‘The only thing I know is that you are a stubborn and defiant woman who has tested me beyond endurance,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘And maybe this has been inevitable all along.’

She stared into his eyes. ‘You’re going to put me across your lap and smack my bottom?’

‘Is that what you’d like? Maybe later. But not right now. Right now I’m going to kiss you—but be warned that this is going to spoil you for anyone else. Are you prepared for that, Amber? Prepared for every man who kisses you after this to make you remember me and ache for me?’

‘You are so arrogant,’ she accused.

But her lips were parting and Conall knew she wanted this just as much as he did. Maybe more—for he caught a flash of hunger in her darkening eyes. Sliding one hand around her waist, while the other cushioned her still-damp hair, he lowered his mouth onto hers.

Wedlocked!

Conveniently wedded, passionately bedded!

Whether there’s a debt to be paid, a will to be obeyed or a business to be saved…

She’s got no choice but to say, ‘I do’!

But these billionaire bridegrooms have got another think coming if they think marriage will be easy…

Soon their convenient brides become the object of an inconvenient desire!

Find out what happens after the vows in

Untouched Until Marriage by Chantelle Shaw

The Billionaire’s Defiant Acquisition by Sharon Kendrick

One Night to Wedding Vows by Kim Lawrence

Look for more stories coming soon!

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…

The Billionaire’s Defiant Acquisition

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With special thanks to fascinating Fredrik Ferrier, for giving me an illuminating glimpse into the world of art.

And to the fabulous Annie Macdonald Hall, who taught me so much about horses and made me understand why people love them so much.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Wedlocked!

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE FLESH she looked more dangerous than beautiful. Conall’s mouth hardened. She was exquisite, yes...but faded. Like a rose which had been plucked fresh for a man’s buttonhole before a wild night of partying, but which now lay wilted and drooping across his chest.

Fast asleep, she lay sprawled on top of a white leather sofa. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt, which curved over her breasts and bottom, ending midway along amazingly tanned legs which seemed to go on for ever. Beside her lay an empty champagne glass—the finger-marked crystal upended and glinting in the spring sunshine. A faint breeze drifted in from the open windows leading onto the balcony, but it wasn’t enough to disperse the faint fug of cigarette smoke, along with the musky scent of incense. Conall made a barely perceptible click of distaste. Cliché after cliché were all here—embodied in the magnificent body of Amber Carter as she lay with her head pillowed on her arm and her black hair spilling like ink over her golden skin.

If she’d been a man he would have shaken her awake with a contemptuous hand, but she was not a man. She was a woman. A spoilt and distractingly beautiful woman who was now his responsibility and for some reason he didn’t want to touch her. He didn’t dare.

Damn Ambrose Carter, he thought viciously, remembering the older man’s plaintive appeal to him. You’ve got to save her from herself, Conall. Someone has to show her she can’t carry on like this. And damn his own stupid conscience, which had made him agree to carry out this crazy deal.

He listened. The apartment was silent—but maybe he should check it was empty. That there were no other bodies sprawled in one of the many bedrooms and able to hear what he was about to say to her.

He prowled from room to room, but, among all the debris of cold pizza lying in greasy boxes and half-empty bottles of vintage champagne, he could find no one. Only once did he pause—when he pushed open a door of a spare bedroom, cluttered with books and clothes and a dusty-looking exercise bike. Half hidden behind a velvet sofa was a stack of paintings and Conall walked over to them, his natural collector’s eye making him flick through them with interest. The canvases were raw and angry—with swirls and splodges of paint, some of which had been highlighted with a sharp edging of black ink. He studied them for several moments, until he was forced to remember that he was here for a purpose and he turned away from the pictures and returned to the sitting room, to find Amber Carter lying exactly where he’d left her.

‘Wake up,’ he growled. And then, when that received no response, he repeated it—more loudly this time. ‘I said, wake up.’

She moved. A golden arm reached up to brush aside the thick sweep of ebony hair which obscured most of her face, offering him a sudden unimpeded view of her profile. Her cute little nose and the natural pout of her rosy lips. Thick lashes fluttered open and as she slowly turned her head to look at him he realised that her eyes were the most startling shade of green he’d ever seen. They made the breath dry in his throat, those eyes. They made him momentarily forget what he was doing there.

‘What’s going on?’ she questioned, in a smoky voice. ‘And who the hell are you?’

She sat up, blinking as she looked around—but not creating the kind of fuss he might have expected. As if she was used to being woken by strange men who had walked into her apartment at midday. He felt another shimmer of distaste. Maybe she was.

‘My name is Conall Devlin,’ he said, looking at her face for some kind of recognition, but seeing only a blank and shuttered boredom on her frozen features.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Those amazing eyes swept over him and then she yawned. ‘And how did you get in, Conall Devlin?’

In many ways Conall was the most old-fashioned of men—an accusation levelled at him many times by disappointed women in the past—and in that precise moment he felt his temper begin to flare because it confirmed everything he’d heard about her. That she was careless. That she didn’t care about anything or anyone, except herself. And anger was safer than desire. Than allowing himself to focus on the way her breasts jiggled as she moved. Or to acknowledge that as she rose to her feet and walked across the room she moved with a natural grace, which made him want to stare at her and keep staring. Which made his groin begin to harden with an unwilling kind of lust.

‘The door was open,’ he said, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

‘Oh. Right. Someone must have left it open on their way out.’ She looked at him and smiled the pretty kind of smile which probably had most men eating out of her hand. ‘I had a party last night.’

He didn’t smile back. ‘Doesn’t it worry you that someone could have walked right in and burgled you—or worse?’

She shrugged. ‘Not really. Security on the main door is usually very tight. Though come to think of it—you seem to have got past them without too much difficulty. How did you manage that?’

‘Because I have a key,’ he said, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger so that it glinted in the bright spring sunshine.

She was walking across the room—the baggy T-shirt moving across her bottom to draw his unwilling attention to the pert swell of her buttocks. But his words made her jerk her head back in surprise and a faint frown appeared on her brow as she extracted a pack of cigarettes from a small beaded handbag which was lying on a coffee table.

‘What are you talking about, you have a key?’ she questioned, pulling out a filter tip and jamming it in between her lips.

‘I’d rather you didn’t light that,’ said Conall tightly.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes. Really,’ he gritted back sarcastically. ‘Discounting the obvious dangers of passive smoking, I happen to hate the smell.’

‘Then leave. Nobody’s stopping you.’ She flicked the lighter with a manicured thumbnail so that a blue-gold flash of flame flared briefly into life, but she only got as far as inhaling the first drag when Conall crossed the room and removed the cigarette from her mouth, ignoring her look of shock.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she spluttered indignantly. ‘You can’t do that!’

‘No?’ he questioned silkily. ‘Watch me, baby.’ He walked out to the balcony and crushed the glowing red tip between thumb and forefinger, before dropping it into another empty champagne glass, which was standing next to a large pot plant.

When he returned he could see a look of defiance on her face as she took out a second cigarette.

‘There are plenty more where that came from,’ she taunted.

‘And you’ll only be wasting your time,’ he said flatly. ‘Because every cigarette you light I’m going to take from you and extinguish, until eventually you have none left.’

‘And if I call the police and have you arrested for trespass and harassment,’ she challenged. ‘What then?’

Conall shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but neither of those charges will stand up—since I think the law might find that you are the one who is actually guilty of trespass. Remember what I just told you? That I have a key.’ He paused.

He saw her defiance briefly waver. He saw a shadow cross over her beautiful green eyes and he felt a wave of something which felt almost like empathy and he wasn’t quite sure why. Until he reminded himself what kind of woman she was. The spoilt, manipulative kind who stood for everything he most despised.

‘Yes I know but I’m asking why—and it had better be a good explanation,’ she said in a tone of voice which nobody had dared use with him for years. ‘Who are you, and why have you come barging in here, trying to take control?’

‘I’m happy to tell you anything you want to know,’ he said evenly. ‘But first I think you need to put on some clothes.’

‘Why?’ A smile played at the corners of her lips as she put a hand on one angled hip and struck a catwalk pose. ‘Does my appearance bother you, Mr Devlin?’

‘Actually, no—at least, not in the way I think you’re suggesting. I’m not turned on by women who smoke and flaunt their bodies to strangers,’ he said, although the latter part of this statement wasn’t quite true, as the continued aching in his body testified. He swallowed against the sudden unwanted dryness in his throat. ‘And since I don’t have all day to waste—why don’t you do as I ask and then we can get down to business?’

For a moment Amber hesitated, tempted to tell him to go to hell. To carry through her threat and march over to the phone and call the police, despite the fact that she was enjoying the unexpected drama of the situation. Because wasn’t it good to feel something—even if it was only anger, when for so long now all she had felt had been a terrifying kind of numbness? As if she were no longer made of flesh and blood, but was colourless and invisible—like water.

She narrowed her eyes as her mind flicked back through the previous evening. Had Conall Devlin been one of the many gatecrashers at the impromptu party she’d ended up hosting? No. Definitely not. She frowned. She would have remembered him. Definitely. Because he was the kind of man you would never forget, no matter how objectionable you found him.

Unwillingly, her gaze drifted over him. His rugged features would have been perfect were it not for the fact that his nose had obviously once been broken. His hair was dark—though not quite as dark as hers—and his eyes were the colour of midnight. His jaw was dark and shadowed—as if he hadn’t bothered shaving that morning, as if he had more than his fair share of testosterone raging around his body. And what a body. Amber swallowed. He looked as if he would be perfectly at ease smashing a pickaxe into a tough piece of concrete—even though she could tell that his immaculate charcoal suit must have cost a fortune.

And meanwhile the inside of her mouth felt as if it had been turned into sandpaper and she was certain her breath must smell awful because she’d fallen asleep without brushing her teeth. Her fingers crept up surreptitiously to her face. Yesterday’s make-up was still clogging her eyes and beneath the baggy T-shirt her skin felt warm and sticky. It wasn’t how you wanted to look when you were presented with a man as spectacular as him.

‘Okay,’ she said carelessly. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’

She enjoyed his brief look of surprise—as if he hadn’t been expecting her sudden capitulation—and that pleased her because she liked surprising people. She could feel his gaze on her as she padded out of the room towards her bedroom, which had a breathtaking view over some of London’s most famous landmarks.

She stared at the perfect circle of the London Eye as she tried to gather her thoughts together. Some women might have been freaked out at having been woken in such a way by a total stranger, but all Amber could think was that it made an interesting start to the day, when lately her days all seemed to bleed into one meaningless blur. She wondered if Conall Devlin was used to getting everything he wanted. Probably. He had that unmistakable air of arrogance about him. Did he think she would be intimidated by his macho stance and bossy air? Well, he would soon realise that nothing intimidated her.

Nothing.

She didn’t rush to get ready—although she took the precaution of locking the bathroom door first. A power shower woke her into life and after she’d dressed, she carefully applied her make-up. A quick blast of the hairdryer and she was done. Twenty minutes later she emerged in a pair of skinny jeans and a clingy white T-shirt to find him still there. Just not where she’d left him—dominating the large reception room with that faintly hostile glint in his midnight-blue eyes. Instead, he was sitting on one of the sofas, busy tapping something into a laptop, as if he had every right to make himself at home. He glanced up as she walked in and she saw a look in his eyes which made her feel faintly uncomfortable, before he closed the laptop and surveyed her coolly.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘This is my home, not yours and therefore you don’t start telling me what to do. I don’t want to sit down.’

‘I think it’s better you do.’

‘I don’t care what you think.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t care about very much at all, do you, Amber?’

Amber stiffened. He said her name as if he had every right to. As if it were something he’d been rehearsing. And now she could make out the faint Irish burr in his deep voice. Her heart lurched because suddenly this had stopped feeling like a whacky alternative to a normal Sunday morning—whatever normal was—and had begun to feel rather...disturbing.

But she sat down on the sofa opposite his, because standing in front of him was making her feel like a naughty schoolgirl who had been summoned in front of the headmaster. And something about the way he was looking at her was making her knees wobble in a way which had nothing to do with anger.

She stared at him. ‘Just who are you?’

‘I told you. Conall Devlin.’ He smiled. ‘Name still not ringing any bells?’

She shrugged, as something drifted faintly into the distant recesses of her mind and then drifted out again. ‘Maybe.’

‘I know your brother, Rafe—’

‘Half-brother,’ she corrected with cold emphasis. ‘I haven’t seen Rafe in years. He lives in Australia.’ She gave a brittle smile. ‘We’re a very fragmented family.’

‘So I believe. I also used to work for your father.’

‘My father?’ She frowned. ‘Oh, dear. Poor you.’

The look which greeted this remark showed that she’d irritated him and for some reason this pleased her. Amber reminded herself that he had no right to storm in and sit on one of her sofas, uninvited. Or to sit there barking out questions. The trouble was that he was exuding a disturbing air of confidence and certainty—like a magician who was saving his show-stopping trick right for the end of his act...

‘Anyway,’ she said, with an entirely unnecessary glance at the diamond watch which was glittering furiously at her wrist. ‘I really don’t have time for all this. I’ll admit it was a novel way to be woken up but I’m getting bored now and I’m meeting friends for lunch. So cut to the chase and tell me why you’re here, Mr Conall. Is my dear daddy having one of his occasional bouts of remorse and wondering how his children are getting on? Are you one of his heavies who he’s sent to find out how I am? In which case, you can tell him I’m doing just fine.’ She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Or has he grown bored with wife number...let me see, which number is he on now? Is it six? Or has he reached double figures? It’s so-o-o difficult to keep up with his hectic love life.’

Conall listened as she spat out her spiky observations, telling himself that of course she was likely to be mixed up and angry and combative. That anyone with her troubled background was never going to end up taking the conventional path in life. Except he knew that adversity didn’t necessarily have to make you spoilt and petulant. He thought about what his own mother had been forced to endure—the kind of hardship which would probably be beyond Amber Carter’s wilful understanding.

His mouth tightened. He wouldn’t be doing her any favours by patting her on her pretty, glossy head and telling her it was all going to be okay. Hadn’t people been doing that all her life—with predictable results? Quite frankly, he was itching to lay her across his lap and spank a little sense into her. He felt an unwanted jerk of lust. Though maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

‘I have just concluded a business deal with your father,’ he said.

‘Bully for you,’ she said flippantly. ‘No doubt he drove a hard bargain.’

‘Indeed he did,’ he agreed steadily, wondering if she had any idea of the irony of her words—and how much he secretly agreed with them. Because if anyone else had attempted to negotiate the kind of terms Ambrose Carter had demanded, then Conall would have given an emphatic no and walked away from the deal without looking back. But the acquisition of this imposing tower block in this part of London wasn’t just something he’d set his heart on—a lifetime dream he’d never thought he’d achieve just shy of his thirty-fifth birthday. It was more than that. He owed the old man. He owed him big time. Because despite Ambrose’s own car crash of an emotional life, he had shown Conall kindness at a time when his life had been short of kindness. He had given him the break he’d needed. Had believed in him when nobody else had.

‘You owe me, Conall,’ he’d said as he had outlined his outrageous demand. ‘Do this one thing for me and we’re quits.’

And even though Conall had inwardly objected to the blatant emotional blackmail, how could he possibly have refused? If it weren’t for Ambrose he could have ended up serving time in prison. His life could have been very different. Surely it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he could teach his mixed-up daughter a few fundamental lessons in manners and survival.

He stared into her emerald eyes and tried to ignore the sensual curve of her mouth, which was sending subliminal messages to his body and making a pulse at his temple begin to hammer. ‘Yesterday, I made a significant purchase from your father.’

She wasn’t really paying attention. She was too busy casting longing looks in the direction of her cigarettes. ‘And your point is?’

‘My point is that I now own this apartment block,’ he said.

He had her attention now. All of it. Her green eyes were shocked—she looked like a cat which had had a bucket of icy water thrown over it. But it didn’t take longer than a couple of seconds for her natural arrogance to assert itself. For her to narrow those amazing eyes and look down her haughty little nose at him.

‘You? But...but it’s been in his property portfolio for years. It’s one of his key investments. Why would he sell it without telling me?’ She wrinkled her brow in confusion. ‘And to you?’

Conall gave a short laugh. The inference was as clear as the blue spring sky outside the penthouse windows. He wondered if she would have found the news less shocking if the purchase had been made by some rich aristocrat—someone who presumably she would have less trouble twisting around her little finger.

‘Presumably because he likes doing business with me,’ he said. ‘And he wants to free up some of his money and commitments in order to enjoy his retirement.’

Another frown pleated her perfect brow. ‘I had no idea he was thinking about retirement.’

Conall was tempted to suggest that if she communicated with her father a little more often, then she might know what was going on in his life, but he wasn’t here to judge her. He was here to offer her a solution to her current appalling lifestyle, even if it went against his every instinct.

‘Well, he is. He’s winding down and as of now I am the new owner of this development.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Which means, of course, that there are going to be a number of changes. The main one being that you can no longer continue to live here rent-free as you have been doing.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You are currently occupying a luxury apartment in a prime location,’ he continued, ‘which I can rent out for an astronomical monthly sum. At the moment you are paying precisely nothing and I’m afraid that the arrangement is about to come to an end.’

Her haughty expression became even haughtier and she shuddered, as if the very mention of money was in some way vulgar, and Conall felt a flicker of pleasure as he realised he was enjoying himself. Because it was a long time since a woman had shown him anything except an eager green light.

‘I don’t think you understand, Mr...Devlin,’ she continued, spitting his name out as if it were poison, ‘that you will get your money. I’m quite happy to pay the current market value as rent. I just need to speak to my bank,’ she concluded.

He gave a smile. ‘Good luck with that.’

She was getting angry now. He could see it in the sudden glitter of her eyes and the way she curled her scarlet fingernails so that they looked like talons against the faded denim of her skinny jeans. And he felt a corresponding flicker of something he didn’t recognise. Something he tried to push away as he stared into the furious tremble of her lips.

‘You may know my father and my brother,’ she said, ‘but that certainly doesn’t give you the authority to make pronouncements about things which are none of your business. Things about which you know nothing. Like my finances.’

‘Oh, I know more about those than you might realise,’ he said. ‘More than you would probably be comfortable with.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Believe what you like, baby,’ he said softly. ‘Because you’ll soon find out what’s true. But it doesn’t have to get acrimonious. I’m going to be very magnanimous, Amber, because your father and I go back a long way. And I’m going to make you an offer.’

Her magnificent eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What kind of offer?’

‘I’m going to offer you a job and the chance to redeem yourself. And if you accept, we’ll see about giving you an apartment more suited to a woman on a working wage, rather than this—’ He gave an expansive wave of his hand. ‘Which you have to admit is more suited to someone on a millionaire’s salary.’

She was staring at him incredulously, as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said. As if he were suddenly going to smile and tell her that he’d simply been teasing and she could have whatever it was she wanted. Was that how men usually behaved towards her? he wondered. Of course it was. When you looked the way she looked, men would fall over themselves whenever she clicked her beautifully manicured fingers.

‘And if I don’t accept?’

He shrugged. ‘That will make things a little more difficult. I will be forced to give you a month’s notice and after that to change the locks, and I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.’

She jumped to her feet, her eyes spitting green fire—looking as if she’d like to rush across the room and rake those scarlet talons all over him. And wasn’t there a primitive side of him which wished she would go right ahead? Take them right down his chest to his groin. Curve those red nails around his balls and gently scrape them, before replacing them with the lick of her tongue.

But she didn’t. She just stood there sucking in a deep breath and trying to compose herself...while his erotic little fantasies meant that he was having to do exactly the same.

‘I may not know much about the law, Mr Devlin,’ she said, biting out the words like splinters of ice, ‘but even I know that you aren’t allowed to throw a sitting tenant out onto the streets.’

‘But you’re not a tenant, Amber, and you never have been,’ he said, trying not to show the sudden triumph which rushed through him. Because although she might be spoilt and thoroughly objectionable, she was going to learn enough of life’s harsher lessons in the coming weeks, without him rubbing salt into the wound. He picked his next words carefully. ‘Your father has been letting you live here as a favour, nothing more. You didn’t sign any agreements—’

‘Of course I didn’t—because he’s my father!’

‘Which means that your occupancy was simply an act of kindness. And now he has sold it to me, I’m afraid he no longer has any interest or claims on the property. And as a consequence, neither do you.’

Wildly, she shook her head and ebony tendrils of hair flew around it. ‘He wouldn’t just have sprung it on me like this! He would have told me!’ she said, her voice rising.

‘He said he’d sent you a letter to inform you what was happening, and so had the bank.’

Amber shot an anguished glance over at the pile of mail which lay unopened on the desk. She had a terrible habit of putting letters to one side and ignoring them. She’d done it for longer than she could remember. Letters only ever contained bad news and all her bills were paid by direct debit and if people wanted her that badly, they could always send an email. Because that was what people did, wasn’t it?

But in the meantime, she wasn’t going to take any notice of this shadowed-jawed man with the mocking voice and a presence which was strangely unsettling. All she had to do was to speak to her father. There had to be some kind of mistake. There had to. Either that, or Daddy’s brain wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Why else would he choose to sell one of the jewels in his property crown to this...this thug?

‘I’d like you to leave now, Mr Devlin.’

He raised dark and mocking brows. ‘So you’re not interested in my offer? A proper job for the first time in your privileged life? The chance to show the world that you’re more than just a vapid socialite who flits from party to party?’

‘I’d sooner work for the devil than work for you,’ she retorted, watching as he rose from the sofa and moved across the room until he was towering over her, with a grim expression on his dark face.

‘Make an appointment to see me when you’re ready to see sense,’ he said, putting a business card down on the coffee table.

‘That just isn’t going to happen—be very sure about that,’ she said, pulling a cigarette from the pack and glaring at him defiantly, as if daring him to stop her again. ‘Now go to hell, will you?’

‘Oh, believe me, baby,’ he said softly. ‘Hell would be a preferable alternative to a minute more spent in your company.’

And didn’t it only add outrage to Amber’s growing sense of panic to realise that he actually meant it?

CHAPTER TWO

AMBER’S FINGERS WERE trembling as she left the bank and little rivulets of sweat were trickling down over her hot cheeks. Impatiently brushing them aside, she stood stock-still outside the gleaming building while all around her busy City types made little tutting noises of irritation as they were forced to weave their way around her.

There had to be some kind of mistake. There had to be. She couldn’t believe that her father would be so cruel. Or so dictatorial. That he would have instructed that tight-lipped bank manager to inform her that all funds in her account had been frozen, and no more would be forthcoming. But her rather hysterical request that the bank manager stop freaking her out had been met with nothing but an ominous silence and now that she was outside, the truth hit her like a sledgehammer coming at her out of nowhere.

She was broke.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Part of her still didn’t want to believe it. Had the bank manager been secretly laughing at her when he’d handed over the formal-looking letter? She’d ripped it open and stared in horror as the words written by her father’s lawyer had wobbled before her eyes and a key phrase had jumped out at her, like a spectre.

Conall Devlin has been instructed to provide any assistance you may need.

Conall Devlin? She had literally shaken with rage. Conall Devlin, the brute who had stormed into her apartment yesterday and who was responsible for her current state of homelessness? She would sooner starve than ask him for assistance. She would talk her father round and he would listen to her. He always did.

But in the middle of her defiance came an overwhelming wave of panic and fear, which washed over her and made her feel as if she were drowning. It was the same feeling she used to get when her mother would suddenly announce that they were leaving a city, and all Amber’s hard-fought-for friends would soon become distant and then forgotten memories.

She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t.

Her fingers still shaking, Amber sheltered in a shop doorway and took out her cell phone. She rang her father’s number, but it went straight through to his personal assistant, Mary-Ellen, a woman who had never been her biggest fan and who didn’t bother hiding her disapproval when she heard Amber’s voice.

‘Amber. This is a surprise,’ she said archly.

‘Hello, Mary-Ellen.’ Amber drew in a deep breath. ‘I need to speak to my father—urgently. Is he there?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back or where I can get hold of him?’

There was a pause and Amber wondered if she was being paranoid, or whether it sounded like a very deliberate pause.

‘I’m afraid it isn’t quite as easy as that. He’s gone to an ashram in India.’

Amber gave a snort of disbelief and a passing businessman shot her a funny look. ‘My father? Gone to an ashram? To do yoga and eat vegan food? Is this some kind of joke, Mary-Ellen?’

‘No, it is not a joke,’ said Mary-Ellen crisply. ‘He’s been trying to get hold of you for weeks. He’s left a lawyer’s letter with the bank—did you get it?’

Amber thought about the screwed-up piece of paper currently reposing with several sticks of chewing gum and various lipsticks at the bottom of her handbag. ‘Yes, I got it.’

‘Then I suggest you follow his advice and speak to Conall Devlin. All his contact details are there. Conall is the man who’ll be able to help you in your father’s absence. He’s—’

With a howl of rage, Amber cut the connection and slung her phone back into her bag, before starting to walk—not knowing nor caring which direction she was taking. She didn’t want Conall Devlin to help her! What was it with him that suddenly his name was on everyone’s lips as if he were some kind of god? And what was it with her that she was behaving like some kind of helpless victim, just because a few obstacles had been put in her way?

Worse things than this had happened to her, she reminded herself. She’d survived a nightmare childhood, hadn’t she? And even when she’d got through that, the problems hadn’t stopped coming. She wiped a trickle of sweat away from her forehead. But those kinds of thoughts wouldn’t help her now. She needed to think clearly. She needed to go back to the apartment to work out some kind of coping strategy until she could get hold of her father. And she would get hold of him. Somehow she would track him down—even if she had to hitchhike to the wretched ashram in order to do so. She would appeal to his better judgement and the sense of guilt which had never quite left him for kicking her and her mother out onto the street. Surely he wasn’t planning to do that for a second time? And surely he hadn’t really frozen her funds? But in the meantime...

She caught the Tube and got out near her apartment, stopping off at the nearest shop to buy some provisions since her rumbling stomach was reminding her that she’d had nothing to eat that morning. But after putting a whole stack of shopping and a pack of cigarettes through the till, she had the humiliation of seeing the machine decline her card. There was an audible sigh of irritation from the man in the queue behind her and she saw one woman nudging her friend as they moved closer as if anticipating some sort of scene.

‘There must be some kind of mistake,’ Amber mumbled, her face growing scarlet. ‘I shop in here all the time—you must remember me? I can bring the money along later.’

But as the embarrassed shop assistant shook her head, she told Amber that it was company policy never to accept credit. And as she rang the bell underneath her till deep down Amber knew there had been no mistake. Her father really had done it. He’d frozen her funds just as the bank manager had told her.

She thought about her refrigerator at home and its meagre contents. There was plenty of champagne but little else—a tub of Greek yoghurt, which was probably growing a forest of mould by now, a bag of oranges and those soggy chocolate biscuits which were past their sell-by date. Her cheeks growing even hotter, Amber scrabbled around in her purse for some spare change and found nothing but a solitary, crumpled note.

‘I’ll just take the cigarettes,’ she croaked, handing over the note but not quite daring to meet the eyes of the assistant as she scuttled from the shop.

The trouble was that these days everyone glared at you if you dared smoke a cigarette and Amber was forced to wait until she reached home before she could light up. Whatever happened to personal freedom? she wondered as she slammed the front door behind her and fumbled around for her lighter with shaking hands. She thought about the way Conall Devlin had snatched the cigarette from her lips yesterday and a feeling of fury washed over her.

On a whim, she tapped out a text to her half-brother, Rafe, as she tried to remember what time it was in Australia.

What do you know about a man called Conall Devlin?

Considering they hadn’t been in contact for well over a year, Amber was surprised and pleased when Rafe’s reply came winging back almost immediately.

Best mate at school. Why?

So that was why the name had rung a distant bell and why Conall’s midnight-blue eyes had bored into her when he’d said it. Rafe was eleven years older than her and had left home by the time she’d moved back into their father’s house as a mixed-up fourteen-year-old. But—come to think of it—hadn’t her father mentioned some Irish whizz-kid on the payroll who’d dragged himself up from the gutter? Was Conall Devlin the one he’d been talking about?

She wanted to ask him more, but Rafe was probably lying on some golden beach somewhere, sipping champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. Did she inform him she was soon to be homeless and that the Irishman had threatened to have the locks changed? Would he even believe her version of the story if he and Conall Devlin had been best mates?

There was a ping as another text arrived.

And why are you texting me at midnight?

Amber bit her lip. Was there really any point in grumbling to a man who was thousands of miles away? What was she expecting him to do—transfer money to her account? Because something told her he wouldn’t do it, despite the fortune Rafe had built up for himself on the other side of the world. Her half-brother had been one of the people who were always nagging her to get a proper job. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why she’d allowed herself to lose touch with him—because he told her things she preferred not hear?

Her fingers wavered over the touchpad.

Just wanted to say hi.

Hi to you, too! Nice to hear from you. Let’s talk soon. X

Amber’s eyes inexplicably began to fill with tears as she tapped out her reply: Okay. X.

It was the only good thing which had happened to her all day but the momentary glow of contentment it gave her didn’t last long. Amber sat on the floor disconsolately finishing her cigarette and then began to shiver. How could her father have gone away to India and left her in this predicament?

She thought about what everyone was saying and the different alternatives which lay open to her, realising there weren’t actually that many. She could throw herself on people’s mercy and ask to sleep on their sofas, but for how long? And she couldn’t even do that without enough money to offer towards household expenses. Everyone would start to look at her in a funny way if she didn’t contribute to food and stuff. And if she couldn’t buy her very expensive round in the nightclubs they tended to frequent, then everyone would start to gossip—because in the kind of circles she mixed in, being broke was social death.

She stared down at the diamond watch glittering at her wrist, an eighteenth-birthday present intended to console her during a particularly low point in her life. It hadn’t, of course. It had been one of many lessons she’d learnt along the way. It didn’t matter how many jewels you wore, their cold beauty was powerless to fill the empty holes which punctured your soul...

She thought about going to a pawnbroker and wondered if such places still existed, but something told her she would get a desultory price for the watch. Because people who tried to raise money against jewellery were vulnerable and she knew better than anyone that the vulnerable were there to be taken advantage of.

The sweat of earlier had dried on her skin and her teeth began to chatter loudly. Amber remembered her father’s letter and the words of Mary-Ellen, his assistant. Speak to Conall Devlin. And even though every instinct she possessed was warning her to steer clear of the trumped-up Irishman, she suspected she had no choice but to turn to him.

She stared down at her creased clothes.

She licked her lips with a feeling of instinctive fear. She didn’t like men. She didn’t trust them, and with good reason. But she knew their weaknesses. Her mother hadn’t taught her much, but she’d drummed in the fact that men were always susceptible to a woman who looked at them helplessly.

Fired up by a sudden sense of purpose, Amber went into her en-suite bathroom and took a long shower. And then she dressed with more care than she’d used in a long time.

She remembered the disdainful look on Conall Devlin’s face when he’d told her that he didn’t get turned on by women who smoked and flaunted their bodies. And she remembered the contemptuous expression in his navy-blue eyes as he’d said that. So she fished out a navy-blue dress which she’d only ever worn to failed job interviews, put on minimal make-up and twisted her black hair back into a smooth and demure chignon. Stepping back from the mirror, Amber hardly recognised the image which stared back at her. Why, she could almost pose as a body double for Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music!

* * *

Conall Devlin’s offices were tucked away in a surprisingly picturesque and quiet street in Kensington, which was lined with cherry trees. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but it certainly hadn’t been a restored period building whose outward serenity belied the unmistakable buzz of success she encountered the moment she stepped inside.

The entrance hall had a soaringly high ceiling, with quirky chandeliers and a curving staircase which swept up from the chequered marble floor. A transparent desk sat in front of a modern painting of a woman caressing the neck of a goat. Beside it was a huge canvas with a glittery image of Marilyn Monroe, which Amber recognised instantly. She felt a little stab at her heart. Everything in the place seemed achingly cool and trendy, and suddenly she felt like a fish out of water in her frumpy navy dress and stark hairstyle. A fact which wasn’t helped by the lofty blonde receptionist in a monochrome minidress who looked up from behind the Perspex desk and smiled at Amber in a friendly way.

‘Hi! Can I help you?’

‘I want to see Conall Devlin.’ The words came out more clumsily than Amber had intended and the blonde looked a little taken aback.

‘I’m afraid Conall is tied up for most of the day,’ she said, her smile a little less bright than before. ‘You don’t have an appointment?’

Amber could feel a rush of emotions flooding through her, but the most prominent of them all was a sensation of being less than. As if she had no right to be here. As if she had no right to be anywhere. She found herself wondering what on earth she was doing in her frumpy dress when this sunny-looking creature looked as if she’d just strayed in from a land of milk and honey, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She put her bag down on one of the modern chairs which looked more like works of art than objects designed for sitting on, and shot the receptionist a defiant look.

‘Not a formal appointment, no. But I need to see him—urgently—so I’ll just sit here and wait, if you don’t mind.’

The smile now nothing but a memory, a faint frown creased the blonde’s brow. ‘It might be better if you came back later,’ she said carefully.

Amber thought of Conall walking into her apartment without knocking. About the smug look on his face as he’d held up the key and warned her that she had four weeks to get out. She was the sister of his best friend from school, for heaven’s sake—surely he could find it in his hard heart to show her a modicum of kindness?

She sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

‘I’m not going anywhere. I need to see him and it’s urgent, so I’ll wait. But please don’t worry—I’ve got all day.’ And with that she picked up one of the glossy magazines which were adorning the low table and pretended to read it.

She was aware that the blonde had begun tapping away on her computer, probably sending Conall an email, since she could hardly call him and tell him that a strange woman was currently occupying the reception area and refusing to move—not when she was within earshot.

Sure enough, she heard the sound of a door opening on the floor above and then someone walking down the sweeping staircase. Amber heard his steps grow closer and closer but she didn’t glance up from the magazine until she was aware that someone was coming towards her. And when she could no longer restrain herself, she looked up.

The breath dried in her throat and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, because yesterday she hadn’t been expecting him and today she was. And surely that meant she should have been primed not to react—she was busy telling herself not to react—but somehow it didn’t work like that. Her heart began to pound and her mouth dried to dust and feelings which were completely alien to her began to fizz through her body. On his own territory he looked even more intimidating than he had done yesterday—and that was saying something.

The urbane business suit had gone and he was dressed entirely in black. A black cashmere sweater and a pair of black jeans, which hugged his narrow hips and emphasised his long, muscular legs. His shadowy presence only seemed to emphasise the sense of power which radiated from him like a dark aura. Against the sombre shade, his skin seemed more golden than she remembered—but his midnight eyes were shuttered and his unsmiling face gave nothing away.

‘I thought I told you to make an appointment—although I can’t remember if that was before or after you told me to go to hell.’ His lips flattened into an odd kind of smile. ‘And since you can see for yourself that this place is as far from hell as you can imagine—I’m wondering exactly what it is you’re doing here, Amber.’

Amber stared into his eyes and tried to think about something other than the realisation that they gleamed like sapphires. Or that his features were so rugged and strong. He looked so powerful and unyielding, she thought. As if he held all the cards and she held none. She wanted to demand that he listen to her and stop trying to impose his will on her. Until she reminded herself that she was supposed to be appealing to his better nature—in which case it would make sense to adopt a more conciliatory tone, rather than blurting out her demands.

‘I’ve been to the bank,’ she said.

He smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile. ‘And the nasty man there informed you that your father has finally pulled the plug on all the freebies you’ve survived on until now—is that what you were going to say, Amber?’

‘That’s exactly what I was going to say,’ she whispered.

‘And?’

He shot the word out like a bullet and Amber began to wonder if she should have worn something different. Something shorter, which might have shown a bit of leg instead of her knees being completely covered by the frumpy dress.

Well, if you’re going to dress like a poor orphan from the storm—then at least start behaving like one.

Her voice gave a little wobble, which wasn’t entirely fabricated. ‘And I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said.

His lips twisted. ‘You could try going out to work, like the rest of the human race.’

‘But I...’ Amber kept the hovering triumph in her voice at bay and replaced it with a gloomy air of resignation. ‘I’m almost impossible to employ, that’s the trouble. It’s a fierce job market out there and I don’t have many of the qualities which employers are seeking.’

‘Agreed,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘An overwhelming sense of entitlement never goes down well with the boss.’

She cleared her throat. ‘Things are really bad, Conall. I can’t get hold of my father, my credit cards have all been frozen and I can’t...I can’t even eat,’ she finished dramatically.

‘But presumably you can still smoke?’

Her head jerked back and her eyes narrowed...

‘And don’t bother denying it,’ he ground out. ‘Because I can smell it on you and it makes me sick to the stomach. It’s a disgusting habit—and one you’re going to have to kick.’

Amber could feel her blood pressure rising, but she forced herself to stay calm. Be docile, she told herself. Let him believe what he wants to believe.

‘Of course I’ll give it up if you help me,’ she said meekly.

‘You mean that?’

Chewing on her bottom lip and making her eyes grow very big, Amber nodded. ‘Of course I do.’

He gave a brief nod. ‘I’m not sure I believe you, but if you’re just playing games, then let me warn you right now that it’s a bad idea and you might as well turn around and walk out again. However, if you’re really in a receptive place and serious about wanting to change, then I will help you. Do you want my help, Amber?’

It nearly killed her to do so but she gave a sulky nod. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good. Then come upstairs to my office and we’ll decide what we’re going to do with you.’ He glanced over at the blonde and Amber was almost certain that he winked at her. ‘Hold all my calls, will you, Serena?’

CHAPTER THREE

CONALL DEVLIN’S OFFICE was nothing like Amber would have imagined, either. She had expected something brash, or slightly tacky—something which would fit well with his brutish exterior. But she was momentarily lost for words as he took her into a beautifully decorated first-floor room which overlooked the street at the front and a beautiful garden at the back.

The walls were grey—the subtle colour of an oyster shell—and it provided the perfect backdrop for many paintings which hung there. Amber blinked as she looked around. It was like being in an art gallery. He was obviously into modern art and he had a superb eye, she conceded reluctantly. His curved desk looked like a work of art itself and in one corner of the room was a modern sculpture of a naked woman made out of some sort of resin. Amber glanced over at it before quickly looking away, because there was something uncomfortably sensual about the woman’s stance and the way she was cupping her breast with lazy fingers.

She looked up to find Conall watching her, his midnight eyes shuttered as he indicated the chair in front of his desk, but Amber was much too wired to be able to sit still while facing him. Something told her that being subjected to that mocking stare would be unendurable.

So start clawing some power back, she told herself fiercely. Be sweet. Make him want to help you.

He was rich enough to give her a temporary stay of execution until her father got back from his ashram and everything could be cleared up. She walked over to one of the windows and stared down onto the street as two teenage girls strolled past, chewing gum and giggling—and she felt a momentary pang of wistfulness for the apparent ease of their lives and a sense of being carefree which had always eluded her.

‘I haven’t got all day,’ he warned. ‘So let’s cut to the chase. And before you start fluttering those long eyelashes at me, or trying to work the convent-schoolgirl look—which, let me tell you, isn’t doing it for me—let me spell out a few things. I’m not giving you money without something in return and I’m not letting you have an apartment which is way too big for you. So if the sole purpose of this unscheduled visit is to throw yourself on my mercy asking for funds—then you’re wasting your time.’

For a moment Amber was struck dumb because she couldn’t ever remember anyone speaking to her like that. Up until the age of four she’d been a princess living in a palace, and then she’d been catapulted straight into a nightmare when her parents had split up. The next ten years had been several degrees of horrible and she hadn’t known which way to turn. And when she’d been brought back to live in her father’s house after her mother’s accident—seriously cramping his style with wife number whatever it had been—everyone had tiptoed round her.

Nobody had known how to deal with a grieving and angry teenager and neither had she. Her confidence had been completely punctured and so had her self-esteem. Her moods had been wild and unpredictable and she’d quickly realised that she could get people to do what she wanted them to do. Amber had learnt that if her lips wobbled in a certain way, then people fell over themselves to help her. She’d also realised that rubbing your toe rather obsessively over the carpet and staring at it as if it contained the secret of the universe was pretty effective, too, because it made people want to draw you out of yourself.

But there was something about Conall Devlin which made her realise he would see right through any play-acting or attempts at manipulation. His eyes were much too keen and bright and intelligent. They were fixed on her now in question so that, for one bizarre moment, she felt as if he might actually be able to read her thoughts, and that he certainly wouldn’t like them if he could.

‘Then how am I expected to survive?’ she questioned. Defiantly she held up her wrist so that her diamond watch glittered, like bright sunlight on water. ‘Do you want me to start pawning the few valuable items I have?’

His eyes gleamed as he plucked an imaginary violin from the empty air and proceeded to play it, but then he put his big hands down on the surface of his desk and stared at her, his face sombre.

‘Why don’t you spare me the sob story, Amber?’ he said. ‘And start explaining some of these.’

Suddenly he upended a large manila envelope and spread the contents out over his desk and Amber stared at the collection of photos and magazine clippings with a feeling of trepidation.

‘Where did you get these?’

He made an expression of distaste, as if they were harbouring some form of contamination. ‘Your father gave them to me.’

Amber knew she’d made it into various gossip columns and some of those ‘celebrity’ magazines which adorned the shelves of supermarket checkouts. Some of the articles she’d seen and some she hadn’t—but she’d never seen them all together like this, like a pictorial history of her life. Fanned across his desk like a giant pack of cards, there were countless pictures of her. Pictures of her leaving nightclubs and pictures of her attending gallery and restaurant openings. In every single shot her dress looked too short and her expression seemed wild. But then the flash of the camera was something that she loved and loathed in equal measure. Wasn’t she stupidly grateful that someone cared enough to want to take her photo—as if to reassure her that she wasn’t invisible? Yet the downside was that it always made her feel like a butterfly who had fluttered into the collector’s room by mistake—who’d had her fragile wings pierced by the sharp pins which then fettered her to a piece of card...

She looked up from the photos and straight into his eyes and nobody could have failed to see the condemnation in their midnight depths. Don’t let him see the chink in your armour, she told herself fiercely. Don’t give him that power.

‘Quite good, aren’t they?’ she said carelessly as she pulled out the chair and sat down at last.

At that point, Conall could have slammed his fist onto the desk in sheer frustration, because she was shameless. Completely shameless. Worse even than he’d imagined. Did she think he was stupid—or was the effect of her dressing up today like some off-duty nun supposed to have him eating out of her hand?

But the crazy thing was that—no matter how contrived it was—on some subliminal level, the look actually worked. No matter what he’d said and no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. With her thick black hair scraped back from her face like that, you could see the perfect oval of her face and get the full impact of those long-lashed emerald eyes. Was she aware that she had the kind of looks which would make men want to fight wars for her? Conall’s mouth twisted. Of course she was. And she had been manipulating that beauty, probably since she first hit puberty.

He remembered his reaction when Ambrose had asked him for his help and then shown him all the photos. There had been a moment of stunned silence as Conall had looked at them and felt a powerful hit of lust which had been almost visceral. It had been like a punch to the guts. Or the groin. There had been one in particular of her wearing some wispy little white dress, managing to look both intensely pure and intensely provocative at the same time. Guilt had rushed through him as he’d stared at her father and shaken his head.

‘Get someone else to do the job,’ he’d said gruffly.

‘I can’t think of anyone else who would be capable of handling her,’ had been Ambrose’s candid reply. ‘Nor anyone I would trust as much as I do you.’

And wasn’t that the worst thing of all? That Ambrose trusted him to do right by his daughter? So that, not only had Conall agreed, but he was now bound by a deep sense of honour to do the decent thing by the man who had saved him from a life of crime.

It would have been easier if he could just have signed her a cheque and told her to go away and sort herself out, but Ambrose had been adamant that she needed grounding, and he knew the old man’s determination of old.

‘She needs to discover how to live a decent life and to stop sponging off other people,’ he said. ‘And you are going to help her, Conall.’

And how the hell was he supposed to do that when all he could think about was what it would be like to unpin her hair and kiss her until she was gasping for breath? About what it would be like to cradle those hips within the palms of his hands as he drove into her until they were both crying out their pleasure?

He stared into the glitter of her eyes, unable to blot out the unmistakable acknowledgement that her defiance was turning him on even more, because women rarely defied him. So what was he going to do about it—give up or carry on? The question was academic really, because giving up had never been an option for him. Maybe he could turn this into an exercise in self-restraint. Unless his standards had really sunk so low that he could imagine being intimate with someone who stood for everything he most despised.

He thought back to the question she’d just asked and his gaze slid over the pile of photos—alighting on one where she was sitting astride a man’s shoulders, a champagne bottle held aloft while a silky green dress clung to her shapely thighs.

‘They’re good if you want to portray yourself as a vacuous airhead,’ he said slowly. ‘But then again, that’s not something which is going to look good on your CV.’

‘Your own CV being whiter than white, I suppose?’ she questioned acidly.

For a moment, Conall fixed her with an enquiring look. Had Ambrose told her about the dark blots on his own particular copybook? In which case she would realise that he knew what he was talking about. He’d had his own share of demons; his own wake-up call to deal with. But she said nothing—just continued to regard him with a look of foxy challenge which was making his blood boil.

‘This is supposed to be about you,’ he said. ‘Not me.’

‘So go on, then,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘That’s probably the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.’ He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘This is what I propose you do, Amber. Obviously, you need a job in order to pay the rent but, as you have yourself recognised, your CV makes you unemployable. So you had better come and work for me. Simple.’

Amber went very still because when he put it like that it actually sounded simple. She blinked at him as she felt the first faint stirring of hope. Cautiously, she looked around the beautifully proportioned room, with its windows which looked out onto the iconic London street. Outside the trees were frothing with pink blossom, as if someone had daubed them with candyfloss. There was a bunch of flowers on his desk—the tiny, highly scented blooms they called paper-whites, which sent a beguiling drift of perfume through the air. She wondered if the blonde in the minidress had put them there. Just as she wondered who had sent him that postcard of the Taj Mahal, or that little glass dish in the shape of a pair of lips, which was currently home to a gleaming pile of paperclips.

And suddenly she was hit by that feeling which always used to come over her at school, when she was invited to a friend’s house for the weekend and the friend’s parents were still together. The feeling that she was on the outside looking in at a perfectly ordered world where everything worked the way it was supposed to. She swallowed. Because Conall Devlin was offering her a—temporary—place in that sort of world, wasn’t he? Didn’t that count for something?

‘I’m not exactly sure what your line of business is,’ she said, asking the competent kind of question he would no doubt expect.

He regarded her from between those shuttered lashes. ‘I deal in property—that’s my bread-and-butter stuff. I sell houses and apartments all over London and I have subsidiary offices in Paris and New York. But my enduring love is for art, as you might have gathered.’

‘Yes,’ she said politely, unable to keep the slight note of amazement from her voice but he picked up on it immediately because his midnight eyes glinted.

‘You sound surprised, Amber.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘Because I don’t fit the stereotype?’ He raised a pair of mocking eyebrows. ‘Because my suit isn’t pinstriped and I don’t have a title?’

‘Careful, Mr Devlin—that chip on your shoulder seems like it’s getting awfully heavy.’

He laughed at this and Amber was angry with herself for the burst of pleasure which rushed through her. Why the hell feel thrilled just because she’d managed to make the overbearing Irishman laugh?

‘I deal solely in twentieth-century pieces and buy mainly for my own pleasure,’ he said. ‘But occasionally I procure pieces for clients or friends or for business acquaintances. I act as a middle man.’

‘Why do they need you as a middle man?’

He stared briefly at the postcard of the Taj Mahal. ‘Because buying art is not just about negotiation—it’s about being able to close the deal. And that’s something I’m good at. Some of the people I buy for are very wealthy, with vast amounts of money at their disposal. Sometimes they prefer to buy anonymously—in order to avoid being ripped off by unscrupulous sellers who want to charge them an astronomical amount.’ He smiled. ‘Or sometimes people want to sell anonymously and they come to me to help them get the highest possible price.’

Amber’s eyes narrowed as she tried not to react to the undeniable impact of that smile. Somehow he had managed to make himself sound incredibly fascinating. As if powerful people were keen to do business with him. Had that been his intention, to show her there was more to him than met the eye?

She folded her hands together on her lap. How hard could it be to work for him? The only disadvantage would be having to deal with him, but the property side would be a piece of cake. Presumably you just took a prospective buyer along to a house and told them a famous actress had just moved in along the road and prices had rocketed as a result, and they’d be signing on the dotted line quicker than you could say bingo.

‘I can do that,’ she said confidently.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Do what?’

‘Sell houses. Or apartments. Whatever you want.’

He sat up very straight. ‘Just like that?’ he said silkily.

‘Sure. How hard can it be?’

‘You think I’m going to let someone like you loose in a business I’ve spent the last fifteen years building up?’ he questioned, raking his fingers back through his thick black hair with an unmistakable gesture of irritation. ‘You think that selling the most expensive commodity a person will ever buy should be entrusted to someone who hasn’t ever held down a proper job, and has spent most of her adult life falling out of nightclubs?’

Amber bristled at his damning assessment and a flare of fury fizzed through her as she listened to his disparaging words. She wanted to do a number of things in retaliation, starting with taking that jug of water from his desk and upending the contents all over his now ruffled dark hair. And then she would have liked to have marched out of his office and slammed the door very firmly behind her and never set eyes on his handsome face ever again. But that wouldn’t exactly help foster the brand-new image she was trying to convey, would it? She wanted him to believe she could be calm and unruffled. She would give him a glimpse of the new and efficient Amber who wasn’t going to rise to the insults of a man who meant nothing to her, other than as a means to an end.

‘I can always learn,’ she said. ‘But if you think I’d be better suited to shifting a few paintings, I’ll happily give that a go. I...I like art.’

He made a small sound at the back of his throat, which sounded almost like a growl, and seemed to be having difficulty holding on to his temper—she could tell that by the way he had suddenly started drumming his fingertips against the desk, as if he were sending out an urgent message in Morse code.

But when he looked up at her again, she thought she saw the glint of something in his dark blue eyes which made her feel slightly nervous. Was it anticipation she could read there, or simply sheer devilment?

‘I think you’ll find that selling art involves slightly more of a skill set than one described as shifting a few paintings,’ he said drily. ‘And besides, my plans for you are very different.’ He glanced down at the sheet of paper which lay on the desk before him. ‘I understand that you speak several languages.’

‘Now it’s your turn to sound surprised, Mr Devlin.’

He shrugged his broad shoulders and sat back in his seat. ‘I guess I am. I didn’t have you down as a linguist, with all the hours of study that must have involved.’

Amber’s lips flattened. ‘There is more than one way to learn a language,’ she said. ‘My skill comes not from hours sitting at a desk—but from the fact that my mother had a penchant for Mediterranean men. And as a child I often found myself living in whichever new country was the home of her latest love interest.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘And, believe me, there were plenty of those. Consequently, I learnt to speak the local language. It was a question of survival.’

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That must have been...hard.’

Amber shook her head, more out of habit than anything else. Because sympathy or compassion—or whatever you wanted to call it—made her feel uncomfortable. It started making her remember people like Marco or Stavros or Pierre—all those men who had broken her mother’s heart so conclusively and left Amber to deal with the mess they’d left behind. It made her wish for the impossible—that she’d been like other people and lived a normal, quiet life without a mother who seemed to think that the answer to all their problems was being in love. And remembering all that stuff ran the risk of making you feel vulnerable. It left you open to pain—and she’d had more than her fair share of pain.

‘It was okay,’ she said, in a bored tone which came easily after so many years of practice. ‘I certainly know how to say “my darling” in Italian, Greek and French. And I can do plenty of variations on the line “You complete and utter bastard”.’

Had her flippant tone shocked him? Was that why a faintly disapproving note had entered his voice?

‘Well, you certainly won’t be needed to relay any of those sentiments, be very clear about that.’ He glanced down at the sheet of paper again. ‘But before I lay down the terms of any job I might be prepared to offer—I need some assurances from you.’

‘What kind of assurances?’

‘Just that I don’t have any room in my organisation for loose cannons, or petulant princesses who say the first thing which comes into their head. I deal with people who need careful handling and I need to know that you can demonstrate judgement and tact before I put my proposition to you.’ His midnight eyes grew shadowed. ‘Because frankly, right now, I’m finding it hard to imagine you being anything other than...difficult.’

His words hurt. More than they should have done. More than she’d expected them to—or perhaps that had something to do with the way he was looking at her. As if he couldn’t quite believe the person she was. As if someone like her had no right to exist. And yet all this was complicated by the fact that he looked so spectacular, with his black sweater hugging his magnificent body and his sensual lips making all kinds of complicated thoughts that began to nudge themselves into her mind. Because her body was reacting to him in a way she wasn’t used to. A way she couldn’t seem to control. She could feel herself growing restless beneath that searing sapphire stare—and yet she didn’t even like him.

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