin said firmly.

‘You said yourself, I’m no good with clients,’ Nicky pointed out.

This was true. On at least one occasion, Nicky had been so forthright that the client in question had banged out of the showroom, slamming the door so hard behind her that its handsome glass insets had cracked. Martin had laughed. But he had also said, ‘It’s safer to keep you away from the paying customers, isn’t it?’ Watching him woo back the offended client afterwards, Nicky could only agree.

Now she decided to remind him. ‘Remember Mrs Lazenby?’

Martin remained infuriatingly unmoved.

‘Jennifer Lazenby is a woman with too much time on her hands and not enough brain cells to know what to do with it. Add to that a millionaire husband and the fact that she is a trophy wife with ten years on the clock, and you’ve got someone who doesn’t want anything to do with a younger woman. Especially not a blonde with attitude.’ He paused before adding deliberately, ‘Not to mention a figure that stops traffic.’

Nicky winced, just as he had expected. Just as she always did when anyone mentioned her looks. Martin pushed home his advantage.

‘Compared with Mrs Lazenby, Esteban is a pussy cat.’

Nicky gave him an incredulous look. He laughed.

‘Well, OK, maybe not a pussy cat. But he’s not stupid and he’s not jealous of you. And he has got a genuine problem.’ He added in a wheedling tone, ‘Just your sort of problem, in fact.’

Nicky could hardly deny that.

‘And he wants you to deal with it personally.’

Nicky grimaced.

‘You and no one else. You obviously impressed him.’

‘I made him spitting mad,’ corrected Nicky.

‘Well, that makes two of you, doesn’t it?’

Before she could answer, Martin leaned forward and studied her earnestly.

‘Look, Nick, you know how I’m placed, with the exhibition and everything. I can’t afford the time to go haring off to Cornwall. I’m sorry Esteban Tremain rubs your fur up the wrong way but you’ve just got to be professional about it.’

Nicky’s jaw jutted dangerously. ‘Or?’ she said in a soft voice.

Martin closed his eyes. ‘Nick, don’t be difficult—’

‘Will you give me the sack if I refuse to go?’

His eyes flew open. ‘Of course not’

‘Then I refuse,’ she said triumphantly.

Martin did not laugh. ‘I won’t need to give you the sack,’ he said grimly. ‘If Tremain doesn’t pay his account by the end of the month the bank will probably foreclose. Then we’re all out of a job.’

Nicky sat down hard. ‘What?’

‘I’ve let it get out of hand,’ Martin admitted.

He stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. He began to prowl round the room.

‘My accountant tells me I’ve spent too much time marketing and not enough collecting the debts. To be honest, we probably shouldn’t have taken a stand at the exhibition. But by the time I realised how bad things were it was too late to cancel without paying up. So I thought, What the hell?’

Nicky shut her eyes. It was all too horribly familiar. It was what her father had said all through her hand-to-mouth childhood. She had never thought to hear it from steady, sensible Martin, even though he was a long-standing friend of her ramshackle family.

‘You’re more like my father than I thought,’ she said involuntarily.

Martin had the grace to look ashamed. But he did not back down.

Nicky watched him. She felt numb. ‘I knew there was something wrong. But I had no idea it was this bad.’

‘It wasn’t. It’s all gone wrong in the last six weeks. To be honest, I was relying on Tremain settling his account to keep going until I can put in a bill to Hambeldons.’ He looked at her helplessly.

Nicky knew that look. It was just how her mother used to look when they landed on the next Caribbean island without money or stores and her father began declaring loudly that nothing would induce him to take another tourist out fishing. And Nicky knew she would do just the same now as she had then.

She swallowed. She could feel the volcano heaving under her feet, she thought.

‘All right,’ she said with deep reluctance. ‘Leave it to me.’

Martin cheered up at once. The others were unsurprised by Nicky’s decision when she was heard to telephone Esteban’s secretary for route instructions and a key. They were even envious.

‘He looks lonely,’ sighed Sally.

‘Lonely!’ muttered Nicky, scornful.

‘He has never met a woman to thaw his heart,’ Sally went on, oblivious. She spent a lot of her time reading the stories in the magazines where Springdown Kitchens advertised. ‘Don’t you agree, Nicky?’

Nicky was cynical. ‘I should think he’s found several and returned them all to store,’ she said unwisely.

Caroline laughed. ‘You are so right,’ she agreed. ‘The shelf life of an Esteban Tremain squeeze is about six months, they say.’ She added wickedly, ‘That should give you a fun Christmas, Nicky.’

‘He won’t be there,’ Nicky said hurriedly. ‘I double-checked with his secretary. She says he’s in London all week. As long as I’m away before Friday night, I don’t have to see Esteban Tremain at all.’

It was a long drive. Normally Nicky liked driving but on this occasion it gave her too much time to think. Alone in the car with a ribbon of motorway unfolding in front of her and recipes for a bonfire-night party on the radio, her mind slipped treacherously sideways.

Why did Esteban Tremain have this effect on her? She knew nothing about the man, after all. Just that slightly spiky article, a couple of personal encounters—that slow, dispassionate assessment—the note in his voice when he’d called her a blonde. And he smelled like the sea.

She could not suppress her involuntary shiver of awareness as she remembered that. There was something about him that set all her warning antennae on full alert.

Impatiently she leaned forward and twiddled the radio dial until she found some music with a cheerful beat. She moved her shoulders to it, trying to relax. Trying to remember how to relax. Trying to remember that some people actually wanted to be blonde.

She flicked her hand through her hair. For once, knowing she was going to be alone, she had left it loose.

‘Why don’t you dye your hair, if you hate it so much?’ one of her friends had said impatiently, when she was complaining about the blonde image.

Well, you could dye out the golden fairness, Nicky thought now. There was not much you could do about an hourglass figure and long, slim legs, unless you wanted to diet yourself into ill health. Her dislike of her looks had not yet taken her that far.

So she contented herself with wearing dark long-line jackets that disguised her remarkable figure and pulling her hair back into severe styles. Even so, it did not always work. She had learned to dread that speculative stare, as a man suddenly discovered her looks under the businesslike surface. It was too horribly reminiscent…

The car had speeded up as the memories approached. Nicky shook herself and made herself slow down.

These days she had almost forgotten that crippling sense of wanting to run until she disappeared into the horizon. Almost. Until someone like Esteban Tremain called her a blonde in that tone of voice.

Again Andrew’s words came back to her. ‘Find the guy. Get him out of your system. Or you’ll never be free.’

It was getting dark. Nicky shivered. The memories of the dark were worst of all.

She left the motorway at the next exit. She found a small inn and a fire and company. For a while the memories receded.

But in the end she had to leave the friendly landlord and his wife and go up to the pretty chintz hung bedroom alone. After getting ready for bed Nicky went to the window and looked out. In this country village you could see the stars. They were more brilliant than they were in London but even so they did not compare with the jewelled coverlet of the Caribbean.

Nicky closed her eyes in anguish. No, she was not going to banish the memory tonight She knew what that meant. No sleep until she faced it.

She sank into an armchair and tipped her head back. She let memory do its work…

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS one of the worst times on the ramshackle Piper boat.

Oh, they were always short of money, of course, but Margaret Piper usually kept a small secret store for emergencies. This time, when she went to it, there was nothing there. Leon had found it and spent the contents. He did not even know where it had gone. Money, as he said charmingly when she challenged him, just trickled through his fingers. Money, he added, was not important.

It was one of the few times Nicky remembered seeing her mother angry with him. Not only angry but hopeless.

‘I was saving that to buy Nicky a birthday present,’ she heard her mother shout. ‘She’s sixteen next month and she hasn’t even got a skirt.’

There was not enough money to pay the mooring fee in the small island harbour, of course. They had to drop anchor off an isolated beach, out of town, and forage for food and water. Margaret tore her arm on an acacia bush and began to cry. When Leon put his arm round her, she twitched him away, turning her shoulder so that Ben and Nicky should not see her tears.

Ben did not. But Nicky, maturing fast and increasingly aware of the strains that their itinerant life imposed on her mother, saw all too clearly. It was then that she decided to go to town.

She ignored the scratches on her bare brown legs. She ignored the fact that her old shorts and shirt had shrunk as well as faded in the wash. If, as her very own Nemesis later accused, she looked like a voluptuous Cleopatra in urchin’s clothing, Nicky did not know it. All she knew was that she must do something to take that look of despair off her mother’s face. Anything.

There would be work at one of the cafés on the main drag or the marina, Nicky thought. She had grown experienced in the finding of casual work on the islands. Even if they did not pay her until the end of the week—which was all too likely—she should be able to beg some food from them at the end of the evening.

Well, she got the food all right. And a lot more than she had bargained for. Or than she was equipped to deal with.

There was no work at any of the cafés. But a harassed woman laden with gaping grocery bags stopped her as she came out of the Golden Lobster.

‘You looking for a job, kid?’

Nicky nodded.

‘I’m cooking for a party on the Calico Jane. I could do with another pair of hands. Just for tonight. Fifty dollars in your hand.’

To Nicky it was a fortune. More than that, it was a lifeline. But she was clear-headed enough to remember that casual labour didn’t have guaranteed hours. By the time she got off work tonight the shops could all be shut

‘Fifty dollars and the left-overs,’ she said firmly.

The woman laughed. ‘No way. This lot are on vintage champagne. You’re not waltzing off with two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine.’

Nicky lifted her chin. ‘No alcohol. Food. I want bread and salad and meat. Oh, and some milk.’

Her prospective employer stared. Then she shrugged, to the imminent danger of her grocery purchases.

‘If that’s what you want. Now take this damned bag and let’s get going.’

Nicky did.

The Calico Jane was in the luxury class. Anyone who chartered her had to be well off. Nicky was used to that. There were plenty of the seriously rich who moored yachts on one Caribbean island or another. She and Ben had crewed for several of them.

But she had never seen anything like the party that greeted her as she climbed aboard Calico Jane

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