“Is that what you think? That you’re a number in a little black book?”

He had his hands on her forearms and she couldn’t move, but she raised her head defiantly, looking him full in the face.

“Actually, yes.” And she made sure he knew she meant it. She waited for his temper to rise, but he considered her dryly, his head to one side.

“Some girls wouldn’t mind that,” he said softly. “Being wined and dined with no strings attached is what plenty of career women call for these days. No messy complications or irritating ties.”

She didn’t know quite how to answer that. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she muttered crossly. Her voice wasn’t as acidic as she would have liked, mainly because with the palms of her hands pressed against his chest so hard she could feel the beat of his heart, and with the smell and feel of him all around her, her head was beginning to spin.

Getting to know him in the boardroom—and the bedroom!

A secret romance, a forbidden affair, a thrilling attraction…

What happens when two people work together and simply can’t help falling in love—no matter how hard they try to resist?

Find out in our ongoing series of stories set in the world of work.

Available only from Harlequin Presents®

Mistress by Agreement
Helen Brooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘MISS MILBURN? Mr Ward is here for his ten o’clock appointment.’ Rosalie’s secretary’s disembodied voice from the intercom was not as calm and businesslike as usual, and Rosalie knew why, having met the said Mr Ward at a dinner party a few weeks earlier.

She glanced at her neat gold wrist-watch. Eight minutes to ten; he was early. She forced herself to breathe deeply before saying, ‘Ask Mr Ward to wait a few moments, please, Jenny.’

‘Yes, Miss Milburn.’

The intercom clicked goodbye and Rosalie sank back in the big leather chair, her heart racing. This was stupid; this was so, so stupid. What on earth was the matter with her? She had been like a cat on a hot tin roof since Kingsley Ward had made the appointment a week ago—or rather his secretary had liaised with her secretary, to be exact.

Of course she could have insisted he see one of the other three partners in the firm of chartered quantity surveyors she was part of, after her polite message—again via the two secretaries—that she was terribly busy but had arranged for Mr Ward to see a colleague had been turned down flat.

Mr Ward was quite happy to wait until she was available, his secretary had told Jenny, and there was no question of seeing someone else. Miss Milburn had been personally recommended, and Mr Ward always went on personal recommendation.

And now he was here. Rosalie glanced nervously round the big, light-filled office that tended to be her home from home with the long hours she worked. She even slept on the couch that occupied one corner when the occasion warranted it. Kingsley Ward was here and it was only at this precise moment that she acknowledged the meeting had been weighing on her spirit like a ton of bricks. It wasn’t even as if they had got on that evening at Jamie’s house—just the opposite, in fact.

Rosalie stood, walking across to the massive plate-glass window that overlooked half of Kensington. She stared into the street below without really seeing any of the little ant-type figures scurrying about, a frown wrinkling the pure line of her brow.

She could remember the exact moment she had walked into Jamie’s large and very plush drawing room in Richmond and glanced across the assembled couples, only to find her gaze held and transfixed by a pair of piercingly blue eyes, which had narrowed to twin points of light on her face. She had been aware of David at the side of her saying something, but for the life of her she had been unable to move or speak. And then the cerulean gaze, its deep blue as clear as a summer’s sky, had released her, the man in question turning his head in answer to something the woman on his arm had said. She had taken a deep and very necessary gasp of air, deep enough for David to say anxiously, ‘Are you all right, Lee? What’s the matter?’

‘The matter? Nothing,’ She forced a smile, before adding, ‘How are you feeling? That’s more to the point.’ David was an old and very dear university friend who had just been through a painful and acrimonious divorce, which had caused him to totter on the edge of a nervous breakdown for months. The evening was his first venture into the social scene since his wife had left him, taking their two children to live with her new lover, and he had been visibly shaking in the taxi earlier. Only the fact that they were as comfortable together as a pair of old shoes had persuaded him to leave his recently acquired bachelor flat when she had called for him.

‘I’m okay.’ His smile was more of a grimace and Rosalie felt for him. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been much good at this sort of thing, dinner parties and such. Ann was always the one who was the life and soul of the party.’

Ann had been a cold-hearted, predatory exhibitionist who had systematically alienated every other female she had ever come into contact with, along with making a play for every man. However, Rosalie thought it wasn’t the right time to point that out.

‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘You’re great company, you always have been, it’s just that your confidence has taken a bit of a mauling lately.’ Which was putting it mildly. ‘Now, we’re just going to circulate and smile and make polite conversation whilst we sip one of Jamie’s magnificent cocktails and contemplate the superb dinner ahead. Did you know he’s buttonholed one of the chefs from Hatfields tonight? Apparently he’s a friend of a friend and Jamie’s offered him a small fortune to come and put on this dinner on his evening off.’

‘Really?’ David was an accountant and now the pound sign showed in his eyes. ‘How much is a small fortune?’

‘Ask Gabby, she’ll be sure to know.’ Rosalie guided him over to one of their more inquisitive friends who had a reputation for winkling anything out of anyone, and stood listening with some amusement to their conversation.

That died abruptly when a smooth voice at her elbow said, ‘Rosalie. Unusual name. French origin, I think?’ and she turned to see the possessor of the faint American burr.

Kingsley Ward was tall, very tall, with a muscled strength that made the beautifully tailored dinner jacket sit on him like a designer’s dream, Rosalie remembered now, her cheeks flushing at the memory. He was hard and ruggedly handsome, his face one of sharply defined planes and angles, which said he took no prisoners, and she gazed up at him with a sensation akin to numbness freezing her response. Ebony hair cut very short along with ridiculously thick eyelashes emphasised the brilliant blue of his eyes even more close to, but it was the overall sense of maleness that was so intimidating. Uncomfortably, unsettlingly intimidating. Enough to make her want to turn tail and run.

Instead she lifted her chin ever so slightly, calling on all the resources of her thirty-one years as she said coolly, ‘My mother was French.’

‘That explains the chic and classical elegance.’

Yuk, what a smoothie! And if there was anything she disliked it was handsome smooth-talkers who thought they were God’s gift to the female race.

She was unaware that her thoughts were mirrored in her eyes until the warm social smile and interested expression on the hard face vanished. His gaze took on the quality of blue ice, and he said coolly, ‘I have obviously interrupted a riveting conversation you are anxious to get back to. Excuse me,’ at which point he turned and walked away, leaving her feeling more than a little ashamed of herself. And she hated feeling like that.

The way the evening had gone thus far she supposed it was inevitable she was seated between David and Kingsley Ward for dinner. He was coldly polite to her, and charming and amusing to everyone else, and as she sat and listened to the banter as the meal progressed she was forced to admit he was excellent company.

But of course men like Kingsley Ward often were excellent company, Rosalie reminded herself now, turning from the window. They loved to be the centre of attention for one thing, and for another, with natural attributes like devastating good looks and a physique most men would kill for, they had a self-confidence and air of sexy wickedness that was an aphrodisiac all in itself.

Was that why she had dressed with such care this morning? And then she answered the nasty little probing voice from her conscience with a sharp, No, not at all! She always made sure she was well turned out for the office, and with a prospective new client it was extra important. That was all. That definitely was all.

The wrist-watch reminded her it was a minute to ten and bite-the-bullet time. She sat down again at her desk, smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. She resisted the impulse to check her make-up in the mirror in her cosmetics bag and felt quite proud of herself for doing so.

‘Right.’ She pressed the intercom. ‘I can see Mr Ward now, Jenny,’ she said brightly.

A moment or two later the door opened and Jenny all but curtsied Kingsley Ward into the room, Rosalie noticed with a dart of annoyance as her back stiffened for the onslaught of the piercingly blue gaze. But she was prepared for it this time. Her heart was thudding but outwardly she was the epitome of the successful business-woman, cool, collected and very in control. ‘Good morning, Mr Ward.’ She had been determined to get the first word in and set the tone. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

She hadn’t offered to shake his hand, which was something that would have been automatic usually, but—and she acknowledged it was stupid—she didn’t want to touch him.

Kingsley Ward had no such inhibitions. He strode across the office, hand outstretched, as he responded, ‘Good morning, Rosalie. I may call you Rosalie? And you must call me Kingsley, or King if you prefer.’

The last was said in just the same brisk voice as the rest of his opening gambit, but Rosalie had looked into his face and she was sure she saw something mocking there.

As her small hand was enfolded in a giant one that was warm and hard, she steeled herself to show no reaction at all. Nevertheless, her breathing wasn’t quite even when she said, withdrawing her hand the very second it wasn’t rude to do so, ‘How may Carr and Partners help you?’ as she gestured again for him to be seated.

She was a cool one all right, and just as sleek and sophisticated as he remembered from that damn awful dinner party. Kingsley folded himself into the seat opposite the desk, his long legs crossed one over the other and his arms going out along the arms of the upholstered chair in a pose that was naturally masculine. True, the elegant cocktail dress had been replaced by a beautifully tailored business suit, but the silver-blue shade brought out the copper tints in that wonderful chestnut hair and turned the grey eyes mother-of-pearl. He hadn’t seen such a naturally lovely woman in years, so how come his careful enquiries had revealed there was no man in her life at present, nor had there been for some time as far as anyone knew? Of course she could just be an obsessive career woman married to her job, but… The soft mouth was too full and the small chin too vulnerable for that.

He smiled, slowly. ‘We started off on the wrong foot at Jamie’s dinner party, didn’t we?’ he drawled easily. ‘How about we try again?’

How about we don’t? Rosalie lifted fine eyebrows in polite enquiry. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand?’ she said frostily.

He stared at her for a moment, just long enough for her cheeks to begin to turn a definite pink, and then he shrugged, straightening in the chair and picking up the briefcase he had placed at the side of him when he had sat down. ‘Ward Enterprises acquired just over a hundred acres of land situated between Oxford and London a few weeks ago,’ he said curtly as he opened the briefcase and extracted some paperwork. ‘I want to build a hotel and country club, with an eighteen-hole golf course, landscaped gardens, helicopter landing pad and so on, similar to the ones I own in the States. Here is the architect’s plan and the full brief. Interested?’ He pushed the papers over the desk before settling back in his chair again.

Interested? Suddenly becoming aware that her mouth had fallen open in a small gape, Rosalie shut it with a little snap, her cheeks brilliant now. She had been so rude to him—so rude—and all the time there had been the possibility of this fabulous project for Carr and Partners. Why hadn’t anyone at Jamie’s told her that he was an entrepreneur—and a pretty wealthy one if this was anything to go by? But she had been looking after David for most of the evening, she reminded herself feverishly; that was when she hadn’t been ignoring Kingsley Ward, of course.

‘May I examine these for a moment?’ Her voice sounded remarkably normal considering she felt about an inch tall.

‘Sure, take all the time you want.’

Concentrate, Lee, concentrate. As she spread out the plan and attempted to look at it it danced before her eyes for a second or two before she took a deep breath and willed her racing heart to behave. It didn’t help that Kingsley Ward was straight in front of her with his gaze fixed on her face—she might not be looking at him now but she could feel those twin lasers on her skin.

After a little while professionalism took over and she became engrossed in the plan and brief, excitement growing like an expanding ball in her stomach. This was a terrific job and a fantastic opportunity, but she had to admit one of the other partners—any of the other partners—was more qualified for such a massive undertaking than she.

Mike, Peter and Ron were all well over forty. Mike was approaching fifty-five, with a wealth of experience to draw on, and she was very much the junior partner. She would have to make it clear to Kingsley Ward that if Carr and Partners were given the job, one of the other partners would almost certainly insist he took over.

She raised her head. He was sitting in the same pose as before, leaning back against the seat, breathtakingly relaxed and sure of himself, but this time the almost tangible authority brought no irritation, all her senses tied up with how best to put what she was going to say. ‘Mr Ward—’

‘Kingsley,’ he interrupted, very softly.

She nodded, her cheeks—which had just cooled—firing up again. She had always loathed the way she blushed so easily but it went hand in hand with the red lights in her chestnut hair and there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Kingsley,’ she began again, ‘this is a wonderful job and I know Carr and Partners would be thrilled to take it on if you saw fit to put it our way—’

‘But?’

She had always taken exception to being interrupted, she considered it the height of rudeness, and now she breathed out just once before she continued, ‘But I’m afraid you are talking to the wrong person. My partners are all older and more experienced, and they would be able to tackle this project far better than me, much as I would love to do it.’

He shifted slightly in the chair, lean male thighs outlined for a moment or two under the Armani suit, and Rosalie’s nerves jerked. ‘You would love to do it?’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, of course, but you would need someone who—’

‘Then do it.’ It was as though he hadn’t heard her. She stared at him, and he said softly, ‘Let me put it another way. I am not a fool, Rosalie, and I would not offer you the job if I did not think you were capable of doing it. I have been assured from various quarters that to date you have handled your work competently, ethically and thoroughly, and more than one person has told me that you are particularly skilful in detecting problems with builders before they occur. Am I right?’

She was pinned by the blue eyes and could do no more than nod her head.

‘Good.’ He spoke as if the matter was settled and Rosalie had a moment of panic.

She cleared her throat. ‘The thing is, the decision is not up to me,’ she said carefully.

‘No, it is up to me,’ he agreed shortly, standing. Rosalie rose quickly, her head spinning. Was he leaving already? It appeared so. ‘Discuss the job with your partners, by all means, but make it clear I am engaging you, please. If they need to speak to me you have my number in England and in the States on the information I have given you.’

He was already walking to the door as he spoke and then he paused, turning to look at her. ‘Do you feel you could do the work, given the chance?’ he asked quietly. ‘You said you would love to do it but that isn’t necessarily the same thing. The time angle is not so much of a problem, I can be flexible to a degree.’

She was still reeling with the suddenness of it all but there was no hesitation in her voice when she said, ‘Yes, I can do it. I’ve not tackled anything on this scale before, I have to admit, but, yes. The job I’m working on at the moment will be finished within a week or so, and after that there is nothing planned which I can’t pass on to one of the others.’

‘Good.’ It was silky soft. ‘My secretary will liaise with you as necessary, but I am a hands-on kind of guy, Rosalie, so we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other over the next months.’

Rosalie blinked. The words sounded innocent enough but there had been a smoky flavour to them that had set her antennae waving. And then she told herself not to be so silly. This was work, business, that was all. Kingsley Ward was obviously an enormously successful and wealthy mogul, and with his looks, not to mention his money and male charisma, he must have the women lining up in droves. It had been one of the things that had set her teeth on edge at Jamie’s wretched dinner party—the way every woman present had been all but dribbling with lust. And of course he’d lapped up the attention; what man wouldn’t?

He was waiting for a response. She pulled herself together as the realisation hit, stitching a polite smile on her face with some effort. ‘We’ve still got a way to go before you give Carr and Partners the work, surely?’ she said evenly. ‘You haven’t asked the fee for my services.’

She realised too late she could have put that better when the blue eyes flickered, just once, and he said, very dryly, ‘What exactly do you charge, Rosalie?’

With anyone else she could have turned it into a joke or frozen the individual out with one of the icy looks she had perfected years ago, but Kingsley Ward wasn’t anyone else. And she was burning up with enough heat to spontaneously combust.

Rosalie took the coward’s way out and acted dumb. ‘For a job of this kind we tend to estimate a cost,’ she said tightly. ‘It isn’t always possible to be specific when one is dealing with contractors and subcontractors, and things don’t always go according to plan. Materials might not be available when they ought to be, for example, or there may be a technical hitch which makes the job more difficult and therefore more time-consuming. Of course, this is not usually the case,’ she added quickly.

‘Quite,’ he said soothingly, making her aware she was gabbling.

‘The first thing I would need to do is to draw up a bill of quantities, which is a list of all the materials needed to complete the project right down to the smallest detail. This would extend to several hundred pages for a job of this nature.’

He held up a restraining hand, his voice even dryer when he said, ‘You are telling me you don’t come cheap, is that it?’

She had never met anyone she would like to punch on the nose more, or anyone who could make the most normal conversation sizzle with sexual undertones like this man. Or was it her? The thought kicked like a mule. Was she imagining all this? She didn’t like being confused and it sounded in her voice when she said, ‘It’s always worth paying for the best in the long run.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ he drawled silkily, his American accent suddenly strong. ‘And that being the case I am sure I will hear from you shortly with a tidy breakdown, and some sort of ceiling cost, okay?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He had opened the door before she realised she hadn’t thanked him for what was the most fantastic opportunity of her career to date, but even as the words hovered on her tongue he had gone without a backward glance or a goodbye.

CHAPTER TWO

ROSALIE worked harder than she had ever done over the next few weeks. Once she’d finished with the job she’d been engaged on when Kingsley Ward had made his amazing proposition, she began working on the bill of quantities for the Ward project, which was an enormous undertaking. It didn’t help that she was aware her three senior partners were a little anxious about it all.

When she had told Mike Carr and the other two about the meeting with Kingsley Ward, Mike had called Kingsley the same day, after which he had come and perched on her desk in the late evening just as Rosalie had been thinking of going home.

‘There’s no doubt he wants you for the job.’ Mike looked at the slim, beautiful woman in front of him, whom he both respected and admired, and in whom he had taken a fatherly interest almost from the first day Rosalie had begun at Carr and Partners fresh from university ten years before. ‘Know much about him, do you?’

Rosalie stared at him in surprise. Mike was more than a working colleague; shortly after she had been engaged by the firm she had discovered she had been at university with his daughter, Wendy, and after a reunion with the other girl it had become common for her to spend the odd weekend at the Carrs’ lovely old house in Harrow. The family’s friendship had come at a painful time in her private life and had meant the world. It still did, even though—with Wendy now married and living abroad, and Rosalie having been taken on as junior partner, which had doubled her workload and made for less socialising—she saw less of the family as a whole.

‘Not a thing, really,’ she admitted after a moment or two. ‘Why? Isn’t he creditworthy?’

Mike smiled. ‘You really don’t know anything about him, do you? Oh, yes, he’s creditworthy, all right, Lee. Ward Enterprises was begun by his father over thirty years ago, but until Kingsley was old enough to come on board it was just a moderately successful little hotel chain comprising of some three or four fairly middle-of-the-road establishments. Kingsley changed all that. He had the vision to buy up land and make the Ward name synonymous with luxury hotels complete with a couple of golf courses, hundreds of acres of parkland and so on, the sort of places the rich and famous would go to to enjoy peace and seclusion where their every need is catered for. To put it crudely, my dear, Kingsley Ward is loaded.’

Rosalie smiled, before raising her eyebrows as she said, ‘So why that note in your voice when you asked me if I knew anything about him?’

‘What note?’ And then Mike smiled himself at the expression on his junior partner’s face. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said a little shamefacedly. ‘It’s just that, along with the wealth and jet-set lifestyle the man now has, has come a certain reputation.’

Rosalie’s eyebrows rose higher.

‘He’s partial to a well-turned ankle.’

Dear Mike. Only he could use such a quaint old-fashioned phrase to describe a womaniser, Rosalie thought fondly, before she said teasingly in a mock American accent, ‘You mean he likes the broads?’

Mike wasn’t smiling now. ‘He likes them, all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Lots of them.’

‘What’s that got to do—?’ Rosalie stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, come on, Mike,’ she said disbelievingly, ‘you don’t seriously think a man like the one you’ve just described would waste time trying to seduce a little provincial mouse like me, do you? He’s used to the celebs and model types who have been everywhere and done everything for sure.’

‘Rosalie, you’re a very beautiful woman, and no one in his right mind would describe you as a mouse,’ Mike said matter-of-factly. It was always amazing to him that she seemed so completely unaware of her effect on the opposite sex. What did she see when she looked in the mirror, for crying out loud? It was a question he’d asked himself many times, and now he answered it as he usually did; she saw something different from everyone else for certain. And she had Miles Stuart to thank for that. ‘Anyway, all I’m saying is watch him, okay? I’d say the same to Wendy in a similar situation, you know that.’

‘Yes, I know, Mike.’ She put out a hand and touched his jacket sleeve. ‘And I appreciate it, but, really, there’s no need.’

Nevertheless, that conversation of a few weeks ago was now on Rosalie’s mind as she finished the last item in the bill of quantities and settled back in her seat in front of the word processor. Kingsley had asked her to contact him once she had this ready and before she sent copies to various contractors to put a cost on each part of the work. She had got the impression he was the type of man who liked to keep his finger on even the tiniest pulse. She would try the English number he had given her first and ask his secretary where he was in the world. Since the conversation with Mike she had made it her business to find out everything she could about Kingsley Ward, and she had discovered he had hotels in the Caribbean as well as the States and was constantly on the move. She had also found out that Mike had not exaggerated about Kingsley’s love life.

She dialled the number herself; she had come into the office very early to finish off the list of materials and, as it was now still only eight o’clock in the morning, Jenny hadn’t arrived. Undoubtedly her call would be intercepted by an answer machine in Kingsley’s new English office in Oxford, but that was all right. It was another thing off the multitude of jobs she’d got lined up for the day, and his secretary could call Jenny later.

‘Kingsley Ward.’

Rosalie almost dropped the telephone at the sound of the deep cold male voice, her heart giving a resounding thump. It was a moment or two before she could say, ‘K…Kingsley?’ Oh, don’t stutter, girl, for goodness’ sake, she told herself in the next instant, hearing her breathless voice with utter contempt. Her voice was stronger as she continued, ‘It’s Rosalie Milburn here from Carr and Partners.’

There was a pause, and then, ‘Yes, Rosalie?’

She gulped. She preferred the first abrupt cold voice to the warmer, faintly sexy burr with which he’d spoken her name. And then she told herself not to be so darn ridiculous and to get on with it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early,’ she said politely. ‘I was expecting to just leave a message on your secretary’s answer machine to say that the bill of quantities is ready that you wanted to look over, and to ask where to send it. I wasn’t sure if you were in England or America.’

‘That was quick,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I’m in London today, I’ll call in for it. There were a couple of things I wanted to discuss with you anyway. Are you free for lunch?’

‘L…Lunch?’ She was doing it again! Her brain scrambled. She wasn’t doing anything for lunch but the last thing she wanted was to spend a couple of hours in close proximity to Kingsley Ward with no hope of escape. And then logic and reason took over. This was a massive job, she was going to have to liaise with Kingsley considering he was the type of man who insisted on overseeing everything. She forced her voice into neutral. ‘Lunch would be fine.’

‘Great.’ If he’d sensed her hesitation he gave no sign of it when he said, ‘I’ll pick you up round noon, okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The phone went click. No goodbye, no social pleasantries. A man of few words, obviously. Rosalie sat staring at the receiver for some seconds, aware that she was feeling rail-roaded but that it wasn’t really fair on Kingsley. She could have said no to lunch, but if he needed to talk to her there was no point, added to which she had to make herself get on enough with him for them to establish a working relationship.

She looked down at what she was wearing. She had dressed for an unremarkable day in the office—pencil-slim grey trousers and a wrapover white buttoned shirt, with a pearl-grey bouclé wool jacket for later in case the May evening turned chilly on the walk home. Her flat was only half a mile from the office and she always travelled on foot, enjoying the wake-up in the morning and the wind-down at night. The only time she drove was when she needed to call on site or visit an architect or contractor or something similar.

She wrinkled her nose at her clothes. Kingsley Ward would be used to women who dressed to kill, for sure. And then she caught the errant thought, horrified at herself. What did it matter what he was used to? This was a business lunch with a client, that was all. As long as she was presentable that was all that mattered, and Kingsley probably wouldn’t notice what she was wearing anyway.

Kingsley did. He arrived to collect her just before noon, his gaze going over her steadily as Jenny ushered him into Rosalie’s office. Rosalie made a huge effort to act as she would with a man who wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, smiling brightly and forcing herself to extend her hand this time as she said, ‘Kingsley, how nice to see you again.’

His smile was lazy, with a mocking quality that suggested he knew she was lying. ‘Likewise.’

‘I’ve got everything ready if you’d like to glance through before we leave?’ she asked briskly, once her flesh had left contact with his. The tingling in her hand she could do nothing about.

‘Later. I’m hungry.’ His gaze hadn’t left her face, his eyes like blue crystal.

‘Fine.’ She busied herself in collecting the wool jacket and her handbag, hoping her bustle hid her agitation. She had forgotten what a startlingly deep blue his eyes were; if it were anyone else but Kingsley Ward she would have suspected they were wearing cosmetic contact lenses.

‘I hope you had nothing pressing this afternoon? I would like to visit the site after lunch. The architect will be there and it would be good for you to meet him.’

‘Of course.’ Rosalie thought of her work schedule and prayed for calm. ‘I’m all yours.’

The carved lips twitched. ‘How generous.’

It was, actually. She had already visited the site twice and didn’t really need to meet the architect today, Rosalie thought aggressively. There would be time enough for that once the tenders were returned, a builder selected and the work began. It would be her job to see the chosen builder kept to his prices, and she would be visiting the site frequently to value the work done for interim payments.

‘Shall we?’ He had taken her arm and whisked her out of the office before she had time to reflect further, and it was with dark amusement that Rosalie noticed Jenny’s expression of envy. If her secretary had but known it she would have swopped places with her for the lunchtime like a shot!

Carr and Partners was situated in a row of terraced houses, and once out on the pavement Kingsley led the way to a nifty little silver sports car that would have done credit to James Bond. Rosalie was eternally grateful to her guardian angel that she’d decided to wear trousers that day; the car’s low interior was not conducive to entering and exiting in anything else. As it was she slid into the leather interior with more than a measure of aplomb. This faded somewhat when Kingsley climbed into the driver’s seat. He was close, very close, and he smelt nothing short of delicious.

Rosalie hit her traitorous libido a sharp crack on the knuckles and swallowed deeply a few times. Her voice higher pitched than usual, she said, ‘Is it far? Where we’re eating?’

Damn it, but she was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Was it him or was she like this with the whole male race? ‘No, not far,’ he said easily as he pulled out into the traffic, the car’s engine growling softly. ‘A friend of mine owns a little place near Finsbury Park where I often eat when I’m in London. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d prefer?’ He glanced at her.

She shook her head, making the silky swirl of hair move and shimmer. Kingsley felt his loins tighten in response and turned his head, concentrating on the traffic.

After a few tense moments during which Rosalie registered every single movement he made and the car’s interior seemed to shrink still more, she said carefully, ‘I’m really excited about this job, and I never did thank you for looking me up after the dinner party. Who mentioned I was a quantity surveyor, anyway?’

He executed a manoeuvre that was totally illegal, receiving a few kindly gestures from passing motorists in the process, before he said, ‘What? Oh, I don’t remember. Is it important?’

He turned to look behind him as he changed lanes and Rosalie glanced at the back of his head where his hair had been tapered into his neck. It was so sexy it wasn’t true. As the big body turned again her head shot to the front. She felt like a voyeur, for goodness’ sake, she admitted to herself crossly, willing each taut muscle to slowly relax. But she hadn’t expected to be cocooned in an inch-square box with him, that was the thing.

Kingsley was clearly a man who didn’t go in for chatter when he was driving, and the short journey was accomplished in almost total silence. By the time they drew up outside a small neat restaurant Rosalie felt she’d got her act together, in spite of not quite being able to identify what it was about Kingsley Ward that threw her into such a spin.

True, he was silver-screen handsome with the added authority that came with wealth and influence, but he was also hard, ruthless and possessed of a giant ego, from all the background she’d gathered on him. Women galore had been enjoyed and discarded if half the stories about him were true, and Rosalie didn’t doubt that they were, looking at the man. And she loathed men like him, individuals who took and never gave, plundered and demanded what they wanted as though it were their God-given right. In fact they disgusted her.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘What?’ She spun round in her seat as the quiet voice registered on her, becoming aware in that moment that her face must have reflected her thoughts as she gazed out unseeing at the building in front of them. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I was thinking of something else,’ Rosalie said quickly. ‘This looks very nice.’

‘Don’t let the nondescript appearance fool you,’ he said evenly as he cut the engine. ‘Glen isn’t into glitz and glamour, but he has the punters fighting a path to his door now word has got out about the food here.’

He exited the car in a smooth, controlled uncurling motion that Rosalie could but envy; she knew she was going to have far more trouble levering herself out of the low seat. As it was he had opened her door and extended a hand before she had to try, and once she was standing on the pavement she tried to ignore his towering height and the fact that she was all flustered again.

Kingsley opened the door of the restaurant for her and then waved her through in front of him, thinking as he did so, Nice bottom. In fact nice everything. She was one hell of a woman and yet there was something so fiercely defensive about her it screamed disastrous love affair. Who had let her down and had it been recently? Certainly Jamie and one or two other of her friends who had been at the dinner party claimed they knew nothing. He wasn’t sure if he believed them. Whatever, she intrigued him. She’d intrigued him that night, enough for him to follow through and arrange for her to get the quantity surveyor’s job, after he had checked her credentials, of course. Much as he liked the idea of being the hunter for a change, he wasn’t about to endanger what was a very tasty business opportunity because he wanted a woman who had made it clear she didn’t want him.

‘King! My friend, my friend.’

Rosalie hadn’t expected the said Glen to be foreign, somehow—Glen sounded too English for that—but the slim, wiry man who came rushing up as they entered was Italian or she’d eat her hat. He kissed Kingsley on both cheeks—something Kingsley had obviously been expecting and which didn’t phase him at all—before turning his attention to her, saying, ‘You have brought the most beautiful lady in London to grace my restaurant. How can I thank you, my friend?’

‘Cut the spiel, Glen,’ Kingsley said dryly, ‘it won’t work on this lady. And she’s a business colleague, before you get too carried away.’

‘So there is hope for me? Even better!’

The black eyes were wicked but full of laughter, and Rosalie found herself laughing back as she said, ‘If the food is as good as the welcome, no wonder you are so popular.’

‘Rosalie; Glen Lorena, the biggest sweet-talker this side of the ocean. Glen; Rosalie Milburn, my new quantity surveyor for the English job.’

‘This is true?’ The Latin face expressed surprise. ‘But you are too lovely to do such work. I cannot believe this.’

‘Believe it, buddy.’ Kingsley had noticed the dimming of Rosalie’s smile and took swift action, ushering her further into the restaurant as he said over his shoulder, ‘Usual table free?’

‘Of course, my friend, of course. The moment I received your reservation the table became yours.’

Glen joined them a moment later, taking their order for drinks as he presented them with two dog-eared menus before disappearing again. Rosalie glanced round. The room was not large and it was packed with diners, in spite of the furniture being on the basic side without a taste of luxury anywhere. They were sitting in what was clearly a prime position in a small alcove, a table that gave an element of privacy without obstructing the view.

As her eyes returned to Kingsley he leant forward slightly. ‘Glen didn’t mean anything by that last remark,’ he said softly. ‘It’s just his way. His wife used to work as a barrister before they got this place so he’s got no problem with women and careers.’

Rosalie nodded stiffly. It was true she hadn’t appreciated the Italian’s comment about her job; she’d suffered the same sort of surprise too often in the past, normally accompanied by a distinctly patronising interest afterwards. After a degree course followed by three years of practical training and then the Assessment of Professional Competence, she felt she’d served a good apprenticeship before she began working as a fully qualified surveyor in what was still very much a male-dominated environment.

She had found she had to be just that bit better than her male colleagues at first to be taken seriously, but being a female in such a position was definitely a situation of swings and roundabouts. Most of the builders were tickled pink to see her arrive on site, and, once they realised she knew her onions and wasn’t going to be fooled or cajoled into accepting late dates or poor quality work, they were pussy-cats in her hands.

She’d often heard Mike and the others bemoaning the fact that they got all the stick from both the builder’s own surveyors and also the client when things went wrong, but usually, with just a smidgen of charm, her jobs ran on nicely oiled wheels.

‘Whilst we’re on the subject of careers,’ Kingsley continued smoothly, ‘what did make you take up quantity surveying?’

Rosalie stared at him. She hadn’t been aware they were on the subject of anything. She shrugged after a moment or two, her lashes sweeping down and hiding her gaze from the piercing one opposite as she said carefully, ‘I liked the mix of office work and getting my hands dirty on site, I suppose.’

‘Commerce is a hard world,’ Kingsley said quietly, ‘especially for a woman dealing with men who might not like being told what to do or not to do by a female, and a young and attractive one at that.’

Rosalie shrugged again. ‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she said without smiling.

He gazed at her, one dark eyebrow quirked and a disturbing gleam in the back of the brilliant eyes. ‘Are you now?’ he murmured softly. ‘A lady of mystery?’

‘There’s no mystery.’ She had spoken too quickly and she knew it as well as he did. She buried her face in the menu.

So, he’d hit a nerve? Kingsley’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he sat back in his seat just as one of the waiters arrived with the bottle of wine and another of sparkling mineral water. Life had taught him a few lessons in his thirty-five years on the earth, he reflected as he watched the waiter filling their glasses. One, expensive wine was worth every dollar compared to the other stuff. Two, gambling was a mug’s game. Three, never trust a woman, especially a beautiful one with hair like bronzed silk and eyes the colour of a stormy sky, eyes that carried secrets in their cloudy depths. For sure the secrets would be nothing more important than what hair dye she used to colour her hair, and within a few weeks he would be itching to move on. Although Rosalie’s hair looked natural…

He picked up the menu, suddenly annoyed with his thoughts and the world in general although he couldn’t have explained why. ‘The roasted shallot and lemon thyme salad is very good to start with,’ he suggested mildly. ‘One of Glen’s specialities. Or the mediterranean fish soup? And I can recommend the roast lamb or braised tangerine beef with herb dumplings.’

Rosalie smiled politely. She chose watercress soufflé followed by poached fillet of sea bass with asparagus tips, and after she had given her order to Glen, who had reappeared like the proverbial genie out of a bottle, she sat back in her seat and had a couple of hefty swallows of the very good wine whilst she watched Kingsley discussing the merits of the lamb against the beef with his friend. If ever she had needed a drink it was now, she thought with wry self-mockery. Why ever she had agreed to come out to lunch with this disturbing individual she didn’t know, let alone commit to spending what virtually amounted to a whole afternoon in his presence.

When the food came it was utterly delicious, although Rosalie had to admit that Kingsley’s Mediterranean fish soup and roast lamb looked and smelt wonderful, added to which she had never particularly cared for sea bass. But her food was excellent, all of it, along with the wine and the chocolate macadamia steamed pudding drenched with whipped cream she chose for dessert. She didn’t think she had ever tasted food so good, and she told Kingsley so as they drank their coffee.

He smiled. He’d smiled quite often during the meal as they had made light conversation, and she had to concede he’d got the art of conversation, along with the smile, down to a T. But the smile had never reached the cool blue of his eyes and the conversation was such that she knew nothing more about him than when they had first sat down at the table. Which was enough, more than enough, she told herself dryly.

‘Glen’s easily the best chef I’ve ever come across.’ Kingsley drained his coffee-cup and gestured to the hovering waiter for the bill. ‘As the waiting list for a table bears out.’

‘Surely he could earn a fortune if he chose to work somewhere like the Savoy or the Ritz?’ Rosalie asked, her eyes wandering round the interior of the restaurant again.

‘He’s done the big-time thing and ended up nearly ruining his marriage and his health,’ Kingsley said shortly. ‘He got out of the rat race, bought this place and set up with Lucia, his wife, who does all the behind-the-scenes work. He’s had offers galore to go back as a head chef or expand here to bigger and better, but the bottom line is he doesn’t need it. He’s happy here, Lucia’s happy, that’s all that matters to Glen in the long run. He’s found his Shangri-La.’

Rosalie stared at him. ‘You sound as if you envy him,’ she said at last.

He smiled but this time it didn’t even crinkle the skin around his eyes. ‘Why would I do that?’ he said easily. ‘I’m exactly where I want to be in life. How about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Are you where you want to be in life?’ he asked with a silkiness Rosalie immediately suspected. ‘Doing what you want, being who you want, with whom you want?’

She didn’t like this conversation. ‘Certainly,’ she said briskly.

‘Then we are both very fortunate.’

Rosalie’s jaw set. She couldn’t quite put a label on the quality of his voice but it suggested disbelief, and who the hell was Kingsley Ward to question her, anyway? ‘Yes, we are.’ She rose from her seat. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said coolly before making her way to the door marked ‘Signorinas’ at the back of the restaurant.

Once in the small but immaculately clean little cloakroom Rosalie walked across to the two tiny washbasins situated under the plain, unframed mirror. She stared at the flushed reflection and two angry eyes stared back at her. She had done what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do weeks ago when she’d taken the job, and let Kingsley Ward get under her skin. Her soft lips tightened but her irritation was at herself and not Kingsley.

Self-control. It was all about self-control, everything was, she knew that. If anyone knew that, she did. She shut her eyes, shaking her head as it drooped forward, but today the memories she usually kept firmly under lock and key surfaced in a flood. Suddenly she was a little girl again, sitting shivering on the landing with her eyes straining down into the shadowed hall as she listened to the familiar sound of her father shouting at her mother in the sitting room below. Other sounds followed, they always did, but what made this occasion more memorable than all the ones that had gone before was that in the midst of the sound of slaps there came a silence, and then her father’s voice, the tone agitated, saying, ‘Chantal? Chantal, get up. Come on, get up.’

The memory blurred at this point but she could recall the bright lights of the ambulance and then the police car when they had arrived at the house. It had been a police-woman who had come and found her, still sitting in numb silence on the stairs. They had taken her to her maternal grandparents—her father had been brought up in a children’s home and had no family—and it had been a day or two later when her grandmother had told her, very gently but with tears streaming down her face, that Mummy had gone to see the angels in heaven. Her beautiful, tender mother, who wouldn’t have hurt a fly, had never recovered consciousness from the aneurysm that had begun to bleed in her head, caused by one of her husband’s blows.

On the day of the court appearance her father had taken his own life, and at the age of five she had become an orphan. Her grandparents had looked after her from that point, and with her mother having had younger siblings who had gone on to have children her childhood had not been an unhappy one. But there had been a void, a massive gap because she had been a mummy’s girl from the moment she had been born. As she had grown she had begun to understand why her mother had absorbed herself so completely in her child. Her grandparents had told her that her father had been an unhappy individual as a result of a traumatic childhood, insanely jealous of any attention his wife had paid to another adult, be they man or woman, and consequently her mother had led a life isolated from the rest of the world in an effort to keep the peace. Her headstone was a memorial that this hadn’t worked.

Rosalie raised her head, her eyes large and dark with the painful memories. When she’d been eighteen and entering university her grandparents had decided to return to their native France to live their autumn years with the relatives there; her grandfather’s health had been poor and he’d wanted to be close to his brothers.

She had agonised for some time whether to give up her university place in London and go with them, but she had been born in England and she didn’t want to study in France, besides which there were all the friends she would leave behind. In the end she had stayed, and then she had met Miles Stuart…

‘Enough.’ She spoke the word out loud, her mouth setting in a grim line as she ruthlessly put a check on her mind. Why was she thinking of all this today? But she knew why. Miles and Kingsley Ward were miles apart in many ways, but they both had one attribute that was unmistakable: male magnetism.

It was indefinable, something elusive and subtle, but when a man had it, it cut through all the layers of civilisation and refinement and brought a woman right back to grass-roots level, forcing her to acknowledge a sexual response whether she wanted to or not. A powerful weapon. Her eyes darkened still more. And unfortunately mother nature seemed to excel in bestowing it on two-legged rats who didn’t give a damn.

She breathed deeply before washing her hands, taking a moment or two to run her comb through her hair and apply fresh lipstick before she left the cloakroom and walked to where Kingsley was waiting near the front door of the restaurant. Glen was standing talking to him, and Rosalie kept her eyes on the Italian man as she said pleasantly, ‘That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time, Glen.’

‘It is a pleasure to cook for such a beautiful woman.’ He grinned at her as he spoke, and Rosalie had to laugh. He was outrageous but somehow you knew he was as harmless as a kitten.

She turned her gaze to the long, lean figure beside the restaurateur, and eyes of blue ice looked back at her. ‘All ready?’ Kingsley asked easily, smiling the arctic smile.

Once out on the pavement in the fresh May sunshine, Rosalie remembered her manners. ‘That was a lovely lunch,’ she said politely. ‘Thank you.’

‘The pleasure was all mine.’ An ordinary phrase, but he managed to make it sound like a criticism, as though she’d been churlish. She glanced at him and the azure eyes gazed back innocently.

This was going to be one great afternoon!

CHAPTER THREE

ROSALIE asked herself a hundred times afterwards how it had happened. Over the last ten years she had been to umpteen sites, clambering about measuring foundations and walls and areas of land, and not one accident. So why, why had it been this particular day at this particular site and more especially with this particular man that she’d had to go and make the most almighty fool of herself? One minute she had been talking to the architect and hopefully impressing Kingsley with her handle on the job, the next she’d been flat on her face with her ankle feeling as though it was broken.

The architect, a nice middle-aged man, was all concern, but it was Kingsley who picked her up in his arms after she had tried to rise and nearly passed out with the pain.

‘I…I’m all right. Please, I can walk.’ Through the excruciating throbbing the fact that she was being held close to a hard male chest with her head on an eyeline with his throat took precedence.

‘Keep still.’ She had tried to wriggle free and his voice was curt.

‘Really, it feels better already,’ she lied through gritted teeth.

‘And I’m Mickey Mouse.’

The architect, who was now trotting alongside them as Kingsley carried her over to the parked cars, said soothingly, ‘It might just be a sprain, Miss Milburn, but you really should get it checked at a hospital.’

‘I’m not going to a hospital,’ she responded quickly. ‘Not for a sprain.’

‘That’s exactly where you’re going,’ the deep voice just above her head said flatly.

She would have argued better if she weren’t so horribly conscious of being in his arms, but, with the feel of his body as he moved and the overall heady scent of faint whiffs of the most delicious aftershave, she wasn’t feeling herself. ‘If you’ll just take me back to the office I will be fine,’ she said as firmly as her twanging nerves would allow.

They had just reached the car and he didn’t reply. As the architect opened the passenger door Kingsley placed her into the seat as carefully as one would a piece of Dresden china, but even so the action caused an involuntary gasp before she bit her lip hard, her face white.

‘And you’re talking about going straight back to the office?’ he said disgustedly. ‘Your ankle’s already twice its size and swelling as we speak, or hadn’t you noticed?’

Yes, she had darn well noticed; she was the one feeling the pain, not him!

He shut the passenger door, said a brief word to the architect who was now standing peering worriedly into the car, and then proceeded to make a call on his mobile phone. Rosalie was sure it was about her although she couldn’t hear what was being said. He slid into the car, saying shortly, ‘I’m taking you to a doctor.’

The man was like a cruise missile, but suddenly, what with the pain and the nausea it was causing, she couldn’t argue anymore. Her face must have spoken for itself because he swore softly before reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a small silver hip-flask, unscrewing the top and handing it to her. ‘Drink some, it’s brandy.’

‘Brandy? I don’t want—’

‘Drink some.’

She drank, just a sip or two but she had to admit the neat alcohol burnt up the nausea causing her to feel more herself. And then she froze as Kingsley took off his jacket, bundling it into a roll and leaning over her as he said, ‘I’m going to put this under your foot to cushion it as best we can, but I’m afraid the journey’s not going to be pleasant.’

And then his head was practically in her lap as he positioned the clump of material that had been a very nice Armani jacket under the injured foot, easing off her court shoe as he did so.

She looked down at the short, spiky jet-black hair and muscled shoulders, and almost asked for another swig of brandy.

‘Thank you.’ She hoped he would put her breathlessness down to pain and ignore the flush of embarrassment that had flooded her cheeks with colour. He had only taken off his jacket, for goodness’ sake, so why did it suddenly feel as if he were almost naked?

He eased himself back into the driving seat, loosening his tie and letting it hang slackly as he undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt.

He had a magnificent body. Her eyes just couldn’t tear themselves away from the broad chest under the silk of his shirt. Powerful and lean, without an ounce of fat anywhere. She gave up trying to be cool and reached for the hip-flask again, taking another sip gratefully.

‘Okay?’ The blue eyes met hers, his voice low with sympathy now, and she gave a brave smile, nodding because she didn’t trust her voice. Suddenly the hospital didn’t seem such a bad idea—anything to get out of the claustrophobic confines of this car.

Having experienced Kingsley’s driving technique earlier in the day, Rosalie appreciated he was driving extremely cautiously once they were underway, but nevertheless every slight jolt or bump of the car had her biting on her lip to stifle the gasps of pain.

She was conscious of him glancing at her a few times before they reached their destination, which looked to be a hospital nearer Oxford than London. As they drove into tree-filled grounds and she saw the long, modern attractive building in front of them she said, ‘This isn’t a private hospital, is it?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

She hadn’t got private health insurance, for a start.

Whether he guessed what she was thinking he didn’t say, but what he did say was, ‘This is where a friend of mine works and, as luck would have it, he’s around today. He said he’d take a look at the ankle as a favour, and we’ll go from there. Okay?’

This whole thing was running away from her and she didn’t like that, besides which Kingsley seemed to have a friend for every occasion, Rosalie thought resentfully. It might be nasty of her in the circumstances when he was being so helpful, but she couldn’t help the way she felt—he brought out the worst in her. She sat stiffly in her seat, her cheeks flaming. ‘I would have preferred to go to a National Health hospital,’ she said primly.

‘Tough.’ Her eyes shot to meet his at the tone, widening as he went on, ‘I haven’t got time to waste sitting in an emergency department even if you have. I have another appointment later.’

She glared at him. ‘Well, excuse me!’

‘Certainly.’ The carved lips twitched at her fury. ‘Now sit still until I can help you.’

Much as she hated to obey him she had no option, and unfortunately she knew she was not going to be able to walk on the ankle either. Even trying to flex her toes brought acute agony. But the thought of him carrying her again… Could she hop, perhaps? Darn it, she’d never felt so helpless in all her life.

When he opened the passenger door the decision was taken out of her hands. He scooped her up before she could so much as utter a squeak. The warm masculine feel of his body was worse this time with just the silk of his shirt covering his chest.

‘Put your arm round my neck,’ he said quietly as he hotched her more securely against him. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t bite.’

She was startled into looking up into his face; there had been a smoky quality to his voice that was pure dynamite. There had been wry amusement in his face at first, but then as their eyes locked she watched the amusement replaced by something else and found she was holding her breath, not daring to move a muscle.

Another car entering the car park broke the spell. Rosalie lowered her head, grateful for the wings of hair that covered her hot face, but by the time they walked into the reception of the hospital the burning colour had subsided due mainly to the ache in her foot.

The next half an hour was a painful one, and at the end of it Rosalie could have cried with frustration when X-rays confirmed Kingsley’s friend’s prognosis that a small bone was broken, necessitating a plaster cast on her ankle for a few weeks.

Another hour or so and they were back in the car again, the ankle feeling better now it was supported but Rosalie’s head spinning as her brain scrambled all the appointments and deadlines of the next days. Fortunately a great deal of the work could be done from the office, she decided thankfully after a few minutes of thinking hard, and site visits would have to be undertaken by one of the others until she could drive again, unless she called on taxis. She would manage somehow, anyway. There was no way she was going to hand this job over, lock, stock and barrel, to someone else.

‘How does it feel?’

‘I’m sorry?’ As Kingsley’s voice penetrated her whirling thoughts Rosalie turned to him. She had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that he had been very good over this whole affair—refusing to let her pay for anything although she knew he had written a cheque at the hospital, and displaying a patience she hadn’t suspected he possessed.

‘The ankle. How is it?’ he repeated, the patience she had noticed not so much in evidence now.

‘Fine.’ His irritation reminded her he’d had an appointment. ‘I hope I haven’t delayed you too long,’ she added politely. ‘You mentioned an appointment?’

‘A dinner engagement.’

With a woman, she dared bet, and obviously one he was anxious to see if he was prepared to pay the expenses of a private hospital to keep his date. A dart of something Rosalie didn’t care to put a name to made itself felt, causing her to silently upbraid herself. A man like Kingsley Ward would have any number of women, for goodness’ sake, and gorgeous ones at that, but his private life was absolutely nothing to do with her.

She slanted a sideways glance at him from under her eyelashes. She had got used to the muscled contours of his body now—she’d had a couple of hours to do that at the hospital as he had insisted on staying with her—but still something warm curled in her stomach as she took in the hard profile and clean-cut lines. He was intensely sexy, she thought drowsily, the combination of the trauma of the accident and the pain-killers Kingsley’s doctor friend had prescribed making her sleepy in the car’s warm womb. She yawned before she could stop herself.

‘Put your seat back and have a snooze,’ Kingsley suggested a moment later, even though she hadn’t been aware he had noticed.

For some reason the thought of being asleep and in a position where Kingsley could look at her and she wouldn’t know was quite untenable. It woke her up better than a bucketful of cold water. ‘No, it’s okay,’ she said quickly, adding, perfectly truthfully, ‘I wouldn’t sleep tonight if I had a nap now. I don’t sleep well as it is.’

‘No?’ One rapier-sharp glance raked her face before returning to the road ahead. ‘Why is that? Have you always been that way?’

Since Miles she had. Rosalie kept her voice even as she said, ‘In latter years. It’s not exactly unusual, after all.’

‘First sign of stress.’

Rosalie stiffened at the hint of criticism. ‘I don’t think so. I enjoy my work,’ she said very stiffly, eyes to the front.

‘It doesn’t have to be work that’s the problem,’ he countered smoothly. ‘Work’s not the be-all and end-all of life, surely.’

‘The rest of my life is also perfectly stress-free, thank you,’ she said tartly. As if it were anything to do with him, anyway.

‘Rosalie, in this day and age no one’s life is perfectly stress-free. Do you keep a healthy balance between work and play?’ he persisted, knowing he was being unfair in pursuing this when she had just been through one hell of an afternoon, but sensing her defences were low. He wanted to know more about this woman who kept herself so very much to herself, he admitted silently, capitulating to the truth he had been ignoring all day. She had aroused his curiosity as well as his body, damn it, and, yes—it was pique he was feeling at her total disinterest in him. Which made him a lesser man than he had thought he was.

‘That’s my business, surely?’ It was frosty, and exactly what he had expected.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with lazy innocence. ‘I’ve obviously touched a nerve.’

She glared at him. ‘Of course you haven’t,’ she said sharply. ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous.’

The black eyebrows rose but he said nothing, which was ten times more aggravating than an argument, Rosalie thought irritably. It was hard to argue with silence.

‘I mean it,’ she said again. ‘You haven’t touched a nerve.’

‘Methinks the lady protests too much.’

Methinks the gentleman is an arrogant pig.

‘So, do you have a current partner, a boyfriend?’ he asked softly, knowing the answer full well.

She was longing to tell him to mind his own business but in view of their conversation to date didn’t think it appropriate. ‘No.’ It was so wintry ice tinkled.

It would have discouraged a lesser man, but Kingsley wasn’t a lesser man. ‘How long since you’ve been on a date, then?’

She was fairly quivering with the rage she was trying to hide. How dared he cross-examine her like this? ‘In spite of this being the twenty-first century and therefore licence for most people to behave like rabbits, I prefer quality rather than quantity,’ she responded icily, hoping that would be enough to satisfy him. She had never met such rudeness in her life.

Of course it wasn’t. ‘That taken as read, how long?’

Suddenly, horrifyingly, the rage had gone and the urge to burst into tears was paramount. Twelve years long. Twelve years since I was hurt and abused and brought to the brink of losing my mind. The words were so fierce in her head that for an awful moment she thought she’d spoken them out loud, but when the chiselled features didn’t change she knew she was safe. She had never spoken about her relationship with Miles to anyone, not even her grandparents before they had died, and she never would. All old friends and family knew was that she’d been married and then it had finished. New friends didn’t even know that much.

She took a deep pull of air, praying her voice wouldn’t reveal her inward trembling. ‘Some time, I can’t remember. I’m not the sort of person who puts notches on the bedpost, unlike some.’ She turned to look at him as she spoke.

It was pointed, and she saw his mouth tighten with a dart of gratification. You can dish it out but taking it is a little harder, isn’t it? she thought bitterly.

‘Meaning I am?’ he asked grimly.

‘I didn’t say that.’ She paused purposely. ‘But if the cap fits…’

‘It doesn’t, not in this instance.’

‘Right.’ She put a wealth of meaning into the one word.

‘I have my faults, Rosalie, but promiscuity is not one of them,’ he said, very coldly.

‘Methinks the gentleman protests too much.’

For a second she wondered if she had gone too far as she cast a sidelong glance at his angry face, and then the wind was completely taken out of her sails when he laughed ruefully, turning to look at her for an instant with eyes that were smiling for the first time since she had known him. ‘Touché, mademoiselle,’ he said dryly. ‘I guess I asked for that one.’

Oh, no, don’t do this. Her mind was gabbling. Don’t step out of the mould like this. You aren’t the type who can laugh at himself. You’re arrogant and self-opinionated and a control freak. It’s written all over you in great big black letters.

‘So…’ It was a lazy drawl. ‘You’ve got me down as a philanderer, is that it?’ He glanced at her again.

She hesitated a mite too long.

‘Charming.’ It was dry but not too bothered.

‘Look, Kingsley, I didn’t exactly say that,’ she said quickly as she reminded herself he was the best client Carr and Partners had had in ages. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

‘True.’ They had just paused at some traffic lights and he turned to watch her with narrowed eyes. ‘So how do we remedy that so you can give an informed opinion?’

‘My opinion doesn’t matter one way or the other, surely?’

His eyes travelled to her mouth, the fullness of the lower lip naturally pink and tender, and his voice was deep when he said, ‘Perhaps I object to being misunderstood?’ as he smiled again, sexily.

He was flirting with her. Rosalie stared at him for a moment and then the traffic lights changed to green and they were away. Whenever anyone had tried that in the past she had firmly repelled them, dealing with them gently or harshly depending first on their martial status, and then the nature of their persistence. Some of the married ones had been the worst, necessitating arctic freezing of the most severe magnitude, but there had been the odd young buck who had fancied his chances—along with his own sexual attraction—who had needed an icy put-down.

She hadn’t found it difficult to deal with them, whatever their age or experience, mainly—she realised right at this moment for the first time—because she hadn’t been tempted by their overtures.

Kingsley was different. She gazed blindly ahead as the car growled and leapt forward. Which made him dangerous and to be avoided at all costs. She had done the falling-madly-in-love thing and it was a con; a repeat performance would make her the biggest fool on earth. Unfortunately, however, she had learnt over the last ten years that she wasn’t the type to go in for sex without love; it just wasn’t in her make-up. Therefore she’d decided a first-class career, and all the benefits that would accrue from it, was her goal in life.

Good friends, a nice home, enough money to travel to foreign parts when the fancy took her—that would suit her just fine. But the main thing, the most important thing, which transcended anything else and negated all other considerations and benefits, was that she remained autonomous. In control, with a capital C.

‘I need an address.’

‘What?’ She came out of the maelstrom of her thoughts as his voice penetrated the turmoil.

‘A finite end to the journey?’ Kingsley could see her face even when he was concentrating on the road ahead, and he’d noticed the tight set to her mouth. He had known from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her at that damn dinner party that she spelt trouble, he told himself moodily. It was in the touch-me-not restraint of the slim, elegant body, the wary coolness in those magnificent eyes.

‘If you could drop me at the office, I’ll be fine.’

And who in hell had grey eyes anyway? He acknowledged her voice with irritation. Why not brown or blue or green? Those colours were good enough for most of the population, so why not Rosalie Milburn? ‘I’ll take you home.’ It was a statement that did not invite argument.

‘There’s things I need to do.’

‘Perhaps, but they’ll keep till tomorrow. Those pain-killers are not to be messed with,’ he said evenly. Why had she hovered on his consciousness from that first evening? He wasn’t short of female company—the thought carried no pleasure, merely irritation—so what made this woman different? But then she wasn’t, not really. She just played the game differently, that was all. Nevertheless, she stirred his blood until he couldn’t think straight.

He ran his hand through his hair, more than a little annoyed with himself. He was too realistic and too cynical to pretend he believed in anything other than animal attraction between the sexes, he reassured himself in the next moment, but this woman had the plus factor in a way he hadn’t come across in a long, long time. Which made it more strange she wasn’t with anyone.

On the perimeter of his vision he saw Rosalie shift her injured foot, wincing as she did so, and the action emphasised to him how stubborn she was in asking to be taken to the office. She needed a hot meal and some more pain-killers and sleep, in that order, he thought flatly. Crazy woman.

‘So, do I get an address or do we just drive round London all night?’ His thoughts had made his voice abrupt, for which he offered no apology. She rattled him, he admitted it.

Rosalie glanced at him, her nostrils flaring at the tone. ‘I live quite close to the office in Kensington,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ll direct you when we get nearer.’

‘Thank you.’ It was sarcastic.

‘You’re welcome.’ Why did he have to make everything into a confrontation?

The rest of the journey was conducted in silence until they reached Kensington, whereupon Rosalie duly directed him to the crowded terraced street where she lived. Number twenty was identical to its neighbours, and as Kingsley drew up outside the house he glanced at the five steps leading from the pavement to the front door. His expression said it all.

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