“I want my ring on your finger without delay.”

Lang took her hand as he continued, “So what’s your answer? Are you going to marry me?”

Cassandra snatched her hand away. “I don’t understand why you want to marry me…. And don’t mention sex….”

Blue eyes laughing, he said, “I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m sure there are dozens of women who would be prepared to keep you happy in bed.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. But I don’t want a succession of bed partners. I want a wife.”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

The Marriage Takeover
Lee Wilkinson

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

CHAPTER ONE

LANG DALTON’S silver-grey, chauffeur-driven limousine had been waiting for them at San Francisco International Airport. Ensconced in the purring luxury, Cassandra Vallance sighed and glanced at the dark-haired, good-looking man by her side.

In response to the apprehension in that glance, Alan Brent took the hand that was wearing his diamond cluster, and patted it with a there-there gesture that was meant to calm and comfort.

Safely cut off from the driver by a glass partition, he said, ‘I know this weekend was sprung on us, but try to relax, darling. Lang Dalton may be a multi-millionaire and the Great I Am, but there’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘I know so little about him. Has he a wife?’

‘Yes, he married a woman the media once described as “America’s most beautiful socialite”. I gather she comes from one of California’s top families, the kind who hobnob with film stars and presidents.’

‘Have they been married long?’

‘About a couple of years.’

‘Does he know we’re getting married?’

‘Yes. I told him myself. Though I probably didn’t need to. He seems au fait with everything that goes on. Where he gets all his information is a mystery.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Although I’ve been working for him for over four years, I’ve only met him once,’ Alan told her. ‘That was about eighteen months ago when he came over to England.’

‘What’s he like?’ The question came in a rush. Until now, for some odd, unaccountable reason, she had been loath to ask.

‘Hard, autocratic, ruthless, a bit of a cold fish, just as his reputation suggests. Not the kind of man to get on the wrong side of.

‘Most people seem to be a bit in awe of him. There was a story going around that even his own PA was afraid of him…

‘But, on the plus side, he’s known to have firm principles, to care for the environment, and to be both honest and scrupulously fair, even generous.’

Seeing she still looked far from happy, Alan added, ‘So what if he is something of a despot? He can’t eat us.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself, but my instincts won’t buy it. I feel…’

She came to a halt and glanced away, unable to tell him exactly what she did feel. Coming from a woman who was regarded as being intelligent, efficient and level-headed, it would sound ridiculous to say, ‘I have a kind of foreboding. A premonition that something disastrous is going to happen and my life will never be the same again.’

His eyes resting on her lovely profile, Alan pressed, ‘How do you feel?’

‘Threatened,’ she confessed.

‘Oh, come on!’ He laughed, unable to understand her fears. ‘Lang Dalton isn’t an absolute ogre… And it’s not like you to be so melodramatic.’

‘I don’t know what’s come over me,’ she admitted. ‘But I can’t get it out of my head that nothing’s going to go right.’

His brown eyes growing impatient, Alan urged, ‘Think positive. All you have to do is take care not to get on the wrong side of him…’

She bit her lip, knowing quite well this feeling of being threatened wasn’t rational, but unable to dismiss it.

‘Look at it this way: in the unlikely event of you incurring his dislike or disapproval, the worst he can do is dispense with your services. I’d hate to part with you, you’re the best PA I’ve ever had, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

‘Now for goodness’ sake stop worrying and enjoy the chance to see something of California. The Big Sur is one of the most scenic stretches of coastline anywhere in the world, and when we head south we’ll have an ideal opportunity to see it from the air.’

When she said nothing, Alan added, ‘We’re really very lucky. This kind of social get-together is unprecedented. Usually Dalton keeps his business affairs and his private life totally separate.’

‘Which makes me wonder what prompted this particular invitation,’ she remarked uneasily.

Knowing they hadn’t been so much invited as summoned, Alan shrugged. ‘Presumably it’s a new policy.’

‘I still can’t understand why he insisted that I should accompany you.’

‘Perhaps it was a question of numbers. We’ll be joining a kind of small house party, I gather. And he didn’t exactly insist…’

But Lang Dalton had ordered arbitrarily, ‘I want you to come over to San Francisco for a long weekend and bring Miss Vallance with you.’

Alan sighed inwardly. Knowing that Cassandra had always wanted to travel, he’d presumed she would be pleased. Only as they’d reached their destination had he realized that, for some reason he still couldn’t fathom, she felt quite the opposite.

‘Look, darling, I’m sorry you’re so averse to the whole thing, but it would have been difficult to refuse…’

With his entire future depending on not crossing Lang Dalton, it would have been suicidal, and Cassandra knew it.

She was proud of Alan who, at only twenty-five, was head of Finance at the London offices of Dalton International, and had a brilliant career predicted for him.

‘And it’s only for four days,’ he added, no longer trying to hide his exasperation.

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’m behaving like a perfect idiot.’ She smiled, a smile that lit her green eyes and brought her heart-shaped face to glowing life. ‘Please forget all I’ve said and let’s make the most of the weekend.’

‘That’s my girl.’

As he finished speaking, the limousine drew up outside the twin towers of the glass and concrete building that housed Dalton International.

Almost before the chauffeur had opened the car door, a brisk young man appeared to greet them. Having taken charge of their luggage, he escorted them up in the high-speed elevator to the bright, baking heat of the roof, where a helicopter was waiting on the pad.

Moments later, rotor-blades whirling, they lifted off into the sun-filled dome of a cloudless blue sky, the spectacular skyline of downtown San Francisco falling away beneath them. Cassandra could only admire the meticulous efficiency of the whole operation.

After a breathtaking flight down the rugged coast, they turned inland and headed for the Sierra Roca, where Lang Dalton had his home. The superb scenery became sun-baked and mountainous, and the conclusion of their journey proved to be equally impressive.

Once again a sleek limousine was standing by to ferry them the short distance from the landing-pad to a white, one-storey, Spanish-style hacienda.

Built around a huge central patio and swimming pool, it was surrounded by extensive gardens, archways, bougainvillaea-draped terraces, fountains and statuary.

From the air the lavish spread had looked like a film set, the very epitome of where the wealthy and privileged lived.

When the big car slid to a halt on the paved apron outside the main entrance, their uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. Almost before they had time to get out, a white-coated servant appeared and whisked away their small amount of luggage.

At the same instant a tall, wide-shouldered man with thick, sun-bleached fair hair appeared on the terrace and came down the shallow flight of steps to meet them.

His clothes were casual: well-cut olive-green trousers and a silk, open-necked shirt. He looked completely assured and coolly elegant.

‘Brent…’ He shook hands with Alan, and turned to look at Cassandra.

She saw his face was lean and tanned with thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, and a strong, bony nose. He was about thirty-two or three, she judged, much better looking than she had imagined, and even more formidable.

‘Miss Vallance…’ There was a ghost of a polite smile around his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m Lang Dalton…’

Very conscious of the way he dwarfed her five feet seven inches, and of the mature width of his shoulders, she murmured a formal, ‘How do you do?’

‘Welcome to the Villa San Gabriel. I hope you had a good flight?’ His voice was attractive and unexpectedly cultured, his speech clipped and decisive.

His hand, well-shaped and muscular, closed over hers, and she felt a rising panic as he looked her over from head to toe, coolly appraising.

She was dressed in a businesslike grey silk suit and her ash-brown hair had been tamed into an elegant coil which emphasized her long, slender neck, her high cheekbones, and the pure line of her jaw.

With that wonderful bone-structure she could have been part Cherokee, he thought. Her winged brows and slightly slanting green eyes, her wide, generous mouth and cleft chin made her one of the most unusually beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Seeing she was made uncomfortable by his silent scrutiny, he said, ‘I decided it was high time I met you.’

‘I’m surprised you even knew of my existence.’ Her husky voice, and the way she withdrew her hand, betrayed her nervousness.

‘I make it my business to know about the people who work for me.’

But surely he couldn’t know about all the people in such a vast organization? She felt afraid. Singled out. Like a victim chosen to be sacrificed.

Abruptly, he said, ‘You’re not at all as I’d…’ There was a fleeting pause before he added, ‘Pictured.’

‘Neither are you.’ The imprudent words were out before she could stop them.

‘Oh? What had you expected?’

Someone short and paunchy, thick-necked and balding, with an aggressive, belligerent manner, rather than this air of contained but absolute authority.

But she could hardly tell him that. ‘I—I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so young.’

A strange inflection in his voice, he said slowly, ‘And I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so beautiful.’

As he spoke she saw that his teeth were excellent, his mouth wide and firm, the upper lip thinner than the lower… A controlled mouth, she thought, yet it held a disturbing touch of sensuality. Despite the hot sun, a strange shiver ran through her.

He noticed that betraying movement, and eyes that were a deep blue with darker rims to the irises caught and held hers.

Possibly he read the apprehension in their green depths, because he asked silkily, ‘Are you afraid of me, Miss Vallance?’

‘Aren’t most people?’

Even as she regretted her unthinking retort, she recalled Alan saying, ‘There was a story going around that even his own PA was afraid of him…’

If she had let it pass casually he might have taken the remark at face value, but, only too aware of her blunder, she found herself flushing furiously.

A white line appeared round his mouth. ‘I see you’ve been listening to some old gossip.’

There was a frozen silence, then Alan, who had been standing by unheeded and forgotten, stepped forward and, giving her a warning look, began hastily, ‘I’m sure Cass didn’t mean—’

‘Perhaps you’ll allow Miss Vallance to speak for herself,’ Lang Dalton broke in curtly.

Cassandra lifted her chin and looked him in the face. His grim expression told her that any attempt at an explanation could only make matters worse.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’

‘Even if it were true?’

‘Especially if it were true.’ By her side, she felt Alan stiffen, and wondered despairingly why she, who was normally prudent and diplomatic, seemed hell-bent on signing her own death warrant.

Trembling a little, she waited for the axe to fall.

Instead, the anger in the dark blue eyes changed to ironic amusement. ‘I see you have a sense of humour.’

‘A sense of self-preservation might be more use.’

He laughed, white teeth gleaming against his tan. ‘I thought perhaps you liked to live dangerously?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not the type. Too chicken.’

‘Somehow I doubt it. But I’ll be able to judge for myself when I get to know you better…’ There was a lot about this woman he still didn’t know. But he fully intended to.

Disconcerted by the steely purpose she sensed beneath the mundane words, she glanced at Alan, who, excluded from the conversation, moved a little restlessly.

Lang Dalton’s gaze flicked to him, and then back to Cassandra. ‘In the meantime, I expect you’d like to have a shower and get settled in before dinner?’ He lifted a hand.

A Mexican houseboy in white baggy trousers and a tunic appeared as if by magic.

‘Manuel will show you both to your rooms.’

‘Thank you.’ With a feeling of reprieve, Cassandra turned and followed the short, slim youth up the steps and across the wide terrace, conscious that Lang Dalton stood quite still where he was and watched them.

When they were well out of earshot, Alan remarked, ‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose… And presumably there’ll be other people present from now on. It won’t be just the two of us in the hot seat…’

But it hadn’t been the two of them. After that first handshake, Lang Dalton had virtually ignored Alan’s presence and singled her out in a way that had totally unnerved her.

‘And, in spite of getting off to an unfortunate start, he seemed to like you.’

No, Lang Dalton hadn’t liked her; Cassandra was certain of that. Something had made her of interest to him. Something, intuition told her, that would disturb her, if she knew what it was.

Her sense of fear and foreboding had, if anything, increased rather than lessened. She felt like someone standing blindfold on a narrow ledge at the top of a precipice, only too aware of the danger, but without a clue how she got there or how to save herself.

The houseboy led them through an impressive, creeper-hung doorway and into the cool interior of the villa.

They were surprised to find themselves in a kind of large atrium, with a roof open to the rafters, and a series of wide archways that led off in various directions.

To the left, on slightly different levels, was a spacious living and dining area. Plain white walls, terrazzo floors, green plants, and the minimum of furniture, made it pleasant and restful, while one or two dramatic, abstract paintings added life and colour.

Clearly it was the home of a couple who liked their living to be stylish and uncluttered.

‘This way, señor, señorita…’ At the end of a wide corridor the houseboy opened a door to the left. ‘This is your room, señor.’ Then to Cassandra, ‘If you will follow me, señorita… Your room is along this way.’

For some reason she had expected them to have adjoining rooms, and her heart sank. Giving Alan a rather uncertain smile, she turned and obediently followed the youth.

By the time she had been shown to a room on the opposite side of the house, Cassandra had realized that she was about as far away from her fiancé as it was possible to be.

Was that a deliberate policy? she wondered. Or was it simply that the closer rooms had already been allotted to other guests?

There had been no sign of anyone else, apart from the servants and Lang Dalton himself, but perhaps they hadn’t arrived yet, or were taking a siesta?

Her room, with its pastel-coloured walls, off-white carpet and draped muslin curtains, was delightfully cool and spacious. Her luggage had been placed on an old Spanish chest.

The outer wall was a series of arches, each with sliding glass panels which opened on to the central patio and pool. With its blue water and palm trees, its colourful loungers and umbrella-shaded tables, it looked extremely enticing, but was totally deserted.

For a moment she was tempted to find the swimsuit Alan had suggested she pack. But, as a guest, she could hardly use the pool without being invited to.

Instead she would take a shower. There was a sumptuous en-suite bathroom, with a frosted-glass shower stall, lots of mirrors, and a large sunken tub with steps leading down.

It was a far cry from the poky little bathroom she shared with Penny—once her room-mate at college, now her flatmate—where the bath was watermarked, the shower dripped, and one small, spotted mirror was hung a foot too low. Imagining her friend swooning at so much sensuous luxury made her smile.

Hearing about the proposed trip to California, and shrewdly noting Cassandra’s reaction to it, Penny had exclaimed, ‘And this is so awful? I thought you’d always wanted to travel? Believe me, I’d give my eye-teeth to be in your shoes. I practically swoon at the thought of staying with a millionaire…’

Then, with a snort of disgust, she’d said, ‘Some people—naming no names, but follow my eyes—just don’t appreciate how lucky they are!’

Cheered by the thought of the other girl, Cassandra unpacked and put away her clothes, leaving out fresh undies and a simple silk sheath in subtle shades of turquoise, green and gold.

Showered and dressed, she had just brushed her hair and was about to take it up into its usual coil, when there was a discreet tap at the door.

So Alan had managed to track her down.

A smile on her lips, she hurried to open it, and found the houseboy hovering.

‘Señor Dalton asks that you will join him for a pre-dinner drink.’

Scarcely ready, she hesitated. ‘At once?’

‘Sí, señorita.’

Knowing it would be unwise to keep him waiting, she braced herself and, leaving her hair curling loosely on her shoulders, closed her door and followed the slight figure.

Through the open windows she could faintly hear what sounded like one of the gardeners at work with a lawn mower. Apart from that, and the splash of an unseen fountain, it was almost eerily quiet, and there was still no sign of a soul.

When they reached the living area, the houseboy informed her, ‘Señor Dalton is on the terrace.’

‘Thank you, Manuel.’

He gave her a shy smile and departed, soft-footed.

The sliding glass opened on to a secluded terrace roofed with vines and screened from the pool and patio by a white, wrought-iron grille.

There was some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture scattered about, and a small but well-stocked refrigerated bar at one end.

Lang Dalton, who was lounging in a fan-backed wicker chair, rose to his feet at her approach and came to meet her.

She had been praying that his wife would be there, that other guests would be present, but he was alone.

Wearing a white evening shirt, a black bow-tie and a lightweight dinner-jacket, he looked both handsome and charismatic.

Taking her hand in a formal gesture, he said, ‘I must apologize if I’ve rushed you?’

‘No, not at all,’ she murmured, hoping he hadn’t noticed her stiffen at his touch.

Still holding her hand, he queried, ‘Are you happy with your room?’

‘Very happy, thank you… And Cleopatra herself would have approved of the bathing facilities.’

His eyes amused, he said, ‘I doubt it. We’re fresh out of asses’ milk.’

Made uncomfortable by his maleness, his undeniable and unexpected attraction, she withdrew her hand, and asked as lightly as possible, ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Everyone being…?’

‘Well…the rest of your guests.’

She saw his firm lips twitch.

The knowledge that her reference to other guests had appealed to his sense of humour made her add uneasily, ‘Alan said something about there being a small house party.’

‘In the event, I changed my mind,’ Lang Dalton told her smoothly. ‘There are no other guests.’

Feeling as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, she said blankly, ‘Oh.’

‘I hope you’re not too disappointed?’

The gleam in his eye made it clear that he knew how she felt and was enjoying her discomfort.

Recovering her equilibrium, she schooled her expression into an untroubled mask, and answered, ‘No, not at all. Who was it said “Fewer people can only be an advantage”?’

‘Bravo!’

She got the distinct impression that he was applauding her performance more than the sentiments.

His glance moved from her face to the tumble of silky hair, and, lifting his hand, he picked up a loose tendril and straightened it before letting it spring back. ‘Naturally curly?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice.

Alan had made no mention of Lang Dalton being a philanderer, so perhaps his intention had merely been to tip her off balance once more.

If so, he’d succeeded.

Head tilted a little to one side, he studied her. ‘With your hair down, you look delightfully young and innocent.’

Though the words were flattering, she felt oddly convinced that no compliment had been intended. In fact his appraisal bordered on the critical, and, wondering if he found her appearance too casual for his liking, she began a shade defensively, ‘Well, I usually take it up, but I…’

‘But you didn’t have enough time…’ He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down one cheek, making her shiver. ‘And you’re not wearing any make-up. Dear me, in spite of your tactful denial, I must have rushed you.’

It was a moment or two before she managed to say jerkily, ‘In this kind of heat I prefer not to wear any make-up.’

‘Truth, or discretion?’ he queried, his smile openly mocking.

‘Truth.’ With well-marked brows and lashes, and a flawless skin, she didn’t really need make-up.

‘Sit down, Miss Vallance.’ He indicated a chair next to his own. ‘Or may I call you Cassandra?’

‘Please do,’ she agreed with distant civility, and sat down with the greatest reluctance. Oh, why wasn’t his wife here?

‘What would you like to drink, Cassandra?’

‘Something long and cold and not too alcoholic, please.’

Seeing him lift a blond brow, she added, ‘I still feel a little dehydrated from the flight.’

‘Then we’ll make it a very weak margarita.’ Crossing to the bar, he rimmed two glasses with salt and poured crushed ice into a cocktail shaker, before asking, ‘Do you like flying?’

Wondering where on earth Alan had got to, she answered abstractedly, ‘I haven’t done a great deal.’

‘How much have you done?’

Lang Dalton, it seemed, didn’t care for any kind of evasion.

‘Just one trip to Paris,’ she said evenly. ‘This is the first time I’ve flown long-haul.’

‘And you didn’t like it?’

‘Yes, I liked it.’

‘But you didn’t want to come to California?’

Startled, she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

‘It’s quite obvious.’

‘Really, you’re mistaken,’ she protested.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said shortly, and wondered, Had she any idea who he was? ‘Why didn’t you want to come?’

She racked her brains to find some diplomatic excuse that would sound feasible, but her mind stayed a blank, and finally she admitted, ‘I—I don’t know. There was no real reason.’

Aware that what he saw as her refusal to answer had vexed him, she added helplessly, ‘I just had a strange feeling that things weren’t going to go smoothly, and…’ The words tailed off.

Careful not to look in his direction, she heard the rhythmic shush of the cocktail shaker, then the sound of its contents being poured.

A moment or two later he put a tall, chilled glass into her hand and, taking his seat beside her, prompted, ‘And?’

‘And they didn’t… You and I got off on the wrong foot.’

‘Correction,’ he said softly. ‘You got off on the wrong foot.’

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry about that.’

He made no comment, and after a moment she looked away uncomfortably.

While they sipped their drinks, she was aware that his gaze never left her face. Flustered by that relentless scrutiny, she tried to think of something to say, while the silence stretched unbearably.

At length, in desperation, she blurted out, ‘I can’t imagine where Alan’s got to.’

‘If I’d wanted Brent here, I would have sent for him,’ Lang informed her crisply. ‘It was you I wanted to talk to. You have a lovely voice, so use it. Tell me about yourself.’

Strangely unwilling, as though telling this man about herself would somehow make her vulnerable, she began, ‘Well, I came to work for Dalton International when—’

‘I’m not asking about the business side,’ he broke in with a touch of impatience. ‘It’s you I want to know about. How old are you?’

Reminding herself that he was her boss as well as Alan’s, she replied stiffly, ‘Twenty-two.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Bayswater.’

‘Alone?’

‘I share a flat.’

‘With Brent?’

‘With a girlfriend.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘Oxford.’

‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, I was an only child.’ She was answering each question with studied politeness, but making very little effort to elaborate.

His annoyance barely masked, he said peremptorily, ‘I would prefer you to tell me in your own words rather than make it into an interrogation.’

Allowing a few seconds for that to sink in, he added, ‘Suppose you start with your home background—parents, schooling, that kind of thing.’

‘My father was a historian, an academic who lived in Chaucer’s time rather than in the real world. My mother was a career woman, and ran a successful secretarial agency. They were both in their late thirties and set in their ways before I was born.’

Making no comment, his eyes on her face, he waited.

Flatly, dispassionately, she went on, ‘Because neither of them wanted, or had any time for, a child, they hired a nanny until I was old enough to be sent away to boarding-school.’

An expression she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he asked, ‘Were you happy there?’

‘Most of the time.’ Except when holidays came round. Then, because it wasn’t ‘convenient’ to have her home, her parents had farmed her out to various distant relatives, until she’d been old enough to make her own plans.

‘And when you left school?’

‘I went to college.’

In response to his little frown of irritation, she continued, ‘When I graduated last year, I was offered a job at Dalton International, and I’ve been Alan’s secretary and personal assistant for the past five months.’

Her left hand was lightly gripping the arm of her chair, and, noticing Lang Dalton’s glance linger on her engagement ring, she found herself wondering whether he questioned Alan’s motives for giving her the job.

Lifting her chin, she asked, ‘But perhaps you think I wasn’t experienced enough to have been offered such a post?’

‘I don’t think anything of the kind. When Brent made you his PA, he was acting on my instructions.’

Cassandra’s green eyes widened. She’d had absolutely no idea. Alan hadn’t breathed a word.

‘Surprised?’ Lang Dalton didn’t miss a thing.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. Then, with an odd little shiver, she began, ‘Why did you—?’

He cut her short. ‘I knew you had all the necessary qualifications.’

So had several other people who had been with Dalton’s a great deal longer.

Cassandra had presumed at the time that it was Alan’s decision. He’d been taking her out for several weeks, and, afraid there might be strings attached, she had thought long and hard before accepting.

Watching her transparent face, Lang asked, ‘What’s Brent like to work for?’

Alan had turned out to be a very good boss, and working for him had proved a pleasure.

She said as much, and watched Lang Dalton smile sardonically.

‘You think I’m prejudiced?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No,’ she denied hardly. ‘I’m sure anyone else would tell you the same.’

‘Your loyalty does you credit.’

Refusing to protest further, she bit her lip and said nothing.

‘When did you two get engaged?’

‘About three months ago.’

‘And you’re planning to get married…when?’

‘In just over a week.’

‘I had the impression it was next spring.’

‘We brought the date forward.’

‘Any particular reason?’ he asked idly.

Flushing furiously, she said in a half-strangled voice, ‘I’m not pregnant, Mr Dalton, if that’s what you mean,’ and watched the build-up of tension in his big frame relax.

‘Forgive me,’ he said smoothly, ‘but there’s always a possibility, and it might have affected my future plans for the pair of you.’

Taken aback, she asked, ‘What kind of future plans?’

Ignoring the question, he asked abruptly, ‘Do you love Brent?’

Her private feelings had nothing whatsoever to do with this arrogant man, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to jump up and walk away. But, knowing any open discourtesy on her part might rebound on Alan, she hesitated.

The dark blue eyes pinned her. ‘You obviously feel that I’ve no right to be asking such personal questions.’

Meeting his gaze steadily, she said, ‘I really can’t see that they’re relevant.’

‘Brent is poised to go to the top in my organization, and a top executive’s working life is invariably affected by his or her private life.

‘I’ve found from past experience that it’s almost impossible to separate the two. So before I promote anyone I feel justified in asking enough questions to size up the situation…’

So that was why they had both been invited. What he’d meant by future plans.

‘It’s up to you, of course. You don’t have to answer.’

But if she didn’t it would no doubt adversely affect Alan’s prospects.

Biting back her resentment, she said, ‘I love him very much. I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t.’

His blue eyes cynical, Lang observed, ‘In my experience, women marry men for a variety of reasons, and love isn’t necessarily one of them.’

‘You seem to have been…’ She stopped speaking abruptly.

‘Do go on,’ he said silkily. ‘What do I seem to have been?’

‘Unfortunate in your experience of women.’

The instant the fatal sentence was spoken, she could have bitten her tongue. He looked absolutely livid.

As though the words echoed inside her head, she could hear Alan saying, ‘All you have to do is take care not to get on the wrong side of him.’

Her heart like lead, she realized that though they had only been here a matter of hours she’d managed to do just that.

After a moment or two, his anger under control, his hard face devoid of expression, he asked brusquely, ‘So what exactly have you heard?’

‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ She was genuinely at a loss.

His eyes holding hers, he said slowly, ‘I could almost believe that.’

‘You can believe it, Mr Dalton. It’s the truth.’

‘Do you mean there isn’t any gossip going the rounds? Or you don’t listen to it?’

‘If you mean gossip about you, so far as I know there isn’t any.’

‘That’s surprising. Though at this end every effort was made to curb it, it’s almost impossible to stamp it out altogether. You’d heard the old rumour that my PA was afraid of me…’

Not knowing what to say, Cassandra stayed silent.

‘And your remark just now suggested you’d heard…other things.’

Shaking her head, she chose her words with care. ‘I said what I did because I thought you sounded…somewhat disillusioned… Obviously I got the wrong impression.’

Then, in a rush, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re angry with me, but please don’t hold it against Alan.’

Lang’s dark blue gaze narrowed on her face. Mockingly, he said, ‘I could almost believe you do love him.’

Watching her bite her lip, he smiled thinly.

Afraid to speak in case she put her foot in it again, she twisted her hands together in her lap and prayed that someone would come and break up this most uncomfortable tête-à-tête.

CHAPTER TWO

HER prayer was answered.

‘So there you are, Cass…’

The familiar voice sent a flood of relief surging through her, and she looked up eagerly to see Alan crossing the terrace.

Freshly showered and shaved, his evening jacket immaculate, his dark hair expertly styled, he looked every inch the rising young executive.

Sounding more than a little put out, he added, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Come and join us,’ Lang Dalton invited blandly, his air now that of a civil host. ‘What will you have to drink?’

‘Sweet vermouth, please, with ice and lemon.’

Rising to his feet, Lang queried, ‘Would you like a refill, Cassandra?’

Catching Alan’s flicker of surprise at the use of her Christian name, she answered awkwardly, ‘No, thank you. As a rule I don’t drink at all.’

When the tall figure had crossed to the bar, Alan came and sat down opposite her. His good-looking face aggrieved, he complained, ‘I hung about for what seemed an age… In the end I was forced to ask the houseboy where your room was.’

Seeing his dignity had been wounded, she began, ‘I’m sorry, I—’

But he was going on, ‘When I found it was empty, and there was no sign of you, I began to wonder where the devil you’d got to.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but I—’

She broke off as, having passed Alan his vermouth, Lang Dalton came and sat down again beside her.

‘There’s no need for Cassandra to apologize,’ he said coolly, obviously having overheard the low-toned conversation. ‘The fault was mine. I asked her to have a private drink with me…’

Alan looked startled.

‘I wanted to sound her out about something before I spoke to you. In the event I didn’t get round to it.’

His brown eyes holding a hint of anxiety, Alan asked, ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’

‘As we’ll be dining shortly, I’d prefer to leave any business discussions until later,’ Lang Dalton told him. He continued decidedly, ‘I make it a rule never to talk shop at the table—whether or not there are other guests present.’

As though picking up a cue, Alan remarked, ‘I haven’t seen any of the other guests around… But perhaps they’re not arriving until tomorrow?’

‘On this occasion there are no other guests. I decided to dispense with the social side and concentrate on the business in hand.’

As he finished speaking, Manuel appeared and announced that dinner was served.

‘Shall we go in?’ Lang got to his feet and waited courteously for Cassandra to lead the way.

The long, polished dining table looked a picture, with fine napkins, cut glass, and a centre-piece of fresh flowers.

It was set for three.

As their host moved to the head of the table and seated Cassandra on his right, Alan queried politely, ‘Your wife isn’t dining with us?’

Lang glanced at him and, the muscles in his jaw tightening, made no reply.

Obviously nonplussed by the other man’s silence, Alan pursued, ‘Perhaps we’ll have the pleasure of meeting her tomorrow?’

‘That isn’t likely.’ His expression a mixture of cold fury and naked pain, Lang added curtly, ‘My wife died nearly six months ago. Surely you knew that?’

Thrown into confusion, Alan stammered, ‘N-no… I— I’m sorry… I had no idea.’

Sitting still and silent, Cassandra could only feel bitterly sorry for him, and angry that Lang Dalton had allowed him to make such a blunder.

A black-coated butler appeared and began to serve melon boats with a compote of chilled summer fruits.

In a strained silence, and never having felt less like eating, she picked up her spoon and began to eat. After a while, glancing up unwarily, she encountered her host’s intent gaze.

Cassandra’s eyes instantly dropped, but not before he’d read in them anger and resentment and an unspoken accusation.

Speaking expressly to her, as though Alan weren’t even present, he said with a hint of steel, ‘You appear to blame me for the…er…faux pas?’

Refusing to be intimidated, she answered quietly, ‘I do.’

‘Well, that’s honest, if not particularly prudent. May I enquire why?’

Knowing she had nothing to lose, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. ‘While we were on our way here I asked Alan what you were like…’

Without looking at him she was aware that Alan was sitting transfixed, while, one blond brow raised, Lang waited.

‘He said you were known to have principles, and to be scrupulously fair… If that’s true, I think you’ll admit it would have been rather more ethical on your part, and prevented any such mistake, if you’d mentioned your wife’s death earlier.’

There was dead silence for perhaps ten seconds, before Lang Dalton admitted soberly, ‘You’re quite right, of course.’

Turning to Alan, he added, ‘Please accept my apologies. At first I presumed that it wasn’t a genuine blunder, merely a rather clumsy attempt to conceal the fact that you knew about Nina’s death and the circumstances.’

Then to Cassandra he said, ‘In my own defence I must say that in spite of strenuous efforts to keep things hushed up I could hardly believe the story hadn’t leaked out…’

He stopped speaking as a maid appeared and began to clear away the dishes, while the butler produced the next course.

Lang Dalton was a surprising man, Cassandra thought; despite his arbitrary manner and his undoubted arrogance, he’d been big enough not only to admit a fault, but to apologize.

And clearly Alan’s assessment of him as being hard and lacking in emotion was a false one. Judging by that look of stark pain, he’d loved his wife very much, and was still devastated by her death.

Nina—he’d called her Nina—must have been quite young, much too young to die, and in what appeared to have been tragic and singular circumstances.

Circumstances that had obviously caused tongues to wag. From Lang Dalton’s reaction it seemed clear that he’d been the victim of some vicious gossip, which had left him angry and embittered, suspicious of the most innocent remark.

She could only feel sorry for him.

Having served them from a seafood platter and filled the long-stemmed glasses with a fine white wine from the Napa Valley, at a nod from his master, the butler departed.

When they were once more alone, their host remarked a shade drily, ‘Now, as I’ve made light conversation virtually impossible, I think I’ll break my own rule and get down to business, and the reason I invited you both here.

‘George Irvine, who worked for my father before me, is retiring at the end of next month, so I need a new head of West Coast Finances…’

Looking as if he couldn’t believe his ears, Alan echoed, ‘A new head of West Coast Finances?’

‘And before I begin to make a decision I wanted to know how your fiancée would take to the idea of moving to the States. Sometimes there are family commitments…’

Alan said quickly, ‘My parents died last year, so I’ve no family. Neither has Cass…or at least none who are close.’

Lang Dalton gave him a cool glance, and went on, ‘The finance department is based at Seguro House in Los Angeles, where the two main problems are traffic and smog.

‘Some people love LA, others dislike it intensely. Despite its glamorous Hollywood image, my wife hated it. That’s why I transferred my administrative centre to San Francisco…

‘I understand you’re getting married shortly, and how a wife feels about her husband’s job, and its location, can make a great deal of difference to—’

His voice thick and eager, Alan broke in, ‘I’m quite sure Cass would love to live in LA. Wouldn’t you, darling?’

‘I would prefer Cassandra to make up her own mind,’ Lang said repressively. ‘The States Western Seaboard is a long way from England, and it isn’t easy to leave a country one’s always regarded as home.’

Then, addressing her directly, he said, ‘No doubt you’ll need time, a proper chance to think it over.’

In answer to Alan’s appealing glance, and bearing in mind that so far nothing had been said about a job for her, she said carefully, ‘I can tell you now that if Alan is offered a job in the States I would be very happy to come with him.’

His mouth wry, Lang Dalton suggested sardonically, ‘Home is where the heart is?’

‘Trite, but true.’

Though he gave no obvious sign, with an insight that surprised her Cassandra knew her calm answer had nettled him.

Looking at Alan, Lang said briskly, ‘In that case, tomorrow morning, if you’re agreeable, you’ll be flown to LA. It would be advisable to spend a couple of days going through the finance department offices. That way you’ll be able to see at first hand just what the post entails.

‘I’ve asked the executive staff to be prepared to go in this weekend, so you can meet the people who, if the promotion goes through, you’ll be working with. It will give you a good chance to size each other up…’

Watching their faces, Alan’s open and blazing with excitement, the older man’s cool and shuttered, hiding his thoughts, Cassandra felt the first prickle of apprehension.

Lang Dalton had said ‘You’ll be flown to LA…you’ll be able to see at first hand…’ No mention had been made of her going.

But she was just being over-anxious, she assured herself firmly. He had told Alan to make her his PA, he knew they were a good team, and he had invited them both to California.

As though sensing her tension, Alan asked, ‘What about Cass? Will she—?’

‘I’m afraid any deal doesn’t include a job for your future wife, though the rise in salary should more than compensate for that.’

Alan tried again. ‘Only Cass is the best PA I’ve ever had—’

Frowning, Lang broke in, ‘George Irvine already has a very experienced PA who has been with him on a part-time basis for a number of years. Miss Shulster knows all the ins and outs of our West Coast financial dealings, the kind of companies and projects we are willing to lend money to. Though she only comes in for four hours a day she should prove invaluable…’

Seeing that the younger man looked about to argue, Lang added with an air of finality, ‘She has an invalid mother to care for and support, so I have no intention of disturbing the status quo. If you feel you can’t fit in with the present set-up then we’ll forget the whole thing.’

‘Oh, no…’ Alan cried hastily, ‘I’m quite sure I can fit in… And Cass won’t mind, I know. She’s never been a dedicated businesswoman.’

His expression unreadable, Lang Dalton lifted his wine glass and took a sip, before saying with a touch of irony, ‘Really? Yet I seem to recall from her career résumé that at university Cassandra studied market-forces and economics and graduated with a first class honours degree…?’

How in heaven’s name had he remembered a thing like that? she wondered dazedly. Surely he couldn’t come up with such detailed information about all his personnel?

Once again she felt disturbed, threatened.

‘Or perhaps I’m mistaken?’

Looking uncomfortable, Alan began, ‘No, that’s quite right, and I don’t mean Cass isn’t excellent at her job, but she’s…’

‘Expendable?’ Lang suggested softly.

‘Certainly not… What I meant was she isn’t career-minded, it isn’t that important to her…’

He floundered to a stop. An only child, spoilt and pampered, he wasn’t used to having to explain himself.

‘You mean that you think she would be willing to sacrifice her career for yours?’

Looking a little put out at such blunt speaking, Alan admitted, ‘Well, yes, but I—’

Lang glanced at her. ‘Perhaps we should allow Cassandra to speak for herself?’

Irked, both by Lang Dalton’s intervention and by being discussed as if she weren’t present, Cassandra murmured sweetly, ‘You’re too kind.’

Ignoring the gleam of amusement that appeared in his dark blue eyes, she went on, ‘Alan’s quite right. I thoroughly enjoy my job, but I’m far from being a dedicated career woman…’

Lang regarded her, a frown drawing his well-marked brows together. He’d expected someone shrewd and calculating, hard and self-centred. This apparent willingness to put Brent’s interests first had come as a surprise.

Crisply, she added, ‘There are other important things in life.’

‘Such as?’

‘Perhaps because of my upbringing, I believe that taking care of a home and a family are of equal importance.’

There was a tense silence, before, his face curiously set and hard, Lang turned to Alan and said abruptly, ‘Very well. I’ll give instructions for the helicopter to be ready first thing in the morning.’

With a grateful glance at Cassandra, Alan asked, ‘It will be okay for Cass to go to LA with me?’

‘I think not.’ Lang’s answer was decisive. ‘This will be business all the way, and I’ve never believed in mixing business and pleasure…

‘Not that there would be much time for pleasure,’ he added drily.

Seeing Cassandra’s stricken face, Alan began, ‘Oh, but couldn’t she—?’

‘I’m sure your fiancée can bear to part with you for just a couple of days.’ Lang’s tone was caustic.

As Alan looked at Cassandra helplessly, the butler returned with the final course, and a tray of coffee. Her stomach churning, Cassandra refused the chocolate and cream confection, while Alan, who had a schoolboy greed for gooey gateaux and trifles, accepted a liberal helping.

Waving away the rich sweet, Lang allowed his cup to be filled with black coffee, before turning to say to the younger man, ‘All the arrangements have been made for you to spend the night at Seguro House, in the executive suite. I just need to finalize them…’

Then, with a bite, he added, ‘That is, unless you’ve changed your mind about going? It’s up to you.’

Alan finished swallowing a mouthful of chocolate and cream, and after a brief hesitation said, ‘I’d prefer to leave it up to Cass.’

Cassandra drew a deep, uneven breath. Usually she was sensible and well-balanced, but there was nothing remotely sensible or well-balanced about her reaction to being left alone here with Lang Dalton.

But wasn’t she exaggerating, getting worked up about nothing? They wouldn’t be alone. There was a houseful of servants.

As if a houseful of servants made one iota of difference! She still dreaded the thought. And Alan must surely know how she felt?

But, in all fairness, no man in his right mind would turn down an opportunity like that. He’d done the best he could in the circumstances. Given her a chance to veto it.

A chance he knew quite well she wouldn’t take.

Just for an instant she felt resentful.

Glancing up, she discovered Lang Dalton was watching her intently.

Leaning towards her, he said softly in her ear, ‘You look like Ariadne must have looked when she was about to be abandoned in Naxos.’

All at once Cassandra was convinced of two things—he was well aware of what she was thinking, and he wanted her to blame Alan.

Well, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Allowing herself no time to change her mind, she turned to her fiancé and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, exclaimed, ‘Darling, of course you must go!’

For a moment he looked surprised at the warm response. Then, a little lamely, he said, ‘You know I don’t like to leave you.’

But she’d seen the relief in his eyes.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s only for a couple of days.’

Lang smiled grimly. A lot could happen in two days. In less time than that he’d been known to make or break a multi-million-dollar deal and, on matters that adversely affected the environment, apply enough pressure to change the modus operandi and ensure the results he wanted.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told Alan urbanely. ‘While you’re away I’ll show Cassandra something of the area, and make sure she doesn’t get bored.’

If that statement of intent was meant to reassure, as far as Cassandra was concerned it failed dismally.

And Lang knew it. ‘Of course if you’re really not happy with that arrangement…?’

‘I’m quite happy,’ she assured him mendaciously.

‘Well, if you change your mind before the helicopter leaves, and feel you can’t bear to be abandoned after all, I might be prepared to stretch a point…’ But his derisory smile suggested that it would be the behaviour of a child.

Which it would.

‘Thank you, but there’ll be no need.’

Lifting her chin, she met his eyes, and saw in their depths a gleam of triumph, of satisfaction.

It was almost immediately masked. But she knew without a shadow of doubt that he had got exactly what he wanted.

Remembering her premonition, she gave a shiver, suddenly convinced that, for some obscure reason, this whole thing had been carefully planned, that both she and Alan had been ruthlessly manipulated.

Such a notion had obviously never crossed Alan’s mind. He tended to be inward-looking, self-absorbed, and she guessed that a lot of the byplay had gone over his head.

Off the hook, looking eager and excited once again, he turned to Lang and remarked, ‘I heard through the media that you’re considering putting money into the Rio Palos Dam project…’

As they drank their coffee, the two men talked business, while Cassandra tried hard to dismiss her fears. No doubt when she’d had a good night’s rest she would be able to think clearly and laugh at her own foolish fancies.

Alan had slept during the interminable flight, but Cassandra, still new to flying, and perturbed about the visit, hadn’t even managed to doze. Tiredness was making her skin feel as though it was drawn tight over her facial bones, and there was a dull ache between her eyes.

Making a great effort, she sat straighter and tried to concentrate on the conversation, but after a while she began to feel oddly light-headed, the male voices seemed to ebb and flow, and waves of fatigue washed over her.

‘You look absolutely shattered.’ Lang Dalton was on his feet by her side. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’

‘I think I will, if you don’t mind.’ To her own ears her voice sounded dazed and befuddled.

As she rose, Lang pulled out her chair and said, ‘I’ll see you to your room.’

‘Thank you, but there’s really no need,’ she assured him.

Alan stood up and, a shade abstractedly, kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, then, darling. I’ll see you in the morning before I go.’

Leaving the two men to resume their discussion, she made her way through a house that was pleasantly cool and airy, full of evening sun and the scent of flowers.

Though she made a conscious effort to walk straight, from time to time she staggered a little, like someone who was inebriated.

As soon as she reached her room she put on her nightdress, cleaned her teeth, and, falling into bed, went to sleep the instant her head touched the pillow.

Some sound disturbed her, and she stirred and groaned. She had slept very heavily. Her head was muzzy and her throat dry.

Struggling to open eyelids that felt as though they’d been fastened shut with Velcro, she saw a strange room with bright sunshine filtering through the light muslin curtains.

For a few seconds she was utterly confused and disorientated. Then memory opened the floodgates, and along with recollection came a rush of anxiety, a return of the foreboding she’d expected sleep to banish.

Though she couldn’t begin to guess at the reason, she remained convinced that, while making sure Alan went to LA, Lang Dalton had contrived that she should remain here… And, to all intents and purposes, of her own free will.

He was a brilliant tactician, she thought broodingly. Having put her in a position where her pride insisted she couldn’t take it, he had tauntingly offered her a chance to change her mind.

Well, that had been a mistake on his part, she decided abruptly. Even if it made her look foolish, she was going to take it!

She would make the excuse that she had resolved to seize this opportunity to see something of LA, in case it was going to be her future home.

Once the helicopter had dropped her, she could book herself into a hotel for the night. There would be no need for her to go anywhere near Seguro House. That way no one could accuse Alan of mixing business with pleasure.

Lang Dalton had said the helicopter would be ready ‘first thing in the morning’. What time was it now? A glance at her watch only served to confuse her; she had omitted to adjust it to the time difference.

So how long had she got? At a guess she must have nearly slept the clock round, so probably not long, she thought with sudden urgency. But all she needed to do was throw a few things in her overnight bag before Alan knocked. She could always skip breakfast.

Jumping out of bed, she hurried to the bathroom.

Having showered and dressed at top speed, and pulled a brush through her long hair, she began to pack some changes of clothing and a few essentials. She had barely finished when she heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter.

Just in the nick of time, she thought with relief. Any second now Alan would be knocking at the door.

But no knock came, and it took a moment or two of stunned disbelief before the unwelcome fact finally sank in that the engine noise, rather than approaching, was moving away.

No, no, it couldn’t be. Alan wouldn’t leave without seeing her, without saying goodbye.

Her heart suddenly racing, she pressed a button set into the side of the nearest arch, and the glass panels slid aside.

Hurrying out onto the patio, she shielded her eyes from the brightness and looked up into the cloudless sky. The helicopter, silver against the deep blue, was heading south-west towards the coast and the urban sprawl that was Los Angeles…

‘Good morning.’ Lang Dalton’s low-pitched, attractive voice made her jump. ‘You’re up and dressed earlier than I’d expected.’

Bare feet leaving wet prints, he was coming towards her, tanned and fit-looking, wearing well-cut navy swimming trunks, a towel slung around his neck. His thick blond hair was wet and rumpled, a single lock falling over his forehead.

‘That isn’t…?’ Her voice shook betrayingly, and she stopped speaking abruptly.

Following her gaze to where the helicopter had become a rapidly dwindling speck, he said, ‘I’m afraid so,’ adding with a kind of mocking concern, ‘You look upset. I do hope you hadn’t changed your mind about going?’

‘No, I hadn’t changed my mind,’ she lied jerkily, and felt almost sure that he didn’t believe her. ‘But Alan promised he’d…’ Once again she was forced to stop.

‘See you before he left?’ Lang finished for her. ‘You’ll have to forgive him. He didn’t have a moment to spare. In fact he was forced to go without any breakfast.’

A drop of water ran down his lean cheek and he lifted the towel to wipe it away before continuing, ‘The helicopter arrived over an hour early. Some last-minute problem had cropped up that meant McDowell, my pilot, was needed back in LA urgently.’

But surely Alan could have found just a few seconds to say goodbye?

As though reading her thoughts, Lang went on smoothly, ‘Brent and I agreed that as you were obviously jet-lagged it would be a shame to wake you for what would have necessarily been a very brief farewell.’

Brent and I agreed… Cassandra bit her lip vexedly. Reading between the lines, what it amounted to was that to make sure she didn’t change her mind and take advantage of his offer Lang Dalton had tried to prevent Alan from waking her.

And Alan, no doubt feeling uncomfortable about leaving her, and possibly fearing some kind of last-minute reproach, had taken the easy way out.

Aloud, she said, ‘How thoughtful of you both.’ And, feeling caught, trapped, wondered despairingly how she was going to get through the next two days.

But somehow she would have to, and with the best possible grace…

As though applauding her unspoken decision, Lang smiled at her, and said briskly, ‘However, as you are awake, you’ve time for a swim before breakfast.’

The blue, sparkling water looked very inviting, but she found herself oddly unwilling to appear in front of him in a swimsuit.

‘I’m not sure what the time is,’ she prevaricated. ‘I forgot to alter my watch.’

Glancing at the slim, waterproof Rolex he wore on his left wrist, Lang told her, ‘It’s just after six.’ Then, with a glint, he said, ‘And I can recommend that swim.’

Making a big deal of adjusting her watch, she half shook her head. ‘I’m really thirsty. I think I’d rather have a drink.’

‘Why not have both? There’s some freshly squeezed juice waiting.’ He indicated a table by the pool-side that had been set with a selection of fruit and cereals, a jug of orange juice and two tall glasses.

As she hesitated, his sardonic smile making it clear that he had recognized the reason for her reluctance, he added, ‘I’m going in now to shower and dress. Afterwards I’ve got a couple of things to take care of, so you’ve a good half-hour before I join you for breakfast.’

‘Thank you; in that case I think I will.’ She was pleased that her voice was steady.

Watching him walk away, his carriage easy, athletic, she gritted her teeth. He was the most complex, demoralizing, disturbing man she’d ever met.

Going back into her room, the first thing she noticed was the overnight bag that now wouldn’t be needed.

Oh, if only she’d wakened sooner! Agitated and jumpy, nervous as a cat shut in the wrong house, she sighed. But it was too late. There was nothing she could do but make the best of things.

Stripping off her clothes, she pulled on her black swimsuit and looked in the cheval-glass. It fitted her slender, long-legged figure to perfection, and by modern standards was quite modest, but her heightened sensibilities made her feel half naked.

A cautious peep showed the patio was deserted, and, with a rueful grimace at the stupidity of her own behaviour, she ventured out.

She helped herself to a glass of the delicious, sweet-tart juice, and drank it thirstily before slipping into the pool.

The water was blissfully cool and refreshing, and she swam several leisurely lengths while the tension slowly drained out of her.

Turning on her back, she floated motionless, her hair fanning out around her, her eyes closed, the Californian sun warm on her face.

‘About ready?’

Lang’s voice startled her, and her head went under. She gulped in water, and for a second or two thrashed about wildly.

A strong hand caught one of her wrists and drew her to the side. Then, crouching, he took her under her arms and hauled her out with what seemed to be effortless ease.

While she coughed and spluttered, he set her on her feet and steadied her until she’d blinked the water from her eyes and got her breath back. Then, picking up a short white towelling robe he’d tossed over a chair, he held it for her.

‘Thank you,’ she said huskily. Pulling the robe around her, she knotted the belt and used the cowl collar to wipe her face and dry the dripping ends of her hair.

A hint of amusement in his voice, Lang suggested, ‘Perhaps in future you should avoid the deep end, rather than risk drowning.’

‘I can swim perfectly well,’ she informed him indignantly. ‘I would have been in no danger of drowning if you hadn’t startled me.’

She hadn’t meant to sound quite so accusing, she thought belatedly, but the shock had momentarily put out of her head the need to tread warily.

‘I’m sorry. Trying to drown you wasn’t my intention. Believe me, I much prefer you alive.’ Then he said softly, ‘You see, I have plans for you, Cassandra.’

‘Plans?’ A little chill of alarm ran down her spine. ‘What kind of plans?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see. I’ve always believed that anticipation hones the…’ There was a brief pause before he added, ‘Pleasure. Now, are you ready for some breakfast?’

He had changed into lightweight trousers and a blue open-necked sports shirt. Conscious that he was studying the slim length of her bare legs, and feeling very much at a disadvantage, she stammered, ‘I—I was hoping to get dressed first.’

A hand beneath her elbow, he urged her towards the table and the appetizing smell of coffee. ‘This is California. Even up here, where the air’s cooler, you’re already wearing more than you need.’

Seeing nothing else for it, she sat down, hiding her legs under the table.

Smiling a little, he took his own seat and poured coffee for them both, before asking, ‘Would you like to start with some cereal?’ When she shook her head, he helped her to scrambled eggs and thin slices of crispy bacon.

Sitting in the sun, a balmy breeze rustling the palm fronds and wafting the scent of frangipani, the mountains making a majestic backdrop, they ate in silence, Lang looking relaxed and easy, Cassandra anything but.

What had he meant by plans? she wondered uneasily. It had sounded almost like a veiled threat…

Oh, don’t be a fool! she scolded herself crossly. What possible reason could a man in his position have for threatening her? Until the previous day she’d never even met him, let alone given him any cause to want to harm her.

Lang Dalton was her boss, nothing more or less. A wealthy, influential, highly respected entrepreneur, not some kind of bogeyman.

Probably plans had been a reference to some quite innocuous outing. He’d told Alan that he would show her ‘something of the area’.

When, eating abstractedly, she’d done justice to the meal, Lang refilled her cup and, his voice casual, said, ‘Oh, by the way, your fiancé wrote you a note while he was snatching a quick coffee.’

Why hadn’t he mentioned it before? she wondered vexedly.

As though in answer to that thought, he added with an ironic smile, ‘In the general excitement, I’m afraid it almost slipped my mind.’

Feeling in the pocket of his shirt, he produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to her.

Confirming Alan’s haste, his almost painfully neat writing had degenerated into a scrawl.

Cass, darling, sorry to leave without seeing you, but in the circumstances it seemed a shame to disturb you. While we were talking last night, Mr Dalton told me where he planned to take you, so enjoy your weekend, and I’ll catch up with you in Las Vegas Sunday evening.

Love, A.

Looking up, Cassandra asked blankly, ‘Las Vegas?’

‘I thought you might like to see the place,’ Lang said easily. ‘We can drive over to Nevada—you’ll find the journey itself is a pleasure—and stay a couple of nights at the Golden Phoenix… I’ve arranged for your fiancé to be flown straight there from LA…

‘Apart from the fact that Vegas is well worth seeing for its own sake—it was a frontier outpost and railway town before becoming a gambling mecca—it’s surrounded by some magnificent desert scenery.

‘Death Valley lies to the west, and from nearby McCarran International Airport there are flights that offer a bird’s-eye view of the Grand Canyon.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ she admitted, feeling both excited and relieved. A trip to Las Vegas in a chauffeur-driven car, and staying at a hotel with plenty of people, had to be a great deal easier than remaining here with only Lang Dalton for company.

‘I’m glad you approve.’ So far so good, he thought, and asked softly, ‘Are you anything of a gambler, Cassandra?’

‘No. Are you?’

He smiled thinly. ‘Not in the usual sense. I have been known to play for high stakes, but only when the odds are stacked in my favour.’

Something about his answer made her feel uneasy, but, telling herself that she mustn’t start imagining things again, she asked, ‘When do you plan to start?’

‘As soon as possible. How long will it take you to get ready?’

‘Ten minutes?’

Nodding his approval, he rose to his feet and pulled out her chair.

CHAPTER THREE

AS QUICKLY as she could, Cassandra showered, put on a white, slim-fitting shift dress, and wound her hair into a neat coil. Her overnight bag in her hand, she was descending the terrace steps when a big cream and beige four-wheel drive appeared with Lang at the wheel.

Her heart sank a little. It seemed he intended to drive himself.

Jumping out, he tossed her luggage on to the back seat alongside his own and, a hand beneath her bare elbow, helped her into the air-conditioned vehicle.

‘Ten minutes exactly,’ he congratulated her, adding, his smile crooked, ‘With having your overnight things to pack, I hardly thought you’d make it in time…’

So he hadn’t believed her when she’d denied changing her mind, and he knew quite well that her bag had been already packed.

Damn him! she thought crossly, flustered by both his touch and his ironic words.

‘And you even manage to look cool and collected, and incredibly beautiful.’

Pursing her lips, she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Dalton.’

Laughing at her primness, he urged, ‘Have a heart, Cassandra… For the weekend at least, forget I’m your boss and call me Lang.’

Not on your life! she decided grimly. Calling him by his first name would add a new dimension, a complication she would rather not tangle with.

A moment later he was in the driving seat, and with a throaty roar from the powerful engine they were off, following a private road through extensive, palm-shaded grounds.

He drove without speaking, his lean, long-fingered hands lying lightly on the wheel, a slight smile touching his firm mouth.

The tall, wrought-iron gates in the perimeter wall slid aside at their approach and closed behind them as they turned to follow a tortuous mountain road between spectacular masses of granite boulders and tinder-dry scrub.

But rather than watching the scenery Cassandra’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to her companion’s hard-boned profile—the strong nose, the controlled line of the upper lip in direct contrast to the warm curve of the lower, the droop of an eyelid at the outer corner, the sweep of thick, gold-tipped lashes…

As though aware of her scrutiny, he suddenly turned his head to smile at her. Feeling herself start to flush, she looked hurriedly away.

For a while she stared determinedly out of the window, absently noting a gnarled, twisted cypress and the occasional sword-leaved yucca.

Then, wanting to break the silence, to get on some kind of workable footing that would keep a respectable distance between them, she asked politely, ‘Do you go to Las Vegas often?’

‘From time to time,’ he answered casually.

Remembering his previous remarks, she suggested, ‘But not to gamble?’

He shook his head. ‘Sometimes it’s a matter of business. Other times I go to catch one of the big name acts when they appear at Caesar’s Palace or the Golden Phoenix.’

‘Earlier you spoke as if you enjoyed the journey?’

‘I do. I’ve always got a buzz from just being on the move. Unfortunately my wife didn’t. Nina found any kind of travelling both tiring and boring…

‘Do you enjoy being on the move, Cassandra?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Her voice wistful, she added, ‘I’d like to have done some real travelling, seen a lot more of the world.’

But she’d had neither the opportunity nor the money. Having sent her to a good school, her parents had considered their duty done, and, unwilling to ask them for anything further, she’d struggled to be completely independent.

Lang slanted her a glance. ‘You said you’d been to Paris?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was that?’

Unwilling to talk about it, she answered shortly, ‘A couple of months ago.’

‘With Brent?’

Lifting her chin, she said, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yes.’

In fact the weekend had proved to be something of a disaster and they’d ended up sleeping in separate beds. Yet in an odd sort of way the truth coming out had strengthened their relationship, and resulted in their deciding to get married earlier than first planned.

Afraid Lang was going to question her further, she abruptly changed the subject, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘As today’s journey seems to be a longish one, I’d half expected you to take the limousine.’

He went along with it. ‘On this kind of trip I prefer to drive myself, and the Cherokee was bought primarily for desert travel, which needs special safety precautions.’

‘You make it sound…dangerous.’

‘In spite of its beauty, it can be just that. Particularly in the hottest months when the temperature in Death Valley has been known to reach a hundred and thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone who breaks down or gets stuck in such desiccating heat can be in real trouble, unless they have plenty of water and some way of shielding themselves from the sun until help arrives.’

‘Which I’m sure we have?’ she asked gravely.

With a sidelong glance, he answered equally gravely, ‘Of course.’

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